From Bar Fights to Bathroom Stalls: The Unraveling of “Star” 

Trigger Warning
This post contains mature themes that some readers may find disturbing, including descriptions of violence, interactions with police, and a personal experience involving a privacy violation. Reader discretion is advised.

Since I was young, I have felt like I had a neon sign on me that said, “let me help you.” It rarely has caused an issue for me, in fact, often those around me have been more upset with my drive to be friendly and help others more than it has bothered me. 

When I was in college, and barhopping with my roommates in Fort Collins, I often felt that I was more social than the rest of them. I would try to make conversation with strangers, or even make awkward eye contact with people I thought I knew, often to find out that I didn’t… yet. 

Of course, the setting and activities I was engaging in played a huge role in this drive to chat, but it also felt like it was part of who I was. 

Even as a kid. One of my mom’s coworkers nicknamed me “Star.” My brother and I would often go to work with her during the summers when we were little. We had a hand held cassette recorder with a microphone. If it wasn’t this Playskool one, it was very similar. –>

I would strut into their very serious meetings to sing them a song, or play them a song I just sang and recorded. As far as I can remember, they were not too upset about this, although I anticipate that I was a distraction to their work. 

Going to college, at first, caused immense anxiety. I was worried about making friends, and how I would survive. The longer I was there, the more confident I became. Meeting people and connecting started to feel easy. 

On more than one occasion, I was part of a bar fight, or a “street fight” more accurately. But not in the way you might think at first. I am a lover, not a fighter. To this day, I have never punched a person… even my siblings. 

Walking in Fort Collins was fun when I lived there. Like many college towns, it would almost buzz at night. Most nights I would go out with primarily the girls. We felt like we ruled the world almost. For me, it was like being a kid in a candy store. So many new people to meet, and new stories to hear.

One night we were going from one bar to another, walking on College Ave. I remember seeing in the distance what looked like a man almost jumping. There were people making a lot of loud noises, but I wasn’t sure anyone seemed to be doing anything. It almost looked like they were avoiding a scene of some kind. 

It was Friday night, and truthfully, it was not that surprising to me. 

As we got closer, I saw that this man was kicking someone on the ground that did not appear to be moving. Others around him were mostly not paying attention or walking away. Except for one woman. She was crying and screaming “STOP! Please, stop!” She seemed utterly distressed, and the kicking man almost seemed like he was in a trance. 

My roommates wanted to ignore it, and cross the street or walk around him in the street. This also seemed to be the consensus of the others around me. That did not feel right to me. 

What happened next, I would not recommend to anyone, and I do not actually know what I was thinking at the moment. I don’t remember the moment I left their side, as was often true when I found myself in a situation like this. 

I went up behind the man and hugged him. Wrapping my arms completely around his belly. Then, I said, “please stop.” 

He did, in a very confused way. He turned around, and I let go of him. I asked him his name, which I now do not remember. “You can stop now, I don’t think you want to do this” I said to him. He nodded and said, “yeah,” and asked my name. 

Shortly after I told him who I was, my roommate grabbed my arm and said, “we have to go. The cops are coming.” I shrugged and followed her to the next place on the list. As we were leaving, I looked at the guy on the ground, who wasn’t really moving. The crying woman was kneeling next to him. 

I wasn’t afraid to do what I did. Instead, I almost felt like I did not do enough to help the situation. Maybe not surprisingly, when we got to where we were going, my roommates asked me what I was thinking, and asked me not to do things like that again. “No promises,” I told them with a smile. 

I wasn’t worried about these things for some reason, and I honestly felt I could talk my way out of any situation. Although this man appeared he was not in control of his behavior, I did not feel that he would turn his ruthless attack onto me. 

Being the “bar fight referee” was not my only role in college. When we had parties, it was unofficially my job to answer the door and talk to the police if they were called to our house for a noise complaint. Most of the time, the cops would leave after saying, “the birds are louder than you.” 

We lived on a pretty residential suburban street, a few miles from campus. Most of our neighbors were families. And by “parties,” I really mean that we had a few people over. I am confident we were not as quiet as we could have been, but we never intended any harm. 

One night, I was in the kitchen cooking grilled cheese for everyone (even then I was the “mom”) and I heard the door open. Then my roommate say, “yeah, sure, come in.” I knew somehow that she just let the cops into our house, so I turned off the stove, and sat on the counter. 

The kitchen was big. Our beer pong table, which was a piece of particle board we had painted that was sitting on top of a garage sale dining room table, fit into the kitchen, and still had room for people to sit in the dining room chairs along the wall. 

We played with water in the cups, because no one wants to drink beer after a ping pong ball covered in dirt lands in it. Also, it meant everyone could drink what they wanted, and not whatever cheap beer was poured into the cup. 

