“You wanted more. More than I could bear. More than I could offer. For a love that isn’t there.”

Violated is not the word. Crippling? Raw? Worthless? Exposed? Condemned? Maybe.

I crouch in front of a pile clothes – underwear, socks, jammies, leggings, t-shirts, and bathing suits. It appears as if an overly nervous packer had a fit and lost control. Only, it’s not me. I didn’t create this mess. My clothes were folded and neatly arranged by type.

The mismatched socks make my heart skip too many beats. My breathing becomes erratic, and I know not all of them will match back up. One will likely run off with the forever lost faux Tupperware lid; another with the long-lost missing shoe. I’m certain the other will make its pilgrimage back to the dryer. My world begins to rotate. The peach-colored walls and turquoise trim blend. My clothes spin in front of me. I gasp for breath, ultimately jumping up and running from the room.

I stop just shy of the kitchen where most of the sliding door’s glass remains in the frame, waiting for an opportunity to devastate the remnants of my stability. Beautifully structured, it looks like an exquisite piece of art. One that should be on display in a museum, not my kitchen. Its mere presence drives invisible shards of disappointment and failure into my soul. Glass slivers are spread inside on the hard wood floor and outside, on the deck. The glass will cost at least a thousand to replace, but the cops who leaned against my door frame and kitchen counters assured me it’s an easy-peasy fix at Home Depot.

I reach for my anti-anxiety medication. My hands shake. My breath is irregular. As I swallow two pills with water, I realize this is just the beginning of this journey and return to clean up the mess.

The job is poorly done. My hands move like an addict antsy for his next hit.

I reassemble the jewelry box that once belonged to my dad. The draws, just hours before, held sentimental pieces, including a pair of diamond stud earrings given to me by my first love, a gold Alex and Ani bangle bracelet with a single charm showing “daughter” and a daisy silhouette that my dad gave to me a week before he died, are gone. A gold band so worn with time and use had a single diamond chip in its center, is also gone. It belonged to my paternal great-grandmother. I nervously laugh to myself at the times I wore it with an uneasy energy wondering if this time will be the day when the band snaps. The large garnet cross my paternal grandmother gave me for my confirmation is also among the missing. It was one of my favorite pieces, even though I rarely wore the large, bulky pendant necklace. The countless rings with precious gemstones given to me by my mom are now lost. The silly costume jewelry given to me by a family friend are also gone.

The police want detailed descriptions of each piece taken. I can’t think of what I had let alone describe it. An officer asked for pictures. After he leaves, I begin looking through every photograph in every album and scrapbook trying to remember if I still have that piece, then deciphering its monetary value. I’m sickened knowing my great-grandmother’s engagement ring is worthless in the eyes of a pawn shop dealer but is priceless to me. The bangle my dad gave me probably costs a mere twenty dollars but holds one of my most precious memories. The gemstone rings, which I can’t separate in my mind, are worth hundreds, if not thousands, but I’m drawing an absolute blank.

I can’t. I look at a clock. It’s ticking toward three in the morning. He nudges me, asking me to lie down with him. My mind sprints its own race, while my body follows him to the bedroom. My brain's pace slows. My conscious drifts in and out of its wakeful state.

Today is only day one.