Probably one of the most painful lessons I've learned in my own life, and in observing the lives of those closest to me, is that of dealing with serious personal issues LATER. Which means, in general, that those serious personal issues are NOT being dealt with right NOW. I ran away from the remains of my childhood while in Israel -- a long story -- and thought I took control of my life. I thought that right up until problems with my marriage and my mothering of my firstborn in her elementary school years pulled me up by the short hairs.
That's because in my late teens and through most of my twenties, I reveled in my supposed freedom from the emotional baggage of my youth. Things I heard and witnessed and endured. The pain of feelings suppressed; the fear of no safety net; the disconnect from society; a deep spiritual abyss of confusion. What I couldn't see clearly was that all of that baggage accompanied me through my perceived escape from an oppressive existence . . . and it rolled right alongside me as I took my marital vows, labored through childbirth, struggled to understand the nuances of 'real life', careened through parenting and exhausted both my husband and myself in those early years.
Though my gifts for compassion and discernment ran deep, they were tainted by a skewed perspective and a surprising naivete concerning the nature of people around me. My sense of right and wrong was very acute and intensely black and white in situations where I really should have loosened up a bit. And as I pushed headlong through my budding adulthood, a greenhorn in so many areas of the mundane day-to-day duties, my anger grew. It erupted in the face of intense emotional situations which became so because I didn't have the internal tools to effectively and quietly deal with bumps and spills in relationships without taking it far too personally. My sense of righteousness and my way with words made me a force with which to be reckoned. Not to everyone. Only to some. And most often to myself.
I was afraid at the root of it all. Afraid of loss. Afraid of failure. Afraid of being wrong. Afraid to have the rug pulled out from beneath me yet again. I craved regularity for so long, stability and security, and yet when they arrived their features were so unfamiliar that I turned from them. I turned to the familiar unhealthy thought patterns. I turned and embraced the very pain from which I had been running. And in doing do, though I remained worthy of love and affection, though I could present as intelligent and amusing, I became ineffective in very vital ways.
For years, I ran into walls with my children, sure I was inadequate, afraid to introduce them to the God in which I was sure I still believed, and positive they would eventually be as screwed up as I felt. Instead of finding the good in my husband, in our relationship, I allowed for the eventuality of divorce, the inevitability of a split, the finality of an end to us in the not-so-distant future. My problems with my body image, with bulimia, with Gloria, created terrible moments of private paralysis -- a pair of snug jeans or a serving of corn chips could be, and often was, my emotional undoing. Not the best of foundations for success in my chosen lines of work, so to speak.
Though I do believe that with the passing of each year a piece of me returned to the whole and was knitted back into place, that process didn't happen quickly enough to spare those around me from the damage I inflicted in my broken state. Not that it was intentional. In some cases, I didn't know any better. My boundaries were stretched. My mindset far from center. If ever I could change one thing about my life after my childhood (because that would be the obvious Genie-in-a-bottle wish) it would be the rate at which I realized that eschewing my hurts only caused further hurts. By not dealing with my wounds early on, I created a far more difficult scenario from which to extricate myself AND my loved ones later in life. I could have been a better parent and wife and sister and daughter. A better friend. More effective. My life could have been lived with far more purpose and much less getting by. That whole survive or thrive thing. It's not that I live in that regret. No, not at all. I love my life here and now. Enough healing has occurred for me to feel reset and restored . . . and purposeful. But I live with the awareness of that fact. An awareness which makes me more sensitive to others caught in similar webs.
That my powers of persuasion and assistance are limited is now excruciatingly obvious to me. Excruciating because outside of prayer and love, there is often nothing I can do to change the life circumstances of people for whom I care very deeply. When my sister suffered her post-partum psychotic episode and took her children's lives, I couldn't spare her the resulting agony nor could I walk the dark path back to life on which she had to journey. Nor could I absorb the pain of the other families or my own. Such an all-encompassing helplessness, beyond anything I had felt previously . . . and that's saying something. When I turned my baby brother into the police, and he was sentenced to over a decade in prison, a flame in some deep chamber of my heart was tamped into darkness for what seemed several decades. Though I imagined what his life must have been, it was his life to endure and not mine. When my other brother, husband and father to three, discovered a cancerous mass had invaded his fit body, the shock rippled like a sonic boom through me. I couldn't love it or joke it away. The hours of chemo and resulting illness and weakness broached no sisterly stand-in: it was all his to take in and in and in. Poisoning himself to combat a deadlier poison. I could not comprehend how my siblings deserved any of it after what they lived through in our shared early years.
But it's not a world where fairness is dished out with any sort of regularity and justice, is it? Otherwise, in some burst of wise epiphany, those of us on the outside looking in on people with problems like the ones I just outlined would swoop in and offer assistance in just the right way: disaster would be averted. Broken hearts, destroyed lives, unfairness in truckloads . . . would cease to exist. Someone would have caught my brother's need for counseling to combat mental illness before drugs became a complication and led to a life of petty crime and terrible decision-making. Someone would have recognized the signs of post-partum depression and dragged my sister to a doctor, whether she wanted it or not, and Grace and Gabriel would be playing with my son in Colorado right now. Someone would have caught my brother's back pain early on and diagnosed him before the lymphoma jumped up in stages; better yet, he would never have developed a liking for Diet Pepsi and thus exposed himself daily to the artificial sweetener directly linked to his cancer.
My experiences have increased my sensitivity to possible unfolding tragedy. I don't seek such things out. But my radar is a bit more attuned. So, I don't hold back if I see a situation where a word or action might defuse a moment or create a buffer or educate, educate, educate. But even then, some will be helped and some won't. There are those individuals who are able to see their shortcomings and weaknesses and wish to be restored. But it seems that there are far more who are shortsighted and too weak to accept a leg up onto the dry shore from the shipwreck banging about in the dirty waters around them. They're the ones who still have the power to scare me to my very human core. They're the ones who keep me tethered to prayers of gratitude and beseeching.
Often, they're the ones you love for who they are, even the ugly. They are the closest to your bared and beating heart. And thus they have the power to cause great damage in their wounded state. Exploding shrapnel. Far-reaching. Long-range. Enduring. Scarring.
