Sunday, January 16, 2011
Who will be the lifter of my head?
Am I a hypochondriac? Or maybe just crazy? The heaviness of my head as it rests on the carpet of my bedroom floor is more than I can bear. Paralyzed with fear I feel there is a boulder where my brain used to be. Eye twitching, spine tingling, breath coming in short spurts. Stomach clenching. My heart stuttering, flip flopping. I wonder if at this moment it will slam itself shut, like the screen door on the back porch, and end my life. And this seems preferable in comparison to enduring these horrible symptoms. These symptoms that have not let up since I learned the day of reckoning was coming. January 24, 2011. In less than 24 hours I will walk into a court room, hand in hand with my beloved niece. And between 8 and 9 am possibly witness the most cowardly act of a man, who I wish were a stranger to me, keep his plea of "not guilty" of child rape and molestation in the first degree. Yet I may also experience the rush of great relief as he requests to do the right thing, own his actions and plead "guilty". But, then again, tomorrow may just be another disappointing blip on the screen of this horrible nightmare. In this great land of the United States of America child molesters aren't automatically sent to prison. There attorney's may ask for more time, a continuance for the case, which will mean this will not be the end. This will be another beginning of waiting, waiting, waiting, once again. And so I am once again on my face eating carpet, assuming the posture of one who is desperate for answers; begging and pleading to the only God I know. Dry eyes; weary from crying, parched throat; to raw to speak, liquid heart; pierced by pain, pouring out of me. Oh, that he would plead guilty! Is this too much to hope for? It is too heavy of a load to bear, to big of a rock to take the place where my brain used to be, should the consequence of a "not guilty" plea have to be carried out. Must we really endure a trial? I will cry out continually, without ceasing, never stopping, day after day after day after day after day after day. In my sleep, I will cry out. In my waking hours, I will cry out. Dear God, take this cup of suffering from those I love so dearly! I cannot see what greater purpose there will be in anything less than the admission of guilt. Who will benefit? It's at this point that my brain splits in two and my heart endures another fracture. It is at this point that I no longer see myself as a hypochondriac, but rather as one in great need of help. For should my physical symptoms not be remedied by the relief of a "guilty" plea, then I fear the grief may keep me from ever lifting my head again.
Posted by Jillian Lenore at 9:36 PM