Saturday, November 06, 2004

Group Therapy

Since I'm still in a state of denial, I thought I'd go on for a bit about our Correctional System.
I got caught with way less than a joint years ago-while I was carrying a Federal Badge- but I was on Federal property at the time. That meant Federal charges.

Until then, I didn't realize a burnt-up crumb of rolling paper was Narcotics Paraphenalia. Or that it was worth five years in club Fed. I got an official DoJ summons addressing the case of Allan VS. The United States of America. That's a depressing document to receive.

Being white and employed (by the same Government that was prosecuting me) I hired a very pricey lawyer. My high-powered boss wrote a nice letter about my invaluable national service and I got off on a plea and probation.

And outpatient therapy. Three times a week-sometimes four. Three hours at a time.
My first meeting was with my probation officer.
Her first question to me?

Why are you in such trouble?

I thought this was standard interrogation, but she seemed a bit perplexed.

You were caught with .3 grams of pot?

Yes Ma'am. In my ashtray. I was changing a tire...

(cuts me off) I see all that. Are you employed at the moment? (Yes-see? My Fed badge)

Well, I'm going to need a urine sample.

Of course, I failed.

(Sidebar: I've done everything you can without using a needle-but I'd put all but herb and beer behind me by this point. Years behind me-on my own, thank you very much)

So they send me to roomfuls of crack-heads and junkies.

There was the guy who spent his paycheck on crack, spent the weekends in his truck-which was parked in the work lot- and got fucked up until it was Monday morning.
"Never late to work ", he said, until a nail-gun he was repairing put out his eye. He failed a tox-screen at the ER. Back to jail for him. No disability.

Crazy Shirley? She got really wired and hit her husband with a frying pan full of bacon. She told funny stories about domestic violence until, one day, she came in all fucked-up and threatened a counselor with a folding chair. That'll violate your probation in a heartbeat.

One of the most fucked-up things was the 'Faces and Feelings' chart. It was a chart of cartoon faces that were supposed to represent 'Feelings'. Pick a feeling and tell the group about why you chose that feeling.

Pick a face? How about I pick all these faces-the ones that surround me, the ones that want to help me with my marijuana problem? How about you- you're a beaten-down old crack-head and you're ten years younger than me. You want some? I'm slapping your face and and you're too smacked-down to do anything but nod off, you pitiful piece of junkie trash.

So the rage vents on Mr. Counselor. How long did you use until you found Jesus? Are you validated by the ineffectual effort you make to salvage this room-full of human detritus?
Are you better than them? Did your god tell you that? Did you know that your wife fucks swans?

Ahhh, it's not his fault. In reality, I just kept my mouth shut and did my time. Same as Mr. Counselor.


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