I'm About to Say the F-Word. Like, a Lot.

Remember that time that our car was towed? That was a really bad day, I'll tell you.

Yeah, today is worse.

It started out the same: Dan walked out the door, keys in hand, looked around, and said, "Where is our car?"

This time, though, I knew something was really wrong, not just a mis-read tag.

I called 911. They sent a cop to our house. The cop called in the tag and VIN number. We waited.

The call came back: our car was impounded last night after being involved in a hit-and-run accident, crashed into a fence around the corner from our home. It was at a local impound lot. The cop's supervisor came over too to get a written report and let us know what we should do.

I called the insurance company. They're sending out an insurance adjuster.

I am seriously going to need some therapy and medication. I really am. I am in a state of advanced shock where I can't fully comprehend what is happening, and yet I am totally unable to avoid dealing with any of this. I know lots of people have their cars stolen, and yet, I feel so totally overwhelmed and overcome by all of this that I am unable to process any of it. On top of everything, I feel so completely violated. I have never been the victim of a crime of this particular tenor before, and I honestly don't think I would feel worse if I'd been gang-raped in the back of my stolen, most-likely totalled car.

Dan and I are sitting around, listing things to be grateful for: no one was hurt. The car had over 100,000 miles on it. The gas tank was almost empty. We weren't carjacked. Max wasn't in the car at the time.

But for fucking Christ's sake, I don't feel grateful. I don't feel fucking lucky. I feel fucked over. I'm supremely pissed. I feel like I'm in an out-of-control downward spiral and I don't know what the fucking hell to do about it. I am a blazing hormonal mess and totally unable to cope with any of this with anything other than forward motion.

Stay tuned.