May 20th, 2015

2013, cyd, new

My brief love affair with Facebook is over. This is that goodbye.

I don't think I will be posting in here like I have been. I think I'm going back to I can protect my entries better and avoid bad people from breaking into the real world and hurting Doc because they can't hurt me directly. Absolutely unacceptable.

But I will try to give an objective report of what went down last night.

Doc had been gone to work for about an hour, when I got a call from him. A very sedated-sounding Doc stuttered out instructions to meet him at the end of the street at the bottom of the hill. I asked if he was okay. He didn't answer, he simply repeated his instructions, really slowly.

I grabbed a pair of his shoes, my phone, and my wallet/keys. Locked the door behind me, and took off at a trot down the street. I knew something was very wrong, but I had no idea what.
I got to the end of the street, nothing. I turned the corner and went down that street. A group of yolo teen bmx-ers who know me from the big-ass truck, and has, in the past, thrown me gang signs was in the street, were riding in large cirles in the street. Oi! I asked if they had seen Doc and his mountain bike. They had, and they gave me directions.

I was about running now. I rounded the last corner, and he came into view. He was dragging one leg behind him, and there was blood streaming down his face. The shoulder of the arm he was holding the bike with was injured, so the bike was tilting awkwardly, making it harder to guide along.

That's when I started to run. He didn't even know it was me until I took the bike from him. He presented the bloody rags pictured, and said dreamily, "They said this was my blood."

All the way home, that's all he could say. He couldn't tell me what happened, or where, or if he had called work, or if I needed to call the officers and have him file a report, or what. All he kept saying, in almost a slow sing-song way, "They said this was my blood."

I got him home, put the bike away, gathered the first aid stuff (which we have a lot of, I'm a self-injurer, so it's good to have the stuff around) and met him in the kitchen. I got his clothes off of him and started in with the hydrogen peroxide, gauze, triple antibiotic and tape. Then I got him to the couch and applied several ice packs. 15 on 15 off.

Then I hit the computer. And I posted some stuff exclusively on here, my own wall about someone that I didn't name, and damned if he didn't see it. He really wasn't meant to. And it has made things tres difficult for Doc, and that was as far from my intent as it gets.

So, I'm going back to I'd say that 95% of the posts are public. But I have the option, when I'm mad, to lock down a post in a number of ways, and I trust it more that I trust Facebook. I'll still come and make snarky comments and follow everyone and all my news feeds and Doc will continue to eternally play Pot Farm. I just can't be me with the absolute free speech here. I'm not ready to deal with the consequences, plain and simple.