READ BETWEEN THE BARS...my son's story from his prison cell

Dec. 22, 2013

(This is a photo of a painting done by my son a couple of years ago.)



Nov. 30, 2013

Bars inside Bars

I just got out of "The Hole" less than a week ago. I was caught fighting, well, defending myself from two guys who jumped me. They eventually considered me "not guilty" so they let me out, but I spent enough time in there that it had its effects on me.

Now I feel like everything's different than it was before. I really am all by myself in life. That time I spent in solitary confinement was rough. Much rougher than I thought it would be. I lost track of time completely. Also, I realized that anything could happen to me and my family wouldn't even know. I'm alone. Totally alone.

It's pretty messed up when you really think about it. Being put in a prison inside a prison. I slept a lot of the time. There was nothing else to do but sleep. well, to be honest, I tried to sleep. It was almost impossible to sleep. All I could think about was friends and family. You don't know what you have until its gone. And in the hole, everything is gone. Everything.

Quote of the day from my friend D.S. "Tough times don't last long but tough people do."

Thanksgiving came and went here. I don't have much to be thankful for this year, but I'm thankful to be out of that terrible place. And I'm thankful that I have friends and family who care about me and come visit me. When you're in the hole, it's easy to forget all of that, but I didn't. I kept on thinking of them and looking forward to their visits. It's what got me through that prison inside a prison.

Awake

It all started with a dream. We can't really control our dreams. Are they just random impulses from our brains we try so intelligently to perceive as something deep and important, or are they just crazy tricks our minds play when we sleep? Last night I had a dream about all the wrong I've done to people. It wasn't a dream. It was a nightmare. I was back in that place I used to be where I was addicted to drugs and alcohol and I wasn't myself. I cheated everyone out of getting to know the real me. And in my dream I was reliving that and I had this urge to seek forgiveness from people. And now I am awake.

I am so embarrassed by the things I've done. I was so immature back then. No one knew the real me--I wouldn't let them. I lived two lives: the face I wore when I was with family and old friends and then the real me, a lying, cheating, piece of shit con-artist. There were no boundaries I wouldn't cross. I was ruthlessly deceptive to the point that I had created an entire second identity for some people in my life. All of the lies I had to remember and keep straight were exhausting. And why? Because I was too insecure and I was afraid. I didn't want people to know the truth-- I was doing nothing with my life. Nothing.

Today, I am awake. I live with honesty. But I've become inspired by this dream. It's sort of like the show "My Name is Earl." I'm going to make a list of people I've wronged and I'm going to do right by each of them. I believe that what's happened to me has been because of my bad choices but also bad karma. I want to right my wrongs for each of these people while I'm here behind bars. I'm going to need help finding their addresses, but I can do it. I am inspired. I am committed. I am honest. And I am awake.


Oct. 31, 2013

Easy to Forget

I guess I've been locked up so long that I had forgotten that people care about me. I forgot that on the outside, outside these prison walls, I have a network of people...friends and family who are always going to be there for me. Being locked up cuts me off from everything. Sometimes I forget that there are people who care about me out there. Just because I don't see or hear from them all the time doesn't mean that I don't have them in my life. I need to be reminded of that sometimes. Like today.

I had a phone call with my mom. We talked about what a couple people have written to the judge on my behalf. Those letters really touched me. I had forgotten just how much people care about me. My "uncle" and another close family friend said such beautiful things about me. It was the reminder that I needed.

I hope the letters will have some effect on my sentence. There will be more letters, but some people have told me that the judge won't care about them anyway. Yet others have said that they may make a big difference because they show that you have a network of good people, a stable environment to fall back on. I think I will have several letters.

I just hope my judge has a heart.

But I'm thankful either way to have such a strong support system backing me up. My life will be in the hands of a stranger, who can hopefully see who I really am. I guess all I can do now is hope...And remember that I have this amazing support system. It's so easy to forget in here.

I'm not just hoping for my sentence to be fair. I'm also hoping that my friends and family know how much I care about them, how much I appreciate all they have done for me. I know they will be there for me no matter what. I just want a chance to show them I can live a good, honest, healthy life. I am still hopeful for the future. I have to be.

