Tag Archives: addiction

Lauren, Ralph Lauren

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ANNE

In some of Vince’s posts it sounds like I abandoned him.

But during the seven “fun” years, as he calls them, when he was “only drinking,” I did visit him every couple of months.  Remember, it’s a two-hour drive to Fountain / Lanesboro, so each visit meant a six- to eight-hour day or staying overnight. Mondays were his only days off, so a visit usually involved taking a day off work, too.

I hope I don’t sound defensive. It’s just interesting, and very common in families, that our emotional impression of events is so different.

At first, right after his relapse, visiting him was so emotion-laden that I might weep in the car most of the way home. The first time I saw him after six months of not knowing where he was, after his meth bender, I was shocked by his appearance. Gaunt, hollow eyes—they even appeared to have changed color from brown to almost black. His clothes looked as though he had just survived a ship wreck—torn and filthy. He was 27 but he looked 10 years older. Someone passing by asked him, “Hey Vince, who’s your date?” He didn’t like that.

I asked him if I could buy him a pair of jeans and he said, “Sure mom, but they have to be Lauren—Ralph Lauren.”

It was always the same routine. He didn’t use email or Facebook or talk on the phone; communications was solely by text. So I would text and ask if such-and-such a weekend would be good for me to come visit. Half the time he wouldn’t reply. Then I would text again a few days later, and a few days later, until finally I’d get a text back with him saying he’d dropped his phone in the river but he would love to see me.

When I arrived in town it was always awkward. He was usually working so I would have a burger and a beer. I always had the impression that he wished he could escape from me—to go use? I don’t know. He didn’t want money from me; he never asked for money and, after all, he was working full-time. When he lost his job I might take him shopping for clothes or buy him a contact lenses refill so he could see, but I never gave him money.

Wrench

We would go agate hunting. He would show me the home-made raft he and Seth had built out of empty industrial-sized ketchup tubs and duct tape. We’d go to the Amish market and make fun of their eye glasses, which were all the same steel-rimmed, round, and always smeary. We camped on Seth’s land with their group of friends. Vince would toss a ball for his dog, Willie, or play catch with one of his friends. One time someone had won a meat raffle and Vince roasted it all over the campfire and I gorged myself.

Bluebell

I would show up in my Mini with my Emporio Armani bags and my Murano glass beer bottle opener I’d bought in Venice.  These were almost like protective shields, as if they declared (again), “I’m not one of you hillbillies!”  (A friend in London works there and is my source for these sturdy plastic bags which are great for camping.  I am way too cheap to actually buy anything there.).

Seth talked nonstop, but Vince would say barely 20 words.  There was never any animosity, just an elusiveness. Who was he? What did he want in life? Was this it? Did he ever date? Did he wish he had kids? Would he ever go back and finish his degree? Did he ever think about buying a house?

BeardedOne

If I couldn’t contain myself and asked one of these questions, he would deflect it with a joke. When I left, he would hug me and say, “I love you mom.”

It got easier as time went by. And, I have to admit, once I gave up my vow to never drink in front of him, we all loosened up a bit.  Alcohol, such a time-honored stress reliever.

I came to feel proud of Vince.  He worked, paid his bills, paid taxes, had friends, had fun.  He seemed to have overcome the drug demons and was only drinking moderately.  Well, moderately for him.  For the umpteenth time, I was lulled into thinking it would stay this way forever.

VnMe

Solitary, Still

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VINCE

It wasn’t always the hard stuff.

Shortly after I lost my job at the ice cream plant, one of my close friends wore a wire into my apartment and attempted to buy some meth from me.  Fortunately, I had been tipped off that his house had been raided not even an hour before he showed up.  I slammed the door in his face, and started thinking.  I had a standing offer to move to Fountain with an old friend and his girlfriend, and I took them up on it.  The first night there I started back up with my heavy drinking, and I didn’t stop until seven years later when I got into the hard stuff again.  But it was a fun seven years!