At times like that, all you or I can do is don our battle gear, secure our helmets and assume a protective position. And I also cry.
Showing posts with label prison. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prison. Show all posts
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Thursday, June 21, 2012
From Mother-Sister to Sister-Sister
It's about time for an update on Brother Gary. Because I haven't written very often about him, it's hard to know where to start.
**************
The above line was written almost two weeks ago. That's as far as I got. And as of today, I realize that it hasn't been about the start . . . meaning Gary's absence from my blog topics. It has been about the long, possibly unending finish. And my role in all of that. And the constantly changing lines in the sand as we rework our relationship boundaries. I think I knew it was all there, gently bubbling just beneath the surface of my conscious awareness. But with the excitement and emotion of a young daughter's marriage and move to another country for 3 years, there was no surplus of feelings and intellect with which to effectively explore all of that. Much less process it. It's not a simple relationship. What in the heck is a simple relationship these days, anyway?!
My husband is the one who actually brought on about what I consider an epiphany this morning. As we often do to one another, he asked how I was. Specifically, he asked if anything was bothering me. "I don't THINK so. I mean, I've not slept enough. I watched a movie last night about a son who kills his father, his sister and several of his schoolmates with a bow and arrow ("We Need To Talk About Kevin" with Tilda Swinton and up-and-coming actor, Ezra Miller -- keep an eye on this kid). I just talked with _________ and she had a rough week; I feel for her. And our daughter just shipped off to Germany a few days ago and I ship off to Colorado for a family wedding next week. I suppose THOSE things could have me distracted. Make it seem like something is wrong?" I answered. After sipping on his coffee and watching me for a moment, he tried again, "It really seems like something is bothering you . . . " He paused for a second or two, "How's Gary?"
I started to give him my pat answer of the past few months or so. "Well, he calls less and less. It's been more than a week this time. And when he did call, I had to hang up because something was going on. He didn't call back. And he even wanted me to order an electric shaver for him. I'm trying not to think it means anything bad if I haven't heard from it but there's always a little bit of that in the corner of my mind . . . " I trailed off as I thought a little more about what I was saying because it didn't feel quite right. Like I had pinned the tail on the donkey and upon removing my blindfold, discovered Eeyore with a tail on his nose. And then it HIT me, "You know what? Jimmy. I miss him. I miss just talking with him. Whether it's bad or good or has me guessing. I know he's getting better and has a life in there. A girlfriend. A new team of doctors and social workers who are getting through to him. He's attending groups four times a week. I know it's good that he doesn't need to call me several times a day. Or even every day. But he's not just my brother and I'm not just here to help him solve problems or bail him out or worry or all that other stuff we've cycled through," I feel a little surprise as I talk and THAT is a surprise because I'm naturally introspective and analytical and self-aware, "I miss him because he's my friend. I like talking and hearing his voice and being in his life loop. I'm not sure he fully gets that."
I'm not sure that I fully got that until this morning.
So, for the second day in a row, I tried calling him instead of awaiting his call. When he came to the phone, we chatted a bit and then I asked if I had caused him to avoid me, even subconsciously. Because regardless of what he might say -- "not feeling well," "the phones are always busy," "I forgot" -- when he wants to talk with me, he dials and talks. Period. End of story. Nothing gets in the way. Though he couldn't nail down anything concrete, he agreed that it seemed like he was avoiding me, even if in a passive, unaware manner. And then we dug into the multiple ways in which our connection was evolving and morphing. How I was trying to back out of mothering or enabling so that he could spread his own developing wobbly adult wings as he sheds his arrested development cocoon. How he was figuring out the complexity of living out consequences while simultaneously engaging in life. "In prison, you get in trouble, you go to the hole for awhile. It's regimented. You're alone. You serve that time. And you return to the population." We agreed that in regular life, even with all the needs met that weren't always met in our childhood, it's messy. And when trouble comes, you still have to keep all of the other balls in the air. People and work and emotions and all of the rest don't go into a state of suspension while one deals with the trouble and its fall-out. It's all a barely contained amalgam of dealing and feeling and thinking and being accountable.
I also realized we'd each been taking the other one for granted as the luxury of regular communication became a common occurrence. Gary said knowing I had the iPhone and he could call any old time made him more casual about calling. It was easier to put it off for later. For my part part, I would multi-task with such time-management efficiency -- walk the dog, do laundry, check e-mail, brush my teeth -- that I often missed the details he was relaying to me. When first we began to converse with freedom, I'd take notes, on paper, on the laptop, on my phone, and know every detail of what was transpiring in his life. But later on, not so very much. I backed way off. Too much. I guess we both did that. A part of redefining who we are to one another in the midst of our separate lives outside of the pain and fear and all of that not-knowing that was who we were when he was incarcerated for so many years. Phew! Just writing that and rereading it, that last sentence, reminds me of the terrible burden I willingly lugged around. Of the empty place I carried in my sisterly heart for Gary. A place of sorrows and heavy love. A place which was connected directly with him behind those concrete walls instead of within the wood and brick and mortar of my homes.
Now, there is a lightness of being that I could not ever have predicted. And it continues to blossom within me.
I love our frankness. We don't hold back. But as Gary says, he knows I'm not ever out to hurt him. He trusts me implicitly. It's why even when he's lied in the past because of addiction or shame or fear of disappointing me, he always comes round to spilling the beans to clear the slate. He says it hurts to keep things from me because I'm so transparent with him. Because I sacrifice without expectation. Because I so clearly and truly love him. And THAT, folks, is what we built between us while he was IN PRISON. Imagine what our new relationship as brother and sister, as adult sibling friends, could be once he repairs his damaged walls and shores up his foundation? Once freedom, inside and out, is truly his. Even as broken as my baby brother is, he's a better man than many I've seen who are supposedly whole and intact.
Now, as far as an update on Gary himself. The big news is that for the past 10 weeks, he's been on an interferon treatment regimen for his hepatitis C. Because of his genotype and numbers, the program staff felt he would show favorable results during the course of his treatment. But his body's response, even within the first 4 weeks, has been a pleasant development for everyone involved. Without trying to explain the chemistry of hep, it's simple enough to state that Gary's numbers are low enough that he tests negative for Hep C. To be sure, the side effects of this treatment -- it's akin to a type of chemotherapy -- are numerous. And they all seem to be manifesting with Gary. He says some days he wants to quit but he knows that if he powers on for the entire recommended 6-month duration, his quality of life and health will be much improved.
