My emotional day. by Lesa

8/31/2014
Today seemed to be a hard day. My son called me this morning and asked me to come over with the kids, they are all in town, 2 live in Houston area, 1 still at home, 1 in Austin and 2 in San Antonio.  All were at my daughter's home in Houston. I went over. At one point I sat by my son, laid my head on him and I wanted to cry.  I had told them the update on Wes, court date on Wednesday, etc.  I found myself embarrassed for myself, embarrassed for him, I wanted to explain to them that this is not who he is. This man is amazing and I love him.  My girls have been able to get to know him more, they are in town.  The youngest is still at home and they have a great relationship. The older three boys only know the basics of what happened and his history of a DWI. I was saddened that he was not there to share in the kids, sad that I could not explain to them the complexity of a loved one who has screwed up, but is not a screw up. My children are not judgmental, and have been very accepting of a new step dad.  Perhaps it was just my uneasiness of the coming court date.

Visiting with Wesley I found myself teary again. He asked me why I wouldn't look him in the eye. I did, of course, but I was trying not to cry.  I didn't want to cry around him.  I don't want him to know I was sad. I don't want to hurt him or worry him.  He is already so afraid that I am going to get tired of this ordeal and divorce him.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  He is a wonderful mate. He is my best friend.  I am not mad at him.  I guess I have not really processed the reality of how long he may be gone and that is starting to hit with the coming court date.  I am sure this court date will provide no answers.  I feel strongly that if they wanted to revoke his probation, it would already be in the process.

9/1/2014
I find myself unable to sleep, crying quietly in my bed, the dogs asleep next to me.  My relationship with Wesley has consumed me.  I realize that I have neglected friendships. I adore my husband and would rather be with him than anyone.  Normally his schedule is completely around mine. Rarely does his work need him beyond what I am working.  So we spend all our time together.  Now, his absence is leaving a gaping hole in my life.  I am feeling the loss, and fearing the time I will be alone 'til he comes home.  Wesley today expressed, again, his fear that I will tire and leave him, leave this ordeal.  His fear is real because statistically, 80% of men and 100% of women are divorced when incarceration is a year or more. I had no idea. Staggering.

"Judee Reeves wrote in 1994, "Families of inmates have been called the "hidden victims of crime" (Carlson & Cervera, 1992, p.5). When a crime is committed, there are victims other than the primary victim(s). These secondary victims in."clude the families of the primary victim and another often overlooked group of victims -- family members of the person who has committed the crime. The families of inmates are often overlooked in research and in designing social programs, yet many suffer devastating consequences as a result of a loved one's incarceration."

Prison Marriage

Can a Marriage Survive a Prison Sentence?

By Sheri Stritof

My husband has nothing to worry about , I am madly in love with him.  I have never met another like him. He fits me so well.  Smart, sexy, handsome, funny, silly, loves outdoors, loves to ride motorcycles, and adventurous, in many ways.  He is also an atheist, I am a moderate Christian.  We do not see eye to eye, but we listen, respect our differences, and love that we are passionate about our beliefs.  I hurt for him, so passionate for justice, now to be taken away from practicing what he is so gifted at.  I would be devastated if I could not practice nursing.  It is as much of my identity as anything.  I love people, I feel their pain, physical and emotional.  I try to change the world in just a small piece of one person's life.  People are important, all people, from all walks of life.  My husband feels the same when it comes to justice.  Our hearts so similar, with a different focus. It is amazing at times how similar we are.  We both carry desperately wounded hearts from our childhood.  It has formed some bad habits in our adults lives that we are still having to overcome.  But are we not always striving to overcome some baggage of our past?  Some childhoods are less damaged and painful then others, but the weaknesses are still there.  I am sure my own children will have issues, no parents are perfect, we do the best that we can, but we make mistakes.

My third anniversary will be this week.  I married my husband while he was incarcerated in Montgomery county jail.  It seems fitting, of sorts, that it comes back here.  So what does it mean?  What is different?  What is the same?  hmmmm.  I love my husband even more now then when I married  him.  I have heard him cry, like a little boy.  Scared, of losing me more than anything.  He has opened up about his past abuse, and I am understanding more of his behaviors, or his poor coping skills.  He has grown and learned so much in the past few years.  He has healed family relationships, and severed one. I know him completely, and he knows me.  We understand each other, and have helped one another make peace with our past, and set up our future.  Wesley has had a set back, but it does not need to define him.  I see now, where we failed.  He needs me, he admits freely now.  Not something he has always been able to do.  Working nights was very hard for him, and put him in a vulnerable place.  We won't do that again.  He has always been so protective and careful with me and my own weaknesses and places that were painful.  I missed a big one of his, but only because I didn't understand or know.  He can not be alone at night.  It is complicated and simple.

