Opinion: How a bullet fired by a stranger almost killed and forever changed me

Editor’s Note: This essay is part of the CNN Opinion series “America’s Future Starts Now” in which people share how they have been affected by the biggest issues facing the nation and experts offer their proposed solutions. Katherine “Kathy” Pisabaj is a student at the University of Illinois at Chicago, where she’s working toward becoming a registered dietitian. She’s been involved locally and nationally with Students Demand Action, an organization of young activists working to end gun violence. This piece was adapted from an interview with CNN’s Jessica Ravitz Cherof. The views expressed in this commentary are Pisabaj’s own. Read more opinion on CNN.

I always used to be the happiest, most cheerful person. That’s not who I am anymore.

My life changed on February 25, 2018, the day I was shot.

I was 19 years old and completing my prerequisites at community college so I could transfer into my dream nutrition program at the University of Illinois at Chicago. I was living at home with my mom, two sisters and my brother, but I felt independent. I had just bought my first car, and it was one of the best times of my life.

Before I was shot that Sunday, it was an amazing day, spent with those I love in the places that brought me peace. It started at Mass at the Catholic church I have gone to my entire life, followed by family time at the local churro shop before my boyfriend and I went back to his house – which is across the street from the elementary school we both went to and the playground we grew up playing in – to spend time with his family.

At 9:30 p.m., we left and got in his car so he could take me home. He was playing for me the Bad Bunny song that had just come out, “Dime Si Te Acuerdas” (“Tell Me if You Remember”), while he pulled out of the parking spot. I was looking at my boyfriend and talking about the song when his face changed, and he sped up.

I heard a loud pop. The bullet went through the right taillight, through the back seat and through the passenger seat. It felt like a hard punch in the back. But once I took a breath, the real pain started. That’s when I screamed.

I found out later that the bullet had hit me in my mid-left back and traveled through my pericardium (the membrane around the heart), diaphragm, spleen and stomach before lodging inside of me.

‘On a path to make something of ourselves’

A security camera from a nearby house later showed a guy in a white tank top crouched between two cars, like he was waiting for someone. When we passed by, he stood up and started throwing up gang signs (hand signals representing his gang) before shooting into our car. That’s what my boyfriend saw before he took off. In the video, it looked like the shooter then realized it was the wrong car and ran away. Neither my boyfriend nor I has ever been — or ever will be — affiliated with gangs. Shortly after, a car similar to my boyfriend’s drove by.

I am the seventh of eight children raised by a single mother who immigrated to this country from Mexico. We grew up in a low-income neighborhood of Chicago where violence was normal and accepted. But we believed that if we stayed away from gangs, we would not get hurt. My mom made sacrifices and made it a goal to move to a better neighborhood. She made that dream come true. Being first generation meant we were on a path to make something of ourselves.

After the shooting, my boyfriend dialed 911 as he headed toward the nearest hospital. At a main intersection, we saw a police car right in front of us. We honked and tried to flag the officers down. They turned and pulled over, so we did, too. But when the police came out, they had their guns pointed at my boyfriend.

I banged on the roof of the car and yelled that I’d been shot. An officer confirmed that I was wounded before calling for help. I remember a firefighter saying he couldn’t believe another young girl had been shot that night; other shooting victims across Chicago that night included two school-age sisters.

I stayed fully conscious for most of my time in the ambulance. My boyfriend, suffering from a major panic attack, was taken in a separate ambulance. I began to pray and told the paramedic to tell my mom, my siblings and my boyfriend I love them. I felt like I could not breathe and didn’t think I was going to make it through the night. Since it was such a beautiful day, my thought was that God had let me see everyone I am closest to so that I could say goodbye.

When I woke up at the hospital, doctors and nurses were moving quickly around my bed. My boyfriend wasn’t allowed to be with me since the police wanted to interrogate him – as if he were somehow guilty. A nurse tried to comfort and distract me by telling me his life story. I remember them numbing my left side but feeling the pressure of the cut and how they moved the chest tube into me.

My mom came in as soon as I was stabilized. It took all my strength — and all of hers — not to cry. I did not want to scare her, so I put on the strongest face I could. She hugged me, prayed for me, told me everything was going to be OK and that she’d see me after surgery.

