There was a moment during my life when complete truth never
felt more real. Sure I had been experiencing truth constantly and these were
the things that I wanted to escape, ignore, avoid, and run from forever. The
truth that I did not feel loved or cared for, the onset of knowing that I did
not know how to deal with day to day existence as a human being, nor did I want
to. The truth that I was severely depressed and never sadder, and I found
myself grounded in the idea that this is who I was and I could not change it.
On December 27, 1987, the owner of the business had caught me inside his
building. Technically I had broken in even though I had previously stolen the
keys to the business, and let myself in. He was angry and threatened to shot
me. He had his arm around my neck and a handgun pointed to the side of my head.
This had little effect on me, not only had I been under the aim of a gun
previously, but I had been living to die. The thought of this unknown person
threatening to shoot me in the head had a calming effect on me. Not because I
had been subdued, but the thought of a stranger completing the task of ending
my pathetic existence seemed unfair and out of line. I was angry and sad. A
stranger had placed himself into a position that I had been for so long. He
probably never knew the value of this position.
The first
night I spent incarcerated was very surreal. I had ended up where everyone had
warned I was going, but I somehow felt strangely comfortable. I felt at ease.
Sure my mind wandered with thoughts of being victimized and how I would deal
with these encounters. I lie in my cell and felt as though I was home. Not the
home I came from, but a new kind of home. I felt safe. I felt cared for. I no
longer had to figure out the insanity that surrounded me, it was gone. I was
alone and was expected to do, say, and participate very little in my new life.
I suppose you could say I was a good inmate. I was intelligent enough to
understand the inner workings of the social structure and quickly understood
the limits and expectations of those around me. I was willing to be a little
reckless both with my tongue and fists. I was preparing for the worse and
living very much in the moment. I was schooled on the inner workings of the
justice system by your run of the mill “jail house lawyers”.
I ate meals with
murderers, and shared hopes and dreams with society’s waste. People very much
like me; who could not live or function in the outside world. I was a drug addict, but I was also a
criminal. I had put all my chips into the center of the table, thrown in the
towel, and was where I needed and was supposed to be.
Life as an
incarcerated 17 year old is a tough place to be. I was constantly challenged,
threatened, and physically beat.
June 20,
1988
Today
would be the last day I would intoxicate myself. An inmate had managed to
smuggle in a small amount of marijuana. After smoking my share, I sat on a
metal table looking at myself in a nearby mirror. I sat for hours
contemplating.
Who would
I be? How would I act? What would I do? Who would be my friends? How would I
make decisions? What would I do for the rest of my life?
I realized at that moment one of the most important lessons
of my recovery; if I ever used drugs or alcohol again, I would be in that jump
suit, locked up, starring at myself in the mirror. This would be my moment of
what many call clarity; which seems ironic considering I was under the
influence. 1+2=3. This is how profound yet simple it had become. Working
through the math would become the challenge.
I am still working through the math...
B
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