So, he's shooting for nonchalance where the drop in weight from 188 to 170 is concerned; about the sores in his mouth, on his tongue, down his throat and in patches along the inside of his mouth; per the strange red rash on his hands and forearms; with the constant lack of energy, a deeply draining fatigue; in dealing with the lack of sleep and depression brought on by the twice-daily ribavirin pills and once weekly interferon injections; and handling the topsy-turvy body temperature regulation, whereby he feels feverish and flushed much of the time, soaking his bedsheets with sweat. I'm proud of him. This is a drug regimen with tough physicality, much like other drugs he's allowed in his system, but this drug habit will benefit him instead of robbing him. What an irony: an illness contracted through a street drug habit being 'cured' via another drug. Both harsh. But with opposing purposes.
I like to think of something working for the good of my brother outside of those familiar with him. It's been a long time coming.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Hope, Highlighted
Yesterday, the highlight of my day flitted about in the form of a monarch butterfly masquerading as a falling leaf in a local intersection. I embrace, inhale, devour and take great delight in these seconds of beauty caught in the midst of my daily busy-ness. They harness the power of this great planet and concentrate it onto the point of a pinhead for a brief and shining moment. My mind and my body halt in their engagements, sometimes only for a heartbeat or a quick intake of breath, but they are stilled all the same. And I welcome this stillness because I recognize the extreme rarity of its very existence in my life. And I understand the intrinsic value of this stillness as it relates to me as a spiritual being, as it relates to my well-being, as it relates to epiphany. And I wonder who else out there relates to this brand of harmony doled out in quick, highly digestible, necessary-to-quality-of-life bites?
Yesterday, the hope of my day arrived via my iPhone, my Girlfriend who is now devoid of her one eye thanks to the questing sharp canines of my 8 1/2 month-old white lab-mix pup. Like most days, or at least several days out of each week, I talked with Brother Gary. Only, after months of talking with my brother (lowercase), I actually spoke with my Brother. There is a difference, and that difference comes by way of a needle and cooked pills. Over the past six months or so, maybe longer, my emotions have been dulled by blame and anger and apathy. Not my own but that of Gary.
I knew he was in a downward spiral not long after the murder by a patient there at the hospital of a kindly helpful employee with whom my brother was acquainted. It's been almost a full year since that horrific act was committed and changed the inner-workings of the institute . . . and the inner-workings of my youngest brother. For reasons springing from a double-headed source of necessity and fear, the higher-ups clamped down on the rights and freedoms of the patients at Napa State Hospital. Their ability to regularly breathe the fresh air outside the halls of their wards diminished considerably. The presence of the grounds police force increased on all fronts, creating more of a prison-like atmosphere than is desired in a medically-based establishment. Tensions between staff and residents multiplied, with leaking stories to the press and grumblings in the community feeding the gossip fodder, attenuating real life into a Stretch Armstrong version of actual events. In this fishbowl, Gary's emotional and physical health has deteriorated.
I'm not stupid. And the air between me and my brother is always cleared. Neither of us tiptoe around what's going on. That my bipolar heroin-and-meth-addicted sibling had returned to the destructive and painfully familiar source of his lifelong comfort was not lost on me. Though street drugs are unavailable there, there is no shortage of patient- and staff- supplied prescription meds for sale or trade. And Gary lives on a ward where the population consists of either severely mentally ill men -- you would not be off base to picture individuals talking to their inner voices, stumbling along in circles, urinating on themselves, screaming at those around them -- or men not really engaged in their treatment plan. That would include addicted individuals who are not truly ready to tackle their problem.
It's a different animal, this thing of actually dealing with him and realizing the depth of his addiction. Prison did not allow this level of intimacy and awareness between us. I knew he had warts and scars but didn't have to see them almost every day. Because I was more concerned with his survival in prison, I made a conscious decision to accept him, his habits, his methods of getting by, feeling we could deal with all of that upon his release. There was a short period of time in prison, the early months of his short marriage, where he kicked his habit to the curb and stayed clean. That is an accomplishment. But for an addict, the getting clean is merely the beginning. Living with the consequences of that addiction, whether it be hepatitis C or burned bridges, exists as the bigger ongoing challenge. For the loved one of an addict, all the days and weeks and months of the addiction are the ongoing challenge. Maintaining hope in the face of doubt -- whether it is self-doubt, the doubt of friends and family who love me and adore my loyalty but think it misplaced and wasted -- is chief among those challenges. "Keep hope alive!" is harder done than said.
Lately, hearing the ringtone that signifies an incoming call from Gary has stirred irritation within me. If I'm being honest, even a bit of resentment. Sending him pictures or cards, much less ordering a few things here and there, managing the dwindling supply of money gifted to me on his behalf upon his release from prison back in October of 2008, feels more like a burden than a joy. Because those feelings are there, they have to be dealt with. Not ignored but examined. Their basis dug up and aired out. Over the past month or so, my overriding sentiment to Gary concerning his state of mind has been, "If you don't deal with your drug addiction, you will never be able to learn how to handle your bipolarity or develop the skills to overcome your institutionalization." Though his situation is unique, and quite painful, it can not be an excuse to languish, to diminish the core of who he is meant to be, to gnaw away at the taut threads of unity which exist between us. That just plain pisses me off. As anyone who has opened themselves up to relationships well knows, it is possible to both love and hate a thing. I love my brother; I hate the persona he chooses to project to the hospital staff and the men around him. It is demoralizing to imagine him screaming in the face of a cafeteria employee, hurling expletives, his face darkened with rage, the prison ink reflecting back his turmoil, essentially having himself a temper-tantrum because a power-hungry individual who will most likely never change has gotten under his thin skin. The man I support is better than that. He simply refuses to acknowledge this fact because the drugs allow him to wallow in self-pity and bitterness, blaming everyone around him for his lack of progress, his eyes blind to a better future that I can see.
