November 20, 2008
The cheque and report that arrive in the mail two days ago was a sudden, but anticipated end to more than 5 and a half years of constant struggle.
It’s an overwhelming feeling.
I complained so much about the inconvenience of never knowing when to expect a request to participate in some sort of proceeding. I complained about receiving asinine letters in the mail, simply informing me “we have received your release form; thank you for providing us with your signature, because we need to have 800 copies of it in order for this whole ordeal to be legit”. I’m paraphrasing, but you get the idea. Those letters were constant reminders of several unpleasant occurances in my life. I don’t just mean the crime; I mean the other interactions too. I mean the interactions with the police and the lawyers.
I mean spending a sunny Saturday morning, as a frightened and lucid teenager, sitting on a very comfortable couch, in a dimly lit room, across from two police who had a large video camera sitting behind them. I don’t remember taking a sip of water, but there was a glass of water water. The room kind of reminded me of a 1970’s recroom/den, but without a foozeball table.
I mean calling my boss at work from the police station, apologizing for being several hours later for work, and explaining that I would not be coming in to work that day, and probably not the next. I mean explaining, before I even had the chance to get over being in shock, to my boss why I was missing work; if I didn’t explain, I would have risked being written up.
I mean my dad pulling over the minivan by the side of the road, and me puking my guts out, because the drugs they gave me in the hospital, in the event that I may have contracted some sort of disease, made me fucking sick… and I barfed and barfed and barfed while my parents and my best friend waited… It was a sunny Saturday morning.
I mean the defense lawyer asking me if I lifted up my leg, or did something to make it all more enjoyable, when all I wanted to do was die, and staring from the witness stand at my brother, who couldn’t do anything, except sit there quietly and support me.
I mean pushing my way out of the phone booth, and running to freedom when I saw the police car parked there, and realized I was saved… and realized that I wouldn’t have to do what I originally figure would happen: eventually make my way home, sneak into my parents house, and never tell anyone that had ever happened, because there was no way that I would have been able to prove anything.
So it’s strange, as I spill out details, some of which I haven’t discussed before, to think that this is so done, and it’s so over. And I will most likely never, from an institutional point of view, deal with this again.
And I upgraded my flight to L.A. to first class.