I grew up in the scene. I know what is what, and who is who, and I don't give a flying fuck. That's right. I don't care about your accomplishments, and your holier than thou attitude because you once beat up five trillion nazis armed only with a paper clip and a stick of gum. Take your hero complex and shove it. Here's what really happens when you get involved.
I was 18 years old. All my interactions with boneheads had been using one of many different well researched, well planned aliases. I always made it a point to interact with them in a safe, public venue, rarely did anything stupidly dangerous. I would confront them at protests, and promptly go home by some convoluted path, change my clothes, hair, and glasses to make myself look completely different. I wouldn't share my real name with anyone, antifa or not. I never went anywhere unarmed, alone, or isolated if I could help it. I grew up with this, I knew what happened to anti fascists who got sloppy. I knew the risks and the dangers involved and I was determined to keep myself safe above all. I was premed, had an iq of 147 and was a straight A student with a biology degree under my belt already and a second degree with a specialty in neuroscience in the works. I was brilliant, organized, and bad ass. I had my intelligent, bad ass dog with me, the one my dad got me, my best friend Buddy who traveled the world with me and kept me sane when people pissed me off.
Come my 19th birthday. The guy I was with at the time had just infiltrated a group of neo nazis that had been attacking minorities in our area. He'd managed to snag quite a bit of information, which made this extremely dangerous action worth while in our minds. But our dumbass ex did not think very clearly, and got found out. He was then followed to the bar where we were celebrating my 19th birthday with a beer. This was back in the day when I could tolerate alcohol. I wouldn't say I was drunk, simply a little tipsy. I let my guard down and didn't scan the bar for suspicious faces like I usually did. I ended up calling it an early night, and heading home around one am. I didn't think much about cutting through the big park at the centre of the city I lived in. It was usually still populated at this time of night by couples, and the path was rather well lit. You could see the streets easily, and besides, I was far less likely to get hit by a car on the path than I was on the sidewalk.
I didn't notice the five neo nazis walking behind me. They'd seen who I was with, saw that I had broken my rules and left alone, saw that I was in an area that was isolated enough for a quick boot party, and saw that I had had a bit to drink. They saw my dog, and figured, easy target. They were right.
They jumped me. Shoved me from behind so I didn't see it coming. I had stupidly not been paying attention to what was going on. I had figured, just this once, I could be a normal, uninvolved person. I was so unbelievably wrong.
Within seconds they had me on the ground. It wasn't a position I normally found myself in. I had my hands trying to protect my face and head and neck, and my dog had gone nuts biting and trying to protect me. The nazis were armed with chains and steel toed boots and baseball bats.
I don't remember much of the attack, just bits and pieces. Sometimes when I close my eyes I see a boot coming down on my face. Sometimes I see myself alone wanting to scream for help but not being able to breathe and feeling like I am drowning. Sometimes I see the faces of the people who found me. Sometimes I see snapshots of me in the hospital.
When I was found, I had a broken eye socket, jaw, cheek bones, skull fractures, a collapsed and punctured lung, internal bleeding (my kidney had been essentially crushed), six broken ribs, shattered hands, two broken arms, one in four places, two broken legs, one broken femur, one cracked hip, and my kneecaps were on the wrong side.
I don't remember much of the first few weeks in the hospital. They'd had to drill holes in my head to relieve the pressure. I remember nurses talking about how I wouldn't make it, there was no way. I remember friends crying at my bedside, and I remember not being able to move or talk or otherwise let anyone know I was in there.
It took me 11 and a half months of inpatient treatment before I was stable enough to move to long term care. It took me a year and more than two dozen surgeries before I was allowed to go home. To this day, I can't run, I can barely see, I live in constant pain, and I can't remember things very well. I have problems with aphasia, that is, mixing up words, and have to struggle to make myself understood. I may seem to be one tough, intelligent chick, but things that come easy to you, and to myself before the accident need work. I have lists reminding me to do simple things like brush my teeth, wear socks, all over my house. I can't remember how old I am or how old my husband is anymore. I can't drive, or go out by myself without risking getting lost and not being able to find my way home.
I'm 24 years old, and I have the body and mind of a 90 year old alzheimer's patient.
THAT is what happens if you aren't careful.
