To have and to hold.

What a weekend.  What a day, what a week, what a month.  What a year.

I sat nestled in a corner of Starbucks for the past two days, reviewing my sophomores short story unit and reading Frankenstein material.  Approximately 500 pages later...I am feeling impressed, accomplished, and overwhelmed all at the same time.  I am working on completing my upcoming Frankenstein unit; so my literary analysis and planning is about to consume my free time.

Teaching is sooo much work.  It's true--you can make it as easy or as complicated as you want.  The best teachers, are always getting more creative and tweaking material to make it just a LITTLE more interesting than it already was.  I wish I had all the time in the world.  I remember when I used to think I was busy, like this summer when I was working from 9-5 and then going to class from 6-10:30.  I'm busier than I've ever been.  I'm juggling on a bicycle and a huge stick was thrown in my spokes two weeks ago yesterday.

I'm supposed to write an impact statement since I'm too much of a coward to face him in court on September 20th.  I don't want him to see my face, see my face declaring that he needs to be in jail, see my face twisted by the horror I experienced.  No, I don't want him to see my face.  The gift I have with my hands will have to suffice- it will have to be enough to convey why he is dangerous, and what he did to me, more importantly what he took from me.  The person assigned to my case said, "Your impact statement should really emphasize how this experience has changed you."  My chin drops when I think about it.  My soul feels heavy.  I've been avoiding this.  My computer screen sits blank.

This "experience" has altered my life, an aberration nestled firmly in my memories.   It sits out of place amongst the still images of my loved ones, embarrassing moments, and life experiences.

 His rage, his aggression, flashes in my mind when I'm trying to teach a lesson, for a moment my heartbeat quickens and my chest feels like it has a bowling ball--I can't speak without my voice shaking.  The feeling of him clawing at me, a feeling that makes my skin crawl flashes when the dozens of kids come rushing at me after a long day of school, wanting a hug I can't seem to give them yet.  The feeling of the door breaking against the weight of my weakening body rushes to the forefront anytime I hear a pounding or sudden noise; it causes an instantaneous physical manifestation of wanting to vomit--the fear, the anxiety, the terror.   The tunnel vision of sprinting down a dimly lit walkway, screaming for 'help' that never came.   The feeling of utter helplessness as a man I'd never met began attacking me, fueled by an untapped level of rage I will never understand or forget.

When the pounding started, I called 911 with shaking hands, trying to be brave.

When the door started breaking through, I cried that I needed both my hands--I was going to face this alone, needing to be stronger than I physically was.  Wanting to be anything other than a victim of a violent crime.  Wanting to be anything other than a person spoken of in the past tense.  

I thought of jumping off the balcony of the second floor apartment.  I thought of getting a knife from the kitchen.  I thought of hiding in the apartment.  I had no time for anything; losing the struggle of keeping him out of the apartment.  I was in a fight for my life, losing the battle, screaming for someone to save me, to help me.    I will never forget the horror this stranger brought into my life: wedged between the wall and the door, clawing at me like a wild animal.  A stranger I had never met.  A stranger I had never spoken to.  A stranger who was attacking me.  A stranger who will stay with me, forever, in the mangled remains of my sense of strength and steady step.

I was a strong woman: the daughter of a single mother, mentor to a fantastic group of teenagers, teacher of English at a local high school.  I was confident, happy, safe.  I refuse to see myself as his victim; I protected myself, I was brave, I fought back, I got away.  I refuse to believe that the stranger could be walking amongst the faceless crowd, continuing in his regular routine while my life remains on pause, each day bringing with it a violent series of jolts and sudden stops.

 It hit me, Wednesday night, when I stared at the sliding glass door to the patio--waiting for someone to smash it and come after me.  Waiting.  Anticipating.  Sucking in a deep breath of air, counting to 10.  I left my dinner on the counter, and sat on the floor in the kitchen, wishing for someone to tell me it was safe.   It hit me, Thursday night, when I rushed into my car in a parking lot, locking the door as fast as I could, placing my shaking fingers on the steering wheel--I can never get anywhere fast enough.  I used to walk to my car leisurely, looking up at the stars, musing to myself at the peacefulness of evening in the desert.

I wish I was myself; the strong woman.  If I was myself,  I would have bravely told you my story in person--attempting to hide the evidence of my fear, trying to control my breaking voice and clasp my shaking hands out of sight.  The past week, I have laid awake trying to come to terms with how this "aberration" has changed me.  I shed tears of resentment and disappointment.  I cry, because I wish I was not afraid to see his face, to tell him in person that he needs to be in prison.  I cry, because I realize the distance between who I used to be and who I am now.  I cry, because I already believe I see him in places, taking a deep breath and reminding myself that I'm safe, we're safe, because he is in jail.

I am not an expert on the ins and outs of the legal system, on how punishments are distributed;  I am humbly a 24 year old graduate student who teaches high school English.  I have faith in our justice system.  I believe that he will not benefit from the fact that I was strong enough to fight back--strong enough to physically protect myself, smart enough to call 911 and brace the door, and lucky enough to somehow escape.