I could hear there were two male police officers in our living room, and it sounded like one of them had everyone sitting in a circle in the living room. This whole thing was pretty annoying to me, I had answered the door many times before, and it never went this way. So I just stayed on the counter, and waited for them to be done. 

Then, the other officer came into the kitchen, and walked right up to my face. Aggressively, he said, “What are you doing in here? Are you hiding?” 

I’m rolling my eyes as I am writing this, so I probably did then too. I don’t remember exactly what I told him, but generally, I let him know I was in the kitchen because I was annoyed, and I wouldn’t have let them in if it was me. Mostly because I didn’t do anything wrong. I also made a point to tell him I was trying to make grilled cheese for everyone.

He started walking around our kitchen, looking around at everything we had. There was nothing exciting. Eventually, he asked what the table was. I was pretty sure he knew what it was, but I told him anyway. Then explained what was in the cups, and why. We discussed the basic rules of beer pong. 

“You were making grilled cheese, right?” Yeah. I nodded. “And bounces are worth two cups, right?” Yeah, nodded again. “Okay, I have an idea! If I get one of the balls in, you have to make me a grilled cheese, and if I bounce it in, that would be two. I have to get one for my partner.” 

This was one of the most interesting proposals I had received before. I was pretty amused with the idea, and not evenly reluctantly shrugged and said, “okay,” and looked over at the stove at the golden brown delicious cook I had on my last grilled cheese. 

I am terrible at swatting bounces, and I told him I wouldn’t even try. As he was throwing the ball, I could hear his partner in the living room having a long conversation with my roommates and friends. My anxiety was increasing, as his voice got louder. I knew we didn’t do anything wrong, but I was still feeling like I would be in trouble for something, and I wasn’t sure how long I wanted them to stay. 

As I looked back to the “game,” I saw his ball bounce right past all of the cups, and I caught it. I chuckled a little, because this is not something I am usually able to do. Although I “won,” I didn’t have the same excitement I often did when I won. I wasn’t really sure what would happen now.

Then, he came around the table, looked at the grilled cheese on the stove, and suggested next time to think about adding parm. He walked out of the kitchen and said, “alright, let’s go. We’re done here,” to his partner. 

His partner stopped mid sentence, and I heard the front door open and close. 

I left the kitchen, tilted my head, looked at all of my roommates and guests sitting in the living room, and raised one eye brow. “Guys… why?” We then set an official rule that I was the answerer of doors, and the one that talks to the cops. 

Maybe it wasn’t that I could “talk” myself out of anything, because I didn’t really say much to him. Instead, maybe I felt able to handle myself in any situation, and create safety in times that might not feel assured for others. 

Although I did not know what was going to happen when he was in my face in the kitchen, and I still had that uneasy pit in my stomach that I was in trouble, somehow I felt confident. I never would have predicted this would have been how the night went, but I was more worried about what my roommates would say or do in the other room than my own situation. 

After my MS diagnosis last year, connecting with others did not feel as effortless as I had remembered. I’m not sure if it was instantly, gradual, or just sort of a change that happened. Eventually, I did not feel quite as able to manage situations. 

Sometimes, it would be that I was self-conscious about walking into a situation with a cane. The constant worry about what others might be thinking of me, even asking my step daughters if they were okay with it. I had concern about others’ perception of me, who I was, and in turn, what that meant about me. 

There were other times that I felt unable to react to situations either with enough time or poise to appropriately handle the situation. I have learned that turning my head, and trying to look behind me when I am standing or walking, leads to dizziness. Usually, I worry I will tip over as the world stabilizes. 

Even before my diagnosis during an Easter celebration at my aunts house, I noticed struggling to have a conversation with my cousin about my car. I told her we also had bucket seats… which as I said it I knew we didn’t. I was embarrassed, and had no idea where that even came from, so I didn’t correct myself. 

Now that I have accepted using a wheel chair can make longer or more involved events easier to manage, I have a new layer to tackle. Sometimes, even a logistical hurdle to overcome. When I went to the mall with my husband to get my screen protector replaced, there was not an accessible way for me to participate in the exchange. 

The countertop was the height of my forehead. 

Although I can not pinpoint the exact moment when these feelings of being unsure about my abilities started, I am aware of many specific examples. This sense of innate capability, however, was profoundly tested at work one day a few months after my diagnosis.

I work in an office building, with a shared bathroom. The building itself is pretty old, and has a certain aesthetic. The outside is a combination of dark brown shingles and wood with orange trim around the windows. 

On the inside, the lobby has a staircase to the second floor, and large indoor plants. Behind that is the shared bathroom. The ladies room has two stalls, one handicapped, two sinks in one long countertop covered in vinyl and a very large mirror. 

The toilet paper roll holder has a place to set your cigarette down when you are in the stall… which gives you an idea of how long it as been since it has been updated. The stall doors have multiple screw holes where old locks used to be, and there are no windows.