Oct. 23, 2013
Thought of the Day
Aspire through all realms of consciousness.
Freedom is upon the brow of heightened necessity.
Death and Master
Look upon your final place
the defining mask
Stare down the face of death
Envelop what peers through you
Become your own master

Oct. 6, 2013

The Gift of Hope

There are some days that are significantly harder than others; today is one of those days. I realized today that to the state right now, in this prison, I'm just a number, a statistic. But I'm certainly much more than a number. Yes, I am a young man who has, so far, wasted his potential. And from an outside standpoint, all of the signs of this were there before. I just failed to see them. But now I do.

I know I put myself in this situation. There are so many things I could blame this on: booze, drugs, even just being around losers. But what's the point? It was my fault. I hadn't even reached my full potential yet...I was 20 when I was locked up. I'm 21 now, half a year has passed and do you know what? I hadn't even had a chance to really experience all that the world has to offer. I am merely a statistic so far. Just a number.

Back then I was afraid to move on. I was on the verge of being a grown man and it scared me. All of the partying was probably replacing the social outlet I had in high school. I tried to go to a community college but it wasn't for me at the time, or so I thought. How could I have been so stupid? Now not knowing if I will ever have a chance to turn my life around puts a toll on me. I hope to prove that I am so much more than a number.

Do you believe people deserve a second chance? I'm not going to lie. Probably ninety percent of people won't change if they are given one. And that's probably because deep down they don't want to change. But me? I do want to change. I already have. I'm more than a number.

I wonder where it all went wrong. I have two fantastic parents that try so hard. I have a great brother and some really good friends. I went to a really good high school too. So where did it fall apart? For some reason after high school I just stopped caring. I became a classic loser. I wasn't working, and I replaced everything in my life that I used to enjoy with drinking and drugs. Looking back, I wanted to fill a void. An emptiness. I felt like I had nothing to wake up for. My parents took me to doctors who said I had depression, then later, bipolar. But I wasn't listening to anyone because I wasn't ready. Even though I had so many good things in my life, I didn't see any of them.

There were days when I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't leave my room unless I absolutely had to. I realize now that it was the depression side of my bipolar. But at the time all I knew was I was living with no real purpose day after day. I'd stay in for days at a time. Then all of a sudden, I'd feel this incredible urge to party (my mania kicking in) and I'd go partying for days. I was craving some sort of stability but I wouldn't admit it. And I wouldn't listen to anyone who tried to tell me what I needed. I thought I knew it all. And I denied the biggest thing of all. I denied being bipolar.

But as they say, when you play with fire, you are bound to get burned. And eventually I was. It was the serious degree of my burn that shocked everyone around me, even myself. I landed here. Now just a number to them.

Hopefully, I get the chance to prove to society that I have something to offer...that I can reach my full potential. I know I will not take the wrong road again. I have accepted my diagnosis and I'm seeking treatment in here even though it's hard to get the right medication. I refuse to give up hope. In my situation that's all I can do: hope. If you read this remember never, ever stop hoping. It's the most valuable gift you can give to yourself. Hope, especially when it all seems lost. I know I am not just a number. No. I am hopeful still.



Sept. 22, 2013

Cup of Joe
You meet a lot of people while you're locked up. Some of whom you find yourself wishing you had never met while others you become close with because you share some common bond. And still some people you meet will be extraordinarily unique. You'll never meet another like them.

In my time being locked up, I've met a lot of people but none has been as interesting as the man I met last week. He was moved to my housing unit from the mental health pod. I could tell right away that he may once have been "normal" but is now a broken individual. I've taken up the ritual of sharing coffee every morning with the man. We've had some interesting conversations...most of what he says makes little sense. I've noticed he has a habit of taking several thoughts and stringing them together into one confusing sentence.

Now, without coffee, the man won't say much. coffee seems to be a serious tool in opening up the man's mind. Once he gets a cup of Joe he proves to be a hardy source of strange information. For example, yesterday we had an hour long conversation about whether bread mold is good for you. Today we had a conversation that really got me thinking...he said something cryptic that I interpreted very well. He said, "Everyone you will ever meet will say the same thing but different." I took that to mean that everything you encounter in life depends on how you perceive it to be. After all, life is perception. I took his idea and thought about it for a long time. I've really gone deep into the "perception belief."  That man may once have been sharp. I am a firm believer that brilliance borders on insanity. And that man is one or the other! So the next time you encounter someone who is "not all there", take a moment and think: are they gone completely? Or are they actually brilliant?