After one very trying month living in a trailer in Fountain with a man that couldn’t control his anger while drunk, which was all day every day, I moved a short distance to the town I was working in, Lanesboro.  **Pause**  If you ever get a chance to get a copy of the book, Inadmissible Evidence by Phillip Friedman, do it.  But before you read it, just go ahead and burn it.  Or if you want to know what it’s like in prison isolation, read it.  Thank you for your time.  **Play**

One Battle Won

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ANNE

As Vince has written, the tourist trade in Lanesboro dies off in winter, so he goes on seasonal unemployment. The State loads his weekly payment onto a debit card which is managed by Mega Bank. When he was arrested, he was no longer eligible to receive additional payments; fair enough. However, he still had a balance in his account, which he couldn’t access.

So I started calling Mega Bank. I will not bore you with the details of how much time I spent on hold, making copies, faxing and mailing and emailing the Power of Attorney form Vince had painstakingly found in the prison library, and doing it all over again because Mega Bank claimed they never received it, and so on. Months passed.

My friend Stephanie, who came with me to visit Vince, works for a big consulting firm. I said to her, “I feel so cynical! I wonder if big corporations ignore people like me until we give up, and then they keep the money, and all those tiny accounts add up …” She laughed and said I wasn’t being cynical at all, that that’s exactly what they do. They wait you out. They do nothing. They make a nice profit.

But I am a fighter. Hearing Stephanie’s take on it made me mad, which energized me. I called the Minnesota Attorney General’s Office. When a real person answered the phone and asked me to describe my complaint, I was tongue tied for a moment. “I…I wasn’t ready to talk … I’m not used to a government agency or company that actually answers the phone.”

The AG sent a letter to the CEO of Mega Bank, asking him to respond within five business days. Mega Bank ignored the letter. I don’t know what transpired after that but I received a check for $154.03 within a couple weeks. In particular, I’d like to recognize Joao Halab in the AG’s office for pursuing this on my and Vince’s behalf.

A hundred and fifty bucks may not sound like a lot of money, but it meant coffee and ramen and pens and paper to Vince. And to give Vince credit, he told me to keep $50 for m effort, which I did.

—

I’ve got other battles going as well. They are mostly internal ones; I am choosing not to expend my energy on them because I know I cannot win them.

I wrote that I have to move because I am being priced out of my apartment. I haven’t found a new place yet. It seems there are either spacious penthouses with doormen and champagne happy hours for $2,000 a month, or dark cramped rat holes for $800 a month, and not much in between.

My landlord has started showing my apartment, which amps up the pressure. I called a friend who lives in the building and asked, “Should I make a point of being home when they come in with the potential renters, so I can make sarcastic remarks about how they’re taking advantage of the economy to jack up rents?” She said NO without hesitation. I knew that was the right answer, but I needed to hear it.

But when I came home from seeing yet another “no-go” apartment, there were people in my living room. These potential new renters gushed about what a beautiful apartment I have. I kept my mouth shut.

The poor leasing agent is also being priced out of his apartment, which he’s been receiving as a benefit of being an employee, so he’s very sympathetic. He called me a couple hours later to say that a corporation had rented my apartment sight unseen but would be sending someone the next day just to verify the square footage. They’ll be using it to house MBA interns. I asked which company it was a company that makes industrial chemicals.

This is me a couple years ago reveling in the view from my apartment:

740View

—

My other internal battle is a February work trip to the Occupied Palestinian Territories. I can’t say much except that it adds inherent complicated stress and additional pressure to find a new apartment by the time I leave, because I’ll come back and need to move five days later.

 

Solitary

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VINCE

Boring!  That’s the only way to describe my time here so far.  I got to choose a couple real winners from the seg book cart the other day.  When I asked the Native man about a couple authors I was interested in, he stared at me with his mouth wide open.  That’s it.  Just stared.  Eventually I pointed to a red one and a blue one, and he responded to that.  Unfortunately I only have 1,000 pages to last me until I get out of here.  On the up-side, I read terrible books really slowly!

A CO went around and knocked on a few doors asking if people wanted to use the phone.  I knocked on my side of the door and asked if I could use the phone.  He said, “No, not your day.”  No shit.

