GUN VIOLENCE

Shot Through My Home, and You’re to Blame

Neighbor, you give gun owners a bad name

POP.

My typically peaceful Sunday afternoon had been punctuated by this sound, followed by screaming from my daughter, “Someone shot a bullet through your bedroom!”

Except that Sunday, my afternoon was not peaceful at all. My neighbors had been having target practice in their backyard, which backs up to ours, for hours — unloading cartridges of 8, reloading, and starting the sequence again.

The shots were so close to the house that my windows and doors rattled, terrifying my cat and dog as we sat on the couch together, and they shivered in fear.

I had reached my limit with the nonsense and went on the porch to vocally protest the intrusion into my peace. For a few minutes, the gunshots stopped.

Although I had been alone most of the afternoon, my family came home soon after I had made my displeasure with the situation known. And it was about 30 minutes after my not-so-subtle request that they knock it off that we heard that pop.

The gunshot felt personal, especially since the bullet entered my side of the bedroom I share with my husband, leaving a gaping hole in a window, shattering glass in its path, and entering a window casing on the opposite side of my room directly above my favorite chair. A chair I almost chose to sit in for the afternoon, and my favorite place in my home. If I had chosen to sit there, I would not be here to tell this story.

Unfortunately, the place where I used to feel the safest in my home is no longer safe.

Amidst the 911 call to the county police, the dispatcher calling the active shooter team to our address, and the direction to lie on the floor until officers arrived, I was in full-blown panic mode.

Meanwhile, my husband ran over to the house, in the path of those bullets, to confront our neighbors.

Our home was occupied by police all afternoon. They took pictures of the damage, gathered whatever forensic evidence they needed, and then asked if they could retrieve the bullet that was now lodged in the wall of our home, finally stopped by the bricks on the outer wall. That would leave a giant hole in our home, so we refused.

Thankfully, the shooters, who turned out to be my neighbor’s grandson and his friend, took ownership of their actions. They were arrested and charged with a felony.

The neighbor came over to apologize right after their arrest. I was not kind. I displayed the kind of vitriol of mama bears, and I make no apologies for my behavior. I was in protective mode.

After I spewed this frustration, I promptly had a panic attack on our front porch. The rest of the afternoon is a blur.

My poor daughters had to drive back to college right after these events.

In the days that followed the shooting, I attempted to get my life back to some sense of normalcy. I tried to work but had extreme difficulty concentrating, leaving me fearful that I would make mistakes, something you can’t do as a healthcare provider. I couldn’t sleep; my nights were haunted by nightmares and panic attacks, my brain ruminating on intrusive thoughts.

My husband and I moved to our guest bedroom, away from the scene of the crime. I couldn’t eat; my gut was both hungry for food and nauseated with any attempts to nourish myself. I had a persistent headache that lasted for days. I had suicidal ideations because I felt like such a burden on my family.

My husband was desperate for help for me, so a decision was made for me to go to an inpatient trauma treatment program.

So, off I went to a place 2,000 miles from my home.

The trip there was nerve-wracking. I deliberately made my layover via Chicago. I brought my passport so I could fly to anywhere in the world but my expected destination. I brought my CTA card to hop the L if I so desired. I had a safe word with select loved ones to let them know I needed saving. But I did choose to go. (And I never needed my safe word.)

Once I was off the plane at my final destination, I felt suffocated by my husband and my driver who had both texted me, letting me know that they knew my plane had landed. I called a friend who had texted me and promptly had a panic attack at the airport. She helped me focus on my next steps. I also called my brother who convinced me that I deserved trauma recovery.

As I left the relative safety of the terminal, delaying the inevitable for as long as possible, I spotted my driver. FUCK. I said this aloud to no one in particular. There was no turning back after that. With his little sign holding up my name, he looking at the photo I had to provide to the facility, I knew I’d been spotted. I’d used up all of my outs.

I made full use of my phone during the hour-long drive to the facility, calling my husband and my best friend, and listening to music.

Terrified upon my arrival, my BP was 189/104. My head was screaming, it ached so much. And I carried a tremendous amount of pain between my shoulder blades from the tension.

Soon after admission, I was sent back to 1992. I was stripped of my smartphone and Garmin watch. No music except by radio in the art room. No books except for those I was given or purchased in the bookstore. I was issued an actual pager so that nursing could keep up with me. And I was forced to interact with other people. You know—old school.

Other lost luxuries included my eyelash curler, mirrored compact, nail clippers, sugar, caffeine, and since I was treated alongside addicts, alcohol. I’ve never used drugs, and I don’t abuse alcohol, but that didn’t matter. I was treated the same. If I were a smoker, however, I would have been allowed cigarettes. This is fortunately a habit I did not wish to acquire.

I found it odd that I was not allowed a drink here and there to take the edge off, but I was prescribed a litany of drugs to manage anxiety, depression, sleep cycles, and nightmares. Most of these made me feel way more drunk than alcohol, and I had allergic reactions to some.

I missed out on several important life events: the Richmond Marathon, Thanksgiving vacation with my family, my yearly get-together with my college English professor, and running my fall race, the 50k I couldn’t train for that happened December 2nd. Yes, I lost money on that race. But I also lost two month’s salary and income from writing. I was also unable to fulfill my duties as a training team coach and as VP of marketing for my run club.

As if these injustices weren’t enough, my neighbor’s grandson was bailed out of jail and returned to college. I felt like I was the one who got sent to prison. I was furious about this.

I realized quickly that 45 days is a long time, and that I’d better make the best of my family’s investment in me.

The best part about my stay? My peers. I made some really good friends in rehab, some of whom I’m sure will be a part of my life forever.

Another great part? Feeling validated by my providers. They all defended my actions on the day of the shooting. It’s always fun to tell your story to someone new, and for your tale to be received with a gasp or two. That’s when you know it’s bad.

I was afraid that they would make me eat meat, and the promise that they would cater to my vegan diet was a critical part of my treatment agreement. They did honor this. The first full day there, the chef had made a vegan stew that tasted like love. I cried a bit, as cooking is one of my love languages.

A terrible part? Although I was there for treatment for PTSD, there was a strong affection for the addiction model in this facility, and they worked diligently to try to prove I had an addiction of some kind. Once the labs supported my truth about my alcohol intake, they tried to make running my addiction.

So I stopped running. That was what I gave them negative feedback for most consistently. So much so that they had to change the wording of my treatment plan. And I was offered an apology by the medical team.

Another terrible part? Realizing how many truly evil, shitty people exist in this world. I could count on one hand the number of women there whose stories DIDN’T include sexual assault. It’s the largest sorority in the world, that of survivors.

My bucket of trauma was already full before my neighbor’s grandson shot a bullet through my home. The bullet was just the straw that broke me.

A bit of responsible gun ownership could have prevented this crisis.

I’m now home, but my journey is not complete. Although my sleeping has improved, I cannot do so without medications or modalities to assist with this. It took several tries to find methods that agreed with my system, and I have a few more drugs to add to my allergy list. I continue to have headaches linked to hypertension as a result of ongoing anxiety, with BP readings high enough to require medication to manage as needed. I will continue with counseling. I will continue healing.

And now I will have to deal with the aftermath of being absent from my life for nearly two months.

But I have a new mantra: Run the mile you’re in. I’m simply going to try to live in the present, one day at a time.

I now realize that my life matters. My impact on the world is meaningful, and my story isn’t finished.

Thank you for reading about my journey.

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy.