67 day sentence

I got out of prison May 5. At least this is what everyone tells everyone else. Never underestimate the value of shock. I completed every day of that internship. It was strange, only in the last few months did I finally get into a groove of feeling useful. I had sort of become a semi-permanent fixture at the prison. More inmates knew who I was and what I did. Mostly, I was just told I should be in clothing commercials. One hot South Carolina day, I wore a sparkly full circle skirt and a woman said to me, "I see you've been raiding my closet again. That's okay, just leave the key under the mat." They are an interesting bunch behind those bars and fences. It was a hard year, a year that I will not easily let loose from memory.

I am caught in limbo. We have to make choices in the program, choices that require words like macro and micro to describe them. More division where none should exist, I am firm believer of being on the same team. I have chosen the macro variety. This means I am more interested in work at the legislative level, policy change and agency and community organization. Micro means you work directly with people, providing them the services like counseling and advocacy on the individual scale. I have been doing that as long as I have been employed. The small work, which is what micro connotes. I am good at it. It's what I have known for so long. I feel like I turning my back on what I am good at in exchange for what I want. Even in that sentence I recognize the confusion. Should I venture into something I know nothing about, realizing it could possibly be something I fail at when I know I have solid skills in something else, but it's not where I want to be. I have found that I don't have the patience for long term counseling and I honestly am getting less and less tolerant of being voiceless in my own places of work. I want to be in charge. I want to make the decisions. Maybe it's selfish and grandiose. Maybe it's the only way I can start the revolution I keep talking about.

I left my women at the prison in the hands of their original counselor. When I told them who they would be going to, they all said they'd be fine from now on. It didn't seem like a year when I left. The weeks and months I spent there didn't seem to add up. Is this what it feels like to be institutionalized? Your time just slipping by until it all melts together and you can't remember any day but your last? I remember some rough ones. I remember the day when I had to listen to a woman have 14 consecutive seizures outside my door and no one would move her because they were all busy and afraid to move someone in the middle of seizing.

That same day, it was a warzone on my building. Someone had gotten a razor. I had never seen so much blood, fear and desperation. I was the only counselor in an office at the time. I spent the rest of the afternoon doing damage control. No one died. Just seriously injured. Because she wanted to be near her girlfriend who was on lock-up. They offered me a job after that day. I only said thank you.

Being out of prison has been good. But the experience is something I will always carry with me. My clients were amazing and had truly come a distance by the time I had to go. I felt solid in leaving them but also guilty. Though I think they have the skills to handle themselves, if they don't get distracted. Among other things.

Lately, life is ridiculously good. I have just moved into a new apartment. A small second floor hardwood delight, nestled into a grove my favorite thing about the south: magnolia trees. It is like a jungle and my room has two windows I can't wait to look out of when it rains. A new roommate will be joining me in August and together, our closets will take over Soda City.

Recently I was involved in this conversation:

Them: So. Chloe. What instruments do you play?
Me: Uhh...hhahaa... None.
Them: Wrong answer. What instruments do you play?
Me: Uhm.. xylophone? Kazoo?
Them: Yes! Wanna be in our band?

This summer is going to be phenomenal.

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