Irreparable Damage

hey say that time heals all wounds, that no matter what happens, if you just give it time, eventually it will feel better. But ask anyone who has been through a particularly traumatic experience and they”ll tell you, even after what may seem like a very long time, time is more like a band-aid over a bullet hole. All it takes is one sound, one familiar smell, maybe even nothing at all, and you can be right back to that moment, a living nightmare, the hole re-opened and your soul bleeding. And sometimes, it starts with a letter. A simple, unassuming letter, that had the power to bring me right back to the age of seven, and the living nightmare therein.

I won’t get into the details of what happened, mostly because while writing has been and continues to be an outlet for me to deal with many emotional traumas, there are some things that even words and time cannot heal. The letter was addressed to me, from the Anaheim, California Police Department. It was kind of vague, but the message came across loud and clear. They were investigating a case in which the suspect in my case, was involved and they were interested in speaking to me. Instantly I was a mixture of emotions, scared, angry, even a little hopeful. But most of all I was a little dumbfounded. It had been fourteen years after all. Fourteen years of memories, of trying to push back what little I did remember, of sleepless nights, and painful days, a little therapy scattered in during the early years, and fourteen years of feeling as though the justice system had failed me. I knew that it would happen again. People like that do not change, and I knew that it was only a matter of time. Even at the age of seven I had known that I had been failed by the justice system and I wanted desperately to become a lawyer in the hopes that if for no other reason I would be able to help other children like me. Of course, it was only later that I realized that even if I was a lawyer, I would never be able to protect all of them, because like me, some would never even get a trial. They would never get their chance for some kind of justice, and even if they did, there was no guarantee that they would win.

A part of me is frankly furious that this happened to another child, that some other family should have to suffer this fate, but another part of me, is admittedly hopeful. Because even though it’s been fourteen years, I may finally see justice, and maybe just maybe I may finally be able to get real closure in my life, and if it means going in front of a jury and reliving my hell all over again, I will do it, because this cannot happen again. Getting one person like him off the street may not be a lot, but it could save countless children from ever having to experience what I did.