Visiting Room

As I made my way up the hill to the camp portion of the Federal Corrections Institute in Danbury, CT, my heart couldn’t help but ache for Claire on this first Father’s Day without her dad. He died only 10 days ago and she wasn’t able to attend his service.  Her sister won’t visit and the process of coordinating visitors is timely and not a top priority for the administrative staff. So, other than family (which is only her sister now) I am the only one on the visiting list. When I arrive at the camp, I find out she did not get moved and was down in the maximum-security portion of the prison. We haven’t been able to talk because she is only allotted so much phone time and it was used with all the calls last week with the death of her father. 

I make my way down the hill. I walk in, with my closed toe shoes (I made the mistake of wearing sandals the first time, thank god for the mules in need of repair in the trunk of my car) my plastic sandwich bag with her inmate number, singles and some quarters for the vending machine, and my driver’s license for identification. 

The woman CO (correctional officer) is pretty nice. I’ve seen her before and she takes me right away because my paperwork is done already and the wait isn’t too long today. I’m feeling pretty good about today’s visit. I understand the dress code I have some money to buy her the diet coke she so enjoys and a candy bar, all in all I feel some satisfaction for getting it right. Many of the inmates make a feast from vending machine food, Claire is happy with her simple treats. We didn’t have that option in any of the prisons where I had been; visits were only to see relatives and friends. I often wonder if this is the main difference between federal and state prisons. They call her name right away (it is always just the last name, can’t get too personal) and then I am escorted through security, very similar to the airport.  Shoes off, plastic baggie in the plastic bin, and if you have any fake jewelry on it has to go in too because for some reason it sets off the alarm. I wait behind a heavy steel sliding door and they give us an invisible stamp on the inside of my right forearm and back of the hand. We then wait for the other visitors that are getting through security. Once ready, the heavy steel door opens and we step into a small waiting area with a CO behind tinted glass and the black light that shines on our arms to clear us through. The heavy steel door closes behind us, we are all checked through and they open the next door into the visiting center of maximum security.

It is loud and I remember this is what Claire experiences every day. It looks like a bus terminal with bolted seats, a row facing out towards vending machines, and then two rows facing each other. I have to make my way all the way down the rows facing in and disturb visits as they are sitting across from each other to get to the only free seats left.

She doesn’t know I am coming, we haven’t been able to talk and the email isn’t always reliable.  The group I came in with are already visiting their loved ones and still no Claire. I wait at least 25 minutes and I am hoping every time the door open it is her. I realize I am afraid of the COs. It has been many years since I was in prison, but I never lost the fear of the power they wield. I am nervous to go and ask where she is, in case they think I am a troublemaker and cause some retribution for her. It might seem an overreaction, but it is not. I’ve seen this happen and the last person you want to cross is a CO. I excuse myself through the people visiting and make my way up to the desk.  It turns out the CO is pretty nice and he says “let me call again”.  I am kind and grateful, probably overly so.  I sit down again and the noise and nonsense going on is indescribable. Had I not had my own experience, I would think this is an exaggeration. There is a teenage daughter holding her mother’s hand. This is only allowed if children are small and the female CO bringing inmates in and out doesn’t yell, but with a roll of her eyes and a stern voice makes it clear that they should stop and should know better. The nonsense going on to the left of me was beginning to make me uncomfortable. The inmate’s family or friends were grabbing each other’s boobs and generally touching inappropriately; you could see they delighted in the fact that they might be making me and anyone else that might notice uncomfortable. If I want to see Claire this isn’t too much to endure. One of the best lessons I gained from my incarceration is to keep your nose down, but don’t be afraid. I kept this presence about me and they seemed to get bored. It’s never as much fun if you don’t have a captive audience, I chuckle to myself as I realize prison really does give you quite an education.

