Violence, Terror, and Being a Parent

I had a fantastic weekend.  I got some alone time with my hubby, hung out with friends, and my favorite baseball player finally received the honor he deserved.

But the in the back of my mind, I have been dealing with demons.

When I woke up Friday morning, I did the same thing I always do.  I picked up Emmie from her crib, changed her, and settled into the armchair in my bedroom to feed her.  Then I turned on the news.  Immediately, I learned of the mass shooting at a midnight showing of Batman: The Dark Knight Rises.

My first thought was, 'Oh my God, it happened.'

You see, for years I have had a fear of movie theaters.  It started when Bruce and I were in a theater, watching Inglorious Basterds.  The heroine kills a theater full of Nazis.  But my reaction was, "Something like that could totally happen at any time."  And ever since, I have been afraid a crazy, random person might start shooting.

It's a fear I've been able to handle - I've seen a few movies since I developed it.  But I always, always scan the other patrons, profiling them.  I always anxiously watch who enters.  I always know where the exits are.  My mind is never entirely engulfed in the film itself.

It's not fun to live like that.  I didn't used to.

In 2006, I worked at a large hotel in downtown Chicago.  It was a Friday night, and a semi-famous rapper was staying in the hotel.  That part is most likely unrelated, but I associate it with that night all the same.  Back then, I used to smoke.  It was about 8 o'clock at night, and I went to the underground level to have a cigarette.

In the suburbs, you can read a book and have smoke on your break outside without thinking twice.  And I'm sure people in cities do all the time, too.  I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Aren't all victims of crime?

There were other employees further down the way.  I think a security guard was over there, too.  But I wanted a little privacy and was partially around the corner from the door.  It was well-lit and many cars were driving by.  Now, homeless people live in this underground area.  Not having lived in the city very long, I was trying to steel myself to their constant begging.  I was reading and felt someone approaching.  I still blame myself for this next action, or lack of: I didn't look up.

"Give me your purse," he said.  He was already next to me.

I looked up.  A young man in a white shirt and jeans, wearing a doo-rag, was holding a gun.  Not at me exactly.  But he held it so that I would see it, so that I instantly knew his intentions.

Silently, I lifted my purse strap off and handed him the bag.  He fled towards a long maroon 1980's car across the street.  Someone was in the driver's seat waiting for him.  I remember I had two thoughts: 'Try to read the license plate!'  And, 'If you look, he might shoot!'  It was like those dreams, where you feel paralyzed and are running in slow motion.  I made it to the door, threw it open, and yelled to the Valet Parking attendant, "Help me!  I've been robbed!"

My fears didn't develop that night.  They came on slowly.  Weeks after the robbery, I called work in tears.  I was supposed to work a 6 a.m. shift.  It was winter and still dark outside.  "I don't think I can come in," I told the night manager.  He told me, if I didn't want to wait at the bus stop, the hotel would pay for me to take a cab.  "You don't understand," I pleaded.  "I don't want to leave the house."

The hotel arranged for me to speak with a therapist.  I explained how I was scared to work there.  He nodded, scribbled something and tried to rationalize, "Well, you could get shot anywhere you work."  I never made a follow-up apointment with him.

After that, it was one thing or another.  The robbery had taken from me a fundamental part of living: the abiltity to feel safe.  I would be nervous walking home, even if I was with a group of people.  I would lie awake at night, thinking if I fell asleep, I might not hear an intruder breaking in.  I would scan the bar, to see if anyone looked dangerous.  If something like getting robbed at gunpoint could actually happen to me, well, then anything bad could.

A lot of those fears have subsided.  But new ones replace them, like tornadoes or flying.  Or seeing movies in a theater.  The strength of the terror has subsided drastically, but it still hides within me.  I embrace logical reasoning now - statistics, etc.  I pray a lot.  I have to admit, living here with Bruce's parents and a dog is comforting to me sometimes, too.  Every day I am so thankful that I'm alive, and my loved ones are, too.  Every day that passes without incident is a victory to me.

So every time I hear of a disaster or a violent tragedy somewhere, all my ghosts rise up to torture me.  I live the horror every victim experienced.  I get lost in imagining the moments leading up to death.  I mourn alongside the victims' family and friends.  I worry that it could happen to me.

Now that I'm a parent, I want nothing more than to keep my family safe.  But I do not want my daughter, or any future children, to be affected by my fear.  Luckily I have Bruce as the other half of my parenting duo.  Nothing stops him - he actually just left to go see the damn movie with his dad.  His fearlessness balances me out.  When I am afraid, he reminds me that we can't stop living our lives because of potential dangers.  What kind of life is one that is safe, but not fully lived?
 
I would love for my children to remain innocent as long as possible.  Eventually they will grow up, however, and be exposed to the darkness of the real world. 

I want my children to know not to take life for granted.  I want them to be brave and strong and fearless. But I do not want them be the naïve kind of people who think, "It can't happen to me." Because sadly, it can.

I want my children to know how precious life is.  To be happy and cherish time spent with loved ones.  To know how beautiful life can be, too.

What I experienced was the threat of violence.  I wasn't physically harmed; I am still here.  So even though I am often afraid, I am also grateful.  Because the experience taught me to value life.  If I can pass that lesson on to my children, then good will have triumphed over evil.