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Last week my personal mobility vehicle’s electrical system had a brain fart while I was crossing the intersection at University Ave. and Baltimore Dr.
I started riding across the intersection at the normal “balls to the wall” speed of 9 mph when the PMV slowed way down until it was barely moving. I was struck with panic and I immediately started pushing buttons and watching the seconds tick on the digital intersection clock. 21 seconds became 15 seconds, I‘m inches away from the bumpers of cars. I made a strange face and I humped the seat in an attempt to speed things along. So great was my panic, I dared not look any driver in the eyes. Was I afraid I would see pity in their eyes? I hate pity; I would rather be feared than be pitied. But that’s just me.
The cars and their drivers sat silent, no one honked and as the seconds ticked, I realized for those last few moments, I owned the intersection.
Yet, I still panicked. Panic brought on by my fear was a powerful motivator that day. As I was closing in on the final 15 feet and 5 seconds on the digital clock, I jumped up and pushed the PMV even though it resisted. A move I later paid for by enduring intense back spasms that evening when I lay down.
Once I was safe on the sidewalk I found the reset button and the PMV resumed normal operation.
Those moments of panic brought back the feelings of being hit from behind by a van while I was riding my motor scooter on 70th street October 20, 2010. The surprise, the impact, and the pain of the traffic accident were all reflected back at me while I was trying to get myself out of the intersection.
Two years ago this month I had my Friday Night Adventure in La Mesa. I remember reading a comment that was published in the Reader about my winning Blog entry. The comment, from a man, asked the same thing I myself have asked many, many times in my life, ”Why don’t you just get over it?”
I have worked many decades to, “Just get over it.” However, it does not let go of me. For instance, two years ago, I did not just wake up on a Friday morning in March and say, “I’m going to kill my sex offender neighbor.” There was a whole series of events leading up to that night.
Mickey, the new neighbor moved in about three months before the events which led to the creation of this Blog which I aptly titled Diane5150. Mickey was about my age, fifty-something and my height, about five foot five. He was a blue eyed fellow with a gray pony tail. He had an old Ford pickup with a camper top, but his daily driver was a Harley Davidson chopper.
I am not a fan of loud motorcycles but Mickey considerately rolled his chopper out to the street before starting it at four forty five every week day morning for his ride to work. I remember speaking to another neighbor about how grateful I was that the new guy was so considerate.
About a month after I said that, things changed one Monday morning at four forty five AM. I was bounced awake by the sound of a Harley engine turning over. A throaty roar came out of its pipes. It started and then stopped. It started again and continued to run. The sound reverberated through the walls of my apartment. I jumped out of bed and looked out my window as Mickey rode his chopper down the drive and into the street.
This then became Mickey’s new habit. At four forty five every week day morning, he started his chopper under my window. I complained to management. Management counterclaimed, "Mickey says you are lying and you need to see him about the issue."
When I heard that Mickey was calling me a liar, I immediately go knock on his door.
I asked him, “Please start your chopper at the street like you used to. He looks me in the eye and he lies to my face. He claims he is not starting his chopper under my window in the morning.
I am incredulous at his denial. I do not relent, and he does not repent. I walk away and he continues saying nasty hateful things to my retreating backside.
I got back to my apartment. I was livid I began taking deep breaths to calm myself. I made a cup of coffee and tried to watch the news.
During the spring of 2010 young female joggers were being killed and sexually assaulted, their bodies dumped like garbage. That night the News anchor gave the California sex offender website information and as a lark I decided to check out my neighborhood.
When I saw my neighbors picture, the same man who less than an hour ago looked me in the eyes and called me a liar, was a sex offender; I began to fantasize about taking a baseball bat to his chopper. The “baseball bat of happiness” was born.
I immediately took my lap top to show the managers what I had found. They were oblivious and said Mickey had passed their background check. Mickey however failed to disclose his felon status.
I went home and for 24 hours I obsessed about doing things to him. I involuntarily became enthralled to the smells, sounds, tastes and feelings of a life lived decades ago. I was reminded that I have been imprinted by trauma and triggers lurk in my benign choices.
“Just get over it” I now know that those words when spoken reveal volumes about the speaker and have nothing to do with me. I am working toward the day when I will own the room.