Another 15 minutes went by and I’m trying not to seem nosy to anyone, but we are all sitting on top of each other. There is nowhere I can casually glance and not be deep into someone’s personal business. I remember this was the thing that was hardest when I was locked up. The fact that I had no privacy whatsoever—nothing was sacred or personal.  Finally a young woman and her toddler son and her older boyfriend came and sat across from me. The little ones always make the visiting fun, they don’t understand where you are and they just think it is an adventure. He was squirmy and flirty and everyone adored him. He smiled at me and I noticed he had a pierced ear. I wasn’t surprised by this, it just became another detail of the whole experience. I’m not sure why you pierce a one year old’s ear, but that is never a question you ask in a place like this.

A kind Indian woman sat next to me with her family. She asked me if I knew where my daughter was. This was funny to me because I am old enough to have a daughter in prison. I smiled and said I am here to visit a friend. I was becoming very anxious and she said to go up again. I mentioned my reluctance and she gave me that knowing smile and told me he was one of the nice ones. He was nice and said he’d call her unit. I went back to my seat and couldn’t help but notice all that was going on—the elaborate snacks taken from the vending machine—one young woman had skittles, starburst, and two chocolate bars in ½ hour. I had nothing else to do with my time, watching vending machine madness was a good way to pass the time. 

Finally I went up again, it had been close to an hour. I was kind and he was kind too, it was a very human moment amongst all the chaos and I remembered those were the moments that got me through. I said I know she works in the kitchen and he said he would try there. I went back to my seat between the nice Indian family and the rambunctious women not following the rules and waited. 

A few minutes later, she finally walked through the door, our eyes were filled with tears. This is my third visit and each time we both cry. We have our “not-too-long-greeting-hug” that is permitted and we get to sit down. The pierced toddler is moving between her and the Indian family—playing, smiling and bringing a lot of warmth to everyone’s visit. 

We talk about our mutual friends, how she is dealing with the loss of her father, and the fact that her sister is on a binge and still hasn’t come to visit. She is blaming Claire’s incarceration as the cause for his death. I am grateful she understands addiction and it is easy to assure she isn’t the reason. I know she is doing her best to cope with the huge losses in her life the past three months—her freedom, her marriage, and now her father.

We go to get her diet coke and today she wants Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. I’m happy to get her these small items that bring her a little joy. I get myself sun chips so we can have a little snack while we visit.  This is as “normal” as it gets.

We talk about her decision to tell her son she is not in long term treatment, but in prison. He is in Florida and his father didn’t want him to know about jail. He is 15. We are both sure he has looked it up on the internet and already knows, but is playing the game for the sake of the adults. She has respected her ex and not said anything up to this point.  I am proud that she has learned to be considerate of other people and she and I talk about how it has gotten her through this whole process. 

I realize I am holding my heart in my throat and am holding back tears. We continue to talk about her decisions—the good ones she is now making. She tells me that she plans to stay in the maximum-security part of the prison because she has a job and her bunkmate is cool. There is more freedom in the camp portion but here she can do her time rather than allowing her time to do her. She also has more opportunity for attending grief groups and recovery from trauma. Sitting there with a river of tears in my throat, I realize how proud I am of her. Most would have thought her a hopeless case. I even thought of walking away at times, but am so grateful I did not.

She tells me “you need to leave before the rush”. I am willing to stay and she looks at me with tears in her eyes and says, “It is just too painful, I like the visits, but if they go too long it hurts.” I understand this like no one else can. I am grateful I have this experience. I knew she would settle in, to this new way of life. It is strange and unkind a lot of the times, but there is a way to get through it. I knew it would take time. And right now, that is all she really has.   

We walk to the desk together and hug and lock eyes for a moment, it is in that moment we both know the grace of god has been kind to us and that grace can only be seen through a grateful heart. She is alive and will not have to be in this place for more than another 15 months. My deep gratitude is characterized by a sense of real purpose for my time spent in prison. We recognize the divine in our relationship as we both turn to leave. There is sadness but more than anything there is peace. I leave knowing I have made a difference in someone else’s life and that is truly a great reason to live.

"Untitled"

20 years ago today, I killed a man. It is the reason I went to prison. It is hard to articulate, even with two decades behind me. I recently spoke at Staples High School for alcohol and drug awareness week and was the only one who spoke that wasn’t the victim or family of a victim as the result of a drunk driving accident. I was the drunk driver. I’ve told the story many times and it is always the same—you can hear a pin drop when I utter the statement, it feels as if the world stops; maybe it does. This is one of those experiences that changes the course of life for many and continues to shape me each and every day. 

