My Whole Self

Today my brother forwarded an email from a college friend of his. What I don’t think I have mentioned, and I neglect, is the importance of the support I get from family and friends as I forge my way through this insanity. My family is concerned I am crashing and burning from the intensity of this experience.

Brother writes to his friend, “Not sure you have the time or interest for this sort of thing, but my sister is documenting her new job in a blog, and its not as bad as it sounds. Her new job is doing therapy in a state prison. And she is scary unto it to the point of stressing her marriage and freaking out her family and herself. And she is writing about that too.”

Who he writes to is a ghost person for me in his life. I suspect I met Mr. K. when I went down to my brother’s college graduation, but I don’t have a clear memory. Two decades from brother’s graduation, if I remember correctly, this is a guy who had gone into law, and is perhaps, himself, walking through some sort of craziness of his own. Dave responds back, “Thank you. It's beautifully written but painful to read. Really dark and painful. I think I'll keep going.” I cherish this interchange, and it helps move me forward.

I was on the phone to the parents tonight, and they share the brother’s fear I am losing myself. Strangely, as fearful as they were of my marriage to my very unconventional husband, they are now afraid I am jeopardizing this relationship.

In November, I started to understand the compulsion this job had on me. I told myself it was passing; it was growth; it was finding my path. Of course, it would pass. Frighteningly, it has not. So I try to explain to myself and them.

I am attracted to the power of it. I am a uterus in a sea of testosterone. One of my second shift, female officers offered up TMT – Too Much Testosterone. They are at the dregs of their lives. They are alone, unhappy and desperate to connect. And I walk among them, hopefully sowing flowers.

For me to speak their pain to them is mesmerizing; how can I know? The bulk of abuse most of them has suffered has make them quest for love, and to act out in anger and criminal behavior. A tiny bit of love from me goes a horribly long way.

Yesterday I had a guy who has been in for a drug related murder for fourteen years. I don’t mean to suggest killing somebody who did you wrong in a drug deal is okay, but I’d rather he killed that guy than breaking into my house and killing me for the $40 in my wallet. English is his second language. He was almost a child when he came in, and nearly illiterate in English. It had been four days since his parole came through, and I assumed he knew about it. He has always been cautious and watchful with me. He came into my office, and I beamed at him and grinned. He set aside the prison dead eye and beamed back. I assumed it was because he already knew about his parole. He did not. He was just so enchanted that somebody would look at him with such positive regard, he responded. Not a criminal, not a felon, not an animal. Just a lost soul. He was only slightly more excited about the parole than the fact I had looked at him with my whole self.

And THIS is the thing that keeps me sane and whole. I can do tiny, little thoughtless things. Ways of interacting that those I love don’t even consciously register. And that second, that moment can change the course of the day for my guys. And when I concentrate hard, and am conscious, what might I accomplish? What might they find in their selves to become?