Friday, September 3, 2010:

It only took me a couple of weeks at Pollock to figure out that the Dirty White Boys had the alcohol, the Mexicans had the heroin, and the Bloods had the weed.

I tried to avoid it all at first, hide from it, but drugs just seemed to have a way of finding me even when I wasn’t looking for them. Eventually, it was in my face everywhere I turned.

Since I was now seeing the prison psychiatrist, I figured I would exploit the situation and score some drugs legally. I wanted to feel anything but what I was feeling at the time. But all I got was a prescription for Prozac. Prozac was no match for my desolation though.

My drug seeking behavior kicked in full-force and had me asking the doc for something stronger everytime I saw him. He tried out all kinds of antidepressants on me: Prozac, Serazone, Paxil, Wellbutrin, Effexor, Elavil, Trazadone, you name it.

He always asked me the same questions: How’s your appetite?, How well are you sleeping?, How’s your sex drive?

It took a couple of times for the absurdity of the last question to sink in. The last thing I want in prison is a strong sex drive. One of the notorious side-effects of these drugs is that they inhibit the libido. Out there, you would call that a negative side-effect. In here, I call it a positive one.

For the next two years, I got high or drunk or both every time the opportunity presented itself, which was everyday.

And I continued taking the psych meds. Religiously. Then the miracle of all miracles occurred, the seemingly impossible happened — on October 15, 2004, I drank for the last time and haven’t used since.

But I continued taking the antidepressants as a compromise with the demon inside.

I was easily convinced that I had a “chemical imbalance.” But what I really had was a “living in reality imbalance.”

I’m sure my brain chemistry was completely discombobulated after all the drugs I’d ingested, injected, and inhaled. But now I don’t think it was anything that proper sleep, a healthy diet, and plenty of exercise wouldn’t correct much more efficiently.

And I don’t think my depression had much to do with chemistry anyway. I think it was the result of all my false beliefs and my negative self-talk.

I believed, especially after my arrest, that I was a loser and a piece of shit, and there was no hope for me. I felt like a monster because of the crimes I’d committed.

I had no self-control, no discipline, no integrity. I didn’t know the meaning of integrity. My word wasn’t worth two dead flies — I’d broken promise after promise after promise.

I was full of guilt and shame and tried to cover-up and hide all the bad behavior that I felt was plainly visible on my dirty face.

My depression was the result of my negative thinking and my self-hatred, not some “chemical imbalance.”

Read the full story in my memoir Running Away From Me.

Buy Running Away From Me as a Kindle format ebook.

Have a beautiful day!

Thursday, September 2, 2010:

When I first arrived at the United States Penitentiary in Pollock, Louisiana, I had already been locked up for two years in some of the most violent county jails in Texas, Alabama, and Mississippi. To say I was depressed is an understatement.

I was facing at least ten more years in prison, and I still had a few serious, unresolved charges to face. My brother had overdosed five months earlier, my wife had divorced me and would not answer any phone calls or letters, and still hasn’t to this day, though I can’t say I blame her, and I still wanted to get high more than anything. And I was scared.

One of the counselors asked me a few of the standard questions that were part of the booking process.

Have you ever attempted suicide?

Yes.

When?

After I was arrested.

She put down her pen and reached for the telephone. We got one that needs to see the psychiatrist.

Of course when I see the psychiatrist, he’s got a ton of questions that I didn’t think had anything to do with anything. When he was done with the interrogation, he said, You don’t exhibit any of the characteristics that I normally see in here, which made me feel a little better about myself.

Then he said, But you will, which made me angry. It sounded like a challenge to me and I made up my mind to prove him wrong. It set the tone for the rest of my sentence, and except for the next two years, in which I continued to struggle with my addiction, I think I succeeded in that endeavor.

I would continue to see him over the next five years.

Buy my book Running Away From Me. OR Buy Running Away From Me as a Kindle format ebook.

Monday, August 30, 2010:

Here’s a simple little test you can give yourself if you’re wondering whether or not you have a drug or alcohol problem. If you answer “yes” to two or more questions, you probably have a problem:

• Have you ever ridden in a car driven by someone (including yourself) who was “high” or had been using alcohol or drugs?
• Do you use alcohol or drugs to relax, feel better about yourself, or fit in?
• Do you ever use drugs or alcohol while you are by yourself?
• Do you ever forget things you did while using drugs or alcohol?
• Do your family or friends ever tell you that you should cut down on your drinking or drug use?
• Have you ever gotten in trouble while you were using alcohol or drugs?

The only problem I see with this test is that addicts lie, more to themselves than anyone else. An addiction needs dishonesty to survive like a fire needs oxygen to burn. An addiction and honesty cannot exist together.

The first thing an addict has to do in order to start recovering is take an honest look at him or herself. It’s a very humbling step to admit that you have a problem and you need help. Pride, or rather false pride, prevents most addicts from ever taking this first step, and the false pride is rooted in fear.

