Being treated like crap

So today, I'm sitting here in the McDonald's in Union Station, waiting for my parents to pick me up.

Why am I sitting in Chicago, you ask?

Well, let me tell you. I had an interview in Muskegon this past week for a Director of Christian Education position, so I left on Monday, had the interview on Tuesday, and hung out with my bestie, B--, at the seminary until I left to meet my parents in Chi-town for Moody Founders' Week today and part of tomorrow.

I feel like the interview went really well. I was myself and vulnerable, without revealing too much. I was funny without being stupid. I was approachable while still remaining professional. I really really really want this job. But all I can do for right now is wait and pray. I've done a lot of waiting lately, and I try to pray. Really, God, I do.

So all of this was fantastic, but I was so sad to leave Michigan and Holland, and my friends. Because you can spout flak about Holland being a conservative bastion all you want (and it is), but at the end of the day, this place still, for some reason, feels like home.

And I'm not sure if some of that sadness followed me onto the train this morning or what. Oh, that and I haven't taken my meds yet...anyway, when I got to Union Station I had a very nice red cap transport me in his little golf-carty thing to the front of the station, but then I knew I was going to have to find a place to park myself until my parents made the drive from Wisconsin to here. So there I was at "passenger services", and I thought, "Why don't I just go in there and ask them if they can watch my big bag and my walker while I go empty my bladder and grab some coffee?" Sounds like a good idea, thought I.

Wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong! Whoever named "passenger services" at the Union Station did not realize they were assigning a misnomer. It should be called self-service, because the only people they help are themselves. Before I could even get my question out, much less explain why I was asking what I was asking ("You see, I have CP, and I have trouble holding myself up and walking, much less doing so while pulling a large red suitcase, carrying a computer across my body, holding a very large purse, and carrying my walker. So could I please just set this stuff down a minute?!")

But I didn't get a chance to explain any of that. As soon as I asked them if I could leave my stuff there--abrupt cut-off--I was told, "No! You need to leave your stuff in a locker. That's what their there for!" Well, excu-u-use me for thinking you'd actually be helpful. EVERY SINGLE TIME I go to "passenger services", they are rude and abrupt. Every single time. Now, I get that you're dealing with the aftereffects of a major snowstorm. I get that everybody and their dog wants something from you. I get that, really, I do. But is it too much to ask that I be treated politely and with respect? I was only asking for you to watch my bags for 15 minutes.

So upon being rudely dismissed, I laboriously turned myself around and walked out the door. Now, if you've ever been to Union Station, you know that it's fairly easy to get lost in there. And when you put my sense of direction into the mix, well, let's just say I got lost. I put myself slowly but surely onto the elevator labeled "Central Elevator", thinking that it would take me up to the mezzanine level where I could find some coffee and a rest room. The "Central Elevator" does have an "M"-labeled floor, but this takes you to the Metra offices, not the mezzanine. As I slowly turned myself around, preparing to face the door and either get out or go back down and find another elevator, I met a Metra employee at the elevator doors.

"Is this the way to the mezzanine?" I ask stupidly, and now a little stressed out and upset because it's taken me about ten minutes to get this far.

"No, this elevator won't take you there." Metra man says apologetically.

Tears immediately well up in my eyes, a few spill down my cheeks, and I hate myself for them. But nothing gets my goat faster than feeling like I can't take care of myself or I've been disrespected. Both situations bring up extremely bad memories of past abuse, and I had just gone through both of them.

"Here. Let me take your bag. I'll take you there." says gentlemanly Metra man. 

On the way, I tell Metra man how I was treated in passenger services. 

"I tell ya, I wouldn't hire a single one of them. They're always that way." he says.

"So I've seen." I thought.

By now another ten minutes have passed, during which time a few more tears have fallen and Metra man has taken me to the now correct elevator and we are now walking down the mezzanine level. He also delicately ignores my upset state. I have never been so glad to see the restrooms and The Corner Bakery in my life. I knew were they were, I just didn't know how to get there. And that makes me feel stupid too. I hate feeling stupid.

"I'll watch your bags while you go to the bathroom." says Metra.

"You don't have to. I'm okay now." I say. 


"Nope, it's okay. Go ahead. I'll just wait here." Such kind understanding makes my eyes well with even more tears, but by the time I come out of the bathroom, I think I have myself in hand again. Metra and I walk to McDonald's where he leaves me, a grateful, sheepish, and slightly ashamed girl.

I have no idea why "passenger services" was as rude as they are, especially since they are always this way, it couldn't have been just me. But the fact is, whenever I feel ignored and dismissed like that, I tend to chalk it up to my disability. I'm not saying that was the culprit here, but it would have been nice if PS had at least bothered to notice that I didn't move like everybody else, and perhaps they could cut me a break just this once.

The fact is, nothing gets my goat faster than feeling like I'm weak and can't do things I want to do. Satan knows it's a chink in my armor, and he utilizes it to his best advantage every single time. And so far, he has beaten me every single time. "One of these days, buggo, you won't be able to get me there anymore. I promise you that. You can try and defeat me as much as you want, but I'm not yours. I belong to someone else, and you will never have my allegiance. I gave it to you once, and you made my life a living hell.

God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry he gets me there every single time. Thanks for picking me up after I'm treated like crap and after I act like crap.

Stay tuned for how that job turns out in Michigan. Depending on what happens, you may get a post entitled, "Feeling Like Crap". Here's to hoping God's plans and my plans actually, finally line up.