Sept. 10, 2013

Thoughts of the Day

I am my own master
I am made and unmade by myself
My actions are the blossoms of my thoughts
My suffering is the fruit
I must tend the garden of my mind
I am a creative power
I am the tyrant of my own fate


August 17, 2013

Trapped Inside My Nightmare

I am cold. My body is sore and tired from little sleep. My bones ache and my joints throb. My mind races from one unimportant thought to the next. It's Saturday morning and the prison is playing cartoons on all of the TVs. I don't want to watch and I don't want to go back to bed because I've been having these terrible dreams. Very vivid dreams. Dreams that are so realistic that I don't know the difference between them and reality. Why do I dream this way? Why do I dream at all?

Last night I revisited a house from my childhood, the house my brother, mother and I moved into when my parents split. That house always had an eerie creepy feeling. Like the feeling that you weren't in a room alone when to your knowledge you were. I visited that house last night. I was 13 years old again. Every room in that house seemed drastically creepier. I remember sitting in my old room. The floor boards creaked on their own and the walls were caving in. I was home alone but I wasn't really alone. Something was there in the walls, under the furniture, and in the shadows. Everywhere I went I looked over my shoulder and each time I'd catch a glimpse of the shadow that was haunting me.

Then I was in the basement of the old house. There was a room down there that was unused. Sound echoed in there and one dim light bulb was all that lit the place. I don't know what it was that scared me about that room in real life, but the dream contorted it even more. In my dream, the walls had holes in them as if something or someone was watching me. The floor was ice cold too. I was trapped in that room last night. Alone. That empty room where, strangely enough, there was a faucet on the wall which didn't exist in real life. In my dream I turned the knob and at first water came out. But after a few seconds, a pure black liquid came oozing out. An evil, angry, perfectly black liquid came rushing out. The liquid started to fill the room. Once it was about knee high I started wading through it. My foot stumbled into something. It was unmistakeably a dead body. The room suddenly was full of rotting bodies. The walls were suddenly lined with them. There was no door anymore. Only walls, each smelling so putrid that I was gagging. The walls were packed with rotting corpses.

I'm still not sure why I dreamed of that old creepy house. I haven't thought of that place in years. I really hated that dream, but at least I got some sleep, even if it was trapped inside another nightmare.

August 15, 2013

"Death to the Tyrant"

I'm debating whether or not I want to write a book. It's been suggested that I do. On one hand, it would be a fantastic outlet and something to do, but on the other hand it requires stability...well, I guess it doesn't require too much stability. Some of the most creative minds are the irrational, the impulsive, and the unstable. One of my favorite writers of all time was Edgar Allen Poe. He was a mess. He was probably manic depressive. He was an alcoholic and he was strung out on cocaine. Through all of those obstacles he created one of my favorite poems of all time-"The Raven". Maybe one day I'll create my "Raven". Today during a manic blur I created a very cryptic poem about kings and power struggles.

"Death to the tyrant"
His world will fall
Its burning with envy
Its ashes withdraw
The handmade and hated
King he does lead
For he who is crowned 
Will surely bleed

"And he who will stand"
will lay on the ground
Whilst his left hand
Screams without sound
To make the world stop
All hell it will bring
For he who won't stand
Will surely be king

I'm not sure what it means to me, but it could mean something different to different people. That's the beauty of art. It's always up for different interpretation. I wish I were allowed to paint or better yet, play piano. I miss music so freaking much. I miss Artistic Expression in general even more. I have read and reread 26 books in the last five months. Five months. It's only been five months. Half a year in prison. I think I've become completely institutionalized now.

I haven't seen the sun in 3 weeks. I haven't felt a breeze in a month. And I haven't had a hug in 5 months. Some days are harder than others. The easiest days are days I don't call home or have visits. Days I can simply live in prison and forget the actual world I used to live in. When you come to prison you lose a part of yourself. You change. Whether it's a good or bad change is up to you though. But one thing is certain. You change. You feel different.