The active addict lives a life of dishonesty, false pride, and fear. I know because I’ve been there.

Thursday, August 26, 2010:

We now have a Gavel Club here at Marianna. It’s affiliated with Toastmasters International and allows us to practice our public speaking skills. I gave my first speech today, which is supposed to be about myself, and is called an Ice Breaker. Here it is:

Good afternoon fellow Gavel Club members. My name is David and I would like to tell you a little bit about myself. I was born in Mobile, Alabama in 1969. Four historical events took place that year that kind of correlate with a few of my interests and hobbies. First, in the summer of that year, man first set foot on the moon. Second, Charles Manson and his “family” committed their atrocious murders. Third, Hurricane Camille thrashed the Alabama and Mississippi Gulf Coast, and fourth, in December of that year, the Beatles played live together for the last time.

The greatest thing about the moon landing to me is that it exemplifies my belief that we can do anything if we just set our minds to it and believe in it. One of my favorite quotes is by Carly Fiorna who said, “Progress is not made by the cynics and doubters. It is made by those who believe anything is possible.” My whole life I’ve had other people tell me what I can and can’t do and I listened to them and I set limits on myself. That was until I started reading about people like ultra-marathon runner Dean Karnazes. This guy ran 350 miles without stopping except for a little first-aid for blisters and such. Never let anyone tell you that you’re not smart enough, not talented enough, or too old to do anything. Those are artificial limits imposed upon us by the cynics and doubters.

Now you may be wondering how Charles Manson could influence me in any way. Well, he didn’t exactly influence me, but this is one of the bleaker events of 1969, and I was in the womb when it happened. Unfortunately, I’ve spent a lot of time in prison and it seems my life has been darkness and light intertwined. I’ve always been interested in the dark side of human nature and the psychology of evil. One of my favorite books is Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. It’s about Raskolnikov, a young university student in 19th century Russia. Raskolnikov becomes enthralled with Napolean and how Napolean could was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands and still was considered a great human being by many. Raskolnikov convinces himself that he can rob and murder a pawn shop owner and do a hundred good deeds with the money. He believes the good deeds will more than compensate for the murder and redeem him. Well, after the murder, his conscience tortures him and he goes crazy instead. One of my ambitions is to be a writer, and this is the subject matter I would most like to write about.

Then there was Hurricane Camille. My life’s been much like a hurricane. Because of my addiction to drugs and alcohol, I ripped through the lives of those I loved the most. Every good thing was destroyed in my wake, and I was left with nothing when the storm dissipated. But after a hurricane, there is a long process of recovery and rebuilding, and eventually everything is better than before. Adapting to and overcoming adversity is one of the greatest traits of the human race. This is what I hope to happen with my own life. This is my trial by fire, and when all is said and done, I hope to be a better person, not in spite of, but because of the storm I’ve endured.

And 1969 ended with the last live performance of the Beatles, one month after I was born. Music is one of my biggest passions. I was collecting vinyl records of my favorite bands when other kids my age were still playing with Tonka Trucks and Hot Wheels. I just had to have every record by the Beatles, Styx, AC/DC, Led Zepellin, Aerosmith, and many more. Even though the Beatles existed only one month into my life, they’ve been a big influence on me and on the music I still listen to. Surely without them I would never have learned how to play the guitar.

Well, that’s four of my passions and how they’re related to the events of 1969: running, writing, recovery, and rock and roll. The funny thing is, here I am in prison, with my freedom severely restricted, and I can still fully engage in each one of these pastimes. Thank you.

Monday, August 23, 2010:

Forms of denial listed in Substance Abuse Treatment and the Stages of Change by Connors, Donovan, and DiClemente:

• Simple denial — insists that alcohol or drug use is not a problem despite clear evidence to the contrary.
• Minimizing — acknowledges some level of a substance abuse problem but discounts it as not serious or significant.
• Blaming — projects responsibility for the problem externally, on other people or events and circumstances. Personal responsibility is abdicated.
• Rationalizing — uses “alibis, excuses, justifications and other explanations” to account for the substance abuse.
• Intellectualizing — addresses the substance abuse in an intellectual, analytic, and unemotional manner.
• Diversion — avoids the substance abuse issue by distracting attention from the topic.
• Hostility — responds to others who raise the issue of substance abuse with anger, irritation, and/or scorn, with the intent of dissuading others from raising the topic.

I have a close relative whose life seems to be unraveling due to apparent drug use. I made an attempt to help because I loathe to see anyone go through what I have, and I would hate to see the rest of my family drug through the ringer again. Because of my past drug use and criminality, my attempt to help probably makes me look like a self-righteous hypocrite to this person, but so be it.

I received an email from this relative who tried to assure me that there were no worries.

