Humility | The Christian Girl's Guide to Divorce

May 12 2016

Humility

Lillian

Day Six, Hour 72 of captaining/catering for ‪#‎TechCrunch‬. Forgetting it was in the back pocket of tired black pants, my almost-year-old iPhone took a swan dive into the toilet bowl.

In a flash, I rescued it from “clean” water, but I knew the end was near. I didn’t have time to be upset.

I had to get to another catering gig.

When I got off the train somewhere on the Upper East Side, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for myself. I thought about how hard I have worked this past week, to little personal and financial gain. I began to spiral down the rabbit hole of self-pity, realizing the last-minute pee I needed before a double shift will most likely end up taking more than my entire paycheck.

Yes, I shoved the phone into a bag of unfairly-New-York-expensive, low-quality rice, but let’s be honest: Siri sounds like Barry White, I somehow ordered an Uber ride to Nantucket and Google Maps thinks I’m still married.

Too exhausted for tears, I waited in silence to cross the street. The little old lady standing next to me spoke.

“Miss! Miss! Oh, Miss? Can you help me, Miss?”

I was almost late to my second job without any way to communicate, but I couldn’t leave her hanging. Besides, it was nice to take my mind off my champagne problems for a hot second.

“Absolutely,” I smiled. I offered her my left arm, praying her seemingly frail health wouldn’t be too terribly affected by any residual toilet juice.

Together, we began to hobble across 67th and 2nd. The two plastic bags she carried swung from side to side and occasionally brushed my leg.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” I chirped.

“Yes, it is,” she replied. “My knees are shot, but I am glad I chose today to get outside.”

“I understand,” I said. My own feet throbbed, swelled and ached inside of my supposedly orthopedic catering shoes. The veins in the backs of my legs screamed, and I had long noticed a not-so-fresh-smell under the arms of my black shirt.

I glanced at the woman and guessed she was at least 80 to 85 years old.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Lillian,” she replied. The red-handed warning light began to flash, despite us having traveled only a quarter of the way across the wide intersection.

I gasped. “That was my grandmother’s name! I’m Leslie. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Lillian shot me a half smile and returned to putting one foot in front of the other.

When we finally reached the curb, Lillian released her grip on my arm and clasped her arthritic fingers into mine. I noticed the curvature of her bones, marked by brown spots and broken blood vessels in odd places, and the fleshy, soft, delicately translucent feel of her skin. She gazed up at me as she patted my hand.

She took in a deep breath.

“Well, Leslie — ”

This is it! I thought, excitedly.

If I had been on my phone this whole time, I would have missed this very moment. I helped a little old lady across the street and, in return, she’s going to give me some piece of advice, wisdom or encouragement. This is the best thing that’s happened all day!

With raised eyebrows, I grinned at her, expectantly.

“Yes?”

Lillian looked me squarely in the eye.

“Have a nice life!”

Mar 22 2012

“I’m Going to France to Kiss Somebody”

Friday, April 15, 2011

One year ago I was moving out of my house. One year ago I knew my marriage was over. An entire year.

So much has happened since. I am so thankful.

Should I go to Minnesota? And France?

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Oh, Lord. What a glorious day. Such beauty! I am so thankful to be alive, to have my health; to have such amazing people in my life. Most of all, I have You.

Andrea and I are going to France in ONE MONTH! I bought our tickets last night. I am a bit scared, but why? Scared of things I cannot control…? I am not in control. It’s not up to me and it never was. That is freeing. I guess I’m scared of being stopped at the border – knowing my fingerprints are in the system as a “criminal”.

A new season begins in my life. The tax job is over. I do not want to be wasteful with my savings but I am so excited to go to Paris.

PARIS!

To see, to live, to LOVE life. Oh, Lord, what a gift!

2 Cor. 5:7 – “We live by faith, not by sight.”

Thank You for getting me through tax season with the ability to drive. Thank You for helping me through the emotion and pain of dealing with X. Thank You that he sent (part of) the money. Thank You for the doors You will open up for me – even now.

PARIS! I am so excited. Adventure!

Oh, may I learn and see and capture everything in this new, blessed life of mine.

Monday, April 18, 2011

I’m going to PARIS.

Talked to my lawyer today, and, regardless of the outcome of my court case (DUI or Wet Reckless), I will lose my license for a month. I elected to have it suspended right after my hearing.

So, I might go to Minnesota to visit friends; to be there for love and support. I want to be free from license suspension and all that crap.

Why am I so afraid? NO FEAR! Lord, I need You; I need a break from myself and craziness and dating and worrying.

I need to get OUT of here.

Tuesday, April 21, 2011

Oh, Lord, what freedom there is in recognizing YOU and YOUR power and glory; YOUR control over the world; my circumstances; everything.

Father, I GIVE THIS DUI TO YOU. I GIVE OVER my fears, my worries, and I KNOW You have already worked it out for good. For my good. I am not entitled.

Perhaps You are calling me to a simpler life. I want to follow You, no matter what. I NEED You; I NEED help.

I pray for peace as I travel to Minnesota. I am disappointed that there is no Christmas tour this year. Father, I need work. I need a job to support myself. I am worried that a court conviction will affect my ability to be employed in the future. I cannot worry about that. I CANNOT CONTROL ANY OF IT!

These are such hard lessons to be learning. Humbling. Lord, take my life and let it be, always, only, ever to Thee. God, I give You my yearning for love from a man. I give You my longing for children. I give You my longing for a career.

I have no idea what You are calling me to, but I want to be used by You.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Oh, Jesus!
Thank You for this day! YOU ARE RISEN! Resurrected from the dead! You have called me out of the shadows; out of the darkness into LIGHT. I am YOURS. I am YOURS.

I can’t do this on my own, Lord. Any of it. I need You so very badly. Thank You for accepting me just as I am, with all my ugliness and sin.

DUI or not – it doesn’t matter. I am a sinner. I am not able to do this life on my own. Thank You for this time in my life, Lord, where I am facing hard truths and making idiot mistakes. Yet You still love me – You don’t judge me at all.

May I extend that grace to myself!

Thursday, April 28, 2011

As my court date looms in on me, I am starting to get scared. I know I’ll be guilty. But, Lord, would You show mercy? I know You already do. I know that You will carry me through this. I will be OK.

You are showing me new things, and new people are coming into my life. I am broken. I need You. I need Your approval and not the legal system’s; I need YOUR love and not the affirmation (or lack thereof) of some dumb guy.

Clarity.

Finished AA meetings. Not for me. I am proud of myself for doing it – seven meetings in two weeks. Hopefully that will help my sentence. Oh, Lord.

I am scared. I am also free.

Lord, I give my trip to Minnesota to You. Also France. I am scared. Of what? Making further mistakes? Being disappointed? I don’t quite know. But I do know that I am content: right here, right now.

