Let Me Have This: Food and Other Mishaps

I try to stay positive and patient, etc... but at the moment am feeling very frustrated, anxious, a little angry.  I am still reeling from the after visit blues, but trying to remain upbeat. I forced myself out of the house earlier to get some coffee and go run some errands. I mailed off a giant letters and a stack of pictures to Isaac. I contemplated things such as cleaning, combing my hair...I'm kidding...but kind of not! I even threw on a DVD to pass the time and get my mind off of the thoughts running through my head. I have been so damn hard on myself all day. It started out with being mad at myself for not mustering up the stamina to exercise. It doesn't matter that it is 100 degrees outside, so I beat myself up for that over and over again. I avoided going to the post office because I did not feel in the mood to get the knowing look of pity: ("she is with an inmate") stare. What the hell? Sometimes I don't even feel like a human being. I am sick of feeling judged, I am sick of feeling alone, I am sick of having my love life delineated, I am sick of hating on myself for doing the wrong things or not trying hard enough, I am just sick of feeling.

For example, in my eager quest to eat better, I ended up not eating enough and found myself barely able to stand in the kitchen, my hands profusely shaking. Indeed I had low blood sugar and then proceeded to scarf down three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, just to curb the edge. Of course after that I felt like shit again! I continued to feel like crap for the next 3 hours, still shaky and sick to my stomach, so now I am both beating myself up for not eating AND for eating. Oh let me add during this I pondered what else I could eat, but why I shouldn't the whole time and then broke down and went to the grocery store all under the guise of "raising my blood sugar." Alas I have chicken baking in the oven and am about to make some mashed potatoes. I want to smack myself for feeling so weak! You may wonder at this point if my rant has any thing at all to do with Isaac and his incarceration. In a way it doesn't and in a way it does. My life can be so cyclical at times. I eat often to avoid feeling uncomfortable feelings, to numb out the pain of my life, to punish myself, to reward myself, etc...I have been feeling down since our recent visit, and try as I may to get out of that pit of despair, it has been weighing me down these past few days.

Honestly I kept thinking "oh I can just eat something and I will feel better" and then I had to remind myself that I was supposed to be eating healthier, or if I want to really be honest with myself starving my body on purpose, even with the danger that poses due to my being diabetic. I am frustrated because I struggled with an eating disorder for so long (as you may have inferred) and had worked very hard to try and curb those behaviors, only to be reeking havoc on my body by not eating on insulin and two other glucose medicines! That is a recipe for disaster. I know this. I think about how Isaac would be so angry to know how I had been messing with serious health risks, but the only thing left in my mind is the fact that my healthy living attempts stalled a month ago and I have gain 10 lbs back! I feel panicked, at the brink of disaster, missing him, angry at him for not being here to comfort me, mad at myself for being mad at a lifestyle that I actively choose daily (being with Isaac and my poor eating habits)! Sometimes it feels like I have so much control and sometimes it feels like I have none. The older I get the worse it gets and suddenly I see myself seriously ill before I have truly experienced all life has to offer.

It is almost like when you are a prison girlfriend (as with any other stressful situation), that you let the stress pile up in order to meet needs and expectations, but honestly, I don't feel like I am meeting squat! I let him down, my family, my friends, MYSELF, heck even my community and society, let's throw those in while I am having this pity party. Perhaps they see my efforts dealing with AND loving a man who is incarcerated as foolish and a waste of needed energy. Energy that could be used on bettering my health and my well being, but honestly I AM probably the most likely to use that as an excuse because I do not want to deal with these demons, this ineptitude, this fumbling at life.

Striking a Pose For Love

In the world of prison, everything has meaning, everything is important. The world of prison visitation is no exception. From the first closely watched "brief" hug and kiss, to the food choices in the vending machine, each inmate and their significant other attempt to derive meaning from their interactions. This is very true in the case of the visitation photo. Posing is key and often it is good to have a pose in mind prior to the actual taking of the photograph. Some think this is small potatoes, but I have seen the photo make or break the visitation experience. To me the most fascinating aspect of the photography experience is the pose. The pose of a couple can denote so many different aspects of their relationship. Can communicate so much unspoken information. Maybe the confusion and differing of opinions regarding the poses that Isaac and I share says volumes about us...either way we have fun figuring it out.

