Not one of my better moments.
But, not my worst—just loud.
The MTs were taking vitals. I was sitting at a table playing cards, my chair barely nudged into the aisle. Enter the human freight train. A very large, very rude MT tried to bulldoze past and slammed into my chair hard enough that I almost hit the floor.
She turned and glared at me.
I said, “Excuse me.”
She told me to move my chair.
That’s when the switch flipped. Instant. Blind. Rage.
For the next ten minutes I muttered insults like a broken record. Fat. Moo. Rude bitch. Mean. She just stood there glaring like a statue with an attitude. Since I couldn’t get to her, I did the next best thing—I started filling out a complaint form. She knew it. I knew it. The ward manager knew it.
He sat down and asked if we wanted to play cards. Because nothing fixes rage like Go Fish. He was quietly assessing the atmosphere and watching me and what I was going to do next. We played. I stayed quiet. Quiet but seething.
Then snack time came. Guess who was running the desk? I stood in line like a civilized human being. When it was my turn, she ignored me. Just skipped right over me like I didn’t exist.
Boom. Rage, round two.
I stormed back to my chair—now shoved fully into the aisle out of pure spite—and started sputtering insults again. She glared. Still silent. So, I helpfully informed the surrounding patients that she was fat, lazy, and clearly miserable, and maybe—just maybe—shouldn’t be working in a psych ward.
Still nothing. Just that look.
I finally stormed off to my room and rage-journaled like my life depended on it.
A little while later, she came to do checks. My door was closed. She shoved it open and stared at me. I said, “Wow. She can move.” She snapped, “Excuse me.” I told her that’s what she should’ve said when she slammed into my chair earlier.
She said something—I don’t remember what—and walked off, leaving my door wide open.
I got up and slammed it.
Still furious, I decided escalation was the best choice and left my room. She was standing in the hallway, staring. I stomped past her, loudly suggesting that if she walked more, she might lose some weight. I went straight to the nurses’ station and announced that she had no business working there with that attitude.
The staff tried to calm me down. Bless them. I stayed angry. I told her she might want to update her résumé because she wasn’t going to have a job when I was done.
Eventually it was bedtime. I passed out.
Mamma Bear tried to calm me down. It helped. Some.
When I woke up the next morning, she was gone.
No apology. No resolution. Just the lingering satisfaction that we’d both survived—and the uncomfortable knowledge that I’d absolutely won nothing.
I wonder if my formal complaint ever went anywhere. Did the hospital administration care about one mental patient getting upset over a snub? Somehow, I doubt it.
K.
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I'm Still Here. Somehow... 