Life's Experiences
My 17 year old daughter, being alone in the house, left the garage door wide open until we arrived home late at night. It was a jarring sight for me because the door that opens to the house was left completely ajar and anyone could have entered the house....and there would be my daughter alone and vulnerable. She had no inkling whatsover of the potential dangers that lie in wait especially while alone. I foolishly assumed that she would be so fully aware of her surroundings arriving home in the evening knowing that she would be alone for a couple of hours. But she wasn't. She was wanton and careless. It scared me to death.
Ours is a fairly safe neighborhood. We are in a gated subdivision and our area is tucked away in a tree-lined street that is so unassuming despite the pricey, upscale homes, that it hardly calls for any attention compared to the other areas that scream "status" and social 'arrivals'. Nevertheless we've had some break-ins mainly because homeowners leave their doors open or their cars unlocked, keys on the driver's seat. Ours are petty crimes of opportunity. Relatively safe is a far cry from how I would describe it--but relatively, is quite accurate.
When I was about 13 years old, I came home one afternoon and my parents were uncustomarily home. As I entered the front door, our house was in disarray. But the worst part was when I entered my room. My closet was open, drawers opened, clothes and things strewn on my bed. My desk was covered with things. My guitar case was open revealing an empty space where my beloved Yamaha classical guitar used to lay. It was the first 'real' guitar I ever owned. A present from my father. It was expensive and I knew it was a sacrifice for them to buy it for me. But it was gone.
I went to my parents' room and it was also in horrible disarray. Clothes, boxes, bags, things....all were wantonly thrown on the bed and on the floor. Her drawers were also open. A couple of them were empty. Her jewelry boxes were opened and tipped over. All that they left were her fancy trinkets. She had stashes of cash in her drawers too. Those were gone. All her beautiful jewelry were gone. Our television sets, electronic gizmos---all gone.
And my mom began to cry.
My father was angry but surprisingly calm. We had been burglarized. Again.
The feelings that overcome a victim of a home invasion is unique. On one hand, there is no bodily harm. That's good. But then, one also feels violated. And that feeling can be frightening and disconcerting. There is also a feeling of loss. But what surprised me the most in retrospect, is the feeling that because your home was in effect 'violated', it no longer 'feels' right. Your sense of security is shattered. And you feel homeless. The feeling that you are no longer safe is overpowering that it can be paralyzing. What makes it worse is the notion that there is no other place where you can feel safe. And grounded. Luckily, time does heal wounds and in due time, that healing will allow one to again feel safe. But because of this singular experience, one begins to formulate a game plan to fortify our territories. We play out in our minds different scenarios and then decide what to do if and when those contingencies play out. We guard ourselves. We arm ourselves. In more ways than one.
Experience does that to you. The more experience we have, the more we know what's possible and how to cope. And though sometimes I wish my bad experiences didn't happen, I am grateful they did because I am vigilant. And fortified. And ready.
Ours is a fairly safe neighborhood. We are in a gated subdivision and our area is tucked away in a tree-lined street that is so unassuming despite the pricey, upscale homes, that it hardly calls for any attention compared to the other areas that scream "status" and social 'arrivals'. Nevertheless we've had some break-ins mainly because homeowners leave their doors open or their cars unlocked, keys on the driver's seat. Ours are petty crimes of opportunity. Relatively safe is a far cry from how I would describe it--but relatively, is quite accurate.
When I was about 13 years old, I came home one afternoon and my parents were uncustomarily home. As I entered the front door, our house was in disarray. But the worst part was when I entered my room. My closet was open, drawers opened, clothes and things strewn on my bed. My desk was covered with things. My guitar case was open revealing an empty space where my beloved Yamaha classical guitar used to lay. It was the first 'real' guitar I ever owned. A present from my father. It was expensive and I knew it was a sacrifice for them to buy it for me. But it was gone.
I went to my parents' room and it was also in horrible disarray. Clothes, boxes, bags, things....all were wantonly thrown on the bed and on the floor. Her drawers were also open. A couple of them were empty. Her jewelry boxes were opened and tipped over. All that they left were her fancy trinkets. She had stashes of cash in her drawers too. Those were gone. All her beautiful jewelry were gone. Our television sets, electronic gizmos---all gone.
And my mom began to cry.
My father was angry but surprisingly calm. We had been burglarized. Again.
The feelings that overcome a victim of a home invasion is unique. On one hand, there is no bodily harm. That's good. But then, one also feels violated. And that feeling can be frightening and disconcerting. There is also a feeling of loss. But what surprised me the most in retrospect, is the feeling that because your home was in effect 'violated', it no longer 'feels' right. Your sense of security is shattered. And you feel homeless. The feeling that you are no longer safe is overpowering that it can be paralyzing. What makes it worse is the notion that there is no other place where you can feel safe. And grounded. Luckily, time does heal wounds and in due time, that healing will allow one to again feel safe. But because of this singular experience, one begins to formulate a game plan to fortify our territories. We play out in our minds different scenarios and then decide what to do if and when those contingencies play out. We guard ourselves. We arm ourselves. In more ways than one.
Experience does that to you. The more experience we have, the more we know what's possible and how to cope. And though sometimes I wish my bad experiences didn't happen, I am grateful they did because I am vigilant. And fortified. And ready.
