Of Destiny, Prison and a Calf Skin Coat

“Our lives will depend upon the decisions which we make, for decisions determine destiny.” – Thomas S. Monson

It's pretty comforting to imagine that we have a destiny.

But does destiny mean we don't have to worry about it and things will fall into place, or are we participants in that destiny? Are we making choices that take us closer or further from it? Alternatively, if there is no destiny, are we just landing here with a clean slate, no invisible thread connected to a future, and free to choose this or that, shaping our reality as we go along?

I do believe it's a combination of the two. At least, that's been my experience.

When I was in junior high, we had to read 'The Giver' by Lois Lowery, a novel about a boy growing up in a society that initially seems utopian but is soon revealed to be dystopian and quite horrifying. In the book, the children are delegated "vocations" after puberty. You're a farmer, you're a social worker, you're a scientist. All decided presumably based on the children's aptitudes and school records.

Something about that always enticed me. As I've mentioned in a previous piece, decision-making has often been a struggle for me, and as a child with many interests, none of them seem to call out to me more potent than the other; the idea that someone might just pick for me was somewhat comforting.

Of course, now I see how awful that would be, but at the time, I was intrigued by the idea.

I'm not sure when decision-making became so burdensome. But over the years, I've felt a strange, floating peace when that weight was lifted, which I'm almost embarrassed about now.

My family had an interest in prison. My grandfather would go to different jails, preach, and pray with inmates while my grandmother, cousins, and I sat waiting in the hot, sticky summer heat with all the windows rolled down in their Pontiac 6000. My father loved books, movies, and television shows about prison. As I watched them with him on days I was home sick from school with a wonder bread sandwich on my lap, I found myself not so frightened by the prospect of being in prison but instead intrigued by the idea that once you were there, you had fewer choices to make, less decision to come to in your daily life. It was regimented from when you woke up to when you went to sleep, what you eat, wear, and do. All of it is decided for you before you even open your eyes.

Of course, dear reader, I understand this is a terrible fate that none of us want to experience. Taking away our rights to make our own choices is part of the punishment our society deems necessary for retribution for crimes committed. All the same, the idea of 'freedom' being both taken away and, in some backward way, 'gained' by not needing to worry about the little things is intriguing.

What shall I make for breakfast? Don't worry about it; you're having this. What shall I do for work? Don't worry- we have a job making license plates for you over here! When is bedtime? It's 10 o'clock every night.

Not all of our choices are taken away from us in prison. Some inmates arrive and decide then and there that they will change their ways, dedicate themselves to some new spiritual endeavour, take care of their body, read, even go to school, and try to make something better of themselves so that when they rejoin society they can feel changed by the time 'inside' time not being wasted, lessons learned and if they are lucky rehabilitation gained. Of course, we all know the prison industrial complex is a demon and ungodly in so many ways; I want to assure you I'm in no way glamorizing prison as some holiday from the pressures of life; I'm just illustrating the unlikely and mysterious allure it had to me as a child.

A rehab is a place where some folks find this space to heal and retreat, where most of the choices to be made are taken from us, and a regimented schedule of therapy, social time, and activities are offered in an attempt to realign ourselves with the person we are under the addictions.

I was a hair away from entering one of these establishments in my mid-20s. After a visit to the hospital (my third in a year) for a heart condition I had called Atrial Fibrillation, which was aggravated when I drank or did drugs, I found myself laying on a hospital bed, under glaring fluorescent light, holding the hand of a nurse who asked probing questions about my desire to live, my fears and eventually suggested that I read Echart Tolles 'The Power of Now' as a prescription for my anxiety, a book I'd read in high school and clearly wasn't offering the police or wisdom she thought it might garner me. After she left the room, a doctor and more nurses came to my room with papers for me to sign that would immediately enter me into a rehab program. I asked if I'd be able to leave and prepare some things before I went, but the answer was no; once I signed this sheet of paper, my choices and my freedoms would be stripped, and I'd be admitting to the possibility of wanting to harm myself (which I didn't have intentions of). I would be ushered from this wing of the hospital to the psychiatric ward, where I would stay, be medicated, and hopefully find wellness.

