And so it begins again...

My last official blog post was on March 7, 2005. That's more than five years ago.

I've written a few articles since then that I've published online, but no official blogging.

Back in 2005, I had thousands of readers, many of whom would get upset if my daily blog post didn't show up on time. I have no idea where they are now, or if they even remember me. I'm sure most of them don't have a clue why I disappeared.

There's a reason why I haven't blogged in more than five years, and it's a very sad story. Interesting. Adventurous. Exciting, even. But the root of it is, regardless, quite sad.

Those I've become close to over the past five years keep telling me that I need to tell my story. I agree. However, it's a bit overwhelming to sit down and relive the past five years, even if it is for the sake of blogging it.

I've decided the best approach (for my own sake) is to summarize and then begin blogging from the present. As time allows (and as I feel I'm able) I will probably discuss the past in more detail on the internet radio show set to begin next month.

I once owned a business. I had a silent partner. The business was successful for several years, and then it tanked. It tanked for a variety of reasons. Some of them were my fault for not having enough capital and not having more reliable suppliers. Some were the fault of my business partner.

After a lifetime of struggling with anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorders (which became worse after almost dying in a fire in 1996) and some post-traumatic stress issues, the stress of the failing business was more than I could bear. I was in denial that it was as bad as it was, and I was all too happy to allow my partner to take over, although I should have wondered why one would be so eager to take over a failing business.

Meanwhile, I was struggling to meet basic expenses. I started doing think tank work, and was grateful for the travel that physically removed me from the situation, allowing me to more easily mentally remove myself from it as well.

Not even my closest friends knew what was going on. I'm a very private person with a history of working in think tanks that require me to keep secrets, and I usually keep my problems (especially my failures) to myself. I'm told that's part of the whole "anxiety/O.C.D./P.T.S.D." package. Nonetheless, I suppose my friends were baffled when they learned what had been going on. Some were, understandably, insulted that I hadn't confided in them. I wasn't able to convey to them that my reasoning for not doing so stemmed from a fear that they would abandon me should they learn that I was not perfect and that I had allowed such a mess to develop in my life.

Sadly, that fear was validated when many of those closest to me did just that; and, while it worsened my already severe trust issues, I can't say that I blame them, given the sense of betrayal they must have felt from being kept in the dark about such major things going on in my life.

There was more than $100,000 in debt owed to various companies and individuals when it was all said and done. The company was bankrupt. I was bankrupt. But the bookkeeping was very messy. The feds decided to make it a criminal case. I was charged with six counts of wire fraud totaling $12,000. (Because my business involved the internet, it was under federal jurisdiction, and any case related in any way, shape, or form, to the internet is charged  as "wire fraud". You might say it's a "catch-all" or "trash can" charge.)

Ultimately, I was the one (and the ONLY one) held responsible. Despite the fact that I was not guilty of the accusations against me, I WAS the person responsible for allowing the situation that gave birth to the charges to occur. Everything that mattered was in my name. On paper, it didn't look good for me. I learned the hard way that how things look on paper is all that matters in a federal case. There isn't a "no contest" plea in the federal system like there is in state and local courts. You can't just take responsibility for the situation without also nodding that everything happened exactly like the feds say it did and that you are 100% guilty of everything they have accused you of doing, for exactly the reasons they accuse you of doing it.

If you use a pen name (I had a book scheduled to be released in 2005 before this all came about) you're "using an alias". If a business check written to an office supply store on an account you opened ten years ago bounces, you opened that account ten years ago with the intent to bounce a check ten years later. According to the feds, every defendant is diabolically planning their every move far into the future. Nothing just happens or spirals out of control. It's all part of a massive conspiracy designed to break the law and "get away" with something. (Nevermind that after the business tanked I was living in a $16,000 motor home and driving a $1,000 minivan. What on earth was I getting away with?)

Since I had no money, I was appointed a public defender. He was a very nice man who explained to me that if I didn't go along with what the feds wanted me to do, I would get five years in prison instead of the two years I would get if I did.

I wanted to fight. He kept advising me that it wasn't a good idea. I didn't care if I got five years. I didn't want to lie on myself and say that I was guilty of things I wasn't... that I had intentions of committing crimes that I never had.


Having trouble understanding why someone would plead guilty to something they didn't do? Until you have been put through what the feds put you through before you even get to court for a bond hearing, until you've lived through the intense feeling of duress one experiences in that situation, you can't possibly justify judging someone for doing such a thing. Believe this: If you put on a pair of my shoes, you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd have to do.

Ultimately, I was reminded that Martha Stewart, who had gazillions of dollars, fame, and a dream team of attorneys, couldn't even win HER case. How on earth was I going to win mine? Martha Stewart got a year (six months in prison, six months on house arrest) for a very minor conviction of lying to the feds. (As if they don't lie to us every day...) How on earth did I think I was going to do any better?

