Long. Very long.

-Trigger warning for violence & physical assault-

I have been in fights, but until Thursday night, I had never been kicked in the face before. I had been having such a lovely evening, too; I never would have guessed that I would end up lying on the ground screaming, "YOU MOTHERFUCKER!" as some dude stomped on my head.

I had gone to a cafe about ten blocks from my house to write in my journal and sip on a cup of coffee. I have been working on a whole lot of self-improvement stuff (I won't get into the details here), and planned to write it all out in my journal. As I have mentioned here before, writing helps me process my emotions, and can help hold me accountable to my own goals. I ended up chatting with one of the cafe employees, and as we chatted, a few other employees and regulars from the cafe joined us. We sat on the patio, laughing, drinking beer, and playing silly games until around midnight. The night was yet another marvel at the magic of instant camaraderie. I left feeling sad that the evening was over, but appreciative that I got to participate. These kind of ephemeral moments are my favorite.

I normally would have listened to music on my way home, but my phone had died as I tried to call a friend on the way out of the cafe, so I shoved it into my purse and slung the bag over my shoulder. While I live in an area that can get a little rough in the evenings, I walk around at night all the time. I got accustomed to walking during the two and a half years I lived without a car. For most of that time, I had a job that didn't let out until well after dark, and I got comfortable with walking a good two or three miles to get home. I pride myself on generally being pretty damn vigilant, and based on how little I get harassed (aside from the occasional, "HEY BABY, CAN I GET YOUR NUMBER?" or the flasher that lives down the street), I am fairly certain that I give off an air of, "Don't. Fuck. With. Me." I make it a point to be civil, which usually makes it clear that I am not afraid, that I'm not trying to cause a problem, and that I'm aware of what's going on. If someone on the street asks me how I'm doing or what's going on, I'll answer. I will often greet people I pass with a "Good evening." I carry pepper spray in my bag. I always keep regular checks over my shoulder as I walk down the street. I am unafraid. I am fairly confident in my ability to assess whether someone is bad news or not. Clearly, at some point, it just doesn't matter.

I was almost home, with only three blocks or so to go, and all of the sudden I felt a blow to the back of my head. Some guy quickly moved past me, and I got a brief glimpse of him. I don't know if I said anything in response (knowing me, I surely did). I am not sure whether he hit me again, or whether it was because he grabbed the strap on my bag, but I fell to the ground. Things become blurry here. I remember screaming at him. I remember curling up on ground and clasping the strap on my bag. There were blows coming down on my face, on my head, and I remember the warmth of the blood in my mouth. I felt the tension in the purse strap release, the smooth strap running through my fingers as he snatched it and ran back the way he came.

I stood up, shaking, and felt my face. Bloody. There were no cars or people on the street. I have never felt so fucking alone in my life. I didn't know what to do, so I screamed for help. I screamed for someone to call the police. I kept screaming one word at a time ("Help! Police!") because I didn't know what else to say. I was afraid no one would come. I didn't know what else to do. A woman leaned out of her apartment window to tell me she was dialing the cops and told me to wait. I think she asked me what happened, but I can't remember. I remember looking at the blood on my hands and how my shoulders shook as I gasped. I was hyperventilating at this point. Some man with long blonde hair ran down the street, cell phone to his ear, and said, "I've got 911 on the line right now. Are you ok? Are you ok? What happened?" He sat me down on his porch, and the people who were at his house (roommates? company?) brought me paper towels and a bag full of frozen vegetables for my face.

The police came. I filled out a written statement. They took photos of me. The woman from down the street had a daughter who saw the entire event, and fortunately, could give a description of the guy. I couldn't stop crying. I kept asking the paramedics, "IS MY NOSE BROKEN? IS MY NOSE BROKEN? Is my face really fucked up right now?!" Clearly, my vanity knows no bounds. I told the officer that I hoped the gentleman who attacked me got a painful, incurable rash on his balls (the officer laughed, which made me feel a little better).