When you go through rehab you learn what your poor coping skills are, and what your weaknesses are in order to A. better prepare for probable problems and B. have set up specific things to do when problems come.  I didn't understand Wesley's problem with being alone, especially at night.  Poor coping skills eventually snuck their way back in, and we are where we are.

Must try to sleep, have to be up for work at 6am.  Hope, somehow, this helps someone out there, but even it if isn't, it is good therapy for me.

Night.

The importance of soup. By Wesley

You will recall that last week the commissary lady let us down.  We waited impatiently for her to arrive with her bags of treats. Hour after hour we pressed our faces into the glass watching for her until the guards announced she would make no appearance.  We revere her as Santa Clause, the tooth fairy and Jesus, all rolled into one.  Her selfless quest to bring us joy elevates her above mere mortals.  But after she failed to come and left us all empty handed, (and bellied), there was only one reasonable conclusion we could reach:
The commissary lady is a whore.

She proved that once again today, but before I detail her latest transgressions, I must first address soup.

The one thing every commissary order has in common is soup.  Not ordinary soup, mind you, but Ramen noodles.  They come in four flavors: Chili, Beef, Chicken, and spicy vegetable.  But the truth is they should all be labelled as "salt flavored".  They are absolutely poison to your body as each of them contains as much sodium as the dead sea.  But we order and consume them in bulk because a soup is not just a soup.

A soup is a unity of currency.  Every thing is valued in soups.  A bottom bunk next to me just opened up and the guy above it was very happy to move down.  But he was offered a soup to allow another guy to take it and he accepted.  Bottom bunk is worth a soup.

In jails and prisons Ramen noodles ought to be stamped with "legal tender for all debts, public and private".  I bought a special mattress last week for 2 soups and it was worth every noodle.  Lose a game of spades? Give the man a soup.

But soup means more too.  I realized this past week that many have no soup.  I asked around, and the consensus is that people without soup either don't have anyone to put money on their books, or they don't have anyone willing to put money on their books.Either way, they are alone.  In addition to not getting a bag of unhealthy joy from the commissary lady(whore), they have no one to call.  There are no visits.  There is no one to pick them up when they get released.

A soupless guy just got released.  He'd intimated that he was homeless earlier in the week.  So I asked him where he was going-who was picking him up?  He said he would walk to Interstate 45 and sleep under the overpass.

Soup is not always just soup.

This afternoon, after yet another stressful day waiting for the commissary lady, she appeared as if from nowhere.  Grown men wept while they jockeyed for position at the door slot through which her goodies poured forth.  Her bags dwindled away to nothing.  I was left aghast- empty handed and ashamed.

No soup for me.

What is underneath the surface. by Wesley

8/28/2014

A glance around at most times of the day at the 24 men who share this cell, seems like a happy lot.  Laughter is near constant.  Smiles and games, men engaged in conversations and prayer; activity is constant.

There are arguments, of course.  Any disagreement can lead to dangerous tensions.  The T.V. for example, is a serious source of conflict.  But most conflicts are full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.  I can hear Jane Goodall narrating the conflicts calmly in my head-"young male chimps displaying their anger and aggression with no harm done."  She would know just what to say.

Card games and dominoes are going on non-stop; laughter and bravado pour forth.  The same stories of capers past are told and retold daily.  Exploits with women, especially "dope whores", are relived to great laughter every day.

Today I watched a man laughing wholeheartedly while playing spades.  His face clouded during each lull in the action.  His smile was strained and his eyes sad.  A shadow passed over his face each time he allowed himself a moment to reflect.

The young man in the bunk next to me sits and stares into space and tells me he is off in the world.  He swears that he will no longer do or sell meth when he gets out of custody, whenever that is. It will all be different-he says- he is moving to Seattle.  I suppose he's thinking about Seattle when his eyes are so distant.  He is earnest: there is no greater penitent than the incarcerated.

The eighteen year old above me who is accused of armed robbery wept tonight after seeing his mother for the first time since his arrest.  Gone was the tough kid who arrived last night.  All that was left was a frightened child who'd disappointed his mother.

Earlier a guy got off the phone after an animated conversation with his girlfriend.  He told us she told him they'd been evicted.  That she'd told him she was not happy and then their time on the phone was abruptly cut off and he couldn't get her back on the phone.  His eyes were ringed with red while he considered what her next sentence was going to be.

I didn't shave for two weeks after arrival.  I couldn't look in the mirror long enough to shave, so I ignored that part of my hygiene.  Before too long the itching overcame my shame and I shaved.  Then I picked up my book again-any book- anything to keep me from thinking.

