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.

An Environment Not Conducive to Healing

Jail is a fairly dirty place to live.  Two weeks ago I started to show signs of catching a nasty cough that is circulating.  I've been taking 1000mg of vitamin C and a large multivitamin since the day after I thought this might be happening.  Regardless of my efforts, I got the bug - which my mother promptly dubbed "Kennel Cough".  

I thought the worst of it was over last Tuesday, but the crud simply relocated from my lungs to my sinuses.  Whenever something settles in my sinuses, it eventually starts to leak through my eyes - producing symptoms that appear very much like a bad case of "Pink Eye".  For a week now my eyes make me appear to be regularly smoking copious amounts of marijuana and people at work have been asking me suspiciously if I feel alright.

It seems to be slowly dissipating, but only with the help of Clear Eyes.  I am unfortunately not allowed to being my little bottle of eye drops into the jail.  Medications can be brought in, but must be sealed in their original packaging.  This rule, however, does not apply to liquids such as this.  If I want to use them, I have to get a guard's approval to take them at my outside locker.

In Work Release, you have two lockers.  One is located on the "outside" of the jail, in a glass and steel breezeway.  This is the locker where you can deposit items not allowed in the dorm.  Upon return each evening from work, I fill mine with my backpack, mobile phone, eye drops and cigarettes.  In the dorm, we each have a tall wooden locker next to our bunks.  This contains your clothing, laundry detergent and any other items you are allowed to bring in with you that you want to keep from being stolen.

While the dorm itself isn't the most disgusting place I have ever seen, it still makes one paranoid for their health.  There are frequent leaks in the roof.  The showers never seem to be properly cleaned, the floors sticky and dust collects on the top of anything above eye level.  Cleaning the dorm is a responsibility shared by all inmates on a rotational basis.  Every evening at about 8:30 the guard will post an assigned list of chores.  A few of the more financially desperate inmates always offer to do your chore for a few dollars, but my concern for their lack of attention-to-detail has kept me from obliging.  The fear a guard will take issue with a poorly done chore keeps me from paying another to do my work for me.  It would certainly not reflect well and forever stain my relationship with the guard if I simply left the responsibility to another and they failed.

Weekends

Weekends are the hardest.  My work release schedule allows me to commute to work and back Monday through Friday, 6:45am to 7:15pm.  I am not allowed to work more than 50 hours a week, no more than 6 days in a week and I am given 75 minutes to commute each way.  From Friday night to Sunday night it's pretty much like a normal jail sentence.  Although, last weekend I went to church for the first time - admittedly it was just an excuse to get out for a few hours on Sunday.  

From what I understand, it's a service offered by the church and that is the only reason it's possible.  A church-owned van driven by a church volunteer arrives at the jail at 10:20am and picks up the guys who signed up for the service, which is limited to 9.  You have to sign up before Friday at 8am and you are subject to the approval of the Work Release Coordinator and maybe even your Probation Officer.

Surprisingly, I enjoyed myself more than I thought I would.  The church is supposed to be a non-denominational service but I suspect it has heavy evangelical influences.  I hadn't been to church since I was at least 16.  Growing up, my father and I never attended church for any reason other than weddings, baptisms and funerals.  The same is true for my mother, though there was a stint with her second husband where they attended regularly.  By the time I was in my early teens my dad and his new wife began attending a Lutheran church and eventually became quite active.  By that time I had moved in with Mom and the only time I ever went to service was when my father insisted.

The Emmanuel Lutheran Church back home was what I imagine a majority of Lutheran establishments are like.  Services are your standard sit down, bow-your-head, stand up, sing, sit down, listen to the sermon, stand up, sing and various other traditions.  I can't say I ever hated church services, I just didn't understand why we ever went.  The name "Jesus" was certainly not an oft used one.  I think "Indiana Jones" may have been used at least 50 times more.  It wasn't until after last Sunday's service when I got around to asking Dad why he started believing.  His simple response was "It wasn't up to me.  When Jesus wants you to open your heart to him, it will happen."  This is not unlike my father.  His answers are almost always Zen-like in their length but hardly as revealing or emotionally insightful.  Like all his answers to my questions, I simply accept them and move on until I can think of a better way to phrase it or peel back another layer of his atmosphere.

