Wow. Almost Forgot About This

I nearly forgot about this effort. It's been many months since I have made a post here. I'm still in Work Release, still working, still moving forward. I consider myself very lucky to have the opportunity to prove myself worthy; both to my family and the State.

My wife and I have had a few modifications to the NCO. In July we were allowed to talk on the phone and email. In August we were allowed to spend time together in public. Everything on that front is going very well. It's not easy by any means, but I'm using the skills I have picked up in my DV Treatment and they are working quite well.

We're trying to get the whole NCO dropped at this point, to which the DA is objecting. No ruling from the judge yet, but I'm not expecting a miracle. My wife has been doing a great job keeping the home-front under control, despite an occasional breakdown that I am always happy to help her get through.

I'm a little nervous waiting to hear if I will qualify for Daily Reporting on November 10. If not, I'll be finishing my sentence in Work Release on January 26. *sigh* 13 days vs 90. I've served 161 days. Of course, if I even do go to Daily Reporting in 13 days I won't be able to go home until I have finished my DV classes in 11 weeks and the NCO is entirely lifted.

Patience is a virtue. So is gratefulness. I guess things could always be worse.

I'm Bored With Jail...

Can I just go home now? I'm actually being somewhat sarcastic, but yes - the past weekend proved to be very boring. Regardless of the fact that I had my first furlough and continued to go to church on Sunday, it did seem to drag on. Weekdays fly by like nobody's business. It seems my entire life is a negative image of what it used to be. I never want to leave work and weekends last way too long.

Sigh.

A Milestone

At 4:15 yesterday I hugged my three children for the first time since March 30. When I last saw them the air was thick with anger, fear and sadness. I had held each one of them briefly, promising them I would return in a few days to play and help with homework. Needless to say - this would not be the case. I lamented the fact that I was made a liar to my children and am still deeply saddened every time I remembered this turn of events.

Supervised visitations were approved by early May but the waiting list for the facility providing the service would demand we wait. My first visit was scheduled for the 21st of May but my preliminary court hearing was fast-tracked to my sentencing date. The Work Release program demanded I get an actual order from the court to approve a schedule including the visits, which finally came through two days ago. The next day I was scheduled to see them.

I was a twisted mix of excited and terrified. I was scared I would break down upon seeing them after so long. I didn't want the children to feel bewildered by any more intense emotions like the last time I had seen them. I wanted them to know without a doubt that I was in good spirits and health. Kimberly had dropped them off 15 minutes before I was to arrive, as our NCO does not allow us any contact outside email whatsoever. The Safe Exchange program is operated out of the basement of a church. I arrived at the exact time I was scheduled to and nervously approached the door, toting a grocery bag with some snacks and juice.

After a brief wait at the locked door I was greeted by H, the director of the program and the same person who had interviewed me. She again made me feel very welcome and even a bit excited for both me and the kids. While I signed in, she suggest I peek above the partition to see the kids. They immediately spotted me and began to stampede my way. I turned the corner, swamped my little arms and bright smiling faces. I dropped to my knees and took all three of them into my arms. The moment seemed to last an eternity. My little girl, only four years old, never let go. The boys, 10 and 8, let go looked at me and returned to more hugging. "I love you all so much. I missed you." escaped my trembling lips. The tears did not flow. I was too happy.

I could not get over how much each of them had grown or appeared slightly different than the last time I saw them. My oldest boy's face had broadened slightly and his hair brightened as it does every summer. My eight-year-old boy just looked older. I still can't put my finger on it. My little girl seemed to have grown an inch and her slight baby-talk she had been using the last time I saw her had faded some. I was awash in amazement how resilient children seem to be. I know the scars are not as apparent at their ages, so I've got no illusions as to how each one of them may be damaged from the events of late March. We'll all heal together over time.

The first 30 minutes was a frantic and dizzying experience. Each one wanted to play with me independently, seeking out their interests in the myriad of toys, games and activities in the large room. It felt a little like herding cats or juggling, but I was too happy to find it frustrating. Scurrying from ping-pong to baby dolls, Matchbox cars to tricycles - I felt a little like a child myself. This is the feeling I was missing even prior to being taken from the family. I had become so absorbed in my obsessions of work and minor distractions I had forgotten how to simply play with my children.

I was pleasantly surprised the staff kept a respectable distance from us. They were obviously observing, but not hovering over us like I thought they would. After noticing them taking notes here and there, I nearly forgot about them. Perhaps the fact that our circumstances were different from their average client made it this way? I know a majority of the families visiting are going through bitter divorces. Perhaps there are other DV offenders, their spouses alienated and full of resentment - unlike us. Regardless of our pain and understanding our need to reform - we want to be a family and we want our futures together.

Things calmed down in the last half and we spent some time painting with watercolors around a short table. Having each of them close and soaking up the time together was amazing. One boy painted a bright red fire truck, another an abstract man with wild hair resembling blue lightning bolts. My little girl made a picture of her and I, our over-sized pink heads grinning brightly. I painted three small hills with a river bending around their bases and a bright blue sky overhead. In hindsight, perhaps I had subconsciously represented our family in the watercolors: my wife the sky and me the river and our three little hills between - shaped by our winds and waters.