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Court is Monday morning. I will be sentenced. And then I will face my fears, everything. I just want to move forward with my life. Oh, Father, I do not want to take anything for granted!

Thank You for yesterday’s birthday celebration with X’s brother and his family. Thank You for that healing experience. Thank You for their acceptance of me. I pray for them and their relationship with X’s parents. They have been hurt by the fact that X’s parents have basically refused to meet their new baby.

Who does that?

Sunday, May 1^st

Beautiful day at the beach with Joy today. I felt Your love and peace all throughout! Lord, I pray for a reduced sentence. I pray hard. I also give the outcome of my case to You. You know. You are in control. You will go before me.

Deuteronomy 3:16 – “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified…for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.

Monday, May 2, 2011

In court. Shaking. Possibly will be able to get the Wet Reckless. LORD, I trust You. I PRAY for mercy. They have to run my married name and check my records. If no arrests – OBVIOUSLY – I might be able to get the reduced sentence. Oh, FATHER GOD! I pray, pray, pray for Your guidance. May the Prosecutor be merciful.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Oh, Lord!
I was able to get the reduced sentence in my case. I plead “no contest” to Reckless Driving. It still stinks, but it is not a DUI.

Father, I am so grateful for the mercy and grace You continue to show me. I will still have to take a three-hour class every Monday night for three months starting June 6^th. But it will be done.

Expensive, horrific and scary lesson.

THANK YOU.

Now I’m going to France to kiss somebody.

Mar 18 2012

1 Comment

F Bombs, Funny, Grace, Humility, Self Discovery

“Where Can I Find Happiness?”

As I waited for the divorce lawyer to return my call regarding Bigamy and Contempt, I had another court case to tackle: my DUI.

When I first got out of jail, I immediately called a friend who just so happens to be a judge. He was extremely kind, sympathetic and nonjudgmental upon hearing my plight. He pointed me towards a good (expensive) criminal attorney. I hired the firm right away.

It was suggested that I take a proactive stance in my case. I did have a good chance of getting the DUI dismissed, but I had to show some earnestness in my “desire to be rehabilitated.”

I was definitely earnest. I would do just about anything to lessen my punishment.

“You should probably attend some AA meetings,” my lawyer advised over the phone one afternoon. She went on to explain that some judges require defendants to attend meetings, or work in the morgue. It was a fairly standard punishment.

“I’ll send you a court card and you can get started. You just have to get the secretary to sign off on your attendance and you’ll get credit for the meeting. Try to get five or six meetings in before your court appearance next month. I can’t guarantee anything, but it certainly won’t hurt your case.”

I hated the thought of having to attend an AA meeting. I couldn’t believe that I had found myself in a situation where Alcoholics Anonymous was involved. It was humiliating. Furthermore, I was way more interested in going to the morgue to see dead bodies.

Nevertheless, I obliged. I wanted to get it done – out of the way – and show the judge assigned to my case that I was a GOOD girl who had made a mistake, and would never do it again.

I’ll never forget that first AA meeting. I rose early to attend the 6:15 a.m. gathering. It was held in a Fellowship Hall at a Presbyterian church. I pulled up a chair and sat in the back, and listened to people mumble for an hour. The room echoed and it was difficult to hear. Occasionally the attendees shouted in unison, and a few pounded their fists on the folding tables. They laughed, listened, hugged one another and repeatedly sipped coffee from little styrofoam cups.

I brought my own coffee. I sat with my arms folded tightly against my chest for the hour and didn’t say a word. I dropped my court card and a crumpled dollar bill into the basket as it passed.

After the meeting adjourned, I raced to the front to find my signed card. Several people sought me out to welcome me, congratulate me for being brave, and offer me literature.

I just smiled, nodded and reached nervously for that damn card. One down.

I didn’t need salvation from alcohol or drug addiction. I didn’t need to make any new friends. I didn’t need any more suggestions on how to live my life, even if it had been excessively hard lately due to circumstance and/or poor choices. I just needed to endure the punishment and get the hell out.

I found a noon meeting to attend. After about four gatherings, I realized I was learning something.

I had to write.

*****

The familiar smell of “thrift shop” wafts through my nostrils as I enter the darkened room. Cushioned folding chairs are aligned with care, and icicle-like Christmas lights hang over the main table. The wall is adorned with wooden placards, and old felt banners read, “ONE DAY AT A TIME!” I am positive the room was decorated in 1974. I find a seat along the western wall and clutch my phone, as if it will save me from…what?

I’m five minutes early, which can be a good and bad thing. The smell of cigarette smoke drifts in and out of the room, as the men gathered at the front of the building inhale their last bit of carbon monoxide before the meeting begins.

I glance around the room. Directly in front of me sits Justin Bieber. He is hunched over his phone, furiously texting with one hand and biting his nails on the other. I do about seventeen takes and cannot actually figure out if it is Justin Bieber or not. Regardless, it makes me chuckle, and I relax a bit.

A small Chinese man storms through the center aisle, hugging everyone in his path. He is fierce in his intentions, and laughs extremely loudly as sarcasm drips from his lips. I didn’t realize that such a loud voice could come from such a small body.

At the main table sits a doughy woman whose arms are adorned with tattoos. She cracks open her first of two sodas (that she will drink in the span of one hour) and looks at the clock.

The meeting is called to order, and people straggle in at 10, 15, even 30 minutes past the hour. One latecomer plants himself right next to me. He’s a soccer player in his early 20s. I notice his freshly shaved head and manicured toenails. He sniffles throughout the entire meeting, keeps his back turned away from the main table and barely listens to what anyone has to say. At times I think he might be crying, but I soon realize that he is just wiping his nose and snorting the mucous back up into his brain. Later, I remind myself to wash my hands, since I end up holding his, reciting the Serenity Prayer.

It is time to reward achievement, so the little Chinese man jumps up and jubilantly passes out little chips, screaming, “Chips from the Chino!” I laugh at his unabashed racism, and relax a little more. I decide that if they make “Hangover 3”, this guy could give Ken Jeong a real run for his money.

Later, the little Chinese man shares his story. He is an alcoholic and a drug addict. He begins speaking in anger towards a few other relapsed alcoholics whom he had helped find jobs. Subsequently, he lost his, and needs prayer to deal with both.

The room nods.

Little Chinese Man opens up about his days as a “skilled outdoorsman” (homeless man). He would stand outside the local 7-11 and beg for money. Once he made $5.00 he knew he’d be able to get a “fix”. He finally checked himself into rehab. A few days into his sobriety, Little Chinese Man offered to wash his counselor’s car. He detailed it with precision and care, and, in the end, his counselor handed him a crisp, five-dollar bill. His eyes fill with tears as he describes the realization that he had earned every penny of that $5.00.

He goes on to explain an old Chinese parable of a puppy that asks his mother where he can find happiness. The mother tells the puppy that his happiness is in his tail. So, the puppy spends years chasing his tail.

