Stolen Car Redux: Or, Conquering My Silence

I’ve been debating about whether or not this is something that I wanted to write about, or if I just wanted to keep it to myself. I have mixed feelings about sharing deeply personal things online, but if I also believe in sharing your story and speaking your truth, even if your voice shakes. My voice feels shaky even in writing, but I hope that peace lies on the other side. 

I want to begin 2018 with an open heart. 

..........

Over a month ago while I slept, my car was stolen off the street in front of my apartment. I was awoken by two police officers knocking on my door, asking me if I knew where my car was. Confused, I said “Parked outside.” 

The officer replied, “No, it isn’t.” 

I looked out of my kitchen window in disbelief. In the glow of the street lights, I could see a gaping hole on the street where my car should have been. “Shit,” I breathed.

The officers informed me that my car had been stolen and involved in a high-speed chase, which ended in a severe crash over an hour away. 

“Did you loan your car to someone?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea who could have done this?” 

“No.” 

“Do you know anyone in Northern County?”

“The librarian,” I said. 

The officer gave a small smile. “Well, I think we can probably rule them out.”

After a few more questions, the officers returned to their patrol cars. “Here is your report number,” said one of officers, pulling a piece of paper from a small notepad in his pocket. “One of our detectives will be in touch. Here is the phone number for Northern County. They should have more information for you later today. Good luck with everything. I’m sorry this happened.”

And just like that, they were gone. I glanced out of my kitchen window again. It’s not every day that you see two police cars parked in your driveway. I inhaled sharply as I heard my alarm going off in the bedroom. This was not how I planned on starting my day or the Thanksgiving weekend. Kyle and I rode to work together in silence. “It will be ok,” he finally said. 

“I know. It just doesn’t feel like it.”

The day was a blur of phone calls from detectives and police officers and insurance agents. I answered questions regarding my car, my whereabouts, my home. I was honest, diligent, and in retrospect, entirely in shock. We were given access to a rental car by our insurance company, despite not having that option as a part of our policy--a glimmer of hope in frustrating circumstances. 

Then, from the detective, two names. 

“Do you know these individuals?”

“No.”

“Does your husband?”

“No.”

“The suspects are currently being treated at the hospital for injuries sustained in the crash. Our department is familiar with one of them. Charges will be filed in Northern County. We believe there was a third suspect who escaped on foot. We will keep you posted with any updates.”

Two weeks later, a call from the Northern Police Department.

"We've completed our investigation. You're free to retrieve your possessions from the car. When can you come?"

"Tomorrow?"

"We'll see you then."

My car was completely totaled, the front end entirely gone. Shattered glass was everywhere, the air bags deployed. I found my extra car key broken in half, lying on the passenger seat. (Our best guess is that my extra key had been stolen out of Kyle’s car while we were unpacking from a vacation over a month prior. Meaning the suspect kept the key and our location at hand, waiting, for weeks.) 

Seeing my destroyed car, my possessions strewn about after the impact and mixed in with the backpacks and purses and clothing of strangers was unsettling; more difficult than I had imagined. Seeing the car, the broken glass, the smell of smoke still lingering, made it all real. I could no longer live in denial. Kyle signed papers with the impound lot to release the car to our insurance company. I completed FOIA paperwork at the police station to request a copy of the official police report. My head throbbed and my hands shook. I went home and crawled into bed, letting the blankets swallow me. I wanted to stay there forever. 

Over a month has gone by and we’re still entrenched in this process. We’ve filed insurance claims. We've read police reports. We've made countless phone calls and filled out pages of paperwork. We're putting off shopping for a new car until everything is sorted out, but we're now paying for the rental car out-of-pocket. The last I heard, the suspects were still in custody. I don't know when (or if) there will be a trial. I don't know if formal charges will be filed. I don't know if the suspects will be allowed to walk free. 

We are nearing the end, but we are still waiting. This is still not behind us. 

I’m still trying to process everything that has happened. Not a day goes by that this isn't on my mind. I’m trying to keep things in perspective and have a positive outlook. I realize that in the grand scheme of things, this is small potatoes. Kyle or I weren’t physically harmed. A car is just a material possession; it can be replaced. Everyone from the officers to the detectives to the insurance representatives to the rental car agency have been kind and helpful. I keep trying to remind myself that I’m lucky. 

“It will be fine!” I say with faux optimism. "I'm fine," I repeat, hoping to make it so.

But if I’m being perfectly honest, this has fucked me up. 

Despite some neurotic tendencies and a penchant for conspiracy theories, I’ve worked very hard to not live my life in fear. I decided long ago that if I’m going to do things like solo hike on remote trails or run in the city alone or watch Forensic Files late at night, I can’t be afraid. I'm cautious and I listen to my instincts; but I try not to let my mind wander to the what-ifs and the worst case scenarios. (Which I fully recognize is privilege-in-action.) 

But since this has happened, I’ve been jumpy and stressed, nervous and paranoid. Afraid to walk my dog at night. Tense whenever I hear a knock on the door or a car in the driveway. Afraid this will happen again. As irrational as all of this is and as much as I hate to admit it, this has affected me deeply and brought up a host of other feelings that I’m not sure how to handle. In a word, I’m scared. So, so scared. And I hate it. 

And yet, I can’t bring myself to talk about it. I haven’t told my friends what happened. Whenever Kyle brings it up, my automatic response is, “I don’t want to talk about it.” And now, over a month later, I still don’t know what to say. 

I have moments where I take a deep breath and think, “Just say it. Tell your friends what happened. Tell Kyle how scared you are. Tell them that you don’t feel safe anymore. Tell them that your sense of privacy and security feels violated because you spend so much time in your car and that they destroyed your safe space. Tell them that you’re afraid the suspects are going to come back and that they’re coming for you this time. Tell them how incredibly angry you are. Tell them you want the suspects to pay for what they did and that you're afraid they won't. Tell them you’re embarrassed how much this is affecting you you. Tell them how this has magnified your grief over your grandma passing away even though it was months ago and has made you question your life choices and what’s really important to you and how all you want to do is watch The X-Files because it's the only thing that calms  your mind and how sometimes the tears just spring into your eyes without warning and your throat swells with emotion and you just push it all further and further down because you’re just being dramatic. TELL THEM. TELL SOMEONE.” 

My brain is screaming. My voice is a whisper.

And yet, the words never form. I’m immobilized by my silence. I (unnecessarily) carry this alone. So I write, because it's easier than speaking. I write, because telling a story is easier than verbalizing my fears. I write, because somehow it feels safer. 

I write this for me. 

Already, I feel lighter.