There are no perfect words to describe what it feels like when elected officials and public servants are actively destroying your life. You feel helpless. It is an overwhelming pain; a searing ache that won’t go away. Panic rises when you least expect it. Sometimes you might wake from a deep sleep gasping for air, clutching your chest. There is sheer devastation in realizing the Michigan criminal justice system is broken on every single level.
You feel gutted. Like a house that’s been taken down to its studs.
It was all a dream.
Imagine your life as your dream-house. You’re standing outside on a perfect sunny day. You’ve placed every piece of lawn furniture exactly where you want it to be. You hang a wreath and wind-chimes. You’ve picked out the perfect doormat, planted beautiful flowers. You’ve worked hard your whole life and you’re so proud of your home. You are happy. You feel safe. You take a deep breath of fresh air and smile. You walk up the front steps and go inside.
You marvel at what you’ve been able to accomplish. You look around at pictures of your family on the walls and smile. You’ve carefully curated and placed every picture frame, every memento. You built the life you’ve dreamed of. You still have big dreams, but you look around and can’t imagine how life could get any better than this. How grateful you are. You’re looking forward to the future. Everything isn’t perfect, but it’s perfect enough for you.
Until…
Then one day you see someone you’ve never met walk into your front yard. They’re staring into your window. You watch them rear back their arm and throw a massive rock.
You hear the rock make contact. You cover your head to protect your face. You hear the pane shatter. When it’s safe, you uncover your face and eyes. Glass covers the floor, catching glints of the sun. You’re struggling to process what happened. You’re trying to get your bearings, trying to figure out why this happened and who threw the rock. You’re looking around frantically for an answer. Panic rises in your chest. There is no time to think, because someone begins pounding on your door.
People barge into your home, telling you they’re allowed to be there. They tell you that you have no rights inside your own home. Their foot prints are everywhere, tracking wet, heavy clay and mud through your house. You beg them to leave. You shake. You cry. Everything feels unsafe. Tainted. Dirty.
Then, more people come.
They begin telling you that if you agree to certain terms, that if you give up more rights, they’ll leave you alone. You agree, desperate to start cleaning up. You begin making a mental list of everything that will need to be fixed. You start thinking of calling someone to fix the window, to clean the muddy boot prints on the floor. To put your life back together. It’s not ideal, but it feels like everything is going to be ok again soon.
You’ll do anything to get your home back and feel safe again.
Instead of keeping their word, they walk through your house and beginning breaking picture frames. Ripping pages out of books. Stealing mementos off the shelves and smashing them on the floor. They hack through drywall with crowbars. They begin setting fires in every room. They threaten you. They tell you if try to stop them, they’ll hurt you, too. That this is all your fault.
You have to get out because the house is on fire now, and you can’t stay.
The fire.
The firefighters won’t be coming because they’re all friends with the men who have walked into your house and destroyed it. All you’re left with is a garden hose. You’re trying your hardest to fight the fire, but it just keeps burning. It’s all consuming. It reaches every part of your house. But you keep trying. Neighbors and friends rush to help you.
You want to give up. You can’t stand up for a minute longer. You sit down because this fire is bigger than you and you are terrified. You never asked for this. You didn’t deserve this. You want time to cry. To grieve the loss of your dream home. You want someone, anyone to stop and hold you, to tell you that this isn’t fair. To understand what you mean when you say things will never be the same. But there is simply no time for that. Not if you’re going to save the house.
You take a deep breath.
On weary legs you stand up. You try to be brave. You remember that the forecast calls for rain. You look up at the sky and its promise for renewal. The clouds are moving into position. Any minute now, it will arrive and wash away the soot, the muddy boot tracks, the tears streaming down your face. You take a deep breath, smoke in your lungs. Ash in your hair. Sweat on your face from exhaustion.
And you wait for rain.
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