W for Words Are Powerful

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”

Or something like that. We’re all familiar with this quote, or some variation of it, but have you ever stopped to consider its meaning? It’s not true. Not at all. As a former victim of emotional abuse, which is a story for another day, I speak from experience when I say that sometimes words can hurt more than sticks and stones (or punches and kicks for that matter). Bumps and bruises eventually heal, but the power of hateful, hurtful words can leave a lasting impact that’s sometimes imperceptible to everyone but the person to whom the words were said.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to downplay physical abuse. Having lost a sister to domestic violence, I know all too well how damaging it can be. I think most people are aware of that, because it's harder to deny the hard evidence left behind by physical abuse. Fewer people seem to know and understand the damage and long term impacts of verbal/emotional abuse.

One need only look at recent news headlines to see how much words truly can hurt. There seems to be an epidemic of gay teens, and some straight teens accused of being gay, committing suicide. Words obviously hurt them. So badly, in fact, that they saw death as the only escape from their pain. They were bullied—no harassed—to death. Day in and day out, these victims suffered in silence as they were tormented by the words of others; others who’d singled them out simply because they were different. It’s disgusting and disturbing and it makes me physically ill—my stomach and heart ache as I write this.

What has the world come to? Where are the parents of these bullies? How is this being allowed to happen? How has being accused of being gay, even if you’re not, become such a horrible thing that one would end his/her life over it? I just don’t get it. Why do people care so much about the sexual preferences of others?! It shouldn’t matter! Live and let live, for crying out loud! I seriously don’t get how or why people fear and loathe homosexuals so much. I know religion plays a role, and I don’t even want to get started down that path at the risk of offending the six or so regular readers I have out there. We are all human beings. Why can’t we treat each other as such?

We, as a society, need to fix this. We can start by teaching our children that words do hurt and it’s not okay to insult, humiliate, taunt, or demean anyone. Ever. We can stand up and show support for victims, and should intervene when we witness such harassment. As adults, we need to model good behavior for children. We need to show them that it’s important to treat others with respect, to be kind, and to not fear what we don’t understand, but rather to seek out knowledge to gain better understanding.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, parents need to step up and parent. You need to know what’s going on with your kids! I don’t care whether your kid is the victim or the bully; you have a responsibility as a parent to step in. You must protect your child; you cannot rely on the school or anyone else to do it for you. If you find out your kid is a bully, it’s your responsibility to teach your child that this terrible behavior will not be tolerated and cannot continue. Sometimes you just have to step up and be the authority figure instead of the friend!

Lest anyone think I’m leaving anyone out, let me assure you that I understand that straight kids are bullied too. I get that. I’ve witnessed it, and I was a victim myself. But the reality is that gay kids and teens are more likely to commit suicide as a result of the constant harassment and torture over their sexuality, because unlike the straight kids, they cannot change the thing that makes them different.

Yep. I said it. Homosexuality is not a choice. Homosexuals are born, not made. And until people understand and accept that fact, I fear this horror will not end. How many more lives need to be cut tragically short before people get it? I don’t care what you think your bible says, and I don’t care what your political party tells its sheeple to believe. You mustn't give in to the fear mongering. People are dying. This has to stop.

I don’t know what the answer is. I wish I did, but I don’t. All I know is that life is hard enough as it is. There is no good reason that any one individual should need to try to make the lives of others any harder. I'd like to believe that we're all more evolved than that, but maybe I'm naïve and too idealistic. Let’s all try to honor the simplicity of the golden rule, shall we? Treat others as you’d like to be treated. I think it really can be that simple.

U for Update

Hello, lovely reader. Since I haven’t posted in a while, I thought I give you all a quick update of what’s going on in Elle’s world:
School is going pretty well. Busy, as usual. I’m surprised at how quickly I’m catching on to a lot of the algebra concepts. I’ve somehow managed to maintain an “A” so far, but things get harder and harder every week, so we’ll see how it all plays out. This class is super accelerated, because it’s two classes—beginning algebra and intermediate algebra—jammed into one semester. We have lectures Monday and Wednesday evenings with the test(s) for the chapter(s) we’ve learned that week due Sunday at midnight (chapter tests are done online). It’s pretty intense.

The final for beginning algebra is next Wednesday, so I’ve got to find some time to study and practice problems from the first six chapters we’ve covered so far. Even though I’ve done really well on the weekly tests and the midterm, I still want to make sure that I’m comfortable enough with all of the material to do well on the final. In order to move on to intermediate algebra, one must get at least a “C” in beginning algebra, and judging by how far behind some of my classmates currently are, I think there are going to be very few of us (like maybe a dozen) moving on.

