CRIMINAL-n.a person guilty of, or legally convicted of, a crime

Morning, 7:30 am, it was now time to be moved to the county court house for the bond hearing. I had left my home when arrested without my wallet and cell phone. How was I going to post bond? Another wave of fear passed through me. A terrible feeling of nausea and lack of control. A horrible spiral of hopelessness and the inability to control the events in my life had overtaken me just hours ago for reasons that could only be considered excuses and now I was literally not in control of my fate. How and why this happened would have to be answered. Currently, I needed to be freed. Yet the night before I'd tried unsuccessfully to contact anyone. Anyone who's phone number I knew by heart. Five years ago I'd been able to call out any number of phone numbers, but now with cell phone memories who remembers numbers! What was I going to do for myself? I shared my concern with one of the female officers. She mentioned the 'ibond' to me. An 'ibond' is a type of promissory note in lieu of any cash requirements. “I'm sure the judge will give you one,” she said. I felt an undeserving but welcome sense of relief.

Again I endured the humiliating experience of being cuffed and escorted to a waiting squad car. In an odd way I began to try to experience the experience. Probably to cloud reality. I did not want to think of myself as a criminal even though I was being treated as one. I questioned myself as to whether I was one. Sitting in back of the squad car the female officer informed me that the County Court House jail cells were not 'as nice' as the facility I was now leaving. “Oh great,” I remember thinking as we sped off. My focus changed to sheer survival as my butt clenched to remain balance during that turbulent ride. Who taught this woman to drive! With my hands cuffed behind me, no seat belt and slick plastic bench seating, the transfer run seemed like an obnoxious carnival ride.

When incarcerated does ones background serve any purpose? As I entered the County Court House processing area I looked at the others being processed. I dreaded who I might share a cell with. Three weeks ago I had a birthday, alone, only remembered by a card from my financial advisor and a text from my daughter. I turned 49 years old with hardly a speeding ticket on my record. I am a hard working dedicated mom, well educated, well traveled and well dressed, that grew up in an upwardly mobile upper middle class family. I had been living a secure middle class lifestyle with my husband and children. Who were these other people being processed at the jail? They weren't like me – were they? How was I being viewed by the other detainees, the police officers? Were they the criminals? Was I a criminal? What defined someone as a criminal? I had been in the same clothes for almost 24 hours. I was unshowered, my teeth unbrushed. My hair was matted/unkempt and any makeup that remained on my face was smeared and blotchy. Even if I perceived myself as above my surroundings, I was dirty, I was cuffed and I was in jail! Were we all the same at that point?

It was 8:00am. I was informed that domestic violence cases were not presented before the judge until 1:30. OMG, that was 5 ½ hours of waiting. I was placed in a holding cell alone. Solitude was a relief. This wasn't a party and small talk wasn't something I was up for. As the thick glass electronic door closed behind me I examined my new surroundings. The metal toilet was located behind a small partition and the seating was a formed plastic bench. There was a camera in the cell so privacy was not a luxury to be had. I was in for a long wait. Now left with my own thoughts and not wanting to think I decided to do a double round of the Tia Chi warm up I did mornings regularly. Well, that occupied all of 30 minutes, now I had 5 hours to go....

I was assigned a public defender. We met briefly before I was to go before the judge. The most important things in my defense were that I was educated and had no prior arrests. He, however, was not able to guarantee or even be optimistic for me that an 'ibond' was a possibility and so again I became uncomfortable with fear.

Time seemed to stall for the 5 plus hours but time did not forget me. My case was finally up for review. The details of the situation that brought me there weren't important now. This was a bond hearing, the determination of whether I'd be set free until my criminal court date and if so at what price or if I was to be sent to the county jail, bail denied! Another variable was that if the judge was requesting bond money from me and I wasn't able to produce it, I would be sent to the county jail anyway. Damn! The only thing I could do was focus on one step at a time. I did not want or need my mind to run wildly.

For the seemingly painfully long wait I had managed to endure time started to race as they escorted me to the court room holding cell. My hand were not cuffed for the transfer to the courtroom but strict rules needed to be followed, keep my hands folded behind my back at all times was the most important. The officer prepping me on the courtroom etiquette knew I was concerned about lack of support in posting bond. She was sure, for some reason, that someone was in court for me. But who? I could not think of a soul. I felt very alone. 'Alone' was another weight that had dragged me down my horrific dark spiral. I was advised to enter the courtroom always facing the judge but the officer told me to make a quick glance to the audience anyway to check for a familiar face.

