I`m only one call away..

I like that song. You know that song, right? “I`m only one call away, I`ll be there to save the day”. Yeah, yeah. Cheesy, but goody. My song would be “I`m only one prepaid call away”, or “I`m only one collect call away”, or “I`m only one call, that has a 30 minute limit, away”.  Or….no call away because of a lock down because prisoners in GP cannot stop stabbing each other. “It’s how they show each other love” Jeremy says and then laughs.

“Do you know what I want to tell you every time we have to say goodbye?” I asked him.. . . .

“I want to tell you not to go. I want to tell you to please not leave me”.  That was difficult for me to say to him. It almost felt too raw and too hokey for me. I have difficulty with emotional exposure, believe it or not. Give me a blog and I will bleed my heart, but I feel even more center stage and nervous when I have to expose myself to my husband over the phone line. Funny how that works. It’s true, though, that the older you get, the more chances you take. Life chances, emotional chances. You say “Fuck it. I`m all in. I LOVE YOU and this hurts and I`m here”.  I`m here, across the telephone wires, and my voice is carries over the air to you and I hope you call me back even though it’s time to lockdown for the night. The feeling that comes to mind is helpless.

Anyway. Not leaving. Not hanging up. Staying with me. I know that isn`t a reality right now. I know that after we get that 1 minute warning, that it is only a matter of seconds counting down that we have to wrap the phone call up and I`m usually not ready, I have more to say, so many things, things left unsaid. So frustrating. Even if the phone call starts off normal enough, somehow we tumble through becoming infatuated with each other all over again and I want him to stay with me. *click. disconnect*

Sometimes he can call back, but when he can’t and I know he can’t, I stay on the line until it disconnects and I keep the phone up to my ear sometimes, waiting for his voice to return. It doesn’t return and it doesn’t matter how many years I’ve been doing this or how many phone calls have ended and started, my heart is still lost when we have to say goodbye. More silly hokey love stuff. You can vomit. Unless you’ve been in this situation and you have the guts to really lay it all out on the line, the vomiting doesn’t bother me. I hope, if anything, that my exposure is embraced and that someone doesn’t feel so alone or stupid or ridiculous because of me.

Anyway again. For a while there, we stopped saying goodbye, and instead said “Later” or “I`ll be right back”, but then we started to say goodbye again. It’s weird how cycles start and stop and start again. It’s weird how some prisons have 15 minute phone calls once a month and some have 30 minute phone calls that are limited only be tier time and how many people want to make calls.

The phone calls, though. They become my lifeline to my best friend. They become a stand in for every moment that we miss out on together. They become the light in the dark, my shoulder to cry on, my coffee with a friend when times are tough. I spend my days on the phone as part of my job and I absolutely hate it. I loathe talking on the phone usually to anyone. I have a weird phone phobia that I’ve had to overcome to communicate with Jeremy the way I do over those recorded calls, exposing myself completely, unapologetically.

He said he’s out on the tier tonight and he’s calling and I’ve already lined up all the things I want to tell him and ask him and I hope he can call back so we can talk for an entire hour because today is one of those days and an hour is so short, but I need every second of it to bridge that time between when we hang up and the next time he calls.

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Holiday Blog 2016

I’ve been trying to come up with a prison holiday themed blog entry for the last couple of weeks now and I have deleted more drafts than I ever have before. I gave my lack of a completed entry the title of “writer’s block”, but maybe sometimes  what you’re feeling doesn’t translate to the written word and you have to be okay with that. So, I’ll stick with this: yesterday I had one of the last visits with my husband this year and it felt bittersweet and comfortably uncomfortable. His mom, dad, and sister drove out to see him, so it was a nice family visit. The visiting room was packed with people, smells, microwaveable food, watchful eyes, kids excited to see their papas, crying spouses, holiday decorations at the front desk and us.

Prison sucks. Prison sucks big time around the holidays and sometimes my heart feels full and empty all at the same time and I wonder how that can be. I know that it feels that way because each holiday season I am left almost empty by what the year has taken from me but I am also replenished by the love I am given by a person I never thought I could find in this life and by a family that has taken such good care of me in Jeremy’s absence.
So, yes, prison is shitty and heartbreaking, but it’s also where I found my light and purpose in life after I sent a letter to a stranger 16 years ago. Each holiday, I dig deep for more strength to go on and continue to open my heart and seek freedom and love in a place that thrives on anything but.
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How long is forever?

