Like a favorite sock worn too long, their marriage no longer has definition. The map of their life together has no neat geography. Their games and tasks are no longer divided into even-colored packets. —Judith Cooper, “Dreamland”
Everyone has their comfort zone, their “safe” place from where to navigate, whether it's a truck driver barreling down the highway, a university professor lecturing in a crowded auditorium, a mechanic hoisting an engine, or a homemaker cleaning the house. As for me, my comfort zone rests inside two rows of razor sharp concertina wire, and even though others may view my job as dangerous, it’s not; If you know what you’re doing, if you’re a permanent fixture (which I am), then getting shanked by a piece of metal or clunked over the head with a lock-in-a-sock is highly unlikely; in fact, your chances of danger are far greater when you’re outside of your element. I am not.
I’m not downplaying the tension or the stress either; dealing with convicts can contribute to that. Over the years I’ve witnessed a few co-workers who had given up, who had this suicide-by-prisoner mentality. For instance: The Dagwood instructor who provoked his students with racial comments and taunted them about their lack of intelligence. His underlying motive: an early retirement. Unfortunately, his plan back-fired and he was forced out, unprepared.
What I don’t understand is how someone can step out of her comfort zone, place blame, return to her “safe” place, and then feel this sense of entitlement, as if her actions originated from some type of Manifest Destiny. Example:
The house is mine; the payments are yours. The vehicle is mine; the payments are yours. The credit cards are mine; yours have been cancelled, but the bills are yours. Our child’s savings account is mine, I closed it; I’ll tell her you’d steal it otherwise. Oh, and your paychecks are mine; just remember to maintain that minimum bank balance—it’s your responsibility.
So, as I’m kept in the dark regarding finances, as I’m kept from my house with phony 911 calls (I can’t help it if someone feels uncomfortable around me, what was I to do, serve tea & crumpets?), as I’m kept from having contact with my child (I’m sure those police escorts to my house are impressionable), I move forward, I continue working, I continue teaching murderers, rapists, dope-dealers, thieves, gang-bangers, and car-jackers in an effort to better not only themselves, but society as well.
What keeps me motivated? I’m not sure. I keep telling myself: Tomorrow’s going to be a better day. Truth be told: I simply don’t know.
I’d like to thank the neighbor girl for the lentil soup. I had it for lunch … delicious … and yeah, you’re right, “I look like hell” because I’m feeling the burn.
7 comments:
Tomorrow could be a better day, or the day after that, or another one. Some kind of parity must come into play, you need running money! Even the IRS limits itself to 15% of back taxes if arrears. It's only human. Lawyer, friend, spy, sheltering sky. The first months for me were the hardest, I wrote poems and staggered on.
She can eff off regarding the entitlement. In battle mode, make her fight for every inch. She doesn't deserve cooperation.
So many glib platitudes come to mind, but they all boil down to you have to believe it will get better. I've been in a few pretty dark places in my life and it did always get better. It sure didn't feel lik eit at the time, but it did. Keep on keeping on and let it out through your writing.
Dirt Man, I should've known about those two other rows of concertina wired fences, but like so many other things around me, I did not pay attention. Thanks for pointing that out. As for the insanity, I've been too immersed in it to know any different.
Erik, I know you know what I'm going through. Thanks for everything.
Jason, I've never seen you this heated. I hope the writing is going well. As soon as I get my own place, I'm gonna buy that e-story of yours. Right now my internet is at the coffee shop.
Dan, Remember the good old days? Seems like such a long long time ago.
You are in your comfort zone because you know what to expect. convicts are scumbags, you expect them to act as scumbags. You would never expect the person you love to act like a scumbag. I'm sorry for your pain. Eventually your daughter will see the truth for what it is, and wonder why you were yanked from her life. She will then be angry at who she should be angry at. Hang in there. W.W.
JR. To say that the prison is your comfort zone... reflects the stress the process creates. I do have to correct you on two points. 1. Our population has changed dramatically. We are now housing three units of the "criminally insane". Good luck with that definition. You may not see it being in the school building but I see it everyday in the yards. My comfort zone is when I leave eveyday without being injured and breathe the "free air". 2. To house these "scumbags" as W.W. most eloquentley stated the prison is surrounded by 4 barb wire fences not two. You look like you are ready to try out with the Hanson team to run the marathon? Hang in there.
You are good at what you do and much deserving of a real adult relationship with someone who trully cares about you. It is on your Horizon.
Keep to your plans and don't lose faith. Also, double for me on what W.W. expressed to the tenth power. What will that equation look like?
The Dirt Man
Jesus, man.
You look like I did thirty years ago.
Feel for ya.
But I guess all you have to do now is breathe.
Gotta be careful during this hellish time not to take friends' advice.
...Not even the advice of enemies. :)
You could do what I did in a similar situation many years back: The smart guy turned asshole.
Quit my job, lived in a car, and you can't get blood out of a stone.
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