Slang, Part 2

Doing back – working in the weight pit

Dry Snitching – have a loud argument so guards can hear and intervene; a passive way of snitching.

Fish – new guy

Go out like a trooper – act out and get put into a high level because you need to act like you don’t care

Kick it – spend time with other cats

Kicks – shoes

Licking the window – get on a bunk, get depressed and don’t move.

Mash at the law – do work at the law library

Out of pocket (a state of existence) – becoming a bit crazy

Peep him out – assess somebody

Pimp McDaddy – this one speaks for itself.

Player haters – pessimists

Pop, lock, drop and roll – strip dancing

Put on the blast – let everyone know through the volume of your comments

Rabbit -- penis

Stressing my bit out – when an event or person makes your time here feel longer and harder

Sucker free – without tickets

Trust, Part III, The Husband Speaks or Nibbles on Your Toes

As I have mentioned, my husband plays an important part in my attempt to understand what is going on within myself and also at work. This issue of trust comes up and I venture to comment -- I can’t even imagine what this guy might think I’ll do with his information; why he has so much trouble trusting me.

I suppose blog his secrets is a possibility. But please note: I am not blogging secrets or identifying information. The hell of it is, what I describe is not happening with just one person. These are patterns, and could apply to many people floating around in the penal system. Everyone might think it refers to him, but it refers to so many.

So, I floated this latest question out to him. I think perhaps his head is exploding, certainly spittle is flying from his lips and he’s gesticulating wildly (for him). Guess I hit a nerve. Guess he thinks I’m one of the least trusting people on the planet, and my comment is wildly ridiculous and lacking insight and empathy, and other important components. Hmm.

“There are all kinds of things that are dangerous that go through a person’s brain. YOU have a pretty serious partition.

“It’s a question of where your partition is. It can go from the regular scary shit in your frontal consciousness to as deep as your lizard brain where you don’t even want to know what lives there. It could be your monkey brain where death, violence and the fear of death live.

“When you look into the abyss the abyss looks back at you.

“I suspect with some of these guys, their frontal consciousness is pretty small. I don’t know for sure, but I suspect most of them commit crimes by ignoring their frontal lobes; they disregard messages that tell them they are doing something stupid, dangerous, and even lethal. Lalalalalalalala comes across, instead.”

I wonder if I am seeing the lalalala. Really, it seems more like screaming from the outside.

He continues, “Learning to look through the partition is the problem. Think of it as swimming in a lake, and all you do is hang near the shore. Maybe you swim in a pond or a lake, or the ocean. It is scary to dive down, so you try to keep safe and don’t do it.”

I believe it is a false safety. You can even get out of the frigging lake if you want, hang out on a dock or an island. But everything you need to grow and understand is in the lake. When you need something, you must step in. If the depths are unexplored, the possibility that something will swim up and grab your ankle is huge.

Maybe what I see is somebody who feels the nibbles on his toes, the bulk of something huge and scary brushing up against you?

Trust, Part II, the Instant Messaging

Mr. Bill: On matters of trust... I would like to pursue that ... feels like a view coming into focus

The Psych: Tell me

Mr. Bill: Trust as the absence of judgment; of not being judged

The Psych: Trust is something that comes over time...

Mr. Bill: and conversely, not judging; Trust is earned

The Psych: trust is easier if you know your own faults and weaknesses...

Mr. Bill: Interesting... the difference between the noun “trust,” and the verb, “to trust.”

The Psych: have you had a chance to read Ante Up, yet? It is S’s (my husband’s) thoughts about engaging, and peripherally, trust, I suspect

Mr. Bill: S. is posting to your blog?

The Psych: no, he is posting to my head.


The Psych: what else about trust?

Mr. Bill: Amending the judgment angle ... not absence of judgment but fair judgment... I 'trust' the Judge to be fair...

The Psych: So I have this guy, who is trying to tell me his truth. And he connects, and it is almost sexual in its intensity, and then something happens. The walls come up. I can see it. He can tell me it is happening. He knows it is a trust issue, but can't help me further, and it just makes the screaming in his head louder to try.

Mr. Bill: Third party interference?

The Psych: ?

Mr. Bill: His voices?

The Psych: No, bipolar, but a good thought, though. Protective in nature, he tells me. He knows it happens and was a little freaked I could tell.

Mr. Bill: Protective of what/who?

The Psych: Omg, his story is ugly, but just protective of his romantic soul, shall we say? Protective of me judging? Protective of the pain, and wanting to wish it weren't? That is my wondering...

Mr. Bill: So in essence he cannot trust himself

*my eyebrows lift back into my hairline*

The Psych: So simple, God, I get so sucked into the difficult. The long road is to wait it out, just be easy and trustful until he relaxes. I don't really feel like I have and endless time with these guys, and I want a shortcut.
Mr. Bill: Our foundations, our gut instincts, are valid because we (eventually) can trust ourselves - the parts that defy explanation or even rationality.

The Psych: and if you are raised in an environment where chaos reigns, and you start doing lines of cocaine at eleven because you see your parents doing it.... Trust becomes just a word that is moderately hard to spell.

Mr. Bill: Not much stability to predicate any valid belief structure on.

The Psych: they look at me with such terrible eyes, Bill.

Mr. Bill: While clinically it is very unsound having a symbol or icon to transfer validity to is an easy way to temporarily bridge this divide.

The Psych: LOLOLLOOOOLOOLLOOLOLL. I have started to bring in rocks from our vacations, and when we are in session, I bring each guys’ rock out and set it between us. Either of us can pick it up, and I am slowly explaining that it is absorbing the essence of what we do here. It is also something of mine I give to them; a symbol of my belief in them.

Mr. Bill: Great minds think alike...just wish I had one.*) Often you will see the acceptance of a religious icon or symbol - How may of your fellows have converted to Islam? Or Christianity.

The Psych: a number. Can I covert them to rockism? The therapeutic stone?

Mr. Bill: I question the legitimacy of such transference as it doesn't speak to the real mental health issue.

The Psych: ok, explain

Mr. Bill: The stone as an icon, at least, can be held and identified clearly apart from their beliefs.

The Psych: The first person I tried this with has a primary issue of not believing he is worthwhile. I've started each session since by having him recite why he is here. I've told him twice. He waffled the first time, and gave some pretty good answers. My answer was I could see his shine. I wouldn't bother with him if he didn't have something that shone out from the pain and the fear. His rock is lovely white quartz.

Mr. Bill: Blindly accepting (by faith) a relationship with a deity provides some intellectual succor but doesn't speak at all to any underlying issues.

The Psych: Ah, I want the rocks to stand for the part they are in desperate need of; something to remind them of their strength, even when they forget.

Mr. Bill: You approach is much more therapeutic...

The Psych: Hehehe, that is my goal, therapy… not just blind faith, but some comfort object. If I can find a way for them to take part of my beliefs about rightness home with them, we’ve taken a great step. I know I don’t have the ultimate answer, but I’m doing better than most of them….

Mr. Bill: the stone is an excellent object... strong, timeless, undeniable..

The Psych: And so comforting in the hand; and they are beautiful, precious, even.

Mr. Bill: (*It is unfortunate they cannot carry them from the session. Having it on their person would be so much more reinforcing.*)

The Psych: Can't do it – contraband, a weapon. I would find a way to get them their stones if they want them, but I don't know how to do it appropriately. Perhaps dispensation from the warden?

