From Whence I Came

Yeah, I've "spoken" - perhaps too much - of the day that changed everything. The beginning that was an ending that was the beginning of an ending and the end of a way of life. Well, the "anniversary" of that date is fast approaching - September 14, 2006, to be precise about it. I've been so melancholy and edgy...and I'm sort of aware of it (obviously), but it wasn't until just recently that I've become AWARE of it. I guess we're all like that.

I recently had job interview in which it became necessary to "disclose". They were going to background check, and I decided that it was preferable to me to get my story out there in some sort of a context, rather than as the contents of a perfunctory report that related just the facts. Ma'am. I'll have another such opportunity tomorrow, and to bastardize Nietzsche...even though it does make you stronger, I'd argue that it kills you a little bit in the process, too. The only way I can really characterize it is surreal: THIS is my life? THIS is my story? And that is where I become eminently frustrated: Because it's only PART of the story, but such a fantastic part that it sort of supersedes all else. What I told this interviewer, though, is so much easier to say, and boy, does it sound eloquent. I said: "I would have to ask, at what point does one's past become just that - one's past?" I also gave her some blahblahblah - and I'm coming across as more facetious than I felt, or feel - about the fact that I CANNOT dwell there...that I have to look ahead but that when I do look back, I look at the then and the now.

And that brings me to more surreality: I mentioned that my formal punishment consisted of 6 months in an "alternative" correctional facility - although my lawyer nailed it when she told the prosecutor that they could send me to prison (and that was the first offer from the prosecutor - two years in prison, take it or leave it, and you should really take it because I happen to be in a "generous" mood today), they could take my freedom, but the divorce/custody had really taken all that was meaningful from me; this woman can be hurt no further, she said. Well, during that 6 months, I crossed a lot of paths. And some of them were being trodden by some very disturbing people, disturbing in the way that institutionalization renders a person. One of those path-walkers is back for another 15-minute helping of infamy...she's currently facing federal charges for compelling prostitution...of minors...and despite the fact that, in the interest of said minors, particulars about the kids are being closely guarded, it's very likely that at least one of these children is her own.

Relativity is inherently dangerous in many ways, particularly when it's being used for self-aggrandizement or, worse, self-pity. This woman's actions have been in my face and on my mind for several weeks now, and I fear that I'm applying my own, very twisted version of the Theory of Relativity. Like addiction, for this there is no cure...and I need to get myself on the road to recovery quickly. I'm finding myself licking wounds that should have healed long ago...and maybe even some that never existed in the first place.

Only the Lonely

I don't do "alone" very well. I always thought that having a husband, a family, would "complete" me in some way...and what a bitter disappointment to find out that they were not doing what I believed, almost unequivocally, would be their job. Now, it all seems so academic; if you don't have it within, you sure ain't gonna get it from without.

I still do not have it within.

I have written, to some extent, about the crime and the punishment. And, if you go to enough 12-step meetings, or spend enough time in rehabs or in the "recovering" community, you'll hear about plenty of dirty deeds. It's never a good idea to play the "relativity" game, and I've always salved my conscience by telling myself that I got cracked - HARD - because I have been given to in other areas. By this I mean that I've been given intellectual gifts, strength, determination, and the wherewithal to dig myself out of the hole into which I so fervently threw myself. After all, I tell me, if I'm going to admit and accept the bad - my weaknesses - then I am allowed to acknowledge the good - my strengths. It should by now be obvious that to some extent, this constitutes an internal dialogue between Me and Me...a pep self-talk, if you will. However, I do honestly believe that you are only given what you have the strength to withstand...although given by whom, I am not yet sure.

This only helps sometimes. And this is not one of those times.

My children, as I've said, are in the primary custody of their father. I spend as much time with them as humanly possible, but it's never enough. Not nearly. I speak to them almost every night on the phone, although I didn't talk to them last night; school began again for me, and I had classes until 10 pm...and, stupidly, I hadn't charged my phone enough and it died before I returned home. So, I was very anxious to speak with them this evening. For Christmas, my ex-husband bought our son a Wii, and it's been a huge, huge hit...it's something he's wanted for some time now. So, when he answered the phone, I heard It: That Sound. The one that causes the bottom to drop out of my stomach and my throat to clench up like I'm going to vomit.

