Is This Really Happening?

"Is this really happening to us?" In the beginning I asked myself that question countless times over the course of a day. And when the early days slipped into the "middle of the mess days", I was still asking myself that question, "Is this really happening to us?" I realize the question was redundant and the answer was always the same, (clear and quite reliable),  "Yes, this is really happening".  But I couldn't believe it so I continued asking this question holding out for hope that at some point the answer would be different.  In my warped sense of reality I truly thought that maybe the universe had confused us with somebody else.  But the universe didn't have us confused with anyone else. It was me who was confused. 

Although I was FULLY AWARE of what was happening in our lives, I was having a very difficult time ACCEPTING our new state of being. My refusal to accept this new reality kept me in a state of panic for the first few years of our ordeal and served no other purpose than to paralyze me which kept me in a constant state of fear, confusion and inertia which led me into the trap of normalizing our situation.  I didn't want to believe that life as we knew it was over. We had built a wonderful life and although our family wasn't perfect, it was our very own. We were connected to each other for better or for worse. My son had always adored his father and had thought him to be a man of substance.  But now he only sees his father as a man who has failed himself and his family and he is devastated.  We were connected to dear friends and to a community. We belonged somewhere.  There is a sense of purpose and safety in belonging somewhere and standing on solid ground. But we don't belong anywhere anymore and even on our best days the ground is constantly shifting under our feet. We have lost our sense of identity. We are broken. This "THING" has taken over our lives and it has taken me a very long time to accept this.  We can never go back. We can only keep trying to move forward.

Pushing away your own reality is a dysfunctional coping mechanism that serves no other purpose other than to postpone the inevitable.  Denying a diagnosis of a serious illness doesn't make it go away. Accepting it and seeking treatment can mean the difference between life and death. Fully accepting what has happened to your life and being proactive is the key in being a "surviving spouse" of white collar crime.  

Fully accepting the truth means that you have to do something about your situation. In waiting so long to finally accept that my life as I knew it was over I allowed panic and worry to become my two most reliable companions. They were there for me every waking moment. They understood me and knew how broken I was without me having to explain it to them.  And when they went away for a bit I could always summon them back and without hesitation or qualification they'd be there for me again, no questions asked.  I could count on them and even came to depend on them for comfort. They gave me permission to be victimized.  They allowed me to become depressed and even suicidal. They allowed me, without judgement, to make unwise decisions. There's a huge difference between knowing something terrible in your life has happened and accepting the facts as they are. Knowing simply means that you are aware. Acceptance  means that you do something constructive about it. You didn't cause the mess you and your family are in but it's now up to you to do something about it.

In those early days I could see that life was going on AROUND me but I didn't feel any connection to it.  I went through the motions of living but I felt like the walking dead. I decided to normalize our situation as best I could so that "the others" wouldn't know of our plight and so that my son had some semblance that things weren't as bad as they were. I couldn't make new friends because I didn't want to be pitied, or worse, judged.  So I went through the motions of having a "normal" life. I got my son up for school and attended his sporting events. Helped him with homework, walked the dog and chatted with neighbors like a "normal" person. I paid bills, made grocery runs, held down the fort and waited for the sun to go down so that I could hang out with my two best buddies, Panic and Worry. In the early days I thought staying on top of my daily to do list meant that I was moving forward. In time I realized that doing these things wasn't moving forward at all. Rather, they were just part of surviving. 

Accepting "what is" sooner rather than later can make all the difference between merely surviving and actually moving forward. If I knew then what I know now I would have done things very differently and I wouldn't be where I am now. Let my experience serve as a cautionary tale.  Do as I say, not as I did and you will come through these dark days stronger and much more productive than I was. With acceptance comes action. Denial leads to inertia and that can only hold you back. Work EACH DAY on setting up your foundation and before you know it, you'll be standing on solid ground. Accept what has happened and who you are now. Don't look down. Keep looking forward.  And above all else, don't allow this terrible situation you are in define you.

You are not alone. 