Mr. Bill: Wouldn't actually want them "trading" them in a heated discussion about rightness of beliefs.

The Psych: no, and I think they must stay in my office for at least most of a while. They have to be protected from the yard.

Mr. Bill: Can you imagine the effect of losing one's stone?

The Psych: Can you imagine the impact of taking one's stone after a year of therapy with it??

Mr. Bill: To round out a perspective; one can trust the stone to be the stone. It is exactly what it is...nothing more, nothing less. A very good starting point for someone lost to himself.

The Psych: someone lost to himself…. that is it. Unable to trust himself.

Mr. Bill: BTW: When I was leading C.R. (Christian AA) it was very easy to rely on the entire infrastructure of personal worth (You are important to Jesus.) And as long as they remained in the church environment it was sustained. Once out in the world it began to crumble very quickly. That is why I express concern about transference to symbols or icons.

The Psych: ahhhh. My first unexplored thought, is to make them work for the infrastructure of their relationship with me, to give it more tenacity. When I asked Mr. S. to tell me why he was here, he initially freaked a little, as though he were in the wrong place. I required him to establish his right to be in session with me.

Mr. Bill: A strong position - not sure I agree... I would need time to evaluate as I don't have first hand perspective.

The Psych: Ok, gonna take this and work it into a blog, Husband is here, and I need to go down. Having your thoughts is precious, please keep them coming....

Mr. Bill: I will e-mail you my follow up.

Trust, Part I, My Patient

I’ve started another therapy contract with one of the guys, Mr. W. shall we call him. I’ve carved out enough time to engage in something more than crisis checks with some of the guys interested and willing. He is one of four, currently.

I ask him his goal, and he states, “I don’t care.” Not that he doesn’t care about treatment, but his problem is existential. He has given up. A serious problem.

Let me take a moment to digress to eye contact. When I start this type of conversation, there is a phenomenon I’ve never experienced before, or at least not to this extent. Eye contact: in 20 years of therapy, I have never encountered such intensity. My office is small and meek. I sit diagonally across the desk from my patients with a pull out shelf between us, defining safety, space and giving some breathing room.

These guys look at me in a way that is difficult to describe. It feels almost sexual, but I can tell you it isn’t – I know when it is. I wonder if they are searching for my soul. If they are looking for some truth or reality that they can trust. Grrrrrrrrrr, I try to send that to them as best I may. The eye contact is intense, and he is totally present back there, more waiting than weighing.

So we talk, and I can see he is telling me truth. And I’ll ask a question and suddenly it is almost like flipping to a channel of static. He is gone. Something shuts down. I don’t know why. I can’t see a pattern to the questions that lose him.

I call him on it, and he admits it is true. We decide it is about trust. My friend, Bill, suggests, in essence, he cannot trust himself.

Hangnail of the Mind

I no longer work in a nylon/suit/heals environment. My previous job discouraged slacks on women (I know, unbelievably archaic). So I entered this job with a closet full of dresses and skirts, and my old holey jeans. It strikes me I shouldn’t wear jeans on casual day if there are in such a state of decrepitude that I have to be careful of the color of my underwear choice. I quickly ran out and bought a couple of pairs of chinos and casual shirts.

Months later, I’m simply no longer so concerned about wearing my skirts, heals and nylons. I keep my knees crossed and covered and we’re all good. Hate to see all those wonderful J. Peterman things going to waste.

But what do you wear with dress pants in the winter? A new problem for me. I have to walk up this vortex to my office four times a day, where wind speeds can practically knock you over. One of the guys recently explained to me that all facilities in the state are designed to torture the prisoners by taking advantage of the prevailing winds in their orientation. Not bad in the heat of summer, but deadly in the winter.

SO, I wear dress socks. I had to go buy some of those, too. I own recreational socks in orange stripes and other such colors too irreverent for prison. In the dim light of my closet, before the even dimmer dawn, navy looks much like black - EVEN if you carefully check to avoid this style faux pas. I should just throw the damn blue ones out; I don’t even own any navy.

Here I am at work, obsessing about my black boots, blue socks and black pants. It’s like a hangnail of the mind. The secretary, tiny Dustie, told me to get over myself or take the socks off. I tried that. Pale green-hued skin between the two blacks was not an improvement. I will not even mention the ankle hair that hadn’t been shaved in a week.

Let it go.

We’re in group, nearing the end of our hour. One of my guys is agonizing about an interaction with his wife on the phone where he was not reaching his goal of absolute truth with her. I empathetically point out, “Mr. A., you are making change, and you backed up and corrected yourself. No need to beat yourself up.”

“That’s what she said,” he returns without conviction.

“I don’t expect perfection from you, only from myself,” I quip.

Mr. H. leaps in with, “And we know you’re not perfect, you have on blue socks.”

My casually crossed leg with my foot contemplatively bouncing in the air slams down to the floor. Damn his soul for noticing. “That’s it, group’s over, all of you…OUT.”

And we boil out of the group room, everybody laughing.

Ante up

My husband says I need to ante up. I need to put my own stuff on the table.

This is obviously a group I need to lead, and to push at. Why do these guys think I’m here? I know they are alert enough to see the car I drive, to see my jewelry and my clothes. I am not poor. I am not here for survival. So why?

I assumed, when I started, that I would just be awash in a sea of sickness. That I would walk through my days with animals and monsters. Isn’t that what we are taught about felons? It held a clinical interest, one I didn’t think would hold my attention for long. Evil is boring. Bad behavior is tedious. Trash is trash.

Holy crap was I wrong. Once again, my mother understood better than I. my patients are people: as my husband dubbed them, they are “my guys.” Some are monsters, a few. I don’t spend my time or energy there. Perhaps this is a weakness. I prefer to rationalize that I save my energy for those that can benefit.

What is my ante?

My energy. I do not have an unlimited amount of energy I can give. For each moment, I have a recovery period of solitude needed to regenerate. This is reason five I never had children. I could not do my work and have enough left for a family.

My belief. When I interact, I prefer to believe that what is happening is real. That I am not being parroted or indulged. My groups do not support parole, and I emphasize this clearly. No parole form for you. Come because it helps, or don’t come.

Each time somebody lies, or somebody sits silent and drifting, I lose. Each group that sets on fire and becomes self sufficient, I win the bet. I do not win by people pretending to believe. I gain by making change.

I read this and the analogy sounds cold. How much easier this would be if true? As it is, it eats up my life at home.

So what would their response be if I gave them this?

There are a couple of theories of treatment. The first is dry and clinical and safe. The second involves the therapist in the process, challenges her to be her best, and to give some part of herself in exchange for what she receives in return. I am doomed to the second way.

Steven Dozier - Reformed?

Look, I’m not political. I recognize that I don’t get the huge issues that politics offer to me. I rely on my husband and my mother to point me in the right direction. This is what I can tell you. Please, understand, I have men who are so beyond the pale of saving that they just scare me. I can’t imagine letting them lose back on society. I certainly don’t want them in my back yard.

But in a Level 1 security prison, this is a surprisingly small group. Most, many, some of these guys are just trying to find the same road to happiness we are. Some of them have done appalling things, most in the name of their favorite drug. They have been raised in circumstances that many of us, who cruise the Internet, cannot imagine. Environments where they are only a burden, where they are despised for the financial toll they bring, where they are the weakest and most vulnerable prey. And yet, after decades of abuse, after numerous incarcerations, they wish for something better, something safe.

