locks.

If you've been a crime victim, you know some things.

The incredible, sanity- and heart-saving power that comes of connecting with other survivors.

The unique healing balm of being with people who have no idea what you're dealing with, but who observe your heartbreak without judgments and welcome you into their space.

The loss.

The division of life thereafter: before, and after. And the grief for who you were.

________

The morning after the first break-in, I woke up with the inside of my stomach on fire.

Incredibly edgy. Nauseous, panicky, ten-on-a-scale-of-ten urgency - awake in the sunlight and feeling utterly displaced. but for what? lisa. what is the problem here? I silently lectured myself. When depression and anxiety are parts of your life, you learn to introspect to your benefit: you sift through reactions that are legitimate, and reactions that are free-floating and can be disregarded. so what's the problem, lisa? you just woke up. nothing's wrong. relax. let it go. I stretched out in bed for a few more minutes.

I couldn't let it go.

So I got up. Went straight to the bathroom, took a shower, music blaring, trying to quell the mental nausea growing in my gut. Got dressed. Walked into my kitchen, rubbing one palm against my face, reaching half-blind for the refrigerator door.

And then, I noticed the dirt collected on the plastic bag holding my plastic recyclables, hanging on the back doorknob. Stopped with one hand on the fridge handle and, in my sleep-stupor, realized that my gut was absolutely screaming.

Moved the bag slightly from the doorknob; dirt slid down the side of the bag to land on top of the small pile of dirt at the base of the door. The pile of dirt, which was actually a pile of ground-up wood, from someone trying to jam some sort of tool between the wooden door and door frame.

Touched the doorknob with two fingers, and pulled it slightly toward myself.

The door swung, unlatched in any way, toward me. A ping of metal, as the metal doorknob plate in the doorframe hung, top-heavy, from its bottom screw; the top screw bounced toward my toe.

In that second, all Lifetime-movie-dramatical-style, my heart stopped. My breathing stopped. My body went numb. All that crap. And also, I thought: someone's in my house? I whipped around and faced the empty kitchen, fully expecting to see a figure hulking behind me. Grabbed a knife, and swept every corner, every closet, shoved aside the shower curtain I'd stood behind fewer than three minutes prior, kicked every behind-those-boxes in my garage. Forced myself. It was like walking against a current.

Nobody was in my house.

But somebody had been in my house?

A crowd shoving against my brain: nobody was in here. but they got the door open. why would they work so hard to open the door, but not come in. nothing is missing. nothing moved. was anybody in here. when did it happen. were they inside here with me. 

Came back into the house from the garage. Pulled the door shut behind me, and started to lock the door - but then, in a heat-prickling roar of blood to my head, I stared at the doorknob.

Lock the door? really. 

Lock the door.  

 I stared at the doorknob and barked one loud, dry laugh in my living room.

What the fuck is a lock, anyway?

What the fuck is a lock supposed to keep out of my house? me? my life? everywhere? anywhere? 

______

So, tonight, I'm sitting in my house. Locks, alarms, an angry poster on, and a large stove in front of the back door. I'm in my PJs, sans bra, bad hair, menu-costing. The house smells like lasagna. It's quiet.

It's quiet. Which makes me listen. And ask myself: where are my keys?

In the kitchen, hanging on the hook. Okay.

But then: they're in the kitchen. what if something happens at the back door. you have to run toward it to get your keys. go get your keys. where's your purse. where are your shoes. be ready. what if something happens. 

And really, what can you do. That's the helpless, angry, I-have-no-fight heartbreak of it: what can you do.

Is it paranoia sometimes? Sure. Should you root yourself to the couch, sometimes, and refuse to indulge it? Yes.

If you're ready, you'll probably win. Because you'll never doze off on your couch, or open the back window while you're making lasagna, or walk into the side room because you haven't replaced the miniblinds yet, and there's that one gap. It's beautiful outside, and I can't open my door.

If you relax: you're not ready.

If you're not ready, why weren't you, how could you let, why didn't you, that was stupid.

If you're ready, relax, so paranoid, overreacting, really just being silly, such dramatics. 

Inside your head, and out.

No winners.

Just locks, and those who remember to lock them, and those who might not, and those who don't know locks.

And I wonder, Lifetime-movie-style. all over again, with a dramatical ending flourish to an emo-blogger blog entry, if anything will ever be the same again.