In a voice much meaner in tone and scarier in intent than my normal speech I barked out a stern and simple, “Listen well you Son of a Bitch. When a woman say no, go away, leave me alone, and/or back off you had damn sure better fucking listen. Now Apologize!”
The gurgling sound of a mans Adams apple being crushed by a boot is a sound most women never get to hear. But It’s sweet music, when it’s coming out of a would be molester.
I don’t remember letting him up. If I had done so willingly, or if I had been removed by force I couldn’t tell you. The next thing I remembered was being in the parking lot hearing several people arguing over what had just happened yelling at me and each other like it would change events some how.
“What if they call the cops on her? What do we say?” Asked one irritatingly loud female.
“It was self-defense. He was groping her, and we all heard her tell him not to touch her, and to leave her alone.” Said a less annoying male voice.
“But,” Added a younger and more soft voice, “She went a little far didn’t she?”
Finally I heard a voice that made me pay attention, yours.
“Look, we all know this is not like her. We have all seen her deal with much more than this and smile her way through the day like it was water of a ducks back.” You said calmly, yet the concern had not left your eyes. “She has PTSD, and when it triggers she blacks out and someone ends up kissing concrete. Yes, If the cops show up it’s a simple self-defense case. She felt as if her person was in danger, she reacted. Did it go a little far, that depends. I’ve never been molested, how far is too far when you think you might get raped?”
“PTSD is a soldiers disease, she ain’t no soldier.” The irritating female said again.
This, like always made my calming anger reignite. I don’t down shift very quickly.
“Excuse me?” PTSD is a mental disorder, it effects a range of people from members of the armed forces, accident survivors, Natural disaster victims, rape victims, Witnesses to crimes, murders, and survivors of any imaginable and unimaginable stressful, and traumatic event. To say I can’t have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder because I wasn’t in the military, is like saying you can’t be ignorant because you aren’t from an inbred family. PTSD, Like stupidity doesn’t discriminate. Unlike your ignorance, which I guarantee you will show every second of every day, My symptoms stay hidden until triggered and then I have no control.” My voice got louder as I spoke. My rage was still bubbling more than even I was comfortable with.
Stepping between me and the irritating female that I was verbally assaulting, You spoke again. “I think the best thing we can do right now is get you home, you don’t really want to hurt anyone else do you?”
What I wanted to do was shove little miss loud mouth and ignorant’s face up her own ass so far all she could do was swallow her own fecal matter. “The best thing would be for people to make sure they know what they are talking about before opening their shit filled mouths.” I spewed the filth of negativity out of my mouth like a hooligan trying to pick a fight. My tolerance for people’s stupidity was slim to none, and slim was on vacation.
“That’s it. ” You proclaimed as you picked me up and threw me over your shoulder kicking and fighting you to put me down. “We are going home.”
You put me in the car like a rotten child being dragged home by their parent. You strapped me in the seat and yanked the seat belt down against me hard. You engaged the child lock on the door before you shut it.
The steam rising off of me, hot and still angry. Take me to the gym where I can burn through it safely, I thought. Then the small bit of reason I still had told me you wouldn’t. You would take me home where there was a smaller chance of me hurting anyone else. Anyone, but you.
The ride home was silent. No radio, no conversation, No sound, save the rumble of the tires against the pavement and the occasional clicking of a turn signal.
I tried my best not to look at you. I tried not to see the disappointment on your face, or the concern still lingering in your eyes. I spent most of the drive trying to rationalize through my anger. Is he mad? I thought. I couldn’t discern if you were upset that I lost control, or scared that I may never regain it. You’d never seen my Switch get flipped like this. I was always collected. And then the side effects of my condition reared their ugliness forward and my thoughts would turn to angry bursts of foul language and despising you for intervening in my butt whooping contest.
As we pulled into the driveway the silence broke with a sarcastic but stern, ” Can I trust you to come inside without issue, or do I have to carry you in?”