Psychology has been interesting so far, but I don’t like taking a Saturday class at all. Class meets from 1-4:30 Saturday afternoon, which seems entirely too long most of the time. The instructor spends the whole time lecturing on the chapter(s) we were assigned to read the previous week and possibly showing a video or two related to the material. Weekly homework is usually a chapter or two of reading, an online tutorial or two related to the material we’ve read (with a worksheet to fill out and hand in), and a video to watch and summarize (one typed paragraph). Overall, the class hasn’t been too tough.

I won’t take another Saturday class again unless I absolutely have to. I hate that half of my weekend is spent on homework and being in class. I typically spend Friday evening finishing up whatever assigned Psychology reading I haven’t finished yet and completing the online tutorials and video summaries. Then, I spend half of Saturday sitting in class listening to a lecture that’s just regurgitation of the material I’ve already read. It feels like a big waste of time.

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MusicMan’s sister and her husband were visiting from Hawaii recently, so we went over to his mom’s house for an obligatory family dinner. I wish I could be closer with my sister-in-law (SIL), but it’s hard when she lives so far away and her husband is a giant douchebag. Just to put it in perspective for you, the last time I saw sister-in-law’s husband (Dbag) was a couple years ago. They spent the Christmas after my sister was murdered here in Minnesota. In fact, the night they flew into town and we all met at my mother-in-law’s for family dinner, to meet in person for the first time ever, was the night my sister was killed.

At first, this bonded us all together quite quickly. I was surprised at the support sister-in-law and her Dbag gave me and the sadness they showed over the loss of my sister, whom they’d never met. But, a few days after Christmas and less than a week after I’d lost my sister, we had SIL and Dbag come to our house for the evening to have some drinks and hang out so that we could all get to know each other a little better.

During their visit, SIL’s husband (we refuse to call him brother-in-law because he’s such a giant douche), Dbag, spent part of the evening lecturing me about how we all had a responsibility now to make sure that Li’l D grows up to be a better person than his father (obviously!) and his mother (WTF?!)! He’s lucky I was still exhausted and in shock, because the conversation wouldn’t have gone as calmly as it did had I not been. In fact, thinking of it now makes me want to throat punch him, followed by a swift kick to the groin, while explaining to him what a great person my sister was and telling him that, if her son grows up to even be the slightest bit like her, he’ll be an amazing person, unlike Dbag.

During this recent visit, Dbag barely even spoke to MusicMan or me; except to tell us that one of our dogs, Lucy, is “out of control.” His reasoning was that she “attacked” his dog. First of all, his dog isn’t socialized to other dogs; unlike Lucy, who has regular daycare visits and overnight stays, resulting in her being a well socialized dog. As a result, SIL’s dog doesn’t really know how to behave around other dogs. Second of all, Lucy didn’t attack his dog. She tried to play with his dog, his dog snapped at her, and she responded in kind. A little tussle ensued, which MusicMan and I have learned to just let go for a bit to see if the dogs will work it out because usually they work it out themselves and everything’s fine.

Apparently, Dbag was unaware that dogs should be allowed to work it out (as long as no one was being hurt, which no one was), and he picked Lucy up by her harness and tossed her off of his dog. I was appalled, but held my tongue, keeping Lucy with me the rest of the evening. A few days later, Lucy started to squeal if she was touched the wrong way and she refused to jump up onto the couch or the bed. We knew something was wrong, but we didn’t know what. A vet visit and $75 later, we found out that she had a pinched nerve in her shoulder, likely a result of someone picking her up by her harness as though it were a handle. Thankfully, after a week of rest and medication to reduce pain and swelling, she was back to her old self again.

Needless to say, I was livid. I wanted MusicMan to march over to his mother’s house with the vet bill and a few harsh words to Dbag or I was going to do it. Instead, we decided it best to inform his mom as to what had happened, and MusicMan left Lucy at home when we went to dinner a week later to say goodbye to his sister and Dbag (lucky for him, I had class that night and couldn’t attend dinner at mother-in-law’s). Mother-in-law, who excels at passive-aggression, made a few digs at Dbag here and there during dinner, according to MusicMan, but I’m still not happy that no one (including myself) said anything directly to him about the fact that he had injured our dog and he is a giant douchebag.