“Sometimes, just one second.” said the white rabbit.
Do you remember that part of Alice in Wonderland?
Seven years has felt like a lifetime and the blink of an eye all at once.
Seven years ago tomorrow, I was 24 when I said “I do” to my very best friend in a prison visiting room. Seven years ago tomorrow I was smiling and shaking and he had damp hair from a shower and he was handsome as all get-out. Seven years ago I could never have predicted the ups and downs we have gone through just to be together, to stay together, and I could not have predicted that I would love my life partner more after so much despair, so much separation, so much sadness and uncertainty. I could not have imagined being closer, more in love, more grateful, and more sure, even in the midst of the greatest mountain climb of our lives.
After we got married that day, all those years ago, I was able to stay and visit, laugh with the man I had just agreed to be with forever, fight over Cheetos, and sit in silence and stare at this beautiful human I had gotten to know over letters, phone calls, and a few visits here and there before that day. We were married among those laughs and Cheetos, in that prison visiting room, and nothing had felt more organic or true in my life before that moment.
This anniversary I am going on a trip with my sister in law to celebrate love and life and the pains and pleasures that come with real bonds. I am travelling a distance from my love on our day, but it’s funny how the closer two people are in life and in heart, the more distance doesn’t mean a damn thing.
Time can feel like it crawls by when you’re waiting for something and in the middle of your heart exploding joy, it can seem like it’s passing too quickly to hold onto. What do you do? You throw your head back and laugh so hard that you cry, you pray that the time in between kisses feels like just one second and that those kisses feel like they last forever. 22-mousepad_dali_sclock

The land of lonely

Hi my name is Desiree and I’m an introvert. That’s a good part of why I’ve been able to survive my relationship, my marriage with Jeremy all these years. It’s the reason people have joked that this relationship is perfect for me.

Jokes on me, I guess.

I’m an introvert by nature and I enjoy space, downtime, pockets of hours with my thoughts with no one else around. I don’t necessarily need to have the constant knowledge that someone is right there. I was born this way, which makes me feel that I was born to love in this space right now….

But loneliness. That’s a hell of a feeling sometimes. Loneliness, not in general, but loneliness for your person in life will drive you mad.

Hi my name is Desiree and I’ve been driven mad lately. I’m lonely for my person, I loathe prison visiting, I’m committed to someone who is out of reach more often than he is when I need him and it seems normal and horrible and normal and then horrible again.

It’s rare that someone asks me how the loneliness affects me or asks me how I’m doing, how I’m REALLY doing, navigating the waters or prison wifedom. People don’t ask because I seem so together, comfortable in my introverted nature, but even introverts get so lost in the land of lonely that it’s hard to find a way back sometimes.

The truth? That sometimes this situation absolutely sucks the life out of me and just sucks in general. That is putting it mildly. Sometimes going for a coffee just for human interaction doesn’t cut it because I am alone in a city that is not home, that I do not like, where I don’t really know anyone and there is no quelling the loneliness at times and my person is here but not here and it is a feeling of helplessness, of desperation, and there are days, like today, that I want to run. Some days feel like kicking for the surface with cinderblocks tied to my ankles.

Usually at the end of my posts, I provide some inspirational transition from misery to miracle of emotion or something positive but some days just don’t go as planned and some days you’re lonely and lost and no one is coming to find you. Today is one of those days and trying to find a way out of the lonely is a journey.

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I`m your huckleberry

Did you ever see that movie? Tombstone. It’s one of my favorite movies and Val Kilmer as Doc Holliday is my undoing in life. Val Kilmer as Doc Holliday as some fantastic gun slinging, fearless gambler. I often think about the masks we wear, the names we give others, and the names others give us. Are you someone’s huckleberry and are they yours? Is that all a lie? Did you tell yourself you were something you’re not or does the world not see you for who you really are?

If you’ve ever had a connection with prison culture, you know that nicknames and “handles” run wild and everyone has a name that tells a story….whether that story is the truth or a lie or doesn’t make any sense.  I used to laugh when my husband would refer to someone by their handle, but now I just ask “What’s his real name?” and it’s usually an unexpectedly normal name, unassuming in the way the letters weave together.

