Prison Log 2

I had an unstable childhood. A plethora of abuse in all forms of the word. I watched violence between my bipolar mother and schizophrenic father. I watched from a very young age. That’s all I understood. That is what I came to see as “normal” in life, and I watched.

I witnessed substance abuse and alcoholism inside disheveled, insect infested apartments. I watched.

I had seen masks being put on for church and quickly torn off and shot to the ground when we returned “home”. I watched.

There was a presentation  of physical violence, unraveling in the presence of my four siblings and I. We watched. I watched.

I saw my father get dropped off at the V.A hospital by my fed Up mother and never picked back up. I was 10 years old. I watched…
…I met a girl when I was 17 years old. I was ashamed to admit that I was in foster care since age 11 and put through therapy and on antidepressants since I was 13.

Her understanding, was the first time I had felt accepted. I felt happy.

I didn’t need my medication if she made me happy.

When I was 18, I tapered off my Prozac.

At 19, we got married. By age 22 we had 1 daughter, 1 son and had been paying a mortgage.

Life happened so fast, I hardly noticed anything eerie with my mental health until I did…

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"Pacing and anxious, then facing the anguish in the reflection in the
glass. As I gaze through myself into the outside of my hell, I'm
stabbed with the aching feeling, of drifting from my past. I have 
dug my own hole. and let myself go. There used to be light all
around me, but now I am drowning with a little glimpse of hope. 
Though it is still there, and I'm tired of this nightmare. So I 
will free myself, I'll find my own way out, so I can be myself. I've
learned that I'm stronger now. The only thing I can do is
ride on the waves of tears."

When I was transferred to the intake facility, after getting sentenced to 40 months in prison, and after spending three and a half months in County, I became very anxious. The time up until then, consisted of me getting back on antidepressants and making a plan of action for when I spend the next 3+ years in prison.

The intake facility was another waiting game. With testing and interviewing to see what prison I will be “fit” into. I was in a cell that had a metal, sliding  door, with a rectangle shaped window in it. It was after “lights out” when I started my nightly travels from the metal toilet, to the door. It was about a ten foot walk, back and forth. I periodically stopped to look through that window. When my legs became as tired as my brain from the racing thoughts, I paused for a final glance out of the slim rectangle. I saw various reflections.

The “anguish” I had been referring to was, If I focused on the small window, I saw a reflection of myself, and the sadness in my darkly mirrored eyes.

“…gaze through myself…”: If I looked through the rectangle window, I could see the large window that is part of the building. The building section I was in, was in a triangle shape. The angle of that huge window, and with it being dark outside, I was able to see a semi clear view of the whole “pod” (sub-section of the facility I was in): with the tables we ate at during meals; the Correctional Officer making his rounds, glowing his flashlight into distant cells; and sometimes the T.V. was left on in the dayroom. This was “the outside of my hell”.

I was getting further away from my wife and two children with realization of the time I’m actually going to be away. A lot can change in 3+ years and I needed to accept that I could not do anything about the outside reality. I must live my own life and grasp hold of what I neglected since I was 18 years old. But I must also remember: “I dug my own hole”.

I was not the victim. I was a sick man who was getting well.

This section of writing ended on a positive note, despite the “tears”.

Weather if it was actual tears or just a metaphor for the sadness I was in, I was able to briefly see myself actually on top of the sorrow and imagine it being all downhill from there.

Incarceration.  

When I first got arrested, and idly standing by (for 3 months) to be sentenced, I began creating a slew of words, onto the reverse-sides of my court paperwork, to express my emotions. The writing had to be tiny so it would fit onto the pages. Notebooks were not something you could buy on commissary while in County Jail.

I found out that when I placed my pen into motion, there was an escape from a difficult reality, into cleansing episodes of relief. However the words were put together, they always lifted a slight weight from the life of despair I thought I was living.

After I “Blue” up all of my court documents, I had to wait, or “shut up and do (my) time” as it was frequently stated, until I was transported to the Prison where I would be housed for the remainder of my sentence, to buy a journal of some sort.

When I finally made it to the Correctional Facility, I found that notebooks were not sold on commissary anymore. Long story short, I traded 2 “Lopes” (envelopes) and 4 soups (Top Ramen)  to acquire the notebook that I will be sharing.

There is no educated explanation of what style I had written in, or why some of it may rhyme and some of it does not. I’m not a fucking novelist.

All I cared about was getting it on paper and briefly out of my head…

all written material will be typed out underneath each image with corrected spelling and possibly grammar… we’ll see. I will also include what these words meant to me at the time of writing. The pinned location is where I lived when I wrote these entries.

1."A new Kingdom has come into existence and we shall prevail
      the path we have marked with our thunderous step
                    is worthy of Legend"

2.  "There is a frailness on the inner grounds of the cage of bones 
with a trembling rhythm, a faltering source, on the verge of 
collapsing from within. To crumble is to leak out the morose: Spilling
before The Suffer and existence end. Gawking at the mass of 
ribbons, intertwining the brittle grasp and trailing, descending down
into the depths of perfection." 

3.  "The scribbles I snap my wrist upon are dribbled with draining 
despair. My very soul is stinging in the back of my ever-blurring
vision while fluids of fire fall off the face of pain."
  1. At the time of writing this, I found inspiration from a David Eddings book. One of my thought processes when I was incarcerated was that I was there to correct myself. The word “Kingdom” is meant to represent my whole being.
  2. This is a representation of the pain I had felt in my heart during the worst parts of my depression before I was in prison. Suicidal thoughts had run rampant and this piece is a visual of my breaking heart that winds up in my hand as the blood leaks towards my failure. I use the word “perfection” as a synonym for failure. If everything was perfect, there would be no reason to strive for more.
  3. I cry when I write. ‘Nuff said.