I don’t typically hold grudges, but I’m so done with Dbag. Though I love and respect my mother-in-law, I will no longer run to her house for obligatory family dinners simply because sister-in-law and Dbag are in town, granting us simpletons the honor of basking in the glow of their presence. No thanks. Despite what they seem to think, and how other family members seem to act about their visits, they are not special. Since they can’t even manage to thank us for switching our schedules around to take the time to visit with them while they’re here, nor can they seem to manage to even fake enjoyment over seeing us, I see no reason to make a big deal out of their visits. The limited free time I have can be spent on much, much better things and with much, much better people.

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I’ve had a serious case of writer’s block lately, which is why I haven’t been posting as much. My carpal tunnel seems to be flaring up quite a bit lately too, which sends shooting pains up my right arm and the back of my hand and has my fingers constantly cramping and aching too. No good!

MusicMan has finally uploaded all of the Lake Tahoe photos, so I’m going to pick some of my favorites to post soon. I hope all is well in your world, lovely reader!

B for BAD Neighbor

Okay, so after my last two posts, I’m going to completely shift gears today. It’s time to lighten things up around here. I got the idea for this post when my lovely bloggy friend, Shana, wrote a post about bad neighbors. I immediately felt bad for Shana, because I think we’ve all been there at one point or another. Then, I remembered the time that I had been a bad neighbor. A really, really, really, horribly, terribly bad neighbor. And, I decided to swallow my pride and tell you about it, because I’ve reached the point where I’m able to laugh about it. I hope you will too. Go ahead and laugh at my expense. It’s okay. I encourage it.

At the age of 25, I was living alone for the first time ever in my life. I’d gone from living in my mom’s house, to living in an apartment with my then fiancé, Alex, to buying a townhouse with Alex and living a very grown up life for someone in her early twenties. One day, I woke up and realized that I just couldn’t live that life anymore.

Alex and I had dated since I was 17 and he was 19. We had, in essence, grown up together. Or rather, I grew up. And he? Well, he didn’t. Not so much anyway. Not at the same rate as me, I guess. At any point, I didn’t love him anymore. At least not the way that you should love the man you’re planning to marry. I was sick of being his maid and his mommy and getting very little in return for that. It had started to feel more and more like we were roommates—not partners—and he wasn’t even a very good roommate at that.

So I did the most logical, yet hardest, thing I’d ever done: I packed up my things and left. I moved to a suburb about thirty minutes south of were Alex and I had been living. I’m not going to lie, lovely reader. I chose the suburb because a certain someone lived there.

Joe and I had reconnected months before. After having not spoken for years as a result of Joe crossing boundaries that never should’ve been crossed when you consider that I was the fiancé of his best friend, Joe emailed me and we started talking, which lead to us spending time together, which lead to me realizing how truly unhappy I was with my current situation. It should’ve been a bad sign to Alex that I was even talking to Joe at all, but he didn’t seem to care. And that’s what pushed me over the edge.

There had always been chemistry—a deep connection—between Joe and me. I know now, thanks to age, maturity, and hindsight, that it was just lust. But back then, it seemed like love. He encouraged me to move to the wonderful suburb he lived in. So, I did, and we started dating.

I found the greatest two-bedroom townhouse style apartment, which had a one car garage and its own entry (thus the “townhouse style”). I enjoyed my new found freedom and peace and quiet and took great pride in living on my own. Because Joe worked a second shift job, he’d often come over late on weeknights so that we could spend a little time together before I went to bed. Life seemed so great, and I was happier than I’d been in a long, long time.

One day, about six months after I’d moved into my apartment, I got home to find an envelope on my door. It was quite obvious that there was a very important message inside, because the envelope was fastened securely to the door with two large strips of silver duct tape. The envelope was addressed to Neighbor in Apartment 112, so it was definitely for me. I’ve included an artist's rendering below. (Note: I am the artist, and I’m not what you'd call very artistic, which I'm sure you'll notice.)

See? Whoever left this message really wanted me to get it. So, needless to say, I was eager to read it. Once inside my apartment, I tore open the envelope to find a one page handwritten letter:

Dear neighbor-

I wanted to make you aware of an issue that you might not be aware of, since I know you just moved in a few months ago. The walls and floors in these buildings are very thin, which means we can often hear much of what our neighbors do. (Editor’s Note: Seriously?! Someone’s gonna write a note to bitch about my TV being a little loud, or worse, me walking too loudly?) Many times this isn’t an issue, because we all tend to keep similar hours, but your boyfriend sometimes seems to visit kind of late at night. (Oh, Oh. Getting a little worried here.) I’m pretty sure he visited last night, which is what prompted me to finally write this letter. (Starting to wish this was just a complaint about how loud my TV is, but realizing it probably isn't.)

