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Tired Of Flight, I've Got No More Fight; I'm Out For The Count.

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Hi everyone,

I've been away for a while, with good reason. I've been afraid to log back into the forum for the past month or so, as I've been mired in my own recent trauma.

It began late one Friday afternoon, after spending most of the day researching the subject of my BPD and cPTSD recovery.

I'd made some responses to others’ threads here, in fact, and re-read many excerpts I'd bookmarked for review from my kindle and various online sources.

These were the kinds of thoughts swirling around in my head when I looked at my dog, Sophie. I decided to call it quits and take her for a long walk through the desert, where we were camped on public land.

There was no one around and, with a water bottle in my (only) hand and Sophie's service dog ID clipped to my shorts just in case, we headed off toward a promising trailhead we'd seen earlier.

As it went, we saw some people ahead, just before we were to take our turn into the hills. One of them was a BLM ranger, armed to the teeth with a handgun, and a bunch of other important-looking knick knacks on his belt, the whole bit.

Going from past experience, every other ranger type was most receptive to us, as Sophie's always been a great icebreaker.

Not this guy. After I presented Sophie's ID and introduced her as my service dog, he stated unequivocally that Sophie needed to be on a leash.

As an amputee headed toward a slick and fairly steep, rocky trail with his dog, this statement made no sense to me.

My response that, according to ADA guidelines, she needn't have a leash as it impedes my disability and also that she is always under voice control merely fueled his fire, which rapidly was already headed in a bad direction.

In hindsight, I realize that, given the officer’s cowardly and heavy-handed attitude, he'd have created a problem for me and Sophie regardless. He's just that kind of a person and my own state of mind made it all a bad mix.

It's worth noting that I camp on public land because of its isolated nature, a place where I can let my guard down and study issues-like my trauma related struggles- without fear of interruption.

This ranger’s presence was an anomaly to my many months of such secluded and peaceful experiences on public land.

But in many ways this young kid’s tone and physical attitude toward me was a trigger for me on many levels.

Still, despite his belligerence, he was the one with the gun and wearing the badge, and he wasn't about to be challenged by the likes of me, who rightly voiced the knowledge that I've a right to be Sophie's handler sans leash due to my obvious disability.

I wore only shorts and sandals, and carried a t-shirt and water bottle with my hand. Any reasonable person could see a leash wasn't doable, never mind Sophie's friendliness and our obvious lack of a threat to anyone.

The ranger, who is maybe half my age if I'm a day - I'm 51 - persisted with his threatening tone and body language. When it became obvious this person was going to actually hurt me physically, I turned tail and ran.

Call it dissociation, a flashback or panic attack, after Sophie nudged me to warn me of the danger, I ran to my sanctuary, my motorhome.

The ranger got into his truck and chased me-and the sound of the tires crunching on gravel and the smell of the rubber and flashing emergency lights, brought me right back to the day I clung to life after a bicycle accident with a car. I wasn't conscious then, but my senses must've been clearly registering the scene around me because there I was again-I could feel it.

I was beyond terrified, I was already in shock. Though I remember little of what happened next, I recall being tackled, knocked down and having someone kneeling on my back as I lay face down on the rocks.

Though I ran for my life, I didn't put up a fight once caught, same as with my father 40 years ago. And, same as with my father, it only enraged him more.

I looked up just in time to see Sophie heading toward me to check on me, as she's trained to do. The ranger pulled his pepper spray and shot her in both eyes and, moments later, as I lay face down, defenseless, he tasered me.

And then the nightmare really began. This young kid repeatedly threatened me-just as my father had, through clenched teeth-with extended jail time, permanent loss of my motorhome and, what was infinitely worse, the euthanasia of Sophie.

While I wasn't afraid of this kid-he had no idea I'd seen a real threat while a kid forty years ago, lying on the floor looking up at my enraged father, not knowing what I'd done wrong. The reliving of such a similar scene was what affected me.

I was driven four hours away, to flagstaff, AZ where it's still winter. I spent the next week in a county jail. There, I had no phone, received no medication or even medical care for my injuries, mostly severe cuts to my legs.

I felt my upper body injuries from my crash four years ago aggravated again from the physical aspect of the ordeal. My body simply no longer bends the way it once did.

I had no knowledge of Sophie's condition or her whereabouts and was constantly fighting sleep, as the auras that always precede my seizures were relentless and only increasing in frequency and severity. Sleep is when my seizures occur.

In short, I'd rapidly gone from largely feeling like nothing to actually being treated like nothing. Strip searched and put into a filthy drunk tank for hours, I was suddenly another mere criminal, all for no apparent reason other than traveling alone and daring to stand up for my rights as a service dog handler - and as a person.

On my fourth day in the jail, I think it was, I received written notification that Sophie was in an animal control kennel about two hours away and scheduled to be euthanized or put up for adoption if I didn't pick her up by the end of the week.

So I changed my not guilty plea-which I'd learned would've required at least another week in jail to guilty, so I could get out and see her and hold her and love her once more. I'm at a complete loss without her.

Sophie takes her job as my service dog seriously, even beyond what she's been trained for, and I wanted her to know I was alive, too.

She's not only all I have in the world, but all I'm likely to ever have. In the absence of any healthy human relationships, I live for my dog-she's the love of my life.

So today, this whole awful experience continues, as I'm back in Colorado now but, because of my guilty plea, I'm subject to some kind of “supervised release.”

This means some person from Denver will determine “if they accept my application to stay in Colorado, or else they'll send me back to Arizona.”

