In Which I Live to Tell the Tale

I'm telling you this so you will know what happened and that I am okay.

On Wednesday, December 21, my husband left for work at 7:40 am. At 7:45, I was roughly awakened by two masked gunmen who held a gun to my head and told me to be quiet or they'd kill me.

This story has a happy ending. You can keep reading if you want to.

I didn't have a chance in hell to grab the gun in the bedside table. They pinned me and put a pillow over my head within seconds. I felt the gun barrel at my temple. They tied me with weed-whacker filament, then left the bedroom to search the house. I got loose in three seconds but they already had OUR gun, so I had nowhere to go, no way to protect myself.  There was no phone in the bedroom. They came back in and were not pleased to see me unbound. This time, they wrapped me in duct tape.

They did not physically assault me. This was about money and jewelry. They got very little of both. After they left, I managed to get to the front door by scooting down the stairs and over the floor on my buttocks (my poor buttocks), then waited for the UPS man, and IF he came, hoped he'd hear me.

Four hours later, the rental car was found abandoned with the key in it, and the police had it towed. The tow company notified the rental company, who notified my husband. He found me naked and bound on the kitchen floor. The police came, they left, legal wheels are turning.

Those are the facts. Here's what I keep obsessing about:

Besides being shaken up, I'm really, really disappointed and angry. I'm 99% sure I know who did this. A while back,
my husband put out a hand to help someone, and that someone turned around and did this. In the words of the Wicked Witch of the West, "Wotta world, wotta world."

I was bound for four hours, and had some time to think about a thing or two. Perversely, I found myself framing the narrative. I was getting the story ducks in a row. When I realized what I was doing, I was ashamed of myself, because WHO DOES THAT? Who slips from a harrowing reality to snap the moments into a story formula?

Well, I do, I guess. I'm a storyteller. That's what storytellers do. It was coping mechanism, I realize now. It was okay to do that. I'm still doing that. I'm doing it right now.

I'm taking the practical steps, too: I have an appt for counseling, I have an appt with the shooting range, and I'm trolling for a German Shepherd. G and I had a beautiful Christmas with my step-daughter and her husband, who cooked an AMAZING meal and were overly generous with their gifts, and wonderfully generous with their love. Right now, I'm doing pretty good. And one of these days, I'll find the proper way to elevate the experience so that it becomes part of a larger narrative, one that celebrates big hearts while mourning the need to keep them caged.

Your emails and snail mails are welcome. I may not answer if you call. I will later, though. And I'll tell you everything.