Last night, my young son woke me up at around 1 a.m. asking what was wrong with the lady in the other apartment. (My heart is in my throat.) He was quite upset because he thought that the lady was being hurt, because she kept screaming, “Oh, God! Oh, God!” I had to explain to him that the lady was fine and that she was probably just really excited about something. This isn’t the first time this has happened. (OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD! I have to move. NOW! Right this instant!)

What you do in your apartment is your own business, but I wanted to let you know that other people can hear you. I hope that we’re able to resolve this issue without getting the apartment management involved.

Thank you,
Concerned (and tired) Neighbor

By the time I finished reading the note, I was shaking and my face was a brilliant shade of red. For a few milliseconds, I was proud. But then, I was mortified. I knew (as I’m sure you do too) exactly what noises the neighbor was talking about. You see, many times when Joe came over late in the evening, we spent time in my bedroom doing what many normal twenty-somethings who are oh so in love do. And though I’d participated in such “adult activities” with my former fiancé, it had never been as much fun or as good. Joe liked to know how well he was “performing” and how much I was “enjoying myself,” so I, of course, obliged.

I could not believe this was happening to me. I felt like a teenager who'd just been caught by her parents. (Which, incidentally, never happend to me.) Once I realized that moving wasn’t an option, because running from my shame wasn’t worth the amount of money it would take to break the lease and pay a damage deposit and first month’s rent elsewhere, I began to wrack my brain over which neighbor left the note. I needed to know who I now had to avoid at all costs. I was so horrified that I contemplated never leaving my apartment ever again.

I didn’t take long for me to figure out that “Concerned (and tired) Neighbor” was the neighbor who lived in the apartment below mine, a single mom with a son who was probably around five years old. I only had one other neighbor, who was barely ever home and to my knowledge had no children. Also, since his apartment was to the right of my living room, which was on the opposite end of the apartment than my bedroom, it wasn’t too likely that he would’ve heard any goings on in the bedroom.

When my mortification subsided a bit, thanks to an instant messaging conversation with Joe in which we had determined that the neighbor was probably just jealous that I was “getting some” and she wasn’t, I was a little angry. While I appreciated my neighbor’s tact (Could you imagine her going to the apartment management to resolve this instead of first trying to deal with it directly first?! Mortification times a billion.), and the fact that she had written a note instead of trying to discuss the issue face-to-face, I was pissed that she had closed the note with what I perceived to be a bit of a threat.

Also, since this issue quite obviously disrupted her life, why had she waited six months to tell me about it?! What kind of sick person listens in on other’s “adult activities” like that?! I knew that she didn’t have her son on a regular basis, indicating that he perhaps was visiting his other parent quite a bit of the time, so I was sure that Little Miss Pervert only grew tired of the noise when it happened to occur on a night that her son was home. Would I have received a note had her son never heard? I doubted it. (What can I say? I was a stupid, embarrassed, paranoid twenty five year old.)

I resolved to avoid Concerned Neighbor at all costs, which would be a little tricky to do since we basically shared a driveway. However, I decided I could use the thin walls and floors to my advantage. Every time I got ready to go somewhere, before I actually left my apartment, I paused in front of the door; looking out the peephole and listening for signs that neighbor might also be leaving her apartment. This technique worked well for quite a while; until the day that I was unloading groceries from the trunk of my car and she pulled her car into her driveway right next to me. I quickly decided to pretend I didn’t notice her, hoping that she’d quickly exit her car and walk to her apartment.

But, as I turned to walk to my apartment, I noticed her standing not even three feet away from me. Oh no. Please don’t say anything. Please, please, please, please, please. I’d fixed the problem. Joe’s late night visits were limited to once per week, and I worked diligently to keep myself quiet on those visits. In fact, I was pretty sure I’d become the quietest neighbor in the world...I crept around my apartment as though the floor was filled with landmines and I barely ever turned the TV on, let alone turn the volume up.

I gave a quick smile and began walking to my apartment, willing her not to talk to me and not to follow me. Maybe, just maybe, she didn’t know that I was “Neighbor in Apartment 112.”

I heard a voice behind me, “Do you need any help?” I wanted to disappear.

I turned halfway towards her, careful not to meet her gaze, “Ummmm…no thanks. I’ve got it!” I smiled as I felt my face turning red; the embarrassment I’d felt weeks ago came flooding back.

“Are you sure? Looks like you’ve got your hands full. Let me at least get that garage door for you.” She reached her hand inside my garage stall and hit the button for the automatic door.

“No. Really. I’ve got it. Thanks for taking care of the garage door though!” followed by a huge smile. The garage door finished its descent, bringing the blaringly obvious 112 into full view. If she hadn’t known before who I was, she certainly knew now. I wished for a giant hole to open in the ground and swallow me up.