Before Gary called yesterday, I was watching Our America with Lisa Ling -- her show on OWN (Oprah Winfrey Network). This particular episode centered around a drug-addicted couple she had interviewed 18 months previous. Then, they were strung out, thin, looking only for their next score. Upon her revisit at the top of this show, she was stunned to see them both clear-eyed, with meat on their bones, and clean for the past 18 months. But they were still living on the streets. Sleeping in shelters at night. Working where they could get honest money. Carrying around their meager belongings in several bags. Adhering to the judge's orders regarding their decorum as they continue to work toward reuniting with their 7 year-old son who presently lives with a foster family. Listening to their story broke me down into individual units of pain and faith, each one crying for recognition and a need to be reconfigured. I began praying for Gary while my purple-gloved hands continued to wash the pots and pans. The Lord doesn't need a prayer closet to move on a willing heart. And I was on my knees within.
When I answered the phone, I began with a series of questions to each of Gary's short explanations as to why he hadn't called in awhile. Finally, he admitted to being ill in the face of quitting a certain substance he'd been mainlining for a significant period of time. (The cops have been raiding his room every day for weeks since discovering a needle and a makeshift tattoo gun.) I listened as he explained an incident with a fellow client that made him realize he really wanted to be a quitter. Of drugs, that is. "I haven't been one of those users saying to himself, 'I need to quit. I want to quit.' But I am now." There was much more to it all than that but it doesn't need saying here. He wants to leave his ward and start a new program on another ward specifically tailored for users with a true desire to stop using. He wants to live up to the guy living at his core who's only shown his face for brief periods of time to his sister and his mother and maybe every now and again to a prisoner or patient in need. He wants to accept the opinions of the professionals there at the hospital who have repeatedly told him he is worthy and can get out of there alive and intact if he buckles down and does the work.
It's a turning point. If he can stop putting the car in reverse. But either way, it's time that I return to my written contemplations on matters of the heart and mind. Whether or not my brother makes it remains yet to be witnessed, but someone out there may need to read of my perspective and it is simply selfish not to share if even one can be helped through all of this.
Yesterday, the hope of my day arrived via my iPhone, my Girlfriend who is now devoid of her one eye thanks to the questing sharp canines of my 8 1/2 month-old white lab-mix pup. Like most days, or at least several days out of each week, I talked with Brother Gary. Only, after months of talking with my brother (lowercase), I actually spoke with my Brother. There is a difference, and that difference comes by way of a needle and cooked pills. Over the past six months or so, maybe longer, my emotions have been dulled by blame and anger and apathy. Not my own but that of Gary.
I knew he was in a downward spiral not long after the murder by a patient there at the hospital of a kindly helpful employee with whom my brother was acquainted. It's been almost a full year since that horrific act was committed and changed the inner-workings of the institute . . . and the inner-workings of my youngest brother. For reasons springing from a double-headed source of necessity and fear, the higher-ups clamped down on the rights and freedoms of the patients at Napa State Hospital. Their ability to regularly breathe the fresh air outside the halls of their wards diminished considerably. The presence of the grounds police force increased on all fronts, creating more of a prison-like atmosphere than is desired in a medically-based establishment. Tensions between staff and residents multiplied, with leaking stories to the press and grumblings in the community feeding the gossip fodder, attenuating real life into a Stretch Armstrong version of actual events. In this fishbowl, Gary's emotional and physical health has deteriorated.
I'm not stupid. And the air between me and my brother is always cleared. Neither of us tiptoe around what's going on. That my bipolar heroin-and-meth-addicted sibling had returned to the destructive and painfully familiar source of his lifelong comfort was not lost on me. Though street drugs are unavailable there, there is no shortage of patient- and staff- supplied prescription meds for sale or trade. And Gary lives on a ward where the population consists of either severely mentally ill men -- you would not be off base to picture individuals talking to their inner voices, stumbling along in circles, urinating on themselves, screaming at those around them -- or men not really engaged in their treatment plan. That would include addicted individuals who are not truly ready to tackle their problem.
It's a different animal, this thing of actually dealing with him and realizing the depth of his addiction. Prison did not allow this level of intimacy and awareness between us. I knew he had warts and scars but didn't have to see them almost every day. Because I was more concerned with his survival in prison, I made a conscious decision to accept him, his habits, his methods of getting by, feeling we could deal with all of that upon his release. There was a short period of time in prison, the early months of his short marriage, where he kicked his habit to the curb and stayed clean. That is an accomplishment. But for an addict, the getting clean is merely the beginning. Living with the consequences of that addiction, whether it be hepatitis C or burned bridges, exists as the bigger ongoing challenge. For the loved one of an addict, all the days and weeks and months of the addiction are the ongoing challenge. Maintaining hope in the face of doubt -- whether it is self-doubt, the doubt of friends and family who love me and adore my loyalty but think it misplaced and wasted -- is chief among those challenges. "Keep hope alive!" is harder done than said.
Lately, hearing the ringtone that signifies an incoming call from Gary has stirred irritation within me. If I'm being honest, even a bit of resentment. Sending him pictures or cards, much less ordering a few things here and there, managing the dwindling supply of money gifted to me on his behalf upon his release from prison back in October of 2008, feels more like a burden than a joy. Because those feelings are there, they have to be dealt with. Not ignored but examined. Their basis dug up and aired out. Over the past month or so, my overriding sentiment to Gary concerning his state of mind has been, "If you don't deal with your drug addiction, you will never be able to learn how to handle your bipolarity or develop the skills to overcome your institutionalization." Though his situation is unique, and quite painful, it can not be an excuse to languish, to diminish the core of who he is meant to be, to gnaw away at the taut threads of unity which exist between us. That just plain pisses me off. As anyone who has opened themselves up to relationships well knows, it is possible to both love and hate a thing. I love my brother; I hate the persona he chooses to project to the hospital staff and the men around him. It is demoralizing to imagine him screaming in the face of a cafeteria employee, hurling expletives, his face darkened with rage, the prison ink reflecting back his turmoil, essentially having himself a temper-tantrum because a power-hungry individual who will most likely never change has gotten under his thin skin. The man I support is better than that. He simply refuses to acknowledge this fact because the drugs allow him to wallow in self-pity and bitterness, blaming everyone around him for his lack of progress, his eyes blind to a better future that I can see.