I was 25 years old and partying heavily for many years. It always seemed like it was my right to party and I hung out with a lot of people who shared my penchant for getting drunk and high. I knew on some level that I had a problem with drugs and alcohol, but I couldn’t imagine a life without them. Substances had always been there for me, until the day it finally turned its back on me for good. The power of addiction is insidious and still, to this day, can baffle me.

I have struggled with many questions over the years. The first was of course, why me?  Then it was why didn’t I die? How am I going to live? Can I make it in prison? Can I make it out of prison? How will I get out of bed today? How will I go on? How will I tell my story? Why should I tell my story? What is my purpose? Why did I drink so much? The questions come; they still do, ad infinitum.

Rarely am I asked how I feel about it after someone finds out. It is one of those things that people either don’t want to know or maybe feel they shouldn’t want to know. I wonder if they assume they know how I feel. I have trouble talking about it, because, it feels like something that just has no opening line. After I had my son, I mentioned it less and less. Partly because I am a mom and partly because I think I have wanted to stop identifying myself with it. I’m always worried what people will think and don’t want it to affect my son’s life adversely if a teacher or parent found out. More than a few people I see do know about it because I live in the town I grew up in. I’ve never had anyone ask about it, even if they know. Do you think they want to know or do they just feel it is inappropriate to ask? Or, maybe they think I shouldn’t have any feelings about it at all. I think it is one of those really big events that might feel to powerful to touch for fear it might explode. Funny thing is, I’m not sure how I feel about it half of the time either. 

I spent the first 10 years after jail on a crusade, telling my story as much as I could to anyone that would listen.—in high schools and in communities where I could help people see the dangers of drinking and driving. Then most of the past 10 years has been my journey to try to identify less and less with the accident as part of my life. This past year has been the most balanced for me. I don’t let it define every fiber of my being with shame and remorse, but use the experience as a way to be of service and to further my spiritual development while I continue to help others. 

 I am grateful my spiritual journey began that fateful night and has been guiding me ever since. I try to live a life that ensures this never happens again and that this man didn’t die in vain. But some days, especially today, it seems like a lot to bear. The cost of a life is immeasurable and there is no real way to make amends. 

There are, of course the stories I tell myself, that which I believe everyone must be thinking: You don’t deserve to be happy. You should be ashamed of yourself.  You are despicable.  You don’t deserve to live.  How dare you think you can have a happily ever after.  You shouldn’t write about it, you should be grateful you are alive. 

The deserving part is the real bitch. It sneaks up like a rat in the dark, creepy and unassuming and then you see it clearly in all its ugliness. I’ve felt this countless times over the years. How dare I have a beautiful son, loving husband and a white picket fence? How dare I find any happiness at all? The struggle just to be normal has been great. I realize to be normal is relative to experience, for everyone.  Still, I’ve prayed many days just to be ordinary.

I’ve read many articles over the years about situations similar to mine. My heart breaks every time, for everyone involved. It isn’t only the man that died or his family that suffers. It is my friends and the affect it had on my family and anyone who cared about me at all. I’ll never forget my sister’s face when she walked into the visiting room at Valhalla prison—the pain in her eyes, the anguish in every crease of her face, the absolute helplessness. I was crazy with fear and shock, my mind, body and soul totally broken. She could see all of it and do nothing. My father, a man who never had many words, had so much fear in his eyes as I was getting ready to go to an unknown, unprotected environment. His daughter, locked up in handcuffs, in jail, took a few years off his life I am sure. My first phone call the night of the accident was to my brother Ray, the only one I could reach. The utter shock and disbelief in his voice was palpable though his words over and over again were trying to assure me, “Don’t worry about it; we’ll take care of you.” I am grateful my mother was already gone; it would have killed her for sure. She had a pretty hard life by the time she had died. Looking back, I realize I do take after my mother in more ways than I ever really knew or wanted to admit. 