(Book chapter from : House on Fire: A Cautionary Tale)

THEY'VE GOT ME IN THE WRONG PLACE!! 

THEY’VE GOT ME IN THE WRONG PLACE!!

     Hunter and I had just sat down to dinner when his cell phone rang.  My son knew calls weren’t allowed during family time but he couldn’t resist stealing a glance at his phone. Hunter looked up at me with panic in his eyes and said, “Mom, dad’s calling”. We had been expecting to hear from Tom but when the call came it caught us both off guard.  I told Hunter calmly, “If you feel like you can handle it then take the call”.    He was scared but my brave son switched his phone on to speaker. Instead of hearing his father’s voice there was a woman’s prerecorded voice saying, “You are receiving a call from an inmate at the Worcester County Jail. This call is being recorded”. The recorded message went on to relay the fact that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.  Hunter wasn’t sure how to react to that and I could tell it made him very uncomfortable. I was livid and heartbroken at the same time. Never in my wildest dreams did I think my young son would be accepting a call from his father from jail.  Outwardly I tried to appear calm to signal to Hunter that it was going to be okay,(I was becoming an expert at feigning being calm), and listened as Tom began to speak.  Tom always spoke louder than was necessary and there was plenty of background noise so he was shouting into the phone.

“Hey, it’s dad. Sorry, it’s really loud in here.  How‘ya doing buddy?”  We could hear the other inmates carousing in the background. It was good to hear his voice. 

Hunter responded, “I’m okay dad. How is it there?” 

Trying to sound upbeat Tom replied, “Well it's not the Ritz but it's better than I though it'd be. Hey, guess what kind of shoes I’m wearing? “

“I dunno dad.” Hunter was in no mood for a guessing game.

“I’m wearing white Converse sneakers!”  Tom was laughing. He had always teased Hunter about the enormous Herman Munster tennis shoes he and his friends wore for skateboarding so it was supposed to be funny that his dad now had to wear them in jail.

“Yeah, that’s funny dad”, Hunter responded. But it wasn’t really funny to Hunter. There was a moment of silence and wanting to avoid the reality of the situation Tom tried to keep his son engaged. But Hunter didn’t know what to say next. Thankfully Tom sensed this and carried most of the conversation.

“How’s the football team doing?” Even though our son was no longer playing he had agreed to keep Tom up to date on his school’s football team status as they had been number one in the state four years in a row.  High school football is extremely competitive in Texas and four wins in a row was rare. Now they were trying for their fifth consecutive win so it really was a big deal. Hunter had always been active in team sports since he was five years old playing tee ball, then little league, lacrosse and football. It was playoff time at Hunter’s high school and a few days earlier the football team had left for Cowboy Stadium in three luxury buses that my son had once described to me as “beyond awesome!” There were dozens of supporters lining the road for miles waving banners and signs wishing the boys and their family’s good luck.  I was so accustomed to supporting my son’s teams that after dropping Hunter at school I joined the long car parade. It was exhilarating to participate once again and I began waving back with full on enthusiasm to the parade pedestrians. I was bursting with joy for the boys, the coaches and their families. As I drove a bit further down the road it hit me that what I was doing was ridiculous. It felt so good to be happy about SOMETHING but I was alone and didn’t have a son on the team. What the hell was I doing? Then the tears came.  Hunter should be on that bus but he had lost all interest in sports after his father went to jail. I didn't belong in that line or in that life any longer. I ducked out of the parade, turned my car around and headed home.

“The team’s doing well dad. They played up in Dallas last Friday at Cowboy Stadium. It looks like they have a great shot at winning again.”  Hunter replied.

“Wow. Cowboy Stadium. That’s pretty cool. I wish we could have gone to the game together.”   

“Yeah, me too dad.”   The conversation quickly became strained but Hunter tried his best to be supportive. After a few more minutes of banal banter the conversation tapered off into silence.

“You know I love you”. Tom said.

Hunter replied, “I know. I love you too dad. Take care of yourself in there.”