Frustrated, the puppy goes to his mother again and asks, “Where can I find my happiness?”

“I told you,” his mother replies, gently. “Your happiness is in your tail, and it will follow you wherever you go.”

The room sighs.

Little Chinese Man thanks “the rest of you low life’s” for allowing him to share.

A big, fat biker guy in the back demands his time to share. He curses and speaks with authority, and talks about “these rooms”. He wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for “these walls”, so we’d all “fuckin’ better fuckin’ keep coming back, because it fuckin’ works if you fuckin’ work it!”

Later, he falls asleep.

A former dentist speaks up. His drug of choice was crack cocaine. Little Chinese Man gasps.

A slender, tan and weathered woman speaks up. She is dressed in a striped mini-dress with matching espadrilles. Her nails are painted lime green, and look like they are straight out of a travel advertisement for Thailand. Her nails keep clacking her soda can. She sheds tears over the years she lost, drowning her sorrows in her wine glass. She doesn’t want to feel bad anymore.

Justin Bieber has switched from texting to playing “Words with Friends”.

As the hour passes, more and more people share their stories. Some share the same story they did the day before. Some shed tears. Others sit in stoic silence. But, all in all, they come together as humans with a purpose: humans who are wanting to end their addictions; humans who are seeking God. Humans who are broken, ashamed, torn up, spit out, rejected, abandoned and hurting.

Human beings who are beautiful, precious children of God.

I will return to “these rooms” for a few more hours, out of an act of service. Preventative action. Punishment. Hope. Perhaps I will share my story, perhaps not. One thing I have learned so far is to face my fears. I may not identify completely with the people who attend the meetings, but I am just as broken and hurting as the rest. And, for that, I say, bring on the styrofoam coffee cups and the stale sugar packets; bring on the strip mall parking lot adorned with the stunning view of the San Gabriel mountains. Bring on Justin Bieber and his Honda.

I will laugh and cry with my fellow human beings, and I will even hold their snot-ridden hands. It feels good to be alive.

~LS
4/27/11

Mar 03 2012

10 Comments

Dating, Humility, Love, Moving Forward, New beginnings, Self Discovery

Less Like Scars

It’s been a year.

Today is important for me. It’s a milestone. It’s a big deal. I am proud of myself. I have quite often wondered where I would be a year after my divorce was final. I wonder where I will be after two. Five. Ten. Twenty.

My divorce (and subsequent criminal record) does not define who I am. It is a part of my life – a part of my past. My choice to open up and share my story in such a public manner might be a totally stupid one, but I have seen how God has used it/me to help others. It’s so exciting! Somehow, my bold vulnerability has spoken; resonated. I’m beyond grateful for that.

Today, my fingers are poised above the keyboard, wondering whether or not I should bring the present into the picture. I told myself that I wouldn’t write about future relationships. Any man endeavouring to date me might be completely turned off by the fact that I have this blog in the first place. It’s intimidating. It’s dangerous territory.

Chalk me up there with Adele and Taylor Swift in the “don’t fuck me over or I’ll write about you” department. Ha.

But it’s me. It’s my life. It’s my heart. I can’t hide it – I don’t want to. I want to grow, I want to learn, I want to continue to change, and become the person that God dreams me to be.

He dreams much bigger things for me than I do for myself.

So, here I am: one year after my divorce was made final, two years after I left my husband, and three years after the shit went down in the first place.

And I think not of my ex-husband at all.

My heart has been distracted by a very recent, painful break-up. It was a short relationship – just three months. And, for the most part, it was wonderful. I was so happy I didn’t even know what to do with myself. I was also scared out of my mind, but, with the encouragement and support of my therapist and my friends, I settled into it. I didn’t run away. He pursued, and I responded, eagerly.

I finally learned what it felt like to be treated right.

He liked me for me. He didn’t care that I was divorced. He laughed at my sense of humor. He appreciated my talent. We shared similar interests and beliefs. We clicked. We had chemistry and compatibility. He opened the car door for me. He bought me flowers. He introduced me to his friends and some of his family members. We spent as much time together as we could, in those first two months. He took me on a couple of trips to some fantastic places. He respected me.

I felt safe.

Finally.

It was easy to fall in love with him. I never told him, though. I didn’t think it was appropriate. I wanted to do this new relationship the right way. I wanted to settle in for the long haul, and take things slow.

But then, things started to crumble a bit. I made some stupid comments in front of important people in his life. I felt terrible. He forgave me, but I started to worry that my bad behavior would become a weekly issue. I saw less and less of him. He wasn’t able to communicate with me as often. He was busy with his job, business trips, and other responsibilities and interests. I felt him pulling away.

I didn’t feel like a priority anymore. It hurt so badly I couldn’t breathe.

So I broke up with him.

He was hurt, confused and angry. I tried to make things “right” by over explaining myself, my reasons and my emotions, but ended up making things even worse.

I de-friended him on Facebook, and then re-friended him. (Yes, I am twelve.) He never accepted.

He told me that I gave up too easily. I told him he didn’t fight for the things that he really wanted.

We haven’t spoken since, and I’ll never see or hear from him again.

It hurts. Breaking up is hard to do.

But I have learned.

On this day – this one-year divorce-versary, I realized something. A few things, actually.

The “issues” that I had in my first (albeit very brief) post-divorce relationship were not things that couldn’t have been worked out under “normal” circumstances. Yet, I am not normal. I am a divorcee. Little things that might have not been a big deal to another person were stupendously huge hot buttons for me.

These things may take time, and extra patience. Sometimes I feel like I, myself, have neither. I don’t know what man in his right mind on this earth would want to take me on. I don’t say that to be cute, or garner sympathy. I have been hurt, yes. I am afraid of being more hurt, sure.

But I am willing to get hurt. It’s worth it. I’d rather die with my heart broken twenty times over than live with it seized, overprotected or ice cold.

Love is always worth it.

Nothing will hurt as deeply as my divorce. Yet, it is behind me, and it will become more and more of a distant memory. My scars are, indeed, fading into beautiful character.

It’s been a hard year
But I’m climbing out of the rubble
These lessons are hard
Healing changes are subtle
But every day it’s

Less like tearing, more like building
Less like captive, more like willing
Less like breakdown, more like surrender
Less like haunting, more like remember

And I feel You here
And You’re picking up the pieces
Forever faithful
It seemed out of my hands, a bad situation
But You are able
And in Your hands the pain and hurt
Look less like scars and more like
Character

I’m still cleaning up my freshly broken, hurting heart. It, too, will take time to heal. Whether or not this man was the right one for me, or I for him, I’m so grateful to have opened up, to have trusted, to have laughed and learned; to have loved again.

Mar 02 2012

5 Comments

Grace, Humility, Love, Whattaheck?

Broken/Free

After I was booked out, I walked down the long, empty corridor towards the jail lobby. I felt dirty, exhausted, ashamed, embarrassed and relieved, all at once.