In trying to convince me that there was no problem, this relative used each and everyone of the above mentioned forms of denial.

After a week of worrying and having my dad tell me, Now you know what it feels like to worry about someone [with a drug problem], I decided to take the advice of Alcoholics Anonymous and Let go and let God.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010:

I’ve been reading The Art of Description: World into Word by Mark Doty. I didn’t realize it was about writing poetry or I might not have gotten it. I definitely do not aspire to be a poet, but I do enjoy reading some poetry.

I liked Ariel by Sylvia Plath. Most of it was written in the final months before she committed suicide, and she epitomized the notion that suffering creates great art.

Any way, I was two days into reading this book by Doty when I came across this meditation for the day in 365 Tao:

Even in sleep, write a poem
When waking, write a poem
While loving, write a poem
Even voting, write a poem
When angry, write a poem
While dreaming, write a poem.

The sages say quite seriously that those who wish to know Tao better should cultivate the poet in themselves.

Last Saturday, I was on the recreation yard taking pictures when a thunderstorm sent everyone scrambling for shelter (don’t laugh):

Rain drops on hot rusty roof,
Like nickels and dimes
Steaming in red clay
Under grey ether split
By burning bright “Crack!”
Involuntary contraction.
Flapping flags waxing ecstatic
In the gusty breath of some god,
Unknown and mysterious.
Dancing mist before my eyes,
Like sand swirling in air
Against space black back drop.
This mundane happening doesn’t seem so.
Wistful anticipation of…
Something more.

Read my book Running Away From Me.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010:

I’ve been reading, or rather forcing myself to read, The Mindful Path to Self-Compassion: Freeing Yourself from Destructive Thoughts and Emotions by Christopher Germer. I’m really getting sick of this touchy-feely drivel, but it’s bitter medicine for me and I need it.

I was only aware of two emotions before, and especially during, my addiction. One felt good and the other felt bad. And I wanted to feel good all the time. But in the end, that feeling was more elusive than ever.

I remember a time, six months after I was arrested, when I was in the deepest depression I’ve ever experienced, when suicidal thoughts were my constant companion and consolation, but my mind was clearing, and the haze in my head was thinning as the chemical storm dissipated.

I met a couple of bank robbers in the Federal Detention Center in Houston. We were playing Monopoly to kill the mind-numbing boredom (yeah, three bank robbers playing Monopoly in prison).

The other two guys started arguing over the price of rent on Oriental Avenue with one motel. That’s when the absurdity of the situation struck me and I started laughing, a real belly laugh with tears streaming down my face. That was something I had not experienced in years, and it felt strange and foreign.

I had been killing myself in an attempt to feel what I was feeling in that moment, what I was feeling in prison, without drugs.

Read my entire story in my book Running Away From Me.

Friday, July 30, 2010:

I’ve had two experiences this week that depict the two sides of human nature that we deal with from corrections officers.

In the first incident, I’m standing outside the Unicor factory waiting to go back to work after lunch. The heat index is nearing 115 degrees and I’m already soaked with sweat from just standing in the sun.

So I take one step off the sidewalk to cool off under the shade of a tree. It’s a bit cooler with a light breeze blowing on my wet skin.

Then three Unicor foremen come walking down the sidewalk headed back to the factory. One of them, Mr. Jerkins, who occasionally engages me in conversation, asking me what I plan to do when I get out and such, while also pointing out to me which of my fellow inmates need a bullet in the back of the head, says to me, Get off MY grass.

I don’t know whether he’s serious or not. I guess I’m not supposed to be standing on the grass, but that rule is not strictly enforced. Besides, I’m not the only one.

So I ask, It’s your grass? to which he replies, Yeah it’s my grass. I’m a taxpayer.

It’s no big deal really. It’s not inhumane treatment and I’ve seen and heard of much worse abuse from correctional officers. It’s just a subtle form of psychological manipulation. He singled me out to remind me of where I… stand. (Sorry for the pun.)

We have numerous petty rules, mostly just to remind of us who’s in charge, and I try to obey them all only because I don’t like being talked to like this. I don’t like being treated like a kid.

In the second incident, one of my co-workers, a big, corn-fed twenty-five year old from Illinois, whom I happen to like a lot, missed breakfast because of the way our schedule is structured in the mornings.

We are let out of our cells at 6 am, and, depending on what order our unit eats, we’re usually not let out of the unit for breakfast until about 7 am.

Those of us employed by Unicor have to be at work by 7:30, so this gives us thirty minutes, more or less, to eat, pick-up or drop-off laundry, and make it to work.

Picking up laundry and eating both usually involve standing in long lines, so sometimes it’s impossible to do all this in the time allotted to us. So we have to choose to wear dirty clothes, miss breakfast, or be late for work.

Three write-ups for being late to work result in termination from Unicor, so that’s not really an option.

