Last night, somewhere between 2pm – 6pm, someone broke into my car. Some minor damage was done to the door as well as the locking mechanism. 2 bags were stolen (full of clothes, make-up and dance shoes).
The bags were later recovered by security, abandoned and ransacked, but with the bulk of the contents accounted for. The door repairs will probably come out of pocket, because I doubt they’ll exceed my deductible. But long after the material goods are replaced or repaired, there will still be damage.
It’s going to take a bit more to get back that peace of mind.
It started with an eerie silence when I first approached my car, broken only by the quiet “What the fu…” that began to emerge from my mouth. Then came a wave of righteous indignation. First, at the people who would do this, and then again at the police who said that they “really don’t have the time to investigate this sort of thing every time it happens.” (my report was filed over the phone only, with an operator who had all the compassion of dry toast).
I’m not about to insinuate that my minor shake-up is anything like experiencing an illness or death of a loved one… however, I find myself going thru Kubler-Ross’s 5 stages.
In the 24 hours since my ugly discovery, I have worried, fretted, mourned, raged, hoped it wasn’t true, and wished I could turn back time (park a different place, not keep so much in the car). I even reached a point where I told the Universe “OK… I think I can be willing to let the material possessions go, if only Really Cute Boy will call me soon.” (At least my "bargining phase" still has a sense of humor.)
In the end, when all other things have been said and done, acceptance lingers in the empty space. Whether the police care or not, whether RCB calls or not, the simple fact is... my car, my safe space, that tiny piece of the world where I felt I had control...has broken edges, missing parts, and some one else’s smeary fingerprints on my mistreated window. And I have a lesson to learn, and the uncomfortable urge to not be alone.