“I’ll do my best. Get my address from mom and send me a letter, okay? I mean it. I want to keep in touch. At least a letter a week. Okay buddy?”

“Sure dad.”

“Can I please talk to your mom?” Hunter handed me his cell phone and I clicked off the speaker for some privacy. I got up from the table and as I walked into the living room toward the sofa I stole a quick glance back at my son to check for any signs of breakage but Hunter had already left the table and gone to his room.  I took a deep breath to try to stave off the shakiness of my voice because I was literally all choked up after watching Hunter experience the first call from his dad from jail.  I was torn between my anger at having my son experience and endure his father’s incarceration and my compassion toward Tom. Tom certainly deserved to be in jail but I also had known him as the man who would give a stranger the shirt off his back. The irony being that he would give a stranger the shirt off his back but he would put his own family in harm’s way.

“Hi, are you okay?” I asked. The levity that Tom had shared with his son only moments earlier had vanished. In the most indignant tone he could muster, Tom said, “They’ve got me in the wrong place!” I had to move the phone away from my ear not only to relieve myself of the sheer volume of Tom’s voice but because I was stunned at the very idea that he could even have such a thought. I took a deep breath and shaking my head responded calmly.

“Where do you think you should be Tom?” I had to remind myself that the man was ill.

“Not in this hell hole.” He went on to tell me how awful it was there and that “the place was filled with nothing but “thugs”. I took another deep breath. He said there were also a lot of “kids” there for possession of marijuana. Tom felt strongly about the fact that marijuana should be legalized. Locking up a third of the teenage population for possession was simply ridiculous.

    So they had him in the wrong place. My heart sank. We weren’t off to a good start here. After all we had been through, AFTER ALL THAT HE HAD PUT HIS FAMILY THROUGH, instead of being humble and contrite, even in jail he was still entitled.  Tom had never missed an opportunity to tell our camping friends that his idea of camping was a Best Western Motel.  I’ll bet camping didn’t sound so bad to him now. For the remainder of our conversation Tom rambled on and on about the bad food and the REAL criminal types he had to deal with.  I listened to him rant for a few more minutes, mindful that his irrational attitude was not only a result of his illness but more likely was coming from a place of extreme fear.  

“Tom, you need to remember that this call is being recorded. You need to know that anything you say over the phone can be used against you. It's best if you try to be contrite instead of so angry. I'm sure your attorney must have explained all of this to you.” 
Tom said, “Yeah, he told me. But I really don’t belong here”.  As much as I wanted to stand by Tom and continue to help him through, he wasn’t making it easy.

Tom continued. “You need to set up a phone account with a credit card so I can make regular calls through the system.” He told me the name of the company to call and explained that the fee was nine dollars per twenty minute call.

“Tom, money is really tight so please understand that you can only make a few calls per month”.

“I know. But I can’t not talk to my son”. All I could think of was “well you should have thought about that before you decided to become a criminal, you asshole!”

“The house money isn’t going to last forever and who knows how long you’ll be gone and how long it will take me to find a job”. And on that note, true to my compassionate nature, I asked him if there was anything I could send him and he said he wanted books and pencils and paper so he could write letters.

“You can’t just send me things directly. You have to order them from Amazon and have them shipped here to the jail”.  Again, Tom sounded indignant.

“Okay. I’ll order a couple of books and writing tablets. Anything else?” The one minute warning voice interrupted us and Tom said, “You know I’m really sorry I put you guys through this”. I said, “We know.”  And then the phone went dead. I would come to learn that the one minute warning wasn’t always a full minute. 

     I got up off the sofa and stood in the middle of my living room with the dead phone dangling from my hand and cried, overwhelmed once again by what our lives had come to. The very fact that I was speaking with Tom in jail was surreal.  And instead of wanting to know how WE were doing he spent the entirety of the conversation talking about how miserable HE was. Some things never change.  I took a deep cleansing breath and then called Hunter back to the table to finish dinner. Both of us agreed that although the call was indeed bizarre, we were glad Tom was at least hanging on. We passed a knowing glance and then I smiled at my son and said, “well that was really weird but we’re going to be okay”. I felt like throwing the phone through the window but instead I winked at my son as we sat back down for dinner. Hunter smiled back at me and we talked about his
Mythology report that was due the next day. One day at a time
indeed.

