And the loneliest...

Five years ago today, I had the worst and the most violent experience of my life.  Considering what I have lived through, the sexual abuse as a chid and adult and being assaulted by soldiers in Africa, I think that is saying a lot.  I think it is something that should ... be paid attention to ... but it feels like it has not been.

The pit bull attack fundamentally changed Amos as a dog, both his personality and his behavior.  The pit bull attacked fundamentally changed me, both my behavior and how I view the world.  It was the worst and the most violent experience of my life.

And it was the loneliest.

I screamed for help.  My throat was raw and sore for days with the strain of my screams and my eyes were bloodshot.  But no one came to help for the longest of times.  I discovered later that many folk heard my screams, but thought I was a child, playing around.

A 44-year-old woman.
Screaming.
"Somebody please help me!"

Dragged to the ground.
Stumbled to my feet.
Dragged to the ground.
Stumbled to my feet.
Over and over and over again.

Playing tug of war with a seven-month-old puppy dog.  Such terror.  Such pain.  Such a horrific experience.

I know that I was greatly protected because of my habit of wearing many layers, long sleeves, and either long pants or ankle length skirts.  I know that Amos was protected by his Creator.  Every terrible puncture into his body missed something vital.  I know that we were saved because there were two of us, not one.  The pit bull kept letting go as he shifted from one victim to another.

I knew the last time I stumbled to my feet, clutching Amos around my shoulders, trying to keep him safe, that it was the last time.  I knew I would not have the strength to stand the next time the pit bull leapt and dragged me to the ground.

When help finally came, it was a ring of folk shouting at me to give Amos to the pit bull and save myself.  That wasn't an option for me.  It just wasn't.  I didn't know then what I know now about Amos, about what a fantastic companion he would become and about how much he would comfort me in the physical agony that was to become my daily existence.  I just knew that I was already attached to that little fluff ball.  And if there was any chance that he was still alive, that he would survive, I was not going to give up.

Only, as I said, it wasn't about giving up.
I simply had nothing left.
I had little to begin with as it was.

To this day, I have absolutely no memory from the moment I realized that I would not be getting back up to some point where Amos and I were lying on the grass in the yard of the house on the corner.  I was bleeding.  He was bleeding.  And there was this loud crowd of people all around us.

One person in the crowd had not one but two pit bulls on a leash, one being the one that attacked us.  Another person in the crowd was her significant other who had his face mere inches from mine, threatening me not to tell the police about what happened.  I found myself screaming again, completely horse, begging someone to make that man go away.  Eventually, he left the space immediately around me.

The ambulance folk were hurtful, hateful, and did not treat me well or effectively (the IV that was started was under my skin, not in a vein).  The ER folk were dismissive, hurtful, and did not treat me well or effectively (I left just as dirty as I came and my wounds became infected).  It was the worst and the most violent experience of my life.

And it was the loneliest.

I know now what I did not know then as far as the effects of trauma on my body.  All the medical personal should have known what I do, that I was shaking and weeping because of shock and the stress hormones flooding my body.  But all anyone did was tell me to "calm down."  That is the most useless and insensitive thing to say to someone in shock.  It was the worst and the most violent experience of my life.

And it was the loneliest.

It remains the loneliest.  There was no support or encouragement or understanding from the medical personnel.  There was no support or encouragement or understanding from my neighbors.  There was no support or encouragement from my family.  There was little support and no encouragement from the animal control officers.  There was no support or encouragement or understanding from the judge who let the woman skate from her fine and restitution order.  And I felt little support or encouragement or understanding from my friends.  It was the worst and the most violent experience of my life.

And it was the loneliest.

Yesterday, I tried to tell someone how hard this day is for me and the person cut me off and told me to basically just get over it.  What a way to kick someone when she's already down on the ground.  SIGH.

A Facebook friend of mine lost her teenage son in a car accident a few years ago.  She has talked about, written about, how her family and friends do not understand the agony, the wretchedness of that day as it comes around each year.  It is a day that is a division in her life, in her world.  Before that day, she had a son.  After that day, she did not. That is not something you get over ... or move on from.

August 6, 2010 is a pretty horrible day.  It is the day I was diagnosed with dysautonomia and the day I was last raped.  It is also the day I became pregnant with the baby that I lost.  Another loneliness that remains with me.  I often think of that day as the beginning of the end, in that I had this diagnoses and this numb horror and then this secret and then this loss and then another loss and then fleeing Alexandria.  I was already losing my job by then, the handwriting was on the wall, but definitely that was a turning point.

July 12, 2011 was not a turning point in my life.  It was a severing.  It is this demarkation between before and after the pit bull attack.  I will never be the same.  My life will never be the same.  From a PTSD standpoint, it is a wound that will always remain with me.  It is terror and a loneliness that haunts me, that cloaks the core of who I am.  It was the worst and most violent experience of my life.

And it was the loneliest.