Two Weeks Outside

Being released from prison is a stressful experience, primarily because almost nothing is done by the institutions in charge of you to prepare you for the transition.

Nevertheless, I thought I knew a few things leading into my release:

1. My friend that was coming to pick me up from jail would be bringing me a set of clothes and shoes so that we could consider stopping and getting something to eat on the way back to my house.
2. My counselor at the jail would be making me an appointment with a doctor so that I wouldn't have to go off my depression medication while I was trying to figure out life that first week.
3. The nurse would be sending me home with either 1 or 15 doses of my medication (depending on when the next two-week shipment arrived).
4. One of the DOC staffers would have already submitted my application for Medicaid.

It turns out that I did not know those things.  In reality:

1. My ex had either not read, misunderstood, or forgotten the message I sent asking for her to put out a set of clothes so my friend could bring them to me.  I had to ride home in the pajama pants and t-shirt I was wearing when I was arrested (you can look up a video of my arrest if you're curious).  Because I "knew" I had shoes coming, I gave away the clogs I'd been wearing for over a year and swapped my almost new shower shoes for a pair that was falling apart.  Then, the deputies who checked me out wouldn't let me leave with those literal pieces of garbage on my feet.  I didn't have it in me to argue.  So, I had to walk barefoot across the parking lot and got into my friend's truck.
2. My counselor either never scheduled an appointment for me or never told me when it was scheduled.
3. I wasn't sent home with any doses of my medicine.  In fact, I wasn't given my usual nightly does on Saturday  Nobody ever explained why.  Then, in another inexplicable development, I was given a dose both Sunday and Monday mornings even though I'd been taking my medicine in the evenings since January.  I was released on Memorial Day.  I had 48 hours after my release to report to my probation officer.  I had 72 hours after my release to register as a sex offender with both the parish and the city (this turned out to be harder than it should have been, but I'll save that story for later).  It was Thursday before I managed to see a doctor and get back on my medication.  Speaking of medical care...
4. As near as I can tell nobody ever submitted my Medicaid application.  On top of that, the online application was useless.  I ended up having to call and apply over the phone like it was 1997 or something.

So, there I was trying desperately to hold it together and fulfill all of my legal responsibilities without access to my medication.  I wasn't sleeping.  I was having trouble focusing.  I had stepped into a house where almost every effort had been made to erase my existence from every room besides my office.  Most of my belongings were piled up in my storage unit.  I didn't know where anything was.

I'd been really worried about being off my medication for those first few days.  I'd talked to both my counselor and the nurse about it.  They assured me that I wouldn't have to miss any doses.  I trusted everyone to make sure things were OK.  But, everybody dropped the ball.  I wasn't able to give myself adequate care.

I didn't expect my first few days of freedom after incarceration to be more torturous than my last few days of prison.  But, somehow Louisiana managed to make that happen for me.  

Things are getting better, but I'm still not OK.

I'm Still Here.

Just over two years ago,  I was arrested.  It was on the news.  It was on the Internet.  Googling me now turns up a lot of really unflattering information.

My charges are embarrassing.  I'm not proud of the mistakes I've made, but I've been living with them for the past two years.  I'll be living with the consequences of my mistakes for the rest of my life.

Prison gave me the chance for a lot of reflection.  Looking at my life, I realized how dysfunctional it had become, even ignoring the specifics that led to my incarceration.  I'd always known I was depressed.  I told myself I was managing it well.  But, in reality, I was constantly searching for fulfillment while never finding it.  

Jail was traumatic and isolating.  I'll write more about my experiences within Louisiana's criminal justice system in the future (it's one of the primary things I want to do in this blog).

I lost my career and my marriage.  And I lost touch with all but a handful of very close friends and family members.

It's been over two years since I heard from almost everyone I know.  I have no idea where I stand with them.  Who has written me off forever as a terrible monster?  Who just doesn't know what to say after so long?  Who's waiting for me to be the one to reach out?  I have no idea.  

So, consider this my attempt to reconnect with anyone who'll have me.

I'm currently living at my old house in Shreveport.  I'll be here until the end of July.  After that?  I have no idea.  I'm still figuring it out.  I wake up every day and apply for jobs.  I'm also working through organizing and minimizing my physical property.  All this, of course, while working through the transition back to normal life.  (Yesterday, I almost left the water running in the bathroom sink because all the sinks in jail have push button faucets that turn themselves off after about 30 seconds.)

Mostly, I'm lonely.  I have several friends that have been in touch with me over the past two years.  I text and call them as much as I think they can stand.  But, as far as I know, I only have one friend left in all of Shreveport.  If I extend that to all of Louisiana, that takes the total to two.  When it comes to family, I'm lucky that my immediate family are all still in my life (Mom, Dad, Sister, and Grandmother), but I haven't heard from anyone else.

I understand that people are probably angry with me, disappointed in me, and uncomfortable with what I did.  I've gone through all of those same feelings.  Some of them still persist.  But, this is my life now.  I can't avoid reality.  I'm willing to tell my story, and I plan to do it in a later entry here.  I'm sorry for what I did.  I never intended to hurt anyone.  Despite the stigma that come with my crimes, I do not believe that I am a danger to anyone.  I'm trying to figure out how to get others to believe the same thing.  

While I can't claim that this experience has not changed me in some ways, I'm still fundamentally the same person as before.  I still love people easily.  I still want to help people.  I still want to work towards making the world a better place.

***

What if I'd died on June 1st, 2021?  Would anyone have missed me?  Would people have wished we could have talked more or spent more time together?  Would there have been things they regretted not asking or telling me?  

I want to believe that I'd have been missed.  But, after 2 years of  incarceration, I'm not so sure anymore.  I went away, but now I'm back.  I'm still here.  I don't feel like I've been missed.

I'm doing everything I can to make the best of my new living situation.  I'd really like to have more connections to the people from my past, but that decision is ultimately up to them.  If you're willing to be connected to me again, please reach out.  If not, I understand.  

***

I'm not sure what someone in my shoes is supposed to do.  Maybe I'm supposed to content myself with life on the fringes of society.  But, right now, I haven't given up all hope that my life may still look something like it did before all of this.

Edit: Feel free to share this with anyone who may be interested.  I'm getting lots of emails and texts bouncing back, so I may not have up-to-date contact information for people.