This day is never-ending long and it isn’t even noon yet. I was up with the sun, which these days has gone back to its earlier hours. Day-light savings means mornings are glorious but by 4:30 in the afternoon the shadows are getting long and I reach for the light switch.
Security is found in a routine maintained, a comfort level of warmth and light, knowledge that everything is as it should be. Though I have all of those today, the day is stretching into hours of unproductiveness. I finished my “must do” (as opposed to “to do”) list and happily drew a line through each item. I was fired up to have several uninterrupted hours to sit in the sun and write. But the words are illusive and awkward. New projects hum in the corners of my mind, but are just unformed thoughts when I drag them into the light.
My usual writing time is afternoon. I publish my blog, then spend the morning researching, answering emails and calls. This afternoon I have an appointment with the police sergeant in the next town. I want to see if he can help me recover items that were stolen from my home two years ago. I’ve photos of some of the items and know their last known location. It may be just a painful, dead-end journey, and it brings up thoughts of loss of security.
I had opened my home and life to a woman who was about my age, from a respectable background and seemingly well-intentioned. She claimed to be rebuilding her life after a bad divorce and a series of misfortunes. I missed all the early warning signs. The reality is she is deeply troubled with severe psychological problems. I wasn’t the first to buy the mask of normalcy, nor was I the last. Reaching out, helping another person is a very addictive drug. It feeds a part of the ego that thrives on the sense of goodness. She was available to house-sit and I traveled extensively for work. She loved my animals and home and left gorgeous flowers and silly little gifts for me when I dragged in tired and road-weary.
Things started to unravel as time went on and the signs became flashing red lights. I asked her to move on, helped her find a house to rent and started distancing myself from the relationship. She retaliated by coming into my house one day while I was at work and stealing, not only personal items, but my sense of security. The things she took were bizarre signs of the depth of her insanity. This wasn’t a theft for money, all my computers, televisions and expensive articles were right where I had left them. The first and most noticeable item was an antique table in my kitchen. I had bought it from her when she lost the rental house. It filled one sunny corner of my kitchen and was covered with potted plants. When I walked in that night, the plants were all lined up on the floor. From there it took months to find all the things she had taken. When winter came, I couldn’t find my warmest parka, bought years ago for dog sledding trips, or my winter riding boots. There were tiny personal items that I used every day and didn’t notice were gone until I reached for them. I felt violated, always seeking out the next piece of my life and history she had stolen.
We pay for health insurance, home owner’s, auto, renters; insurance abounds. There is no insurance for the loss of security. Losing a job means loss of financial security. Losing a life is loss of the security of innocence. Finding my stolen items will not replace the loss of security, someone took my trust and kindness.