I feel dull and lifeless. I'm just waiting for the day to end...every day. That can't be healthy. There is almost no mental stimulation other than the occasional book, crossword or card game. Today is one of the harder days. A day I can't stop thinking about "what ifs" and I can't stop thinking about my friends and family.  My family. They are going through something just like I am. The only difference is on my side 24/6 I am completely by myself, besides the one day I get a visit. Usually I feel completely alone to be honest. Like today is crawling by. The worst part is that tonight I won't be able to sleep. I can already tell.

Yesterday I got mail from someone far away. Someone I don't know yet. I hope to get to know them. The more people writing me the better my time goes. I love it when I get mail. A friend of mine recently wrote to me, "ask for forgiveness often, love freely, and accept yourself for who you are always". There are times I wish I could ask forgiveness from so many people. I've done a lot of things in my life I'm not proud of. "Live with few regrets." I do regret being a piece of shit through my teenage years. Regrets are really a waste of thought, I suppose. But I do have plenty of time to think.

July 28, 2013

My Private Beach 

Brilliance borders on insanity. Everyone has the possibility of going insane. Does that mean everyone's brilliant? Does everyone have the possibility of unlocking hidden potential?

Today is my five month mark. Five months of no cigarettes, five months sober, five months medicated, and five months in prison. Five months is a long time if you let it be. And just the same, five months can fly by. Where were you five months ago? Right now, what were you doing five months ago? Can you remember? Were you keeping busy or were you wasting away? My five months have been monotonous and quite possibly the hardest five months of my life. In this time period I have drunk more coffee, done more push ups, and encountered more idiots than I could have ever dreamed of. Time is funny. When you have something to look forward to, time will crawl but when you have nothing significant in your future it speeds by. I'm trying to figure out the perfect balance of the two. It isn't easy.

I've lost it. I've finally lost it! The fragile grip I had on reality is now broken into a million pieces. Time now moves at my leisure. Walls can no longer hold me in place. I am wherever my mind places me. At one time I was in an all white room. That was my home. I didn't get sunshine or set foot outside. Then slowly the tiled floor became sand. Day by day there was more of it until at one point I could no longer see the floor. The walls that surrounded me slowly moved backward bit by bit, day by day. Now I'm all by myself in the open air with waves crashing down the shoreline. My shoreline. I'm not sure how long I've been here.

As I pace back and forth in what was once my cell I am greeted with the thought of how nice this sand feels beneath my feet. The water is cold. Ice cold. The farther out I wade the less of my body I can feel. My hands and feet are dark purple by the time I drudge back to the shore. It is dark. Absolutely dark. I love the way the darkness envelopes the landscape around me. I may be here forever.


July 25, 2013

 Visiting Day

I can barely see, still swaddled in my state-issued blanket. I hear the siren going off. I know it's 8:30. Any other day I would stay asleep, but today I have a visit. I hop off the top bunk to the cold marble tiled floor, brush my teeth with my state-issued toothpaste and state toothbrush, wash my face with state soap. "Another day to go," I think to myself...Today is special though. Today is not like every other day. I get to see my mom and dad today.

It's funny...I never was this close with my parents before this whole fiasco. Before this, I would lie and constantly manipulate both of them. It was f*cked up. Looking back on things I see how lucky I am to have two loving, caring, competent parents. I made a vow to myself after I got arrested. I realized all I have is family. They are the last people I should lie to. It's f*cked up that it took being locked up to change me but life works in strange ways.  I put on my nicest pair of D.O.C. (Department of Corrections) clothes, which means the only pair that's not stained to hell. My cell door clicks open just as I put my shoes on. For breakfast I have powdered eggs, stale bread, and sugar free jelly. I scarf it down without stopping to sip my sugar free, caffeine free, taste free state coffee.

My name is called overhead on the tier speaker so I hurry over to the release door. After showing my ID wristband, the guard escorts me to the visiting room. My heart races, my hands sweat. Even though I know what to expect, I'm still nervous to see my parents.

The plexi-glass window has deep scratches in it. It's smudged with some unidentifiable substance. What if they don't show? What if they were mad at me and there was nothing I could do? I sat...I sat... and sat...waiting in my booth. Finally after what seemed like an hour, my mom came into view and close behind her I saw my dad towering over everyone else. My heart drops.