Can you imagine growing up where you have nothing safe?

Nobody who loves you unconditionally, nowhere to go where you are not a target, no place to grow your soul, your shiny bit?

And yet, I’ve met more men that I would have guessed who have made the transition.

NPR - Steven Dozier

Unless I am once again being sucked into that which I want to beleive.

More web discussion here.

Little Bits of Delight

To remind you, in the course of my day I have to walk across the length of the yard. I walk past all the housing facilities, medical, chow hall, etc, at least twice daily when all the guys are out and about. Because we are a low security prison, there is much freedom to move around the grounds during the day when your schedule does not have you assigned to be elsewhere.

Initially, this trip was a bit daunting. I was a new female on the grounds, and a lot of watching was required. Life is boring; gossip is a commodity, besides, I might do something entertaining. As an act of defense, and because I am my mother’s daughter, I just started to talk at people who caught my eye as I made my way to work. The no-touch rule means I effectively own the walkway; everybody has to move aside if I want to be fierce about it. Shooting energy at people enforces my space without being clearly aggressive. Quickly, it stopped being a defense, and became an adventure. I never knew who would say what, and after the first weeks, and a couple of nasty under-the-breath comments, it became pleasant.

The guys from my caseload always at least acknowledge me, sometimes just with eye contact. The very weird thing is all the African American guys on my caseload always engage me in some way, and many of those I don’t know do the same. The men of European descent less reliably do so. There is a contingent of older white guys I think of as the ZZ Toppers – they would die rather than even recognize my existence. My fringe-Harley-Davidson-riding-Vietnam-Vet friend explains this is because I’m a “screw.” It is tempting to torture them by spraying cheerful energy at them as they pass, but this is just rude.

-- Early in my experience, I am called to by an individual standing in a pod of guys, none of whom I know. “Hey, Psych… You walk through here like you own the world.”

What do I say to THAT?

“I like that, you keep it up.”

I smile and nod acknowledgement, pretty nice compliment.

--I leave late one day. Count is over for the evening, and usually I leave before the guys are back out, but I had a bunch of stuff to do.

From 50 feet away, somebody I either don’t know, or my nearsightedness is keeping me from recognizing who this is. “Hey, Ms. L., you’re here late!”

“Yup, I had things to do….”

“Hey, you be careful driving home.”

--“Excuse me; you’re one of the psychs, aren’t you?

“Yes,” I don’t recognize him. He is a pretty generic looking white guy, maybe mid-20’s, probably somebody considered “fair game” by the more experienced men.

“I’ve been reading these psychology books, and what you do is pretty interesting…”

“Well, I think so.”

“I’m thinking this is what to do when I get out of the joint…”

Most, if not every state, is not interested in giving a license to practice therapy to an ex-felon. What do I say? “What are you reading?”

He tells me, and I give him a few suggestions….

-- Some guy I don’t know is dressed for the kitchen, and walking in my direction as I walk out. We engage in small talk, for 300 yards, and then part. “You just made my day…”

I made his day?? Just by a few seconds of walking and chatting?

--I’m trudging in through the snow one morning, and one of my guys, who believes he is here under a false name meets up with me. He suffers from Schizophrenia, so it has never been clear to me if his “real” name, really is his real name. It doesn’t matter, I use it nonetheless. Each time I do he brightens up. We walk side by side a few feet, me in my enormous insulated boots, worn in case I end up off the road on my way driving here.

“Ms. L., you need to walk in front of me in the path.” Not walk in the deep snow, not yet cleared.

A courtesy my own husband would probably not have thought about.

-- Each morning as I come in, there is one guy who works beyond the perimeter, usually outdoors. This morning he was shoveling. I always greet him. Today I asked him if he was keeping warm. He stopped, looked at me and thanked me for asking. Who worried about him last?


My boss guy was walking in with me after lunch recently, and as we walked, I was calling out and responding as I normally do. He expressed some surprise (I’ve given him the address of this blog, today, and it is weird to think of him reading my thoughts about him).

I know he worries about me getting too attached, being sucked in…

Feeling Funky, Part 3

The questions are fired at me by nearly everyone and they wash over me with a gratifying sense of support. My guys are indignant, angry, feeling protective. Of course, there is almost no question I can answer without breaching the confidentiality of my erstwhile exhibitionist patient.

“Who was it?’

“Was he black or white?’

“What did he do?”

I can answer this, “He just flashed me, he didn’t assault me.”

“What happened?”

I explain for a third time that I can’t tell them details.

“We don’t want you to give us details, just tell us what happened.”

“Ms. L, do we need to take care of this for you?” Everybody stops to hear the answer to this question. Mr. I is in a wheelchair, the result of a brutal drug deal gone bad. He is a man of slight stature to begin with, and the chair does not help with his imposing appearance. He is also one of my greatest fans, and I will need to blog on him eventually.

Somehow, I do not doubt he could organize some taking-care-of activities, and this has been my greatest fear. I don’t want any of my guys in trouble for mistakenly protecting my honor, or by extension, their own. “No, Mr. I, it’s been taken care of.”

The barrage of questions begins again. Finally I hush them and ask, “What is it you need to know?”

Mr. R leans forward in his chair, all six foot one of him, all the second degree murder offense of him (which is invisible to me). He looks at me earnestly, “We need to know that you’re alright.”

My friend, K.O. suggests this is the obvious, approval seeking question. Clearly one her well-bred, socialite mother would ask it: a question without meaning. This is a reasonable assumption, but at least a place for me to regain control of the conversation.

“I’m ok, Mr. R.”

“No, Ms. L., we need to know that you’re ok with the rest of us.”

Proposition

I’m talking to a guy who is fairly new to me. I make a habit of not reading their PSI (Pre-Sentencing Investigations). It is not, generally, of interest to me why they are here. He, unusually, wants to talk about why he is here, and how unfair it is that one of the custody folk has revealed his offense: CSC (criminal sexual conduct) Under 13. He assures me both that he is innocent, and that he has transcended the impulses that brought him in to us. Both cannot be true. But when you are horribly misunderstood by society, who can tell? He explains that children are mystically attracted to him, and he just wants them to grow and be happy.

He is a lovely boy, long lashed, skin pale and eyes that dark blue of some Easter European genes. Twenty minutes into the session, he coyly lowers his face, batting those incredible eyelashes at me, “I just have such a need for female companionship.”

I’m not surprised, more disappointed. Sometimes the guys have to put the sexual possibilities out there, and I need to shoot them down. This can be therapeutic. They understand the boundaries, and now they can relax and we can work together. Although I don’t think this is true with this person, I have to give him that escape door, and I’m more ready for it than in the past.

“Are you propositioning me?”

I have taken the murky and made it, dare I say, naked.

He backpedals. I offer that his need is not a mental health issue; that in fact, it is inappropriate. At the same time I know it COULD be a useful topic, but the fact of talking about it could become unhealthy so quickly. I have a strange power as a female in a predominantly male environment. Simply my presence is reinforcing.

Years ago, when covering the local county crisis line, I understood that some people called to engage you in sexual talk to which they masturbated. I don’t want to be a focus of somebody’s venal sexual release. His insight appears to be virtually non-existent; we cannot talk about this in a functional manner.

