I just feel generally that my apartment is sullied now. Like it needs to be exorcised.
I don't feel necessarily less safe. I've never felt super-safe here, as compared to living on the 33rd floor of a high-rise, behind multiple secured doors and a doorman and among a "target-rich" environment of hundreds of apartments that significantly reduced my odds of being robbed.
I know I'll feel safer later this week when the management company installs the modern steel door and window bars I demanded. I still marvel that they got in through that hole. Out of curiosity I measured it today -- 11.5 x 11.5 inches. It had to be a kid. I guess there's some justice in the fact that he'll likely be dead or in jail before his 18th birthday.
So I guess you could say I'm a bit angry. Not that angry, though. Decades of city living caused me long ago to give up the comfortable notion that criminals are victims of their circumstances. Most of them are just flat-out low lifes.
Speaking of victims, I'm not interested in being one. In college I was robbed on the street. They stuck a gun in my face and got away with my 15 dollars and a draft of my term paper. It was pretty scary, but I got over it. Wrapping your identity in the negative things that happen to you, whether it's crime or disease or injury, is no way to live a life.