Before Gary called yesterday, I was watching Our America with Lisa Ling -- her show on OWN (Oprah Winfrey Network). This particular episode centered around a drug-addicted couple she had interviewed 18 months previous. Then, they were strung out, thin, looking only for their next score. Upon her revisit at the top of this show, she was stunned to see them both clear-eyed, with meat on their bones, and clean for the past 18 months. But they were still living on the streets. Sleeping in shelters at night. Working where they could get honest money. Carrying around their meager belongings in several bags. Adhering to the judge's orders regarding their decorum as they continue to work toward reuniting with their 7 year-old son who presently lives with a foster family. Listening to their story broke me down into individual units of pain and faith, each one crying for recognition and a need to be reconfigured. I began praying for Gary while my purple-gloved hands continued to wash the pots and pans. The Lord doesn't need a prayer closet to move on a willing heart. And I was on my knees within.
When I answered the phone, I began with a series of questions to each of Gary's short explanations as to why he hadn't called in awhile. Finally, he admitted to being ill in the face of quitting a certain substance he'd been mainlining for a significant period of time. (The cops have been raiding his room every day for weeks since discovering a needle and a makeshift tattoo gun.) I listened as he explained an incident with a fellow client that made him realize he really wanted to be a quitter. Of drugs, that is. "I haven't been one of those users saying to himself, 'I need to quit. I want to quit.' But I am now." There was much more to it all than that but it doesn't need saying here. He wants to leave his ward and start a new program on another ward specifically tailored for users with a true desire to stop using. He wants to live up to the guy living at his core who's only shown his face for brief periods of time to his sister and his mother and maybe every now and again to a prisoner or patient in need. He wants to accept the opinions of the professionals there at the hospital who have repeatedly told him he is worthy and can get out of there alive and intact if he buckles down and does the work.
It's a turning point. If he can stop putting the car in reverse. But either way, it's time that I return to my written contemplations on matters of the heart and mind. Whether or not my brother makes it remains yet to be witnessed, but someone out there may need to read of my perspective and it is simply selfish not to share if even one can be helped through all of this.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
GARY - Pop Tarts and Summer Sausage
*This post is quite rough, written as it was between the hours of midnight and 1AM after I had decided to get to bed early. My eagerness over this blog and my excitement over my brother's impending transition out of the California Department of Corrections and 'Rehabilitation' have driven me too far from practicality. I'm attempting to squeeze in my exercise, cooking, kids, appointments, Facebook, shopping, cleaning, laundry, you name it, plus add that extra chunk-o-time for this. I simply must land on a schedule of sorts whereby I strike when the iron is hot, but, then set it aside for a time, returning to finish the job on another day. We shall see. This needs work but the idea is down.*
Though the procedures have changed over the many years of Gary's incarceration in the fine California State Prison system, the basics remained the same. He penned a list, checking it twice, and mailed it to big sister; big sister would review the list, check her pocketbook, fund raise from family members if necessary, and cull what she could reasonably collect. In the later years, he perused a catalogue of items, ranging from food to toiletries to underwear, painstakingly copied the name, item number, cost, weight, and sent the wish list my way, hoping for whatever I could fulfill via online ordering. Before the catalogues and computers arrived on the scene, the list was scratched from his head and from the meager larders of other inmates. Upon receipt, I would shop the aisles, keeping track of ounces and pound, allowing for the box and scales error margin at the post office. Of the two, shopping for the box in person was a pleasurable and tactile experience. I felt more connected to Gary knowing that he would soon touch each item I had touched. The website method, however, was generally easier and shipped out in a timely manner.
The lists varied. There were usually a few regulars. Foods he craved to fill nutritional voids, snack voids, emotional and entertainment voids. Prison life is, and was, notoriously void, overall. Dietary voids were part and par for the course - all of it rough. Meat and real dairy were scarce behind those walls, thus I could count on such items as:
2 - Heidelberg Summer Sausage 8 oz. $2.39 3021-014
2 - Beef Summer Sausage 8 oz. $2.39 3021-013
1 - Cheese Ritz 18 oz. $4.19 14002-018
(this was the closest he would come to cheese on this package; the site's stores were depleted of processed cheese food)
1 - Peanut Butter, Jif 30.50 oz $4.99 3111-523
1 - Dennisons Chili 17 oz. $2.19 3111-856
2 - Cup o' Soup, Beef 3.5 oz. $0.59 3111-550
Often, he hoped to relieve his sweet tooth with such lovelies as:
1 - Sour Gummi Worms 6.5 oz. $1.49 3111-110
3 - Red Vines 3.0 oz. $0.70 3111-074
1 - Chewy Chips Ahoy 18 oz. $4.19 14002-016 (oh,how he wanted these)
1 - Pop Tarts, Frosted 16 oz. $2.99 3111-523
And, when the salt chaser followed the sweet, he longed for:
1 - Pringles, Regular 9 oz. $1.99 3111-252
1 - Flamin' Cheetos 15 oz. $2.49 6027-027
If I could swing it, he suggested supplements he thought might help him either keep from losing more weight, as he tended to inexplicably drop pounds at odd times over the years, probably his liver, and to possibly help him bulk up and get healthy. We, both Gary and I, now realize that he will never 'bulk up.' A tall and thin guy, whenever Gary puts on any kind of poundage, it all goes straight to his belly in the form of an almost perfectly round pot belly, something which belongs more on those pet Vietnamese pigs than on a man:
1 - Century Multi-Vitamin, 130 tabs 6 oz. $8.99 16950-001 pg. 103
2 - Serious Mass, Choc. 12 lb. $39.99 each 3065-221 pg.100
(These expensive supplement items I was unable to ever purchase. Just dreaming, he was.)