I pushed open the large, heavy double doors and saw my father sitting on the bench. He was waiting for me. I quickened my pace towards him as he stood up. He had a seemingly large sticker affixed to his chest.

I burst into tears.

My father is waiting for me.

He gave me a huge hug, and patted me on the back as I sobbed into his shoulder.

“It’s OK, Leslie. I’ve been to jail, too!” he joked.

My dad had gotten a call from my mom around 6:00 a.m., notifying him exactly where I was. Thankfully I had provided the address to the jail. He immediately left his house to come pick me up, and had been waiting for me in the lobby since 7:00 in the morning.

It was well past 11:00 a.m. when I was released.

My father waited for me for hours — waited for his train wreck, eldest, adult daughter to be released from JAIL.

“Wanna go get breakfast?” My dad asked, as if nothing had happened.

I nodded. Fresh tears sprang into my eyes.

I was so busy judging myself that I forgot about grace.

Grace.

As we stepped out into the warm, harsh light of day, I immediately noticed I was not downtown.

“Where the heck is this place, anyway?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the bright sunlight.

My dad laughed. “Girl, you be in SOUTH CENTRAL!”

I was horrified. At the same time, I knew there was a reason I kept feeling like a badass.

“Oh, shit. Well, if you’re going to go to jail, you might as well do it right.”

We laughed as my dad opened the car door for me. He is such a good man.

I thought back to my friends in the cells and marveled at the fact that I was not harmed in any way. South Central Los Angeles was no place for a “perfect” little white, Christian girl like me.

Yet, at the same time, it was.

I suddenly realized I needed to call work and explain why I was late. I also needed to call Joseph and tell him that I shouldn’t be allowed to babysit his children. I most certainly wasn’t worthy of leading worship at church that Sunday.

Nobody wants a criminal.

To my surprise, my employers were sympathetic and understanding. They gave me the day off and told me they’d be happy to welcome me back on Monday.

Joseph also treated me with grace and kindness.

“There is no judgment, Leslie,” he spoke, lovingly, as I blubbered and bawled. “We all make mistakes.”

It just so happened that his plans had changed, and didn’t need me to babysit, after all. But of course I was welcome to take care of his kids – to be a part of his and Katie’s life – anytime. Not leading worship was out of the question, and, in fact, the songs that I had chosen the week earlier were so fitting.

Capture me with grace.

And so, that bright, merciful March morning, after bailing my car out of the tow yard, my dad took me to breakfast. I told him the whole story – of the arrest, the booking and the hours of holding. I re-enacted the scenes starring Pot and Tamale Lady, Pock Face and Pretty Gum Chewer.

We ate pancakes, drank coffee and laughed. I felt embarrassed about my now-unkempt, unshowered, I-spent-the-night-in-South-Central-jail appearance, but my dad told me I looked just fine. In fact, I looked beautiful.

Grace. Unconditional love.

I started to slowly realize that things would – eventually — be OK. I wasn’t fully aware of the consequences of my crime, but I would get through it. There was a good possibility of avoiding a DUI conviction altogether. I had judged myself so severely already, yet I had the overwhelming love and support of my family and friends.

Oh, Father, I cannot comprehend the punishment, I shakily wrote in my journal. Jail was enough. I am thankful that I have not been judged by my family, or friends. I am not OK. I need You. I am broken and ashamed; humiliated, yet also hopeful. I am thankful to not be in jail — I will be proactive to lessen my sentence. I beg for mercy, Lord, but I accept the consequences of my STUPID choices.

God, I’m afraid. I’m afraid to drink anymore. I am thankful to have not lost my employment, yet future employment could be at risk. (These are) ALL consequences of my actions.

Why is it so hard to love myself? Why? I’m going to beat myself up continually. I want this behind me – I can’t hide from it, I can only learn and grow from it.

I AM NOT PERFECT! I must cease trying to be. Striving and striving to be perfect. I got ARRESTED, went to JAIL and will face SENTENCING for DRUNK DRIVING.

Leslie.

“Spencer!”

But You still love me. And my dad loves me. And my friends love me. And You will carry me through this. I need you, Jesus. I need help. I can’t do this. You will pick me up. You will make it OK. Whatever it becomes, we will face it together.

SO BROKEN.

That Sunday, I played the piano and sang with more conviction, humility and gratitude than ever before. It was so amazing; so comforting to see myself as my earthly and heavenly Father see me: a beautiful, precious child who isn’t defined by her infractions.

My eyes were finally being adjusted to the brilliance of overwhelming grace.

When I got home that beautiful Sunday evening, I opened up my computer, and clicked on the LA Superior Court’s website. I dutifully typed in my court case number, to check the status of my divorce.

The screen popped up. I yawned, and prepared myself for “Status: PENDING”.

“CASE SUMMARY”, it read.

Filing Date: 04/02/2010
Case Type: Dissolution of Marriage (General Jurisdiction)

Yeah, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah. Get to the point.

My eyes scanned the page for the status. Status, status, status.

Status: STIPULATED JUDGMENT 03/03/2011

I was overcome with shock, grief, joy, relief, sadness and elation.

I am divorced.

I blinked through tears of mixed emotions and re-read the date that the divorce had been finalized.

03/03/2011

I burst out laughing. I had spent my first night as a free woman — in jail.

Feb 28 2012

3 Comments

F Bombs, Funny, Humility, Self Discovery

White Girl (Jail, Part 4)

“Spencer.”

A different officer was standing in the open doorway. I lifted my head from my hands and looked up at him through bleary eyes. A couple of hours had passed, and my body and soul felt every minute of them.

I helped myself off the bench, and silently followed the officer. I guessed that the more jovial night shift had left. The morning crew was less friendly.

He led me back to my original cell. I wanted to grab his neck and wring it. Surely I had served my time. I finally spoke up.

“I’ve been in here a while, do you know when I’ll be able to leave?”

“You’ll be out of here soon,” he answered, flatly.

“That’s what they all say,” I murmured, under my breath.

And there I was, back where I had started. My original cellmate was long gone. Over the next hour or so, I would have a few more. Enter a pretty, young gang member dressed in 5” heels and club attire. She paced the room and threatened to kill her cousin for landing her in jail – again.

“What happened?” I asked her, calmly. I definitely needed the energy level in the room to feel less threatening.

“THAT FUCKING BITCH GOT DRUNK AND DROVE MY CAR INTO A TREE!” she screamed at the door, presuming that she could be heard.

Her cousin was being held across the way, and was, indeed, drunk. She was laughing, cursing, and wailing in the solitary cell.

“I SWEAR I’m going to kill her. I am going to MURDER that bitch! She is GOING TO GET IT!”

Ohh, boy.

“But why are you here, if she was the one driving?” I asked, genuinely curious.

The girl sat down and adjusted her tight, tiny skirt.

“Because I beat her ass up, and the neighbors called the cops. I have a prior, so I’m fucked.”

