Since the day I left my home upon separation, I’ve used the word “prison” often to refer to my experience. It’s used many times in my journal. And when it’s not used, it’s often been in my mind. I felt I was put in prison, even though from every outward indications I was freed. I no longer had children at  my feet, no longer responsible for the home life of my children and wife, no longer tied to their day-to-day activities. I no longer had responsibility to tuck my children in at night, I no longer prayed with them, I didn’t need to help them with their homework. I no longer helped around the house, no more honey-do list, no more yard upkeep. I was free!!!

But what the appearance may have been on the outside, that was not my reality. My now 10-year-old son hates swearing of any kind. Words that others use in movies and on the street, he refuses to let leave his lips. Even when we read the scriptures he skips those words, the most notable being “hell.” And that is the word that well describes my experience. My life in the condo where I first moved is described by that word. Whereas to others it appeared that I locked the door behind me as I entered the condo, the reality was that my action was simply symbolic of what I felt my wife had done to me, locked me in prison. To be alone at night for dinner, to spend those hours in the condo before bedtime was in every real sense a feeling of being in prison.

I often left as darkness descended in the evening, to wander the sidewalks of the condo complex and the surrounding streets. I couldn’t take the prison any more. But, you see, the prison followed me. Whether on the inside or outside of the condo door, I was a prisoner. There was no relief.

Once a week for a few hours I was allowed visitors. They came on a weeknight evening before dinner. We were allowed to eat together, to “laugh” and play until 8:30 when visiting hours were over. As much as I enjoyed my young visitors, and as much as I would smile and “laugh” with them, the reality of my prison, knowing that my visitors would be leaving all too soon, made their visits painful. So painful. I could no longer tuck them in. I was no longer part of their evening routine. Everything we did felt forced. Throwing Frisbees in the courtyard, tossing lacrosse balls back and forth, reading from the scriptures or the “Friend” magazine, all of these were “pretend.” They were fabrications of what used to happen, going through the motions of what we used to do as “family,” but now being done as my prison visitors.

I was also allowed these same visitors every other weekend. That meant that twice a month I had my favorite evening. Fridays we usually went out to a movie, a park, or some activity, because having my four visitors in a one-bedroom apartment made us all stir crazy. So my favorite night became Saturdays. This was the closest semblance I had to my pre-incarceration life. We would sit around on the floor and talk, read, and fall asleep on the floor and couch. Although still forced, if I ignored the reality, it felt similar for that one hour, but only twice a month compared to the 30 of a real family.

During the five months I lived in the condo, I had only one other set of visitors. Oddly, these visitors were my wife’s brother and his wife. Even though I have a wonderful brother, sisters, and parents, none came to visit. No friends, no other relatives … nobody. “The silence was deafening,” as they say, hours alone.

The feeling at this time (and it hasn’t changed, but I ignore it better), was as if I was a criminal. In every sense of the word.

Why do I share all this? For those of you who have not experienced what I’m describing, you may think I’m exaggerating. For those of you who have gone through this yourself, I hope to let you know that you’re not alone. But lastly, this post is a precursor to things I’ll share in future posts. I have learned much since my separation and divorce.

Know, dear brother, that these feelings are real, not imagined, and that they are not your fault. Yes, we men tend to be a wicked bunch, and we are complicit in the failure in our marriages (there is no pancake so thin that it doesn’t have two sides), but the feelings of imprisonment are real, and mostly caused by things done outside our control.

You may recall from a previous post that when my wife and I were first separated, I was out of a job. I  started a new job just a couple weeks after our divorce was final. Another “nail in the coffin” of my prison experience was when I learned that my wages were going to be garnished for my alimony and child support. It wasn’t that I wasn’t willing to support my children, but the whole method in which I was told, and that it came about, solidified the feeling of my prison sentence. I was not consulted, I was not offered options, nobody talked to me as a human being. The sentence of “alimony and child support shall be taken from your wages” was violation of my freedom. Multiple thousands of dollars were extracted from my paycheck with no consent or action on my part.

To complete my illusion of feeling like a criminal (in actuality it was no illusion, more on that in future posts), at a family gathering to which my sister-in-law invited my ex, I overheard my father speaking to her, asking what he could do to help her. My heart sank. This “poor” woman was being put on a pedestal as the victim, when she had divorced me, and I monthly was paying her thousands of dollars for the right to see my children about 114 waking hours a month out of 720, or about 16% of their monthly lives. (You may think it odd that I took the time to count the hours, but after all, prisoners have plenty of time to scratch tick marks on prison walls, and it’s what they live for and focus on.) And later I was hurt when my father mentioned they sent my children’s birthday presents and cards to their mother’s, even after I reminded them that I see them weekly.

I digress. My point of all this was to describe my feeling that I was paying a huge sum to see my children for only a few hours a month. My wife and children were free, living in a beautiful home going on with life as usual, and I was imprisoned. Night after night I have envisioned them sitting around the dinner table, doing chores and homework, jumping on the tramp, walking the neighborhood, going to the park, going to church, bringing friends home to play (that I no longer get to meet), going on dates (how is a father to protect a daughter or counsel a son?!), crying and laughing together … (the list is endless).

