Oatmeal Spill.mp4

Drive-By Counseling

My wife and I were driving south on Valencia St (San Francisco) when something grabbed my attention via my peripheral vision.  I saw a dad of approximately forty leaning over a crying ten year old girl.  He was irate.  I slowed to get a more complete picture of the proceedings.  I saw that he was raging irrationally, and the next step in escalation might be a beat-down.

I pulled off the street into a gas station just beyond the scene of the action.  My wife was concerned about my sudden unannounced stop and departure from the car.  I was on foot when the little girl came into my view.  She was being consoled by an older girl.  Dad had stopped the shouting and retreated to the doorway of a coffee house, but was watching the communication between the girls.  He appeared to have taken the last position in line for service, so I went in and stood next to him.

He was consumed by watching the girls, but seemed to have regained his composure.  I gauged his anger and present inclination for violence.  I spoke to him, "You were pretty angry at your girl there."

He replied, "Yeah, it's her sister's birthday, we're on a little family outing to celebrate, and she's not going along with the program.  She really needs to repair her attitude."

I continued, "I was parented harshly."  He came back swiftly, "I was parented harshly, too."

I answered, "I believe you."  A moment later I spoke again, "I don't think you know how angry you looked while you yelled at her.  I wish I'd had a camera to video the exchange and show it to you.  She would have reason to fear you were going to hurt her.  I was afraid you could get no angrier without beating her to the ground.

"I've never laid a hand on her."

"Cool...I was driving by and saw you were so angry, it scared me.  I couldn't pass by and not see that it calmed down.  How old is she?"  "Ten."

"I know when I was that age I disappointed my dad, and I imagine you disappointed your dad as well.  She's a kid, and this won't be the last time she disappoints you."  I stepped out of line, patted him on the shoulder and told him I needed to take off.

I walked a few steps when he called after me, "Hey!"  I turned around and he stepped out of line to catch up to me and offered me his hand, "Thank you."   I smiled, "You're welcome."

Looking back, I did a couple of things that kept me safe while intervening in this parenting situation.  I approached the dad in such a non-threatening manner that he had no idea I was on a mission to speak with him.  I stood next to him to feel for the degree of his anger and the likelihood of taking out his frustration on me.  I suggested to him that he was unaware that he was having a much greater impact than he intended.  Much more frightening.  I let him know that he'd scared ME while I was driving by.  I reminded him that we'd both upset our dads and we all lived through it, and life went on.  He revealed to me that he'd been parented harshly, and I believe that he was able to make a connection between violence he'd experienced, and violence he was acting out to his daughter.  And most important, I lived through the encounter using my training and experience.

 

Are Warriors "Hooked" on Combat? Can They Kick it?

While examining and healing my trauma and PTSD, I was guided, in session, to notice the difference in how I act in everyday life, and how I act in "combat."  One of the symptoms of PTSD is freezing in normal life situations.  Failing to follow up job opportunities with phone calls to authority figures, not writing resumes, not calling connections that could help.  The freezing is total.  The action doesn't happen.  Distraction to a pleasant pastime, to getting a snack, cleaning house, taking a shower, transports the sufferer away from the freezing moment of trial, into an acceptable activity (for me, it's watching a DVD, or making a sandwich.)  But this freezing doesn't happen when I step into a situation that most people would find terrifying.

While driving my taxi years ago, I drove past a crowd of people coming out of a private event--men in dark suits, women in classic prom-style dresses, about 1:00am.  While checking for possible passengers among the fifteen or twenty couples of 30 & 40-somethings, my eye was drawn to a punch being thrown.  I slowed to a stop just beyond the chaos of ten double and triple-parked cars, and saw a brawny man surrounded by four trimmer men, each punching him in the face.  The "victim" was beginning to stagger.  I tried to contact my dispatcher to call the police, but was unable to pierce the digital-dispatch curtain that hampered my company's drivers.  I got out of my cab and drew my two canisters of mace/pepper spray, and hurried over to the beating.  I sprayed the four assailants and stopped the attack.

The four men stood, blinded by the spray, while the brawny victim's head cleared and he threw a straight right hand to the face of one of the helpless foursome.  My goal was not to change the balance of power, but to end the attack, so I maced the victim, and the five became pre-occupied with their eye-irritations.  Another taxi pulled up, the driver asked if I'd like the cops called.  I asked him to please call.  He was from a radio dispatched company who was able to call his dispatcher and get immediate results.  Several men took exception to my intervention and began shouting at me.  One or two rushed at me, I maced them and stopped their attacks as well.  I noticed two of the male party-goers attempting to restrain one of their friends from going into the trunk of his car.

The angry man was trying to get under his spare tire, swearing in an unfamiliar language.  His friends were holding him, trying to talk sense to him in that same language.  My senses told me that the man was going for a resource that meant serious trouble for me, perhaps a gun.  I stepped up to the wrestling match at the rear of the car, reached under the open trunk lid and shot a jet of mace into the eyes of the crazed weapon-seeker.  His two friends let go of him, saw that I meant them no harm, and stepped back a couple of strides.  I substantially soaked their friend to stall him further from finding his deadly tool.  I motioned gratefully to his restrainers for preventing the introduction of unnecessary force into the mix.  I moved back toward my taxi as the police arrived.

Multiple officers talked to the upset partiers, ascertained that I had not punched anyone, hadn't maced any innocent non-combatants and sent me on my way.