“Oh.” I didn’t want to know what her “prior” was.

“So, what the fuck is some white girl like you in here for?”

I chuckled, albeit nervously.

“Um, I got arrested for driving under the influence.”

“Psssshhh.” She dismissed me. “That ain’t nothin’. Sucks for you, though.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. Never a truer word spoken. “It sucks.”

The pretty young gangster was held for about 30 minutes, then taken straight to arraignment. I was almost jealous of her quick turn-around.

My next cellmates were rounded up and deposited into the concrete room. We huddled together on the bench, awkwardly. One woman was arrested for a DUI because she was smoking pot on her way to work. She lit up at a stoplight, right in front of a police car.

“Why’d you do that?!” I inquired, incredulously.

“I dunno, gurrrrl, I jus’ felt like it,” she responded. “It was stupid. Annnn now I’s here, instead of at work, and that’s some fucked up shit.”

I twisted my lips in sympathy. Fucked up shit, indeed. I couldn’t judge the woman. After all, we were all equal.

I turned to the frightened Hispanic woman on my left.

“What happened with you?”

She stared at me with terror in her eyes, pursed her lips, and vehemently shook her head.

I tried again, in elementary Spanish:

”Uhhhh, ¿Por qué estás aquí?”

Fear turned to sadness. “Yo vendía tamales, “ she replied.

“Tamales? You sold tamales?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “That’s why you are here? You’re in JAIL for selling TAMALES?”

“Hooooooo! That’s some fucked up shit, lady,” the pot smoker cackled.

Tamale Lady giggled nervously. Then we all laughed, and the room relaxed.

The two women stared at me, expectantly.

“Oh, I was drinking and driving,” I offered, apologetically. “El borracho,” I pointed to myself.

Sigh. Wish I had a tamale right about now.

Footsteps. Keys. Door opened.

“Spencer.”

I got up, and wished goodbye and good luck to Pot and Tamale Lady.

“Bye, gurrrrl!” Pot Lady yelled, as the door closed and locked shut.

The officer led me down the hall, past the holding cells. We continued up the stairs.

Oh, my goodness! I’m finally going home! HOORAY!

“Grab a blanket and a sheet, Spencer. You’re going to the beds.”

WHAAAAAAA…?

“I’m sorry, what…what are ‘the beds’?” I asked, trying not to panic.

The officer was clearly annoyed.

“You could be here for the weekend. It’s Friday, and the courts close. So, grab your bedding and let’s go.”

“But, but…” I sputtered. “I’m supposed to be getting out of here now. I’ve been here all night.” I waved my Prisoner’s Receipt in his face.

The officer took it from me but barely glanced over it.

My breathing became labored. I couldn’t be there all weekend. I had a life to live! I couldn’t bear the thought of one more minute in that jail, regardless of how many friends I would try to make to help pass the time.

“Please, sir. I need to get out of here.”

“Well, Spencer, you have to sober up,” he retorted. “And it takes a while for you to be processed.”

I will never live this down, will I.

“I blew a point 1-0, probably about eight hours ago,” I said, as the panic rose in my voice. “I really need to get out of here. I need to go home.”

“Well, Spencer, you shouldn’t have been drinking and driving, then.” He motioned towards a large laundry vat.

“No kidding,” I muttered. I angrily grabbed a blanket and a sheet, and bit my lip hard to hold back my tears.

The officer led me into a much larger cell. In it were fresh, new faces. As soon as I walked in the door, I realized I was very much the minority of the group. For the first time all morning, I felt afraid.

“Heeey, look at the pretty white girl!” A pock-faced young woman called to me. “Ooooohie, look at that great ass! Wow. If I were a lesbian I’d eat you up!”

Oh, God. Please don’t kill me.

I smiled at the group. I could feel their eyes boring holes into every inch of my body.

Next to the pock-faced girl sat a beautiful African-American girl with smooth skin and perfectly formed lips. Her thin frame was covered in a short, glittery dress. She chewed a piece of bright pink gum and casually played with her hair. I walked towards the pair and sat down, right between them.

Pock-faced girl was missing a few teeth.

“Mmmm, girl, you are in the wrong place,” she glared at me.

“Not really,” I said. I didn’t look at her.

The pretty girl to my right laughed, and snapped her gum.

“She damn straight – she in jail. She did somethin’.”

Another woman spoke up. She was pacing the room, tugging at her midriff.

“She probably druuuuuunkkkkk! Look at her! She in here because she fucked up, jus’ like the rest of us. You – (she pointed at Pock Face) be in here for possessin’ some kinda whacked out drugs, and you (Pretty Gum Chewer) be whorin’ youself on the street.”

The girls bristled. I tightened my grip on my blanket.

Oh, no, please don’t get in a fight.

The pacer continued, and her voice got louder.

“I be in here because I be sellin’ CRACK. You know, I don’t need to be sellin’ no drugs, but I did it, and I’s got caught. And now what am I gonna tell my two-year old baby guurrl? Who gonna take care of her? Crack ain’t gonna help nothin’. So I’m ownin’ my shit – just like all y’all should be. When I get outta here, I’s goin’ ta make some CHANGES to my life. Dayyyum.”

I felt inspired. I was proud of her.

“Amen!” I cried.

Everyone stared at me.

Awkward…

Pock Face started laughing. “Damn. I like this white girl. She funny.”

I turned towards her and smiled.

“Thanks. I like to think so, too.”

She flashed me her near-toothless smile.

“You gonna get outta here soon, white girl. They always let the DUI’s go first.”

The door opened, and a female officer called to all of us to gather our bedding and wait for our name to be called. We formed a line in the hallway.

The female officer separated the women into groups of eight, then marched us a few feet down the hall. Pock Face and Pretty Gum Chewer were in my group. When the officer opened the door to our “bedroom”, the women rushed to the bunk beds, grabbed the mattresses and immediately pulled them to the floor. A couple of women used the toilet, which was concealed by a low, brick partition.

At least there’s some privacy in here.

I walked to the bed closest to the door, carefully placed my sheet atop the plastic mattress, and lay down. I was too tired to think about what germs or diseases were crawling along the bed or mattress. If I were to be there for the weekend, I’d have to get some sleep or I would lose my mind.

I pulled the blanket up to my face and shut my eyes. I listened to the girls chatter on about their lives. Pock Face and Pretty Gum Chewer both had young children. They were young, themselves. Barely 20 years old.

“When I get out, the first thing I’m gonna do is find me some good tweek, and then sleep for days!” Pock Face announced.

Oh, Lord. Help me. Help these girls. I know You’re here. You are here with me, in this jail cell.

A few minutes passed, and then the female officer’s voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Spencer? Spencer!”

Pock Face mimicked the voice. “SPENCER!”

Pretty Gum Chewer giggled.

I sat up.

“Spencer, you’re going home,” the voice over the loudspeaker said.

