After my house was broken into back in 2009 and I found this journal entry a few days ago. It puts me right back there when it happened. I occasionally reach for a piece of jewelry or remember my mom’s jade necklace, or a brooch my grandmother gave me and the pit of my stomach lurches. I will never, ever forget how this felt. It. Was. Awful.
I rent a $400k house in a gated community, in a small town of 36,000 people. And it’s not safe to me any more.
I wasn’t physically hurt or threatened. Neither were my kids. We were never in danger.
But much like my emotionally abusive relationship of 15 years, that I just extricated myself from, the lack of physical evidence on me and my boys, does not seem to lessen the emotions nausea that run rampant within me and the sudden wariness in them. And lack of “bruising” makes understanding from some outsiders less patient.
The adage is true: Unless it’s happened to you, you just don’t get it.
To come back to your “home”, the place that is supposed to feel safe, and see a shattered glass sliding door, kids electronic gaming system gone, all your dresser drawers upturned, a laptop gone, all your family heirlooms/jewelery in the hands of strangers, the 99 pound fireproof safe that contained a .32 cold automatic that was your grandfather’s in 1922, and all your home movies, your kids piggy banks, wallets and all your personal papers, gone…
…it’s violating. No wonder the word violent is related.
It’s creepy. It’s nasty. It’s hateful. I’ve never hated anyone in my life until now. Those assholes are touching my stuff. And they pawed through my underwear, my books, and have my grandmother’s ring. They have home movies of my kids, my will, my dad’s death certificate.
I assume the best in others. I trust. And this has really, really rattled me. I am sick of feeling this way, and know time will help. So I ride the waves and quietly function and cope. I also clean up the mess someone else made. The broken glass is only part of it. There are papers that have to be replaced, forms to fill out for the insurance company (which wants receipts, which were, in the safe).
And yes, it could have been so much worse. I know that. Again, I was not hurt, killed. My kids and I were not home at the time.
But I am scared. Scared they will come back. Scared they will take even more. I sleep with light on. And I mean all the lights in my house. I am afraid to leave my house to go to work. Before this, I made sure doors were locked, but I never gave my safety or that of my boys, a second thought. I lived in a gated community!
To add to my angst, 24 hours after my “home” was ransacked, the listing agent wanted to show it to a prospective buyer. The very thought of more strangers in my home made me recoil. Who, in their right mind, would want to see a house that was just broken into? I declined, she insisted, I acquiesced and moved it to a few days later. The door was still not fixed, but she didn’t care.
How did she explain this? Did the buyer not care?
The door repairman came and took out the remaining shattered glass and installed plywood in lieu of the glass, which is on order. He arrived the same time as the buyers. I watched them track more glass around and take photos of the house and thought, this is beyond insane.
I wanted to scream.
But the fact is, it is not my house. It is for sale. The owner, an acquaintance, wants to sell it. The market is soft. So I have no rights.
I am at the whim of so much right now. And my shaken soul is done with that. I need stability in a new way.
I feel like I have been “camping” in Florida ever since I moved here in 2001 and then I owned a house. Now I feel even more transient, even more like Florida does not want me here, that I don’t belong here, and I have to find a way out of it for my own sanity and peace of mind.
My next move will be to a place my boys and I can stay for awhile. A place to invest in. And it needs to happen. Soon.