I was extradited back to Connecticut from New York (this is for another post) to the state barracks in Westport, CT. When I walked out, my family was there, waiting for me with open arms and unconditional love. As dysfunctional as we can sometimes be, we have always been there for each other. It is truly one of the greatest gifts my mother bestowed upon us, to teach us the value of family and never turning your back on those in need. This is still one of my most vivid and cherished memories.  Seeing my father and siblings standing there I think, deep down, I knew I might have just a mustard seed of courage to go on. I don’t think they know they saved my life that day. It has always been those moments, those slivers of time with the greatest courage along with the greatest love and support that have carried me through. 

There is so much more to say about it and believe me, I have exhausted many hours in philosophical retrospection and conversation. Most importantly, I’ve worked a lot over the past 20 years to help others and share my experience. I don’t know if I’ve directly saved any lives, but that is the irony in this, I don’t get to know if my experience has kept someone alive, because there isn’t a tragedy to brood over.  I often refer to my accident as the best and worst thing that ever happened to me. Without it I would not be who I am today. Because of it a man is not a grandfather, did not walk his daughter down the aisle on her wedding day and missed many beautiful moments in the lives of his loved ones. These are just the facts and I know in depths of my soul I cannot affect any part of the past, but I can, if I choose, shape the future. 

My life is lived in dedication to Frank Buda, the man who gave up his life so that I could live, truly live.  I hope through our experience we have saved many lives together.

The Power of Momentum

I’ve spent time journaling my stream of consciousness this past week. I am happy I am writing, but I am aware that I am avoiding something. I had a great suggestion from a writer friend about how to come up with good blog ideas (of which I thought I had many).  He suggested I have friends ask me questions like, “how I met my husband,” or, “how I met my best friend”. These are interesting stories and I see where he is going with this. I got the sense he wants me to write more about myself instead of me writing about the fear of writing about myself.  So now I am writing but I am writing much about nothing. I have some real substance to write about, yet I’m reluctant to share. I’ve always used writing as an outlet, something that fed my soul and healed my spirit. I keep saying I want to be a writer so I need to stop dancing around the stories and just tell them.

This new online mentor group I’ve signed up for to help keep me accountable to achieving my goals: “Check in, Not Out,” I’m finding is all about building momentum. At the end of the second week I am closer to completing my goal of writing three hours a week and I can see how the momentum builds and really takes on a life of its own. It is the starting that takes the most effort. Showing up is half the battle, right?

So,  (gulp…) I’m going to share a bit more of myself with you. 

I am 45 years old. The other day I couldn’t remember how old I was. I have finally become the age that forgets how old they are. I am a mom, who is married to a man who is not the father of my son. I was never married to my son’s father.  I have two dogs, Jersey and Dakota, who are a bit mischievous.  I like to refer to myself as the bad pet parent. We really let them get away with a lot but they are so full of love. 

My son is 11 years old. I am one of nine children—I am number 5. I never refer to any of my brothers or sisters as only half-siblings, I think that is silly and my mother was the kind of woman who made sure we understood that there isn’t half when it comes to family.

I received my High School Diploma in prison. I now mentor a woman in prison. I went to community college to become a better writer when I got out of prison. I still work for the man that gave me one of my first jobs. He hired me back when I got out of prison and I really love him. As I embark on a new career path, it is hard to move into doing less of my day job and more of this deeply gratifying work. My fear is part financial security, but mostly it is the fear of failure and success. I still have ingrained in me the only way to survive is to have a day job whether you like it or not. The “job”  will always be me more than I am worth. I should be happy with it. I don’t want to keep this belief system, but I know I still have it. 

I spent a season getting certified to jump out of planes. I jumped 14 times by myself. I am still afraid of heights. I spent a winter living in Colorado as a ski bum. I lived in the highest elevated town for two months, Leadville Colorado. I’ve traveled across country twice.

I believe in love at first sight. I also believe it can end. I love purple roses even though they are unnatural. I am on the verge of tears every time I smell Gardenias. My husband planted over 200 hundred tulips as a surprise and didn’t tell me until they bloomed. I have a special affinity for trees. My husband and I got married in front of a tree. One of my favorite books is the giving tree. I guess I am melancholy, by nature.

