Thursday, August 27, 2009

Cracks on the surface and the foundation is crumbling

lost Pictures, Images and Photos


I have these lines on my hands; tons and tons of little lines all over my palms. I like to think that they’re “experience”. Sometimes, like today, I think they’re cracks. You can’t see them unless I show them to you; unless you’re looking for them. You can’t see them if you don’t get close enough. But they’re there.

I have all of these scars on my arms. Only one or two that were put there intentionally. They were put there by animals, mostly. The things I loved unconditionally that hurt me; left their mark on me. A few came from things I was careless with.

I was thinking about these things because I was staring at my hands today, wondering what they were capable of. What could these two hands do? They’ve made art, they’ve made music, they’ve made love, and they’ve caused pain… but could they really hurt something? Could they take a life? Could they destroy a life? Could they be used to cause irrevocable damage to a person or their mind?

I’m not sure.

I am sure that I have wanted them to. If I allow myself to get too caught up in the injustice of… things… I would still want them to.

I am talking about the robbery. The day that four strangers destroyed what was left of my innocence. They destroyed my peace of mind, my sense of power, and I will admit… a part of my sanity.

That’s the hard part to admit, the fact that sometimes, I feel like I’m going crazy.

These four people who have to pay so very little and this one victim that has to pay so much.

The whole experience is still just too… huge… to put into words right now. There are still parts that I can’t even remember. I know what happened, I’ve seen the video, but I can’t seem to make myself remember. Only the fear, that utter, absolute feeling of terror and helplessness. That I can remember. That I still feel. I feel it right now.

Helplessness.

I am helpless against this… disorder, for lack of a better word. I can’t fight it because I don’t understand it. My heart is racing, the adrenaline is surging, and I feel myself bracing for an attack, even though I know it isn’t coming.

Some people believe that I am doing this to myself. I should just get over it and move on. I am STRONGER than I think I am. Just get the hell over it Heather.

THEY didn’t take anything from YOU. You could move on if you wanted to. You didn’t HAVE to quit your job. You could still be there if you WANTED to. THEY didn’t do this to you.

You know what?

Please go fuck yourselves.

You have no fucking idea what this is like. I can’t trust anyone around me. I can’t have my back to a door, a window, a hallway. I am so fucking ANGRY and scared all the time that it’s a thousand fucking wonders that I can even go anywhere.

It was hard at first, it still is. I’ve made strides towards recovery. I have fucking TRIED to get over this.

Do you think I want to feel this way?

The best part?

They got probation.

That’s the punishment for trying to kill someone. That is the punishment for destroying my life. For taking my sense of power, the little bit of confidence I had in myself.

You say that by doing this and feeling this way I’m letting them win?

So be it. I won by living. I won by not breaking down, by not giving in, by making sure they were caught. They won by taking the most important parts of myself away from me.

Unless you have been there, unless you have had that moment of perfect clarity that what you did and how you reacted in the next second would be the difference between life and death, known that this person, for whatever reason has decided that your life is worth less than money in a register and will kill you if you don’t act and act fast, you will never understand this, never.

You can try to, you may even grasp some of it, but you won’t come close to this… this. I have lived through every natural disaster except a tsunami. I have almost been killed in several almost car accidents. None of that compares to this. Violence is so different from an accident. It’s purposeful, it’s malicious, and it is horrible.

How can someone fight so hard to live and then lose the will to? If it was so important to me to fight to live, why aren’t I doing that? Why aren’t I living instead of just… maintaining… just surviving? There is a difference.

I hate feeling weak. The doctors, counselors and people in group therapy have told me that it is not weak to feel this way, but it feels weak. I don’t feel that I have a right to this. I mean, hey… I wasn’t raped, they didn’t hold a gun to my head, they didn’t shoot me or stab me… but what they did was enough. It was and still continues to be traumatic. I can’t explain to you now about the actual robbery, how that was. I’ve told some people about it. I’ve told them the basics of it. This is what happened; this is how it went down… the end. But I haven’t gone into it.

But to compound on all of that, I now have to live with the fact that this person will be walking free. I don’t doubt that he will screw up and activate his sentence, but I don’t know that I can wait for that.

I am OUTRAGED by this, that my life means so little to the judge; that this boy with this record, LONG
record, of criminal behavior gets to lead his life as normal while I can’t. This useless waste of flesh is being given the opportunity to do this to someone else. When a 17 year old has a record like that, it’s not very likely that he’s going to be rehabilitated by drug tests, fines, and random searches.

While you’re searching his house, can you try to find my peace of mind? My sense of security and well being? My fucking ability to not be paranoid every second of the fucking day that I’m not in my room? Can you do that for me?

What about the other victims of violence? Where is the fucking justice in this “justice system”? Justice is only blind to the victims. We have no rights.

I am helpless, once again, to do anything about this. This smear on the face of the earth is not worth all of this, and yet I can’t seem to stop it.

What to do? What to do? They don’t make pills for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. According to other robbery victims, it NEVER goes away. It gets better, but it will always stay with you. It will always be there casting shadows over everything.


Derrick Bennett, 22, please fuck up again and go to prison.

James Fitzgerald Massey, I don’t give a fuck how old you are, I hope they send you away for a long time for this and your other robbery with a deadly weapon.

Mario Sinta Burch, creepy looking motherfucker, just drop your soap in the shower.

And lastly, Jose Luis Martinez, 17, well, we’ll just see about you, won’t we?

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