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I'm less trusting than I once was, I'm wary of strangers, I'm hypervigilant about my surroundings.For about 18 months after the attack, I couldn't sleep at night.I am prepared to have my name enter the public realm.I know this may be naive, but I believe I should be able to be fine in my professional life—my whole life, really—and have it be known that this happened to me. And I will still be here long after Kalebu is sentenced on August 12 (assuming the sentencing happens as planned).People consistently ask me how I feel about the guilty verdict and whether I'm glad that the whole trial circus—the outbursts, the swallowed pencil, the negotiations over restraints, the talk of supposed orders from God—is finally over. Of course I'm grateful that he has a mandatory life sentence coming, that he'll never be out there in the world, free to hurt others, ever again. Other friends, many bequeathed to me by Teresa, came as often as they could.I love them all like family, because that's what we've all become since Teresa left us.My mind was afraid that if I closed my eyes, I would open them to something terrifying. Wouldn't it be incredible if a guilty verdict meant that Teresa could come back and live out her life?My body was exhausted, but my mind couldn't stop being on guard. I still never sleep alone, and I still sometimes wake up, in the dark, absolutely sure that I've heard someone walking around in the house. Wouldn't it be wonderful if the woman we, her family and friends, now remember on the anniversary of her death by enjoying some of the simple pleasures that used to make her smile—Imo's pizza, Bud Light, music—could once again enjoy them herself?
It's still jarring for me to see Teresa's pictures on television, feel the private being made public, watch this great love of my life being reduced to an evening news story. Also, and on a more personal level, I haven't wanted to see the pain in my own face since this happened to us, and I still don't. To have it captured forever—I'm not ready for that.And then you hear the screams and you see the dash-cam video, hear the 911 call, and you remember. It's almost as if the Jen of today gets to say to the Jen of July 19, 2009, "I'm so sorry this happened." But, also, it's the worst thing in the world to have to say some of the words I said on the witness stand, the words of violence and sexual violence.Especially in front of people who know you, and who don't necessarily know that part of you.But at the same time, I never once questioned whether I could testify. There's nothing anyone can say that could ever take that away from me.
I also knew I would testify because if I didn't, nothing would change. And I know now, after this trial, that justice does not bring peace. o here I am, days away from the sentencing of the man who killed my beloved Teresa and almost succeeding in killing me.The thing that comes back to me most vividly from news reports is the 911 call from the young woman who happened to be up late with some friends that night and ran to help us—hearing my screams in the background of her call, being taken back to that moment, experiencing it all from an outsider's view. This happened and I somehow made it to the other side.