Last week my personal mobility vehicle’s electrical system had a brain fart while I was crossing the intersection at University Ave. and Baltimore Dr.
I started riding across the intersection at the normal “balls to the wall” speed of 9 mph when the PMV slowed way down until it was barely moving. I was struck with panic and I immediately started pushing buttons and watching the seconds tick on the digital intersection clock. 21 seconds became 15 seconds, I‘m inches away from the bumpers of cars. I made a strange face and I humped the seat in an attempt to speed things along. So great was my panic, I dared not look any driver in the eyes. Was I afraid I would see pity in their eyes? I hate pity; I would rather be feared than be pitied. But that’s just me.
The cars and their drivers sat silent, no one honked and as the seconds ticked, I realized for those last few moments, I owned the intersection.
Yet, I still panicked. Panic brought on by my fear was a powerful motivator that day. As I was closing in on the final 15 feet and 5 seconds on the digital clock, I jumped up and pushed the PMV even though it resisted. A move I later paid for by enduring intense back spasms that evening when I lay down.
Once I was safe on the sidewalk I found the reset button and the PMV resumed normal operation.
Those moments of panic brought back the feelings of being hit from behind by a van while I was riding my motor scooter on 70th street October 20, 2010. The surprise, the impact, and the pain of the traffic accident were all reflected back at me while I was trying to get myself out of the intersection.
Two years ago this month I had my Friday Night Adventure in La Mesa. I remember reading a comment that was published in the Reader about my winning Blog entry. The comment, from a man, asked the same thing I myself have asked many, many times in my life, ”Why don’t you just get over it?”
I have worked many decades to, “Just get over it.” However, it does not let go of me. For instance, two years ago, I did not just wake up on a Friday morning in March and say, “I’m going to kill my sex offender neighbor.” There was a whole series of events leading up to that night.
Mickey, the new neighbor moved in about three months before the events which led to the creation of this Blog which I aptly titled Diane5150. Mickey was about my age, fifty-something and my height, about five foot five. He was a blue eyed fellow with a gray pony tail. He had an old Ford pickup with a camper top, but his daily driver was a Harley Davidson chopper.
I am not a fan of loud motorcycles but Mickey considerately rolled his chopper out to the street before starting it at four forty five every week day morning for his ride to work. I remember speaking to another neighbor about how grateful I was that the new guy was so considerate.
About a month after I said that, things changed one Monday morning at four forty five AM. I was bounced awake by the sound of a Harley engine turning over. A throaty roar came out of its pipes. It started and then stopped. It started again and continued to run. The sound reverberated through the walls of my apartment. I jumped out of bed and looked out my window as Mickey rode his chopper down the drive and into the street.
This then became Mickey’s new habit. At four forty five every week day morning, he started his chopper under my window. I complained to management. Management counterclaimed, "Mickey says you are lying and you need to see him about the issue."
When I heard that Mickey was calling me a liar, I immediately go knock on his door.
I asked him, “Please start your chopper at the street like you used to. He looks me in the eye and he lies to my face. He claims he is not starting his chopper under my window in the morning.
I am incredulous at his denial. I do not relent, and he does not repent. I walk away and he continues saying nasty hateful things to my retreating backside.
I got back to my apartment. I was livid I began taking deep breaths to calm myself. I made a cup of coffee and tried to watch the news.
During the spring of 2010 young female joggers were being killed and sexually assaulted, their bodies dumped like garbage. That night the News anchor gave the California sex offender website information and as a lark I decided to check out my neighborhood.
When I saw my neighbors picture, the same man who less than an hour ago looked me in the eyes and called me a liar, was a sex offender; I began to fantasize about taking a baseball bat to his chopper. The “baseball bat of happiness” was born.
I immediately took my lap top to show the managers what I had found. They were oblivious and said Mickey had passed their background check. Mickey however failed to disclose his felon status.
I went home and for 24 hours I obsessed about doing things to him. I involuntarily became enthralled to the smells, sounds, tastes and feelings of a life lived decades ago. I was reminded that I have been imprinted by trauma and triggers lurk in my benign choices.
“Just get over it” I now know that those words when spoken reveal volumes about the speaker and have nothing to do with me. I am working toward the day when I will own the room.