In general, this bathroom alone was not the problem, and it now leads to feelings of unease when I use it. I have found myself choosing to leave and go home at the end of the day, even when I know my bladder would prefer I make a different choice. 

This event happened at the end of my work day. It was on a Thursday, and I was the only one in still my office. At the time, I was sharing an office with my supervisor, and the office was right next to the front door. 

I decided it was about time for me to go home, and figured I could finish my notes there. As I was packing up my things, I realized I really needed to pee. In an effort to save some time, I just brought everything with me, and figured I would leave from the bathroom. 

It felt weird to bring my water bottle in with me, so I set it on top of the drinking fountain on my way in. My work backpack is pretty big, especially when I didn’t have an office to keep things in, I also didn’t want it on the floor… so I hung it on the stall door. I went into the first stall. 

Shortly after, I heard someone else come in. This is pretty rare, honestly. Especially later in the evening like it was now. She tried to grab and open my stall door. 

I’ve been there, so I didn’t do anything. I usually go to the first stall too, so I figured once she knew it was occupied she would use the other one. 

But, she didn’t. 

She then continued to try to open my stall. At this point, I had already finished what I came there for, so I was trying to hurry. 

My discomfort was rapidly increasing as she was sticking her fingers into the giant hole from where a handle used to be. Then, she tried to open the stall from the bottom. 

Eventually, I said, “hi, I’m in here. I’m almost done.” “hello! I’m still in here.” “do you need help with something?” a variety of things. 

Finally, she went into the bigger, handicapped stall next to me. 

I thought that was the end of it, but what happened next. I almost can’t believe it still. 

I saw her hands under the stall wall between us. I asked, “do you need something? Is it out of toilet paper?” She never said a word to me. Every once and a while she would grunt, or make some kind of a noise. But it was almost as though I was talking to myself. 

Then, she pulled herself, on the ground, face up, into my stall. 

I felt frozen at that moment, and I had no idea what to do. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. I haven’t even heard stories like this before. 

She looked to be about the age of my teenage step-daughter. I can still remember her dark hair in pigtail buns on the top of her head. I was both wildly uncomfortable, and worried about her.  

I asked, “are you okay?” No response. 

I also said things like, “I’m in here, please leave.” 

When there was still no response, I was feeling out of options. I didn’t know what to do.

Then, as she seemed like she was trying to find a way to get more into my stall, I decided I had to change my approach. 

 I put my hand on her forehead, and pushed her back into her stall. All without leaving the toilet seat. 

Although I am not sure what would’ve been a better choice, I still feel a little guilt for that response. 

Then, she yelled, “STOP IT!” I am not sure it was a response to me, but that was the first time I heard her say actual words. The sounded growly, and not like a teenage girl’s voice. This added to my feelings of discomfort. 

Once she seemed that she was going to be in her stall, I hurried, got my clothes on, grabbed my bag, and left the room. I forgot my waterbottle, and didn’t even wash my hands. 

When I left the bathroom, here was a man sitting next to the plants and the stairs in the lobby. I noticed him, and said nothing, I now wonder if I should have told him what happened. Maybe he knew her? Maybe he would’ve been helpful?

This was before I was using my cane more regularly. I had it, but I was feeling silly about having it all the time, so, it was waiting in my car. This meant I was not a very quick mover. Because I was afraid and confused, I actually went the long way to get outside doing everything I could to avoid being near the man. 

This is one of the first times I can remember not feeling capable of handling the situation I was in. Not because the situation was the worst I have experienced, but because my coping skills or “management” skills for social situations had not worked. 

Of course this was not the first time in my life, but it stands out to me. I felt at this moment that I didn’t know who I was anymore, or maybe even how to take care of myself. 

The next day, when the woman who works the front desk in our office let me know she saw a water bottle on the drinking fountain, and asked if it was mine, I felt a pit in my stomach and tears well up. 

When I talked with my psychiatrist, and later my counselor, and both of them asked me about how I was keeping myself safe it was eye opening to me. I had never thought going to the bathroom at the end of my work day would be the catalyst to feeling more comfortable with using mobility aids. 

I did not want to feel stuck in an unsafe place without a way out again, and my cane helps me feel more stable. This story, and particularly sharing it with others, has been a constant reminder that things are not as they used to be. 

Often everything seems different, and harder, than I ever remember. 

Sure, navigating MS has brought new physical challenges than I anticipated I would have to manage. It has also highlighted struggles that are not new. Asking for help, choosing not to “manage” everything, and rely on others, has never been a particular skill of mine. 

MS has taken my shield away, and more or less forced me to consider how I can live in a more sustainable way. I can use mobility aids, ask for help, and share my story. My story is not finished yet, and I still have work to do, but I have felt growth in accepting this process in the last year. 

Thank you for reading! If you would like to read / listen to my other one year reflection post, please visit Digital Mirror. I found processing in the “random” music I was listening to, and used AI to help me make sense of it.