If you could crawl inside the cracks in the facade, you would see that the vast majority of these men are deeply sad.  Not proud of where we are, who we are, or what we have done to ourselves and to our loved ones. The shame is a shroud over everything we do.

Brush away the bravado and you can see the fear in us as well.  Fear of the present, of course, and also the retribution that will soon enough sting us all.

Also, the fear of being alone gnaws away.  Cast aside and away by families frustrated by our poor choices.  Shown the door by a significant other more interested in a relationship with a man who helps with the kids, the bills, and the emptiness. A man she can touch.

So we laugh, because that is better than the alternative.

Next: The importance of soup (really).

Yay, a court date!

Well, it may not be good news at court, but at least the waiting will be partly over.  I guess I never really explained how we ended up here.  I was working a night shift, Wesley went to a birthday party of a friend.  As what happens many times when I work nights, Wesley misses me, and is lonely.  This day was not different, except at his friends house he decided to have a few drinks.   He thought it had been enough time, he had been eating, but he messed up.  On his motorcycle he likes to dance, he listens to music on his headphones, and sways back and forth in his lane. He got pulled over. I had just texted him, around 11pm, asking him what he was doing. I had not heard from him in awhile.  He said he had gotten pulled over and would be arrested for DWI.  I stared at the screen, my gut wrenched. All I could do was type, OMG. I was just shocked.

I had been through this before.  I had met Wesley, another long story, and we had just gotten serious in our relationship when he was thrown into jail for missing a drug urine test, which is the same as a dirty test. The judge held him for 3 months before telling him he could go to SAFP for 9 months, or get revoked.  During the 3 months at County I didn't get to touch him. I got two 20 minute per week visits.  Once he got to SAFP, which was just over 200 miles, one way, I drove every weekend for a 2 hour visit.  Because I came from so far, once a month I was allowed an extra 2 hour visit on the same weekend. I would stay in a hotel and have Saturday and Sunday to visit.  We wrote almost every day.  We talked on the phone every day.  It was good therapy, but was so long, so hard, I missed him so much.  Now, I'm looking at that phone, seeing his text, thinking, I am not going to see him again for 3-5 years. I was heartbroken and I still had to finish my shift, pretending everything was okay.  Wesley was allowed to keep his phone for a couple of hours and he texted with me til his phone died. He was devastated, suicidal.  Told me to divorce him and move on.  He told me later, he looked around the cell for something to kill himself with.  Despite my own heartbreak, I hurt for him.  I told him over and over, it would be okay, that we would get through it together.  When I got home in the morning, I could finally let it go.  Thank God my kids were gone, I wept. I couldn't sleep and had work again.  I knew work would be a good distraction. I showered, drank water and got dressed.  I was in shock.  I came home, I knew I wouldn't hear from him for a few days while they processed him in Harris county.  At one point I was angry at him, felt like I had been betrayed.  My last memory with him, he was dressed so handsomely, getting ready to go visit his friend. He leaned down and gave me a peck on the cheek.  My last touch for maybe 3 years?  I cried.  I cried a lot.

The other fun part of this was Wesley's identity was being mixed up with another with his same birthday.  The other guy was a really bad guy.  This has happened in the past.  We believe part of the reason he was arrested at all was because of this other guys record.  My husband says the arresting officer was very nice, even asking him what he was doing driving the way he was, Wes explained it.  Anyway, they didn't set bond at first, and when they finally did they through out a $100,000 bond, which was grossly over fair.  But there is no negotiations, you pay it if you want out, Judge set it high because he never thought he would be able to pay it.  Luckily, I have wonderful friends like attorney Lori Laird, my best friend, and another friend she introduced me to attorney Shari Goldburg, an attorney who also own Freedom Bail Bonds/Bay Area Bail Bonds.  These people are awesome. I was so stressed they handled everything professionally, quick, and were just awesome.  I can not recommend any of them enough.  Wesley got out of jail the day before we had to leave to see my son get married.  It was 2 months and 3 court dates before he finally turned himself in to Montgomery County.

So now, Wesley is on probation in Montgomery County, waiting to see what the judge will decide to do for breaking his probation.  Then we have to face up to Harris County and what they decide to do.  We are praying, praying and hoping that Wesley will be allowed to go to rehab, get clean and sober, and get another chance.  He would be on a probated prison sentence, fingers crossed....well, I will be praying.  Till then, I don't think I will be eating or sleeping much. I have more to write, but I am falling out. I am only halfway through my work week. 50 hours this week, I'm tired.