We began walking. As we got closer to the steps where she’d go down to go to her apartment and I’d go up to go to mine, I began sweating. Was she going to say anything? Should I say something? Just then, I dropped my keys. WHY does something like that always happen at the most inopportune times?

I turned to pick them up, but neighbor was quicker. “Sorry,” I said as she grabbed my keys off the sidewalk. As she handed them back to me, I looked her in the eyes, smiled warmly, and said, “Thank you so much.” I hoped she knew that the keys weren’t the only thing I was apologizing or thanking her for. I was so incredibly grateful that she was such a good neighbor.

I think she got the point, because from then on, we were always cordial. And, not only was I never confronted by management with any neighbor complaints, but in the year and half that I lived there after that, I never received another note.

T for Trials and Tribulations

Edited to add: I've gotten a couple emails saying people are having troubles commenting on this post today. I don't know if it's a Disqus or a Blogger problem, but it makes me sad, because I love to read what you have to say. If you click on the actual post title, and then scroll to the bottom, you should see comments available. If not, please feel free to email me. You can do that by clicking on "Send me a Note" under my picture at the top right of the page.

I’m participating in Mama Kat’s writing workshop today, and as I alluded to yesterday, this post will be anything but lighthearted. Also, it could get long; really long. The prompt I chose is:

Tell us about a day you were sure you wouldn’t get through.

This one is, unfortunately, far too easy for me. And while it will be hard to write, because it involves recalling memories that I'm not particularly fond of, I imagine that it will also be cathartic. The answer isn’t what you might think (especially if you're one of my six faithful readers). Of course after receiving the news that my youngest sister had been murdered, I was sure at least once per day in the following days, weeks, and months that I wasn’t going to make it through that particular day. I still wonder at how I made it through it all. I still marvel at the strength I never knew I’d had but that appeared right when I needed it most.

December to January, 2007, was a whirlwind of funeral planning, speaking with investigators, speaking with media, trying to figure out when I’d go back to work, clinging to my husband and family, attempting to celebrate Christmas if only for the kids, and adjusting to a life that would certainly never be the same again; and yet, it was also a blur. Everything happened so quickly but so slowly at the same time. It was like being in a perpetual nightmare, and if I could just wake up, I was sure everything was going to be okay.

I relished the approximately two minutes I had every morning when I was in that stage right between sleeping and awake; temporarily unaware of what had happened, what was yet to happen, and how life had changed forever. Then, I’d open my eyes and get out of bed, working hard to suppress the overwhelming nausea, the tightness in my chest, and the tears. I’d usually lose the battle, at least on the tears front, and many times would return to bed in the hopes that sleep would numb the pain.

Though there were times I was sure I absolutely would not—could not—get through the day. I did. I made it through. And, as we’d started to heal, and move forward with our lives, and things settled down and got quiet, I started to feel more relaxed and comfortable; there were even bouts of happiness here and there. Then, the murderer’s trial started…

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The trial of Zachary Matthews started in the middle of October, 2008, and lasted about five days. Though I don't imagine that I'll ever forget it, especially since I took notes to keep myself busy and to document the proceedings from my point of view, there was one day in particular that I’ll certainly never forget. Not only did I not know how I’d make it through the rest of the day, but I was once again shattered, which I didn’t think was possible after all that had already happened. I found myself struggling once again to gather the strength to face something—someone—I didn’t think I’d ever have reason to question or the ability to lose my faith in…

We were about halfway through the first day of the trial, which had already proven to be far more difficult and emotionally exhausting than I’d imagined. The prosecution team went first. We’d heard witness testimony from some of my sister’s friends and many other people. There was the previously unknown to us woman whose life was forever changed when she returned from a meeting the evening of December 19 to find a burning car in her driveway. I cannot imagine how often the horror of removing my sister’s body from the car replays itself over, and over, and over again in her mind; tormenting her with the fact that none of her nursing skills could help the dead young woman who now lay in her driveway.

There were detectives and police officers who talked about crime scenes, canvassing neighborhoods, and collecting evidence. There was the medical examiner who talked about his findings during the autopsy and confirmed the cause of death. There was emotional testimony from my sister’s friends about the secrets they knew and regretted not telling until it was too late: Zachary had hit and punched and pushed and kicked Kristine, he had threatened her life, and she feared him. Many of Kristine’s family members, me included, didn’t know these secrets, but oh how we wished we did. The prosecution was working to establish a history of domestic violence in an attempt to prove that Zachary, my sister’s ex-boyfriend and the father of her child, was guilty of this murder.

