When you watch Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile, don't think of Ted Bundy. Think of murder victims like my sister

Survivor’s guilt rears its head in some of the strangest ways sometimes. A survivor of a traumatic experience can find themselves feeling that sinking feeling doing the most mundane and normal tasks such as talking to friends, preparing for a life event, or even watching a film.

This might sound ridiculous to some who haven’t gone through it. You might not have that same sucker punch overhearing friends say how they’re “dead” with laughter or “want to strangle someone” over someone frustrating them. You might not get the same wretched creeping feeling as you look at your calendar trying to hype yourself up about a birthday, only to remember that you’re about to become the same age as your sister when she was murdered, and suddenly you’re not sure how you feel about it anymore.

My sister was also a mother, a daughter and a friend. And, like many victims of crime, her name has been mentioned in countless gruesome news reports. Her killer, thankfully, though he is known to some, has not gained such levels of fame and notoriety that he has eclipsed the knowledge of hers.

Ted Bundy is a name you likely do know, though. His deeds and actions are being discussed again across all media outlets at the moment. In particular, people are talking about how charismatic, intelligent, and human he was. The people that aren’t being talked about as much, if at all, are his victims. My sister isn’t one of them but 30 other women far younger than her sadly are. These women and my sister share a common thread. They were all murdered.

Moments like the release of Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile are exciting for some. For the families of victims of crimes however, they open up the floodgates of frighteningly raw emotion. Seeing these wicked and monstrous people who hurt us and our families elevated to celebrity levels is, to put it lightly, discomfiting.

Watching the Ted Bundy film this week brought me to a place I didn’t think I’d ever reach back in 2016. At the time of my sister’s murder proceedings, I hoped that my brother-in-law would indeed stand trial for his actions: strangling my sister, duct-taping her body, and literally throwing her away to rot in a box in the home she worked so tirelessly and lovingly to provide for him and my young niece. I was not close to my sister, but I didn’t want her name to be forgotten. I believed that my brother-in-law’s actions deserved to be seen and that he deserved to be held publicly accountable.

My family did not agree to this. They were afraid of just what is happening now with Ted Bundy and many other, similar killers. They didn’t want the person who murdered my sister to get famous.

My sister’s name was Jessica Thomas. She was born Jessica Giannerini. She was the oldest daughter of our small family of five. She was the one who went the conventional route; the one who made my parents proud.

Jessica grew up in a small suburban town in Illinois ironically famous for being the last place some famous killers would meet their demise. She played Nintendo games and baked cookies every Christmas with her family. She loved irreverent MTV shows like The Sifl & Olly Show and Beavis & Butthead. She played baseball as a kid and cheered for my home team’s rivals — the Chicago Cubs — as sisters do.

My sister had New Kids on the Block paraphernalia plastered all over her walls. She made haunted houses with childhood friends while our parents played euchre or did karaoke in the basement. She rode sleds with her two siblings and father in a graveyard (where she is now buried) because it was the only hill nearby the house we grew up.

In her older years, my sister was a loving mother. She stood up for gay rights. She volunteered in her community giving back to children in foster care, and she empowered young women around her with her local Girl Scout Troop as a troop leader. My sister made silly faces with her daughter, who she loved more than anything in the world. She was a rock for my younger brother, who was sadly the one who reported her missing and the one who got the call when she was found dead days later.

I can’t begin to tell you how often I think of these memories now, and how they have changed with the knowledge of what she went through when she died. I can’t begin to tell you how much I never wanted to watch members of my family react to the news of the horrific acts of violence bestowed upon her. I can’t begin to tell you how painful it was to have to appear in court for a hard, uncompromising custody battle one day after my sister was found dead in her home.

I can’t begin to tell you what it’s like when you have to discuss sentencing with your own family, or fight with them about whether the death penalty should have been on the table. I can’t begin to tell you about having to sit through possible plea deals to avoid your sister’s murderer getting a film or documentary made about him. I can’t begin to tell you about what you have to go through when you attempt to type up words for your victim’s statement.

I can’t begin to tell you about the pain of a sister who never got to get to the other side of all our silly sibling rivalries before someone took that chance away.

At least 30 women’s lives were cut short due to the actions of a man who should not be idolized despite how “charming” he was towards his victims, how he looked, or how “articulate” he was or wasn’t. When you’re watching films like Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile, I implore you to consider the the people these killers touched. The victims are the dead, but remember those of us still alive to feel the pain. They are people, who, like my family, shouldn’t have to worry that the people who hurt them might become famous to the point of fan bases if they proceed with a trial.

My brother-in-law took away my sister’s voice the day he murdered her. When you watch these films and shows I want to remind you that each person that was murdered in these cases was someone like my sister was once. They were real people whose faces, voices, and stories are important to remember.

Years later, I still might not agree with my family about everything, but after watching the spectacle on multiple outlets decades after Ted Bundy perpetrated his reign of terror across several states, I’m thankful they insisted on a plea deal. I’m thankful we avoided the circus of a trial. And really, I shouldn’t have to be.