I’ve clarified, “this is not a mental health issue,” and then excused him. If we go there again, I transfer him to my male supervisor.

The majority of patients I’ve danced this dance with have understood. And the fact that I have carefully rejected their sexual advances while leaving them space to save face is sufficient. They have emerged with relief, and we are able to now do some useful work. But there is the smaller percentage that cannot understand their transgression, and are sure my refusals are a method of assuming innocence before engaging with them in a sexual relationship, something that is actually a felony (for me) in this state.

It is sad, and I feel dirtied. I so wish to help each person find their potential. I suspect he will continue, and I will have to transfer him. One of my own weaknesses is that I get angry too quickly. And then I overcompensate by giving too much latitude; this is a weakness I need to balance. So I pull his PSI.

He had sexual contact with multiple children under the age of five. Some unperceptive person allowed him to be hired into a day care setting.

What am I Doing?

It’s been a bad week. Although I know that I am surrounded by those people who are only trying to survive themselves, sometimes it gets overwhelming. I’ve spoken of my groups a bit, and I must say, they are the lynchpin of what holds value for me. These guys, these “hardened criminals” come into this little room. It seems, at the door, they leave the yard behind.

The yard is where they live, and the basic premise there is power and strength. You must protect the tiny little bit which is yours. This includes the physical aspects of your life, your television, your food from the commissary, your journal you keep because your crazy therapist tells you this is an avenue to save you soul. It also includes what makes you human, compassion, the ability to walk away, the ability to walk toward a life that has meaning. BUT, when somebody calls you, “bitch,” you need to deal with this, or everybody else sees you as victim and shits on you.

I hold this weird and horrible power. As one of my guys observed, “They come into group, and they perform; they do and say what they think will please YOU.”

It does not please me that they treat each other as animals; that they are reduced to staking claim of a little bit of psychic and physical space through violence. But I also do not begrudge them this. I have so much love and space and support in my life, I cannot imagine the incredible restriction and horror of having to fight for that which to me is a thoughtless and immediate thing. I cannot ask them to do something that puts them in peril.

So, they come into my room. We sit in a circle of ten or eleven in padded chairs which in and of themselves are a treat. There is a small table between us, which I cannot get rid of because there is no space. I have a chalk board, not a white board, on which I can write the essence of where we go today. They spread out around it, so when I write, there is no chance I would brush up against them by mistake. We cannot touch. Ever before in my life and my work, I could reach out with a settling pat or an approving touch. When they try so hard, they deserve meaningful recognition. It simply cannot happen here.

My chair is established. The other staff needs to be able to look through the window in the door to make sure I am safe, that some horrible gang rape or riot isn’t sucking me into its depths. The truth is so very different. This is the safest place I am in my day.

My drive in makes me a potential victim to deer, and trucks and the accidents on the road. Walking the yard to my office leaves me open to the errant individual that may wish to hurt me to pay back some slight. Or somebody “hired” to hurt me. In group, I have ten guys. I know that if one of them were to try and hurt me, the other nine would intervene. Some because they know they would be held accountable, the others because I hold something precious for them.

Who am I to hold this for them?

Today I am overwhelmed with sadness. There has been a series of incidences where those in power only reinforce the "fact" that I work with worthless animals. Men who do not even deserve the respect and compassion of wild animals we keep in zoos. How do they find the strength to rise above the degradation and try to find a way out of the mess they’ve brought into their lives?

Today, I have a guy in segregation on suicide watch. I will not wreck your day with the horrific and pitiable story of his life to this point. It is suggested to me, by a person in power, that we can fix him by, “…tying him down naked, and shoving something up his ass.” It is all I can do to not smack him upside the head and scream that this is exactly what has brought him here: somebody in power either figuratively or literally shoving his dick up this guy’s ass.

Today, I have one of the most amazing groups of my life. Ten of my guys come in, and I am on the hairy edge. Can I even describe it? We start with the concept of morals, and if these are something you are born with, learn and internalize or experience as something to abstractly understand. The thought goes, if you grow up in a sick environment, you never understand on a basic level why you shouldn’t just do whatever makes you safe or happy or able to forget.

The group erupts in discussion and disagreement, talk and cross talk. Suddenly almost everyone is deeply engaged, and fighting for what they believe is right. My co-workers are popping up in the window, checking if I’m safe. I give them thumbs up and move to quiet the group. “You need to quiet down, you’re scaring my co-workers…”

Mr. S. observes, “You’ve lost control of the group.”

Everybody stops. They don’t want me to feel like I’ve failed. I have not. I point out that the group is doing what it is supposed to do as long as we are all thinking and expressing ourselves. We just need to do it with a bit less volume.

So now I state I know many of them work from a base of rage. I wonder what is left if I ask them to take the rage away? Immediately, Mr. R. states, “Harmony.” He is in his early 40’s. He has been in prison since he was 19, and has worked himself down to level 1, the least restrictive environment. He spent the first eight years of his incarceration acting like an animal in pain, hurting everyone who came into his sphere. Somebody, somewhere, a guard, helped him see the endless pit this behavior offered him. He stopped, and now he is with me. Harmony.

He is Muslim, now. I understand harmony is a specific belief, one which I have but a hazy understanding of, and I suspect nobody else in the group even suspects. I would have him explain, but the energy has gone elsewhere. Later I ask him to prepare a lesson for us in the next group. But the fact that he has offered up such an intangible and precious idea as harmony has left me almost speechless with pain.

The idea of objects as meaning comes up next. Mr. S. looks at me, he is almost in tears. “All I want is a car and a nice apartment that I can come home to at night.” I reframe his desire as one for security and success. Those “things” are only symbols of the core of the meaning. Only later do I understand the look. He offered up his best thought. He expected me to smack him for it; to tell him he was wrong and bad, like every other person in his life has told him. And yet, he offered it up to me anyway, hoping for some kind of salvation.

Who am I to do this? What the fuck do I think I am doing?

Feeling Funky, part 2

So I waited for the fall out of having some sad guy waving his little head at me in session. Of course the staff were ecstatic with the possibilities. I was bombarded with teasing, questions, others’ stories and truly solicitous offers of condolence and support. My husband laughed. Given the fact that I had hauled him off of the ceiling about working here a few months before, I was a bit nonplussed. He, apparently, thought I was totally capable of handling an errant penis or two in the course of my day.

My true concern was my other patients. Over the time here, I have forged some strong relationships in my groups and I recognized the need for these guys to have me validate them as good and trustworthy men. (This is a whole ‘nother blog, so just hang with me, here.) I was pretty sure the story would spread, and I would have to deal with the issue in a therapeutic group session with ten guys. What do I say? What would they say??

Apparently, nothing. The story appeared capped, and it didn’t come up.

Well, it didn’t come up until I stopped thinking about it. A little over a week later, my Thursday group met. They are my strongest group, both in their desire to work and their attachment to me.

About 20 minutes into the session, my strongest member, Mr. P. interrupted the conversation, “Ms. S.?? We hear that somebody showed their rabbit to a female staff member. Was that you?”

Mr. P. sits back in his chair. He is a powerful man, both physically and in his compassion for others and his desire to act in a right-way. He watches me quietly waiting for a response.