The room burst into applause. Pock Face shouted. “SPENCER’S GOING HOME! YEAH, SPENCER!”

Women laughed. I grinned, and tears of pure relief flooded my eyes.

Pock Face continued. “Hurry up, Spencer! Get your white ass on outta here!”

I couldn’t get up fast enough. The key turned in the door and the female officer motioned for me to follow her.

I paused, and turned around. I looked at Pock Face, and Pretty Gum Chewer. I looked at the five other women’s faces. I wanted to remember this moment.

I wanted to say something poignant – memorable. Something inspirational, perhaps? I was so overcome with joy to be leaving that jail. I took in a deep breath.

“Well, goodbye girls,” I squealed. “Be good!”

“Get outta here, Spencer,” Pock Face waved her hand at me. “And don’t ever come back, or I’ll beat yo ass.”

I smiled. I was going home. I had made it through a night in jail.

But the greatest surprise was yet to come.

Feb 27 2012

2 Comments

Grace, Humility, Self Discovery

Rescue (Jail, Part Three)

I was startled awake by the sound of keys opening the heavy door.

My cellmate shot straight up.

“Breakfast!” she cried, and scrambled towards the female officer delivering our food.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. I was astonished that I had actually fallen asleep, and immediately wished I knew for how long. It had to have been at least 6:00 a.m.

My cellmate eagerly handed me a box of orange juice and a tray of something that looked like eggs and hash browns. She waited at the door for her share.

“Thank you so much.”
I was immediately overcome with tenderness towards my new friend, who had served me first before serving herself.

I was extremely thirsty, so I lapped up the orange juice. I marveled at how much it did not taste like orange juice. I pushed the plastic spoon at the “eggs” and tried a bite, but was immediately repulsed.

I looked over at my cellmate, who was already finishing her last bite. She grunted and snorted as she chewed.

“Would you like mine? “ I asked, gently. “I’m not going to eat it.”

She pawed at and grabbed my tray. “Yes, thank you.”

More grunting and snorting ensued, and my roommate was asleep again.

I sat and stared at the wall, and listened to the footsteps. Back and forth, back and forth. Keys rattled.

Back and forth.

Another hour passed, and, finally, the footsteps stopped at my cell. I heard the keys turn in the lock. My heart leapt.

Finally, I’m getting out!

“Spencer. Follow me.”

Oh, PTL.

I stood up, and unfolded my Prisoner’s Receipt. I didn’t know how I’d get home, but, worst case scenario, I’d call a cab. I just wanted to take a shower and get into bed.

I’m never taking my bed — or my freedom — for granted, ever again.

The officer guided me a few short steps down the hall. We stopped at a different cell. My heart sank as he unlocked the door.

“We’re going to hold you in here for now, “ he said. “We have to clean that other cell. Plus, you’ll be alone in here.”

I immediately missed my snoring cellmate.

But I don’t want to be alone! My heart screamed. Don’t leave me here!

“You’ll be out of here soon,” he said, and he shut the door and locked it behind him.

AUGHHHHHH!!! NOOOOO!!! Everyone keeps saying that, but no one is following through! I want out, I want out, I WANT OUT!

Dejected, I collapsed onto the bench. It felt even colder and harder than the last one.

My eyes scanned the room.

The floor plan of this cell was slightly different from the last, except that the camera was aimed straight at the toilet. I suddenly realized I had to go to the bathroom – badly — but I didn’t want to be on display for all to see.

Damn orange juice.

I debated for a while until I finally made the choice to make my bladder gladder. When you gotta go, you gotta go. I did so as quickly as possible, turning my face away from the camera.

It was definitely not my most shining, camera-ready moment.

And then, I sat on the bench. I waited. I sat. I held my head in my hands. I thought. I listened.

Footsteps.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Voices. Keys. Footsteps.

I sat.

And, finally, I thought about what I had done. It’s true: jail is a great place for self-reflection; for rehabilitation.

I thought about the day that was ahead of me. I was supposed to be at work at 11:00 a.m. I had no idea what time it was, but I figured that tax preparation was probably not going to be on the agenda anymore. In fact, I’d probably get fired. I was supposed to babysit Joseph and Katie’s young daughters – girls that looked up to me – that evening.

I was also scheduled to lead worship at church on Sunday morning.

How would I babysit my pastor’s kids? How would I lead worship at church? ME? I was now a common criminal. I was a Christian Girl whose marriage had failed. I was alone. What’s more, I was alone in a jail cell. I was hurting. I was angry. I was desperately in need, and in pain. I was a girl who, admittedly, had been drinking too much lately. I made a choice – a mistake – and got caught.

How was I even worthy of anything anymore?

My mind drifted to the lyrics of one particular song I had selected to lead.

I need you, Jesus, to come to my rescue,
where else can I go?

Footsteps.

I paused and held my breath, but they passed me by.

I closed my eyes as the tears began to fall. I collapsed my head in my hands and sobbed.

I had hit rock bottom, and bottom had given way.

There’s no other name by which I am saved…
capture me with grace.

Grace. Grace. Grace. Oh, that word. It started to take on a whole new meaning. I thought about my husband. I had expended so much energy being angry with him for his choices and mistakes. In that moment, I humbly realized that I was no different than he. I was no different than my crackhead cellmate, either. My hard, holier-than-thou heart softened. I needed grace and forgiveness just as much as anyone else.

Through my tears, I forced myself to hum the melody of the song. And then, humming turned into singing. The acoustics in my cramped jail cell were quite astounding.

I need you, Jesus, to come to my rescue!

It felt good to sing.

Where else can I go? There’s no other name by which I am saved –

My voice got a little louder, a little stronger.

Capture me with grace.
CAPTURE ME WITH GRACE!
Won’t you capture me with GRACE?!

Footsteps.

They stopped at my door.

Feb 27 2012

Jail, Part Two

My immediate reaction was to make friends with my cellmate. After all, we’d be hanging out together for at least eight hours, so I might as well make the most of the situation.

“Hi,” I said, still clutching my Prisoner’s Receipt. I carefully sat down on the bench next to her.

The woman flashed her wild eyes at me, stood up, pulled her pants down and peed in the toilet.

All right, then.

She finished her business, sniffed loudly and curled herself up into a little ball on the bench. Within two minutes, she was snoring.

Okayyyyy. Maybe we can be friends when she wakes up.

I shifted my sit bones on the hard bench. Then, I realized I should probably call someone to let them know I was in jail. I would eventually be needing a ride home. I picked up the receiver to the payphone and dialed my dad’s home number. It was well past 2:00 a.m., so the phone rang and rang. Finally, the answering machine picked up my call.

I took in a deep breath, about to leave a message, but an automated recording from my end of the line interrupted me.

“Hello. You are receiving a collect call from A PRISONER in the Los Angeles County Jail. Please say ‘yes’ or press 1 to accept charges. This call WILL BE RECORDED.”