They cannot possibly understand how much these visits mean to me. Not only are they the only thing keeping me sane through the week, but these one hour visits reassure me that I am not in this predicament alone. My mom looks well as usual. And my dad has a reddish tan from mowing the lawns of every elderly person in his neighborhood.

My mom picks up the phone on her side of the plexi-glass and we begin to talk. Switching in 15 minute intervals, my parents share with me what's going on outside these walls. Finally I feel at home. I laugh and I smile an honest smile. Then suddenly the guard flicks the lights to indicate the visit's over. I'm secretly pissed. There's no way that it's been an hour already. My mom and dad each say their goodbyes. It's always the hardest part. It's weird because the visit itself is the best part of my week but saying goodbye is the hardest. And the worst part is that I cannot show any emotion. No sign of weakness. If someone sees me shed a tear I become a target in here. I miss my mom...my dad...my little brother...everyday...But I have to act heartless now. Distant. I hardly make eye contact with my parents.  And like that, it's over. LIke that my weekly visit has already expired. There is nothing to do but to wait for the next one.

I shuffle back to my cell. Time moves fast when you want it slow and slow when you want it over with. Since my visit is over, all I want is this day to be over with.


July 19, 2013

A Few Manic Thoughts from Inside

Day to day I swim through a pool of idiots. I struggle not to drown in all of the stupidity. This pool is state prison. I miss having conversations that aren't about "fu**ing the police" or "true gangstas" or "robbin erribody". I was raised by two smart, competent parents, both teachers, and now I've been thrown into a population of people who think "education is for fags". In here I feel smart which I think is sort of funny. In school I struggled with math, but here I'm considered a human calculator.

I should have joined the military like my family wanted me to do. I was so close to joining the marine corps...but like an idiot I chose to stay home for a girl, a girl I'm no longer even with.  But there was another reason I didn't want to join. I didn't think I was mentally capable of handling basic training. I am bipolar.

I haven't slept in three days. I've been exercising constantly and chugging coffee like I'm dying of thirst. Sometime soon I'm going to pass the f**k out. I wouldn't want someone so unstable to be handling an automatic weapon, would you? It's all irrelevant now since people with felonies can't join the military. So here I am.

I'm sure the thought of "where did I go wrong" has crossed my parents' minds. That leaves me feeling like a complete waste of skin. My parents didn't go wrong. I was destined to do something extreme and impulsive. I've always done things literally the hardest way possible. I was just a raging storm of bipolar and always have been. When my brother and I were younger, my parents thought my younger brother was dull. No. He's normal. I'm just incredibly bipolar.

I'm as bipolar as the sun is hot. My hand is literally shaking like I have a tremor. Sometimes I scare myself. I can't slow down at all. The world seems to be moving so slowly compared to me. I feel like a car speeding on empty. I'm so tired but there's no way I can sleep. This is disabling. I cannot function like there isn't anything wrong with me. I can't operate within the normal emotional and physical spectrum. I exceed the norm. I feel like shit. But at the same time I have a mixture of a live wire and rocket fuel propelling itself through my veins. I'm struggling right now. Thoughts flood my head. Thoughts that are totally irrelevant and random. They make no sense and I can't stop thinking. I'm sick of them harassing me. I need to be medicated properly. And I need sleep. I'm fighting a nuclear war in my head and I'm losing.

My advice to you is this: if you have something you are in denial about, or you aren't dealing with, face it head on and never take a single moment for granted.  You never know how good you've got it until it's gone. I didn't handle my bipolar on the outside and now I can't get help on the inside. I'm surrounded by incompetent neanderthals.

I'd say I'm going to sleep now, but actually I'm just going to lie down and think more random thoughts until morning. Good night.

June 20, 2013

My Story

You can be anything you want to be...I am an idiot.
You can go anywhere you want to go...I am trapped here.

I am an inmate. I am a good person who's done something incredibly stupid. No one was hurt, but it is really serious.

From inside my cell, with the help of my mom typing this, I will tell you my story.

I want so bad to be normal. To know what it feels like to think normally. I am blessed. I am cursed... I am bipolar.

I think it all started in grade school.  I would do anything I wanted simply because I didn't know how to control myself. That little voice of reason in your head that tells you right from wrong? Yeah, I have one, but mine is manic; mine is everywhere; mine is moving a thousand miles an hour.  In third grade, right before recess. That's when I had my first realization about how differently I think. I remember being so excited for recess and then at the next split second, I was incredibly sad for no reason. Today I am so relieved now to know that I'm not a freak. I'm just bipolar.