I’ve heard that Moose Lake is an old psych hospital. At the very least, it is an old hospital.  From what I saw of it four days ago, the outside is all red brick and barb wire.  The inside is very sterile.  White on white, all high-gloss, splatter-resistent walls.  I can’t wait to get out and explore.

In Moose Lake there is no controlled movement.  Once I get down to general population, I can just sign out and go to the gym.  And I can spend some extra time in the library once I get out of the hole.  Of course, this is all just hearsay.  I haven’t actually seen any of it with my own eye, yet.  Fuck.  Did I ever even mention that I’m a cyclops?  But don’t tell anyone.

—

I wrote a kite to the staff about not getting a phone call and within 10 minutes of receiving it they brought down a phone and apologized for their oversight!  I’m impressed.  I wrote the kite in a respectful manner and in turn I was treated with respect.  I think I like it this way.

—

I believe it’s Sunday.  I’m still in the hole.  I haven’t spent one second out of my cell since Thursday morning.  A CO asked me if I wanted recreation.  I said yes.  Five minutes later, my door unlocked and I stepped out into the common area with my shower stuff, my mail, and a lot of questions.  The common area is a room with one table, four seats.  That is all.  Nobody else.  I didn’t get to shower, send out my mail, or speak to another human.  After an hour of sitting alone at the table an angry voice yelled, “Recreation is over! Stand by your door!”  I did.  And I have declined recreation ever since.  Still no shower.  I need one.

Prison, Prison Everywhere, Part II

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ANNE

I have to move. The apartment vacancy rate in the Twin Cities is so low that landlords have the upper hand, and mine is taking advantage of that to raise my rent $307 per month. “It’s a business decision,” they say. “We realize some people will be priced out of the building.”

Some people. I’m one of those people.

My apartment has been my sanctuary for almost five years. But I work for a nonprofit, so I have to be realistic. I gave my notice and then started sifting through the over 16,000 apartment ads on Craig’s List.

—

At work, I get emails about prison all the time. One of our funders, the Open Society Foundations, draws my attention to a new federal report that reveals “near-unremitting abuse of juveniles held at New York’s Rikers Island jail.” Thank god Vince is 36 years old, big and tall, and he can look scary when he needs to. There was a second one from OSF about how the suicide rate for people held behind bars awaiting trial is 10 times that of the world outside. Delete.

There’s another one from an organization called Empathy, about prisoners in Uganda. Okay, once again, grateful that Vince isn’t in prison in Uganda. Yet another one from the National Academies Press announcing their new report, The Growth of Incarceration in the United States. And then there was this one, from Human Rights Watch, called The Human Rights Case for Drug Reform: How Drug Criminalization Destroys Lives, Feeds Abuses, and Subverts the Rule of Law.

I am researching a big foundation and find this article about one of the family members who was arrested on suspicion of possessing Class A drugs. During a search of the house, police found the body of his wife in their bedroom–she had died two months earlier. A coroner said that her death was as a result of “dependent abuse” of drugs.

Then I find the Public Welfare Foundation which, among its criminal justice interests, aims to “Reduce jail populations through the use of diversion at the front end of the criminal justice system that connects individuals with substance abuse disorders and mental illness to the public health system.” Well duh!

Then I stumble upon JustLeadershipUSA, an outfit with an “ambitious decarceration goal” because “Mass incarceration is the most significant domestic threat to the fabric of our democracy.”

I wonder, if all the money spent on reports and task forces glitzy websites and conferences and foundation executives’ salaries was used to fund treatment for low-income prisoners…nah! What a crazy idea.

Lastly, there is Richard Branson, chairman of Virgin Atlantic Airlines and Virgin Records, of all people, writing a blog about ending the war on drugs. All I can think of is the time a friend who travels more than anyone I know let me use 125,000 of her air miles and I flew business class from London to Minneapolis-St. Paul. I waited for my flight in Virgin’s Heathrow “Upper Class” lounge, as they call it there. The décor was fantastically posh and I discreetly gorged myself on smoked salmon and champagne, trying to act like I really belonged there.  

 

Welcome to Moose Lake

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VINCE

It all happened so quickly: Monday night they called my name for a red box; Tuesday morning I packed up all my stuff; and by Wednesday afternoon I was way up north in Moose Lake State Prison.