Wow, way to rub it in, people. I’m a prisoner with zero rights, who can only make COLLECT calls.

I couldn’t leave a message, because no one was available to accept the charges, so I called back. Someone finally answered, but immediately hung up.

Come on! Somebody answer the damn phone!

I called again and again, but the phone kept ringing.

My cellmate kept snoring.

I sighed, and tried my mother. I hadn’t spoken to her in a while, so it was humiliating to have to have a conversation with her like this.

She answered on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” I obviously had woken her from her sleep. I started to speak, but that damn automated recording stopped me.

“Hello. You are receiving a collect call from A PRISONER in the Los Angeles County Jail…”

I heard my mother say “yes” about a thousand times, and then, finally: “Leslie?”

I swallowed whatever pride was left in me.

“Hi, Mom. Um…obviously I’m in jail.”

“Oh, Leslie…what happened?”

I burst into tears.

“IwashavingwinewithmygirflriendsandIwastextinganddrivingandgotpulledoverandtheyhandcuffedmeandtookmetojailandIaminacellwithawomanwhoiscrackedoutandI’mtryingtomakethemostofitandfeelinglikeashitbutalsoabadass…

I started to laugh through my tears.

My mother’s voice sounded tired, worried and empathetic. I regaled the details of the story to her. She tried to encourage me, and expressed that she was glad I wasn’t hurt, or had hurt anyone else. I hadn’t even thought that far ahead. She offered to come pick me up, but she lived almost three hours away. I asked her to call my dad at a decent time to let him know where I was.

Then, an officer opened up the door. My cellmate stirred in her drug-induced sleep.

“Spencer. Time for your mugshot and prints.”

Criminal.

“I gotta go, Mom.” I hung up the phone and wiped my tears away.

The officer flirted with me.

“So, how’d you get here?” He asked, as he rolled my right pointer finger from the ink pad onto my rap sheet.

I have a rap sheet.

“I mean, I know you were drunk, but…”

I sighed.

“I made a mistake, man.”

“What’d you blow?”

Why is this guy so curious?

“Point 1-0.”

He smiled at me. “It happens to the best of us. Next time you should really get one of those mini breathalyzers. It’ll save you a lot of money and hassle in the long run. Or just wait a little longer before getting in the car.”

NEXT TIME? There will be no “next time”, thank you very much. Furthermore, why is everyone being so nice to me? I’m a fucking criminal. I’m a piece of shit. I must be some sort of alcoholic, too, because I’m a drunk driver. I deserve what I got.

He then snapped my mug shot. I smiled for the camera.

Might as well make the best of it.

The officer showed me the picture.

“You take a pretty good mug shot, Spencer!”

I studied it. My hair fell perfectly to one side, and my smile was golden. A small smudge of mascara had streaked across my right cheek. My eyes were red and swollen from crying, yet they were present; bright. I peered closer. I could almost see the deep pain in my green eyes. Oddly enough, there was also a sense of total surrender.

“Yeah, I guess it’s not so bad,” I shrugged. “Wish it were under different circumstances.”

He smiled at me again.

“You’ll be all right. You’ll be outta here soon.”

Again, what’s with the nice?

“Thanks. Oh, by the way, what is the address of this place?”

The officer looked at me. “How are you going to remember an address?”

“Because I’m good with numbers?” I raised my eyebrows and shot him a sly smile.

“7600 South Broadway.” He flashed a smile back.

“Oh! So I’m downtown,” I said, thinking aloud.

He laughed, looked at me almost incredulously, and shook his head. “Something like that, yes.”

The kind officer deposited me back into the concrete room and locked the door. I quickly called my mom back and gave her the address.

My cellmate was awake.

“Hi, again,” I offered. I smiled, feebly, and kicked a tuft of hair away from the toe of my boot.

“Hi,” she replied, nervously.

“Soooo, what are you in here for?” I asked.

Did you REALLY just ask the crackhead what she was “in here for?”

“Domestic violence,” she replied, and scratched her head.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

I started to ask her more about herself. To this day I wish I could remember her name. She was 41 years old, and had twin boys. They were 20 years old. She had gotten in a fight with her boyfriend, she explained, and mumbled some other inaudible details about how she landed in jail, AGAIN.

“We should be getting food soon,” she sniffed.

I listened as she continued to talk, and marveled at how life behind bars (or concrete walls, rather) was so commonplace to some people. At the same time, I started to realize that I was no different from this woman who had pain in her life. She didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I could tell that much just by carrying on a five-minute conversation with her.

She finished answering my questions, and then said, “If you don’t mind, I’m really tired.”

“Oh, of course. I hope you feel better.”

“Thank you.”

She lay back down and fell asleep, almost instantly. I decided that sleep might not be such a bad idea. I lay down opposite her, and curled my legs up as close to my body as possible. I covered my head with the hood of my fancy sweater, and hugged myself tight. I shut my eyes.

The halls echoed with the sounds of the system. Keys rattled, doors opened and shut. The television down the hall blared and faded. Officers talked and laughed loudly; prisoners occasionally yelled and pounded on the door. Perhaps the sound that was most deafening was that of footsteps: back and forth, back and forth. Each time, the footsteps passed me by. It was agonizing.

I just wanted out, but no one was coming for me.

Feb 20 2012

4 Comments

Bad Behavior, Humility, Self Discovery, Some Kind of Crazy

Jail, Part One

March.

My tax job was, well, taxing. It was a good distraction, however. I was on a regular schedule. Six days a week, I woke up, ate breakfast, went to the gym, went to work, came home, and checked the LA Superior Court’s website, hoping for my divorce to be finalized.

Every day, the status read: PENDING.

Pending. The next chapter of my life was pending.

I tried to forget about my sister wife, and my husband’s failure to follow through with the divorce settlement. I was tired. I needed rest. Yet, even rest seemed to be pending.

One Thursday evening after work, I drove to my girlfriend’s house in Hollywood. Several of us were getting together to enjoy some wine, hors d’oeuvres and girl talk. I was so stressed out with work and my “pending” marital status that I didn’t really realize how desperately I needed to relax and socialize. It was a lovely evening. We laughed, talked, drank wine and enjoyed each other’s company. Around midnight, the “party” wound down and we all headed home.

As I drove back to Pasadena, I was overcome with thankfulness for my friends. I impulsively reached for my phone to send a quick text of thanks and love to one of the girls.

That was mistake number two.

I had just made the transition from the 101 to the 110 freeway when I saw the red and blue lights in my rear view mirror. My immediate reaction was one of indignance, and then the slow, sinking realization hit me.

Oh, shit, I’ve been drinking.

“Lord?” I spoke aloud, as I carefully pulled off the freeway.

I’m not drunk. I’ll be fine. I should NOT have been texting! Stupid!! Still, I racked my brain, trying to remember how much wine I had drunk – also, how much I had had to eat that day.

