divine angst

The common refrain from victims of theft is how violated they feel. And that’s accurate. When I was in high school, our house was broken into, and I was the one to come home and find the mess. Shattered glass in the master bedroom, back door still ajar, drawers pulled out and their contents strewn everywhere—it was horrifying.

Even though the thieves didn’t take any of the important stuff in my car (my prayerbook/hymnal, my music folder, the Brooklyn poster that was a gift from a friend, even my hole-in-the-elbow sweater), I still feel that violation. It’s my car! My baby! It’s the only car I’ve ever owned. I love my car—it’s reliable and safe and, even if the air conditioner doesn’t work anymore, it’s a good vehicle. And it’s mine. Except now someone jacked it up. I would almost rather they had just taken the whole car! Instead, my little red Civic is crippled and God only knows when I’ll get to drive it again.

The worst part about being stolen from is coming down. First, you have to call the police and the insurance; then you do some research, trying to figure out the whys (why me, why my car, why did they only seem to take my spark plugs); and then you just cope with the rest of your day. But when you go to bed, it comes back. The anger. The frustration. The helplessness. The feeling that, at any time, someone could come back and do worse. So I didn’t sleep well last night. And I was up before the alarm (though I stayed in bed until it went off, hoping for a few more winks).