August 24, 2007

Summer with my boys

Time passed after the sentencing of Ericha’s killers. I began to focus on getting into the high school I wanted to attend. I wanted to attend a private Catholic high school that my mother and aunts had attended, not because it was Catholic but because it was seen as the premier college-preparatory school in the area. I took my education very seriously – I saw it as my ticket out of my home state. I wanted a much different life than I had at that time. I wanted freedom from my family. I wanted space. I studied feverishly for the entrance exams of this high school. I would soon find that I had indeed been accepted into this high school. I was also awarded a scholarship. I was elated yet anxious. I wanted to be as successful as possible in high school and wasn’t sure yet if I was up to this new challenge. The summer before my freshman year would be my time to prepare, I decided. I received a summer reading assignment list in the mail and went to it.

As that summer began, my sister’s marriage deteriorated rapidly. My sister and her husband split and my sister (as well as my two nephews) moved in with my mother and me. My mother and sister had jobs in the city, which they drove to each day. I did not have my license yet, as I was 14 years old. I was, therefore, confined to our home in our small town. I awoke early each morning to care for my nephews, who at this point were 5 years and 2 years of age. My older nephew had developed emotional problems, possibly from being exposed to the unhealthy marriage of his parents. Both of my nephews had already witnessed bitter fights, sobbing and unstable parents, as well as a lack of adult-like conduct from the adults in their lives. I had already begun to fear that history was repeating itself and my nephews would be hardened by years of fending for themselves in less than appropriate living conditions. I made it my goal to do whatever it was I could to curve that. Because I was the person in their lives that realized the sensitivity of their situation, I felt it was my obligation to be as responsible for them as I could.

My five year old nephew had already begun to act out. It was obvious to me that he had learned his parents’ habits of exhibiting anger. He would routinely break into severe tantrums. I would prevent him from hurting his younger brother, therefore, I would routinely receive the brunt of his blows – whether they were from his tiny, angry fist, his shoe or a rock he had picked up in his rage to throw at my head. Some days were better than others. I became the primary caretaker for my nephews. My sister felt the need to live out her teenage years during this time, perhaps because she hadn’t been able to when she was actually a teen. She routinely went straight to the bars with friends after work and that is where she would often stay well into the evening. When my mother returned home from work each day, she went straight to her room. I felt as though I had become a single parent of two boys overnight. I loved each of them more than anything in the world. They were the only two people in my family that had the right to act like children. I struggled to work with my nephew on his tantrums. I talked to him about anger, the fact that anger was okay to experience and the appropriate ways to vent it. I encouraged him to express his feelings through painting – something he loved to do. We worked on this together little by little. Slowly, he improved.

While working with my older nephew on his tantrums, I also tried to keep my younger nephew (a toddler) entertained. I worked to keep him on a healthy schedule of meals, naps and exercise. My nephews began to improve and although they were still rambunctious, they also seemed slightly happier.

During this summer, I began to experience insomnia. The only time I had for myself was after I got my nephews to bed in the evening. It was during the evening hours that all of my worries regarding my nephews boiled to the surface. I would go to my room, play my music and write about all the things that I worried I would not be able to do for them once the fall arrived and I would have to begin school. In the evening, I worked hard to map out what activities might calm them or what strategy to use to alleviate sibling rivalry. Between the constant hyperactivity of caring for both nephews and my lack of sleep in the evenings, I became more and more exhausted. I felt more and more alone.

One thing I was thankful for during this time was the ability to have control over the care of my nephews. I had already developed detailed theories on how to care for children. My ability to control the daily environment of my nephews allowed me to try to protect them from unhealthy influences – anything from anger, fighting and yelling to violent movies or lack of healthy food. I was able to control their environment and provide stability, affection, learning, warmth – all the things I had so often wished for while growing up. Of course, I could not always protect my nephews from all of the negative happenings of our family, but during these summer days, I was thankful to have the opportunity to provide a safe space for them to flourish in, if only for one summer.