Well, we finally did it. Isaac managed to finagle me into doing the most popular prison picture pose, yet the most loathed by me. Picture this: prom basically with a institutional twist that includes a numbered jumpsuit instead of a tux and a tag that says "offender visitor " instead of a corsage. Isaac had begged me to do the "hold you from behind" pose for months PRIOR to our first contact visit. I finally broke down and let him have his wish at our visit this past week...and you know it really was not that horrible. For me all I was picturing was his tattooed arms circling my thick waist and me feeling like a bloated whale with him hiding in my shadow. I think I might have exaggerated that premise just a tad, because honestly the love in our eyes was enough to make the absurdity of the pose obsolete in this photograph. It is funny though that when it becomes picture time during visitation, we just somehow melt into a pose if we have not chosen one already. I wrap my arms around his waist from the side and he holds my back gently with both hands. It feels so natural and so lovely to rest my head on his shoulder. This touch is craved by the cells of our bodies. Intimacy cannot be taken for granted. So what is our next pose going to be? Isaac and I discuss this often, because the pictures really are very important to us. They are evidence of our relationship, of our love, of the fact that we were simply allowed in the same room together. I get embarrassed when I remember how I asked the unenthusiastic guard to retake the picture and how he looked at me as though I had just spoken to him in a foreign tongue. To him our moment was absurd, but to us it was heaven..no matter how cheesy or poignant, it was nothing less than perfect.

The Parodox of Lonely Nights

I think the need to be hugged, held, kissed, just plain touched is a very natural one. When one is in a relationship on the outside, these are usually not strange or restricted requests. For those of us who have a loved one in prison, physical touch and a desire for plain old familiar company, can be the greatest source of loneliness. I often sift through forums dedicated to the loved ones of inmates, and the common thread I see is women missing their husband/boyfriend's touch, the sensation of being held in his arms at night while the rain splashes against the window panes. Or how about cuddling on the couch during a movie or watching a TV show, talking late into the night side by side. Isaac and I did not have an extended period of time together when we first met and before he went to jail. We only experienced this type of casual intimacy on a handful of occasions, but oh do I remember the feeling of him holding me at night. Tonight I miss him so very much. In fact the past few weeks have felt tortuous to me. My mind repeatedly wonders back to the notion that I am physically alone out here. I am separated by metal and stone and granite and bricks from the one I love and the one who brings me a sense of peace and comfort.

Some have never had the privilege of being touched by their man, and some will never have it again. Women who met their significant other while he was incarcerated usually do not get that first hug or kiss until approved for visits, and only a handful of states have family visits aka conjugal visits, so intimacy of any kind is very limited. Those whose guys are serving life, may never be able to freely touch them again, be enveloped uninhibited in their arms again. I understand this is prison, not summer camp. I understand these men are reaping the consequences of their actions, of their choices, but the question often is, is it right to dictate the need for touch, for a physical connection? I speak of lonely nights, because this is the time of day I miss Isaac the most. With the fall of darkness, brings out fears, negative thoughts, despair, hopelessness and all I want at times is his shoulder to cry on. I suffer from insomnia and sometimes lay awake pondering life, our relationship, the stress of tomorrow, the downfalls of yesterday. I feel like I need to be soothed. To be calmed into sleep.

Many choose to deal with these lonely nights in a more constructive, positive manner than I at times. Some women will keep a body pillow on hand, or wedge the comforter between themselves and the other side of the bed. Others will listen to their guy's favorite music, look at his pictures or re read his letters before bed to soothe their inner turmoil. Yet others have the privilege of having children with their mate and will often snuggle up with them at night to lull everyone to sleep.

Let's not forget the pervasive loneliness that Isaac must feel every night, all night. He is separated from me just as much as I am separated from him. He not only has a void, yet as mentioned must dwell in a place of figurative darkness for many of his days. Crowded amongst thousands he remains alone, and that fact, that notion is what keeps me awake at night, alone and lonely.

Does a Past Define You?