The time to neaten up and say goodbye had come too fast. I helped them put away the toys and paints, feeling the activity became an exercise in distraction from how we were all feeling. An hour is an incredibly short amount of time when you want to experience every second. This sharply contrasts the time I spend on my bunk at the jail reading. Time there drags and stalls. It's not fair.

I took special care to hug each one of the kids, making eye contact and explaining how we would see one another in only a week. My little girl was obviously fighting tears. My words were not enough to satisfy her and it was obvious her four-year-old mind just didn't have the concept of time the way her brothers have. I explained better. "You and Daddy will play again in only 7 days. You know how long we waited to see each other this time?" She nodded, not yet sure of were I was going with this conversation. "We waited EIGHTY days to see each other! That's a very long time. 7 days is very short and before you know it, we'll be here together again." She seemed to understand now. Her eyes brightened and a smile spread across her big rosy cheeks. She said "I love you Daddy." and turned away to return to play.

The steps towards the door seemed to feel like I was dragging a cart behind me. My shoulders felt heavy and a lump developed in my throat. Once I had the door open and the smell of the outside hit me, I felt I had collapsed inside. My tears flowed hot and salty. I was trembling and sobbing as I got into my car. I looked back at the door, knowing they were inside - perhaps fighting their own tears. I fell yet another level down into my sadness and burst into loud, aching cries. I didn't feel capable of forming a cohesive thought and my mind looped over brief expressions.

"Why?"

"I'm so sorry."

"I love you."

"Please forgive me."

My mind raced with flashbacks of the last 3 months events. Confrontation. Fear. Arrest. Jail. Court rooms. It took me a good mile of driving to regain my composure. I found myself the first to a red light, wiping my tears from my cheeks. As fantastic as it was to see the children again, it was not a complete experience. I want my ENTIRE family back together. Without every one of us, it's not complete. The path is long and narrow, but it is not infinite.

Great Success

The court has approved my motion!  I now have possession of a signed "Order authorizing periodic release from work release sentence for the exercise of supervised visitation"!  I'm quite giddy at the moment.  I cannot wait to see my children for the first time since March 30.

"The only thing ju can change is jerself"

In my state, all guilty defendants of a domestic violence charge are ordered to attend a mandatory 36-week DV Treatment class. It's a weekly group meeting hosted in the same facilities one might find a UA (urinalysis) or breathalyzer clinic. The facility I attend also hosts anger management, substance abuse and mental health programs for both men and women. Each session is $25 and you fail the course and risk violating your probation if you do not pay every night. 

My first consultation with my attorney revealed attending these classes was certainly a part of my future.  I proactively sought to get started with the program, both knowing it might help my case but more importantly - I desperately wanted to know why I committed the crimes and how to stop myself from ever doing it again.  Last night was my 7th class.

It's held in an unassuming building on the edge of a ratty suburban residential neighborhood.  Several small rooms are sparsely decorated with public service posters, emergency escape routes and various ancient notices regarding payment plans and state regulations.  The bathroom has a large dressing mirror positioned behind the toilet bowl to make it easy for someone to observe the act of providing a urine sample.  It's not a flattering angle for me.

The group is led by a wonderfully nice emigrant Venezuelan lady.  She maintains a nice balance between getting across the points we need to learn with a fair amount of banter and recounting of our cases to one another.  Convicted offenders LOVE to share the facts of their case, particularly; "Who was your judge?", "Who is your PO?" and "What was your charges?".  Even I have done my fair amount of brain-picking to try to contrast my own case against others.  It's enlightening and yet ultimately useless:  You get what you get and once you got it (at least in the case of taking a plea bargain) - that's all folks.

The group begins with "check-in", where we each take a turn updating the group with our current situation and state-of-mind.  If the person on the hot-seat is new, they introduce themselves and give everyone a fairly detailed recounting of what led them there and their history.  The group leader won't let anyone get away with "My week was fine.  Work is good."  She is quick to lock in eye-contact and say "No. No. No.  Ju hab to tell us more.  Please."  Some guys always resist and evade.

I always go in reminding myself to not only be open to the group, but to be painfully honest to myself.  I'm not suggesting I ever lie to myself or anyone - but I have caught myself resisting some truths I simply hadn't realized.  Over time, I've found myself actually eager to be surprised.  It is an experience I find cathartic.  I also try to respectfully assist the instructor to "get through" to some of the guys.  It is sometimes painfully obvious that her English may very well be too good for the audience, so I try to rephrase some things I know might make better sense in "average English".  I don't think I've offended anyone by assisting, but I'm careful to gauge the mood of the group and the facilitator before I do.

