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.
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.
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.
I could say that any person I know, or don`t know, is wasting their life on their priorities. I could say that what others choose to spend time on is meaningless, hopeless, silly, and idiotic, but I don`t because it isn`t my choice. If loving someone is a waste of time, then I guess that is exactly what I`m doing on my journey. I`m wasting all of the time, but the time will pass anyways, so waste or not, I get to choose.