"Untitled"

20 years ago today, I killed a man. It is the reason I went to prison. It is hard to articulate, even with two decades behind me. I recently spoke at Staples High School for alcohol and drug awareness week and was the only one who spoke that wasn’t the victim or family of a victim as the result of a drunk driving accident. I was the drunk driver. I’ve told the story many times and it is always the same—you can hear a pin drop when I utter the statement, it feels as if the world stops; maybe it does. This is one of those experiences that changes the course of life for many and continues to shape me each and every day. 

I was 25 years old and partying heavily for many years. It always seemed like it was my right to party and I hung out with a lot of people who shared my penchant for getting drunk and high. I knew on some level that I had a problem with drugs and alcohol, but I couldn’t imagine a life without them. Substances had always been there for me, until the day it finally turned its back on me for good. The power of addiction is insidious and still, to this day, can baffle me.

I have struggled with many questions over the years. The first was of course, why me?  Then it was why didn’t I die? How am I going to live? Can I make it in prison? Can I make it out of prison? How will I get out of bed today? How will I go on? How will I tell my story? Why should I tell my story? What is my purpose? Why did I drink so much? The questions come; they still do, ad infinitum.

Rarely am I asked how I feel about it after someone finds out. It is one of those things that people either don’t want to know or maybe feel they shouldn’t want to know. I wonder if they assume they know how I feel. I have trouble talking about it, because, it feels like something that just has no opening line. After I had my son, I mentioned it less and less. Partly because I am a mom and partly because I think I have wanted to stop identifying myself with it. I’m always worried what people will think and don’t want it to affect my son’s life adversely if a teacher or parent found out. More than a few people I see do know about it because I live in the town I grew up in. I’ve never had anyone ask about it, even if they know. Do you think they want to know or do they just feel it is inappropriate to ask? Or, maybe they think I shouldn’t have any feelings about it at all. I think it is one of those really big events that might feel to powerful to touch for fear it might explode. Funny thing is, I’m not sure how I feel about it half of the time either. 

I spent the first 10 years after jail on a crusade, telling my story as much as I could to anyone that would listen.—in high schools and in communities where I could help people see the dangers of drinking and driving. Then most of the past 10 years has been my journey to try to identify less and less with the accident as part of my life. This past year has been the most balanced for me. I don’t let it define every fiber of my being with shame and remorse, but use the experience as a way to be of service and to further my spiritual development while I continue to help others. 

 I am grateful my spiritual journey began that fateful night and has been guiding me ever since. I try to live a life that ensures this never happens again and that this man didn’t die in vain. But some days, especially today, it seems like a lot to bear. The cost of a life is immeasurable and there is no real way to make amends. 

There are, of course the stories I tell myself, that which I believe everyone must be thinking: You don’t deserve to be happy. You should be ashamed of yourself.  You are despicable.  You don’t deserve to live.  How dare you think you can have a happily ever after.  You shouldn’t write about it, you should be grateful you are alive. 

The deserving part is the real bitch. It sneaks up like a rat in the dark, creepy and unassuming and then you see it clearly in all its ugliness. I’ve felt this countless times over the years. How dare I have a beautiful son, loving husband and a white picket fence? How dare I find any happiness at all? The struggle just to be normal has been great. I realize to be normal is relative to experience, for everyone.  Still, I’ve prayed many days just to be ordinary.

I’ve read many articles over the years about situations similar to mine. My heart breaks every time, for everyone involved. It isn’t only the man that died or his family that suffers. It is my friends and the affect it had on my family and anyone who cared about me at all. I’ll never forget my sister’s face when she walked into the visiting room at Valhalla prison—the pain in her eyes, the anguish in every crease of her face, the absolute helplessness. I was crazy with fear and shock, my mind, body and soul totally broken. She could see all of it and do nothing. My father, a man who never had many words, had so much fear in his eyes as I was getting ready to go to an unknown, unprotected environment. His daughter, locked up in handcuffs, in jail, took a few years off his life I am sure. My first phone call the night of the accident was to my brother Ray, the only one I could reach. The utter shock and disbelief in his voice was palpable though his words over and over again were trying to assure me, “Don’t worry about it; we’ll take care of you.” I am grateful my mother was already gone; it would have killed her for sure. She had a pretty hard life by the time she had died. Looking back, I realize I do take after my mother in more ways than I ever really knew or wanted to admit. 

I was extradited back to Connecticut from New York (this is for another post) to the state barracks in Westport, CT. When I walked out, my family was there, waiting for me with open arms and unconditional love. As dysfunctional as we can sometimes be, we have always been there for each other. It is truly one of the greatest gifts my mother bestowed upon us, to teach us the value of family and never turning your back on those in need. This is still one of my most vivid and cherished memories.  Seeing my father and siblings standing there I think, deep down, I knew I might have just a mustard seed of courage to go on. I don’t think they know they saved my life that day. It has always been those moments, those slivers of time with the greatest courage along with the greatest love and support that have carried me through. 

There is so much more to say about it and believe me, I have exhausted many hours in philosophical retrospection and conversation. Most importantly, I’ve worked a lot over the past 20 years to help others and share my experience. I don’t know if I’ve directly saved any lives, but that is the irony in this, I don’t get to know if my experience has kept someone alive, because there isn’t a tragedy to brood over.  I often refer to my accident as the best and worst thing that ever happened to me. Without it I would not be who I am today. Because of it a man is not a grandfather, did not walk his daughter down the aisle on her wedding day and missed many beautiful moments in the lives of his loved ones. These are just the facts and I know in depths of my soul I cannot affect any part of the past, but I can, if I choose, shape the future. 

My life is lived in dedication to Frank Buda, the man who gave up his life so that I could live, truly live.  I hope through our experience we have saved many lives together.