I’m excited.  I’m not being stored in a county jail.  For a few days, however, I am being stored in a segregation unit, by myself, without any of my property, until there is an opening in general population.  I don’t really get why they took me from St. Cloud if they had no room here.  But I’ll accept the time in seg if it means they’re giving me an early start to Boot Camp.  All of the people that had been approved for Boot Camp and were being transferred with me were scheduled to enter Boot Camp two months from now.  So I’m thinking, hopefully, that somehow I got bumped up.

—

I’ve been in seg 2 1/2 days now and I still haven’t been able to make a phone call.  It kind of pisses me off that they treat me like somebody that has gotten into a fight or has broken the major rules. Not the attitude I had when I arrived.  Being in solitude has definitely changed my opinion.  It makes no sense to me.  Why am I here?

—

This really sucks.  Friday night and at the very least I’ll be stuck here for the weekend.  I still have no idea when I will be able to use a phone.  The schedule said today, but nobody ever came to let me know when.

—

When I was in Hazelden in 2001, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, although I think if I knew the correct responses to their questions, I could have been diagnosed with excessive flatulence and dementia.  If it had a pill, it could be cured at Hazelden Center for Youth and Families.

Anyhow…my mother is the only one other than them to inquire of my mental stability, repeatedly.  Looking back at just the first page I wrote since my arrival in Moose Lake, I can see some big mood swings.  Naturally I can deduct that my emotional stability, or instability, is a product of my environment.  Makes sense, since I have been in some pretty shitty places, the segregation unit of Moose Lake State Prison being one of them.  If I were at Disneyland, I would not need pills.  Here, I need pills, right?

[ANNE: In the Department of Corrections handbook, under “Prison Lingo”, Segregation (solitary confinement) is defined as a “restricted living unit used to house offenders who have violated major rules.” The United Nations Convention Against Torture considers solitary confinement and indefinite detention to be forms of cruel and unusual punishment, if not torture. The US is one of the big offenders, along with Iran, North Korea, and Saudi Arabia. Thing is, those countries are known for locking up political dissidents and throwing away the key—it kind of makes sense even if it’s horribly wrong. Vince is a petty drug dealer.

As an introvert who loves spending time alone, I had to think through why solitary is considered a form of torture. It goes back to my Christmas Day post, where I wrote about how human connections, while they can be challenging, are the ultimate source of meaning in life. While I enjoy being alone, I have a choice about it, and I can pick up the phone and call a friend or go hang out in a coffee shop whenever I want to end my isolation.]

 

Sunny Day, Everything’s A-OK

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ANNE

I visited Vince again, for his birthday. This time a friend went with me and we made a day trip out of it. Stefanie brought a couple big bags full of toys and books that her granddaughters had outgrown, and handed them out to the kids in the prison waiting room, which I thought was touching and brilliant. The kids couldn’t bring toys into the visiting area, but they could play with them until they had to walk through the metal detector and the sea of bars.

Vince and I had a good visit, again, then Stefanie and I drove around, got turned around and lost a couple times, and discovered a nature preserve where we went for a long walk. It was a beautiful warmish day. I had brought a couple beers in the trunk and we hung out in a field and each drank one, and I smoked a cigar.

Below is a screen shot from the Minnesota Department of Corrections from their manual for families of incarcerated people. I just happened to find it about six months after Vince was locked up. I am listed as his next of kin / emergency contact or whatever in the DOC system. How hard would it have been for someone to send me a form email with a link to this?

kid

Some of the information would have been really useful, like knowing there’s an email system where I can send messages to Vince for 10 cents. Other tips, not so helpful, like the one about buying a cell phone with the prison area code so calls are cheaper. A friend of mine, whose son was also imprisoned, did this and then they transferred him without notice to another state and she was stuck with a second cell phone and call time she would never use.

I’m a highly resourceful person with unlimited internet and phone access. I have time to figure things out. But what about the mom who is now raising three kids by herself and working full time? No more second income or child support once the man is inside. Maybe no health insurance, car, etc. Certainly no help from a partner, if the guy was any kind of decent partner before he was arrested. I read the whole manual, finding some encouragement in the fact that the DOC seems to get how significant imprisonment is to a family.