To move forward is to heal

My boyfriend is not perfect. I am not perfect. We have both made more mistakes than we can count, but often of a different nature. I think that although mistakes carry various consequences in society and in our lives, they do not always carry different weights. The "sins" of my past haunt me and bring me guilty feelings just as much as the next person. I have trouble understanding the things that my boyfriend has done and experienced in his life. I am sure he has the same problem with me. I kept telling myself that I wanted to know everything about him, but when I started hearing about his past it would make me feel uneasy, even slightly disturbed. We were raised so differently, that some things are very hard for me to fathom. I am told over and over again, that if I want our relationship to work, that I must leave his past in the past. I must not blame him in the present, nor carry into the future, that of yesterday. I understand this concept, but something always nags at me. I think it is the question of  do the experiences of our pasts, our blunders and even our triumphs, do they define our character? Our personality? What will stop us from behaving in the same manner in the present? In the future?

I find myself not wanting to know about certain things from Isaac's past, but not knowing also brings me distress. I guess the crux of all this, is that fact that when you are in a relationship with someone who is incarcerated, your time, your communication, your affection is all dictated. One phone call only lasts 15 minutes and can cost $10. You can write letters until your hearts content, but he must be equipped with paper, stamps, envelopes, etc... and the reply may not come for weeks or not at all. He may avoid or forget to answer questions you ask. Visits are also limited and often too short to speak your mind regarding a serious subject. So I sit wondering, ruminating over what is fact and what is fiction. I feel suffocated by a lack of free communication. Stifled by the fact that someone else is governing our relationship. But then I must remind myself that I chose to put myself in this situation. I choose daily to stand by him, to be supportive, to live with the ambiguity. 

I will freely admit that throughout the months, that have turned into a year, that have turn into longer, I have discovered information, information that breaks my heart, that both fascinates and horrifies me. Isaac has lived in a way that is foreign to me, surviving by lying, by using, by bouncing around from place to place. He has held an anger so deep inside him that ironically he appears numb at times. If you look at a timeline of his life it goes from tragedy to tragedy, woman to woman, lie to lie. It is a carefully woven tapestry of dysfunction, but actually a quite amazing tale of persistence and survival. At first Isaac would not own this past. He made light of much of its happenings. He had a strong desire to paint himself and his actions in a positive light. Who wouldn't want to? We all want to put our best self forward. We want to be appealing. He has always had great charm, and quite definitely crushed a few girls hearts with his carelessness. This included mine in the beginning of our time together. We were strangers and he let me down. It was very painful,even from someone I did not know. It consumed me wondering where I had went wrong, what was my deficit that Isaac could walk away from me without so much as a phone call. Then I would vacillate between realizing perhaps this pain this hurt, was not mine to hold, that the seemingly cruel or caring actions of a man I had known for such a short period of time were not promised, not owed to me. Isaac was doing what his past had taught him to do: to drift. I pondered this often. I wondered if I had been too hard on myself and on him for the mistakes of those days. Maybe I had forgotten how our chance meeting was totally supposed to be limited and benign in my mind as well. What gave me the right to judge from such a high pedestal. I was not perfect.

I had been chasing men from date to date, relishing in the fact that they chased me, wanted to sleep with me, wanted to want me and for a few hours at a time I felt like a worthwhile person. I freely admit as well that my past is full of mild manipulation, various blunders, negative patterns of interacting with others. I have lingered in so much selfishness, yet ironically had openly devoted myself to the care of others. I lived as an oxymoron for so long. I would desire being pursued, would shatter the illusion that I was coy and proper, and then honestly go on to the next man. I would be ditched, dumped, discarded, set aside, and used by so many men yet continued along my journey to the next one without a second thought. Why was Isaac's betrayal of my feelings so horrible? You see to me, THIS is all the past I see at times. How he hurt me, and the uncovering of more of his transgressions from even before me seem justifiable for me to use because I boldly state that it is evidence for the examination of character! My self-righteous and often frantic desire to "understand" what has gone wrong in my past brings me to this point. Here are the facts: I have lied, I have deceived, I have not cared. Isaac has lied, avoided, manipulated, used. We are not so different in practice, but perhaps in circumstance. I am left wondering: can our deeds be measured against each other? Can our pasts be ranked? Can I have justification for what I feel are wrongs? Can he infer how I will behave while in our relationship? So back to my question, does a past define you? Does it determine the person you will be? Is change truly possible in the incarceration setting? Is the love they profess, the change they promise all just the dreaded jail talk? Can the behaviors, the patterns that we have learned, that have kept us alive, can they be easily manipulated? Easily destroyed or morphed into positive coping mechanisms? As I said Isaac is not perfect. I am not perfect. We have imperfect pasts. At this moment in time, this single path I linger on, all I can do is either wonder, act, forget, or forgive. And if it is forgiveness I chose, then I must actually forgive, because to continue to hold one captive for that which I claimed to have forgiven, is not forgiveness at all.  