Despite being in a low place, laying there on the crumpled hospital bed in my clubbing outfit from the night before, reeking of booze and cigarettes, wearing skinny jeans, a striped tight t-shirt, and an awkwardly placed turquoise headband, I felt a new sort of panic, on the one hand, throwing away the responsibilities I had (rent and cell phone bills would be late that month) the messed up relationships I was juggling, my 'work' all of that would vanish. Sort of. On the other, it would all be dropped onto someone else. My family, presumably, my family, what would my mother think? This would be awful for her, a call from a doctor with a French accent telling her that her firstborn was just admitted to a mental hospital.

It wasn't worth it, and I declined to sign the papers, much to the doctor's dismay and the nurses' repeated and whining, " Are you sure?" After my IV drip of magnesium was entirely deposited into my bloodstream, and I felt rehydrated, I peeled myself off the hospital bed. I wandered through the hospital halls and out into the bright light of day, back to my apartment, where I still felt frightened for the future but relieved to have dodged a 'Girl Interrupted' moment.

Funnily enough, that movie was significant to my friends and me as teenagers; we loved the soundtrack, listening to the 70's music on repeat when we hung out, smoked cigarettes out the windows of my friend Julia's mini home and did shots of vodka out of the cap of a Smirnoff bottle while her mother was in the kitchen making dinner. We'd hop out the window and wander through the trailer park with Julia in her 70's inspired calfskin and wool jacket, just like the one Angelina Jolie character wore in the film. Julia was 'Lisa,' and I was Winona Ryder's 'Susanna,' at least that's how it felt to me; Julia being the braver of the two of us, I felt smaller and shyer, and had a need to impress and rise to the occasion whenever the bottle was passed to me, and another cigarette lit. We glamorized mental illness and felt a sort of kinship with the women in the film; our parents and society didn't understand us, and we were 'different' and wanted to exaggerate that by making bad decisions and being rebels.

But sitting on that bed, pen in hand, moments away from the real thing, suddenly it didn't feel so glamorous. I realized I wasn't playing dress-up anymore. This wasn't a movie; I wouldn't be cooler because I'd been to rehab. I wish that moment changed me for good, but it didn't- just for a bit. That is a story for another time.

As I grew older, I recognized that what was alluring to me about prison and rehab was nothing new. Folks had been retreating to monasteries for centuries to find the same structure and freedom from the daily grind, a much healthier source, to be sure, for inner reflection and growth.

Yoga retreats and silent Buddhist meditation retreats offer another reprieve from choice and decision-making. Here, we contemplate, eat healthy food, exercise, and find peace- all by our will. I often go on these retreats in exchange for my time.

The first time I committed to one of these 'getaways' was not as a paying customer but as a volunteer. I found myself in rural Quebec at the Sivananda Ashram Yoga Camp, where I worked the front desk (because I was bilingual ) in exchange for my time at the center. I also mopped floors and helped in the kitchen to access the daily structure offered. I was up at 5:30 am for prayers, meditation and chanting, breakfast and moving yoga classes, and volunteering most of the day. I loved being of service and knowing where my three meals a day were coming from and that they would be nourishing. Still, eventually, after almost a month of praying to images of the guru daily and the surprise volunteering 'opportunities' we were expected to participate in, like building a new temple, which consisted of backbreaking hard labour, I grew tired of all the structure. I started to feel the potential cult vibes sneaking in the more I was asked if I wanted to 'join' and take more for pay courses.

Before a trip to India for my 30th birthday and needing extra cash, I had another opportunity for isolated time to reflect and have my schedule determined for me. Alta Sciences was a medical center offering you money for your time and body for drug testing. Alta Sciences only did drug testing for drugs that were already approved and greenlit, but the point of this particular 'trial' was to see if the generic drug worked as well as the name brand; some of us would be given placebos, and some of us a minuscule amount of the drug. This particular one was for people who had stomach ulcers.

