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Growing up, I was immersed in the world of true crime. My mother’s modest library contained only non-fiction accounts of murder, fueled by her own tragic loss: her best friend was taken from her under suspicious circumstances when they were both in their twenties. This sparked in her a deep-rooted interest in truth, justice, and the stories behind criminal acts.
My fascination with true crime blossomed as well. As a preteen, after finishing R.L. Stine’s chapter books and Lois Duncan’s thrilling novels like I Know What You Did Last Summer, I stumbled upon Duncan’s true crime memoir, Who Killed My Daughter? It chronicled her relentless quest to find her daughter’s murderer, a pursuit that continued until her passing in 2016. My admiration for Duncan led me to write her a letter, and much to my surprise, she responded with a heartfelt note. We even connected on Facebook. During college, while pursuing a psychology degree, I eagerly enrolled in courses that focused on abnormal psychology, immersing myself in the study of sociopaths and serial killers. I dreamed of becoming a Criminal Profiler for the FBI.
However, my life took a tragic turn just two weeks after I graduated. My mother was murdered, and the ensuing legal battle to imprison her murderer—my own brother—was as traumatic as the harrowing moment I found her lifeless body. Many do not understand that co-victims like me do not start healing immediately after such a devastating loss; the criminal justice process often prolongs or even halts our healing journey.
For the rest of my life, I will have to advocate for my brother, my abuser, to remain incarcerated. The parole process began nine and a half years after his conviction, coincidentally just ten days after my own true crime memoir was published. So, true crime is not merely a passing interest for me; it is an integral part of my existence.
After my mother’s murder, my perception of true crime shifted dramatically. These were no longer just stories or statistics—they became part of my family’s narrative, a series of heartbreaking events that have forever altered my life.
I’m not alone in this experience. In the U.S., over 16,000 new murder victims are reported every year, a figure that has surged by 130% since 2020, indicating a growing number of co-victims like myself. In a time when true crime content is proliferating, I urge creators and fans alike to approach this genre with sensitivity and awareness.
I don’t advocate for a complete rejection of true crime; it has shaped my identity as much as my cultural upbringing. However, I ask that we all consider the language we use regarding these stories. For instance, I would never listen to the popular podcast My Favorite Murder because its title is deeply triggering for me. While it’s unreasonable to expect them to change their branding solely for my comfort, a statement acknowledging the title’s impact on victims and co-victims would be appreciated.
As society becomes increasingly aware of diverse perspectives, many marginalized voices are sharing their experiences, and it’s essential for us to learn from these narratives. The burden of educating others should not fall on those who have already endured substantial trauma; we are now focused on healing, not recounting our pain.
Fortunately, many in the true crime community are striving to highlight the human aspect of these narratives. Content creators like Tiffany Reese of Something Was Wrong provide a platform for victims to share their stories with dignity. Kim Goldman transforms her personal journey through loss and the legal system into impactful content, while Sarah E. Turney’s podcast Voices for Justice sheds light on her quest for justice following her sister’s murder.
Therefore, I encourage you to be discerning in your engagement with true crime. For many of us, this is not a trend or mere entertainment; it’s a harsh reality that deserves respect and acknowledgment.
This article was originally published on Jan. 14, 2022.
Summary:
The author reflects on their lifelong connection to true crime, shaped by personal tragedy after their mother was murdered by their brother. This experience has transformed their understanding of true crime from mere entertainment to a deeply personal reality. They call for sensitivity and awareness within the true crime community, urging creators and fans to acknowledge the impact of language and narratives on victims and co-victims. The author highlights the importance of respectful storytelling and advocates for a more humanistic approach to true crime content.