It was my turn. Not only was I fearful for what lie ahead I dreaded going in public looking as I felt I did. Disheveled persons are never respected. Hands crossed behind my back, no talking, eyes forward...As I entered the courtroom, I felt surreal, but scanned the room. There were two familiar faces! OMG, my in-laws! I mouthed 'Thank You' to them as I heard a stern voice commanding, “eyes forward.” As the States Attorney read the not quite accurate charges against me I could see the arresting officer, whom I later found out signed the complaint, leering at me. “He hates me,' I thought. My husband must not hate me though. He sent his parents to help me. How I wish he was there. How I wish he'd come to talk to me while I was in jail. Why hadn't he? I felt I had things to explain to him. I wanted him to know I wasn't trying to hurt him. Why wasn't he there if his parents were? My public defender started to talk. It was his turn to convince the judge I was a good risk for release. This is where my education and clean record were valuable, a clean record I no longer have. The judge was impressed that my in-laws had come to my support.....yada, yada, yada-and then I heard the words I'd hoped for, “bond set at $50,000 with 'ibond' granted.” I was free until my criminal hearing! My rules under court order: I had to submit myself for psychiatric evaluation, check in with my assigned probation officer regularly, stay away from my home and my husband for 72 hours or I'd be in contempt of court. That would be grounds for having a warrant issued for my arrest. Unbelievable, a probation officer, me, never ever was that in my life's dream. Why did I do this? Why was this on my life's path? I'd have to have an answer.

My in laws waited and drove me home where a police escort was waiting to follow me through my home as I quickly packed some clothes, toiletries, my laptop, my car. Whatever I took was questioned as to who was the rightful owner. I did not understand the officers interests in what I took, the court ordered me out for 72 hours, I would be coming back to my house, to my stuff, with my stuff. What was the big deal? Off to a hotel I went. It wasn't home but I'd be comfortable with a fluffy bed, fridge, microwave, TV, cable and wifi. Plus, I wasn't in jail......

Jailed

I continued my quiet weeping throughout the booking process. Having never been arrested I did not know what to expect. There were questions, fingerprints and the mug shot. The mug shot! Criminals always have such distasteful photos. Not being a criminal, I decided to smile like the celebs for my picture. It wasn't that I taking the situation lightly, I just did not want a bad picture on the records. Surprisingly, I was feeling quite alert given the excess of beer. I was even able to helped the two young police officers figure out how to follow the computer prompt when finger printing me. A dull headache did present itself for the duration of the night. I was not allowed aspirin.

There was no walking away from this situation. I had to let is play out. I did not know what to expect or what was going to come of me. I had put myself away as I had thought I needed to be? But jail was a place you were suppose to get out of, not get into. So how was I going to get out? CRAZY! I did not like this feeling of enforced confinement. Having learned that I'd be moved in the morning to the county court house for a bond hearing I began to feel fearful. I had left home without my cell phone or my wallet. How was I going to post bond? No one but my husband and two of my children knew I was in jail. Would my husband help? I could not call him! It wasn't my children's place to be involved. Oh, five years ago I could have recited a dozen phone numbers by heart. Now, with the cell phone memory, I did not know any one's number. Another wave of fear passed over me. I had no one to call or could call!

The cinder block cell was cold by both temperate and aestetic measures. The metal bunk was fitted with a thin plastic mattress and bolted to the ground. A couple of used wool blankets were my only comforts. The room and situation were uninviting to sleep but as the night wore on a sense of calm came to me. Calm! Why was I calm?

Less than 24 hours ago my life was over. No future was good enough and I needed to lock myself away. As I stared at the rusty metal toilet near the cell bars a realization arose that years of denial could no longer hide. It was my epiphany. Damn it! My husband was right. (That statement in itself being something no woman ever wants to admit.) I was in the second day of my menstrual cycle.....I had PMS. Although this situation was extreme on all accounts, different from my usual crabby or vocal tendency, it was during my hormonally sensitive time.

