Photo by Reid Yalom
| Paroled Again |
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| Saturday, 25 July 2009 09:46 | |||
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There is no way of predicting which trauma you will bring out of prison with you. I brought out recurring nightmares. Two of them. My second nightmare has three components to it. 1) I am always in prison. 2) I am always trying to find out when I am getting out, but nobody knows. My counselor is always confused; or my brother can’t reach my lawyer; or my dad is waiting for a call from my judge. 3) And I’m pretty sure that I was already supposed to have been released. I don’t know if I’ve been kept a few days longer than my sentence, or a few months, or even a couple of years. In the beginning, either of these nightmares would depress me for an entire day. I suffered deep bouts of melancholy because I felt trapped. But over time, the frequency and intensity of the dreams decreased. The stabbing dream rarely happens anymore. In fact, I can’t recall the last time I dreamt it. The second dream occurs quite frequently, three or four times a month. I wake up and remember it and say to myself “Thats sucks,” but then I move on. I’ve always figured that dream would be with me forever, as the permanent prison scar on my soul. That is, until two Saturdays ago. That night I dreamt I was in a holding cell with 20 prisoners. A guard opened the door and a nurse with a cart stood there ready to pass out medication for pill call. I walked toward the door and lo and behold I saw Lisa Solis walking in the corridor with a clipboard. Now you have to know a few things about Lisa Solis. I had a huge crush on her in high school. Every class has a girl that all the other girls love, who doesn’t get talked badly about, who all the boys think is beyond their reach. The seemingly sweet and pure girl. Lisa Solis was that girl in our grade. Fortunately for me, we were close friends. Unfortunately, nothing more. But I adored her. I have a photo of her from our 10th grade English class. With her Dorothy Hamill haircut. This is the iconic image I have of her in my head. And that was the Lisa Solis who was walking in that prison corridor. A short, innocent tenth grader. Lisa, Lisa, it’s me, Joe Loya! Hey, did you hear about me? I changed! The guard tried to shove me back into the cell, as I was beginning to block the inmates from getting their drugs. Oh yeah, I heard. And guess what? I have your release papers right here. You’re getting out on Saturday. See, here they are. And with that, the guard allowed me to reach for the papers. As soon as she handed them to me, the dream ended. I woke up and it was Sunday morning. I was exuberant all day.
I am a powerful person. I can say what I want to people. I can approach anybody about anything. I fearlessly stormed into banks so I still have some of that ferocity when it comes to going after what I want. But I could never get what I wanted in that dream. The helplessness harassed me. Yet, for some reason, my imagination permitted me to let go of the nightmare. This might sound corny, but for the last few weeks I have felt paroled again. And these days, in the times we live in, I will take all emancipations any way I can get them. 
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The first nightmare is always the same. Six men rush into my prison cell, toss a bed sheet over me, then begin to stab me to death. In my dream I slug and kick. One night I woke myself up because I literally kicked my big toe into the wall by my bed. I thought I broke my toe, the pain was that intense. I limped all day. Another night I woke from the nightmare in time to see my fiancee flying off the side of the bed, her eyes wide with panic. She had tried to shake me out of my distress, but I shoved her violently thinking she was one of my attackers. I spent the day depressed, seriously considering whether it was ethical for me, with my violent past, to allow a woman to become intimate with me. Up to that point it was a point of pride with me that I was a man who could protect her from my worse self during the day, having learned how to control my rage. But I felt defeated and vulnerable knowing that while we slept I was unable to protect her from my violent imagination. (I finally subjugated my fear, and submitted instead to my optimism as I decided to move forward with the marriage.)