I just read a book that was about a murder that happened in and around my hometown. The book is called Bitter Blood. The author, Jerry Bledsoe, was a reporter for our local newspaper when the crime took place and in the years that followed he became a best selling true crime author.
I am not one that loves crime stories, but I’ll have to admit this guy is a good writer and it was exciting to read about the events that happened in places I knew, restaurants where I ate, stores where I shopped and there was also a connection to my elementary school. So, I finished the book in record time – which is unusual for me.
It was a heartbreaking story filled with broken and mentally unstable people who did outrageous things. A familiar story to me.
My family story could be made into a book. Our story is filled with broken and mentally unstable people who did outrageous things colored by lies and mystery, death and murder. Many people have told me I should write a book.
The reason I don’t is something I noticed in the true crime book. And something that maybe you’ve noticed in your own life.
Everyone has their own version of what happened.
And people will fight you and demand that their take on the event is the true one. And because their take is different than yours, and because you have a different perspective and saw different things, they will say you are wrong. No matter how close you were to the crime.
Our differing views on the same event come about because of age, the vantage point from where we viewed the event, our attitude, and our relationship to those involved, just to name a few.
I have noticed in my life and also noticed in the book is the people who are closest to the event – in actual distance and in relationship to the people – are the ones whose interpretation is most doubted. The people who are further away from the event feel their interpretation is the most accurate.
Ok, I’ll give you that feelings can cloud our judgement. Sometimes our love for someone can affect how we see the truth about them.
How then can we ever find the truth about an event? I guess that’s why I appreciate forensics and the science of crime – it seems to get closest to the actual, factual truth.
After the sirens, the accusations, the police reports and the trials, we are still left with a crowd of people giving their opinions. After the truth is supposedly found and the punishment is given, is there really any closure?
Believe it or not, my purpose in writing this today was to give you some encouragement. If you are like me and you are one of those people who were closest to the crime and you are frustrated and lonely because no one believes you or accepts your perspective as truth, you are not alone.
Perhaps you are like me and you’ve done years of therapy digging for the truth and perhaps you’ve found it or at least found some nuggets. You emerge from the mine covered with blood, sweat and tears with the truth in your hand. And those who’ve stayed on the surface, those who weren’t even there when the event took place, they keep talking and coming up with their unsubstantiated theories. When you proudly show them what you found, when they finally see the truth they roll their eyes and continue lying.
I want you to know your fellow laborers see the work you’ve done and we understand how it feels. We know that to be ignored or discredited by those who are most important in our lives can be devastating. It’s a lonely road we walk even though we are not alone. We feel alone.
We are the people who say the words. The words that we don’t have said to us. Words like, “I believe you.” “I love you.” “I see you.” “I know you’ve been through a lot.” “I’m impressed by your courage and strength.” We know how important those words can be.
I want to say to those lonely warriors, keep digging and keep saying the words because it helps.
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As I read back over what I’ve just written, it reads like a ramble, a therapy session. I’m going to leave it, as is, because perhaps maybe someone needs to know there are people out here who feel the same.
Thanks for reading.
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