A Victim Statement
The below is my victim statement in connection to my mother’s death.
The truncated background on that is that her friend is on trial for second-degree murder after providing her with cocaine that ended up being 100% fentanyl. Assuming she will plead down, I will have the the opportunity to present a statement at the sentencing hearing for the judge to take into account.
I’m a peripheral victim of a crime. That didn’t really resonate with me until recently, regardless of the court case dragging along for years. It just didn’t feel the same as the tragic stories I see in the news or hear on true crime podcasts. But I did wake up one day and wonder when the hell my life became an episode of Law & Order.
It is technically a murder charge. It may have been an accident, but there were people at fault. They were responsible — like a drunk driver killing someone in a car crash.
The root of it is there are people who play with human lives, who cut drugs to make the maximum amount of money possible. People who don’t contemplate the consequences of their actions, or just don’t give a damn. And they have victims they’ve never met, who feel the effects of that one choice like dominoes falling.
Here is my victim statement — editorialized and uncut, as fit for Medium and not a court room, but still encompassing the sentiment I plan to share with the judge, if I’m given the chance.
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Today, I am 27 years old. I live in an apartment in New York with my best friend. I have a stable job, a cat, a rich social life, and goals for the future that I am actively working toward.
Five years ago, I was 22 years old. On the precipice of life, at a pivotal moment where although I was an adult, I desperately needed guidance.
Although my life today may look comfortable from the outside, there are very rarely days where I don’t wonder what it might have been had just one thing gone differently five years ago.
One moment. One sentence. One decision.
I’ve worked to near-death since then to get where I am today, and no, that is not an exaggeration. I have clung desperately to life when I had no will to live, and contemplated releasing that grip. I would have, if not for a few people.
Having already struggled with mental health issues for the majority of my life, any trauma or tragedy was bound to send me spiraling. But I’m not here to be a sob story, or make my story seem sadder than it is. Losing a mother the way I lost mine is probably one of the saddest damned stories anyone could come up with, no matter who you are. I don’t need to embellish.
The immediate aftermath was this:
My physical health deteriorated. I lost all motivation to succeed. I drank myself numb. I tried to lose myself in partying, in men. I looked for validation or affection in all the wrong places and all the wrong people. I spent money I didn’t have on frivolous material items just for the chance of a fleeting hit of dopamine. I shut myself away from the world for awhile. I ruined some relationships. I lost any faith I had left. I pushed away my family. I didn’t care about life, and I sure acted like it.
Here I am five years later, trying not to feel sorry for myself. I don’t have to wonder why I struggle with emotional intimacy or why I push romantic partners away. I know the reason I am not where I want to be in my career. It took me longer than it would have to build the courage or even the mental stability to consider changing paths from a job I hate.
It’s not lost on me why I still feel like that 22-year-old girl. Some days I feel like I was stunted and am just suspended in that moment, waiting for my life to restart and move on as planned.
I was a gifted kid. I was meant to be more than this. Even now, and I don’t think I’ll ever shake this thought, I wonder, “how did I get here?”
I became a shell of a human just trying to survive. I barely did. I’m struggling to catch up with my peers because frankly, I think I regressed. I often feel like a child crying for my mommy even as I near my thirties.
I would seesaw between two schools of thought about the aftermath of my mom’s death, both of which incited immense rage within me: I either blamed you and my mom and what happened for everything I didn’t accomplish, every mistake I’d made, every moment I’d wasted; or I beat myself up for using it as an excuse, and figured I’d still be the way I am today had none of it happened.
It took me until just recently to realize that the blame and guilt were misdirected and not conducive to improving my situation. I came across a piece of advice/wisdom online that made me start treating myself more gently:
“The people in your age group who did not experience life-altering trauma absolutely had an advantage over you, your brain was focused on survival and they were free to grow and develop. You may feel behind but it’s because you were doing your best to survive.”
Reading that was the validation I desperately needed. I wasted many years trying to survive and claw myself out of the hole I felt myself slipping further into, while simultaneously pushing myself back down by being hard on myself for the effects of real life trauma.
I too used to have the advantage. And you took it away.
You stole from me my most ardent supporter, the person who voiced her confidence in me every chance she got. You took my most important source of guidance as I navigate life as a woman. You took a caregiver. I may have been an adult, but I still needed that care, I still need it. 22 is too young to lose a mother. So is 27.
And here I am, reliving it again, because she did not die from natural causes. This was a manmade tragedy. She died in part because of you.
But I don’t look to punish you. That’s not the point of this. Nothing will change what happened. I am only here because I need to share my story and I am entitled to that.
I don’t care if you spend a single moment in prison. I don’t think that’s justice, and I think the guilt you likely feel is punishment enough. This story should be enough. And I want to be done punishing myself.
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