Of course, my nephews deserved so much more. They deserved to live in a healthy, stable, loving environment around the clock, every single day of every single year. But eventually, my sister reconciled with her husband and moved the boys back in to their home. Before long, their bitter fighting had once again replaced the calm lunch hour the boys and I had during the summer. My older nephew’s severe tantrums replaced the expressive painting time that I had set aside for him.

Shortly before my sister and nephews moved out of our home, I began high school. While I was ready to focus on my new school and attempt to make friends, I also felt the guilt of no longer caring for my nephews on a daily basis. I did not have a choice and I certainly would not have been able to still care for them during the day if I wanted to attend high school, yet the guilt was still there. I had lost that daily control I had over their environment. I was still actively involved in my nephews’ lives and saw each of them several times a week as I had in the past, but now – my worries over their childhood experiences grew. I feared they would continue to grow up too quickly, too harshly. I struggled with these fears as I readied myself to begin my high school education.

August 22, 2007

Not good enough

I returned to Sara's office for another session. Our last session had been particulary stressful, as I was recounting the details surrounding Ericha's death to Sara.

During today's session, we revisited the ideas I had formed about myself throughout childhood. I had decidedly formed some pretty negative opinions about myself, which had made adult life difficult. At times in the recent past, I had been certain that any partner I had, secretly didn't want to be with me and would eventually leave. I thought that it was pure luck to land a decent job, rather than hard work. If a stranger bumped into me without excusing themselves, it must be because they didn't like me, I had thought. I paused during my session, pensive. How have I allowed myself to view myself in this way for so long? I would never treat a friend or family member this way - so why was it okay to put myself down? I began to think of the past.
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Why am I not good enough?

I couldn’t fix my mother. I couldn’t make her happy. No matter what I did, I couldn’t make her happy. I began to think, if she really loved me, she wouldn’t wish so often for death. If I was enough for her, she wouldn’t want to leave me behind.

One fight between my mother and I stands out in my memory. I am about 13. My mother is having one of her “fits” – the kind in which she denounces life on earth. Sobbing, she declares that she no longer wishes to live – she’s in too much pain. She gathers her jacket and purse to leave the house. My mother would sometimes go driving during her fits – she would disappear for hours. I’m not sure where she went or what she did. And when she disappeared – I was never quite sure if she’d return; if I’d see her car turn into our driveway or if some day, as I feared, it would be a police car turning into the driveway, coming to tell me that she had finally killed herself. Every time my mother left, the moments I would wait at the window for her return felt like days.

My mother slammed her purse onto the counter and hurriedly searched through it for her car keys. Suddenly, she looked at me – with rage in her eyes. “Where are my keys, Emily?!?!” I looked at my feet. Her voice grew and became more desperate. “Emily! Where did you hide my keys?!?! Give them to me!” I raised my head and said, “No.” She repeated her request. I repeated my response. She stepped closer to me, angrily screaming. “No mom. I don’t want you to go,” I said. I tried my best to stay calm – one of us had to be. The fear, anger and grief were tussling with each other in my stomach as the sharp pain in my head grew. On the outside – I stood firm. I didn’t want her to go – I didn’t know if I would ever see her again.

Then it came – her rage. As she finally realized I was not going to give her the keys, her anger boiled over. “Don’t you see that I am in pain? Why would you want to keep me in this pain? Why won’t you let me go? I’m in pain! Why would you do this to me?..... No wonder I want to kill myself, with a daughter like you!”’

There is was. The sentence that pierced my heart.

August 21, 2007

This Night

It was a dark evening. My mother and I were making the drive out to our home. We’d moved outside of the city I grew up in, to a small town. I couldn’t stand the small town and the impenetrable clicks of the farm kids, who’d known each other since birth. In my view, the tiny town was narrow-minded, unresponsive to the modern world and out of touch. I had heard a rumor that an African-American family had once lived in this town and had been run out. I wasn’t sure if the rumor was true or not, but I guessed it was true, given that I had my own experiences with the harsh rejection from the town’s kids.
I’d come to hate the town, perhaps because I felt it rejected me, perhaps because I had loved the city I grew up in and wanted to return to it. I was thirteen.

