Come on Thursday. Could this week take any longer???
It's so beautiful outside today. This is the best July I can remember. Of course, I have no leave time to use. Crap.
Rambo, the detective, left a message on my phone Monday morning while I was at work. His tone was serious, exasperated even and his speech was clipped, making me wonder if something was wrong. Did I do anything that would make him mad? Don�t think so.
Unfortunately, I didn�t get this message until yesterday because on Monday I was dog tired and didn�t feel like listening to my messages. I�m usually so exhausted on Mondays that I�m not good for anything.
Finally, I spoke to Rambo this morning. My phone rang and I picked it up, answering in my fake, cheery, airline attendant voice.
He answered, �Hi, Melissa, this is Rambo,� sounding very worried. He said he hadn�t heard from me in a while, and it was bothering him.
I said, �It�s been crazy lately,� and I told him about the luncheon on Saturday.
�Rambo, I�m just tired of waiting for these DNA results. It�s really wearing on me. All the possibilities spring to life in uncertainty�. Rambo talked about all the evidence against Li*ncoln, about how strong the case was, and how likely it is that this will just be one final reassurance about Linc*oln�s guilt. I told him, �I just want to get on with my life. I�ve been in limbo for about six weeks now.�
The thought of Rodn*ey Lin*coln ever going free, being paroled, escaping, weighs heavily on my heart. I know that he didn�t hesitate about slicing me up and that if he were ever to walk, he�d just as easily slice up another little child. The thought of him butchering another mother and her children makes me so nauseous I can barely keep from throwing up.
On Monday, after speaking to Joe Bauer, the attorney, I left work a half an hour early. Traffic as usual was very heavy, and that�s usually enough to occupy my thoughts. However, my mind was wandering dangerously during the drive to Salsalita�s. I began to feel sick, and had to turn up the A/C. My breath became shallow; I started sweating and waves of nausea washed over me. I gripped the steering wheel really hard while taking some deep breaths.
I think I had a panic attack, though mild. Rod*ney Lin*coln terrorized me not just once. The act of violence itself was probably less than a half an hour. But his ghost, the ghost of that youthful killer has haunted me most of my life.
The memory of his calm features, expressionless eyes as he repeatedly stabbed me hovers in the darkest corners of my mind. That�s probably why I have a hard time trusting quiet people. They remind me of him.
It would take me days and unlimited space to tell you how that night impacted my entire life. I�ve learned I cannot put a price on the best things in life. Family, friends, safety, trust and love. He took the one thing from me that would�ve meant the most: my mother. She would�ve been an endless source of love, someone that from hope springs eternal. She was a very positive, nurturing person. I missed out on it. It really sucks to know she DIDN�T have to die.
She didn�t die of cancer, brain tumors, or heart attack. She died because someone evil killed her. He didn�t just kill her; he sodomized her, and repeatedly raped her.
She died because he was angry.
She died because he didn�t serve a full sentence for murdering years before that. When he killed her, he should�ve still been in jail for his first murder.
I am so angry sometimes that she�s dead. I feel like the innocent part of me went with her. Part of me wants to believe that I will have a much happier future than my past, but the realist in me knows that you aren�t dealt all the bad cards at once. I wish for strength to keep going in my life, keep making plans, keep moving ahead. I think the hurt little girl in me needs nurturing. I don�t know how to do that.
I am so angry sometimes that Rod*ney Lin*coln wasn�t given the electric chair. I�m angry he�s not dead. I�m angry that he�s still living. I�m angry that he took so much away from my family and he�s still living. My taxes are paying for it too.
I�m mad.
I wish I could beat his ass. I wish I could tell him all the things I�ve always wanted to say. I want him to feel what I�ve felt. I want him to know all the crazy shit that happened to me because of what he did. I want him to know that I can�t have a decent relationship because people expect me to be nuts because I was a victim of a violent crime. People call it baggage.
I�d like him to know what it�s like to never feel completely happy in your environment, always looking over your shoulder, a little piece of you wondering when it�s all going to fall apart. That sometimes the shadows are scary.
I know however, that he doesn�t care. That he�s a cold-blooded killer with no concern for other people. That my struggle is a non-event to him.
*****************************************************
Lately, I�ve been feeling pretty down about my appearance too. I�ve always had lovely skin, hardly any zits, ever. Now, I�m wearing the C-PAP every night and I�m feeling tremendously better. Except, I always have these two faint dots on my forehead from wearing the mask at night. It makes me feel unattractive. I�m obsessed with them and I ask people if they can see them and they say, �What marks?� I point to them and folks finally do see them, but they didn�t notice them before I said anything. I hate feeling unattractive. I�ve always been a diva, a femme. It�s something I had for years; that sex appeal. Most days, I�ve felt beautiful if nothing else. Lately, my ego has taken a nosedive.
I�m lonely too. I need to expand my social circle. I need to get out and meet folks, but I am really tired of the Lemay club scene. Not that I don�t have a good time, but I get bored easily.
I get bored with work, men, and clubs. I need variety. I need a boyfriend. I�m very picky though. I might be alone for a while.
1:18 p.m. - 2003-07-23
Recent entries:
What you missed - January 16, 2012
%%older_entries%%From hell - October 19, 2010
%%older_entries%%a rant from a few weeks ago - August 17, 2010
%%older_entries%%Tired - June 20, 2010
%%older_entries%%A beautiful lie - March 11, 2010
%%older_entries%%
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