What I believe, is I cannot ever ever ever lie in these groups. Never in an individual session but the milieu of the group is so strong, that any misdirection, let alone outright lie, is detected instantaneously. Besides, it is not what I wish to teach, what I want to set as an example.

“Yup, that was me.” And pandemonium breaks out.

Skirting the Issue of Drugs

I have to intersperse my serious blogs with the more amusing aspects of my day to keep your attention, I suspect. I wouldn’t know for sure, as I’ve gotten no comments or responses *hint hint*

Today one of my guys came in to see me. I’d run into him in the cage the day before. This is the pre-segregation or pre-in-the-hole section of prisoner containment at the Control Center. You’re not generally there for a good reason. He had been busted smoking pot, he told me. I rolled my eyes at him and said, “For God’s sake, Mr. A.” and walked away. An immediate and thoughtless response.

He came to call-out (his appointment) the next day. There were bigger fish to fry in Seg, with Dangerous Contraband offenders, and Assault offenders. Some sad little guy without the impulse control not to hit an offered splief was not of interest and he had been returned to the general population.

As we were talking about his offense, and he had an understandable if not smart explanation, I mused about how the drugs got in. We all know that the visitors are carefully searched, and something as bulky as marijuana does not wander in easily this way. Instead, it is probably brought in by staff. I’ve had it explained that there is a complicated way of paying for the contraband, which involves the prisoner’s outside contacts paying off the staff.

Again, thoughtlessly, I reflected about how much I could smuggle in under my skirt.

AS SOON as the words were out of my mouth, I recognized the import and glanced at this young, baby-faced boy. His mouth was agape and a look of profound amazement was on his face. Holy Crap, this could be interpreted as a proposal of sorts, and I frantically backpedaled, blushing. He was greatly relieved to know that I wasn’t trying to bring him into some staff/inmate drug ring. I flatter myself to believe, in part, he was relieved to know I hadn’t gone to the dark side.

Feeling Funky, Part 1

So, now I’ve been here about four months. I’ve settled into the patterns, made my peace with the medical record and my family has stopped overtly worrying. Today is Tuesday, and the afternoon is winding down toward formal count (everybody back to their bunks to make sure nobody has wandered off). I’m feeling content as I’ve just finished a satisfying group. Then the phone rings.

One of my guys is, according to his guard, “feeling funky.” Which, I guess means, he needs to talk to me. *sigh* At least it isn’t Friday afternoon. I have him sent over to my office.

I don’t know him well; he recently came to the facility from a higher level. All I’ve done is his intake, and frankly, with 150 men on my caseload, it takes a couple of visits before I start to spontaneously remember most of them. His history has nothing unique to jump start my memory. *sigh*

He’s depressed. He reports suffering a lack of energy, he has trouble staying asleep, his appetite is decreased, and he doesn’t really enjoy anything. He sounds like he’s recently read the DSM and is quoting the diagnostic criteria for Major Depressive Disorder. When asked, he is startled, and loudly denies suicidal thoughts, however. *sigh.*

He does not like the dorm setting in this lower level, and wants to return to two-man cells. He does not want to talk about anything he is responsible for doing to alleviate his depression. He would like me to write an assault ticket on him so he can get bumped up a level. I would like him to go down to the Control Center and sit until he accumulates enough tickets to be bumped up a level, if that is his wish.

He’s depressed, he just knows it.

It is possible I’ve lost you in the midst of this story from sheer boredom. Certainly while it was occurring, I was bored. Forty minutes had passed, count was almost upon us, and the secretary had just left. Mildly sensing I was missing something, but tired of trying to drag it out of him, I began to excuse him. Then I noticed the strangest thing: he had a plastic penis on his lap. WAIT, I bet it isn’t plastic, I bet it’s real. I press the magic button on my GPS device to call emergency back up.

I had thought a lot about when I should push this button. I had come to the conclusion it was when somebody crossed over the line into unacceptable behavior. For instance, if a patient does not follow direction when he is getting loud or threatening, if I am touched, if the patient doesn’t direct away from inappropriate behavior. And I guess, if somebody feels like waving his penis at me. ESPECIALLY since he was asking for an assault ticket earlier.

Okay, penis in the lap, button pushed, what next? I should say something. Those who know me do not find it difficult to imagine that every choice I can think of is inappropriate. Most contain the word, “fuck.” Probably not a good choice… I finally settled on, “what’s that???” in my best disbelieving voice.

“Oh, my bad,” he says, crossing his legs.

Three seconds have passed. Where is everybody?? What do I do next? I directed him out of the office and into the hallway to await reinforcements. Either seven seconds or ten minutes have passed at this point; I’m not so sure which. So I hit the button again. As I’m sticking my head into the boss guy’s office to keep him up to date with my learning experience, the pounding of feet can be heard from both ends of the hallway.

I don’t really recall what I said, but they immediately cuffed him and took him down to Control. Lt. O’Mally, my new best friend, ran all the way up from Control, making it at the same time as the unit and yard officers. He was solicitous and concerned and helped me write the sexual misconduct ticket.

I wonder, how long he was exposing himself, so hopeful of a good response, and frankly, I just didn't notice.

Slang, part 1

I am a silly white woman from middle class world. It has been years since I’ve been in high school, and my children went to a rural, rather than urban school. The whole slang thing has been a journey for me. I am lucky that my guys are tolerant. Quite a number of them take pride in bringing me new slang terms to use, and in group, patiently explain to my often bewildered expression.

Bit – your current felony time, as in second bit (when you’ve discharged the requirements of your first set of felonies, and are in prison for a second set)
Bug out – lose control and appear insane
Buggy – anywhere from odd to insane, but warranting watching because of it.
Brake pad - unidentified meat patty
Bumping Gums – talking without meaningful content
Cat– other inmate (I was amazed at this reference to 60’s slang)
Cho-mo – Child molester
Cook Up - making dinner from commisary food
Ear Hustler – one who eavesdrops on others and then breaks into the conversation.
Flip the Script – twist words back on the speaker
Flop – losing your parole for a period of time, as in 12-month-flop
Max – your date of release, excluding parole, including good behavior
Max-max – date of release excluding both parole and good behavior
Nutted Up – insane
People out there – those of us not inside the prison system.
Pressing a bunk – someone who stays in their bunk or cell without physical activity.
Psych – anybody who works with bugs
Real World – where I go home to each night and they don’t.
Slipping – making sexual comments
Them you have to feed with a long-handled spoon – those individuals that take careful handling as they are so violent and unhinged, they can become dangerous.
Tree Jumper – child molester (somebody who jumps from behind trees to accost children)
Twos & Fews – a couple dollars and change

The Things We Do for Love

Another prisoner story; amusing, although gruesome.

Again, one of the guys is talking about home and his young son. He talks about his beloved Anita who takes care of Little Tommy. He goes on and on, and I listen. This story, at least, is of folks at home that seem to be coping and surviving.

Mr. K. has Schizoaffective disorder. A liberal mix of thought disorder, where the world tips in a different direction than you and I and a mood disorder that, today, is pushing him with mania. This means the story is rapid, disjointed and the emotional content is mildly off. He thrashes in the chair as though he were buckled in while experiencing a violent car crash. Many of the guys do this. They have taught their bodies to comply with the rules, which means they can’t stand up suddenly, shouldn’t raise their voices, or otherwise create a physically threatening situation. Their emotion drives them as the invisible restraint of fear keeps them firmly in the chair.

