Rinse and Repeat

Someone once said, "What is healing, but a shift in perspective?"

Sometimes I avoid writing new posts because so much of what I say seems repetitive.  I am heartbroken.  I will never be the same.  It's not fair.  I am angry. I hate everything.   I take turns, but manage to hit every possible target with my scathing words: the driver, the first responders, parents of children who still live, God (should such a being actually exist), Cory's biological father, my husband, and me.  It is a rinse and repeat sort of thing.  Some days, I am so furious in my accusations, I expect to see smoke coming off my keyboard.

This writing thing, though, has really helped me to explore things from different angles.  Maybe the anger will never completely dissipate.  I can't imagine ever being at peace that Cory died in such a horrific way at such a young age after all of her struggles.  I think about it for about two seconds before just completing hulking out.  The really dangerous thing about it is that most of the time I turn that anger inward.

The anger, in my opinion, has stemmed so much from the trauma of being at the scene, seeing it unfold in such a frightening, horrifying way and being unable to control any part of it.  Any time my anger is at its peak, I am likely crying at the same time- those hot tears that burn on their way down my face.  If you want to feel like a failure, watch your child be pronounced dead in front of you.

I have harbored so much anger from the way the police made me leave the scene.  Every time I speak about it, I am overcome with seething rage.  I could never understand their logic.  In my mind, I had already seen it all- what more damage could possibly be done?  But to have to leave her body there to be picked up...to leave her on the side of the road like something discarded?   I already knew she had died alone.  I already knew I hadn't protected her the one time it really counted.   I already knew it  my poor decision and no one else's to let her walk to the store in the first place.  Being forced to leave her on the side of the road only compounded these feelings.

I've been over and over this a million times in my mind.  How I've wished I could go back in time and refuse to leave the scene.  I wish I would've tried, at least, to stay there for her, and let them carry me away if they would.  Reconstructing the scene to me meant they would bagging up her shoes (already seen), they would be setting up cones (big fucking deal), they would be examining the damage to the vehicle (burned into my brain forever).  What exactly was going to traumatize me further?

So a few nights ago, I was watching one of those crime shows on tv.  There had been a homicide.  I watched as the scene was secured and investigators moved in, cameras in hand, to photograph all evidence...including the body.

My scalp seemed to shrink on my head as I made the connection.  Did they photograph Cory's body?  Is that why they made me leave?  Did they uncover her?  Did that pull that sheet up and turn her this way and that?  Would I have seen her twisted, crumpled, dirty, blue, and broken body all over again? Would I have noticed new horrors my mind had blocked out the first go around?

I remember how much it disturbed me to see Cory handled at the funeral home.  The extremely kind and respectful staff there assisted with removing some of her jewelry and putting other pieces on her neck and arm before we buried her.  I remember so specifically the moment two of them worked together to manipulate her arm. She could've been a mannequin or a piece of driftwood.  Seeing my child reduced to that nearly broke my sanity.  I had to put my head between my knees.  The world did not seem real.  I could not comprehend what my eyes were seeing.  Could not.  I floated somewhere above my body, thinking to myself, that poor, poor woman.  

Was that what they were trying to avoid?  If so, I cannot express how much I would've appreciated that information any time in the last six years, and the sooner the better.  Maybe they could have said, "Ma'am, we are about to reconstruct the scene.  We will be uncovering your daughter.  We will be photographing her injuries.  It will likely be upsetting to you.  That's why we are required to have you leave.  I'm very sorry." 

Even though I wouldn't have agreed with the protocol, at least I could've tried to understand where they were coming from.  It's taken nearly six years for this to click, for me to be able to apply any sort of  logic to their actions.  It's been nearly six years before I could even consider that the cops on the scene were anything but cold, insensitive jerks. "Would you leave your child lying in the street like a...like a chipmunk?!"  At least he'd had the decency to flush, before resuming his stolid request for me to leave.  But with that single interaction, how much of my opinion of police officers, all police officers, had been colored?

Would I still have wanted to be there, see her uncovered, see the photographs taken, even if meant dealing with more flashbacks for the rest of my life?  I really had to ponder that one.  I had to weigh it out.  What did I come up with?

 I would've wanted to be there, even if at a distance.  The good of being able to stay with her would've outweighed the bad of having to see her photographed or handled on the scene.  And if there could've been a choice?  "Ma'am, you can stay if you remain behind this line and in your vehicle or you may go home."..a choice??  Some small shred of control in the all of the chaos?  It would've made such a difference.

I say all of that to say this.  Creating my narrative:  first what happened, then my feelings about what happened, then retelling it again and again in order to question whether or not my perceptions were accurate, then revisiting things many times until I can see them from other people's perspectives- it has been incredibly valuable.

So if I repeat myself, I apologize...or maybe I don't.  Maybe there's value in putting it out there as many times as you need to until you feel heard or until you want to feel something different or until you can look at things another way.   And even if I never change my mind on certain things, there is so much validation in speaking your truth.