Do you know how many Pee-wees I’ve heard of since I met Jeremy? Dozens. Ghost (a guy that sounded like Mickey Mouse). Shorty (multiple; sometimes not because of their height). City (Soft spoken and had a cool way about him).*Insert city where the person is from here*. Jeremy used to know this guy named Boston a long time ago. You guessed it. He was from Boston. Sometimes it’s their middle names they prefer, or their last names. When I hear an actual first name straight away, I ask “but what’s his nickname?”. Sometimes the nickname is all I know and I become confused when someone is referred to by their actual name. “Oh, that’s Ghost. You know him.” Yeah…I do know him. Or does anyone really? I never did find out why that was his nickname. Usually a story follows the reveal of someone’s handle, but not Ghost. Maybe Jeremy didn`t know either. Who knows.

Smiley is the guy I’ve never seen smile. “That’s Restless” my husband says. “Wrestle? What? What does that mean” I ask. “No, restless. You know, like you’re restless..”. Interesting. Shaky. No idea why. He doesn’t shake. It makes me think of Shakey’s Pizza. Did you ever go to Shakey’s Pizza? Yeah. Anyway, Shaky. Shakey? Shakee? I don`t know.

“What’s your nickname here?” I ask my husband. He hasn’t really had a solid one over the years and he is definitely no Pee-wee or Shaky or Smiley or any other misplaced prison nickname. “Doc”. I want to laugh and I think I actually did. He knows I love Tombstone and he knows I am his huckleberry and he is mine.

Every nickname has a story.

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I love you and I hate prison

This is a statement I make so often that it almost comes out automatically, thoughtlessly, sometimes even as a filler in conversations during difficult times.
“I know, baby. I know”. He says this every time, but not automatically or thoughtlessly or as a filler. He just knows and then he is quiet, thinking of the next string of words to step on, hoping they aren’t a land mine. Sometimes success, sometimes a lost foot. You can’t argue with facts, but you can chock life up to something more.
“I love you and I hate prison”. Not BUT I hate prison; AND I hate prison. I don’t know why I choose to say it that way. Maybe because I don’t like to say I love someone but, because but means conditional and I hate conditions. Too much of my life is spent in a conditional state, under conditions.
Quite often I wonder how we got here to this loving the human but hating the prison place. Not you, the reader, and I, but Jeremy and I. I’m a poser of questions there are no easy answers to, but I ask them anyway. Somehow the you in “I love you and I hate prison” always has the answers for me. What’s my favorite answer to my question about why we came to be? Why did we come down this path? Why did the pieces arrange this way and why have we clung to each other for dear life all these years?
That fate exists. That sometimes souls come together because they were meant to be and not randomly. Is this a designed path? Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? I don’t know, Freddie Mercury. Prison feels a bit like both sometimes.
“Whhhyyyyyyyyy???” I ask and whine or I ask and then laugh and then whine.
“I have loved you since before you were born. I have always loved you.” He says.
How can you argue with that?
Prison or not.
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Shaking bras and vending machines

Life seems incredibly shaken out of place for me some days and mostly when I have to face down the prison and all of its ridiculousness, I go into auto pilot mode. I know what needs to be done to see my husband and I do it. What bothered me initially, while still annoying, has become some version of normal.

Some version of normal that includes a female guard asking me to “shake out your bra”(reach under your shirt and lift it to the band of your bra, pull the band away from your skin, and shake what your mama gave you. Or didn’t give you, in my case). Then you stand there with your tits out of place or you quite casually reach into your shirt and scoop each breast up, on by one, and adjust them in front of the guard. “Sorry. I’m all out of place now”. Only I’m not sorry but I say it anyway.  I`m not fucking sorry at all. I`m fucking angry that I had to shake my bra out again and I`m pissed off that she is asking me to shake my hair that I ‘ve just done. You won’t understand unless you have unruly hair that is hard to tame but easy to love.

This version of normal, my version of normal,  also includes buying $4 cheeseburgers made of soy fillers from a machine that often tries to take your $4 without dispensing the fucking soy filler filled cheeseburger, causing you to shake the shit out of that machine until the prize drops. Have you ever shaken a vending machine for any reason at all? Have you shaken one in a room full of prisoners and their visitors? Yeah. I’m determined, so I shake that machine that is 10 times my size and I get that cheeseburger. VICTORY! Then I walk quickly, with my long legs, to the microwave clear across the room, before anyone else can get to it first because ain’t nobody got time to wait 5 minutes for someone else’s burrito or hot pocket or soy filler filled cheeseburger to cook and the other microwave is “out of order”, of course. This whole alternate prison reality is out of order.

I take my alternate reality lessons with me, though, and I have been known to adjust my breasts in my car, at stop lights, if they feel out of place and I’ve, on more than one occasion, helped people on the outside retrieve a stuck vending machine item. You’re fucking welcome.

Skills are skills, yo.

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