Red line, and other pains

When I found myself back in prison, nearly two decades removed from my first bid,

 I had to struggle with the humiliation of recidivism. For 3 years, anger, depression, and despair were constant companions that I grappled with behind bars. More formidable they were than any of the concrete, razor wire, inmates, or guards combined.

Difficult was the loss of a relationship that I truly thought was going to be my last - and with a person I had considered to be my soulmate. How my then marriage had degenerated into an orgy of insanity and lies is something I've yet to begin to explain.

Then there was the separation from my daughter. When I left, she was just shy of turning 16. For 3 years I could only hope and pray that she didn't need me - futile prayers for sure.  At 19 she broods, deeply connected to melancholy that pools from the void of an absent father.

Losing time with my kid is one thing - then, there are the personal/material losses I've had to go through. During the course of my case, I was barred from living in my own house and had to temporarily leave belongings behind. Which my wife promptly discarded or pawned. Among my most treasured momentos were letters and trinkets from my (step)daughter Octavia who died in 2010. Ours had been a typically bad step- relationship at first, but over time, we became close enough that I rarely refer to her with "step." Her things, even her first sonogram (Octavia died from an ectopic pregnancy) are all gone now, treated like refuse.

When I first went to prison in 1989 I lost all of my then possessions. Including those from my childhood and teenage years - the worst loss being baby pictures and a prized comic book collection. Upon release, I embarked on a painstaking effort, for 15 years, to recollect those comics, attempting to reclaim the past I'd lost. The first Ninja Turtles comics (in black & white), The Death of Supergirl, the introduction of Punisher and Electra. The death of Gwen Stacy in Spider-Man. My newer pieces included the all black cover issue of Spidey issued in October 2001 and the first issue of Ultimate Spider-Man, signed and worth $800 (now pawned).

In 2001, I met my birth mother, who gave me up for adoption. She gave me silver coins and jewelry to gift to my daughter. They were pawned. My letters from her: trashed.

A more recent loss, however stings the deepest:

After serving 3 years I paroled this past March. Newly free also meant newly single and while I'm devoutly Muslim, my conduct was not the most pious at times as it pertained to romantic prospects. My relationship with one particular girlfriend took a sharp turn towards commitment when she sent me a pic of a pregnancy test with a clear, red line: we were pregnant. During the course of all this, I was being vocal on social media about my case and stating clearly that my ex-wife is a pathological liar whose lies sent me to prison - to her chagrin, of course. In retaliation she deluged my parole officer with complaints and more fictitious accusations. Exasperated by her efforts and those by a plethora of friends, parole supervisors ordered me detained while they investigated in June. I was ultimately exonerated, however I missed submitting for mandated urinalysis one day and this was pounced on to revoke my parole for 90 days. I was shuffled across the city and state for several weeks and was unable to contact my girlfriend, who lived out of state. The worry and stress bore down on her harder - she had a miscarriage.

Epilogue:

I try to chalk up the things I lost as "just material" - sometimes fantasizing I lost them in a for. Except this particular "fire" wells and talks. It recites poems and has kids. And it lies and detroys lives. Like mine.

The last time I saw Octavia was when she was visiting before she left for Egypt (where she died). We took a picture together. I remember how tightly she held her arm around my waist, how she whispered "thanks for being my dad" after the shutter snapped. It's the only thing left I have of hers.

Maybe one day I'll restart a comic collection, but for now, I watch DC and marvel movies and shows on Netflix, reminiscing.

My mother is islamophobic, so we don't have a relationship. At one brief moment we did, but I can't prove it anymore.

Melancholy or no, I am grateful for my daughter. Grateful we are both still here, still connected. She is so dope - her future is bright and I plan to be all up in it.

As for my unborn child, who I will never hold or feed, or teach to ride a bike or how to recite the first chapter of the Qur'an - I ache for. I miss not knowing what he or she will even look like. For now and forever, the phrases "red line" and "seeing red" have a while new meaning for me.