RACHEL BULKLEY

I'd like to tell you a quick story.

Back in 2003 I was arriving home from work one evening when I heard a voice say something really random and curious. I’d just gotten off the tube, London’s subway system, near where I was living.

As I entered the garden and walked toward the side entrance, I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular when all of the sudden I heard a voice say, “You are a mystic.” I remember putting my key in the lock and thinking, “A what? Huh, I wonder what that means.”

Oddly, even though I thought about it for a few days, I don’t remember googling, “What is a mystic?” I just sort of let it go.

In August of 2012 I left my husband and the father of my children. I rented a bedroom above a garage a few blocks away from our apartment. The kids were one and two years old. I thought I was sparing our family unnecessary upheaval. Surely no need to hire lawyers or make extra drama. I came every morning and resumed my stay-at-home-mommying. Late in the evening, he returned from work, and I returned to my little bedroom.

Then one night two social workers called to tell me I'd just been indicated in a child abuse report. The next morning the bank accounts were empty. And my nightmare began in earnest. He hired a nanny. I had to find a job. Distraught doesn't begin to describe my inner world. I was being investigated for child abuse. I couldn't eat or sleep or function properly. Except, I had to. I had to show that I was a good, capable mom.

For months I did not sleep in the same place as my babies. Speaking that fact made my throat choke and tears stream down my face. There were moments when I felt confident about my choices and direction. But whenever I felt like torturing myself I would ask, "What kind of mother doesn't sleep in the same place as her babies?" And then I would answer myself by falling apart.

Every week I meet with a group of murderers, rapists, pedophiles, and other assorted criminal offenders. We sit around tables in a classroom on the fourth floor of a maximum security jail. And we talk about well-being.

For months I never bothered to find out why each of my participants were locked up. I assumed most were for drug related charges. Why I assumed that, I can’t say for sure. Naiveté, most likely. Or maybe because the labels “murderer,” “rapist,” or “pedophile,” invoke images of monsters, not the individuals I talk and listen and joke with.

I admit, when I finally googled each name on my rosters, I paused. More than once I wanted to turn to someone and say, “He doesn’t really look like that,” pointing to the mug shot on my screen. But there was no one with me.