The Perils of Patience

I often see the wives and girlfriends of inmates speak of the passionate, all encompassing love they feel for their partners. It is a love like one they have never felt before, intense yet gentle, amazing, pure and on fire, completely saturating. I wonder to myself how can so many women feel this exact same way? How can so many woman feel this way AND happen to all have a loved one in prison? At times it just seems so much like a coincidence. Is it conditioning? A defense mechanism to deflect against opposition and negative opinions? A reason for staying? Maybe it has to do with the idea that "distance makes the heart grow fonder" or the idea that separation brings more anticipation, more excitement for that moment of reunification, that deep longing eating at your insides that also brings a sweet pang of joy. Are we masochists for folly? For long nights alone in our beds, tables for one, and the burn of jealousy for others in our hearts?

These thoughts regarding this subject often flow through my head, not just because it baffles me, but because it INCLUDES me! My thoughts are their thoughts. I have never felt a love like this, so lascivious, a yearning for the untouchable literally. That ache so deep inside for the one that feels like he completes me. There have been times that the love I have for him and the love he professes for me scares me. Its intensity is off the charts and does not follow the path of any scale or measurement. When I read forums or blogs, writings by other women whose men are incarcerated, I read the same types of statements. They talk about how they have never met such a gentle, caring, compassionate, loving man as their boyfriend/husband. This sounds all too familiar to me. My boyfriend was one of the most caring, introverted, special men I had ever met and I knew that within a hour of laying eyes on him, but there can and have been very dark sides to these men, whether it be drugs, and anger problems, the heat of the moment that allowed them to commit their crimes, even premeditation or retaliation. How does one juxtapose this against the light that shines from these guy's halos? I am not poking fun, I am not scoffing at these women, because I AM these women. I love my man with a passion that is beyond words. Sometimes it brings me to tears. Sometimes my body aches for his touch and my ears ring at the thought of hearing his voice. My first contact visit brought electricity through my body as I stood next to him, my arms wrapped around him for our picture. He felt so safe and so familiar. It appears that incarcerated men and their loved ones do so much with purpose and with meaning. They love with meaning, they make every phone call, every letter, every visit the center of those few lasting moments, because those moments are all we have, and the yearning, the lusting for more than that is bittersweet, yet just enough to keep us going, keep us loving, keep us preparing for the day when this intense love can manifest itself on the outside.

Behind the Wall

Once off the highway the roads began to wind. I passed through numerous small nameless towns flanked by a gas station or fast food restaurant here and there. I was headed to my first visit with Isaac since he had been transferred to prison. I had not seen him in almost 6 weeks. This was to be our first contact visit, which means we can hug, kiss, and hold hands. It would also be an hour long, way longer than any non-contact visit we had had. I had been nervous for days. Isaac and I had gotten into a fight a couple days before and I knew we were both nervous. We had been looking forward to this day for over a year. I had not felt his skin, nor touched him in almost a year and a half. It was beginning to feel surreal. I began to realized I was nearing the complex which housed the three prisons. Isaac was in maximum security, the oldest and most secure area of the prisons. He had described the place as scary and once told me that they call this place "behind the wall" because they can see nothing once transported inside those walls. He stated that all one can see is the sky because the walls are so tall. That broke my heart to hear that, yet slightly fascinated me. Was it that menacing? Probably so. Tears began welling in my eyes as I approached the building. It looked like a fortress, a sanitarium or mental institution from the 40's. The wall was larger than life. I didn't want to think of my baby being housed inside those walls, miserable and depressed 24 hours a day.

I finally entered the waiting area and began the process of checking in. The rest of the visit consist more of snapshots, or observations I had while spending time with Isaac..

I remember standing at the metal gate waiting for it to open. Looking up I locked eyes with you and you smiled the hugest grin. My tears began to fall the moment I saw that smile.

You hugged me so intensely and so hard. You squeezed the life out of me and breathed it back in with your kiss.

There was a peace that fell amongst those visiting, not because of us, but because the inmates felt safe and secure within the presence of their loved ones. For a moment it was not about crime or prison or punishment, but about quality time, about chatting, about holding the hand of a loved one.