I wish I could say what was on my mind. I wish I had a different childhood. I am grateful for my childhood, but I like irony. I don’t like the fact that my teeth are changing so rapidly. 

Between the ages of 17 and 25 I lived in over 10 different homes/apartments. I used to write very dark poetry. I turned some of my poetry into punk rock songs. I always wanted to be anyone but me. I now don’t want to be anyone but myself. 

I am sometimes very patient. I am sometimes very impatient. I like coffee. I gave it up for 6 years.  I drink coffee now. I want to stop drinking coffee. The desire is not great enough.

I don’t think about my mother that often. I think of how much I am like my mother. I try to grow the things I love about my mother. It took me a long time to find forgiveness for her. I now can ask for forgiveness from others. I am grateful I now know how to ask. I was with both of my sisters when they died. I have experienced death a lot. I am still afraid of dying. I loved my grandmother very much. I was her second favorite. She had 14 grandchildren. I am of Italian/Irish descent. 

I love Uma Thurman. She is my girl crush. I would really like to handstand in the middle of a room. I wish I had my son’s confidence. The three words my son says to me the most are: I got this. 

I wanted to be a rock star. I am dramatic enough to be an actress. I lived in Santa Monica California for three months. The only time I ever asked my father for money was to get home from Santa Monica, California.  My father died a month after my son was born.

There are friendships I have let go of. I am happy I did. I am sad I did. I have known my best friend since we were 10. She knows everything about me. She loves me. I love her. I am grateful.

My husband is very sentimental. He cries more than most men I have known. That is one of the reasons I married him. I cry a lot too.

I feel deeply. I forgive easily. Sometimes… I want to forgive easily more of the time. I am silly and serious. I can go from silly to serious in a split second. 

I am not sure if my greatest fear is rejection or being hurt. I am sorry if I have hurt you. I have to practice being a more patient driver but I am getting much better.

Purple is my favorite color. I look great in red. I wish I didn’t have cellulite. I don’t love my thighs but I don’t hate them anymore. I have nice eyes. I remember my mother’s hands. I remember her smile. It was big.

More will be revealed.

To Write or Not to Write...

To write or not to write, that is the question...

It certainly isn’t for lack of ideas that I don’t write.  I realize it truly is the discipline to sit down and put pen to paper that is the craft of writing.  I’d like to be a great accomplished writer straight out of the gate, but accomplishment comes from practice.  The only way to get good at anything is to do it over and over again.  There are reminders everywhere in my own life and the lives of those around me that show me this. It is funny how I have those built in forgetters or think I should be "different".  One of the things Ann Lamott posts over and over is that if you want to be a writer you just have to sit down and write.  It doesn’t matter whether it is good or bad, just make the time.  So, again, here I sit and thank Ann for the courage. 

The next questions that nag at me still are, why am I writing, to who am I writing for, why do I feel inspired to write???   I know inspiration is something inherent in each of us.  Each time you breathe, you fill with inspiration, literatlly and figuratively.  The breath is such a simple analogy and one I use quite often as a yoga teacher.  It is the one thing we can always come back to, it simplifies and defines life in that it conspires to not only give us physical life, but inspire us to greatness, to vulnerability, to truth, if we pay attention to it, if we practice paying attention to it.

As I have struggled these last four weeks (when I started this blog it was only two) to write and have come up with tons of ideas for blogs (at least a dozen good ones) I always have something better to do.  It took me years to find a steady meditation practice, not because I didn’t feel great affects from it, but because I couldn’t find the motivation or drive to do it daily.  Sleep seemed more valuable, spending time with my son, doing my asana, walking the dogs, going to work, making homemade meals, helping friends, ad infinitum.  These are all very valid strong life affirming activities, but in my heart I know I needed to meditate daily.  I can still be a moody person, with a tendency to react in anger over the slightest injustice to me or in the world.  Meditation created space and allowed life to come to me, rather than knee jerk react my way through every situation.  After trying for many years and coming back to the practice over and over again, I began to see the value and recognize how it enhanced my life, made all the above activities richer and allowed me to be more “present” within them.  I now have a daily meditation practice.  It was a joy, a struggle and many come to “Jesus” moments, but it found and devoured me. It has its peaks and valleys like any other relationship, but now I am committed to it.

