Nicaragua, before

OK, I did it.  I googled myself.  And this article, in the arts magazine Bourgeon, was one of the first listings.  (hint:  all the words in light purple  are links)

It reminds me of the exhilaration I felt during my time living in Nicaragua.

our house - I got to paint it!

 It reminds me of all the petty inconveniences that I sort of
                  relished even as I complained because
                  it felt more solid than 'America'

It reminds me of my horror and outrage at
     seeing anew (of course I'd
             seen it before)
    violence against women, at the almost
           casual acceptance (by men in power) of
                     sexual abuse of children
        often by people related to them
    but in Nicaragua I had
   constructive opportunities to express that outrage

It reminds me of discovering myself as a talented performance artist, not

              just a           mediocre               choreographer

It reminds me of the creative excitement opportunity I found in 

        garbage, and how

                   happy I was working in a dump.

It reminds me too that a sense of
     humor and   curiosity
   about (at least some) cultural
                          differences will get me              further than will
   feeling annoyed and
   superior

This is a link to an article I wrote, partly about how amazingly creative I felt in Nicaragua before the accident.

Flooded

At Can Serrat, on the flanks of Montserrat, 50km from Barcelona.  They just had a massive flood that washed out trails, roads, and left tons of flotsam and jetsam.  It looks like the inside of my head!

Here's the YouTube link to flooded. 

  

I was impatient and frustrated with using a tripod, but later excited to see the appearing-disappearing effect it created.  Happy accidents (I have to remember that not all accidents are bad).

The music, if it loads properly, is by a band I only know of because the bassist's mother invited us over for paella after we met at a party in Idyllwild, CA, for the oldest living member of Duke Ellington's band.  I like that the bassist is her daughter (ie a girl!).

my skin is thinner now...

My skin is thinner now
thinner than before the accident
it always feels even
thinner when my brain chemistry is fucked

Although I know my epidermis is literally intact
the sensation of vulnerability is keenly physical

Semi-permanent sunburn
the kind that's
so bad you
wince
and want to scream when someone brushes
by you in the supermarket

I painted this line on my arm after yet another
minor decompensation
in which I failed to tolerate an everyday frustration

The UN had declared a Mental Health Awareness Week
And it was national Coming Out Day so
it made sense to wear my condition on my sleeve, so to speak

Kind of a disclaimer, like the warnings that come attached to the bottles of pills warning you
of drowsiness
against consuming alcohol
advising caution when
 operating heavy machinery.

Do they consider automobiles part of heavy machinery?

back to trauma, again

There was a terrible accident.  I don’t remember it.

In the courtroom the prosecutor read

loudly,

shrilly,

clearly,

all of the accusations against me, and

all the accounts of

witnesses,

medical examiners,

police

and forensics. 

I hadn’t known one of the sisters was

pregnant

until I heard it in court,

Sitting opposite her parents, brother, and ex-husband

cameras flashing.

 I hadn’t known which of their bones broke,

or that their skulls cracked and

spilled brains onto the pavement,

or that my car ricocheted backward off of the church wall and

rolled over one of their bodies.

  Hearing all of this from a woman in a fancy suit, perfect makeup and a manicure with embedded jewels,

who seemed to be relishing every word, was, well,

I have no words for how horrifying it was.

I couldn’t bear to be in my skin

The skin of the person who has no recollection

Who never saw

But is being told, in front of all these people.

That she caused the event 

 I couldn’t stand to be in my skin,  so I left it

They told me my lawyer had to put his arm between my head and the table because I wouldn’t stop banging it.

I found myself again barricaded inside the clerk’s office with my finger on the lock button so the truth couldn’t
get
in.

Meditation on death

During this ordeal I reread some instructions for meditations written for monks.  One of the most advanced is the meditation on your own death.  In order not to fear death you must meditate on your own dead body, on how the skin will decay, on how maggots will eat your insides, eat everything until only the bones are left. 

Facing the truth

 I think that I will have to practice this meditation on death, but transposed from my death to their deaths.   I will need to confront the words of that prosecutor, the accounts of what happened in the accident that I didn’t see, the reality of how they died. 

I almost have a vision of it happening in slow motion, wondering at what point does the soul leave the body, what if our places were switched and it was my brain on the street and why didn’t it happen that way.  I don’t know yet.  I don’t know that I ever will.

