Just a Little Bit…

In 1993, I was a little self-absorbed.

My parents were still involved in a bitter, heated divorce; I was working two or three jobs at a time; and I was struggling to complete college, having just been kicked out of the house because my Mom and I were really, really, really not getting along.

So, when three teenagers were convicted of killing three children in West Memphis, Arkansas, I can remember it happening, but I didn't follow it. I was too far into crisis mode to think of anyone but me.

But three years later when Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills was released, I was in more of a position to pay attention. And I did pay attention. I didn't have a choice.

The day after I saw it, I felt that strange feeling you get after having a really bad dream…that strange, uneven feeling that follows you around all day. You can’t put your finger on it, but something isn’t right. You can’t stop thinking about it. You find yourself reflecting on little bits of it, even when you don’t want to.

I thought, “Am I being gullible? Is there any way on Earth that these teenagers could have done this?” And I realized that no…while I didn’t know all the details, I was certain in my gut that Damien Echols, Jessie Miskelly and Jason Baldwin were innocent. Certain of it. And I chose to go with it. They're innocent. The second documentary only laced things up more tightly for me.

Over the years, I’d read online and follow the case and in time, I began praying for the West Memphis Three’s release, and praying for justice in the form of the real guilty persons' capture and prosecution.

Today, Jason, Jessie and Damien are free. Thank You, G*d, thank You for listening. I cried, just a little bit. Not a big, sobbing, co-workers-can-hear-you cry, but a few good old-fashioned, quiet, big tears as I read and watched the ruling unfold today. I can’t imagine…

It occurs to me, reading and watching today, that they’ve not only been in prison half their lives, but I’ve been following their case for nearly half of mine. Where early footage shows their faces still holding baby fat and obvious youth, today’s footage shows three, extremely tired, thirty-something men who look like they’ve been to war.

In a way, they have.

But tonight, as they’re able to enjoy the hugs of family and friends, the love they’ve been starving to feel for years, the comforts of home like shower and soft bed and familiar clothes, food that isn’t served on a metal tray…silence. Tonight they can begin to explore the next portion of their lives, one that I’m certain will be full of purpose and meaning.

There is no silver lining, but when you look at those boys and the oppressive nature of the town and limited resources of where they grew up, chances are, they’d have gotten jobs locally and lived pretty normal lives working normal jobs, perhaps getting married or having kids. Instead they are each in positions where they can make a difference. I see Damien and Jason advocating forever, working to help others who have been falsely accused. Damien will pursue his art. Maybe he and Lorri can start a family of their own now. And Jason…he’ll be a good lawyer. He’ll really help the underdogs and he’ll be fantastic and passionate in his work. And Jessie? I just hope he can enjoy the little things. No matter what he does, he will work hard and be grateful every day. He will still need a little help and guidance, but he’ll be alright.

Everything will be alright, because I really do think that these boys will also do what they can to see that the real criminals are found and captured. I'm counting on the rest of my prayer coming true, too.

Good Gosh...Where Did This Week Go?

Bad blogger! I have been so busy this week that - while I didn't forget about this place - I sure haven't taken any time to write. So...here I am. It's Friday, which means Steinvic will be here this evening. (YES!) It's payday. The sun is trying to come out. Does it get any better than this?

Well, yeah. Because Steinvic has found a nasty cold - probably from the plane ride home last Saturday - so we might be doing more relaxing than anything this weekend, but that is fine with me. Because really, every spare minute of my life the last two weeks has been dedicated to throwing more crap away. And I am worn out!

This is embarrassing, but I found one box that actually had an envelope of cancelled checks in it from 1995. What did I save that for? I imagine that the envelope somehow made it into a box the last what...four moves? Maybe I knew it was there and I simply didn't have time to shred. But still!

I also apparently had money at one point in my life, because I have uncovered some pricey goodies that I sure couldn't afford now! Like a giant bottle of BLV. And a palette of Chanel tubes of color to mix to customize special shades. My sister used to give me Sephora gift certificates, and maybe that explains these items, because no matter what, I KNOW that I would have never spent actual money on myself for these things. But wow! While the fragrance is still fine, I'm a little afraid to use products when I have no idea how old they are. At least the old MAC stuff translates into free lipstick (the MAC recycling program is 1 free lipstick per 6 empty containers...deal!)

The odd part is what I don't remember. I'm not freaking out about it, though. I know how the brain works. I know that I was pretty much pushed to the max, in full survivor mode, and that my brain knew (and knows) what I can and can't handle. So, some of these things...these belongings that I feel I'm seeing for the first time...those memories just happened to slip down the rabbit hole, as they were tethered to some especially troublesome stuff.

When I see these belongings...they look like things I'd enjoy or things that people who knew me would give me. And at one time, I cared enough about those items to pack them up and bring them along. But now? Aside from the things that seem really special (Hello? Who can easily toss Chanel?!) it's pretty easy to throw these items away.

Because they're not really mine.

I don't mean that I've turned Sybil on you or anything. I'm just saying, the person they belonged to, she's kind of...gone. I'm sure all of this makes me sound like a loon. In fact, I just may be a loon. But you know, I haven't ever felt as sound as I do right now, in this minute.

For the longest time, I've been bothered by a fear that I'm not normal. That because of my life and the experiences thrust upon me, I'm defective or flawed. I've even felt at times that I'm not worthy of the good in my present life. (And yeah, I've talked to someone about that. To be honest, the talking was cathartic and helpful, but didn't allow me shake that feeling.)

But seeing all these things the last few weeks, even the belongings I don't remember, somehow serves as evidence. Proof of my life. Happy, horrifying, remembered, forgotten...now it feels like facts. Not devastating, just the truth.

Even though my former self is unfamiliar, from old paystubs, I see that no matter how tough things got, I've always worked. I'm a hard worker. From the sketchbooks, I can see that I've always been creative and made my own outlets. I'm an artist. From the letters I wrote to people (even if I never sent them) and letters I wrote to myself as a sanity check, I can see that I've always been articulate and expressive. I can write.

I've been stupid, brilliant, impulsive, hesitant, ashamed, brave and at times insane, and it's all good because it's all me.

I've spent a lot of years either going with being a total mess or trying desperately to appear perfect. That struggle has been exhausting and, at times, depressing. After two weeks of dipping into the essence of me, and literally destroying the parts I no longer need, I'm finally ready to stop trying to be anything.

Who needed therapy? I just needed to throw this stuff away.

Finally, I can breathe.