This is only our second meeting, and I can’t quite remember his story.

“Is Anita your wife or your girlfriend?”

He laughs and looks at me fondly and a bit questioningly, “She’s my girlfriend. I murdered my wife; didn’t I tell you?”

Demons and Despair

**I would warn you ahead of time; this story is not funny or amusing. It is serious and sad beyond measure.**

I had a gentleman in my office talking to me about his issues at home. When you are far from those you love, with no prospect of coming back soon, thoughts of family and what is happening without you are consuming. When you are in prison, this is obviously multiplied many-fold. Most people understand they have put themselves there through their own behavior and bad choices. I often hear the tales of birth, death, betrayal and abandonment. Unfortunately, there is little I can do but listen.

Have I mentioned that my caseload is mental health in nature? Some of the guys are seriously mentally ill with Bipolar Disorder or Schizophrenia. Both disorders that can warp your understanding of the world and can sometimes lead to horrendous misperceptions and reactions.

Mr. O., is college educated. He had a solidly middle class job as an investment broker. He had a wife and three daughters entering and into their teens. It is unusual to develop schizophrenia when a person is this far into their life. But he did. He began hearing voices and suffering the paranoia that is a specific type of schizophrenia. Of course, he didn’t want to believe what was happening to him. He talked to his wife and doctor a bit about it, but denial is a powerful force, and his concerns were written off to stress. He was not sent to a mental health professional for treatment or assessment. He got the message, and tried to hide the symptoms, the voices, the fears. And one day, it all became clear to him. He wasn’t crazy; there was nothing wrong with him. Rather his wife had been taken over by demonic forces. They had taken her soul, and in its place left a creature of evil, bent on the destruction of him and his three children.

I’ve often thought what I would do if those I loved were threatened. It is clear in my head: anything necessary, including destroying the threat. I do what I can to stay safe and avoid this type of confrontation. When I worked at the hospital, I watched on my long drive home through the country to make sure I was not followed. I’ve not had my phone number listed in decades. I don’t show up on the internet in any sites that locate me and I’m clearly blogging with anonymity.

Mr. O. came home from work, took the largest knife in the kitchen, and stabbed the demon in the chest repeatedly. He is incarcerated for attempted murder, and will be with us for many years to come.

On medication, he is controlled. In fact he is a likable and insightful person. He suffers true remorse for what he has done. But without warning, his symptoms can surmount his medication, and again, the demons are present and threatening.

Mr. O. sent me a note, stating he wasn’t feeling well and needed to see me. I called down to his unit and had him sent to my office. We are a Level 1 Security prison, so the yard is open and people move freely. My office door is left open, but there is not a guard present through the course of my day. Instead I have a PPD, a personal protection device, which I wear on my hip or clip to my desk drawer handle. It has a GPS system and my name attached. Should I press the large recessed button, people in uniform come at a run to my location. I’ve not yet done this, and I hope never to resort to such a move. I hope it works. I also have a strong diaphragm and voice control. Should I shout for assistance, nobody would mistake my intent.

He enters my office, inches taller than me and many pounds heavier, and sits heavily in the chair. His blue eyes are vibrating and practically shimmering inches from his face. His is pale and sweating, clearly terrified.

In my years of working with people who suffer from Paranoid Schizophrenia, I’ve notice a strange phenomenon. Their fear is contagious. It is felt so strongly, that if an empathic person gets in a certain physical range, she absorbs the fear. I’ve seen this time and again, although I’ve never read of it. As a therapist, you are considered a person of strength and safety. A patient that is already scared becomes even more so if their therapist is frightened. And if you get sucked into this cycle of fear, the situation becomes out of hand horrifyingly rapidly, with the fear bouncing, cycling and intensifying as it is passed from therapist to patient. It can, and does, result in cataclysmic responses if unchecked.

Mr. O. had come to a blinding realization. He would never leave the prison. Seven demons, taller than the buildings, were patrolling the fence, intending to stay there forever to prevent his egress. The demons had entered the compound and his fellow inmates, and some of the staff. He had walked to the building with his head down, eyes averted from the rays of evil pulsing from the eyes of others. He was doomed. He was cornered.

I was new, just a couple months into this job. Had I been at my last job, the answer was simple. A large shot of Haldol mixed with Valium. It would have been administered with 20 people standing at ease, a show of force, a suggestion of what would happen if the patient did not relent. The threat of this many people usually is so frightening to the paranoid individual, the shot is a better choice. However, even though we are in a prison, we are an outpatient facility. My only back up was guards; people in uniform who are much more threatening than the rag-tag bunch of medical people called in when a problem brews in a hospital. To get them to my office I would either press the button, which would bring them at a run, or vocally call over the patient’s head to my secretary. I couldn’t imagine which would be less frightening and less likely to push him to a violent acting out.

He continued to spin out his paranoid ideations. I became unfocused and felt his surge of fear ripple through me. My blood pressure went up and my breathing became shallow. I broke eye contact with him.

“See,” he said to me, “I’m sucking all of the oxygen out of the room and we’re both going to die.”

I grabbed at a sense of grounding and tried to funnel the fear down into the earth from my body. “I’m bringing the oxygen back,” I said.

He became very still. “I can’t feel it.”

“Of course you can, we’re still both breathing.”

“I don’t think I can keep you safe…”

“Mr. O., why don’t you step out of my office, so I can talk to the doctor?”

And he does. Things move swiftly then, and custody (the guards) quickly swarm the area, handcuff him and take him to segregation. I’m left with an office empty of demons and the task of sending him off to the forensic hospital. I’m left with an empty office and the feeling that I have betrayed him.

Sex in Prison

This is not allowed. Beyond that, it is illegal, a felony in and of itself. The Boss-Guy believes this is the most important piece of information to pound into my head. “I think everything will be just fine as long as you don’t fall in love with an inmate,” he mentions. We were walking out after my first day when he put forth this conversational sally. Fortunately, my mouth wasn’t full of anything, and all I spewed was air. Immediately I recognized this as the second most bizarre thing a boss of mine had ever said to me, and easily the most stunning thing spoken on the first day. I assured him I had no intention of going down that particular path. Apparently, it’s a problem. Women with savior complexes are attracted to those they perceive as helpless boys, just needing a good woman to re-mother them and set them straight. And although there are some helpless boys, and every man needs a good woman, and I’m good at setting people straight, sex in prison is not for me.

The fifth time he mentions this thought to me, I’m beginning to get a little peeved. I’ve been a therapist for decades and have yet to wander into this trap. And although I don’t wish to disrespect my patients, if I were to cross this professional and personal boundary, it would not be with a prisoner. This is not to mention my husband of three decades of whom I am quite fond. This answer seems to shut down his impulse to warn…but it makes me look at the other female staff and wonder.