But on this night, however, the town was not on my mind. My mother and I often tried to come up with ways to entertain ourselves on the long drive home. On this night, we sang. My mother’s soprano voice rose. My own voice (that of an alto) rose to meet my mother’s, then dropped slightly and paired with hers to produce a beautiful harmony. We sang Irish folk songs that my grandparents had sung. Every so often, we hit a note that needed a slight re-adjustment, paused to re-adjust, and then moved along in the melody. Occasionally we stopped to laugh at our mistakes or maybe just because we were happy. We ended another song in perfect harmony. I smiled, proud of our collective accomplishment. I thought of my grandfather, who’d sung many of these songs to me when I was a toddler. I thought of my grandparents looking down on my mother and I. On this night, my mother was calm, loving, caring and fun. On this night, I was a child.

This is one of the happier memories I have with my mother.

August 16, 2007

No Regrets

A few weeks after Matt was sentenced, his older brother Ben was to be sentenced. I had decided this time that I had to speak in court. I had chose not to speak at Matt’s sentencing and felt horribly guilty when Matt was sentenced to much less than what I had hoped for. While I was not immodest enough to believe that my contribution to the proceedings could have changed their outcome, I still felt the remorse of having not stood in front of the judge to give every possible argument I could think of for sentencing Matt to the maximum sentence possible. I promised myself that I would speak at Ben’s sentencing. I felt that if there was even the slightest possibility that my statement could have any affect, it must be done. And if my statement made no affect on the judge, then I at least needed to stand in court and tell each and every soul there how special Ericha was and how much worse the world is without her. “Are you sure you want to speak, Emily?” my mother asked me the night before the hearing. “You were in such pain at Matt’s hearing.” “That’s why I need to speak mom – to have no regrets afterwards.”

I sat at the kitchen table the night before the hearing, hunched over the scribbling that I hoped to mold into my impact statement. By this time, I was 13 years old. I wrote a thought down, decided it wasn’t good enough and crossed it out. As the night rolled on, I repeated this step several more times. How could I possibly say all the things I wanted to say in five minutes, I thought. How could I possibly describe all that they did by taking her away from us – and so brutally? I folded my paper around midnight and placed in on the dresser in my bedroom. I laid down to bed – eyes wide open. Each shadow of each twisted tree outside of my window was apparent to me. I felt as though a storm was on the horizon – a storm I couldn’t prepare for or protect myself from.

The next morning I found myself back in the Assistant District Attorney’s office, prior to the hearing. The A.D.A. again went over the impact statement procedures, how much time we had and the order in which things would occur. The victim liaisons escorted us through a back hallway to the courtroom. The aggressive television cameras had become too intrusive for us and had often made it difficult to move down the hallways of the courthouse safely. We reached the courtroom and took our seats. Ben was escorted into the courtroom. The first person to give an impact statement was called before the court. My heart began to pound. I was next. The words of Ericha’s friend (giving the impact statement) became distant. It sounded as though she were in a far-away tunnel. The only thing I could hear clearly was the deafening sound of my pounding heart. I focused on the tip of my shoe. I stared at my shoe and concentrated on breathing in and out. I will not faint, I told myself. This is the one chance I have to speak to the court. I will not faint. This is for Ericha, I thought. I cannot screw it up. Ericha’s friend sat down and placed her hand on my shoulder. I stumbled up out of my seat. I walked to the edge of the court, in front of the prosecutor’s table, facing the judge. I cleared my throat and began to read my statement. The sound of crackling paper filled the courtroom as my hands shook. No, I thought. This has to be better. I put my paper down on the prosecutor’s table and looked up at the judge. I was still shaking, but some how not as afraid.

