I Second That Emotion

 

Today is the one-year anniversary of the shooting at my workplace.  I have attempted to write this post myriad times in the past year, but I could never find the words to express my emotions on that day and the year since.  Because, well, I don’t have any emotions about it.  

Why is that, I wonder? Because this one was close, the closest I have ever come to being involved in the gun violence that saturates America. The place where it happened is about 200 yards from my office. Some of our team, who were in lockdown in a different part of the building, heard the kill shot. The head of the department targeted by the psycho (white male, natch) shooter was at a meeting on the second floor of the building. We were in lockdown for about three hours, watching everything that was unfolding outside, mere feet away from us, on the TV in the office. And when we were finally released, it was by police armed with rifles. When we returned to the office, many doors bore signs of having been forced open by police. Later, reports came out and one student told of having to step over the bloodied body of his professor to get out of the building. All of that and I have not spilled one tear over it. What is wrong with me? 

I looked up some of the signs of narcissistic personality disorder, just in case that might be what ails me. I only had to read that two of the signs are a belief in specialness and superiority and I knew I don’t have it. The exact opposite, in fact. Like when I call my landline from the office to check if there are messages (there never are), I always hang up the phone with the phrase, ”Well, who would call you, you big fat ugly loser?” 

So maybe I am a sociopath? One of that disorder’s signs is a lack of empathy. That sure sounds like me.  But only as far as humans are concerned. Not with animals. During COVID, on our weekly video chats, our boss would report if anyone we knew had died of it. Not once did I feel anything. Then one week, he tells us that one of the police dogs that work on campus had died. I was a blubbering wreck for the rest of the day. I can’t watch movies if there is a chance the dog will die (to this day, despite it starring one of my future ex-husbands, I can’t bring myself to watch John Wick). And I was halfway through I Am Legend when I got a feeling something was going to happen to the dog, so I quit watching it.

And not only am I writing this on the one-year anniversary, I have just come from a memorial service held mere yards from the building it happened in. And not the reading of a poem, the blessing from a native American spiritual leader, the ringing of chimes, the cello and piano performance of a piece by Rachmaninoff (one of my favorite composers) or the singing of Lean on Me by a choir of students did anything for me. But it was when the person who survived the shooting stood up to speak and received a standing ovation that I realized if that did not move me, nothing will.

But one thing did move me: the outpouring of love and concern from my small but mighty group of friends. The first one to text me was JTV. A few others followed. L. sent a message on a group text and told everyone I was OK and not to worry about me. In one exchange someone called me "our girl". That really moved me. So maybe there is hope for me yet.