Mary Rondeau Westra

After the murder of my son Peter, in July 2001, I was often afraid I was going crazy. I felt helplessly engulfed by fear, anger, doubt, and shame. The days seemed endless. I'd yearn for bedtime so I could wake to another day, yet sleep eluded me, and the next day brought no respite. I felt as though no one could understand the depth of my despair.

I took to wailing in a journal given by a friend. In it, I scribbled raw feelings meant for my eyes alone, crying with words, and bleeding on the page. I wrote to Peter and I wrote to God asking all the unanswerable questions: Why my son? Why this family? What am I supposed to do with this tragedy? As Henri Nouwen wrote: "writing became part of my struggle for survival...giving me the little distance from myself that I needed to keep from drowning in despair." When I put something in my journal, I didn't have to carry it in my heart.

I used my journals to record dreams of Peter as well as to remember details of his life and stories about him from friends. My ten journals are now a scrapbook of images of a living, loving Peter I don't want to forget.

When I first reread my journals during a writing class, I was horrified by the gush, the self-absorption, the rage. Yet I also saw love. I saw progression toward light, a journey through grief, and hope after tragedy. Now I am more at peace with the world. I have come to live with my son in a new way—through memories that will not fade. My words tell the story of survival. May they offer hope to other victims of crime.