Today I was at the hospital - by the way, I work as a security guard at a county hospital - and I'm standing out there smoking and bullshitting with my girlfriend and around the corner, I hear someone shout, "Stop 'em!" and I turn around the corner and see this psych patient on a 51-50. This is the same guy that tried to kill himself by driving his car off the bluffs here in East Bakersfield, he lived obviously - which was lucky in a cosmic/good-for-humanity sort of way I guess, but for me, his survival was just one in a series of events that would lead to him ruining Nova's (Nova, who'd be 'The Girlfriend') and my smoke break.
So, like I was saying, I hear someone shout, "Stop 'em!" and turn around to see this crazy-dude, so I step between him and freedom-to-kill-himself.
Here's the good part - ready?
This guy sees me, sees the size of me in comparison with him (me = big, him = small), and I guess he instantly recalls the tussles with me in the past (he lost then too), and he just sort of does this goofy, I-give-up leap/dive into my arms where he kind of holds his arms at his sides and turns his head to the left and makes a jerky little hop into the air. For my part, and I was awesome, I seamlessly take him to the ground in one motion where I'm also getting out of the way. The Police (who were just in the hallway when he made a break for it) come up and square me out of getting him in handcuffs, which is fine, I still have a lit smoke in my hand, which I smoked in tow behind the cops as they took him back inside, my smoke break cut short by his shenanigans.
But I don't blame crazy-dude, he's just fucked up in the head and apparently going through some shit. The only things separating me from them are one of the following: A) the right combination of head-juices, B) enough meth to where I only have 6 brain cells to rub together or C) a few very special relationships. There is only one time when I blame crazy-dudes, and that is when their entire psych profile is limited to the words, "Borderline Personality," or the DSM-IV code "F60.30" (which is the same thing, and I know because I long ago found it out so I'd know when I saw it). I've been at the hospital for about 5 years now, seen a shitload of crazy-dudes, and seen a thousand personality disorders. And while I am not a clinical professional, I've seen plenty. As near as I can figure, Borderline Personality disorder is code for "Asshole." They will go from singing Funk Soul Brother at the top of their lungs, to trying to feed you their fist and wrist just because they are bored and when it comes right down to it, they only actually have impulse control and morality issues. And unlike the genuinely crazy, they know the difference between right and wrong, socially acceptable behavior and socially unacceptable behavior, they just don't give a shit. In short, they act exactly like every fucking drunk I babysat when I was bouncing. So, I tend to treat them in pretty much the same way as I did them. There is 30 seconds of attempted reasoning before I drop them to and feed them the floor.
I didn't mean for this to become a I-fuck-people-up-at-my-job blog, because that's not really the case. I'm not that dude. I don't look forward to this shit, and don't trust the 25% of my fellow work force who does. And I also don't want to portray myself as a I-don't-start-shit-I-finish-shit kind of guy either. If I had my way, I'd happily avoid said shit all together.
I'm a happy guy. I like tits and tattoos and my girlfriend has both. I am surrounded by people who love me and who's company I enjoy. I have comic books, pulp novels, role-playing manuals and historical non-fiction books in big ass piles in my bookshelves. I have oodles of CDs and a music file chock full of music which appeals to me. I have SCA heavy weapons armor and a group of guys who'll let me hit them with sticks. I am back in school and doing well. I have job that will allow me to live in a lifestyle in which I am content with weekends off. In short, my life is awesome Admittedly there are insane mutants in the White House and our soldiers are dying in the desert due to a total lie, but the parts of my life over which I have immediate control are sailing along smoothly.
I think I'll put that last part on my profile.
Until next time imaginary audience!
So, like I was saying, I hear someone shout, "Stop 'em!" and turn around to see this crazy-dude, so I step between him and freedom-to-kill-himself.
Here's the good part - ready?
This guy sees me, sees the size of me in comparison with him (me = big, him = small), and I guess he instantly recalls the tussles with me in the past (he lost then too), and he just sort of does this goofy, I-give-up leap/dive into my arms where he kind of holds his arms at his sides and turns his head to the left and makes a jerky little hop into the air. For my part, and I was awesome, I seamlessly take him to the ground in one motion where I'm also getting out of the way. The Police (who were just in the hallway when he made a break for it) come up and square me out of getting him in handcuffs, which is fine, I still have a lit smoke in my hand, which I smoked in tow behind the cops as they took him back inside, my smoke break cut short by his shenanigans.
But I don't blame crazy-dude, he's just fucked up in the head and apparently going through some shit. The only things separating me from them are one of the following: A) the right combination of head-juices, B) enough meth to where I only have 6 brain cells to rub together or C) a few very special relationships. There is only one time when I blame crazy-dudes, and that is when their entire psych profile is limited to the words, "Borderline Personality," or the DSM-IV code "F60.30" (which is the same thing, and I know because I long ago found it out so I'd know when I saw it). I've been at the hospital for about 5 years now, seen a shitload of crazy-dudes, and seen a thousand personality disorders. And while I am not a clinical professional, I've seen plenty. As near as I can figure, Borderline Personality disorder is code for "Asshole." They will go from singing Funk Soul Brother at the top of their lungs, to trying to feed you their fist and wrist just because they are bored and when it comes right down to it, they only actually have impulse control and morality issues. And unlike the genuinely crazy, they know the difference between right and wrong, socially acceptable behavior and socially unacceptable behavior, they just don't give a shit. In short, they act exactly like every fucking drunk I babysat when I was bouncing. So, I tend to treat them in pretty much the same way as I did them. There is 30 seconds of attempted reasoning before I drop them to and feed them the floor.
I didn't mean for this to become a I-fuck-people-up-at-my-job blog, because that's not really the case. I'm not that dude. I don't look forward to this shit, and don't trust the 25% of my fellow work force who does. And I also don't want to portray myself as a I-don't-start-shit-I-finish-shit kind of guy either. If I had my way, I'd happily avoid said shit all together.
I'm a happy guy. I like tits and tattoos and my girlfriend has both. I am surrounded by people who love me and who's company I enjoy. I have comic books, pulp novels, role-playing manuals and historical non-fiction books in big ass piles in my bookshelves. I have oodles of CDs and a music file chock full of music which appeals to me. I have SCA heavy weapons armor and a group of guys who'll let me hit them with sticks. I am back in school and doing well. I have job that will allow me to live in a lifestyle in which I am content with weekends off. In short, my life is awesome Admittedly there are insane mutants in the White House and our soldiers are dying in the desert due to a total lie, but the parts of my life over which I have immediate control are sailing along smoothly.
I think I'll put that last part on my profile.
Until next time imaginary audience!