What I heard was the sound of a happy family. My happy former family...my forsaken family. And I ask myself, When will that entity who has decided that I have the "strength" to withstand what sometimes feel like blow after blow...when will It have decided that enough is, quite simply, enough? Perhaps I haven't yet cried "Uncle" loudly enough, and the same stubbornness that I place in the asset column won't allow me to do that - not yet.

Oh, yes, I was incarcerated for 6 months. And the loss of one's freedom is a harsh punishment, to be sure. But that? A cakewalk compared to the loss that, quite simply, just keeps on taking.

I fully expect to receive some "get over yourself" feedback on this post and I probably need it. There's not a shadow of a doubt in my unquiet mind that I am doing nothing less than wallowing in self-pity at this moment, and the only thing I can say for myself is that at least I acknowledge that fact. But...moments like this, these are why I started this blog in the first place.

(I Hope) The Kids are Alright

I am, once again, grateful for the feedback I've received on the posts I've published thus far...and, as I mentioned previously, there's been no embellishment - hell, this story doesn't NEED it.



I think, though, that a little backstory might be in order. Although I am, indeed, a convicted felon, it's doubtful that, upon meeting me in, say, a grocery store or at a school function, I'd be the one you'd look at and say, "Oh, she must be the felon in the room." Nonetheless, what was described in the "Redux" post was one of 3 such events. Being caught red-handed during the last one, I confessed to the other two and was charged with 3 counts of burglary (felony 2s, because of the fact that this was someone's house; an "inhabited structure", in legalese), and 3 counts of theft (felony 4s). I did serve a period of incarceration, but it was in what's euphemistically known as an "alternative facility", not a prison, per se; however, should I have been subjected to the maximum penalty associated with each charge, the penalty would have been - get this - twenty-seven years in prison. If THAT isn't deserving of bold italics, then I don't know what is. The even-more-unbelievable thing is that the actions that could potentially have taken me to that place for that length of time amounted to a TOTAL of six minutes. Six. Minutes. Of my life. And, for all that my infant daughter was with me on that last and most fateful of trips, I wasn't charged with child endangerment or anything like that, because, despite the fact that I left her in the car while I broke the law, the amount of time she was left alone and the location of the car actually made this part of things less severe than, say, leaving your child locked in the car while you ran into the store to pay for your gas.



So. Before the legal situation had even begun to play itself out, my husband sued for divorce, custody of the kids, and for me to "vacate the marital residence" which, in all fairness, had been HIS residence prior to us getting together. I will never forget the day the papers were served: We were coming back from a trip to Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh, where we had taken our tiny daughter for a checkup, of sorts - she had undergone some evaluation due to a potential issue that arose from her newborn bloodwork. As we were turning into what was still our driveway, a sheriff's cruiser was pulling out. They pulled up to our vehicle, handed in the paperwork to him, and he simply handed it over to me. I opened it up, read it, looked up, and said, incongruously, "Oh. This is from you," almost as though it were a gift, or a letter - and not the beginning of the end of the marriage that I had treasured so much.

I contested NOTHING. He got the kids. I have a good relationship with him, and see my kids frequently...we don't abide by the formality of the court order, and still do things as a "family", like go to the fair and birthday parties. But it will never be the same, of course. And I mourn the fact that my small daughter, who was not quite one when I moved out, will never know a home with two parents. Or, is it worse for my now-ten-year-old boy, who DID know it, and mourns the loss? Worst of all, perhaps, is the fact that they are in the care, while my ex and I work, of my evil nemesis, HIS MOTHER, about whom there will be many a forthcoming post. I've often wondered about how to handle HER in the memoir-to-be...she's the type that wouldn't even be grateful to be made famous (hah...infamous is more like it)!