Anyway, my buddy skips breakfast, waits in line for his laundry bag, which turns out to be lost, and is still late for work. 0 for 3.

He tells Mr. Jerkins what happened. He doesn’t care. Tough shit, now get to work. So he goes to Mr. Mercy. Mr. Mercy stops what he’s doing and goes to the chow hall to get something for my buddy to eat.

This is unheard of, and Mr. Mercy could get into a lot of trouble, so he has me help him come up with some sort of ruse to hide what he’s doing from the prying eyes of the other inmates, who will snitch out of sheer hatred and jealousy.

We go into an office and Mr. Mercy acts like he’s counseling me while my buddy ducks out of sight to eat.

I think a prison job is a perfect test of a person’s character, humanity and compassion.

How would you treat people who are in a position lower than you? It would depend on how you look at why these people wound up in prison. Are we just disadvantaged and unfortunate? Did we just make some serious mistakes and bad choices; or are we just pieces of garbage who deserve to be treated as less than human?

And what will be the results of that treatment? Will it help to make us better, or worse, or have no effect?

If you treat me like an animal for twelve years and then release me back into society, what will you get? How will society benefit from that?

If I’m a tree producing bad fruit, do you punish me by withholding water and sunshine, or do you treat me with nourishment and care? Or do you just chop me down?

Read my book Running Away From Me.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010:

Every once in a while, I have to be reminded of the crimes I committed. After ten years, it’s easy for me to forget exactly why I’m in prison.

I robbed three banks. I brandished a gun in one of the robberies which earned me an additional seven years. I’ve robbed more than one pharmacy, strictly for the drugs. When the police attempted to arrest me, I fled, and led them on a high-speed chase.

I put many lives at risk. I traumatized many people, but none more so than my family and my wife at the time. And ten days later, in my final act of madness as a free citizen, I put a gun to my own head when I was surrounded by police officers. I was shot at fifteen times and hit four times.

Maybe I was trying to take myself hostage. Maybe I was trying to commit suicide by cop. I really don’t know because my drug-influenced mental state at the time did not foster rational cognition.

I’m lucky to still be alive and I’m lucky I only received a fourteen and a half year sentence.

All this because I only wanted to feel good. It was all for a feeling.

I continued drinking and getting high four years into my sentence, when suddenly, my desire to use was removed like a torrential thunderstorm finally blowing over.

Now the fog’s been removed from my head and I find myself with almost six years of real clean time. But I’m stuck. I’m stuck in what sometimes seems like purgatory.

I want to move on but I can’t. I’m frozen in time. I feel like a rocket sitting on the launch pad, anticipating the final countdown that will be a long time in coming. They won’t let me grow up. They won’t let me have my dignity back. Do this, do that. Don’t do this, don’t do that.

Time keeps marching forward, and I feel like I’m living in some convoluted, alternate reality. I don’t know what life is like out there anymore.

I know I deserve to be punished, but at some point, the punishment “took,” it had taken effect, achieved it’s purpose, but I still have superfluous years left to go.

I think I’ve made myself a better person, but I had to reach down and dig and do it on my own.

The mission statement of all prisons should be to make a person fit for society again, but our prisons do the opposite of this. Our prisons are breeding monsters, returning more sophisticated predators back on the streets after their prolonged business convention.

It’s difficult to stay focused and positive because it’s going against the grain. It’s trying to swim upstream when the river’s headed for a thousand foot waterfall. The pervading mentality is: I want what I want when I want it and I don’t care whose rights I have to trample to get it.

I struggle to keep a grasp on reality. I’m exposed to so many false beliefs and so much maladaptive and self-defeating behavior that I have a hard time discerning right from wrong, black from white, up from down.

It’s a daily struggle to keep the ship righted. This is why I have to be reminded.

Read my book Running Away From Me.

Monday, July 26, 2010:

From The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson:

So how was it?

How was what?

Prison.

He laughed. Would you believe me if I said it was like having a paid holiday with all the time you wanted for thinking and writing?

I would. I don’t suppose there’s much difference between a prison and a cloister, and people have always gone to cloisters for self-reflection.

Well there you go…

Except for the fact that they’re talking about prison in Sweden, which is much more humane than American prisons, I have to agree 100 percent.

It’s hard to adequately describe what prison life is like. Television and movies make it look so much worse than it actually is (I’m not talking about county jails, which are probably worse, according to my experience). It’s not all bad, and as with most trials and tribulations in life, if it is approached with a positive attitude, and if you look for the silver lining, you will find it.

I’m also reminded of the “promises” in the Alcoholics Anonymous big book: No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it. We will see how our experience can benefit others.

When I am released back into society, I will not be able to afford to feel shame about my past. Shame was a major ingredient in my addiction. I will have to face the stigma of being an ex-felon with courage. I hope I can do that.

Read my book Running Away From Me.