“Ericha was like a big sister to me.” I began to speak about Ericha’s smile, her warmth, our time together after school. I spoke of her generosity, of the beauty of her soul.
“I’ve always believed that in life, things happen for a reason. When Ericha was taken from us, I struggled to find the reason why. Maybe God was testing my ability to forgive. If that is so, then I have failed God’s test, because I will never forgive Ben Bryant for what he has done.” During my last sentence I had looked down at Ben and yelled the word “never.” I told the judge that Ben was an animal, that he was a threat to the community. I had wanted to do so much more to Ben at that moment, but this statement was all I had – and I cherish the fact that I had that.

Ben was sentenced to life in prison, with his first possibility of parole in 2043.

August 14, 2007

God was missing

It was a cold day in January. My eyes were planted firmly on my shoes, my head hanging lowly to avoid the lights of the television cameras as my family walked slowly towards the courtroom. Today, the younger brother Matt would be sentenced. He had plead guilty to felony murder. His older brother had contended that Matt had helped him tie Ericha to the chair, then left the scene of the crime prior to her murder – a notion many of us refused to believe for several reasons.

First – Ericha was a beautiful woman, but she was also a very strong woman – a physically stronger woman than most men I know. I believe it would’ve taken two people to kill her. She would have fought hard for life. I know this. Secondly, the gas station security camera tape was taken just before the older brother Ben left the gas station, when he was supposedly alone. The locked box containing this tape was not only extremely heavy, but it was also locked into a position high above the head of any human attempting to extricate it. The store manager has often said that she needed at least one other person to assist her to bring this lock box down. Because of this, we believed Ben and Matt were both still at the scene after Ericha’s death.

I sat in the courtroom, motionless, unable to look up at Matt. Matt was the “more popular” of the two brothers. He was younger, had less of a record, was better-looking, had more friends. His friends came to each of his hearings and were seated alongside his family members. Not once did any of them approach us. Not once did any member of his family express their condolences, much less apologize for their sons being the cause of our utter grief and loss. Not only did they not express any sympathy towards us – there were often times that they scowled at us, rolled their eyes at us, and pursed their lips at us. At the sight of this family, my view of humanity further deteriorated. Ericha was dead at the brutal hands of their sons and they acted as if we were imposing on them, as if we had injured them, as if they were the victims. Each time I looked in their direction I became nauseous.

After the closing arguments and impact statements, the Judge cleared his throat and began to explain the sentence. My hopes for a long sentence soared as the judge spoke of this murder being particularly brutal – perhaps the most brutal he had ever come across on the bench. Then – he began to speak about the evidence. While Ben was by no means a reliable witness to what time Matt left the scene, the judge contended, there was still a lack of evidence that could prove Ben’s story wrong. There was no video tape, as it had been taken and destroyed. With that, the judge ordered Matt to serve 23 years. By this time, I knew what 23 years meant in our state. It meant that Matt would be eligible for release in 5 years.

My head began spinning. I cannot say what the reaction of anyone else in the courtroom was, as I could no longer hear. My mother put her arm around me as I began to sob and shake. I felt that my life had ended. I felt paralyzed with grief. I couldn’t move or speak or stand. I actually felt physical pain. This feeling was unbearable.

I felt that God was missing.

August 8, 2007

The Brothers

After Ericha’s death, there were few leads as to who was responsible. Time passed, the depression of injustice grew. One day, almost two years after Ericha’s passing, we received a call from the police detective working Ericha’s case. A routine traffic stop had led to a young man giving the names of Matt and Ben Bryant as the killers in the case. The man agreed to give this information in return for the dismissal of his speeding ticket. I was so thankful for this lucky breakthrough. At the same time, it pained me greatly to find that dozens of people in our town had heard rumors of Matt and Ben being guilty of Ericha’s murder – yet no one came forward. Going through the process of attending all of the hearings related to both Ben and Matt’s cases was exhausting.