Alone on the Yard: Instant Messaging

The Psych: I can walk the prison yard alone, now
Mr. Bill: Wow...
The Psych: I was walking out the other evening during count, when the guys are restricted to bunks
The Psych: and somebody yelled, "yo bitch" out the window, followed by a more up to date "hubba hubba" kind of comment.
The Psych: so I stopped and stared at the window/bunk it was coming from, and it stopped and that was that
The Psych: I figured if it happened the next day, I would turn around and ask the officer if that were necessary. But apparently the stare worked
Mr. Bill: And you do have the authoritative glare...
The Psych: well, I had sunglasses on, and I didn't slink, which I think was expected, and I know exactly which bunk it was
The Psych: and apparently there is a rule about "unsolicited communication"
Mr. Bill: No slinking allowed.... ever.
The Psych: absofuckinglutely

Catch Up

The last months have been fraught with change and adjustment. I’ve taken a bit of a break from the blog as well as cleaning the house as I adjust. So I’ve uploaded the blogs I’ve done, and am now ready for some backtracking to get me up to date. Don’t think for a moment I’m ready to put four entries a day into this thing.

Contraband

My second day, and now I have my little red card with my chubby picture on it. A little piece of me dies each time somebody compliments me on this photo, and its excellent resemblance…

The card is like my prison passport. I can get neither in, nor out without it, and it gets me my handy dandy PPD (Personal Protection Device). Because I’m still a temp, I have to be walked in and out of the perimeter (through the Yard with over a 1000 prisoners, some of them assuredly depraved). Our secretary, Dustie, is this petite woman a few years older than me. She is capable of being my safety belt, apparently. Makes the same sense as my mother-in-law who used to insist her 30- and 40-something year old sons sleep separately from their girlfriends (me) at the cottage. That theory didn’t keep us safe from pre-marital wickedness.

Okay, I just reread the last paragraph, and I would like to clarify. Me and my now sister-in-law. I wasn’t sleeping with BOTH brothers and you who thought that need to wash your brains out with anti-bacterial soap.

Anyhow, Dustie walks me out, and I get to the gate, and NO ID. Doesn’t matter that count is going on (all the prisoners are in their areas and being counted to make sure none have slunk out over the 20 foot razor wire fences) and the yard is deserted. I MUST be walked back to the office. Good thing the weather is perfect and I’m not dragging her through the rain.

Bologna sandwich again. I think it is comforting for me. It is also indicative of my lack of interest in cooking when I get home as I am hoarding leftovers for later-in-the-week-dinners. I’m going to give the Unnamed Temp Agency a little ringy ding and discuss they’re lack of accurate information in the sex department. (Again, your mind is a dirty place. REMEMBER?? They told me it was a woman’s prison, and it is a MEN’S prison). As I mentioned, we can’t bring either food or cell phones into the perimeter, so I left my phone with my lunch. I took it, strolled out front of the building into the sun and called my little friend at the Temp Agency. She was appropriately appalled to hear about her confusion and my edification and was apologetic to hear how long it took to get my husband off of the ceiling. Mission accomplished, and I strolled back into the building, apparently waving my cell phone around oblivious to the fact that I was ineffectively smuggling contraband into the prison.

My erstwhile friend, Officer Eagan, smiled at me, than blanched as she caught sight of the phone. “You can’t bring that in HERE!” And the blood flooded back into her face. I explained I wasn’t going to bring it into the perimeter, but just leave it with the remains of lunch to be removed that afternoon when I left. Her color did not return. Apparently, I didn’t get it. Food is okay in the front of the building, cell phones, like weapons, are not welcome at all. It hadn’t occurred to me that the guys that cleaned – “Porters” - were allowed outside the perimeter and cleaned this area of the prison. They must have a higher level of trust, but probably not one that could resist a ringing cell phone coming from a lunch bag. As all of this is being explained to me, I’ve gathered a peanut gallery. Or maybe they’re more of a Greek Chorus. Three or so other women hanging around gleefully start razzing me about my sad attempt to smuggle the cell in. I have a police magnet, and this is a perfect example.

I explain to Officer Eagan that my car keys are in my desk. What would she like me to do with the phone?? Well, I suspect she would have liked me to vaporize it, or teleport it up to the Enterprise. Or maybe just jump up and down on it until it was pile of harmless plastic and metal, no longer an instrument of seduction for hapless prisoners. But, she agreed to let me leave it at the desk. I set it down, and she literally took a step back from it as though it might bite her and infect her with a dread strain of Hepatitis. “I’d prefer you turned it off.” I have no idea why, but I immediately did so. Women in uniforms can be scary.

So, my little friend, Dustie, had appeared by then, watching the proceedings with no appreciable expression on her face. She walked me in AGAIN, and walked me back AGAIN. The Boss-Guy met us half way back and sent her back to the office. He attempted to comfort me. He still seems to believe I’m fragile. As he came back from lunch, one of the Custody guys that drives the outside of the perimeter watching for suspicious activity, had seen my suspicious activity, and told Boss-Guy. Apparently, by my second day, I am known…

I just finished my eighth day of work, and I am still getting cell phone comments from perfect strangers…

This is Her First Time in Prison

First day at the new job. My workplace was at the end of a winding drive. I was told to follow the signs and come in the main door. OK. At the end of the drive, and there are a couple of buildings and parking lots and nothing that looks like a main door. I’m early, cause I’m anxious. This is not helping. There’s a woman walking up, and I roll down the window and ask her.

“Are you the new psych?” “Yup, that’s me.” I get walked in. There is a tiny, rusted sign that says entrance that is visible about ten yards from the sidewalk. I could have wandered around for quite a while looking for it as I gazed at the twenty foot fences topped in rolls and rolls of razor wire. And there is a guy with a very large weapon. Don’t piss him off. And look, there is a group of men dressed alike behind the wire, carefully watching my every move.

The helpful person with me notices tampons in my clear purse thing (I was told to bring my purse stuff in this way). She suggests I might want to wrap them in a tissue. What is that? We’re all women? She explains there are “sex fiends” out there and apparently tampons are devices of sexual stimulation. Very confusing. Again, we’re all women, how exciting is a tampon? Maybe the guards are the fiends?? That doesn’t make sense, but I hide the tampons nonetheless… No reason to start an argument before I even officially start.

Fast forward. I’ve been checked into Personnel, and the ID machine is not working so I’m still a non-entity. I could be a prisoner…. The boss-guy and I go in through the gates. Unlike the exciting TV shows, the gates are glass not bars. I walk past the “bubble,” show my visitor pass, go through the metal detector, two more doors and we’re in. No problem

Where do you think we go first? Boss-guy and I? The Hole: it’s called Seg (short for Segregation). How many folk here are on our caseload? Three. And they’re all men. Well, there are three different facilities in this complex. My boss must have some responsibility for the guys. So we stop, and talk to the inmates through the meal slot in the door. Each cell has a cement bed thing, with a small mattress pad that looks like about two inches of cotton batting. There is a small corner table, again made out of cement in the corner and a column of cement blocks for a “chair.” I assume there is a toilet on the wall out of the general view. I’ve decided craning my neck and looking in is both unprofessional and impolite, so I’m still assuming about the toilet. There is NOTHING in the cell but two Styrofoam cups the mattress, and a couple of sheets, one wrapped around the waist of the prisoner. Where his pants were remains a mystery, but he doesn’t flash me, so I’m relived. OH, did I mention the VERY LARGE metal rings on the four corners of the “bed?” clearly where you tie the restraints. And at about hand level on the wall by the bed-thing, the paint has been worn off by the busy fingers of anxious inmates. It doesn’t have an appreciable odor, which is good, but what in Heaven’s name must you do here hour after hour? Except, of course, become more insane? But I’m projecting. I would become more insane; it might offer some kind of relief to be in a quiet controlled environment for a while if you’re incarcerated.