My mother had been absent from the courtroom all morning. She wasn’t allowed to sit with my family to bear witness to the testimony and evidence we’d seen. Instead, she was barred from the courtroom until after she’d fulfilled her duties as a witness for the prosecution, lest seeing any other testimony or evidence should taint her own.

I was glad that mom wasn’t faced with the choice of whether to leave the courtroom or to see and hear graphic testimony regarding crime scene and autopsy photos. The rest of us thought we were strong enough, but it proved too difficult for some who ended up leaving the room halfway through the presentation of evidence. My mother probably would’ve been like me; she would’ve forced herself to stay. I was somehow able to separate my sister from the body in the pictures. My sister was a vibrant, living, breathing, laughing, smiling, human being; she wasn’t a body. My sister as I knew her had been gone long before the body she left behind was discovered and preserved for perpetuity in gruesome crime scene and autopsy photos.

As my mother was called to the stand, I looked forward to temporary relief from the shocking surprises and horrific evidence that had perforated the day, and I prepared myself to project strength. All of us wanted to be strong for my mother, because we couldn’t imagine doing what she was about to do. I was proud of her for having the strength to go on the stand to tell her story and the courage to face the monster who’d done this horrific thing that changed our lives forever.

My family has always been relatively close. We all talked to each other all of the time, so we were all always up to date on what was going on with who, who was doing what, and how everyone’s lives were going. If one of my family members so much as sneezed funny, I was sure to hear about it within a day of it happening. As such, I had no reason to suspect that my mother’s testimony would include any shocking revelations, because I was certain that I knew everything there was to know. I knew what she would talk about. At least, I thought I did…

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She was going on the stand to tell the jury, the lawyers, and the judge about the time that Zachary had tried to strangle her when she had tried to break up an argument between him and Kris. She would talk about the restraining order she had against him as a result of the incident. She was going to tell the court about how we’d all accepted him into our family and provided him and Kris with unwavering love and support, and that despite that, he turned on her. She would talk about the violent temper Zachary had exhibited on more than one occasion before actually following through with real violence when he attempted to strangle her, and how that temper and that incident had caused concern for all of us over whether he was using violence against my sister or my nephew. She would confirm that none of us suspected that my sister’s life was in danger in any way, because my sister stood firm that Zachary was not abusing her or their child.

My mother talked about how, months before her death, Kristine had moved back home with Li’l D. Kris had gotten tired of Zachary’s unwillingness to grow up and take care of his family, and they had broken up. Kristine was in the process of moving on. My mother encouraged Kris to facilitate visitation between Li’l D and his father, and usually that happened by way of them meeting up in a public place like the mall. It was only in the few weeks before Kristine’s death that she had started bringing Li’l D to his father’s apartment so that father and son could spend the day and/or evening alone together. Kris enjoyed these little breaks, because it allowed her time to go out with friends, and she had also met and started dating someone. She had never gone alone when she dropped Li’l D off at his father’s apartment; until that fateful day when we lost her forever.

Then, the prosecutor asked my mother to recall a particular date. And as I sat and listened, I was stunned and shaken by a story I’d never heard before. My mother described the day, a few weeks prior to the murder, when she had woken up early and was surprised to see Kristine awake already. Kris appeared to be shaken, and my mother asked her what was wrong.  Kris said that she’d been asleep in bed when she thought she’d heard something. She rolled over and scanned the room in the dark, but didn’t see anything. Convinced that she was hearing things, she tried to fall back asleep. But, she couldn't. Something didn't feel right.

Once her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she realized that someone was standing in the corner of her room. She was paralyzed with fear. After lying still for a few minutes, she slowly got up to turn on the bedroom light. That’s when she saw that the person standing in the corner of her room was Zachary. He had somehow broken into my mother’s house and had stood there for who knows how long watching my sister sleep. When Kris asked what he was doing there, he said he was just watching her. He was making sure that she and Li’l D were okay. He cared about them, and he’d just wanted to see her. Kris told him to leave, and he did.

As my mother’s story progressed, I was overcome with emotion. It was as though all of the air had left the room. I started to sweat, my stomach was cramping as it tied itself in knots, my ears were ringing, and I could feel tears pushing at the backs of my eyes. I looked at MusicMan, who upon seeing the shock on my face, grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. He looked at me as if to say, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do, and I’m sorry.” I refused to cry. I willed my eyes to contain the tears that were threatening to burst forth at any moment.

I thought about running from the room, but I feared if I started running, I’d never stop. I didn’t know if I could get far enough away from my mother, that courtroom, this life that just couldn’t possibly be mine, or from the excruciating pain.