Being locked apart, by Lesa

8/26/2014

I'm tired.  I have just worked thirteen hours. When I got off of work, I picked up my son so we can buy a few groceries, school supplies, and dog food. We got child support in, so the funds were available.  The rest goes to bills, and stupid phone service.  Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the privilege of having the overpriced calls.  What I don't appreciate is not being about to look at the account activity to make sure they are charging me correctly, they make mistakes often. I have complained about this before.  I spent 2 hours writing complaints to the FCC and BBB.  We will leave it at that.

Money is tight with only one income.  Time is tight, because now I have to take care of the house, cars, kids, well, only one, three big dogs, and two cats.  I try not to get resentful, usually I am not.  I know my husband never meant for any of this to happen.  He is normally a thoughtful, attentive husband.  His choice to drink has left us in a bind, and the financial cost is staggering.  We have two children in college who depend on me for 1/2 their support.  The pressure gets me down sometimes, but it is a waste of time and energy.  It is not going to change, nor help anyone.  I love my husband dearly, he is my best friend.  He made a mistake, and we don't even know what the fall out will be.  I will be strong and brave.  I will love him through it all.  I have made terrible mistakes in my life, and it is when I have deserved it the least, that love, somehow still got through.  I can only hope to continue to keep this attitude.  My faith gives me the strength, and Jesus's example of love and acceptance sets a high standard.  It is what keeps me facing forward.

When my husband and I are together, we enjoy every moment.  Whether it is doing nothing but being in our jammies, watching TV, camping in the mountains, or riding motorcycles through beautiful scenic Texas.  He and I get each other.  Even without saying much, we understand what makes the other one tick. We accept, unconditionally, each other, and help each other understand ourselves better.  I trust him completely.  I feel safe with him.  No one has ever made me feel that way.

If we keep our eyes on each other, I will pray that God helps me, I know that we will grow in love and be closer than ever. We will learn more about ourselves and each other.  For now, we are locked apart by geographic location, but he is forever in my heart and soul.  There, we are inseparable.

Being locked apart. by Wesley

8/22/2014

"For me, the hardest part of being in jail is missing my wife.   We are best friends.  Of course, most people say that about their spouses, but we truly are.  We do everything together.  We share inside jokes that mystify others as we giggle.  We are always touching, (like home base), when something happens, she is my first call.

Many of my brethren in here immediately cut off contact with romantic relationships once they arrive in jail. Many of them feel that it is not worth worrying about whether their significant other is being faithful; rather than worry about it, they just say, "good bye".

I can understand that sentiment, and the thought has crossed my mind, if only briefly.  It isn't easy admitting that you need someone, especially when you are locked apart.  But I  need my wife to help me feel normal.  I need her to help me feel that I am not society's refuse- that I have value, if only to her.

As I was writing this entry, I had a picture of my wife on the stainless steel table upon which I am writing.  An inmate passed by and asked if that was my "ol' lady."?  I said, "yes, she is my wife" He said, "Don't torture yourself like that."

I don't consider it torture, it is inspiration.  A photo captures a moment in time and I can feel the joy that I felt in that moment.  It inspires me and lifts me up-no matter how low my spirits.  Gives me hope.

Unfortunately, hope is too often lost once the door rolls behind us.  We shut people out before they can betray us.  I guess, we don't give them a chance.  I won't give up on my wife.  She is my past, my present, and I will do my part to make sure she's my future.  It's all the normal I get around here.

The commissary lady did not come today.by Wesley

"When you're locked on this side of the glass there is no greater cause for consternation.  No other even or non-event can cause us more sadness, anger, futility, Santa failed to come.

The Commissary Lady brings us bags of delicious treats, not once a year, but twice a week!  On the eve of her visits everyone dutifully and earnestly gets a bubble sheet to write a list of requests to the commissary lady.  We carefully color in the dots for such treats as M&M's, pickled jalapenos, and jock itch cream.  She doesn't even care if we have been naughty or nice, (we are in jail, after all)!!  She only cares that we correctly fill in the bubble sheet and that we have money, of course. Elitist bitch.

We waited all day, our faces pressed against the potentially MRSA tainted glass, waiting to hear the signature sound of her canvas carts overflowing with outrageously priced delicacies that we can't do without.

As the hours passed, furtive glances passed throughout our cell.  Anguished looks would darken faces like clouds casting shadows on the ground.  Every time we heard the outer door roll our heads perked up, listening for the sound that promised full bellies for even the pickiest eaters for days to come.

(As an aside, I may be one of those pickier eaters but I will eat no more cat food and pasta casserole this week.  The line has been drawn).

When our dinner came we could no longer deny that we had been betrayed.  The tension in the cell was as thick and putrid as the spiceless cat food I forced down my throat.

I hate the commissary lady, at least until tomorrow because a man must have his peanut butter and chocolate wafer bars, 2 pack, $1.30.

Next-  The importance of soup.