I remember the days leading up to my incarceration everyone kept telling me not to worry. It was all going to be okay. I wouldn't really go to jail. But some part of me knew such was not the case. In my soul I knew I would. I really think it freaked everyone else out more than me. At some level I had already accepted it and made as much peace as I could with the whole idea.
And then - there I was. Locked up. And, truth be told, I didn't mind it. Worst part of it was the constant racket and lights on all the damn time - but other than that, no biggie. I fell into the routine so quickly. I went to "work." I did my job. It was a routine. I knew what to expect. I knew what was expected of me. I spent my days counting the hours until my release.
Yet when that day came - I didn't want to go home. I remember sitting there that morning at about 4 a.m. wishing - hoping - something would come up and they wouldn't let me go. That maybe someone somewhere had screwed something up and I would have to stay longer. No such luck. Five o'clock came and my name was called and within the hour I was back on the outside. And I couldn't have been more disappointed.
Weird.
Though I wouldn't do anything to go back (now) and it's not my desire to be in jail - I do still visit those feelings. I am really not sure what it was that appealed to me so much. A combination of stability and routine that was so contradictory to my life as it was on the outside? A freedom from the lunacy of the people in my life? I don't know.
I'm glad I went. I won't go back. But I am glad I went.