I woke up surrounded by her, the rest of my family, my boyfriend and his parents.

Setbacks and the search for help

Two detectives showed up. They introduced themselves, asked what happened and said they’d do their best to find who did this. That was it. Of the gun violence survivors I’ve since met in Chicago, none of them has been shot and wounded. All had someone in their lives shot and killed. And I don’t think a single one of our cases has been solved. It feels like they just do not investigate a normal person being shot, especially those of us who are Black and brown. Justice is not being served to us.

I was only in the hospital for a week. Every doctor and nurse said they didn’t know how I was still alive, how I wasn’t paralyzed.

When I got home, I could barely walk, eat or do anything. My mom, sister and boyfriend had to help me. The house was full of family and flowers, and I felt especially loved and supported.

But the PTSD was, and is, real. I first noticed it while still in the hospital. I would jump in my sleep and was in constant fear. When it was time to go home, I asked them to discharge me during the day — not at night. They discharged me at night, forcing me back into the front seat of my mom’s car in the darkness, just a week after being shot in the front seat of my boyfriend’s car. I couldn’t stop crying. She prayed for me and comforted me as I kept my eyes closed the entire 25-minute drive home.

In the following weeks, my boyfriend would park my car in the garage and have me sit in the front seat with him to practice getting comfortable in a car again. We just sat there.

Missing five weeks of school set me back. I ended up dropping classes and had to wait a year before I could apply to the program I’m in now. I went back to work at a fast-food restaurant but had to quit after a heavy pan slipped, when I tried to lift it, and cut my scar.

March for Our Lives, the student-led protest calling for gun safety, happened shortly after I was shot. I wanted to be a part of this movement. I found a Moms Demand Action meeting in my neighborhood and went with my mom. Volunteers welcomed and comforted us. They gave me opportunities to meet other survivors.

After that, I got involved with launching the first Students Demand Action chapter in Illinois. I learned that my story has meaning. And I connected with a survivor from California who has a nearly identical story to mine. To this day, we check in on each other. This community helped me gain confidence and gave me purpose.

But I also needed professional help and couldn’t find a therapist. Everyone was booked, not the right specialist or too expensive.

What changed and what needs to change

The turning point for me came when I got a new job as a receptionist at my church. More people began learning my story. A woman asked if I’d received any mental health services. It turned out she was a psychotherapist who specialized in shootings. I initially rebuffed her offer to help me. But exactly one year after the shooting, she came into the church and asked how I was doing. I wasn’t doing well at all and broke down.

She gave me hourlong sessions every single week at no charge. Without her, I don’t know how I would have healed mentally or what my life would look like today. It breaks my heart to think of how many people like me haven’t gotten help. And the fact is, so many people that do harm have been harmed.

After years of healing, I am back to the most normal life I can now have. But recovering from this sort of trauma is not a straight path.

Last month was the first time I passed a shooting scene in Chicago since I was shot. I was on my way to the laundromat and drove by where three people had been shot. I fell apart. My boyfriend held my hand as my mom tried to comfort me over the phone.

My nephew was in fifth grade when I was shot. He had an assignment to write a book on anything he wanted, and he decided to write about gun violence prevention and dedicated it to me, his Tía Kathy, or Aunt Kathy. It was both heartwarming and heartbreaking. He was learning about advocacy and activism — and would come with me to protests and marches — but he shouldn’t have had to write about gun violence. He should have written about Pikachu, his favorite Pokémon character.

Kids are the most pure and innocent human beings. That’s why the shooting at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas, broke me. It depressed me for weeks. I felt guilty even living my life knowing those children, their families and members of that community were living the worst moments of their lives. Life is way too short. It can be taken away in a second no matter who you are or what you look like.

I battle with anxiety and depression and sometimes feel so sad, even when I know I should be happy. It can be a constant battle. The fear and anxiety are still with me — especially when I’m out at night — but I know how to manage and live with it.

We live in a world that has become so unkind. If it’s not happening to you, then it’s not happening. We’re desensitized to other people’s hurt. Gun violence continues to tear apart communities and devastate lives like mine every single day.

People need to start being kind to one another and show compassion and empathy for what others are feeling. We need to get back to these basics so together we can end this cycle of violence.