With clothing, if it was t-shirts or tube socks or shower shoes, I checked them off and tossed them in, either literally or virtually. Shoes, however, were a continual challenge as each facility had a specific set of guidelines and rules for clothing, especially the larger items, from color to cost. Very strict. It behooved me to proceed with caution when on the prowl for footwear. The advent of website ordering went a very long way in easing the stress of this particular segment of the process. Oh, how I once agonized over my choices, worried the watchful eyes of the intake guards would find a discrepancy and deny Gary this tiny pleasure in his hard life.
1 - Skechers 5114, White B-Ball $49.97 Size 9 pg. 58
Finally, in the entertainment category, his need and passion for music came to a head. He owned a guitar which was bought for him courtesy of a family pooling of money for a holiday or birthday. Thus, music tabs, strings for his instrument of choice, and magazines with slick covers showing hard rockers and jazzy fellows made his cut. I regularly tried to accommodate these sections of the order form, knowing it was an outlet, an escape, a self-soother.
1 - Adamas Strings, Nylon (Black tr.) 1 oz. $6.47 pg. 91
Once a business quarter, Gary and the many men with whom he lived under loveless skies, behind concrete walls, within steel bars and sharp wire, eagerly awaited the small slice of life coming their way from the outside. Upon taking receipt, grown men ripped into the contents of their boxes with the eagerness of kids in summer camp, ferreting out their favorites - coffee, honey, Snickers, Jolly Ranchers, even shampoo - and lined up their feasts by the day. Gary, Mr. Social Director on his good days, planned group meals with several other men, sharing Ramen flavored with hot sauces and crumbled crackers with chunks of summer sausage floating in the broth, all heated on stingers, AKA small personal-sized hot plates. Perhaps licorice and Skittles for dessert. They enjoyed the feast before the famine. They devoured the love represented by the meager contents, repeating the cycle four times a year. As Gary was loathe to see a fellow inmate, bereft of outside lifelines, who never fell into the receiving line, there was a great deal of sharing of his provisions. Thus, his supplies did not often last past the first month.
It has been almost a full year of no packages with Gary out of prison. I don't really miss them. Or the stressful process with its niggling anxieties and worries. While awaiting his fate in jail now, he now does his own grocery shopping. Though his weight remains in steady decline mode, I shoot him a cashiers check each week courtesy of the nest egg gifted to him by friends and supporters in my family and church and pool of friends before his October release. He manages it, spending and saving, and yes, sharing. It is what I can do as he faces the positive prospect of not only feeding his belly under far better circumstances, but feeding his soul and his mind with a diet far richer in nutrients than the one he has endured for almost half of his life. (Ironically, we are hoping for hospital food! Now you know, live through a few years of prison fare and even hospital vittles are enticing.) Jello, anyone?
Though the procedures have changed over the many years of Gary's incarceration in the fine California State Prison system, the basics remained the same. He penned a list, checking it twice, and mailed it to big sister; big sister would review the list, check her pocketbook, fund raise from family members if necessary, and cull what she could reasonably collect. In the later years, he perused a catalogue of items, ranging from food to toiletries to underwear, painstakingly copied the name, item number, cost, weight, and sent the wish list my way, hoping for whatever I could fulfill via online ordering. Before the catalogues and computers arrived on the scene, the list was scratched from his head and from the meager larders of other inmates. Upon receipt, I would shop the aisles, keeping track of ounces and pound, allowing for the box and scales error margin at the post office. Of the two, shopping for the box in person was a pleasurable and tactile experience. I felt more connected to Gary knowing that he would soon touch each item I had touched. The website method, however, was generally easier and shipped out in a timely manner.
The lists varied. There were usually a few regulars. Foods he craved to fill nutritional voids, snack voids, emotional and entertainment voids. Prison life is, and was, notoriously void, overall. Dietary voids were part and par for the course - all of it rough. Meat and real dairy were scarce behind those walls, thus I could count on such items as:
2 - Heidelberg Summer Sausage 8 oz. $2.39 3021-014
2 - Beef Summer Sausage 8 oz. $2.39 3021-013
1 - Cheese Ritz 18 oz. $4.19 14002-018
(this was the closest he would come to cheese on this package; the site's stores were depleted of processed cheese food)
1 - Peanut Butter, Jif 30.50 oz $4.99 3111-523
1 - Dennisons Chili 17 oz. $2.19 3111-856
2 - Cup o' Soup, Beef 3.5 oz. $0.59 3111-550
Often, he hoped to relieve his sweet tooth with such lovelies as:
1 - Sour Gummi Worms 6.5 oz. $1.49 3111-110
3 - Red Vines 3.0 oz. $0.70 3111-074
1 - Chewy Chips Ahoy 18 oz. $4.19 14002-016 (oh,how he wanted these)
1 - Pop Tarts, Frosted 16 oz. $2.99 3111-523
And, when the salt chaser followed the sweet, he longed for:
1 - Pringles, Regular 9 oz. $1.99 3111-252
1 - Flamin' Cheetos 15 oz. $2.49 6027-027
If I could swing it, he suggested supplements he thought might help him either keep from losing more weight, as he tended to inexplicably drop pounds at odd times over the years, probably his liver, and to possibly help him bulk up and get healthy. We, both Gary and I, now realize that he will never 'bulk up.' A tall and thin guy, whenever Gary puts on any kind of poundage, it all goes straight to his belly in the form of an almost perfectly round pot belly, something which belongs more on those pet Vietnamese pigs than on a man:
1 - Century Multi-Vitamin, 130 tabs 6 oz. $8.99 16950-001 pg. 103
2 - Serious Mass, Choc. 12 lb. $39.99 each 3065-221 pg.100
(These expensive supplement items I was unable to ever purchase. Just dreaming, he was.)
With clothing, if it was t-shirts or tube socks or shower shoes, I checked them off and tossed them in, either literally or virtually. Shoes, however, were a continual challenge as each facility had a specific set of guidelines and rules for clothing, especially the larger items, from color to cost. Very strict. It behooved me to proceed with caution when on the prowl for footwear. The advent of website ordering went a very long way in easing the stress of this particular segment of the process. Oh, how I once agonized over my choices, worried the watchful eyes of the intake guards would find a discrepancy and deny Gary this tiny pleasure in his hard life.