To make matters worse, I had isolated myself from my family for years, partially due to my internal struggles with various issues, and partially due to emotional abuse at the hands of several family members sustained not only by me, but others in the family. In my mind, not even my family could be trusted with knowledge of my inner-torment, and anyway, how do you explain to anyone, family, friend, or otherwise, that you sometimes spend upwards of twelve hours per day lost in various rituals and useless activities that serve no other purpose but to help give you the illusion that you have some control over the world around you?

I finally gave in. I took the plea. I was sent to prison for more than two years for my first offense. That's right. I, who had never even smoked pot, never put someone's life at risk by drinking and driving, or driving wrecklessly... I, who had NEVER EVEN HAD A TRAFFIC TICKET, was sent to federal prison for more than two years for my first offense, an offense that was deemed a financial crime. I was doing more time than someone in a state case who commits rape or, in some cases, even murder.

Once I took the plea, the few people I had let know what was going on ceased all contact with me. Occasionally I would get a letter from my mother, I had one friend who got in touch toward the end of my sentence, and there was one aunt who sent letters, but that was it. I told myself that it was just too difficult for those who had been close to me to deal with the fact that I was going to be in prison for two years. (I got no letters from my business partner.) Some say I'm being far too generous in extending the benefit of the doubt in that way, but I suppose it's easier for me to believe that than to believe that I was so inconsequential as to be so easily dismissed upon the discovery of my predicament. I will, however, say this:

There were drug addicts who had cost their famies everything they owned... their homes, vehicles, livelihoods, even their health in the case of manufacturing methamphetamine. They still got visits and letters and phone calls and moral support. I'll end my discussion on that subject there.

The two years I spent in custody were not quite like you might picture them... definitely not like they show on television or in the movies. (There is, by the way, no such thing as club fed. Federal prisons are, for the most part in my experience, filthy, dilapidated, unhealthy facilities.) Nonetheless, there were not many "rough" people there. There were a lot of grandmothers who were there for ridiculous things. Maybe their grandsons were dealing pot out of the basement and the feds decided they were guilty as well. Maybe they cashed a few social security checks belonging to their husband after he died to help cover funeral costs.

And then there was the nun. She was there for six months for protesting the Iraqi war on federal property. Americans could, for six months, sleep more soundly at night knowing that at least one less nun would be putting her foot on taxpayer-owned property in protest of a war funded by taxpayer money, regardless of the taxpayer's wishes. Who cares that we owe trillions of dollars in debt. We can always spare $25,000 or so of taxpayer money to lock up a peace-loving, non-violent nun! 

America. Fuck, Yeah.

Two years is a relatively short sentence compared to those serving ten years or more for drug or gun crimes, yet I was completely unable to handle the outside world when I was first released.

There was no one there to pick me up. I was given a one-way ticket on a Greyhound bus to the city where I was to serve three years on federal supervision. I was theoretically free, but in reality, not free at all.

Somehow, I managed to get through it. During that time, I made new friends, saved a man's life, happened upon the nun as she was protesting the war again (though this time she was careful where she let her foot land) and then a few months later I got robbed at gunpoint working the only job I could find as a newly-released convicted felon.

Score: 
Anxiety/O.C.D./P.T.S.D. = 1,000
Me: = minus 13

Lest you think I'm made of nothing but doom and gloom, you should know that I found a lot of humor in my circumstances. While I was imprisoned I created comic strips for the entertainment of my fellow inmates, and once released I developed a stand-up routine based on prison life. If you can't live well, laughter is the best revenge.

I don't look at my prison experience as something to be ashamed of. I wear it like a badge of honor... that anyone can survive so many horrific experiences at the hands of "power-trippin' trash", (government employees devoid of ethics to the point that others who work with them end up quitting in disgust), says a lot about my strength of character, regardless of what documents are contrived to tell a different story.

I try not to be bitter. I tell myself the feds and all involved had good intentions, that they truly believed they were doing the right thing. That's what I tell myself.


Some who will read this will discover my "secret" for the first time in doing so. It's not that I feel the need to hide this very potent part of my past, but "coming out" is something I haven't quite mastered yet. Of course, now, I can just point everyone to my blog. That's much easier than trying to figure out how to tell someone "Oh, by the way, I'm a convicted felon who did two years in federal prison, but I promise, I won't shank you!"


Yes. I love the humor in it all. There is hope in humor.

I also find hope in the fact that my 88-year-old grandfather, who was widowed last year, is getting remarried. My uncle finally was able to marry his lifelong partner, Jim, after 20+ years together. (They live in Massachusetts.) I now have a two-year old nephew. Life goes on.


And now, I'm finally blogging again. Oh, dear blog. How I have missed you!

"Don't trust anyone who tells you not to look back. That's where most of your lessons are!" --Angie Max