As the implications of what my mother said really hit me, the tears began to flow and I began to shake uncontrollably. She knew. She knew her daughter was in danger. She could’ve stopped it. She had a restraining order against Zachary, and he had broken into her home. One call to the police could’ve had him in jail for quite a while. Maybe even for enough time for Kris to completely move on and sever all ties and for him to calm down and get over her. Perhaps my sister would still be alive today. None of us would have to be here, in this courtroom, trying to maintain our delicately cobbled together hearts and emotions as the old, not fully healed wounds were torn open all over again as we relived those awful, horrific days.

My mother had failed to do the number one thing a parent should do: protect her child. Not only did she fail to protect her child, but having the knowledge she did—that the violence was escalating—she encouraged her daughter to enter the lion’s den under the premise that Zachary deserved to see his son. In my mind, which I’ll admit was in emotional overload, my mother helped murder my sister. She was partially responsible for the death that shattered my heart into tiny pieces and threw me into such a delicate emotional state that I could go from being fine one minute to crying in the car on the way to work the next.

I could barely breathe as I sat frozen, wanting to hear no more but unable to leave. I couldn’t even look at my mother. We’d had our moments, especially in my teen years, where we’d argued and she’d said cruel, cruel things to me; things that no mother should ever say to her daughter. But, I’d forgiven. Because that’s what you do, right? You only have one mom, and deep-down, I knew she loved me. At least I thought she did. I mean; didn’t she have to? She was my mother after all. I loved her. Despite her venomous words, some of which made my heart physically hurt, I loved her. Besides, moms are human and can make mistakes. But this?!? This was more than just a mistake. How could she have just sat back and let my sister walk out the door to her death that day?! HOW?! WHY?!

***************************

Court rested for lunch shortly after my mother’s testimony. As soon as the good and honorable jurors (that’s what the judge called them, and they truly, truly were) filed out of the room, those of us in the gallery standing as a sign of respect for them, I fled. MusicMan followed me while the rest of my family waited for my mother.

Safely ensconced in the elevators, I spoke for the first time. It was a hoarse whisper, “SHE KNEW!” MusicMan hugged me. I repeated it over, and over, and over again in my head and occasionally out loud; willing it to be untrue. The closer we got to the outside of the courthouse, the louder I got. Until we were outside, and I was screaming and crying hysterically, my legs threatening to buckle under the gravity of what I’d heard and the overwhelming emotions it had stirred.

“SHE COULD’VE SAVED HER! AND SHE DIDN’T!! SHE DIDN’T DO A SINGLE THING TO PROTECT HER OWN DAUGHTER! MY MOM KILLED MY SISTER! SHE KILLED HER!” MusicMan held me as I sobbed. I knew I couldn’t go on. After everything that had happened—learning of Kris' death, the funeral, the partial healing, and now reliving it all over again—I just couldn’t do it anymore. The trial was just too much. I didn’t have the strength to continue.

How was I supposed to deal with all of this? How?! How was I ever supposed to face my mother again?! How could I look at her and not accuse her of killing my sister? How could I look at her and not ask why she failed to protect her daughter? How could I avoid asking, “WHY didn’t you do everything in your power to SAVE KRISTINE’S LIFE?!”

***************************

I eventually calmed down, with the help of MusicMan and Cousinfriend. My rational mind finally took over a little more, and I realized that there was nothing that could be done now. I could hate my mother and I could scream my accusations at her, my words cutting deep into her core and hurting her heart like her words years earlier had hurt mine, but what would that accomplish? My sister was still dead; gone forever. Unfortunately, nothing was going to change that. It was a fact that all of us who knew and loved her had to face as we learned to live in a world without her.

And, I thought about the guilt I carried and how it ate me up…I didn’t spend enough time with Kris. I didn’t appreciate her while she was here. I should’ve answered the phone those times that I chose to ignore her calls. I should’ve asked more questions, and I should've forced her to answer honestly. I could’ve talked to her more, and maybe then she would’ve told me her secrets. Should’ve, would’ve, could’ve…the guilt will consume you, if you let it. And, you can’t let it. I had gradually begun to learn that I had to let it go, because I couldn’t change what had happened in the past, and my sanity depended on letting go of the guilt and realizing that hindsight is 20/20. The same is true for my mother…

For the rest of her life, my mother will have to live with the fact that she maybe could’ve prevented my sister’s death. With the knowledge she had about the violence increasing, she could’ve cautioned Kris against ever spending time alone with Zachary. She could’ve opened her home to visitation, or at the very least allowed Zachary to come to her house to pick up Li’l D. Again: could’ve, would’ve, should’ve. The facts are what they are. Kris went there alone, and her life ended that day.