There is much more I could and want to say. But there will be plenty of posts to share.

But, dear brothers, it is important that, as painful as our experience may be, that we persevere. We must not leave our children. In spite of the difficulties imposed upon us, we must not check out of our children’s lives. So much is against us. In spite of embarrassment, belittlement by the system, by family and friends, we must love our children, and most importantly and sometimes most difficultily, remain true to our covenants and activity in the Church. It seems nearly insurmountable, but it is possible and critical.

Brother Carl

When I first moved from home, I moved into a nice one-bedroom condo, free of charge because a good neighbor who was in the real estate business hadn’t yet sold it. The kitchen and living room were one room. The condo was on the second floor of the complex. It was August. As you walked in the front door your eyes fell upon the large living room window opposite the door that took up almost the entire wall. Just outside the window was a large maple tree whose branches and leaves entirely filled the window. The tree was in the sun that filtered into the room. It was healing. There were always birds and butterflies.

But the condo was prison. Truly. I’d left my home where I was with my large family. The dinner table was filled with noise and laughter and teasing. Evenings were spent helping with homework, jumping on the tramp, kids rolling and frolicking on the floor, and tucking my them into bed. My favorite, reading at bedtime. My oldest daughter played my grandmother’s piano that was in our family room. She is one of the few people I’ve ever known that chose to practice, so the house was always filled with music. In other words, there was always noise. I often mentally complained about the design of our home, because through the open vaulted ceiling the entire main living area of kitchen, living room, family room, and upstairs bedroom hallway were all connected. It was hardly every silence unless it was after 10:00 at night because noise from any open family area bounced off the ceiling to all other areas.

The condo was solitary confinement. In every sense of the word. After the noise of family life, the silence was unnerving, constricting, and painful. It wasn’t until years later I realized that much of what I was feeling was homesickness. I’d never had that before. I was deeply profoundly homesick for my wife and children.

I happened to also be out of work. I’d been laid off a few months earlier (divorce and being out of work being just two of several parts of the “perfect storm”). Daytime I was at the library where I could get an internet connection and look for work, and nights were in my prison. I had no TV, nothing but me and Silence to keep me company. And Silence was a cruel companion.

Actually, silence wasn’t my only companion. Tears were the other.

Sometimes a red-breasted robin came to visit. He would sit in that amazing tree in its cool shadows. I would sit on the couch facing the window, truly a “picture window,” and watch. He was oblivious to the prisoner on the other side.

I wish I could put words to what I felt during those months. Those who have lived it understand.

If you are in this position, there are a few things you gotta do. First, know that others have experienced this. You’re not alone. Next, and most important, find a foundation to carry on. That foundation should be Christ. Find Him in whatever way you can. I was lucky enough to have an sensitive brother-in-law who pulled me aside at a family gathering. He recommended that I read two things.

Larry first recommended a book called “He Did Deliver Me From Bondage.” By a remote chance (I don’t believe in accidents), my wife and I had gotten a copy of this book years earlier, recommended by some dear friends of ours. It was a 1996 version in a three-ring binder. I had read part of it long ago. I was surprised at the coincidence of his recommendation. I’d started but never finished it. And, by “chance,” I happened to have brought my copy with me to the condo, among the few things I did bring. (You can find a much newer version of this at Amazon.com.)

His other recommendation was “Continuous Atonement,” by Brad Wilcox (also on Amazon.com). I’d not heard of this one.

To say that my dear brother-in-law was inspired misses the mark. These two books set me on a path of healing. I devoured them both. As I read “He Did Deliver me,” it being a workbook, I filled out every question blank, ink spilling into the margins. I wrote deeply personal things that I never plan to have others see. Writing became healing for me. I also wrote in my journal. Pages upon pages, endless thoughts, pleading, and feelings, sharing my innermost struggles. They weren’t for anyone else to see.

If you’re still reading, I have recommendations:

• Get on your knees. Get on your knees. Get on your knees.
• Find some support. Give in. Give up. Realize you can’t do it yourself. Talk to your ecclesiastical leader (your bishop if you’re LDS).
• If you feel so impressed, read the two books that I read. (Don’t bury yourself in TV, the internet, or other mind-numbing things. In fact, I’d recommend no TV and no internet.)
• Don’t give in to bad choices. The hunger you feel for companionship of any kind, is strong. Don’t let it direct you down a dark path.
• Don’t expect relief overnight, nor in weeks or months. But healing will come.
• Let this experience make you a better person, not worse.

We can’t not water our lawn in June, July, and August, and water a lot in September and think it will be OK. Keep doing those things you know are good and right, even though it will be hard, awkward, or embarrassing. Don’t let this period be a desert in your life.

My dear brothers, Christ lives. He heals. Accept what He has done for you. Start the healing process.

Brother Carl