 If you catch me on the wrong day I may be so depressed it's sickening. Then again, I might be so hyper and wound up that I could supply the continent of North America with energy for a year. It's exhausting.

At the moment I am incredibly manic. I can't slow down my mind. I have nothing in my life to excite me but I feel like running up a wall. Today for lunch the prison is serving peanut butter and jelly. That makes me jump for joy.

Being here now.  All this could have been prevented. But my illness had hold of me.

Three years ago I was living at my mother's house. I was so up and down it scared my family. I did something that broke my mom's heart. I was so depressed at the time. I was 18 years old, was cheated on by my girlfriend and then I heard of the death of a good friend of mine. I didn't know what to do. That's when my illness spiked. I wasn't rational. I wanted to feel pain. I wanted to remove the guilt in my chest. Why was I even alive?

I planned to commit suicide.

Luckily, my family found the gun and protected me from myself. But that broke my mother's heart. To this day it hurts me to know how sick she must have felt. I wasn't safe though. I was spiraling. I was angry. Blind rage angry. And at the same time inconsolably distraught. I would be raging one minute over something miniscule then at the drop of a hat I'd be crying.  It scared my mom and my brother. It scared me too.

My mom and uncle devised a plan to help me. I was given an ultimatum. I either go to a young adult mental health hospital to get help or I move out. Now I had nowhere else to go. Nowhere. But...I chose to move out.

I wish I had gotten help. I wish I had saved my future but I didn't. I remember packing my things in a manic rage and heading out the front door. I went to the only place I knew I was welcome. Somewhere that helped me destroy myself.

I knocked on the rotting door in front of me. The door opened. He opened it. I told him the situation and he invited me to stay. The house was disgusting, trash lined the floors. The smell of dogshit hung in the air. I made myself at home on the broken sofa downstairs.

There were no rules...at all. I am someone who has always had structure which helped me and my everchanging mental state. But here there were no rules. This let my manic self soar past the point of no return. I didn't sleep for 3 days. I remember the feeling so well. I should have been tired, exhausted, but I couldn't stop. Being tired was not an option. I partied for a few weeks like the world was ending.

Then it happened.

Like the world crashed down on me.  I became so sad. So depressed. My illness helped convince myself that I had no one in my life that loved me. One extreme to the other.
Think of the saddest moment in your life. Now think of the happiest. Now, go from one to the other and back. That's the way I felt. The way I still feel.

I lived house to house, couch to couch for about 8 months. Then I finally moved into my dad's house.  He wanted to help me but couldn't. I was safer at his house though.  I was lying to my dad about keeping a job and staying in school.  I was not sane or stable enough to manage either. Now there were rules at my dad's house, but I rarely abided by them. Don't get me wrong. My father is no pushover. I was just...uncontrollable. A tornado of emotions.

I remember being talked into going to a mental hospital for an outpatient program. I did it. I completed the bullshit program easily and promised to take my life seriously. Now listen. The only way to help someone with their mental illness is to have them help themselves. I didn't want the help. I didn't think I needed it.  So the program didn't really help me. I wasn't ready.

Fast forward another year. I'm 20 almost 21. In a manic rage fueled by idiot "friends" and grain alcohol I landed myself in prison with very serious charges. My only escape is writing and a 15 minute phone call to family. I'm finally taking my life...my illness...seriously. And I actually WANT help.

I want help. And I need help.

Structure. Militant structure. Wake up, eat breakfast, lock in, work out, rec time, lunchtime, lock in. Prison is extreme. Prison is unbelievable. It is my life.

Three months ago I made a choice...that drunken choice...I regret everyday. My life is the hardest it's ever been. I'm locked up with murderers, rapists, gang members. Me- Someone who would go out of his way to help just about anyone.

I hope I am out by next birthday. I turned 21 in here.  Most people remember their 21st birthday as a fuzzy blur. I was locked up in a 6 x 12 cell with two full grown angry, scary men. Not scary like childish fear scary...but scary like look at them wrong and they'll stab you scary. And for someone who's led a happy, sheltered safe life, this is extreme.  Twenty-one years old and I've had more excitement, ups and downs and pain than most people have in a lifetime. But don't focus on the negatives. I am alive. I am relatively sane. I am getting mental help that I need. I am sober. I am learning to be happy again.

