Chris Hoke- Wanted

Finished this book last week (5 days of reading) and it is absolutely great! Chris puts into words many of the emotions and thoughts I routinely have doing my work. I would encourage you to take moment to learn more about Chris and the work he is involved in!
http://chris-hoke.com/info/
http://coffee.newearthworks.org/
https://www.facebook.com/chris.hoke.988

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I hurt myself today to see if I still feel

I spend a lot of time in prisons talking to men and women about a life of recovery, a life of freedom. Free from the bondage of addiction. Many assume my own journey correlates and in some instances it does, however the link between them and I is a shared experience of pain. It’s looking someone in the eyes, the soul and sharing in a unified experience of pain and suffering. I have my own history and hold it close to my heart as a reminder of the distance I have come. The journey I am on. To never want to hurt; to not impose suffering on myself. Prisons, jails, and institutions are full of suffering, and in the perplexity of addiction, much of this suffering has been created by the sufferer through a series of poor decisions. I understand self imposed suffering. I try to be an example of someone who has struggled through parts of my life and who has made conscious effort to stop make decisions which cause me to suffer. Many do not understand why I would spend time with those incarcerated and what good this may have, and that’s okay. Much of what I do is for me also. To help me understand the distance I have come. The changes I have made. The hurt and suffering which exists. 

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I Hurt myself today

to see if I still feel

I focus on the pain 

The only thing that's real 

The needle tears a hole

The old familiar sting 

Try to kill it all away 

But I remember everything 

being scared

That day in 1988, the last time I used drugs, I was scared. I didn't understand what I was doing or what I was going to do. I knew and had learned that being in hand cuffs and living in jail cells was something I didn't want to continue doing. I literally had nothing except some drawings, some letters and a few photographs others had sent me. There is very little more demoralizing than being treated like an animal. I hated every second of it. I despised the world and wondered every minute what others where doing. I knew I wanted to try something different and made no promises to anyone. I wanted to disappear from my life. I wanted to start again. I wanted take control of writing the story of my life. I was sick to my stomach listening and reading what others had authored about my character. I had made a plethora of terrible decisions but I wanted to believe I was not a terrible person. I wanted to change my life so people would leave me alone and stop saying negative things about me; I had no clue what that meant or how I was going to do that. 

I have the opportunity to speak to many about recovery, change, and motivation. I get to re-live this moment. To go to a place deep inside myself and remember the fear, the uncomfortableness of my life. I get to feel humbled about my journey. Its easy with the business of my daily life to forget how vulnerable, scared, and fragile I feel at times. I still feel uncomfortable with the world and myself at times. I have come a long way from that person in 1988. And it has not been without mistakes, there has never been any perfection in any of this. I continue to author the story of my life. I am continually surprised when  others say nice things about me. 

I hope this story is a good one for someone to read…

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one of America's saddest secrets...

“I want to see firsthand the mental health unit”

She was involved in an argument, her body language yelled intensity, anger

She moves her hands to illustrate the point

She doesn't notice me or the sweat that drips from my forehead

I watch quietly, she gets louder and more animated.

There is no denying the importance of her position.

A tear dripped from the corner of my eye and mixed with the sweat running down the side of my face.

She never noticed me 

and her wall never told its side of the story

My undershirt stuck to my back. The heat was sweltering and the air was still and stale.

Coloring book pages hung on the walls like fliers for lost daughters, mothers, sisters.

  I left the unit with a level of discomfort, sadness and anger. I am not naive to the understanding that some of these women have possibly done things which warrant their removal from society, however housing the mentally ill in a prison has unfortunately become acceptable practice. I have heard and understand both sides of the argument. I know with out a doubt they are in an environment which is possibly safer than the one they came from; safer for others and most importantly safer for them. As society continues to slash funding for community based mental health services, more and more individuals with mental health disorders are being processed into jails and prisons.

How are we providing appropriate treatment and services?

Or does anyone care?   

The Mentally Ill in Jail: Whose Problem Is It Anyway? [Satellite/Internet Broadcast]

for my friend Sheri and all the treatment professionals who work inside prisons and jails...thank you for everything you do!
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An orange jumpsuit and my first step to recovery

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...

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