Holy Headtrip, Batman

Okay, so, I'm officially drunk. I've gone from a middle-lightweight drunk to a flyweight on my anti-depressant meds, so, y'know, cut me some slack. I'm no amateur; it's the pharmacopia! It's, like, 2.5 or maybe 3 glasses of wine. Sigh. How demoralizing!

Anyhow.

Labour Day week has been fraught with anxiety for me for three years running, now, and this makes four years.

Three years ago this week, I was coming home and less than five blocks from home, a guy ran a light that had been red for more than 8 seconds and slammed into the corner of my front right quarter-panel. (I turned left into the inside left lane, and he was in the curbside lane, and just hit the edge of my car, going more than 75 klicks. Had it been a full-on impact, I'd have been fucked right up. As it was, I was in quite a bit of pain for about three months, with daily migraines and more.) It totalled my car. I had the inglorious moment of picking my bumper up off the ground and stuffing it into my wrecked-but-able-to-get-home vehicle.

Two years ago this week, I was riding my scooter in the morning because I was a FUCKING MORON after a night of heavy drinking and copious marijuana for a concert, and because I was the leader of a scooter group that's now 300+ strong here in Vancouver, I felt compelled to lead the ride. Dumb fucking move. I nearly died. Read the post in the sidebar if you want more. I totalled my scooter and my dear friend's.

Last year, believing things happen in threes, I was determined to avoid riding my scooter for the whole week that dubious anniversary week. Then I said fuck it, life was too short to live in fear. It is, and was, the only time I've ever ridden my scooter listening to my iPOD. I hopped on and did a long, long ride long after midnight, just communing with the night and my fears and the late summer's night air and the long stretches of asphalt that winds its way around UBC.

On the anniversary of that car accident, I was in a series of classes, and had gone for coffee at the corner of Granville and Nelson. I stepped out of the shop with my coffee, and right then, this heavy chick on a scooter gets T-boned by a car doing wide left turn right behind her. She spills and crashes to the ground. I stood there in awe, staring at this chick who weighed the exact same as I had before all my accidents and stuff. For some reason, it brought me closure.

I just stood there remembering this sad, fat lump I'd been when that bad chapter of my life began and stood there puzzling how I'd manage to come so far physically and emotionally despite all the pain and frustration I'd been subject to in the two years past.

Well, Labour Day's around the corner, right, so it's sort of been on my mind. I won't take my chances anymore, and tonight's the perfect example. I showed up at GayBoy's after a post-work therapist appointment, so I had my scooter. I brought a bottle of wine because that's what polite guests do, but he already had one decanting. Well, naturally we tackled both. But I didn't ride home. Nope. GayBoy and I walked my scooter the six blocks home.

And what's the first thing I hear on my answering machine?

A message from an insurance adjuster asking if I remember any details from the scoot-chick's accident last September 2nd.

Holy fucking weird. What took so long, eh?

It has me thinking, and in conjunction with the shrink appointment tonight, that means I'm sort of in a strange place. But what it has me thinking is that, y'know, it's just plain old funny how long adversity can draw out, and that we ultimately have no power over its direction. For some reason, that brings me peace. For some reason, I feel better hearing this message. It is nothing but odd how strange it is that I should hear about it now, tonight, the night I'm thinking just how fucking far I've come in three years, the last couple months excepted.

Instead of my appointment tonight taking me to a negative and overly ponderous place, I left feeling empowered and awesome. I left feeling alive, like I've overcome a lot, and even when it beats me some of the time, enough fight and smarts remain that I still manage to whip its fucking hiney, you know? To a degree, anyhow. To enough of a degree that my fear and apprehension are now tucked squarely away.

It fucking BAFFLES me how much a change my emotions have endured since last week. WOW. Had I known the 180 could occur so rapidly, I'd never have felt the fear I felt. But if I hadn't felt that fear, would this feel so fucking good now? Probably not. How weird a world this is.

So, I will call. If called upon, I will testify in court. I am, and will be, scooter girl's ally. I shall aid her in reaching a new, comforting conclusion. I should have sued the fucker who hit me four years ago, but instead I'm the kind of person that believes the mental anguish of drawing shit out is not something one can be financially compensated for. Instead, I'd rather sign it away and move the fuck on, and that's what I did then, and that's what I'd do tomorrow. Money ain't everything, and never ever will be.

Just before all the bullshit came down on me this year, I had the strange experience of riding my scooter to work and seeing the fallen accident-girl riding her scooter towards me. Chipperly, she waved and pumped a fist as she saw me cruising past in the opposite direction. I recognized her and smiled. "Ride on," I thought. Nothing like getting the fuck back on when the world strikes you down, you know?

After all, one of the things I'm most proud of myself for is my resilience, whether it be getting onto that scooter after nearly dying, even though it was the scariest thing I've ever done, or fighting like fucking hell to get a job when I had to, even though I was coming apart at the seams. In regards to getting-on-the-bike-again, the proudest I think I might've ever been was when I had a party a year or two ago, and my beloved GayBoy, who's not exactly Mr. Effusive, spoke up in front of everyone, looking me in the eye, and said how proud he was of me for getting back on that bike even when I was still injured, even when I was still using a cane. He said he'd seen big fucking strong burly men injured less severely than me who'd sworn forever off of bikes, and that seeing me get back on was almost like a victory he was able to live vicariously through.

I love GayBoy because he's been there for me through SOOOOO much bullshit. I'm far from perfect; I fuck up and fuck up big. I go from being kind and thoughtful and generous to occasionally being a bitch, and he always knows who the true me is, that patience is its own reward in my case, and he waits in the wings until I come back to myself, and I've learned to do the same for him. WhippedBoy is also of the same ilk, but it's just that GayBoy's more present on a day-to-day basis. But THAT was the cream of the crop. That was the moment I felt the most proud and the most loved and the most appreciated. It's not often we have those moments when we truly see what our friends, lovers, and family feel about us, but that was one of those moments, and sometimes, in moments of weakness, I call it back to mind, and I remember: I was (and am) the girl who rode again.

It's sometimes hard to reconcile that, but when I do, it brings me nothing but power.

Anyhow. I'm just mentally tripping a tad 'cos of this phone message. I shall phone. I shall bear witness. I shall tell the truth. She will get her money.

And now I won't worry that there's a target on my back. I know, I know, a silly thing to do either way, but I can't always account for logic over emotion. It is what it is, I am what I am, and superstitions sometimes speak louder than I wish they would.

Tonight, they're speaking every bit as loud as I would have hoped. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about that accident streak, and this is like a message from the beyond telling me that'd be a stupid thing to waste mental energy on. It's a good time to find out.

This has been a very, very good day, from start to finish. And I've fucking well earned it.

HuZZuh!