Now, the way I see it, if I can learn to be happy now when life is the hardest, in prison, I can be happy anywhere. I know I can appreciate life 100 times more than before. The negatives may outweigh the positives at the moment but that's only temporary. Everyone has a path. Whether you believed it's predestined or you make it yourself, everyone has a path. My path has been one of extremes.

Hopefully, my next life chapter is more stable. I believe only I control that.

Appreciate the little things. The feeling of a breeze. The ability to decide what you do, what you wear, what you eat.  Because someone somewhere has it worse than you do. Someone somewhere can't walk, is starving, or is locked up. Even me. I have it better than some people. I'm thankful to have a loving family, two parents, a brother...and a good lawyer (sorry, prison humor). Anyway, I appreciate the little things.

Sometimes in here, days fly by. But sometimes time just crawls. I'm someone who can handle stress, who works best under pressure. but this stress is paranoia and it's making me sick.

Take a second to step out of your life. Imagine being in one big room with men who all thrive on hurting people.  It sucks.  That plus never getting sleep without nightmares of being sentenced 3-15 years. This is my reality.  I may not step out of prison for several years...all because of a mental illness that I never took seriously. I've always done things the hard way. This is the hardest way possible.

If you're reading this, do me a favor. Appreciate the little things you have. Smile more often. Laugh at nothing.  And appreciate your freedom.


June 8, 2013


A Rose for a Girl

I picked it for you but I was too late
It smells like you and that kills me
It is forever as much as I am
It will always be mine to you. Never forgotten

Clocks

His clock spins backwards
but no on remembers
This old man has an ugly face
It scares his children
but his clock spins backwards
and no one remembers.

June 4, 2013

Water

She's leading my senses to hell
They burn there for her
She is what no man can live without
No man can stay away from her
I drink in the strength she gives
I need her.

Lily

I am drowning in a sea of fire
this lone lily surrounded by dancing flames
engulfed in this pain
this loss merits regret to few
I am not so alone.

15 comments:

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    1. I will share this with my son. He is so pleased to be able to share his thoughts with the world.

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  2. Your writing is direct and sincere

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    1. Thanks! I'll share this with him. He continues to try to express his thoughts and feelings in his writing. Therapy.

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  3. What can I say.....Through my tears my heart breaks for you both. It's not too late.

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    1. Thank you for your support. We are hopeful. STILL hopeful.

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  4. Thank you for sharing your story. Your son is an amazing writer.

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    1. Thanks! He continues to write. It's great therapy.

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  5. I have prayed for both of you since you shared your story with me. Continue to focus on the little things that get you through the day...if you are able to save even one person through your story it's all worth it. It's amazing to see the changes in ---- since he has been in prison. God is certainly not finished with him yet! Xo

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    1. True! I don't think He's finished with him yet either! Thank you for your support!

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  6. "I didn't handle my bipolar on the outside and now I can't get help on the inside." Wow, what a line -- and such a sad reflection on our mental health care system in this country. Your son is such a talented writer. I hope he will pour his energy into writing a book when he gets out. I wish you the very best. Thanks for sharing.

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    1. And thank you for reading. He's doing a great deal of writing. I'm saving every word. I agree. A book is definitely a possibility. Thanks for your support.

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  7. My prayers are with you and your family... I can't imagine what you must be going through. Your son's writing is exquisite. Does he have anyone he can write to on the outside? That might be helpful for him. Thank you for sharing!

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    1. The only people he writes to are me, his brother, his dad and a couple of friends. It's important to continue to write posts to share here on his blog page. Please check back and see what else he shares. Thank you so much for reading.

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  8. Interestingly, my daughter is a poet as well. A gift she received from my mother. When I first started reading her writing I asked her teacher to check to see if she was plagiarizing, how sad is that?? Poetry is truly a window into the soul but depending on who reads it can have a variety of meanings. Just like music I suppose but isn't that what music is? Poetry in motion?
    I believe that the Lord allows us to be heated by the fire like heat to iron so that we may become refined and eventually become steel. I sometimes wish He didn't have so much faith in me!!

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