By my definition PMS was always a means to be discredited. I hated that. Whenever I expressed anger or frustration my husband would always question where in my cycle I was. So my feelings were always disregard as "just being my period time". I spent years defending my feelings as real. I had real reasons for my unrest. Most days my feelings could be kept quite but I knew I could blow my top on a cyclical time frame. I knew the days. Monthly I could count on being more emotional on the 10th day of my cycle - at ovulation, the 7th day before my period started and the first 48 hours of my period. I ignored it though. I did not want to accept that I had PMS because PMS was something negative, irrational and crazy. To say I had PMS meant I wasn't in control of myself and worse, that my feelings were not valid. Over the years I'd gone to great lengths to hide my menstrual cycle. My menstrual trash was hidden in a desperate attempt to have my feelings respected. I hoped that if my husband did not know it was my cycle maybe he wouldn't blame my anger or displeasure on my period. I had real reasons for being upset. I wanted my feelings to be respected. I'd just always be louder about things on a cyclical time frame. I did not know why that was? Why did issues become more or less tolerable from day to day? By my husband attributing my emotions, feelings, displeasure with my period disregarded me and my needs. "Oh, it's just your period, get over it!", meant I don't have to take her requests seriously. But I was serious and rational. I was angry about real things. His disregard just added fuel to the fire.

So I couldn't accept that I could have PMS. PMS was a negative label. To have PMS meant to be out of control, unreliable, trivial and crazy.

Was I just crazy?

ARREST

Quite now filled the room. My husband and I went out to meet the police. We did not speak except for a sarcastic questioning of an actual call to 911.

When the police arrived I believe my mind went blank. I felt I was viewing the events as an out of body experience. Two officers went to my husband, one came to me. I remember watching as my husband showed the officers his arm. I had hurt him.

I made eye contact with the officer in front of me. I focused on myself. I felt powerful and exact. I felt calm. I did not feel drunk. I did not fear the officers authority. Few words left my mouth in my description of the event. “ I was pinned to the ground and I bit him,” I said. Thinking back it seems I had forgotten about my intended outcome, arrest. Thoughts of arrest had not entered my mind since I'd started my binge. I'd been going on auto pilot. I looked straight into the officers eyes. The stench of beer on my breath. I wasn't weak, I wasn't brought up to show weakness and I wasn't going to show it now. Feeling my interview was over I decided to go back in to the house, back to my bedroom, and so I walked away. As I arrived at my bedroom door I heard the officers behind me.....”Mame, Mame, You are under arrest.”

I had accomplished what I'd been planning all day. Was it what I really wanted? Truth be know, I was shocked that I was being arrested. What had happened in that brief time that amounted to my arrest? It was in a surreal state that I experienced dread and sadness. I was being led from my home in handcuffs. My children, this was the first I'd thought of them in a while, what is this doing to them? This was not my life. It was not suppose to be my life. I was no longer on auto pilot. I began to gently cry. I do not really know what I was crying for....the unknown, myself, my kids, my family?

MY PLAN

And so we have plans. I had plans. Life changes and so do options. Different roads are taken. Mine? Always with the intention of MY planned and positive end results. Let's jump ahead in my life story. I want to share with you a current journal entry. It is probably my first journal entry. Oh ya, Oprah has always touted the positive attributes to journaling, but I never felt is was for me. Recent events, however, left me screaming for a way to express myself. This blog is hopefully letting me be heard.

Monday, May 4, 2009: I am exhilarated to go home and yet, I fear what waits when I arrive. Today, Monday, May 4, 2009, is the day I can finally go home. Seventy-two hours, I figured seventy-two hours multiple times; Friday 1:50pm plus 72 hours is Monday at 1:50pm. Primary math can over tax any brain that is reeling from realization and is now under a microscope. I am calm and confident. The sun is shinning. I feel life is glorious. No problem is too great for me to handle. Sounds optimal, however, it is not the woman I was just a few days ago.

Reflecting, I wonder how I was a person so terminal, feeling the world had singled her out for persecution. Having no luck, no breaks, no friend. Being a disgust to the world, my family and myself. Life hadn't turned out as I'd planned. I was full of self pity. I felt worthless and was worthless. There was no place deserving. Just to be put away, discarded and forgotten. As I felt I already was. The only place I belong was locked up, away from all, jailed.

