31 May, 2009. 5:16 PM.

Returned (many hours ago, before my mind decided to break down completely,) from our town’s Girl Scout Encampment weekend. I was the lifeguard. I was trained specifically for this event. I passed me training course, despite a few odds, and knew me stuff.

And I was terrified.

People were giving me their children and saying, “Here! Stick them in the water!”

It was the first time that I had even been entrusted with so many little lives. Now, I realize that in the grand scheme of things, this was not huge. I had, at the most, twelve girls in the water, with leaders spotting from the shore (council policy).

I had a little speech prepared for the girls, introducing myself, telling them the boundaries, the rules, how to call for help, what to do if the whistle is blown, and so on. But I had Daisies—kindergarteners—in the water. Sometimes, at the same time as 6th graders. Little people, big people, mixed together—and then boats—people were going out in boats, and they needed lifejackets, and they didn’t know how to put them on properly, and I had to do that, and leaders wanted to know if they could just have the lifejacket in the canoe with them—why would that be okay? If your craft tips over and you get hit on the head, you’re not going to be able to put on that lifejacket, you’re going to fill with water. And I’m the land guard. Am I going to get a kayak from the lodge, take it out, get you? By council policy, I don’t have to. My job is to watch the kids at the waterfront. But would I? I would try. So you, my leader friends, are going to put on the damn lifejacket and stop asking stupid questions.

The fear abated over the course of the day, except for the boating madness. The camp we were using had a wonderful backboard and rescue tubes, both of which I hoped to not have to use. Especially the board. I didn’t have anyone else trained in boarding with me—I suppose I would have maintained c-spine until EMS arrived and foregone the board altogether. I did, however, strap my sister to it to show her how it worked and what everything was for. I will be calling the council to let them know that I was impressed by their supplies for guarding. Not everywhere is so prepared.

On a slightly lesser note, I had to treat one injury the whole weekend—my own. I was sharpening s’more sticks (oh yes, I’m quite the good little Scout) and was telling one girl how to use a knife safely. Started to cut off a nub on one stick for her to use, and proceeded to slice my index finer open, about 1 in long, not too deep, on my serrated rescue knife. Ran through two campsites to mine, where I stopped the bleeding (took a bit longer than I expected, worried me a little) and bandaged it. Mostly a “dumb Mariah” story, but still.

And, not relevant to this weekend, but today I had a series of small breakdowns, the last of which ended with me looking at my EMT textbook and thinking, “How can I be expected to help other people if I’m such a disaster myself?” I won’t go into details about what my “disaster” is, because it’s irrelevant, but it’s an interesting question. I’ve been in an out of therapy for almost two years, for a variety of reasons—I’m not one to hide that. I’m not “mentally ill,” at least, I’m not labeled as such. I’m assuming that confidence will come with training.