The list of injuries: Several abrasions on my head, two black eyes, a massive lump on the back of my head, a fractured nose, a tear behind my ear (meaning that my ear folded forward when he kicked me, and it was hard enough that the skin behind my ear tore--as in, my ear was tearing off my head), several massive bruises on my shoulder and arm, and cuts on my fist from (I believe) trying to hit him. ETA: For those of you who like photos, here are some of my absolutely fucked face.

What a fucking nightmare this year has been. First, a housefire. Second, an electric shock that broke my arm. Third, a car crash that totaled my car. And now, this. I have already been struggling to remain positive through all of these ordeals, and I am finding it incredibly difficult. This will be the fourth time in 2011 alone that I will have to put a large portion of my life on hold so I can recover from disaster. The amount of demoralization I feel seems bigger than me.

After this event, I was put up by a friend who lives near by. Amongst my friend group, I am notoriously terrible at being taken care of (please see: vulnerability turns me into a giant asshole. please see: sup, defense mechanism?). Regardless of that, being the generous, compassionate person he is, he set me up with ice, ibuprofen, and a beer on the couch, and listened to me rant and rave (and cry). I don't think I can thank him enough for his kindness. He created a space where I felt completely safe, even if I was difficult about it, which was exactly what I needed after such a disaster.

I am so grateful for all of the friends and family who have offered support in the two days (jesus, only two days?) since this has happened. They are the constant reminder that for every piece of shit I encounter, there are at least twenty benevolent folk to make up the difference. I think I would have truly lost my shit a long time ago if I didn't have their support.

I am hoping that by writing about the event, it will quell some of my rage. These things happen, right? It's not the end of the world. It's not my fault. My skull is not fractured. He didn't have a weapon. I'm alive. I have extraordinarily bad luck, but I do not want it to change me for the worse.

After each of these events, I feel angrier and more cynical toward the world, and I don't want to be that way. There were already so many reasons to be cynical prior to this year, and I had managed to maintain the tiniest semblance of optimism. While I have always been a bit of a grouch, I have always maintained my own special brand of brightness. I fear that these events are sapping me of it, bit by bit. While I have more than two dozen people who would gladly listen to me, there's no one I feel truly comfortable confiding in, and so, this all goes nowhere. I know that I need to reach out (more than just updating social networking with tiny snippets of my lividness), but I almost don't know where to go. After the fire, I went to a therapist, and while it served some purpose, it didn't solve this problem. I am trying so fucking hard to not become a horrible person, but every time something like this happens I feel like everything good about me is crumbling apart.

I don't know what else to do. I am so good at surviving, but absolutely terrible at building (or rebuilding). I can maintain, but I don't know how to move up from there. I have been trying to teach myself that, trying to work on it, but these things have happened in such a short period of time that I feel like every time I start heading somewhere, the world knocks my feet out from under me.

The Universe, to me: Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Oh, and by the way, Lizz, go fuck yourself.

I'm determined to make it better, but I don't know how to be happy while doing it. I have lots of exciting stories to tell, but the truth is that I would take being boring over the disheartenment this brings. Without question. I'm so sick of hearing the phrase, "But it could have been so much worse." Yes, it could have been, but I am not comforted because it was still horrible. Lastly, if you didn't know: these stories are only exciting when they didn't happen to you.

I'm sorry this isn't the inspirational story that we all love to read. (And I'm sorry this is not about something more important, like Occupy Wall Street, or Troy Davis, or any of the other shit happening in the world.) It is hard not to love it when someone posts about a struggle, or a disaster, and then follows it with a resounding, "BUT I WILL PREVAIL!" I know it's disappointing, but I cannot maintain a perpetual onslaught of GLITTER! CUPCAKES! KITTENS AND POSITIVE THINKING! Sometimes I wish I could. While I appreciate that there are people who are effortlessly capable of that (and who probably seem much saner than the likes of me), I can't. It wouldn't be real. Unfortunately, that's not my story. Not tonight. I know that this is life and these things happen, but come on. This is getting ridiculous, and I am exhausted.