Last night the group went off into what I at first I thought was a wild tangent from whatever the leader had in mind.  I then realized that not only was this a subject she often covers but that she also doesn't have a strict lesson plan or roadmap.  I figure 36 sessions is more than enough to cover everything necessary at least once and half of everything at least twice.  So the group descended into what felt like a bitch session about how unfair "the system" can be on certain cases.  This was an irresistible subject for me.  I firmly believe that I am getting the punishment and help I deserve, but I also am quite sure that for myself and my wife - we're being put through a lot more than is fair for a first time offender.  

So, after about 40 minutes of everyone taking their turn to passionately reject certain aspects of their conviction the facilitator asked "So what would you change?"  Many of the men either had no answer or simply said "I can't change it, so why exhaust myself with the question?"  I could tell the facilitator felt these people were "getting warm" but they were not yet "hot".  I was second to last.  After some time to think about it, I felt I knew what the key was.  I said, "There are many things I would like to change, but the only thing I can change is myself."  I think I hit the nail on the head for the evening.  The dude after me said "What he said.  I think that was the most profound thing I've ever heard here."  I was embarrassed and I blushed as I normally do. My ears were hot and my face burning.  The facilitator simply smiled and look me in the eyes as she nodded.  "Jes.  The only thing ju can change is jerself."

How We Married

I met Kimberly in massage school 14 years ago. It was summertime and I was one quarter ahead of her in the 1 year day program. During that time, I was a "nanny" to one of our instructor's seven month old son and I would frequent the halls of the school with the baby. She loves to tell me how irresistible I was toting the little baby around. The attraction between us was immediate, but she was in the evening track and had no idea that I was also a student. Shortly after our hallway encounter she transferred to the day program. On the first day of the new quarter, I suddenly found myself face to face with this mysterious, beautiful girl from the hallway. She had walked into the classroom and upon seeing me, came directly to me to introduce herself. Soon we were partnered for evening study-groups, which evolved quickly into dates.

Our new affair was a whirlwind of after-school rendezvous but I struggled with our school's frowning upon coed relationships and ended up rejecting her.  She was persistent in her pursuit and we ended up spending the weekend at my mother's house in the mountains. A few weeks later she told me she was nearly certain she was pregnant. I didn't know how to cope with the idea of being a father at 20 and I broke her heart, coldly pushing her away and suggesting she get an abortion. We didn't talk for months afterward and our shared classes were difficult to get through. I always felt her proximity and her gaze. I desperately loved her but continued to refuse the emotion and avoided her doggedly. I spent the next few months flip-flopping between my clear desire to someday be a father and the nagging feeling that I was just too young.

That fall she phoned me at work to tell me she was still pregnant and wanted to know how I felt about it. I surprised even myself when I admitted I was happy that she still was and I wanted to be a part of the child's life. We spent the next week discussing our relationship and our tentative future. It didn't take long for our relationship to intensify and love to reach full bloom. The issue of marriage was left open and undecided. As a nanny for a wealthy family, she was invited to spend a month at their vacation home in Kauai over the Christmas holiday. I was not permitted to join her and stayed behind, anxiously awaiting her return.

She called nearly every day to relay her stories of the beach and fantastic voyages on catamarans and a helicopter tour. One day she called from a strange number, sounding broken and exhausted. She said she had miscarried and was at a small hospital, a visit paid for by the family she was nannying for. My heart sunk and the distance between us had never felt so real. I wanted her to come home immediately, but she could not. I proposed to her over the phone and she tearfully accepted. I promised we would marry as soon as she returned.

By then, I had returned to living with my mother and Kimberly moved in with us within days of returning from the island. We wasted no time. We filed for our marriage license, which was neatly written in calligraphy by a county official who obviously took great care in her work. A few days later we both left work early and drove to the county courthouse. She wore a purple dress borrowed from a friend. I was plainly dressed in a white button down and black slacks. We exchanged our vows in a dimly lit courtroom - just the two of us and a county judge. Afterwards we picked up my little sister from her elementary school and went out for Chinese food. Despite being 4 years younger than my wife and just under 21, I managed to order a Ching-Tao beer without being carded. She bought a bottle of cheap merlot for us to celebrate at home, which we intended to drink from a pair of goblets she borrowed from the same friend who lent her the dress. The goblets turned out to be made of some kind of metal that did not react well with the wine, so we ended up drinking from plain drinking glasses - ones I had grown up with.  We still laugh at the comical and hopelessly romantic circumstances of our marriage.

"Every sin is a variation of theft"

I few weeks ago, I read The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. I devoured the story in a little under 10 hours, frequently pausing on my bunk to cry (discreetly, mind you) or contemplate the central theme of redemption. I don't think I've ever had a book bring me to tears, but this one coaxed them with ease on many occasions.

One passage, early in the story struck me as something I had never considered before. Amir is talking to his father, "Baba", about the Mullah at his school, wrestling with the concept of sin. Baba tells him "No matter what the mullah teaches, there is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft." Later he continues, "When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness."

I immediately cast this light on my own life and my crime. When I assaulted my wife and threatened her, I stole her dignity and her safety. I took away the very core of the promise I had made to her almost 14 years ago. I am deeply ashamed and sorry for stealing these things from her.