We’re done, and I’ve been introduced to my 20th person. No chance I’ll remember names. They’re introduced with first, last and rank. The name tags have only last names, and I call them by those when prisoners are around, but first names otherwise. I have the first initial for help…. What is the difference between a lieutenant, sergeant and captain? Who knows? But I’m sure it is important…. Damn.

Before we went into Seg, we stopped at “Control,” the central place that tracks the safety and general safety processes of the facility. It’s where the “Custody” hive mind lives. Custody is the euphemism for guards. I like guards, they are my friends. I try to look benign and competent simultaneously. I’m not sure I succeeded. I now have, on the belt of my brand new casual pants, a PDD. My first acronym. Personal Protection Device. I learn shortly that the button, when pushed, vibrates madly and gives my location via GPS. And I am assured that within sixty seconds three or four or five Custody will appear, out of breath, and ready to save me. This is reassuring. I’m especially pleased as now we are walking across the Yard. This is the MEN’S yard. Suddenly the tampon issue becomes clear. Apparently the Mental Health building opens onto two of the facilities.

I had imagined one large pile of cement, not walking through the open to get to my office, but oh well. The buildings are all older and made of brick, rather pretty. The grounds are lovely with verdant grass, large trees and a large greenhouse structure for growing annuals. The flower gardens are weeded impeccably. It is raining, so not too many people are out and about. I ask, and boss-guy says eye contact is fine, but don’t look down after you make it. I live in a community that is very racially mixed. The worst thing you can do is NOT make eye contact with the young African American men in town, or they follow you and harass you trying to scare you. I’m trying to balance this impulse but not gawk. Sunshine would be better as I could hide a bit behind my sunglasses.

The rest of the morning is pretty innocuous. I hang with the boss and see some of his male inmate/patients. Nothing too scary, some sexual criminals, and one murderer, but they just seemed like normal patients. Now it is lunch. We can’t bring many things into the perimeter. Obviously no weapons or drugs. But also no food except for factory wrapped snacks and a liter of sealed liquids in plastic (no glass or metal). No cell phones, one lipstick, one nail clipper one hairbrush and a day’s worth of sanitary products for women only. (Were men trying to smuggle in tampons?? Why did that bit of detail need to be in the policy?) So we stroll out across the yard again to eat lunch OUTSIDE the perimeter. Everybody is extremely friendly and amusing in the lunch room, even though none are from my unit. The boss introduced me before he left with the caveat, “She’s never been in prison before.” This is really rather an appealing place in many ways I didn’t expect. But as I finish my bologna sandwich, little pieces of information start to settle in my mind, and a suspicion starts to surface.

Third trip across the yard, and I ask the boss-guy where the women are… “Oh, we haven't had women here in years.”

It Begins: Just a Urine Drop and I was on My Way to Prison

As Some of You know, I have a new job. The stock market was just scaring me, and I thought I would bolster up that portfolio with a little gainful employment. About a week before I made this decision, a Temp Agency, who shall remain Nameless, called me about working in the prison system. Of course, being of sound mind, and hearing they wanted full time, I brusquely said, “NO.”

Then I thought about it. My mother actually encouraged it. Why not? Temp job, interesting stories… if I worked full time for three months, I could lolly-gag around for a while. So I called them back.

They had two jobs, one at a maximum security men’s prison for a month, and one paying slightly more at a woman’s minimum for three months. The second one paid better, but the first was closer. What the heck, said I; it should be interesting. I called them back.

Two weeks after my résumé, my references, my height, weight, eye color and the name of my first born, they called me back. And they offered me the job. Do you see what is missing here? AN INTERVIEW??? I must admit, even I was a bit freaked out. They had sent me a job description, but it was such a generic one, my mother could have written something equally informative. Actually, my mom would have done a more thorough and interesting job of it. So, please, let me speak to this guy who wanted to hire me without even talking to me…

Well, it was an informative phone call for me. Seems that the Nameless Temp Agency just pulled a generic psychologist job description out of their files. Not even close to the actual job. I would be monitoring the stable mentally ill population at the prison. Could do that with one hand behind my back and my left eye crossed. And the boss-guy sounded sane and reasonable if a bit exhausted. He thoughtfully provided me with the names of professionals we had in common. So IMMEDIATELY I called my best nurse, Fred, and checked this guy out. Fred has perfected the art of emotive restraint and understatement; frankly, he is not prone to excitement and is allergic to hyperbole. He described this potential boss-guy as, “Top Notch.” Praise beyond the pale from Fred. I was sold.

So, what do you wear to a prison?? I suspected that Emily Post wouldn’t be able to help me. So I asked. I got a bit of a silence from the boss-guy, and then in the most delicate “duh” tone, he suggested, “regular clothes.” OK, it wasn’t a stupid question. So I told him I would sashay in wearing heals, nylons and a skirt; I mean, that IS what I normally wear to work. Well of course, with a top and undies and things…. Again, a silence. Just a moment of silence, but then, “Uh, khakis, pretty much everyone wears casual slacks and sometimes jeans on Friday.” Apparently “new women” were especially under scrutiny, and pants were less provocative. I didn’t get it, I’d think the men would be more exciting, but what did I know…

Just a urine drop and I was on my way. Drive sixty miles to the Nameless Temp Agency, do my paperwork, drive another ten miles to pee in a cup. To facilitate, the Agency had me go on their website, download the 25 pages of forms, and fill them out the night before. I am nothing if not a form filler, so I did just that after dinner.

Have you EVER been in a temp agency? GRIMGRIMGRIM. I was dressed better than the screener at the front desk and I was planning to walk all day shopping. She BRIGHTLY shuffled through my papers, announced half the forms on the site were outdated, but comforted me that that was, “all right.” I didn’t believe her. I felt irritated, not, “all right.” She told me things were “all right” about four more times. Snow White kept telling me, “Oh, my goodness!” at Disney and she nearly died of it. This Sparkling Little Robin was treading a thin line.
I refilled out half the forms while leaning away from the poor young boy reeking of alcohol applying for a mechanic job. She questioned him about the 14 month lapse in his résumé, and he announced totally straight-faced he was, “on vacation.” I then questioned Sparkling Robin about the form saying Nameless Temp Agency could deduct the cost of the drug test out of my paycheck at their discretion. Seemed a dicey thing to sign to me. She assured me they wouldn’t do it unless I got fired. I raised my eyebrows. What were they thinking to write such a crappy form that didn’t say that AT ALL. Misreading the eyebrow flick, she assured me it was very difficult to GET fired.

I gave up, and slunk out of the office to go pee in a cup.

I Am

I am a mental health professional, who, through a complete whim has ended up working in the prison system. I've been "in" for some months now, and my experiences have been heart breaking, hilarious and frustrating. In a quick review of the blogs available, most are by inmates; few by staff. I wonder if that is because we have difficulty viewing our jobs with objectivity. We have trouble staying human.

The Stanford Prison Experiment, something I remembered vaguely from my undergrad years, stands as a grim reminder of how easy it is to fall into an unhealthy, unprofessional stance in this type of environment. My goal over time is to remember my own fallibility and to treat each person as an individual. And for fear of becoming a bug myself, to remember to laugh.