White Collar Crime and The Families it Destroys

In beginning this blog I've considered the fact that many families who are suffering from the fallout of white collar crime have gone into hiding so I may not have any interaction here with those folks. I fully understand that the stigma is far reaching and many wives and ex-wives of white collar criminals don't want to expose themselves as such. But please know that you can post anonymously and share your heartache, shame, guilt by association and or anger and receive support. With the staggering number of men and women behind bars for wcc there are just as many families who need a safe place to vent and share their stories. I went into hiding myself FOR YEARS and to some degree am still tucked away into the new, (nearly unrecognizable), life I've created for myself and my son post-apocalypse. Like many of you, our life before my husband went to jail was one of moderate privilege. We weren't in the same stratosphere of the Westchester Wall Street gang but we lived a nice life in suburban Boston that we had worked hard for. Our young son lived a carefree life under the impression that we were about as happy a family as one could have. But when his young life was blown to smithereens the damage ran so deep that it will affect him profoundly for the rest of his life. We will never be free from the fallout and although I haven't been invited to a dinner party in years, (sigh, oh the horror!), I have family and friends who have stood by my side and without them I simply would not have survived. My son and I are learning, day by day, even still, how to live. No matter how long or short the sentence or whether you are divorced or still married to your criminal husband, we all have been through the same experience. We are in fact all or once were, white collar wives. 

  I've written a book about our experience. The process has been daunting to say the least and at times I've wondered if it was worth it. Having to relive events leading up to, during and after my husband's, (now ex), incarceration has taken it's toll on me and I question my own sanity on a daily basis for taking on this hefty project. But it's also been cathartic for me to clean out the junk and gain some much needed perspective that I wouldn't have had otherwise. Living it in real time was a blur so to now have the luxury of slowing things down and seeing what actually occurred has been a great help to me. When I was going through the initial hell of my husband's criminal investigation and subsequent incarceration I was in desperate need of a mentor. I had no idea how to process what was happening or how I would get myself and my son through this mess. Friends and family were truly supportive but I needed guidance from those who had experienced what I was going through. I looked for books and scoured the internet but found nothing that was of any help. I did find a few articles on how men can prepare themselves for prison life but I found NOTHING to prepare wives. I did find a couple of fictional books that were based on true white collar crime stories but they had nice tidy happy endings and they didn't do anything but make me feel even more adrift.  So I took matters into my own hands and began the long process of telling my family's story. I'm 90,000 words and over fifteen chapters into writing "House on Fire: A Cautionary Tale" and have received positive feedback from the "industry" and my valued "editors".  I'm not writing this book for any other reason than to help others feel less alone and to hopefully help get other women to the other side of this thing.  I'll be posting chapters from time to time and invite any and all commentary, i.e.,  "This happened to me too. I'm not alone."  I know all too well about the night terrors. Waking out of a dead sleep in abject panic. It was 3 a.m. on the dot for me. Every night. For two years. As horrifying as those nights were, the sunrise was worse because it meant we had to live another day of being the walking dead.

After five years me and my son are surviving. We still haven't reached the thrive stage yet and might never get there but we are still standing. I hope the same and more for all of you. If there's anybody out there like me I hope to hear from you. Share your own stories with me here or privately.

I'm not one for platitudes but I'll leave you with this for now - Do the best you can do today. Don't worry about tomorrow. Live in the now. That's how I'm getting through. Looking too far back or too far forward is too overwhelming. You can only live one day at a time anyway. 

Warm regards to you and your families as we head into the "horror days" as my son and I now refer to them. Lower your expectations and make the best of a bad situation and....soon it will be January!