“You never thought of anyone else, you just saw your pain; And now I cry in the middle of the night"

Imagine standing in the privacy of your own home. Alone and naked. Maybe you’re in the bedroom putting clothes away or looking in your closet. It doesn’t matter, you’re in your safe space, oblivious to the world outside. Five minutes pass.

When you turn around and see yourself in the mirror, there are pieces missing. Literal chunks. The absent parts are not life-threatening, but enough to cause discomfort. The confusion and shock set in. How did this happen? When did it happen?

Master bedroom torn apart. Clothes tossed from dresser drawers. Jewerly box emptied. Foam mattress cover pulled back. Room left in total disarray.

In reality, I stand before the tarp covered and taped-up sliding door wondering the same thing. How could someone or somebodies invite themselves to smash this entryway in the middle of winter to enter my safe zone? Why did they run rampant through my home, scaring the four-legged babies, pulling out drawers, tossing the room, taking my sentimental valuables and leave, without so much as a care of the state of my home?

If their definition of valuable and mine differ, why can’t they return the “worthless” pieces?

I am eager to find my prized belongings. I send a text and post a message on Facebook asking my friends to send me pictures of me wearing jewelry. I write another note and put it on the town forum page informing the community of what occurred and also asking where would they look to recover the lost pieces.

Some answers are rude, others are sarcastic. The remaining are helpful, but overwhelming. One suggests I check every pawn shop in Connecticut; Springfield, Massachusetts; and even Rhode Island. Another implies I go straight to the source – the local fentanyl dealer. (Great, now I need a fentanyl dealer.)

I start my search online going to Facebook Marketplace, Craigslist, and Ebay. My search becomes tiresome day after day and I become physically sick each time I attempt an online hunt. I call a local pawn shop only to hear the thick accent of a foreign man maybe telling me he hasn’t seen jewelry come in.

I know some items are forever lost, including a Snoopy and Great Pumpkin plastic bank I received as a gift from my mom more than twenty years ago. Snoopy protected my loose change, two-dollar bills, and nearly one-hundred twenty dollars in petty cash. Snoopy made a name for himself at Thursday night poker games in deep south Texas.

The officer handling the case calls three separate times only to say we’ve filled out the wrong paperwork, he needs the other documents, and asks if we want the police department to pursue the investigation and file charges if said person is caught.

Shock and sickness turn to anger and annoyance. My figurative bubble is popped and theories tarnished. We live in the smallest house on the street and a modest lifestyle at that. Nothing about us is flashy or begs for attention, yet we were still raided.

I can’t make sense of it or accept it. I can’t wear my remaining jewelry without being reminded of what I lost. I don’t want to be seen by the public in fear I give someone an idea. I can’t stand the thought of someone frightening my baby girl to the point where she is afraid to walk around in her own home or make a noise.

I just can’t. This is all too much.

Today is days three through six.