meaty mental health metaphors. by palmer fishman

"running"

when everything looks the same -

all the olive trees in rows upon rows

the dry brush snapping under your feet

the evergreens, the rock, the shale

you think you’re finding your way home and 

               then, like Pooh bear, see the same 

               puddle
 and 
        realize
                       you’re 
             going
        in 
circles

so u turn to go the other way

           to see if it looks familiar, and its 

            completely different 
and you’re

      lost                           again

have to keep going 
                                round 

                                         the circle

                                   till 
                               u recognize

                           it 
                    AS 
             a 
    circle

then have to get 

     up the nerve to

                cut out thru the 
           brush, scratching your legs,

                 and into 
the 
washed-
         -out riverbank

falling 

                           down

scrambling

                                                          up

till you arrive
          in a new 
place you 
                       don’t recognize

and start 

over

signs I am feeling better

If I have signs that I am very sick,

 I also have markers that remind me I am starting to feel better

I know the depression is lifting when

once again walking Benedicto unleashes streams of ideas and images

and is more than forcing one foot in front of the other so he can take a shit

when walking becomes a useful way to pace my thoughts

and not a torrent of overwhelming despair

when shopping for food is not terrifying, only unpleasant

when I dream in detail about building things,

when I can make a phone call just because I need to, without days of procrastination

when making the call feels wonderfully, normally easy

when I can answer the phone and say hello 

when I answer the phone for a number I don’t recognize and it’s a good friend I haven’t spoken with for at least two years, and we talk easily for an entire hour

and i enjoy it,

 i’m not trying to find an emergency exit from the conversation

when I’m not afraid for people to look at me - when it doesn’t feel like an invasion

when I am capable of spontaneous conversation with store clerks, 

                   baristas, airport security and other people walking their dogs.  I don’t have to avoid their eyes.

 I know I am doing much better when...

I sometimes even enjoy shopping

when I have the patience to try on enough pairs of pants that I eventually leave the store with some that approximately fit my body

for the first time in 6 years

When I start moving from imagination to action

when I the wall between ‘think’ and ‘do’ gets porous enough that I start taking photos, shooting videos, building forts out of papier mache

making plans that involve other places and people

leggings made from cut-off sweater sleeves

I am so unaccustomed to functional energy and optimism that I 

always worry I am drifting hypomanic

Is it that I have such a backlog of ideas and obligations, than I must seize whatever undetermined period of abilty to do as much as possible?

or is that hypomanic, and hence worrisome and pathological?

I can have a meaningful conversation with my airplane seatmate for an hour and enjoy it.  my skin isn’t crawling.

I want to dance! 

 I see people moving and remember how much I used to love to move

I know I am feeling stronger 

when I can think (somewhat) rationally about my finances without tripping the circuit breaker

when I can stand to make a list of things I need to do, and then go on to 

accomplish some of them in the same day - make a doctor appointment and then go to it, 

instead of procrastinating for months and then strategically forgetting the appointment or getting too sick to go.

These are mostly normal activities of daily living, some that sound superficial or even luxurious,

 these that an adult in the United States consumer society must be able to accomplish in order to maintain basic functioning.

They are all things I can’t do for months at a time/ on end.

back to trauma

Because it keeps coming back, keeps getting triggered.  That's what
makes it a disorder,
so they tell me.
I dropped Otto off at the airport today at
around 8am.  The accident happened at
 around 8am after I had dropped Otto off at the airport.
 Different countries, different destinations, but
it's a trigger now, something similar to superstition.

The only scenario in which I can imagine that
 I somehow caused the accident,
connects me being anxious about Otto leaving to
 feeling overwhelmed about being left alone to somehow,
             maybe,
             shutting down while driving into the sun and involuntarily
                           giving in to unconsciousness.

I have done this airport drop-off enough times now since then that we have a safety routine.  If I feel really bad, I call someone in my family to pick me up or take a taxi
 If I'm a little shaky, I sit in an airport coffee shop until I'm solid
  Today, I drove just a few blocks to the art supply store, and spent two hours
                 drooling over colors and patterns and art books.

I still got a scare on the way home when Pearl Jam came on the radio.
                 (Pearl Jam?  I don't even like Pearl Jam.)
  But something about Eddie Vedder's voice caught in my chest and hit me with a powerful urge to....I don't know exactly.  Cry.  Sing. Dance.  Scream.  none of which I wanted to be doing at 65 mph on the freeway.  I punched the radio off and concentrated on my breathing.

My skin is thinner now....

Not only is my skin thinner, but apparently my eardrums are  as well.

This is a letter I wrote to notify close family and friends about the accident.  It must have been the 2nd week of February, 2009.

greetings, i am writing to let you know that I was involved in a tragic car accident in Managua in which 2 women, 2 sisters, pedestrians died. It is incredibly hard for me to comprehend how such a thing could have happened. I felt outside my body for the first 2 days, watching this happening to someone else. I came to Nicaragua to help, not harm. I always insisted people wear their seatbelts in my car, even in the backseat. Last year I had several conversations with the transit police about the dangers of allowing babies and small children on motorcycles, without helmets. I also talked to them about my concerns when they removed the speedbumps on Carr Sur, where I live, and I still slowed down where they used to be. But none of that prevented this tragedy.

I don't remember the accident clearly, I don't remember how it happened. My memory starts with the airbags hitting my face, shattering my glasses, and then an impact against what looked like a metal pole. I have no memory of seeing the sisters at all, before or after. Doctors tell me this loss of memory is the product of trauma. 


photo of accident scene el nuevo diario - would not allow me to post photo itself




What I do know is I am more sorry than I have ever been for anything, that I feel deeply for the family, that I can't stop crying, that this is a nightmare and I can't wake up. The more I learn about the good work of the Espinoza sisters the more I understand the depth of their loss. One of them worked with her church as a counselor to addicts, prostitutes, people who had been abused, etc. There was a story in the paper here last Sunday about how she and I were united in our service to other people.