1 - Skechers 5114, White B-Ball $49.97 Size 9 pg. 58
Finally, in the entertainment category, his need and passion for music came to a head. He owned a guitar which was bought for him courtesy of a family pooling of money for a holiday or birthday. Thus, music tabs, strings for his instrument of choice, and magazines with slick covers showing hard rockers and jazzy fellows made his cut. I regularly tried to accommodate these sections of the order form, knowing it was an outlet, an escape, a self-soother.
1 - Adamas Strings, Nylon (Black tr.) 1 oz. $6.47 pg. 91
Once a business quarter, Gary and the many men with whom he lived under loveless skies, behind concrete walls, within steel bars and sharp wire, eagerly awaited the small slice of life coming their way from the outside. Upon taking receipt, grown men ripped into the contents of their boxes with the eagerness of kids in summer camp, ferreting out their favorites - coffee, honey, Snickers, Jolly Ranchers, even shampoo - and lined up their feasts by the day. Gary, Mr. Social Director on his good days, planned group meals with several other men, sharing Ramen flavored with hot sauces and crumbled crackers with chunks of summer sausage floating in the broth, all heated on stingers, AKA small personal-sized hot plates. Perhaps licorice and Skittles for dessert. They enjoyed the feast before the famine. They devoured the love represented by the meager contents, repeating the cycle four times a year. As Gary was loathe to see a fellow inmate, bereft of outside lifelines, who never fell into the receiving line, there was a great deal of sharing of his provisions. Thus, his supplies did not often last past the first month.
It has been almost a full year of no packages with Gary out of prison. I don't really miss them. Or the stressful process with its niggling anxieties and worries. While awaiting his fate in jail now, he now does his own grocery shopping. Though his weight remains in steady decline mode, I shoot him a cashiers check each week courtesy of the nest egg gifted to him by friends and supporters in my family and church and pool of friends before his October release. He manages it, spending and saving, and yes, sharing. It is what I can do as he faces the positive prospect of not only feeding his belly under far better circumstances, but feeding his soul and his mind with a diet far richer in nutrients than the one he has endured for almost half of his life. (Ironically, we are hoping for hospital food! Now you know, live through a few years of prison fare and even hospital vittles are enticing.) Jello, anyone?
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Meet GARY
This here entry is puddle-jumping though it might qualify more as a leap across the lake. The topic is near and dear to my heart if not an actual chamber OF my heart: my baby brother, Gary. A bit of a switch from Bermuda grass and lemon cupcakes. Though, he'd be irked by Bermuda grass and could inhale a dozen lemon cupcakes at once.
Where to begin with Gary? Well, besides being the youngest of eight children, he's also my longest running snail mail pen-pal. (If not for the advent of e-mail, that title would fall to my friend and one-time 9th grade English teacher.) E-mail has never been an option for us - not allowed in the California State Prison system. Most of his adult life has been spent behind bars in some manner, battling undiagnosed mental illness, addictions, a troubled past. But, he's one of the most intelligent and loyal people I know; I know quite a few folks. Passion, humor, and intense love characterize him most suitably. Last October, he was released from 12 years of hell on earth. I was there to ease his transition. For more than two weeks, he wrung every drop of life from his freedom that he could. I've never engaged more deeply with another human being than I did with Gary Wayne during our concentrated time together.
Now, he is in a fight for his life. I stand in the gap with him. It's life in prison with the 3 Strikes Law or a good chunk of time in a state hospital where he should have been placed eons ago. A victory for him could represent a victory for countless other mentally ill men and women mistakenly shoved into the prison system with hardcore sociopaths and violent predatory offenders. His countenance is most precious to me. By revealing his face and bringing his voice to the public, I hope to pay it forward as he wishes only to rescue the scores of faceless others on the brink of being labeled 'human refuse' by a blind society. His is a story worth telling. His is a story worth reading, hearing. His is the story of thousands in isolated bondage without benefit of a benevolent and understanding big sister.
He'll be a commonly recurring subject in this blog, perhaps overtaking it at some point, so he will flesh out as these entries move along. Today, I share a simple letter he asked me to send to a young woman he met during a court session this past July. She was sharing space at the same county jail. He sees every young person entering the system as a reincarnation of himself; he seeks to save as many as possible from the twisted turns his life took. The letter introduces Gary briefly, in encapsulated form, as only he can do. As most of his missives do, it sears my soul with it's sincerity, simplicity, and sensitivity.
Without further ado, I give you Gary.
Falen, Tuesday, August 5
Hey now. I realized after talking to you I didn't tell you my name. Tells you how used to talking to girls I am. (smiley face here) It's Gary. I'm 34, be 35 in Nov. (26th).
I don't write girls in jail. Haven't written anyone but family & homeboys in prison since I've been in here fighting this case. I got busted on Halloween last year. Created a standoff & tried to get the cops to shoot me. I've been diagnosed as bipolar II, & will probably go to a hospital, instead of prison again. I fell in '93, prison in '94, & I've had about 70-90 days on the street since. Just did 12 years flat.
I like to make friends. Most times it doesn't pan out, but sometimes it does, & it's the best. I married in prison in 2001, divorced in 2008. I don't think about getting in a relationship because of the mess my life is in.
I've given my life to God. I've known Him a long time, but finally I'm giving Him everything. I saw your little face & and it made me feel bad to see a young girl looking lost & in jail. (unhappy face here) Not cool. My niece Ashley is only four years younger than you. I'm here to tell you, Falen, that this ain't no life for you, & God can flip it all the way around. You're worth something to Him; a heck of a lot more than you're valued by the people who give you dope & use you.
That's what I want you to know. Jeremiah Ch. 29:v.11-13. Read 'em. That's what's up. I was a heroin addict for many years, in prison. Makes no difference what drug you use, inside or outside, you're a slave to it, & it is the devil's tool.
I'll be more than happy to be your friend, help you, encourage you, pray for you, & whatever else you need. I don't care if you got a man, 'cause that ain't none of mine. I just hated seeing you in that red suit, in a cage.
So, be good. Pray. use your time wisely, & move forward, ahead in life. Do you have hopes? Dreams? Goals? Write back, & I'll get back at you. Keep your chin up.
L8R,
Gary
-We're on lockdown, so I'm sending this to my sis to send to you, since I won't hit store til Tuesday.
