The Stories of My Life: Part One

September 2025

Right now, I am barely functioning. Two years ago, I met a man, and he was great. During the third week, I fell really ill — possibly with Covid, although honestly can’t remember. I can’t remember many things. Anyway, back to him. Things moved fast, and he ended up moving in around the second month. I know, poor decision. But it didn’t feel like one at the time, because he helped me become more functional than I had been in a long while.

I remember one day I walked downstairs and saw him sitting on the couch. I stopped, and he looked up at me. I started crying. I was crying because I was wearing sweatpants, and my ex always had something nasty to say about it. This man didn’t. He was gentle and understanding — he could see I was broken. He was trying to get his own life together too.

Okay — back to today. Sometimes I ramble; it’s just the way I write. Tomorrow, I’ll find out how long my boyfriend is going to prison. I know… why would I even deal with him? I’m not the kind of person who knows anything about prison, but I guess I’m about to learn quickly. Don’t get me wrong — I don’t want to be with him romantically anymore, for a handful of reasons. But I’m in possession of everything he owns, except for his truck, the one he loved so much. That’s sitting in Las Vegas, waiting for tomorrow’s outcome, hoping he’ll be released.

He even signed a deal saying he’d be home before Thanksgiving — and today is November 30th. Then it became “December,” and then suddenly it was “2–5 years in prison.” I only know his side of the process, because his defense lawyer doesn’t have voicemail, doesn’t answer the phone, and doesn’t respond to texts. She’s about 25. I’m sure the bar exam is challenging, but it’s not as hard as the California/Washington, DC/New York bar exams. (My sister is a lawyer — like, an important one — but we’ll get to that later.)

Tomorrow is his sentencing. I’ve been holding my breath, especially because I can’t talk to him. We were doing video visits and phone calls, but that stopped last Tuesday. According to the guy he called on Thanksgiving, he’s in isolation — the hole, or SHU. Don’t worry, he’s not scared. He’s familiar. He’s been to prison a few times. I know. But he is so nice, sweet, and loving 95% of the time (at least around me).

He was really upset about what his “friends” did. They stole money from him — and from me. They went to Vegas to get the truck and drive it back home, but they couldn’t get it. (That’s a whole other story.) He can’t do anything from jail, and that sucks. These people refuse to pay him back and won’t answer his calls. I don’t want to talk to them anymore — I don’t speak white trash. Plus, they enabled his drug use.

Yep — he’s an addict. About every six months, he has a bipolar episode. Then he reaches out to the old friends he shouldn’t reach out to and buys drugs. The last time it happened, his family was done. His own dad had to get a restraining order.

I know what you’re probably thinking: WTF, Lauren… you’re a teacher, you’re educated, and you have a 7‑year‑old. My son has never been around him like this. He knows him as the sweet man who adores me, takes care of me, takes care of us. The man who took him swimming almost every day this summer. The man who makes his mom happy. But my son was with his father during all of this. He’s there most weekends. And honestly, I know he likes it there more — I would too. He has a Disneyland Dad. A dad who is his friend. I’m the mom — I make him clean up after himself and do homework. (There is no homework on weekends.)

Michael went to jail on September 27th. But the time before that was the one that was really sad and scary. I knew he was going to Vegas in a really bad mood. I knew he wasn’t coming home. When he gets angry, bad things happen, and he gets arrested. Over the last two years, he has been arrested (not charged) three times. Then he was sent to the mental hospital — twice to the one in Chinatown/Los Angeles, and once to the one in the desert. That story will make you crap your pants.

At the end of September, he went to San Diego for work. He usually works in Los Angeles, Anaheim, San Diego, and Las Vegas. The plan was to spend five days in San Diego, come home to say hello, and then head to Vegas. I knew when he left, he wasn’t in the right mindset — he was having a manic episode. I begged him to stay. I told him he didn’t have to work, that we’d get him help. He refused. Michael is stubborn. On a scale of 1–10, he’s an 11. I am the least stubborn, because I'm right 90-95% of the time.

"Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas Nevada" sign.