Unworthiness Was an Ingredient in the Cocktail That Landed Me in Prison

Not my actual balcony.

May 2017, Brooklyn NY

I stare at the balcony from the other side of my desk, a desk I’m grateful to own.

A Brooklyn street find that saved me from two hours of writing on a wobbly stool.

I placed it flush with the balcony doors, the part that doesn’t open, and this is where I work.

The balcony is small by suburbs standards and huge by NYC standards.

It has a concrete floor, green castiron railings, and it’s empty save one dilapidated chair passed from tenant to tenant.

There’s an overhang to protect from rain.

Not that I would know.

I don’t go out there.

Not because there’s no furniture. I don’t go out there because I don’t deserve to go out there.

Outdoor space is a luxury in NYC, and I’m not worthy of it, even though I’m paying for it.

Unworthiness has been a lifelong shadow.

It’s not a shadow that follows; it’s the shadow created when the light’s behind us.

It leads.

Unworthiness was one ingredient in the twisted cocktail that landed me in prison.