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?”