Shackled

By the time I was sentenced for my crime, I had already agonized over two prior court dates.

I spent my first visit to court in a cold sweat, wanting to represent myself (without a lawyer) and plead remorsefully for mercy from the judge.

A friend of mine came to that first court date with me. She insisted that I have a public defender and that I attempt to foist the blame for my actions onto my partner as the alleged catalyst of my rage. I did not believe that such a defense could get me off, mitigate the punishment, or even be considered permissible in court, but I still listened to her attempts to convince me that the court would understand how he had "pushed" me with words to my breaking point.

The best advice she gave me was to get a public defender. On my first court date, he convinced me (and her) that the charges weren't going to be dropped, that I was facing a mandatory three years probation (with a no alcohol stipulation, because I'd been drinking the night of my crime), and would be required to attend a 52-week "batterer intervention program."

"It's like anger management," he explained. "In a group setting with a therapist."

I actually liked the idea of therapy. I was often fascinated by the possibility of revealing my innermost thoughts to a professional who might possibly get me closer to an emotional epiphany. A longtime fan of Woody Allen films, I pictured my therapist indulging my narcissistic fantasy to talk about my childhood, my guarded fears and secret desires, at length. What I dreaded was the thought of having to share that therapist (and my delicate psyche) with a group of unknown, possibly dangerous, women.

***

Just before I was sentenced, a lawyer defending an absentee client pleaded for his client's case to be dropped. The prosecutor scoffed at the idea of dropping the charges. It was a domestic violence case.

After a heated rally, in which the prosecutor detailed a horrifying, bloody scene, she caved. Despite having what sounded like a solid case, all charges were dropped because the victim had repeatedly refused to answer calls from the prosecutor. She remained silent, and her attacker/boyfriend walked away from all consequences for his actions.

***

During recess, I was given a copy of my probation officer's report on my case. Details of my crime that I had given to her in an interview were twisted beyond recognition. If she had been a reporter, I could have sued for libel. As it was, I knew of no recourse for her mangling of my honest statements.

I felt shackled by an unjust system of imbalance.

A man walked free after bludgeoning his girlfriend solely because she was too afraid to tell the truth of what he had done to her, and I had to return to that courtroom to be sentenced for the same criminal charges (a rap that my public defender had told me was impossible to beat).

What's more, the details I'd given to my probation officer regarding what I didn't do were construed as acts I had willfully committed. My attempts at clarifying the situation led to a report that was partly a work of fiction.

***

I wanted to cry foul for that man getting off for a crime far more violent than mine.

I wanted to avoid a final plea until I could get my P.O. to admit to misinterpreting my statements in her report.

Most of all, I wanted to get it over with.

I submitted to a flawed justice system. I cringed at the thought of three years of heightened scrutiny, unwarranted searches and seizures, and being banned from entering bars.

I wondered how I was going to keep a roof over my head and pay off all of those court fees and fines at the same time.

The only thing I was slightly hopeful about (despite it being an additional financial burden) was that mandatory batterer's intervention program. I was hopeful I would find a good therapist, reach an epiphany or two about myself, and maybe learn to open up to the hardened thug's I thought for sure would flesh out the rest of the group.

"what dreams may come"

I'd been noodling over a few as yet unpublished postings, wondering what's been keeping me, when I realized that I'd been shelving a dream that's been haunting me for over a week now that needs writing.

****

I'm in a white house, sitting at a wooden table painted white in an all white kitchen with two other women I've become acquainted with quite recently. We're celebrating an achievement of mine. One asks me if I want a beer. I think to myself, why not? I've earned it. I say yes.

She gets up from the table, reaches into an antique fridge, and hands me a Budweiser in a can.

I crack it open, and gulp it down. I can taste it. Cold carbonated hops and barley. I'm examining the can. Beads of sweat drip down the red and white and blue logo. I'm thinking: why am I drinking this beer?

I look past the two women. The back door is open. It's directly in front of me and just behind one of them. Bright white daylight nearly blinds the outside view, but I can just make out a faint blue sky and endless green grass out there.

We're all talking. We're celebrating, but somehow I feel faraway. I begin second guessing myself. Wondering why I would say yes to drinking a beer when I know very well that I'm on probation with a stipulation not to imbibe alcohol. Why would I do that when I want to set a good example for these women? I want to show them that I choose not to further violate the rule of law in any way. Yet, here I am with this can in my hand.

Then I begin to wonder: Why Budweiser in a can? I haven't had a Bud since I was in high school.

And if I were going to risk breaking my probation by drinking, wouldn't I want to do it with a beer to remember? Something truly tasty. Guinness, how I remember your heartiness, yet all I can taste is the rim of this can and it's cheap contents--a mass-produced fermented piss water.

***

What do I make of this dream?

Although shorter than most of my dreams, it replays in my waking hours much more often than I would have expected. It's rife with imagery and gustatory sensations, and I wonder if any of my dream books have any explanations for the symbolic meaning of a can of good ol' American beer.

It's only after pondering this particularly puzzling dream image for days that I have realized: that is the beer my dad drank when I was a child.

I think my subconscious is speaking to me. It's saying: "I want a beer, but I want to set a good example for my peers..."

And perhaps I'm torn between the instant gratification I saw as a child in my father's face (when he cracked open his first beer after work) and the need for further self reflection. Faced with this perpetual dilemma, I'm reminded of the chorus to the song "Sober" by Tool (which I've posted below), which goes:

"Why can't we not be sober?

I just want to start this over.

Why can't we sleep forever?

I just want to start this over."

In my dream, alcohol, that supposed reward for a job well done, was actually an agent of sleep. I lost sight of my friends. I stared either at the can in my hand or out into an infinite abyss of white light and green grass. I believe that the question the song posits begs a passionate because. What do you think?