When wives or girlfriends visit, the common debate amongst inmates is whether or not these ladies are being used. They call them "tricks." Often I would shift positions to see if an inmate was looking our way scoffing or with curiosity. My boyfriend and I are quite different both physically and otherwise. I locked eyes with one man whose significant other had walked away for a moment, and he looked at me perplexed. I am not sure whether it was a good perplexed or a bad perplexed. Perhaps the idea of us together made him uncomfortable, maybe he was excited to see some diversity...My guess was he was trying to figure out how my boyfriend and I fit together. What our story was. In my mind, all I did was wonder what every one else's story was, both visitor and inmate. How did they fit together? How did their lives converge in this place?

There was an elderly woman who fell by the vending machines. The image of her son, tattooed from head to toe, long ponytail rushing to her side with a caring one rarely sees is burned in my mind.

The stern older female CO who called my boyfriend sweetheart in a motherly tone.

The way we melted together like we had never been apart while taking our picture. My head fit ever so neatly in the space between your neck and chin. To feel your skin against mine, as I leaned the weight of my body into the niche of your arms, was to feel peace.

I felt happiness in a way that I had no felt for as far back as I could remember.

Saying goodbye was the hardest part of the visit. I held onto you tightly as you kissed me. I wanted to stay there in your arms. I blew you a kiss as you waved from the caged in area you had to leave through. You were still buttoning your jumpsuit after your strip search.

I left that fortress of a building feeling lost and a little empty. I drove that winding road home with excitement and numbness inside of me. I had been strengthened in my love for you with just a touch, with a relaxed conversation and a bag of chips and two soda cans. You made me realize that maybe I am stronger than I thought I was. Maybe I can continue this journey day by day. You went back to your tiny cell with the memories of our visit. I drove away back into the freedom I know, but recognizing that our hearts remain captive together.  

A Man Named Isaac

Isaac was raised in a poor family in a rural area. He was exposed to multiple types of dysfunction at an early age including drug use and violence. As the middle child, he was often set aside or ignored. He grew to have a lot of anger inside of him and began acting out. He had some fairly benign brushes with the law as a juvenile. He began to abuse drugs at an early age, decided to drop out of high school, and began his career as a criminal at the brink of adulthood. Do not get me wrong, I do not believe Isaac wanted to break the law nor wanted to end up in prison at the age of 18. I think he had a desire to make money to, to acquire possessions that he was never able to afford, and to build a sense of family and self-esteem. He wanted to make a place for himself in this chaotic world. He did this in the only way he knew how, to walk outside of societal norms, to take without asking, to manipulate, to use, to lie.

When I met Isaac, I had no idea that he had a criminal past, although when I think about some of the signs that were present, I want to beat myself in the head. Instead all I saw was how quiet and shy he was, his mischievous, yet playful crooked grin, his beautiful green eyes, and the way he made me feel like I had known him my whole life in the period of an hour. We had some good times together, however brief they were, and I want to be clear, neither myself nor Isaac are perfect. In the beginning, he hurt me in multiple ways, and I was simultaneously on a rampage to kill any pain I was feeling. There were times I refused to talk to him, times he ignored me. Very painful times. I thought I would never see him again, and told myself I didn't want to. I would remember the feeling of his arms around me as I slept, the kindness he showed me as well as the blatant disregard for my most delicate inner feelings. He dissapeared out of my life leaving me confused and wanting answers. Little did I know that he had only been out of his SECOND bid in prison about 9 months, and little did I know he would head right back for his third. With this time, another journey started for the both of us that would change everything. Isaac was so broken from a very young age, and adulthood for myself had only brought the degradation of my spirit. We found each other in a hopeless place. This blog chronicles our story, our every day struggles and the beauty we find in what we have.

Later, I will explain more about the circumstances that brought Isaac and I back together, but I will say this: since the start of my time with him, he has been in four facilities and has come to rest at his home prison after over a year of bouncing around. I have stood by his side through all of this and have had heartache, hope, stress, happiness, love, etc...all at the same time. I do not regret the time spent dwelling in this lifestyle. I love Isaac like I have never loved another man. Prison wives and girlfriends often describe this whole consuming love they feel for their significant other. By not having what was had, the desire grows greater, the tension more malleable. It is a strange and difficult dance to do, but I am dancing still, and the steps both become more advanced, yet more familiar.