So the church I stepped into last weekend was like nothing I had ever seen before.  There was a stage extending out into the tiny "fellowship hall", gigantic high-definition projection screens and suspended plasma displays.  A 3-piece modern rock band with 3 back-up singers started the service with 2 contemporary Christian songs while the lyrics faded neatly from verse-to-verse on screen.  Stage lighting was coordinated deftly by a guy at a soundboard at the back of the room.  I wondered for a moment if I was in the correct place.  Many arms were raised during the choruses, with palms stretched out in praise.  One woman danced in a somewhat Pagan fashion up and down the aisle near me, twisting, turning and painting the room with her outstretched parallel arms.

The service mainly consisted of an easy-going presentation updating the congregation on the progress of getting their new plans to construct a larger fellowship hall approved by the County Commission.  Then the pastor (or whatever you call them) gave an interesting and passionate talk about forgiveness.  The theme seemed appropriate for my predicament and I listened intently to his Gospel quotes and modern stories.  I didn't feel the same indifference I felt so many years ago at Emmanuel Lutheran.  It connected with me and I left feeling a little lighter than when I entered - even though I am pretty sure I won't be attending this church after my sentence is complete.  If I attend a church with the family at all.  I'm not closing any doors, but I'm just not ready to commit to religious activities as of yet.

After the service our driver took us to Wendy's for lunch, which was a total surprise to me.  I sat with the driver and talked a little.  It turned out we are both in the same field: web programming.  Everything he had to say was laced with "God" and "Jesus", which still makes me a squirm a little - but I respect his faith and passion nonetheless.  He asked me for a business card and I obliged.  When I returned to work on Monday I discovered an email from him.

A-

Nice meeting you today. Like I explained today, I'm believing God for abundant projects to finance projects for God's kingdom. There are so many more reasons though. Obviously everyone has a call on their life, and I believe that people can find that calling working on projects like what God puts before me such that they can realize God's call.

Let me know when you have some more free time, and we can talk some more.

-C

I responded;

C-

Well I have to say the circumstances we were introduced to one another were certainly... "unique". I have to admit that my presence at the church on Sunday was the first time I had been to any in over 15 years. I'm best described as a "sceptic who wants to believe". It will take some time before I have made a final decision and will undoubtedly be one I will make with my wife, once we are in the position to explore the options together. I spent several hours yesterday reading "More Than A Carpenter", and I found the information impressive and influential. I believe in God - it's the concept of Jesus as God is where I get confused and frustrated. Moreover, it's the social aspects of organized religion that make the whole experience a little difficult, but I am patient and interested nonetheless. My father is a devout Christian, Lutheran to be exact (though he was not when I was a child) and my mothers family is Jewish, though none of them are very active in their community as Jews.

Well, that's my spiritual resume. Now professionally, I'll start by sharing some of my recent work and my resume, which is attached.

A

He hasn't responded and I suppose I won't know if I offended him until I see him next.  Perhaps he is simply busy.

I signed up for this weekend's service, though I am told it is unlikely we will be allowed to go.  The dorm failed our Wednesday inspection and this church privilege is said to be one of the ones they like to revoke when you fail inspection.  I have a few good books ready for consumption in my locker, and if I can't go then it will only mean a few more hours of reading instead of a short field trip for amusement and reluctant inspiration.

Signing out until Monday.  Have a nice weekend.

Yet Another Obstacle

I haven't seen the kids since March 30, two days before my arrest.  I miss them terribly and have been very anxious for the opportunity to calm their fears and assure them that none of this is their fault and that I will someday return home to them and their mother.

No Contact Orders are mandatory in our state, and ours was put into place the day I was arrested, April 1. While I understand and even believe in the purpose of these legal shields, both myself and my wife feel ours has been the most difficult facet of our case. She didn't ask for it, never wanted it. I hate it, but like many things in my world right now I accept it and make my own attempts to whittle away at it when appropriate. It's like an infinitely long, impassable wall seven stories high and made of solid titanium.

Because of the NCO, Kimberly has been burdened with what I feel is a sentence of her own: one more difficult and challenging than mine.  She has been forced into single parenthood with little to no help from friends or family.  She has petitioned the Court on multiple occaisons for modifications of the No Contact Order, but the judge has only approved one small modification.  It is unlikely that there will be any further modifications until I have completed my time in jail and I fear the worst; that it will remain until my probation is complete in May of 2011. The modification of the NCO allows me supervised visits with the children only. Kimberly and I are allowed to email one another, a right we have fully embraced and made great use of.

