The story I’m about to tell, contains stereotypes. Just a warning.
Last night, around 10:30 pm, Sensible Girlfriend said she was going to drive herself to the emergency room because she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to wait until Monday. At least that was what I assumed. I wouldn’t have any of that nonsense of her driving herself, and decided to take her. I waited with her until her parents could make it there, or for The Wee One to get off work.
We actually live in a melting pot type of area. Because Atlanta has several mega corporations with their headquarters in the city, there are residents from many different states. Mostly, Yankees. It’s rare to actually meet a native of the area….until visiting the next county over.
The next county over is Redneck area. Hillbilly-Redneck. The people who believe that pajamas are appropriate attire everywhere they go, the type of men who always have one strap to their bib-overalls unbuttoned and hanging, they have few teeth, drive beat up pick-ups, and drag along a passel of kids. You know, the Git ‘er Done type.
Not to be confused with Good Ol’ Boys–the kind you love to take home to the parents because – well – they’re Good Ol’ Boys. Hillbilly-Rednecks are troublemakers.
Just as one would expect in most hospital emergency rooms, the place was mostly crowded—this one just happened to be filled with hillbilly-rednecks.
One man sitting a few chairs over from me had a bandaged hand and was talking to himself and singing. My first thought was that he must have broken his drinking hand because he was not all there. There was another group way across the room, consisting of an older lady, another woman, and a man who also appeared to be not all there.
As any self-respecting hillbilly-redneck would do, they challenged one another to see which one was the bigger man. The group, and the bandaged man, weren’t even having any sort of conversation with each other, until the foul language started to fly. Apparently, I missed something because it came out of nowhere.
The man across the room said something about taking it outside. The scrawny one with the bandaged hand stood up with his chest puffed out, all scary like. The next thing we knew, they were heading for the door. The kind of door that one has to stand in front of, push a button, and wait for the doors to slowly open.
The tension was building.
At this point, the bandaged-hand man was swinging his hand above his head, and the other man from across the room had pulled his shirt off — as if that made him a meaner hillbilly-redneck. They were in position to duke it out, but had to wait for the doors to open.
Security came and broke it up. The party across the room decided to take their business to the other county because the service was better. I had a little chuckle over that one because I’ve been to the other county’s ER, and it is b-u-s-y…..and s-l-o-w.
The hillbilly-redneck with the bandaged hand came back in with his woman. He continued to sling foul words, until a pleasant woman pointed out that we all shouldn’t have to listen to his type of language. Finally, the hospital staff carted him off to a room in order to give the rest of us the pleasurable experience that only a hospital ER can provide.
During this entire time, we were sitting across from a lady who was obviously not all there. She appeared as old as I am, if not older. Who knows…she could have been 10-years younger. She was the female version blessed with no teeth.
She had a cervical collar around her neck, and her man was her necessary strap to keep her from slipping out of her chair. She was happily carrying on with her Hello Kitty cell phone, until she decided to cry. At first I wrote her off as a drunk, or strung out on drugs. Then I heard her man ask if she had taken her medications earlier.
The crazy woman with bipolar disease – that would be me – was passing judgement on another, who may have had a mental illness as well.
I take my diagnosis seriously. I take my medications as directed. I follow through with all homework assigned by my therapist–well most of it. I work hard for stable mental health. But I also never take myself seriously. I’m sarcastic, and I find humor, sometimes at inappropriate moments. I’m not rude about it, but I find humor where I shouldn’t be finding it.
I don’t know which is more sad. My thinking that the woman was a crack-head, or my thinking she was schizo or bipolar, of all things <insert sarcasm here>
Yes, next time I’m somewhere sitting near a person who is acting bizarre, I won’t assume they are on some form of mind altering substance. Maybe they need mental assistance, and their behavior isn’t within their control at the moment.
However—I still believe that hillbilly-rednecks are troublemakers. They prove it over and over.