It’s not just about locking up a bad guy, as they are so fond of saying in the media. It’s about all the people affected by it. If you’re interested, here is the Tip Sheet for Parents, the Tip Sheet for Incarcerated Parents, and believe it or not, the Sesame Street Handbook for Children Ages 3-8.

It would be funny if it didn’t involve real children. As a child who was lied to about the whereabouts and cause of my dad’s death, I appreciated the tip that encourages parents to talk openly about how the other parent is in prison, and to take the children to visit. This is because children will fill in any blanks with their imaginations, and what they imagine will be worse than the reality. I wouldn’t go that far—the reality is pretty awful and our society wants it that way because it’s punishment—but I am a big believer in being honest with children.

Now the section on Dating an Offender, that’s hilarious. Unintentionally so, but still. I know, I know; if I was dating an offender it wouldn’t be funny.

Dating an Offender

“If you are dating someone in prison, it may be difficult to really get to know the inmate. You may be the offender’s only connection to the outside world. The offender may lean on you more so than if you were dating on the outside. Therefore, your letters, visits, and telephone communications become very important to the offender. The offender may also depend heavily on you to send gifts, money or to do things you don’t really want or can’t afford to do. Try not to let the offender put pressure on you. Don’t focus only on the needs of the offender and don’t feel pressured into taking care of only his or her needs. Be sure to find time for yourself and keep a proper focus on your own needs and feelings. When you communicate with each other, try to talk about your past and your goals and hopes for the future. A more balanced relationship will help you decide if you want to maintain it after the offender is released.”

Happy Birthday, After All

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VINCE

Yesterday after I emptied all of the garbages, filled the water container for the pill line, and made my afternoon cup of coffee, I went back to my room to read. I’m in the middle of Relic by Preston Douglas and Lincoln Child. It’s not bad. It sort of has two story lines. One is kind of boring and scientific. The other is exciting and gory.

Anyhow, I got into my room and there it was. Dated my birthday and with my name highlighted in bright yellow, was my acceptance letter to boot camp. Finally!

Here’s how it breaks down. Phase one is a minimum of six months and contains a highly structured daily schedule and treatment-oriented program that includes: intensive instruction on military drill, ceremony, bearing and courtesy; physical training, on- and off-site work crews, cognitive skills training, chemical dependency programming, education programming, restorative justice programming, and reintegration planning.

Phase two is a highly supervised community phase under intense surveillance and lasts a minimum of six months. And the final phase, also six months, is community-supervised release, and depending on behavior in phases one and two, can be shorter than six months. After that is standard parole for the remainder of my sentence, until 7-15-2018.

If I screw up, depending on severity, they can choose to put a location monitoring device on my leg or send me back to prison and take away all my good time. So I would sit in prison until 2018. That’s pretty good incentive.

So…now I wait. One of these nights they will call my name and I will get my red box. When your name is called, you go get a 1.5 x 4’ red bin (or two if necessary). Do not ask the CO where you’re going. They don’t know. In fact, they don’t tell us until we get on the bus. It’s for our safety, or some nonsense. If I knew where I was going, I could tell my family (really, just my mom) and friends. I could adjust my canteen order so I could have money to spend if I do end up at a county jail, and so I don’t end up with a bunch of envelopes and post cards purchased from the DOC that I can’t use at a county facility even though it is a DOC holding facility. Oh my God that sounds so complicated. It is.

Land of 10,000 Prisoners

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VINCE

Four calendar months since I walked into court, knowing that I would not leave without hand cuffs. There were a million reasons and excuses I could have made up so I wouldn’t have to go. But I did it. Making the transition from absolute freedom to ultimate restriction in just a few minutes was tough. But I’m strong. Here’s how it went down.