My mother has to deal with her own demons. She has to decide if she truly believes the excuses she gives to those who ask how she didn't know what was going on or why she didn't try to stop it. (The main one being, "She was 19; legally an adult. My hands were tied!") Someday she might have to deal with the grandson she's raised asking her those questions. That's her cross to bear. And, that's punishment enough.

We will never truly know if any of us could’ve done anything to change what happened on December 19, 2007. We will never know why Kristine didn't tell us she was afraid or why, despite that fear, she went to Zachary's apartment alone that day. We will never know why Zachary did what he did. We will never know the answers to all of the questions that swirl around in our minds. And we—all of us who knew and loved her—have to live with that. Because we have to go on living; there is no other option. It’s what Kris would want, and we have to make sure that her son has the life she would’ve wanted him to have, or better.

I survived that day and the rest of the trial. As hard as it was, I faithfully sat through each day’s proceedings, taking it all in and hoping that justice would prevail. And it did. The jury found Zachary Matthews guilty of first degree murder, and because of the severity of his crime, he was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. And that day? The sun was bright as my sister smiled down on us when we left the courthouse. And I knew that I was going to be okay, because I am a better person for having had her as a sister, even if it was for only nineteen years, and I'm stronger than I ever thought possible.

(And thank you so much, lovely reader, if you made it all the way through this post.)

S for Sad (or SAD)

I’m beginning to wonder if a choice I made back in April was the right one. That’s the nature of choices though, isn’t it? Some of you might remember that I decided to go off my antidepressants back then. I’d been on them for a few years and felt as though enough time and healing had passed for me to take a stab at life on my own without the help of chemicals. My doctor developed a good plan for me to gradually taper off, and everything worked out well. I didn’t experience any withdrawal symptoms, increased depression, or really any side effects at all.

Now, though, I’m beginning to wonder if I wasn’t a little too quick to make the decision I did. As the weather changes and we move further into fall, I find my mood changing as well. And not for the good. As the days get shorter and darker, so does my patience and mood. I’ve been feeling down a little more regularly lately, and I find that I either want to sleep way too much or I have trouble sleeping. Today, I feel downright sad and weepy. That’s not cool when I’m stuck at work. And it’s frustrating, because I really have no reason to be sad. Well, let me rephrase that…

There is no immediate cause for my sadness. Nothing in particular has happened recently to upset me. I’ve long suspected that I have SAD, and the way I’m feeling lately confirms this self-diagnosis. Of course, this will always be a bad time of year for me. October brings the bittersweet anniversary of the trial and sentencing of Zachary, the man who ended my sister’s life, and December brings an anniversary I’d rather never have to acknowledge. Yes, it’s safe to say that this will always, always be a bad time of year. And, of course, it just happens to coincide with the season that brings colder, darker weather. It’s just not a good combination.

I try not to focus on it or think about it, but the hole created where my sister used to be is just as much a part of me as she was when she was here. I want so badly not to forget her, and I fear that I am. That I do. Or maybe I just try to force myself too hard to try to remember her, and that compounds the feelings that I’m a bad sister for forgetting. I wish there was a way to remember her but to forget the pain. I know that’s not possible. And while the pain isn’t as ever-present and hard as it used to be, because it’s true what “they” say about time healing, it’s still there. It will always be there. And at this time of year, it seems to push harder and becomes a more forceful presence. That sucks. Really HARD!

I suppose it doesn’t help that I spent last night writing a post for tomorrow that stirred up a lot of not so good memories, but it was cathartic for me, and I look forward to sharing it with you tomorrow. Then, I sometimes wonder if this being a bad time of year isn’t a self-fulfilling prophecy. Am I choosing to focus on the pain, thus making this a bad time of year? Is this something I can control?

I don’t know. I don’t think so though. If I were my mother, the answer would be a resounding, “YES!” Because my mother lives for attention and seems to crave pity. I, however, do not.

It also doesn't help that, because Psychology class runs for three and a half hours every single Saturday, I don't have as much downtime as I'm used to. So, I'm not resting and recharging as much as I'm used to. I’m not entirely sure how I want to deal with this seasonal depression thing right now. I think I’m going to just try to be gentle with myself for a bit. No undue pressure to be the best I can be for everyone else, but instead focus on taking care of me the best I can for me. And, of course, I’ll let MusicMan help out with taking care of me too.

I think that maybe I need to release this by just having a good long cry. What do you do, lovely reader, when you're feeling down?