TRIGGER WARNING

Monday morning, June 2, 2014

I was on automatic. I showered, dressed, had coffee, drove my youngest to school. My responsibilities were completed in numb automation, but there was a silent struggle going on in my mind and body. I wanted to stop and scream – she was raped and I was there! I was trembling with anger. I wanted to call the police. I wanted to hop in the car and drive to North Carolina and look that woman in the face and demand her apology, demand she get on her knees and beg forgiveness from all of us sisters. I wanted to throw her in a rehab facility and swallow the key, then smash every bottle she has in the house into the kitchen sink.

I parked and hung my employee tag on the rear view. Gathered my things, locked the car and walked to the elevator. I let my eyes follow the trees through the elevator glass, idly pretending I was climbing up them, like I always imagine when riding those elevators. I stepped out and walked past Congress park, as usual, and idly wondered for the umpteenth time what the city was doing with that old fountain, now surrounded by signs of construction. I paused at the traffic signal, waiting, staring up at the walls of the New York State Capitol building.

The powerful structure rose several stories above my head, unashamedly representative of a monarch’s seat, with red-orange turrets and intricate carvings. The building usually centered me, its carefully crafted beauty inside and out reminding me that someone, somewhere, cared deeply about a good job well done. Just a few weeks ago, I was among a handful of people negotiating a $22 billion budget for 700 school districts, in a small room on the first floor of that beautiful building. Not a good job well done.

I didn’t want to walk in there. The halls echoed with the powerlessness of good people trying to do the right thing. Politics too often trumps proven research, and about a quarter of the decisions made are to support a re-election campaign rather than the needs of the people. Much as I loved the building, I couldn’t stand facing another impotent day of work. Fighters don’t belong on hamster wheels.

But there was nothing I could do about it. A single mom doesn’t just quit her job. Policy analysts are a dime a dozen in Albany. There was nowhere else to go.

The beeping of the crosswalk signal brought me out of my reverie. I walked across the street, pulling my security pass out of my purse. My eyes were wet with helplessness. I couldn’t quit. I couldn’t call the police. I couldn’t stop in the middle of the street and scream. I couldn’t protect my sister. I ran. I ran and left her there.

I made it to the policy pit on the fourth floor mezzanine, dropping my bag on my desk. One of my co-workers got up to hug me, saying she was sorry for my loss. With her arms around my shoulders, I realized I had almost forgotten about my step-father, whose ashes sat before us at the wake just four days ago. I felt ashamed anew, and couldn’t hold it back anymore. I clung to her, sobbing my heart out, much to the surprise of everyone in the room. The story just spilled out – I told her that I had just found out that my sister had been raped at 9 years old, that Mom just watched.

I backed away, realizing I shouldn’t have said that out loud, and saw the shock and concern on my coworkers’ faces. I gulped and pulled it all back together. Grabbing a tissue off my desk and drying my face, I apologized and waved everyone off, telling them I was fine and just needed to focus on work.

I sat down to sort through my missed emails from the last week, but focus was not coming to me. Impatiently, I opened my snail mail instead, and automatically began sorting. Then I sorted all the files that were scattered untidily all over my desk. Then I got some paper towels and cleanser from the bathroom and started cleaning my desk. I scrubbed the phone, my keyboard, even my chair. And when there was nothing left to clean, not a single paper out of place, I stared back at the computer and realized there was no way I could understand a single piece of legislation today. I emailed my supervisor that I was going home, shut off my computer, told my coworkers that I’m sorry, I’m just not feeling well, and left. I didn’t even make it to noon.

I drove two blocks before I realized I had no idea where I was going. I pulled into an empty parking spot on the street and called a therapist I had seen the year before. She could see me in a couple weeks. I googled more therapists on my phone. Three, four, six weeks before anyone could see me. One of them told me that if it were an emergency, I could go to the Capital District Psychiatric Center, and check myself in. I googled it and drove there, figuring I’d talk with someone for a few hours, feel better, and be back to work the next day.

I didn’t realize that it would be a month before I saw the Capitol building again.