This past weekend I felt like I should be writing. My “plan” is to write every single day. Unfortunately, I haven’t done that. I have allowed other things to distract me from writing. You know, like laundry, dishes, painting rocks the normal things in life.
Today, I have to work. So I thought…this is a perfect time to start writing. NOT! But, you see, this is how my brain operates. I’m not sure why it works this way, but it does. So, here I go:
I began reading my blog last Saturday night, starting with my first entry that I initiated in 2010. I want to take the entries and expand on them to create chapters for my book. The only problem I noticed is that I became increasingly agitated, angry, and emotional before I even read through the first four entries of my blog.
I re-read what I had written about the encounter I had with Nicole Stewart. She was the driver of the get-away car, who was never criminally charged in the murder of our Matt. After I had parked my car, that December evening in 2010. I walked up to Nicole Stewart who was out in front of the Target store near my home. Her then two-year-old son was in the basket of the Target cart, and Nicole with her back to her child was smoking a cigarette as she talked on her phone. Never looking back to check on what her toddler was doing. At one point during our five to seven-minute encounter, I had to tell her to get her kid before he fell out of the basket. She never even noticed that he was trying to get out by hanging over the cart head first.
I remember saying to her that here I am trying to help her protect her son from harm and she let my son die in the street. How did you do that, Nicole? Her response to my question was that she was scared. She was afraid of what would happen to her kids and her not yet born son. She was nine months pregnant with this little boy when they killed my boy. This little boy’s father is the murderer of my son.
As I read on, I felt the hostility building up in my chest as my eyes filled with tears. I remember asking Nicole why she never reached out to our family. Why had she not answered me when I reached out to her a week earlier? Her answer was that she didn’t feel that she was at fault in any of this. I felt my mind exploding all over again! I found it difficult to finish reading about this experience even though I had already lived it.
I’m wondering, how am I going to be able to do this if I can’t even re-read this shit without having a melt-down? I’m just going to have to buckle up, put my big girl panties on, and write.
God, clear my mind and heal my heart. Guide my thoughts, feelings, and perceptions. Give me the eyes to see, the ears to hear, and the words to speak. Amen