Accompanying Gary's letter to Falen will be one from me. I want her to know he is exactly who he says he is, and she can trust him as a new friend. As a relative of a convict who has stuck it out through a great many tragedy and traumatic event, my acquaintance with fear and heartbreak is deeply intimate. Only my faith in One stronger than me, Christ, keeps me steady - if one can identify my present state as such. My eldest child is the niece about whom Gary writes. (Just minutes ago, she steeped hot tea for me and set it at my side.) Falen could be my daughter. She IS a daughter to someone: once a sweet infant who toddled into youth and then teens before succumbing to the deception of drugs. I'm giving her a face right here and now. Try and see her. Please.
"FOR I KNOW THE PLANS I HAVE FOR YOU, DECLARES THE LORD, PLANS FOR WHOLENESS AND NOT FOR EVIL, TO GIVE YOU A FUTURE AND A HOPE. THEN YOU WILL CALL UPON ME AND COME AND PRAY TO ME, AND I WILL HEAR YOU. YOU WILL SEEK ME AND FIND ME. WHEN YOU SEEK ME WITH ALL YOUR HEART." Jeremiah 29:11-13 English Standard Version (ESV from here on out)
Where to begin with Gary? Well, besides being the youngest of eight children, he's also my longest running snail mail pen-pal. (If not for the advent of e-mail, that title would fall to my friend and one-time 9th grade English teacher.) E-mail has never been an option for us - not allowed in the California State Prison system. Most of his adult life has been spent behind bars in some manner, battling undiagnosed mental illness, addictions, a troubled past. But, he's one of the most intelligent and loyal people I know; I know quite a few folks. Passion, humor, and intense love characterize him most suitably. Last October, he was released from 12 years of hell on earth. I was there to ease his transition. For more than two weeks, he wrung every drop of life from his freedom that he could. I've never engaged more deeply with another human being than I did with Gary Wayne during our concentrated time together.
Now, he is in a fight for his life. I stand in the gap with him. It's life in prison with the 3 Strikes Law or a good chunk of time in a state hospital where he should have been placed eons ago. A victory for him could represent a victory for countless other mentally ill men and women mistakenly shoved into the prison system with hardcore sociopaths and violent predatory offenders. His countenance is most precious to me. By revealing his face and bringing his voice to the public, I hope to pay it forward as he wishes only to rescue the scores of faceless others on the brink of being labeled 'human refuse' by a blind society. His is a story worth telling. His is a story worth reading, hearing. His is the story of thousands in isolated bondage without benefit of a benevolent and understanding big sister.
He'll be a commonly recurring subject in this blog, perhaps overtaking it at some point, so he will flesh out as these entries move along. Today, I share a simple letter he asked me to send to a young woman he met during a court session this past July. She was sharing space at the same county jail. He sees every young person entering the system as a reincarnation of himself; he seeks to save as many as possible from the twisted turns his life took. The letter introduces Gary briefly, in encapsulated form, as only he can do. As most of his missives do, it sears my soul with it's sincerity, simplicity, and sensitivity.
Without further ado, I give you Gary.
Falen, Tuesday, August 5
Hey now. I realized after talking to you I didn't tell you my name. Tells you how used to talking to girls I am. (smiley face here) It's Gary. I'm 34, be 35 in Nov. (26th).
I don't write girls in jail. Haven't written anyone but family & homeboys in prison since I've been in here fighting this case. I got busted on Halloween last year. Created a standoff & tried to get the cops to shoot me. I've been diagnosed as bipolar II, & will probably go to a hospital, instead of prison again. I fell in '93, prison in '94, & I've had about 70-90 days on the street since. Just did 12 years flat.
I like to make friends. Most times it doesn't pan out, but sometimes it does, & it's the best. I married in prison in 2001, divorced in 2008. I don't think about getting in a relationship because of the mess my life is in.
I've given my life to God. I've known Him a long time, but finally I'm giving Him everything. I saw your little face & and it made me feel bad to see a young girl looking lost & in jail. (unhappy face here) Not cool. My niece Ashley is only four years younger than you. I'm here to tell you, Falen, that this ain't no life for you, & God can flip it all the way around. You're worth something to Him; a heck of a lot more than you're valued by the people who give you dope & use you.
That's what I want you to know. Jeremiah Ch. 29:v.11-13. Read 'em. That's what's up. I was a heroin addict for many years, in prison. Makes no difference what drug you use, inside or outside, you're a slave to it, & it is the devil's tool.
I'll be more than happy to be your friend, help you, encourage you, pray for you, & whatever else you need. I don't care if you got a man, 'cause that ain't none of mine. I just hated seeing you in that red suit, in a cage.
So, be good. Pray. use your time wisely, & move forward, ahead in life. Do you have hopes? Dreams? Goals? Write back, & I'll get back at you. Keep your chin up.
L8R,
Gary
-We're on lockdown, so I'm sending this to my sis to send to you, since I won't hit store til Tuesday.
Accompanying Gary's letter to Falen will be one from me. I want her to know he is exactly who he says he is, and she can trust him as a new friend. As a relative of a convict who has stuck it out through a great many tragedy and traumatic event, my acquaintance with fear and heartbreak is deeply intimate. Only my faith in One stronger than me, Christ, keeps me steady - if one can identify my present state as such. My eldest child is the niece about whom Gary writes. (Just minutes ago, she steeped hot tea for me and set it at my side.) Falen could be my daughter. She IS a daughter to someone: once a sweet infant who toddled into youth and then teens before succumbing to the deception of drugs. I'm giving her a face right here and now. Try and see her. Please.
"FOR I KNOW THE PLANS I HAVE FOR YOU, DECLARES THE LORD, PLANS FOR WHOLENESS AND NOT FOR EVIL, TO GIVE YOU A FUTURE AND A HOPE. THEN YOU WILL CALL UPON ME AND COME AND PRAY TO ME, AND I WILL HEAR YOU. YOU WILL SEEK ME AND FIND ME. WHEN YOU SEEK ME WITH ALL YOUR HEART." Jeremiah 29:11-13 English Standard Version (ESV from here on out)
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