I have been in court twice, had my face all over the newspapers and television. 
As I had been in shock right after the accident, 
the prosecutor's statement was first time I heard the horrifying details of what happened to the Espinoza sisters' bodies, crushed against the outside wall of their own church. 
The elder was pregnant.

Fight or flight animal instinct overcame me. As neither option was available I started banging my head against the court bench.  My attorney tried to put his hand between my forehead and the wood, but I just smashed his hand. I couldn't stop myself.

Jessica Fairfax fue remitida a juicio oral por homicidio imprudente doble, pero sigue libre. Al fondo la observa su padre. MANUEL ZAPATA / END  Translation:  Jessica Fairfax was referred to trial for double reckless homicide, but she remains free.  At right is her attorney, her father in background.

On the second court date when the prosecutor read the same thing again, but with more details from forensic witnesses, I totally lost control and fled into one of the court offices and locked the door.  
You aren't allowed to do that. The person on trial is not allowed to stand up without the judge's permission, much less lock herself in his office.


You can read the newspaper account in Spanish here:

elnuevodiario newspaper article on court case


The mother of the sisters has reportedly also been incredibly distraught, and wanted to designate her son to represent her. The prosecutor by law was meant to be representing and protecting the Espinoza family, but she has repeatedly seemed more interested in creating as big spectacle as possible. She refused the mother's request, forcing her to endure hearing exactly how life left her daughter's bodies. It was beyond horrifying.

The evaluation by the government forensic doctors concluded that my life was at risk due to post-traumatic suicidal thoughts, but I was still put back in jail rather than sent to a hospital. One of my cellmates was a hysterically psychotic woman who had drowned her baby in the toilet, and she did not receive any treatment either as far as I saw.

My father and stepmother came down and met several times with the family, mediated by their pastor and a long-time missionary from the US, no lawyers. They thought they had arrived at a settlement agreeable to all the parties. Then the prosecutor refused to accept the agreement, discounting its validity because she had not been involved in its negotiation. I don't know what her personal agenda is, don't know what is going to happen now, and I am very scared and sad. My parents went back to DC for what they said were strategic reasons, but in the moment I feel abandoned and even more afraid. My whole family is grieving about the accident, and wants to do what we can for the Espinoza family.  

My brother just discovered today that Nissan did a recall on 2001 Pathfinders, the car I was driving, because the airbags were going off when they weren't supposed to - SRS means Secondary Restraint System, a techie word for airbag. So perhaps my memory wasn't so fractured after all, if the accident began with the airbags exploding in my face.

the notice:

SRS PRECAUTIONS DURING SERVICE;IMPROPER MAINTENANCE,

INCLUDING INCORRECT REMOVAL AND INSTALLATION OF THE SRS, CAN

LEAD TO A SERIOUS INJURY OR DEATH CAUSED BY UNINTENTIONAL

ACTIVATION OF THE SRS ON ALL NISSAN MODELS WITH THE SRS

SYSTEMS. *

[The notice went to mechanics, not owners. I must have taken my car to at least 5 different repair shops and none of them ever mentioned this notice. Of course I had one of the only cars in Nicaragua with air bags at all, so no one knew how to maintain, inspect or fix them. How horribly ironic would it be that my concern for safety, which led to my extensive search for and purchase of a vehicle with airbags, was what indirectly killed the Espinoza sisters. Not even safety technology always makes us safer.]

Why am I writing all this? Because this accident could have happened to anyone who drives in Nicaragua. In fact, these sorts of accidents happen all the time.  

I know at least five other people who have had similar accidents.  Meaning they accidentally killed pedestrians.

It is horrifying. Because life is precious. Because you can't be too careful. Because terrible, tragic things can happen in the blink of an eye. Because after this kind of tragedy comes the additional hell of going through the system. I was in jail for several days without being told anything about what was going on, what might happen to me.  

I am very very sad, and very very anxious, and I need moral support. And the Espinoza family needs support, even tho they probably don't want to hear from anyone related to me right now. I have been told that things are worse for me because I am from the US. I'm not sure. I just want the Espinoza Reyes family to know how very sorry I am, that I know they are in terrible pain, that I want to help them the best I can, and that continuing with this trial is incredibly painful for all of us. I really really wish, I pray, that we can come to an agreement soon and start the long process of healing. Please drive carefully.

jessica

ps  I am under house arrest and we do not have internet at home.  Please write back, I need all the moral support and strength I can get, and please be patient that I may not be able to get back to you for several days.  Otto has been checking and downloading my email for me.
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[I was under house arrest for several weeks in February to early March 2009]

I'm writing this note today:
Holy shit.  All this time I had let myself think homicidio imprudente was involuntary manslaughter.  Because it certainly felt involuntary to me, and what happened sounded like slaughter from the prosecutor's description.  But now the translation program tells me it means I was charged with (not convicted of) reckless homicide.  Holy shit.