Second Coming

Today is the second day of my home-release jail sentence. I must spend my working day schedule here, and can return home in the evenings and for weekends. Although the anxiety of waking up and going to work has dissipated, it is replaced with a new anxiety; of waking up and coming here. It is poisoning my soul, and those close to me are noticing a change in my personality, and that I am becoming darker. This is rather disturbing. A dear colleague of mine, Bernice, suggested that perhaps the universe had something better in store for me and was simply giving me a proverbial swift kick-in-the-seat-of-my-pants to separate me from my present position. My present position being one where I had become so comfortable with the familiarity of the unpleasantness, that I wasn’t sufficiently compelled to leave of my own volition. I consider my remaining in my current condition a sign of dedication and perseverance. Maybe I was wrong.

Today I met Madge. She’s been here several months. I also met Tim, and had to surrender the seat back to him. I sat in another chair by the wall. Chuck arrived again. Then Denise came in. She’s been here for years (or is it four years?). The room is essentially hers, by verdict of seniority and decoration. I am astounded. How did this happen? How does she remain here? Will that happen to me? Is she aware, has she realized? Or did she simply become slowly accustomed to being here everyday, slowly. I wonder if this is what prison is like. This is definitely something of what jail feels like, and jail is just a predecessor of prison. How long will Denise remain here further? Will I become like her? I’m shocked. It’s as though she’s been forgotten. Does she like it here? She’s made the space somewhat comfortable for herself, with magazines on a bookshelf, and a cloth draped across the window as a curtain. She commands a desk in the room, otherwise, there’s only a table, five chairs, and Madge’s camp-chair and TV-dinner tray/table. Denise put up some elementary school poem/song posters on the wall. I’ve read them all. I’m numb to them. There’s no children that will read these.

My mind is so clouded here. I write to empty my thoughts so that I can attend to much more important tasks, such as making a to-do list which includes telephoning my health insurance agency and battling with them to submit payment to the hospital for my emergency room visit in the previous month, which is totaling near the mid-thousands of dollars after all the ultrasounds, sonograms, CT scans, CAT scans, urine tests, prostate examinations, to determine what is the cause of the inflamed cyst that has formed in my groin, on a part of my male reproductive anatomy.

Instead, all I can do is pen these words (to type out later), until the ink runs dry, or my hand tires, or I run out of words, or the day ends, or something else more compelling. There’s not much communication with the outside world from within here. I may use my cell-phone, but there’s no privacy to make a phone call. We didn’t hear about the tradedy at Virginia Tech University until the end of the day yesterday. There are not any computers or internet service. We are prohibited from bringing personal entertainment devices, but I’ve seen some contraband here; a pair of earphones and a travel neck-pillow.

There’s people slouched over tables, or hunched in their chairs, asleep in some rooms. Tim mentioned another room in which he sat the previous year, where folks gambled and fights broke out. Who are these people? What’s happened to them? I’m reminded of those horrible daytime television talk-shows, such as the Maury Povich Show, where a group of children suffering from Turret’s Syndrome are confined together on stage. Is it any wonder then, that those children will instigate one another, and thereby appear worse than they may actually be? What desperate measure leads a person to throw a fist and punch somebody else in the face? There is a lot of tension and negative energy here, just as on those horrible daytime television talk-shows, and it is taking nearly all of my strength to maintain a calm composure under such dire circumstances and duress. Yes, I knw that prison is worse, but I am not a prisoner, and shouldn’t be made to feel like one.

There’s no elevator in the building, only a narrow stairway. It’s an old building, and neglected too. The other floors are used to hold hearings for suspended students. I don’t feel much different than them at this point; helpless and uncertain

Madge mentioned that we ought to be provided with counselors and counseling here. I agree. At least the option of workshops or lectures to attend, would be nice, to progress and improve ourselves. Instead, there is nothing here except our own wit and wisdom, which may decrease if not stimulated to increase. I am grateful to sit in a relatively uncrowded room, although the space is tight here, there’s also consequently fewer of us in here, although the room is tiny. Perhaps six feet by fifteen feet.

I hear Madge sharing her weekend’s happenings.

“I had to go to my doctor yesterday, my ‘woman’s’ doctor, y’know. They found several growths down there, and a polyp was removed from my cervix yesterday as well.”

I was not prepared for such a dialogue. I remained quiet, pretending to read. I closed my eyes, wondering what was the polite and right thing to do; listen and engage, remain in silence and ignore, get up and leave? I had no idea, and I didn’t want to be suspect of judgment by my sudden departure, so I did the simplest thing and just sat in the chair, my head bent back, face pointing to the ceiling, with my hands resting on my closed eyes, without exaggeration.

With the limited contact we have with the outside world beyond the fourth floor, it seems peaceful but that is deceiving. It’s is not the type of disassociated tranquility that comes from outdoor wilderness trips. Confined to the building, I didn’t hear of the Virginia Tech University tragedy until the evening. I felt foolish for not knowing what was happening. I’m not alone here but it’s very isolated. It’s rather noisy here, too. I’m sure that there are a lot of people with needs to express themselves here and to be heard, yet with no avenue to appeal to, other than their base functions – such as argument and ranting. Surely this is how aggression and desperation are given birth?

I write to maintain sanity, and I do it quietly to retain dignity. I attempted to go to the bathroom today, but there was quite a long line for it, and a woman entered when somebody exited, and the man waiting next – with whom she was speaking – yelled at her to hurry. Then she shouted something in Spanish, and he in turn shouted to the guard sitting at the front desk by the doorway to the stairwell (our escape). The guard replied back in Spanish, with some exasperation and reached underneath the desk and produced a roll of toilet paper which he threw to the man. The man yelled for the woman to open the bathroom door and take the roll of toilet paper and to let him watch. Egads. I couldn’t find humor in his attempt to be funny and returned to sit in the room, disgusted.

Some people were singing in the hallway as I passed by them. I’m still not sure where I am. I feel nervous to move or cause much disturbance, not wanting to draw any undue attention to myself. To tell the truth, although I don’t know anybody here, I’m trying to hide from them, as they must likewise also want to hide from me, a new face t gawk at them in their hour of disgrace.

I wish I wasn’t here.