This past Monday something beyond terrifying happened. I’m still trying to process it, being as it’s only Saturday. I dreamt last night that I was at a school in an extremely open setting and you could pick the classes you attended. There was a writing class, and I never really went in but knew I was supposed to be there. Somehow, as dreams tend to flow, other things arose and then it was morning and I was up nursing Lucia and getting Jolie ready for dance class. I never made it to the writing class, but I knew what it meant. I needed to process what had happened to me and my family. I needed to go someplace I felt safe. And, what do you know, I feel safest here. I feel safe and open and able to process my feelings most with all of you, people I’ve never physically met. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, my way to translate life, my chosen art form. I think many of you can relate, which is why we come here to pour our hearts and our lives out through images and moments captured best through our writing.
I need to get this off my chest. I need to collect my thoughts and identify my feelings. Lord knows I’ve experienced a multitude of feelings. I need to use words other than “fuckers,” and “kill,” because honestly I’m enthralled with hate I’ve never felt before. Monday evening was our first day back after a glorious Thanksgiving break with family. I planned for the week Sunday evening, as I’ve been doing the past couple months: laid out Jolie’s clothes, packed Lucia’s daycare bag, shopped for meals. And Monday was typical. I was exhausted and ready to get home to my girls and husband by midday. What was waiting for me was unfathomable. Stuck in traffic I got a call from my husband. I figured he was calling to tell me Lucia’s head was spinning, should he go ahead and feed her or was I close enough for him to wait for me to come home and nurse. I was wrong. “Someone broke into our house….” he explained. Crossing over the bridge into Kentucky, I began balling. I had to hang up the phone. I cried the rest of the way. When I pulled up to our home, Jolie was standing at the door. Waiting. I was hoping she was unaware of what had taken place that day. But her face told me she knew everything. Her deep set eyes were low. She told me someone took my jewelry, and followed that with lots of questions. Questions that poured out the rest of the night. Questions that I couldn’t answer.
Someone punched through the glass of our basement door, found a crowbar on my husband’s workbench, and jimmied through our hallway door. Someone came into our home uninvited. Stella probably followed them around, meowing for a measly under-the-chin rub.Someone ignored my cat and walked through our hallway, peaked into the kitchen and saw my bright blue digital camera lying on the counter. Someone put the camera into their pocket, with a memory card full of birthdays and weddings-graduations- and Jolie’s first soccer game and first dance recital and Lucia’s first day on earth. And someone took it all and put it in their worn out pocket. Then someone walked through our dining room and living room, and saw our Christmas tree decorated with our Christmas ornaments and four stockings hanging over the fireplace. Someone walked into our foyer, and up our wooden staircase. Someone’s feet creaked up our steps and made uninvited noises in our home. Someone opened the door to Jolie’s room and saw her unmade polka dot sheets, and our dirty laundry up against the wall on the bathroom floor. Someone walked their dirty feet across Lucia’s cream white carpet, past our glider where we glide at night, and into our bedroom. Someone was in my bedroom. Someone touched my bedside table, opened the drawer, saw a book of poems, lotion, a single earring, keychain and condoms, and took my husband’s watches. Someone touched my dresser, and all of my jewelry: the necklace that hung across my neck on my wedding day; the heart-shaped locket engraved with my and Jolie’s initials. My babies’ baby rings. Everything. Someone heard noises outside while in our bedroom. A car door slamming shut, a kid laughing. An alarm. Someone left behind three of my necklaces, and ran down our wooden stairs, through our hallway past our framed photos of our sun-kissed, fall wedding night and back down the basement stairs. Leaving our home in a quiet panic.
It’s been difficult to sleep. The first two nights I didn’t. I kept playing out how I would get the girls and get out if they were to come in. I’m outraged for my girls. They deserve to feel safe in their home, their lives. And Brett and me should be able to provide that for them. I envision how I would kill the intruder, the person who had enough nerve to compromise my family’s safety. We have suspects, and each night after work I drive past their house intentionally slow, look through every window. I drive on, disappointed that I see no one. And when I’m inside I peek out the kitchen window, waiting for them to leave. I’ve seriously considered going to their house. Cursing and threatening and spitting in their face. Going full-force Italian crazy. But at night my adrenaline-courage slips into fear. I refuse to go near the hallway that leads to the basement. I refuse to go into any room without my husband. We have an alarm system and a network of concerned and watchful neighbors, but I feel like my sense of closure will come with identity. His identity. Until then I watch out the window. And cry in private. And tell my husband what I want to do to him. And sometimes, rarely, but sometimes, I want to save him.
I’m not so upset about the things stolen. Yes of course it’s tragic, but it can all be replaced. In the end, my family is okay. I have what this intruder clearly doesn’t. It’s intangible. It can’t be taken out the basement door, or sold on the streets. Now, I must heal. Must learn to feel safe again, in the house we made a home.
