“I'm unstoppable; I'm a Porsche with no brakes”

Opening the desk drawer, the task seems simple enough: grab the newest checkbook, pay the medical bill. Except, it’s not where I expect it to be. I move the plastic cups filled with pens, pencils, highlighters, and markers. I take out the box of extra staples, paperclips, and Post-it notes. I shift the bag of jump drives and pull out the old check registers. Regardless of how many ways I rearrange the drawer’s contents, there are no new checkbooks. I could have sworn I have two books left. I open other drawers and push the stuff around. My leisurely task turns into a frantic search. I feel my heartbeat quicken, anxiety build, and stress mount. It should be here. My inner voice turns to audible swearing. Before I can help it, the flashbacks become my main focus.

I remember receiving the phone call that night in late January. I hear his no nonsense, straight-to-the point “You need to come home. Someone broke in. The sliding door is smashed. They ransacked the house.” I recall the forty-minute highway drive from my mom’s house to our home. I reminisce walking in through the side entrance and seeing a plain clothes police officer lean against my kitchen sink, his arms and legs crossed. I remember the uniformed cop pacing between the dark living room and kitchen, ultimately leaning against the wall of the lighted room. I recollect walking through my home that is now dubbed a crime scene and being asked not to touch anything. I think of the way the structure feels – empty, cold, dirty – as I pass by open drawers and cabinets in the bathroom. I make my way to my craft room and see random desk drawers pulled open. I gasp. To my relief, the drawers containing craft supplies are ajar; my financial documents are seemingly untouched.

Seemingly.

Is this how I find out something is amiss? I don’t think so as I check that account regularly, but I can’t help myself from wondering. My shoulders tense. My neck is strained. I’m nauseous.

Truthfully, it’s not just the checkbook’s whereabouts, but the shift in my mental state since that night. I can remember another time I was burglarized, but the feelings then aren’t the same as now. Was it a simpler time? Was it because it was an unusual circumstance and I had time to kill on a Friday afternoon before my friends picked me up for a long weekend out of state? Was it because in that moment, I had my bags packed and my wallet ready to go with just the essentials? Was it because I was naïve and left my apartment unlocked to run downstairs and change out my laundry and in those ten minutes, he came in, took my neon yellow wallet with neon pink “Brandy” lettering, which held my Texas driver’s license and a credit card? Was it because I was home when he returned to take a second look of items easy to grab – possibly the packed bag and next to it a bank envelope filled with cash sitting on the circular glass dining room table – and caught him off guard? Was it because I called American Express immediately, reported the incident, and they took care of the one-hundred-seventy-two-dollars he spent at three gas stations on a main road before the transactions were dinged as suspicious? Was it because I only had to replace my license? Was it because I was relieved that he missed the two-hundred dollars in twenties?

This time is definitely different. The cop’s words “our job is not to stop him, but slow him down” haunt me. His patronizing glance at the cameras we purchased after the incident demean my peace of mind as I’m reminded nothing will stop someone who wants to break in. Should I be thankful and glad we weren’t attacked and our car wasn’t stolen like the family whose home was struck two weeks later? Should I be blessed we weren’t violated like another resident who had his car taken from his driveway, which was found trashed three weeks later with five-thousand new miles, a check engine light on, and the vehicle reeking of drugs? Should I feel relieved when we receive visits and phone calls from different police officers every few weeks saying they caught someone and please come down to the station to see the jewelry they have in evidence? Should I take it as a good sign when the same officer says they’ve recovered several two-dollar bills from suspects but since I don’t have the serial number of MY bills, they won’t give me the currency they found?

None of this helps the anxiety I feel when I need to leave the house knowing there won’t be any cars in the driveway. None of this stops me from pulling down the shades, closing the curtains, turning on the archaic radio, and random lights before I leave the house as my significant other tells me it’s unnecessary. Nor does any of it calm me when I remind myself, we didn’t ask for this violation. But, it’s here and I am struggling to live with it.

I recently tried therapy for an unrelated event and the experience was grueling as the ancient in-network counselor with hearing and speaking difficulties spent the majority of the hour posting himself upon an imaginary pedestal to stroke his own ego. He hadn’t reviewed my file nor my reason for coming in, but referred to stereotypes and categorized me in “us” versus “them” scenarios. It didn’t matter, I couldn’t draw myself away from the wad of saliva gathering in the corner of his mouth. I ended the session telling him I wouldn’t return, watched his shoulders and expression droop, then lied and said it wasn’t because of him or his approach. It was because of both, and the spit wad.

Three months later, I am caught between the unknown and emptiness. I feel nothing, haven’t yet cried, and am afraid to live “normally.” I stopped using my jewelry box that had belonged to my dad. I hide the remaining of my valuables in random and awkward spots with the attitude of “if I can’t find it, neither will they.”

I try to walk proudly with my head held high as I pass the next-door retired neighbors who have intentionally ceased communication with us but have no issue gossiping about our trauma to the other neighbors.

It’s an act. I know it. My body knows it. Despite routine workouts, healthy eating, and keeping my pedometer in step with me, my body has plateaued. The scale and body metric devices show no improvement. For nearly a month now, the measurements slide in minuscule amounts on either end. My trainer reminds me its stress. I can’t think of what stress until this realization returns.

I thought I had let it go. It’s been three months. The door is repaired, new safety measures are in place, the outside is healed.

Oh.