We did it, friends.
For almost 10 years now, I’ve been wanting to get my hands on a copy of the police report from the night my ex tried to shoot me.
While violence, abuse, and even threats with weapons were a semi-regular occurrence in those 5 years; this was the only documented report of police involvement. Not that they did much of anything helpful; but that’s a story for another article.
Still, a combination of things recently convinced me to finally go for it. I wanted that tangible proof in my hands, even if it was scary.
And it was scary.
All this time, I’ve been so scared he’d somehow find out, since he still, to my knowledge, works in law enforcement.
…I know, right? The fuck.
I had to travel to my home state to notarize the freedom of information request, something I found kind of fucked up considering the circumstances, no?
But I’d been planning on visiting family anyway, so I put it on my to-do list while I was there.
The moment I touch down at the airport each visit, my nervous system screams for me to get the hell out of there. A low buzz of panic follows me anytime I’m in public, but here it’s an aid call.
As the notary was checking my ID to fill out the request, she mentioned that until a couple of years ago she lived in the city I live in now. She was wildly homesick for it.
I said the same to her. I love my new city, but I miss the hell out of my hometown.
At the same time, I also hate being back. That feeling of being surveilled by a ghost who could materialize around any corner. Home is a place I love and fear in battling measure.
The notary told me to write “not applicable” next to additional parties. I joked that we probably wouldn’t be getting the other party’s signature.
I loved that she laughed so easily at that. This is a person who’s seen things.
She mentioned that she used to work at a used bookstore near my current home. She missed the little punch cards they used to have.
Imagine her random moment of joy when I pulled one of the half-filled cards out of my wallet and told her it was my favorite local bookstore. We compared dates, and it’s completely possible we may have run into one another at some point in our overlapping times in town.
She signed her name. It was the same first name as mine.
Also, yeah, if I get disappeared now, you know what it is.