So… with that written and me figuring out while I am writing this what one practice has to do with the other, it seems much clearer.  I have already put myself out there once, you have begun to hear me clear my writing throat and nothing imploded and temples didn’t crumble under the heresy of my voice.  The demons of fear have been quieted a bit, so now what is my excuse?  Still a bit of that fear, but really it is good old fashioned discipline, not a punishment, but literally being a disciple of my desires answering the call of making meaning of my life.   I hired someone to coach me, she suggested I write a couple times a week and that doesn’t seem so hard, right?  Yet, here I am at the end of the two weeks (ahem, four weeks) since our session and I am just taking my first 20 minutes to write this.  I am enjoying it, I will go back and edit and re-read many times (I have now put more than a couple hours into editing/rewrites) but really was that so hard (nope!). 

Everything in life teaches me, when I am willing to learn.  My yoga and meditation practice (one is not really separate from the other, but that is for another blog) have taught me the benefits of taking the time to do what makes me feel good, do what lights the fire of inspiration inside of me.   I literally feel lighter in my physical body and mind and everything seems to come together when I answer to my desire.  The key is to do it, whatever inspires you, it is important to recognize your desires but more importantly answer to them.  The only difference between successful people and ones that feel “stuck” is the ability to just do it (for Pete's sake!).

 I feel free when I write.  With freedom comes vulnerability, and yes, I know, when I expose myself there is the chance to be hurt.  I will end this post with one of my favorite quotes by Anais Nin  “and the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom".   

The answer is clear… To write.

Number One

So, here I am. Putting myself out there. What am I afraid of??? I don't know, is it the boogie man? I laugh at the thought that he actually lives in the dark cavernous space of my nostrils (like all good boogies) and has been saying "boo!" to every blog idea I've had. Now I take out the metaphorical Neti pot cleanse out the "boogie" and begin my journey into writing. Why am I so afraid, what will happen??? Perhaps you won't like my blog, you'll be onto me and recognize me as a fraud right off the bat, maybe you'll just read two sentences and think "she is so full of herself". You'd be right, I am full of myself... FINALLY! THANK GOD!

I realize my fear is not my voice, it is the voice of many people who most likely had my best interest at heart, but never even took the time to invest in their best interest. You know, the kind of people that have rules and boundaries for everything. Don't get me wrong, rules and boundaries can be a very good thing, as someone who has taken the better part of 45 years just figuring out if I had a voice to begin with. I've spent a whole heck of a lot of time not using good old fashion discipline and focus and do understand the value of rules and boundaries. But... I have found that the same rules and boundaries that someone sets up for me, might not be what's right for me. I can't live in dark cavernous nostrils of anyone else's fear any longer, I have to be willing to listen to the sound of my own voice. I have to recognize its sound, cultivate its power and let it be free.

I know this sounds like some hippie, free lovin type of s**t, and maybe it is. One thing I do know, it is mine and though most that know me will probably agree, those that really know me, know what a hard a** I can also be. This isn't the first blog I've posted, I've guest written on LYN (http://www.loveyourselfnaturally.com/) and at the studio's website where I teach yoga www.sarasyogajoint.com,. The difference now; this is mine, for me and for you if you choose to indulge me with your heart and mind as often as I choose to share with you.

My name is Vicky. I'm probably half way through my big beautiful life (I didn't always recognize it this way) and have experienced many triumphs and tragedies. Each by themselves enough for one person's lifetime, but cumulatively have created insight and experience into how to truly live a life worth living. How to feel pain and joy and keep moving on, how to just intuitively know that everything will be OK, even when it is not.

I plan to talk about many things, some may not be for the faint of heart, but all will provide inspiration, because I am here now, I am happy, I live a big beautiful life (in case I haven't mentioned that before) and I finally can share my voice because I believe it is worth sharing. I have a voice, it is here.