My twenty-one month stint in prison drew to a close. I was arrested in November of 2006 and held without bail, a legal procedure I did not even know existed before it happened to me. I was willing to pay any price to get free. But, the prosecution argued that I was a danger to society; I had, after all, stalked my ex-boyfriend for nine months and broken into his home. He had heard me on his porch and called the police. These are the facts, facts I wish I could change, but cannot.   
When the police arrested me, I howled and shrieked, warping the air with waves of angst. I was a deranged person in a state of terror, like a live version of Edvard Munch's "The Scream.” In an eternal instant, I went from the comfort of my plush life to the unforgiving steel seat of a paddy wagon. I was sent to prison to await sentencing from there.
Prison is a punishment on levels more numerous than there are paths to enlightenment. Mail is searched and frequently misplaced. Phone calls are recorded and permitted only during limited hours. Talking to other inmates is regulated and restricted in time and place.With scant means for communication, an inmate's connection to emotional support is minimal, an insufferable condition. Prison is, among other things, loneliness in a crowd. 
During my first months in prison, I thought often of a book in which the author writes about anger. He explains that the effective use of anger leaves the offending party a way to make amends. "What purpose will the anger serve," the writer posits, "if there is not a means to rectify the situation?" I recalled his theory because I saw no way to right my wrong. My situation seemed hopeless, irreparable. I felt unable to overcome the damage I had caused. I saw no way out except death. 
I was in a state of chronic distress. One day, I walked through the halls of the administration building, crying. A petite woman with deep auburn hair and a face of firm kindness approached me. "What's wrong?" she asked. Her voice sounded like ambrosia to me in my starved state.
She ushered me into her office, a closet-sized, institutional space of white-washed walls and fluorescent lighting. Her office was decorated with lamps donning patterned shades, chairs softened with cushions, and walls covered with pictures. I sat and faced a poster of a mountain obscured by a mist of fog. She sat behind a desk, behind stalagmites of paperwork, and waited to hear my story. 
"I broke into my ex-boyfriend's house," I told her.  
She nodded. 
To the woman wearing a black suit and a thin circle of pearls around her neck, I described my obsession, my anger, and my horrific act. Afterward, she turned to her computer and tapped a few key strokes. I was not offended; her typing consoled me because it meant my confession did not leave her dumbstruck. She was able to think and function. "Hmm," she said. "Well, it seems to me you need to learn to love. Love without possessing." Her tone was matter-of-fact; it sounded like a diagnosis. She was describing a condition from which I could recover. 
"I am going to have you talk to one of our mentors here, Ellen. She's going to help you. You wait right here. I'm Sister Mary. I'm going to get Ellen, and she's going to talk to you. Okay?" 
Ellen entered, her short blonde hair flipped in apostrophes that framed her face. She asked me questions and in the end, she said, "Come to my class on Wednesday." 
Ellie began the class by reading a paragraph out loud from a small, blacks book. "Remember what happened to you in the past is a result of your behavior. Think of every reason you have for not behaving in that way. Fill your mind with constructive thoughts. Ask yourself, ‘Am I keeping my thoughts constructive?'"
Ellie snapped off her bifocals, placed her hands in her lap, and looked around the room in a challenging way. "So, ladies, why are you here? What thoughts did you have that got you in this mess?"
Ellen did not chastise or coddle. She did not convert or even try, at least not in the religious sense. She taught how to think differently. Listen to your instincts, she urged, so you will not get lost. Define your boundaries so as to not get depleted. Forgive yourselves so the past is not your future. Her lessons were the proverbial shovel I needed to begin cleaning up my mess.
The knowledge Ellen gave me, the ideas, took me from the brink of suicide to the precipice of a new life. Over my months in prison, first with staccato bursts of insight, and then with steady acknowledgement, I accepted what I had done. When I was sentenced, I admitted my wrongdoing, accepted my punishment, and asked for forgiveness. I released the anger I had felt for my ex-boyfriend, and found calm. I realized the stigma of being a felon, what others believe about me, matters little compared to what I believe of myself. 
On my last day in prison, I packed up my belongings. I formulated how I would say goodbye to the people for whom I had come to care. I wanted to secure the ends, tie knots in the thin strands of the life I had made in this sparse environment. I decided I would leave my well-worn t-shirts to a friend, my leftover cosmetics to an inmate with no outside financial help, and my headphones to my cellmate, who had generously shared her TV with me. In a place where few possessions are allowed, what you leave to whom takes on the dramatic intensity of a deceased millionaire's reading of their last will and testament. 
I sorted the items into piles: my faded t-shirts, my half-filled bottles of shampoo, lotion, and conditioner, my broken headphones, and an extension cord. I selected the outfit I would wear tomorrow, the day I was to be released. And as I surveyed my belongings and assigned each a place, I reflected on the long journey I had taken in this confined square footage and on the treasures I had amassed in prison.