Supervised visitation works like this;  Only facilities court approved can offer the service.  My wife and I have to independently apply for the program, which costs $25 each.  Once approved, you have to get in line - as the service is "popular" but has very limited staff and hours.  The appointments are on a narrow sliding scale and ends up costing us $50 an hour. The parent with custody drops off the children 15 minutes before the other's scheduled arrival. The children wait with a supervisor.  Once the visiting parent arrives, they spend the entire visit under close supervision.  No whispering, no exchanges of gifts and the supervisor makes detailed notes on interactions.  When it is over, the visitor leaves and the custodial parent picks up the kids 15 minutes later.

We waited a full month before we were able to schedule an appointment, only to end up cancelling because my sentence was given and I was immediately remanded into custody.  The stipulation that the Department of Social Services must approve the visitations was added at sentencing.  I contacted our caseworker, Luis, as soon as I was able to.  This gentleman had visited me in the jail shortly after my arrest to interview me.  He was by far the kindest and most considerate man in the "system" that I had met.  (I'll tell more about that story another time.)  Luis again was very kind and quickly emailed my prosecuting attorney expressing his approval of the condition.

This Monday I contacted the DA's office to follow up on Luis' email and Tuesday I received the wonderful news that I am cleared to have supervised visits with the kids.  Since I began my sentence, Kimberly has been making and canceling appointments with the facility that does the supervision - keeping a place in line for us to ensure I have the opportunity to see kids as soon as possible.  I was able to arrange a regular weekly visit and was excited to complete my schedule change request when I returned to the jail in the evening.

I completed the paperwork last night and left it in the door jamb of the Work Release pod, the door that regularly locks behind me when I return every evening.  This morning while signing out to go to work the request was waiting in my case jacket on top of my sign-out sheet.  "Denied" stamped in red ink with a handwritten note: "I need paperwork attached w/ Judge's signature before I can approve this."  Ugh.  There's that sinking feeling.  The judge.  This is never going to be approved.

My judge is by far the most interesting and challenging person in this case.  I think she hates me and by the way the police report reads: rightfully so.  Again, I'll talk more about my judge some other time - I'm just trying to keep a focus on my current events in this post.  So basically, while the court technically has given me the opportunity to heal with the children and play with them - the Work Release program will not recognize that right until the judge has ordered me to visit the children.  Again, this makes sense to me but it just feels bad.  I suppose if it were any other way, I could say the court also allows me to email - so let me out of jail whenever I want so I can email my wife.  Yeah, right.

So now my lawyer is involved again, racking up my bill at $200 an hour.  More future wages promised away.  Things were thin before all this started.  Now we're talking rice paper thin.  Onion skin thin.  He has to file a motion asking the judge to go out of her way to order me to see the babies.  To my mind, this sounds a lot like me asking her to climb Mt. Everest on her way to work.

I am praying again more since this news came.  I pray the judge will understand the predicament and think of the needs of the children more than my own.  I hope she doesn't think much of me at all.  I sometimes imagine my case jacket on her desk.  My mug shot and her own personal shorthand notes of her impressions.  If this is how it is, I hope she doesn't read those notes.  I hope she is having a good day.  Maybe her flowers are coming in nicely in her garden.  Maybe her overdue tax return check came that morning.  Maybe.

Introduction

I'm not sure I will be able to cover everything that has happened to date that I need to, but I will at least attempt to start.

I am a convicted felon serving a sentence for crimes of domestic violence.  I make no excuses for my actions, nor do I attempt to diminish the severity or seriousness of my crimes.  I have no prior convictions, not even a major traffic violation.  I do not have a history of violence.  The crimes I am convicted of were the first I ever perpetrated against my wife in our 13 years of marriage.  I am filled with remorse and sadness for the manner in which I reacted to the situation I was in.  Wrestling with the guilt and pain for the events of the past few months is a daily struggle.

With this journal, I hope to effectively share my experiences and memories.  I will record my thoughts on current challenges and openly dig and sift through the past to perhaps expose the events and circumstances that brought me here.

If anyone happens upon this blog, I am sure I will be read by visitors with both disdain and doubt, perhaps even a few with empathy.  Regardless of the comments or review, I will always be truthful, open and sincere in my writing.  This is my opportunity to learn from my mistakes,  capture the journey and hopefully end up with an expansive document I can always reflect on.  Maybe a reader will learn something about themselves along the way and correct their own course.