I woke up at 11am in Chatfield, Minnesota, 25 minutes away from the Rochester Courthouse. I had to check in by 12:55pm. All I really wanted was a good meal and to chain smoke cigarettes and meth until I got there. I was successful. I checked in, grabbed a seat just in time for the judge to make an entrance. I was playing Angry Birds on my cell phone so I didn’t stand up, and the court officer yelled at me and I shot back with a nice, “Go fuck yourself.” So I had to sit in the hallway and wait for my name to be called which was ok by me because the first part of Rochester court is all in Spanish. At 1:40pm they called my name.

Vince

Since I already had the terms of my plea agreement in place, I was at the desk in front of the judge for less than three minutes. She pronounced my sentence and the court administrator told me I could stand up at which point I shook my lawyer’s hand and was promptly handcuffed. There was no banging of the gavel.

From my chair, I was led through the door that I’m sure exists in every courtroom that nobody wants to go through. To my surprise, once the guard and I were through he took one cuff off and put my hands in front, and we walked down a long hallway to booking. After that was the standard pictures and fingerprints and waiting. I believe I have described the rest of the journey from there.

Right now I am listening to a Pink Floyd song that I have never heard before. It is amazing. Oh. The Boy in the Forest is actually by Andy Jackson. OK anyone would confuse that with Floyd. He was Pink Floyd’s producer for many albums.

—

If anybody out there happened to see the story on the news about the 125th anniversary of St. Cloud State Prison, you got to see my living unit, B House, and more importantly, my front door.

They shot the footage of the living unit from in front of cell 143 which is two doors down from me in 145. I, however, was actually inside the broom closet at the time because the camera crew caught us off guard and I had to hide. We were cleaning and I was just finishing up when they came in. The warden didn’t want any offenders on tape. I had a half a mind to take off my pants and streak down the main drag but I thought better of it.

The camera should pan down from the beautiful arched ceiling and end up pointing down the flag (the main drag I wanted to run down) and look for cell 145. That’s my apartment.

[ANNE: The story is actually about how Minnesota has the lowest imprisonment rate for drug offenders in the nation. Maine has the lowest rate. Still, there are nearly 10,000 people in prison in Minnesota, the Land of 10,000 Lakes, and we pay about a half billion $$ a year to feed and house them.]

Happy Birthday

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VINCE

Today is the 36th anniversary of the most important day in the history of my life, my birth.

Although I have spent many holidays in lockup, this is my first birthday. Not at all surprising to me is that nobody here cares. I was excited yesterday, however, to discover that I had money on my account. Most likely from my dear Mother. Thank you, mom.

So far today, I have read 150 pages of Wild Fire, a novel by my most recent favorite author, Nelson DeMille. And my plan for the rest of the day is to continue reading until and after lunch, and until work at 2:30. It’s just another day.

Little changes.

As house crew, I have developed a rapport with the guards. We share a few laughs. Some of them are going to be assholes for the rest of their lives but most of them seem to enjoy having my sense of humor added to their daily routine.

I remarked the other day when we were trying to figure out why certain cells have such a horrible odor to them, “Maybe it’s because they hold the spray bottles sideways, and nothing comes out.” This is in reference to the way modern black gangsters are known to hold their guns, and sadly, the way, more often than not, they either refuse to clean, or try to cover up odor, with air freshener. Anyhow, it got quite a laugh.

Also, I noticed that the names I hear over the PA are becoming less familiar, and the OID numbers are getting higher as people cycle in and out. Today I heard a number that is just under 1,000 over mine. This means that, since I arrived three months ago, nearly a thousand others have come and gone. Maybe a hundred would be women going to Shakopee, but still big numbers. And that does not include repeat offenders. I couldn’t even estimate how many of them have come back, in ratio to newbies.

—

One thing many offenders have in common is that they spent too many years avoiding the dentist. I have one broken tooth, but that can be repaired when I get out. A good number of my fellow felons have no teeth at all. It is comical to me. And gross. They don’t use any kind of mouth cleansing products. Dry, sticky, clicking mouths full of rancid breath all around while I eat. Their noses nearly touch their chins. And I have trouble keeping a straight face in the chow hall when they’re mashing their mixed veggies in their gross mouths. I picture them in clown makeup. But I sit near them. Not all meals here belong to nursing homes, and every now and then I score something crunchy and delicious. Ahhh, what a birthday.