I had made a plan - get drunk, start a fight with my husband of 22 years and do what I could to press him into a phone call, 911. Knowing our relationship and my husbands tendencies I knew what tactics to take. Such a logical plan. I could do it.

Driving to the grocery store, to get a few days of food for the family and to pick out the beer, I called my husband in rage. He needed to know of my anger at everything. He needed to know of the opportunity I was giving him. I do not believe he thought much of the call as calls of anger had become increasingly frequent over the past years. Today there would be action. I had enough.

I drove home filled with self hate. Upon arriving home I put away the groceries, went to my bedroom with my newly purchased beverage, a German lager, and began to drink. I believe it was around 3:00 in the afternoon. Nothing mattered to me. I was oblivious to any responsibility. I did not think of my children. I did not think of dinner. I did not think of tomorrow. I wanted the world to be spared anymore interaction with me. I did not want to buck up, look on the bright side or try again at anything. For what did it matter. Nothing every works out for Lori. The rage swelled as I wrote words of self hatred. Those words appeared wildly on the paper representing all that I felt about myself.

When my husband came home I was downing my sixth beer. Sounds strange to say, my sixth beer. My husband and I had given up drinking some 14 years ago to enjoy life, be positive role models for our children and address allergies. Yet, I had recently started adding alcohol to my life, disappointed when I saw that non drinking parents did not translate into non drinking teens. So goes the motto, "If you can't beat them, join them." Besides alcohol was needed for my plan. I knew drinking would make me irrational, leading to the extreme outcome I was planning for.

I believe it was around 4:30pm. He had no idea what he was walking into. I remember him opening the bedroom door. I remember a smile, a pleasantness about his look and then I laid into him. Blame! Blame for everything wrong in my life. I read him my letter of self hatred. He was not going to be disgusted with me because I was disgusted with myself. He left the room. I followed him, not letting up with my verbal barrage. He tried to avoid me. It would be futile. Knocking a pot of water from his hands as he tried to start dinner. Throwing a glass to the floor. In his face I was until I was pinned to the ground. Now trapped......instinct took over......I bit his left forearm until I was released. Now on our feet he threatened to call the police. "Call the police! I dare you to call the police!" I screamed inches from his face. So he did......

My Choices - Part I

Oh, how I wish for a crystal ball. I'd like to know if I was on the (preferably short) path of my desired goals. One's path is filled with so many choices. Choice has become my enemy as choice has led me on this path of complete dissappointment. I am to arrive at my 50th birthday in about six months. My life does not resemble anything that I'd image it to be. As far as I'm concerned all the choices over my life have been wrong. And so I hit a point not long ago where choice paralyzed me. I became so overwhelmed with choices that I wanted to give my 'right' to choice away.

Once upon a time I believed in myself. I believed my choices were leading me on the path that was going to produce my desired results. I don't know why I believed this, but it was a thought process that I developed around the time I started college. As a child I was never able to earn what I wanted. Never got the 'good' grades, never got picked to be a grade school crossing guard, jr. high cheerleader, high school pom pom squad, or the varsity star boyfriend. Growing up was tough. I was always told my efforts or my looks were not good enough. I suppose I felt, as an adult, I was going to try harder than I ever had. After all, hard work is the ticket to get what is desired.

The last thing I wanted to do after high school was continue on to college. I wanted to get out in the world and make my mark. A career vocational program in the travel industry was my ticket. Soon I was working in a travel agency. While working made me feel in control I felt I wanted more to my future. I began to believe that college lead the way to advancement. I added classes at the local community college to my plate. That lead to full-time enrollment in a state university. It was at this time that I was introduced to the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, Merc, and commodity trading. Studying business I began to focus my attention on learning about the commodity markets. All my studies/reports revolved around knowing as much as I could about trading. I was going to be a commodity trader. The next 18 months at Illinois State University were spent going to school, working part-time, jumping out of airplanes, and earning my private pilots rating. Summers were spent working at the Merc as a 'runner' and attending summer classes. FYI a 'runner' is basically the lowest job position possible in which you deliver written order to purchase a specific commodity at a specific price and date to the correct trading pit' (location). After a summer semester studying French at the University of Grenoble, I transferred to Arizona State University to better my business education, enjoy the weather, the aviation program and close proximity to skiing nirvana. I continued to work on my pilot ratings, worked part-time and flew in aviation races with the 99's and NIFA. After my 1983 graduation I headed back to Chicago to start my career at the Merc.