I rolled down my window to greet the fresh-faced CHP officer. He was cute.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” he asked, after the formal introduction was made. He shined his small flashlight directly into my eyes. The combination of the red, white and blue lights hurt. I blinked, and tried to adjust to the brightness all around me.

I smiled, and decided to be honest. I can’t be anything other than honest.

“I had some wine, yes,” I admitted. Mistake number three.

The 20-something CHP officer immediately asked me for my license and registration. I nervously fumbled around and presented them both, but the officer wasn’t satisfied. He asked me to step out of the car.

Oh, come on.

I went through the motions of the field sobriety test. I was happy to cooperate, because I had never been in trouble. In fact, I had only received a few tickets in my driving career, fought every one of them, and won. I wanted to get through the damn thing as fast as I could. I was tired. All I wanted to do was go home and get into bed.

I was asked to hold my head back and balance on one leg. I did it in 3” heels. I was also asked to close my eyes, count aloud and estimate 30 seconds. I did it in exactly 30 seconds.

Still, the officer motioned to his younger, blonder partner, who approached me with a Breathalyzer. Was this really happening? Surely I wasn’t drunk. I felt fine. I would never get behind the wheel if I had had too much to drink. Furthermore, I was doing so well on my tests! I was actually quite proud of myself. Those tests can be hard to pass even without alcohol involved.

I smiled and blew into the machine, confident that I would pass this one last test. I longed for my comfy bed.

The officer looked at the result.

“Okay, Spencer, I’m going to ask you to turn around and place your hands behind your back,” he commanded.

What is THIS test?

I shrugged and obeyed, and immediately felt the cold metal snap around my wrists. My heart sank.

Great job, Les. You’re going to jail. Way to go. Way to fuck your life up. Awesome.

My thoughts ran wild as I stood, handcuffed, on that sidewalk in Chinatown. It was almost 1:00 a.m. I watched as the officers searched my car. They rifled through sheets of music, empty water bottles and dirty gym clothing. My body remained calm but my thoughts ran wild as they escorted me to the back of their black and white vehicle. As we pulled away from the curb, I immediately passed harsh judgment against myself.

Oh, my god, I’m that person. I’m a drunk driver. Oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my…I AM SUCH A BADASS.

No! Wait! You’re not a badass! This is stupid! You’re drunk! You’re NOT drunk! This isn’t happening! But of course it’s happening. Why are you at all surprised? Your life is such a fucking disaster, and now look what you’ve gotten yourself into. Stupid choice.

You got what you deserved, you idiot.

Never in my life would I have imagined that I’d be arrested for anything. Yet, there I was, sitting handcuffed, in the back of a cop car, heading to jail, for driving under the influence.

I remained silent as the two officers handled me — a criminal. They explained that my car would be towed, and that I could get it the next day. They also explained to me that I’d be held in jail for at least eight hours, until I sobered up.

I’M NOT DRUNK! I wanted to scream.

But I WAS. I was legally drunk, and so ashamed.

According to the law, you’re a drunk driver if your blood alcohol level is .08. I would later find out that mine was at .10.

My wrists started to chafe and bruise from the pressure of the metal handcuffs, but I silently endured the pain. I exchanged somber yet witty banter with the CHP officers as they drove me to their field office to administer a second test on the bigger, more efficient breathalyzer.

All this time, I hadn’t shed a tear. I was strong. I was a big girl. I was responsible. I wasn’t going to cry.

I sat on a plastic chair in the CHP field office, shifting my hands uncomfortably behind me, trying to alleviate some of the agonizing pain. My wrists would remain deeply bruised for days.

“Ma’am, do you have someone who you can call? Your spouse? “ My arresting officer asked monotonously, as he filled out some paperwork.

I fiercely fixed my eyes upon his.

“Not anymore,” I answered, and then averted my gaze.

Suddenly, to my surprise, I burst into massive, yet silent tears. Shame, fear and embarrassment overcame me.

I am a criminal.

“I’m sorry,” I managed, as snot and tears streamed down my face. I wasn’t able to use my hands, so I raised my shoulder to my nose to sop up the fluid.

“This…is just…hard for me. I made such a stupid choice.”

The officer — clearly ten years younger than me – looked at me knowingly. “You’ll be all right,” he offered. “This kind of thing happens to good people, too.”

But I’m not good. I’m broken. So broken.

And then they took me to jail.

Upon arrival, I was released out of the handcuffs, booked, and stripped of my personal belongings. The last item taken was the string used to tighten the hood of my cozy, fur-lined sweater.

“What, do you really think I’m going to hang myself?!” I joked with the booking officer. She glared at me, clearly not amused.

For a moment, I forgot that I was a prisoner, and not her equal. I wasn’t ordering a hamburger or buying stamps at the post office – I was checking into JAIL. My sense of humor was not appreciated.

The TV behind her blared loudly and her co-worker sipped black coffee out of a small, stained, Styrofoam cup.

“Oh. I guess so. Well, here you go!” I gave it to her, cheerfully.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get it back,” she retorted, dryly. She then twisted her full lips and shook her head.

My arresting officer gently touched my elbow. He had been standing there the whole time. I realized I had started to become attached to the man.

“We’re almost done here, Spencer. I need to ask you a few questions first, though, okay? They might seem a little weird, but just go with it…” He was almost apologetic.

“Okayyyyy,” I responded, and tried to exercise my cheerfulness once again. I mean, if you’re going to spend the night in jail, you might as well have a good attitude about it, right?

The officer cleared his throat, and poised his pen above a sheet of paper.

“Do you have Hepatitis, VD or Chlamydia?”

I burst out laughing.

“Uhhmmm, NO. Should I be worried about contracting that here, though?”

Wait — where am I, anyway? I had no idea where I was, or how I was going to get home. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

He shot me a sly smile. I was secretly glad he appreciated my sarcasm.

“Have you ever had TB?”

“No.”

“Do you have any special medical problems that we should know about?”

I snorted.

“I really hope not.” Wakka, wakka!

“Are you pregnant?”

…

!(#(%)#%)@(%@)%@%!!!!!

“Hell to the no, and I don’t have any baby daddy prospects, either. Thanks so much for reminding me of my plight.”

He half-laughed, signed his name to a pink slip of paper, which he then handed to me.

So not cool.

“Okay, Spencer, follow me.”

I obeyed.

He led me to a small, concrete room with a large, heavy door at the end of the corridor. It held a cold, hard bench, a gleaming steel toilet and an observation camera in the corner of the ceiling. An obsolete payphone barely hung onto the wall, and chunks of black hair littered the floor. One other woman occupied the cell. She jumped up, eyes blazing, as the guard opened up the door to deposit me inside.

I clutched the pink paper – my Prisoner’s Receipt — as they shut and locked the door behind me.

Over the next several hours, I would hit rock bottom, and that bottom would continue to give way.

Category Archives: Humility