and feel that it would be appropriate to vent a little.
I don’t do anger well. It makes me nauseous, and I fear it in some regards. I’m afraid I have my father’s temper, and that is not a pretty thing.
However, there are times when anger is well placed and needs to be expressed, if only for the mental health of the one feeling the anger.
So, here goes.
I am angry that my hometown DA’s office appears to have hired a twit as one of their victim/witness coordinators. Either that, or the man should only be allowed to deal with non-traumatic incidences…because he doesn’t appear to know how to treat them appropriately. Because it’s a great idea to NOT answer someone’s daily messages about whether or not she had to rearrange her work schedule, her week, her LIFE to fly back to testify in the preliminary hearing for her RAPIST. You know, because it’s just an every day sort of thing that really doesn’t have much impact.
Or, because it’s just peachy keen to call the same person up the DAY of the assailant’s sentencing to see if she wants to make a statement by phone. Because it only took her a WEEK to be able to write the one up she wrote for the lady who does the sentencing recommendation reports (who, by the way, was actually nice enough to let the victim know that something had actually HAPPENED in the case, rather than forgetting that updates are important in these situations to the victim.) Expecting a less than 24 hour turn around is really poor planning on your part.
Oh, and leaving the victim* in the waiting room all by herself for over an HOUR while you chat with your coworkers about foreclosure houses you’ve found, or letting her hear that you actually bother to call other witnesses to make travel arrangement…you’re fabulous.
I am angry that it took the state 6 years after the perp’s DNA was obtained to make their way through the back log and finally get a hit on that warrant. While I am grateful we had that warrant out, thereby stopping the statute of limitations (thank you, Wisconsin, for being minorly progressive in that arena), it does not change the fact that I got sucked into a new vortex just as I was trying to fight my way out of another (albeit, much more joyful.)
I am angry that it turns out that the assailant was 15 at the time of the assault. 15. FIFTEEN.
I am angry that it turns out that he was also my neighbor.
And he mowed my lawn.
And I didn’t know it was him.
I am angry that I go through bouts of insomnia and paranoia and I don’t know if they will ever completely go away.
I am angry because I want to look him in the face and tell him how much he sucks as a human being, and I know that I shouldn’t think that, but I do, and he does.
*I hate the word victim, and that I couldn’t think of a better word for it for this entry without sounding hokey.