It is important to note that although I dated throughout college....I'd have to say the best date was a guy flying me to Sedona for a Saturday morning breakfast where I got Larry Hagman's autograph...... I kept it to a minimum as a conscience effort not to get serious with a guy that could possible jeopardize my career goal. The last thing I wanted to deal with was falling in love with some guy in Arizona, that wanted to move to Alaska, while my future was in Chicago. I wanted my path kept clear of obstacles.

Now a college graduate I was working at the Merc as a 'runner'. I quickly worked my way up the job status ladder at such jobs as, overnight trade clerk, phone clerk and out trade clerk, even did a little arbitration (although I wasn't very good at that) at various trading firms. I was still working part-time jobs to supplement the very low clerk income. No matter. I had plans. In 1985 I was allowed the opportunity to become a Index & Option Market, IOM, member trader at the Merc. It was hard. It was very hard. Trading for my own account the first year I lost money. The second year I scratched. The third year, cha-ching, I actually had a trading idea that was working for me and I earned. Nothing could stop me now!

That third year was a busy one for me. Not only had I gotten married and jointly purchased a house, but I unexpectedly got pregnant. I remember the adrenaline rush I got when the market opened each morning. I remember the effect it had on my growing baby. You would have thought that my baby was in the 'pit' trading. The baby markedly turning and kicking during the first minutes of the market open. I left the trading floor 6 weeks before my due date because of the stress I believed it had on the baby and my expanded waistline. It's funny how I still had the image of my a 24" waistline. Walking around the crowded trading floor, my tummy, now a gazillion inches, was always getting smashed into people and fixtures. Ouch!

But leaving was okay because it was only temporary - I was coming back!

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Success defined

Human nature has morphed the meaning of success to cover any outcome. Webster's New World Dictionary defines success as "1) result, 2 a) a favorable or satisfactory outcome or result, 3) the gaining of wealth, fame, rank, etc." Successful is then defined by Webster's as "1) coming about, taking place, or turning out to be as was hoped for, 2) having achieved success: specif., having gained wealth, fame, etc.." Nowhere in the definition does the word take on the meaning of 'acceptance of any outcome'. That is a different word. If an intended outcome is not achieve but the outcome is accepted that is to 'settle'. Defined in Webster's, settle means, 9 b) to accept something in place of what is hoped for, demanded, etc."

I don't want to make this a vocabulary lesson but we need to be on the same page with our verbiage. As an example let me pull from my past scenario #1...After leaving my desired career as a commodity trader at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange to spend 22 years to date as a housewife/stay-at-home mom I failed at achieving my desired outcome of successful commodity trader. The worst part is that I told myself that because I was making such a selfless decision, to care for my child and family, that when it was time for me to do something for myself the opportunity would open for me. I was so wrong. I've spent the last 13 years trying to jam my foot into doors. The doors just keep slamming shut, most with me barely getting my foot out. You know what, I have to think.....I've left part of me smashed in those doors.

Now success for me is not rivaling the net worth of Bill Gate or Oprah. All though that would be nice. I'm not looking for the celebrity of Angelina Joli or, again, Oprah. I would like to have a respected name in the fields of my desires and an income that gives me the ability to pay for the lifestyle of my choice. I'd like to have friends that have similar interests, not clones of me, but people that make change, travel and some that have more disposable monies than me. I like to be invited to fun picnic and be invited to exclusive black tie event. I'd like to have the income that allows me to make a donation that was significant enough to get more than just a ticket and tax deduction voucher. I would like to be able to initiate change.

