The screen has been sliced in the front. A hole in the wall. The door is demolished in the back. My house is in disarray.
This is not what I wanted to see the day after Christmas. A quick trip to the store in midday became a nightmarish reality when I returned.
I thought I could write about this today. But I can't. I'm still dealing with no sleep, can't sleep, won't sleep, insurance craziness, digital pictures and sifting through a ransacked mess with rubber gloves. Every article of clothing in the drawers must be washed because they were touched by this person or persons. The house must be scrubbed because of cigarette ashes everywhere and filthiness I don't even want to think about.
And most of all, how to retain my peace of mind in the midst of wondering if they'll be back.
And then there's the fear.
I've gotta get hold of the fear. Because it has surely gotten hold of me. Soon I'm sure I'll write about how none of this really matters in the grand scheme of things. And how I really shouldn't jump out of my skin when the toaster pops up. And how I called my mother to tell her and burst into tears like a twelve-year-old. And how I can't seem to shake this feeling that someone is still in my home.....rummaging through my cabinets, staring at my grandfather's marbles, touching my laptop which they miraculously left on the couch, picking up my earrings and Christmas decorations, reading my mail, smoking in my kitchen. But not today.
It's not what is missing that I care about. It's how this violation of my home and my things made me feel on a personal level. I can't express that yet without emotion.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
And I'll write about it then.
But not today.
And thanks, I already know you're there.