This person also apparently has the right to come check out my home-my motorhome- with or without notice, subject me to urine testing, and also prohibit me from leaving the state for the next eleven months, the term of my “sentence.”

Oh, yes, and I owe the government $800 in restitution for a scratch the young officer photographed on his truck and laughingly told his buddy “Yeah, let’s blame this on him, too.”

I've never had a criminal history, and the idea I might be a chemically dependent, illicit drug user is ludicrous. Yet, there it is, above and beyond the ridiculousness of this entire situation.

The list of indignities, from listening and watching the ranger boisterously and demonstratively reenact to his law enforcement pals how, in grade school lunchroom-type terms, he “ran after me, tackled me and dragged me from here to there-look! You can see where I dragged ‘im!” to my ultimately having to refer to him legally as “the victim,” to just about everyone doubting the veracity of anything I say or do seems endless.

Lately, I find myself losing my patience with Sophie for walking more than a few feet from me for fear another predatory psychopath with a badge will see us.

I fear I'll have a psychotic episode of my own while stuck here in this “campground/trailer park” in which I now call home. I fear, I fear, I fear. It's a 180 degree turn from our life just six weeks ago, and It's not living at all.

But this, I believe, has been a long time coming anyway. For many years, based on my past experiences, I've been unable to visualize a peaceful end to my future.

My only goal - my hope - was to grow old with Sophie and, on the day that she passed, I would, too. Only then, I thought, would I die happy, with a smile in my heart for the happiness I brought to her, another being, for a change.

But now I chose this particular place to stay for a reason, and that is because it's the perfect place-as perfect as any place I've found-to die.

I have BPD and, as such am well aware of the statistic that there are many others with BPD who crowd the jails all over this country, rightly and otherwise.

I know that, though those with BPD don't have a monopoly on the idea, many are jailed for the impulsive actions or behaviors that can upset their lives and that of those around them in the blink of an eye.

And I know that many are executed as a result.

I know what it feels like now, whether I really committed a crime a month ago or not, to be part of that BPD demographic who's served time in jail.

And I also know that a disproportionate number of those suffering with BPD who decide to take their own life have a higher frequency of success in so doing.

Sounds dramatic and, I guess it is. But I have BPD, and suicide is an option I've entertained since I was about nine years old, when I attached an alligator clip to my arm in the vain hope it'd kill me. It was the origin of a go-to dissociative survival skill I've always carried with me.

Since last July, when my divorce, the sale of my home, and the fourth anniversary of my NDE coincided, suicide has come to the forefront of my mind many times.

I've placated those feelings by cutting. But I'm not truly a cutter, I've realized, just someone waiting for the right time to call it quits.

I've repeatedly faded into and back out of dissociative states, much like I now realize I must have as a kid. I see now that I’ve been in survival mode, literally a state of flight, not fight, especially for the past few years.

But I've grown exhausted from it all; I'm tired of always running away and now must stop, even if it means making a stand-fighting, if necessary.

So, perhaps part of me did provoke the little turd with the badge and pepper spray (but no conscience) in order to give myself a reason to follow through on a long-awaited plan. Or maybe that's just the Low Self Esteem dynamic of my BPD talking.

I don't know why exactly, but I don't believe in “suicide attempts.” I've always thought of that as bullshit, maybe because there's never been anyone to whom I could make a “cry for help.” A truly motivated person will find a way to succeed.

In speaking with my mother after getting out of jail (I don't know why I felt compelled to call) she only reiterated her long-standing belief that I've always been evil (not just an evil person) since “the nurses brought you to me after you were born.”

Wow-it floored me to hear yet again just what I've been up against all my life and how it's to my credit that I made it this far. It also spoke volumes about how mentally ill both of my parents are and have always been, despite their lifelong denial.

I don't know what happened to my parents when they were young, but it must've been horrible. Thoughts of my own upbringing shed a lot of light on their childhood experiences, I think.

Regardless, I've fought a good fight in the face of adversity. I've done the best I could with what I've known at any given time.

But I'm tired of fighting, of the fight itself, the uphill battle, the treadmill, the hamster wheel, whatever. For the record, I felt quite safe in jail, as if protected from any of my demons in there. Not enough to stay, of course, but for a little while.

Though I still outwardly contend that the world isn't a fair or just place, inside I still hold out this naive, idealistic, maybe even childlike view that, if only people would do this or be that everything would be fine.

But all it takes is a look toward the white house for me to ask myself what the hell am I thinking? Outright mental illness - and its widespread acceptance and encouragement- has reached new levels in this world, one I've long wanted no part of.
 
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Hi everyone,

I've been away for a while, with good reason. I've been afraid to log back into th...
I hope this thread finds you and Sophie alive and well....I could feel your pain as I read your thread, please do not give up.....I know what it feels to be at the end of your rope,to spend your life for what feels like beating your head against a brick wall... I can understand why you are choosing to isolate yourself ,but could it be not a good idea right now...Sometimes I think the only way to find any peace is to shut every one out...I am beyond tired of trusting anyone only to feel hurt and betrayed one more time...everyone on this board no doubt has to learn to step away from "triggers" and that includes people who are oblivious to anything but there own agenda. Consider finding some group of people you feel ok being around, I know that is easier said than done... Could be around or volunteering to help train dogs like Sophie for other people be possible? I know for me when I get too self isolating...my state of mind gets worse..much worse....I hope you give it some thought. I do not think you are ready to throw in the towel by any means....sophie needs you to be okay to take care of her,maybe you both need a change....give it some thought...
 
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