Identity Crisis

I keep coming back to one simple question. “Who am I?” Going to prison, years of incarceration, and then re-integrating back into society provides ample opportunity for identity crises. The further away my incarceration feels, the more disorienting this feeling becomes. The juxtaposition is jarring. I’ve interviewed for a job at a law office while wearing a GPS ankle monitor. I am a slacker, says the me from “before”. I wake up at 6am to do CrossFit and get straight A’s, says the new me today.

But the government is always there to remind me I’m a criminal. I have a physical reminder, bulky on my left ankle, my “shame bracelet”. As home confinement draws to a close, I’m beginning to look for housing. I’d love to get an apartment with my girlfriend. But housing is one aspect where I’m painfully restricted. All the relentless self-advocacy and tenacity in the world won’t force a property manager to rent to me. Am I a quiet and studious young woman who pays her bills on time, or a criminal and therefore a risky renter?