With the theme of this post, "Are Warriors Hooked on Combat," I remember discussions with heroin addicts when I worked in the county jail. They said that heroin made them feel "normal."  I notice that I was thinking clearly the entire time, I was watching for anyone thinking of neutralizing me from any angle, I was dedicated to ending the combat situation, and I realized that some partiers were appreciative, some were incensed, and I was at risk.  I was not afraid, I was functioning well, I was stopping trouble, preventing injury, looking for surprise elements that need to be dealt with.  I was contributing to society.  One therapist friend suggested I was in my "comfort zone."  Maybe I was feeling "normal."

I experienced no trauma from this situation, because I was functioning well, I was not overwhelmed either by circumstances, by risk or by force.  But why did I stop and get out of the car?  Because driving away would have violated my personal standard for bystanding.  An action was in progress that I had both the commitment and the training to intervene.  However fulfilling it may be afterwards, dealing and coping and strategizing and surviving is like a DRUG.  I'm good at it.  Like a mountain-climber who KNOWS he's as prepared as he can be, and seeks the test after test of successive crises in a climb.  Despite the incredible risk, the climber knows he's not a fool.  On the mountain-face, he is most alive.

The returning combat veteran (I have never served in military combat) will experience these somatic truths: his training has prepared him to face this incredible moment called combat.  That he neutralized adversaries, avoided his own death, saved the lives of buddies or civilians, fulfilled his duties, kept his composure under fire allows him to report to providence and anyone else, "I am a WARRIOR!"  This is more than a mindset.  This is a physical reality that combat training and experience makes neurologically true.

When the warrior is transplanted, without readjustment intervention, from the world of full-out adrenalized functioning and hypervigilance, back into our society, he may be adrift.  No one knows how respected he was in the Middle East; how he and his unit had each others' backs.  He has a problem adapting to a location where sudden death is not a minute-by-minute factor.

Where a non-traumatized person might forge ahead despite trepidation, fear, or discomfort, PTSD stops our forward progress, notifies our body that death or serious injury is lying in wait--DON'T GO THERE!  When the terrorizing trial is a job interview or an examination, this life-saving frame of reference doesn't serve us.  The body is equipped and eager to smooth over this timed-out life adaptation, but it often needs some help, like somatic therapy, EFT or EMDR.  My freezing responses are steadily disappearing, as I relax and am guided to let the natural process iron out the overwhelm.

The Lombard Street Jack-in-the-Box

During the ten years I drove a taxi in San Francisco, there was a Jack-In-The-Box restaurant on Lombard street, between the Marina and Cow Hollow.  A surprising amount of violence took place there, considering it was between these two upscale neighborhoods.  It was also near The Triangle, the popular area with a collection of nightspots frequented by twenty-somethings, controlled by a daunting police presence.  The drawback to the restaurant location, was the lack of police presence for the same heavy-drinking young people.

One Friday night, about 1:00am, I parked my taxi in the lot just outside the restaurant doorway.  I entered, joined a line and considered the wall menu offerings. In front of me was a Hispanic trio--a stunning young girl, a husky young man and a rail-thin young man who projected a near-Gandhian non-violence.  In the line to our left was a clean cut, blond man who had some issue with the husky man in front of me.  The blond told husky that he would gladly kick his ass, and stepped into my line to press his face into husky's.  At that moment, three clean cut young men, all 6'3 to 6'5" stepped into my line, backing up their tough talking

Assault + Betrayal, High School Memory

I played football in high school.  I was a 6'2", 162 lb tackle as a 15 year old junior, on the varsity squad.  I wasn't sure why I was a tackle.  I spent a fair amount of my practice time on offense, getting crushed by a 6'3", 225 lb defensive tackle nicknamed "Tiny."  On one particular practice day I was putting some time in on defense.  After a play ended, I had returned to the defensive line as the offensive players walked back through us to huddle up for their next play.  As I stood among my teammates, watching the offensive huddle begin to take shape ten yards away, I suddenly felt a crushing pain in my right kidney.  My vision blurred, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't stand.  I toppled forward onto my hands and knees.  I put my head on the ground, I raised it up, trying to find a position that let me inhale.  While I gasped for air, I looked to my left to see

Evening Gown, Tuxedo and An Unprovoked Attack

One weekend night of the big San Francisco Black & White Ball, a huge formal event attended by thousands of people, I'd picked up a decked out couple in tux and evening gown.  They were excited as we drove through the  lower Haight district toward the extravaganza.  We were only a minute into the ride when unexpected excitement happened in front of us.  A man in a suit was on the sidewalk, walking past several teenage boys sitting in front of a housing project.  Suddenly, one of the boys vaulted off the low wall, away from his companions and slugged the passing man.  His glasses flew off into the street, and he

That Guy Macing Everyone Needs a Cape

I drove my taxi one Friday night through the "Triangle" night life section of Cow Hollow, near the Marina.  Normally, the police presence is about 6-8 SFPD officers and 4-6 Highway patrol officers. This control keeps a lid on the acting out by testosterone and alcohol-laden men, egged on by proximity to pretty, young, alcohol-laden women.  This night there was no presence at all.  No squad car fenders peeking out from the alleys, no clusters of officers watching the proceedings.  Of course, a sizable fight broke out between two groups of young men in front of one of the popular bars.  As the chaotic scene of jumping, boxing, kicking and falling young men

Robbery in a Garage-Way.

Driving my Taxi up Noe Street in the Castro about 11:00pm, I noticed some commotion in front of a garage door.  Three men had surrounded a Hispanic gay man.  He appeared to be hemmed in and uncomfortable.  I stopped my cab in the middle of the street, got out, stood at the rear of the car and shouted, "Is everything OK over there?  Two of the three men locked eyes on me and stared.  The third took a few steps in my direction,