There’s an ugliness to not knowing how to experience something until you experience it yourself. It collides into you like an avalanche, burying and oppressing you; at least that is the feeling I experienced the day we got robbed. It happened when my parents and I were celebrating my grandparents’ anniversary. My father’s phone buzzed with life and so he plucked it from his pocket, fingered a button, and pressed the receiver against his ear. Immediately I knew something was terribly wrong, as his countenance paled enough to rival the moon. The phone call lasted for several minutes before he pocketed his device and informed my mother and I that it was my sister who called; we inquired about what, to which he replied we had been robbed. Nausea, dubiety, and stupefaction crept upon me like a specter. It was in my nonplussed stupor that time hurtled without me. We didn’t spend the night at my grandparents’ place like we intended to; instead we stormed home, enduring a
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True to our belief, they never did find who wrenched our treasures from us. Bitter seeds of resentment were planted in me that day and I wanted nothing but to see the man who robbed us of not only our possessions but our faith behind bars. My parents in time had mended the wounds inflicted by the whole debacle, but I refused to let mine scab over; because of my veritable umbrage, paranoia seeped into my thoughts. I attempted to rectify my mentality by socializing. I had one good friend during that time who acted as my consultant. She mentored me through the turbulence I had forced myself in, and empathized with how my ire had morphed into obsession. She told me not to let the thief take more, to not let him steal not just my faith and valuables, but also my sanity. Her words broadened my tunnel vision, and for once I could see with clarity; I could see how much I had let myself slip into the clutches of
True to our belief, they never did find who wrenched our treasures from us. Bitter seeds of resentment were planted in me that day and I wanted nothing but to see the man who robbed us of not only our possessions but our faith behind bars. My parents in time had mended the wounds inflicted by the whole debacle, but I refused to let mine scab over; because of my veritable umbrage, paranoia seeped into my thoughts. I attempted to rectify my mentality by socializing. I had one good friend during that time who acted as my consultant. She mentored me through the turbulence I had forced myself in, and empathized with how my ire had morphed into obsession. She told me not to let the thief take more, to not let him steal not just my faith and valuables, but also my sanity. Her words broadened my tunnel vision, and for once I could see with clarity; I could see how much I had let myself slip into the clutches of