It was 1996 that I decided it was time to put effort into my personal life. Nine years of all my moment dedicated in one way, shape or form to the advancement of my children or the family. My time was spent doing crafts with the preschool class, coaching sport teams, running the student yearbook or directing the yearly stage presentation. How about lice mom on picture day. Taking the kids to modeling jobs or auditions, dance lessons, gymnastics, meets, soccer games and baseball games. I single handedly learned how to keep my kids healthy and off anitbiotics through diet. I cooked everything from scratch. I canned tomato sauce and apple sauce. I got the family involved in an organic farm for weekly fresh veggies.......And since I didn't work I was always available to care for sick kids without disturbing my husbands schedule, wait for the service techs or let that working couples kid come over after school to play. One night, I will never forget, after a long play date after school, my youngest wanted his friend to spend the night. I thought that was a wonderful idea so I called over to the house to ask the parent(s) permission. The daytime babysitter answered (the mom worked varied hours), so the babysitter was being paid to watch no one because the kid was at my house......but to continue. The daytime babysitter was estatic, I had solved her problem, the mom had just call to say she and her husband would be staying downtown for the evening and she (the babysitter) needed to find an evening babysitter for this kid. X@%*/)%@!M!!!

I loved caring for my children, playing with them and being available for my family. I hate the stigma of housewife. I hate the salary of housewife. I hate the lack of respect as a housewife! There I'd be in the grocery line waiting, looking at the cover of magazines with a celebrity on the cover promising to tell everyone all she knows about anything, but a housewife with a masters degree in nutrition, no one is listening. So sad.

It has been 13 years that I've been working to be able to say I was anything other than a housewife/stay-at-home mom. All that I've done and all that I've tried has still left me with nothing. In some ways I was accepting of my situation but I had not settled. I was always in a state of striving for my desired objective, always with a handful of things I was working on, but it seems every time I thought positive of a situation to settle with it got taken away. For many years I kept assuring myself that even though I was struggling at least my husband was successful. Well that ended in 2002. He was a pit trader at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange which went public and computer trading closed the open outcry trading venue. So now no husband earning an income. Then I told myself that things weren't that bad, we did after all have savings and some good stock investments. Let's remember fall 2008, need I say more about that. The last thing I want to do is say, "at least I have my health," besides being so cliche I don't want to risk my health.

Why would anyone want to settle? I don't even know how settling is possible. If an outcome is not what is hoped what would cause it to be accepted? A lobotomy perhaps. Wait a minute.....that's what antidepressants are for, umh, I think?

One can be content, "happy enough with what one has or is; not desiring something more or different: satisfied," according to Webster's. Wouldn't you have to have successes in order to be content? A content person would not be interested in change, improvement or altered status quo. At this time in my life I am not content. I will not be content until I have success. How do I get contentment when I keep failing? I don't want settled contentment!

In spite of my parents and my up bringing I felt I had a good sense of myself. I was after all me! I was always happy with what I was doing. I was happy because I knew that all the work, study, sacrifice, enrichment, etc. I was undertaking was building to my something! I always believed I had something to offer. I believed that my hard work would pay off. When things didn't work out I'd tell myself that I just had to work harder. I even told myself that my career was being side tracked because I was to raise children that were going to contribute significantly to the human race. Experience has taught me different. I've been wrong. I do not believe success comes from hard work any more. I believe that success is nothing more than luck. Luck can not be controlled. Nor can ones destiny be controlled........

So what is my destiny. I have an undisclosed amount of time left in my life. What am I suppose to do with it?

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First published post

I have been working on this blog site for close to 5 months now. Writing posts, editing and changing my layout. Never publishing a word. Keeping my thoughts private. Fear has kept me from making public my thoughts. Fear of being judged and criticized, but mostly labeled.

I am compelled to post that first blog after seeing the movie Julie & Julia. A movie about a 20 something young woman with one failed attempt at writing in her past, working a not particularly upwardly mobile job that in the one year of working on her blog, based on the successful life experience of Julia Childs writing her first cookbook, hits gold...blog, book, movie, blah, blah, blah.

OK, posting my first blog in reaction to the movie makes it cliche.......but that should be the least of my worries. This drive to post does not come from storyline inspiration. It comes from an unspeakably deep need for an answer.

What about the movie? It sent me into tears! Yes, tears! A movie based on two real life women that were successful sent me into tears. Did they find success or did success find them? Did they really work hard for it? Was the success just 'written' as their destiny? The movie threw into my face another situation that make my reality so difficult. The all consuming question of my life, "Where is my success?"

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