At one point, after the younger brother Matt was arrested, there was the possibility of a relatively low bail being set for him (this was not a possibility for Ben, as he was already in jail on an un-related charge). As I am a kinesthetic person, I focused on the campaign of petitions that resulted from this possibility. Like clockwork each day after school I came home to pick up my clipboard full of petitions asking the judge to raise Matt’s bail. I loaded up my clipboard and pen and went each eve into a different neighborhood. I went door to door to ask strangers to sign this petition. I look back on how young I was when I insisted on doing this alone each night and am astounded. I believe I would have done anything in those hours after school each day to keep myself busy. Those few hours after school each day had been my time with Ericha. Now, I couldn’t bear to come home to the empty, dark house once again. I couldn’t bear to sit on the couch and absorb the vacant silence of the desolate house.

I was often the adult in my household. This led to me being able to insist on doing things that I should not have necessarily done. At the age of eleven, I had read the entire police report outlining Ericha’s murder – how it happened in brutal and unforgiving detail. I also insisted on going to each hearing for each brother. I remember the first time I saw Ben. Ben was the older brother, thought to have been the greater mastermind behind the robbery and murder. I stood behind a glass wall, watching as he entered the chamber in which he would plead guilty.

His face was that of the devil’s. I never thought I would live to see the devil on earth. But here he was, right in front of me, separated by a wall of glass.

The clinking and swooshing of his cuffed ankles and wrists filled my ears. That’s him - the person who killed Ericha. Person was a relative word to use. This was the devil. This devil tied Ericha to a chair and held a screwdriver to her back, telling her that it was a gun. This devil wrapped a telephone cord around her neck and pulled so hard he shattered her trachea. I looked at the devil. There was nothing. No feeling in his stony eyes. No embarrassment, guilt or sadness. Nothing. How is he allowed to roam the earth? My own eyes began to burn and tear. He took Ericha from us and he cannot even look sorry for it.

I began to sob uncontrollably. I shook and wept and hyperventilated. I was escorted out of the chamber into the hallway, where television cameras pounced on the chance to film a broken little girl. I was so embarrassed by my lack of control at the first hearing that I promised myself I would be stronger at each hearing from that point on.

August 7, 2007

Humankind

I haven’t written for a while, as you can see. The truth is, I didn’t know quite where to go from here. Ericha’s death was such a huge happening for me that I find it difficult, after recounting this event, to move on steadily in my writings.

I was explaining this very dilemma to my boyfriend the other night. I explained to him that out of everything that’s happened to me, Ericha’s murder had the biggest effect on me emotionally. My boyfriend seemed stunned by this. “But so many things have happened to you. This is the biggest for you?” he asked.

I began to think about my boyfriend’s point and why out of everything on my timeline, before and after Ericha’s death, this event stands out in my mind as the reigning negative memory of mine. I suppose it wasn’t just the event in itself that made such an impact on me. Albeit the circumstances surrounding Ericha’s death were horrendous enough to make anyone deeply pained. But for me – this event was made so much worse by everything preceding it. I had already experienced so much prior to Ericha’s death. Before Ericha died – I was desperately holding on to the belief that there was still good in the world, that not everyone was inherently evil. I clung to the tiny bit of feeling left that there are people out there that won’t hurt you and might even love you. The years of neglect, abuse and a volatile living environment had slowly but steadily washed away my faith in humankind. I didn’t grow up with Ericha, I wasn’t a blood relative – yet her death was the final blow for me. It was the last straw. It was the final confirmation that the world, in fact, was not safe, loving or fair.

These beliefs, I now realize, will be one of the most difficult things for me to overcome during my treatment. I’ve protected myself for many years with these beliefs. After all, I thought, if I didn’t expect someone to truly love me and not hurt me, then I wouldn’t be so surprised when they hurt me. Sure – this philosophy may provide some comfort by creating the sense that I am protecting myself. But now I must ask myself if I really wish to live with these thoughts? Do I really want these negative feelings to affect my relationships with the few people I find that are, in fact, trust worthy? Do I want to inadvertently impart these beliefs onto my children?

The thought of doing that makes me sick. I want my children to be able to see the world in ways I never could. I want them to know that while it is necessary to protect one’s self, the world is also filled with stunningly good people. I want them to see the beauty of the world, to feel the protection their parents provide and within that protection, blossom.