The Aftermath

In August he broke into the house and vandalized my car in front of the apartment building (both off limits per his bond terms). I knew at this point that a confrontation would mean one of us would end up dead, and nobody on this earth is ever going to put me in that kind of situation again. I got a permit and carried a gun from September until March, when he was incarcerated.

His lawyer tried for an insanity plea, which really dragged things out. Interesting how they can be in the middle of trying to prove someone is not responsible for their actions and let them out on bond...trusting them to observe the terms.

He used to talk about how he had been in the 82nd Airborne in the Army and all the special training they did, and all the weapons he used to own and had enjoyed shooting. I didn't feel safe anywhere while he was loose. It ruled my life. I was afraid to go near the windows and balcony in my apartment. I was afraid of sniper fire there, and at work between the parking lot and the entrance door. After he vandalized my car I checked it over before getting in.

I lived 1.4 miles from work, but found a couple different ways to get home anyway. I varied my schedule - different lunch times, go to and from work at different times... I tried to stay away from the homes of friends in case I was being followed. I lived as though under terrorist attack, just in case I was. I was even afraid to dump my trash in the outside dumpsters.

My apartment was on the fourth floor of a security building in a new, well lit area. I booby-trapped different areas in my apartment just in case he got in - to make sure I had time to react. My mom got real upset when I told her with relief that I had come up with a good place to hide in case he ever did get in. I figured the balcony storage wouldn't be good, because the sliding glass doors being unlocked would be a giveaway. Besides, it would make it too easy for him to throw me over the railing. Instead, I discovered I could fit under the kitchen sink with the trash bag in front of me. On top of that, I could kick the dishwasher door open after I got in, which would totally block the sink cabinet. He'd never look there. I didn't know how I'd get out, though. Of course, I would get 911 up on the speakerphone in the bedroom before I hid.

I would often hear those normal settling noises buildings have and totally freak out. I don't know how many nights I hid in my closet under my clothes, crying and shaking with terror, convinced he was coming after me again. Part of me would know it was just the building settling or the refrigerator kicking in, but there was another part that didn't exist before the attacks that would not listen to reason. It was the part that was convinced I was not going to live that first night. It's a portion totally stripped of all humanity that consists of raw fear and hopelessness. It can only be recognized by someone who's been there and understood by none.

It was seven months before I felt safe enough to leave my bedroom at night to go to the bathroom. That was only after I searched the rest of the apartment, gun in hand. At that time, I also stopped booby-trapping my balcony doors and bedroom door. At thirteen months I was able to sleep at night with my bedroom door unlocked - but closed still. (Keep in mind he was in prison at 11 1/2.) And at fourteen months I finally stopped searching the apartment every time I entered it.