And so for 5 weekends in a row, I would show up to the clinic at 5 am on a Friday morning, my body clear of any drugs or alcohol, a small bag packed with books, a laptop, and my journal, and I would surrender myself and the rest of my things to the nurses. Tossing all of my 'outside' stuff into a clear plastic bag and placing them into a locker, I would be frisked and searched for contraband ( outside food or drugs). The items I was bringing would be rifled through, shampoo and soaps had to be a specific size and brand, and my shoes were surrendered for some cheap slip-on slippers. Once past the guards, I was offered a bed in a dormitory, bunkbed style, like a prison.

We had a schedule that included a 6 am wake-up and a 3 am wake-up for blood draws. We had to eat what was called a 'full' breakfast. This consisted of two fried eggs, greasy bacon, hash browns, and a massive glass of homogenized milk, which we drank with our medication; a nurse watched us swallow and then inspected our mouth to be sure we'd taken it. After breakfast, we all sat at our tables, getting to know one another. I met Babette, a middle-aged woman with bleached blond hair, heavy makeup, and darkly tanned from a recent trip to Cuba. "Stunning! Have you been?" She asked me, "Several times!" I told her, and we hit it off, and she became my pal for the next 5 weeks. She told me she was doing the trial to buy new tires for her car and to give money to her son, who was 18.

We had our blood taken 5-6 times a day to keep an eye on the medication effect. A catheter was implanted in my arm to make it easier eventually after my veins were giving the nurses trouble. I loved waking up early before the wake-up call, making it to the shower room before it was too busy, making my tiny bunkbed, and sitting in the common area reading and writing in my journal. I made friends with the nurses, my charm and humour delighting them during what would have been an entire 24-hour shift for some of them.

When we weren't sitting and being monitored after eating our meals to ensure we weren't running to the bathroom to throw them up, we were allowed to do whatever we wanted. So I spent my time watching movies I'd downloaded onto my laptop, reading, playing board games with other 'participants, and talking on the phone with friends and family on 'the outside.'

The structure, three meals a day, and promise of a fat check at the end of the 5 weeks made this one of the best 'jobs' I'd had, and it was a welcome reprieve from giving massages and dealing with my clients. Sure, I was selling my body to science, and at times, I had slight worries about any repercussions the drug may have had on my body. Still, the dosage we were given, 1/4th of an actual dose, was so minuscule and could possibly have been a placebo, so I didn't worry too much. It was a weird vacation, ultimately allowing me to afford my trip to India.

All of these brushes and experiences of isolation and reprieve from the burden of choice in daily life were helpful because they gave me the perspective to recognize that I like my choosing ability. As I write this, I'm grateful I can organize my life how I want; I'm made that way. Even with the freedom to create this 'routine' that may serve me, I've also come to realize as a person with attention deficit disorder, I have to be careful not to try to put myself into a box that may work for a neurotypical person, but certainly won't for me.

Waking at 6 am for a cold shower and power walking outside before a glass of salt water, a workout at the gym, and lunch only after fasting until 1 pm may be trendy. It may promise raised testosterone and mental clarity. Still, it's simply not the life for me. In the past, I would have been riddled with dispart and shame for not being able to stick with one of these routines I found online that promised a whole new me after 30 days.

Here and now, I see I've carved out my own little way of being. It may not look great on paper, but it works for me. I have better habits now than I did in the past, and the ones I'm not so proud of I'm working on, but not with a time stamp of completion looming. There is no need. I'll never be a completely finished version of myself, and I shouldn't expect that having an enforced structure or routine will offer me that feeling of peace. I'm not saying it can't, and of course, retreats and time spent in that structure are crucial for a reset, but in the end, we are responsible not for getting it perfect but for aiming somewhere and being pleasantly proud of ourselves for trying.

I don't want to be controlled, and I see now that I don't want someone to make the choices for me. I don't want to follow any routine that has worked for anyone else because I, like you, am unique and have my own collection of ways, ticks, and little delights that make me who I am. Only I can choose what helps to bring out the best in me, even if that means having a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal before bed a couple of times a week, waking up at 6:30, and journaling before the sun rises by candlelight.

Life is all about contradictions, and I'm not here to try and eliminate all of the things I do that may not be 'best' for me because, for now, they are simply alright for me.

Maybe in time, that will change, but for the time being, I'll be over here with the habits and structure I've cultivated that are all mine.