Tag: Rehabilitation

16 and Forever

On By In Guest Writings, Pivotal Moments6 Comments

Those of you who know me won’t be surprised at what I’m about to say because you’ve heard me say it hundreds of times: life is what we make of it. When we look for the positive, we find positive, and when we look for negatives, negative finds us. One of the secrets of life. So simple, yet so many people never realize this.

Years ago I used to tutor juveniles and eventually transitioned to mentoring. The moment where I realized that mentoring was what I wanted to do, my life changed. It is a beautiful thing to help someone in need and to see them overcome and grow. This is what life is all about. It is the meaning of happiness.

Of the many juvenile offenders I’ve mentored, Tim is one who has overcome and grown into a man with confidence and direction in life. When I first met him, he was a deeply introverted 16 year old facing a long sentence. An eternity for all intents and purposes for a boy of 16 years.

In those early days, depression often seized upon him, and he struggled mightily to move forward from day to day. I remember those times. They were dark days for him. I’d spend time with him daily, mostly us sitting at a table and talking over random subjects like science and astronomy or stocks. Especially stocks. Tim took to learning stocks with eagerness and concentrated devotion. He has been the astute student and to this day drives himself to understand and succeed. I’ve been involved with stocks for 20 years now, and we often discuss trading strategies and game theorize geo-politics in order to discern the future direction of equities. I love our discussions and find them fulfilling and meaningful.

During his early days, when we weren’t engaged in discussion, we silently fought one another in games of chess. When Tim transferred to another institution, we continued our epic chess games through the mail. Tim is a deep thinker, and as time progressed he nourished that through college classes and self studies. Opportunities that weren’t always available to him.

An area of interest for Tim is writing. He has spent his time incarcerated developing his skills, and with his permission today, I am happy to post a work he penned a little while back. It is about his incarceration as seen and experienced by him and presented in his own words. He sees the world through a lense shaped by incarceration, from being a young boy alone in This Dark World, to the adult he is today. It’s a view that’s sometimes shaded, sometimes pessimistic, but always circles around toward hope and understanding. Even now, when I read his words, I am impacted by how much he has overcome since those early days. I am happy to offer this to you, and I am proud of the man Tim has become.

Tim will finish his sentence in just under two years from now, a long journey that he once told me he couldn’t see the end to. His family supports him, and all his future plans include them. I can’t wait to spend time with his as a free man, and do all the great things we’ve talked about doing over these years. Tim is an excellent example of how through seeming impossibility, hope, change, and goodness prevail.

It has been a long journey for him.

I’m proud to count him a friend.

You can read Tim’s writing here.

*If you enjoyed this post, please like and share with your friends. And, if you’d like to leave a comment for today’s guest writer, Tim, know that I will gladly get it to him. In the meantime, I’ll keep writing for you! Also, if you know of other blogs written by inmates, please let me know because I enjoy reading what other guys write. Frankly, it helps keep me sane.

—Christopher—

It Is What It Is

On By In In This World3 Comments

I often think about life. Not so much my life, but life in the broader sense. Everything in life moves in cycles, and if you sit still long enough and observe, you will spot them. I see men here dying everyday. Not literally falling down (though sometimes this is the case), but traveling along a path of decline that even they fail to recognize until it’s too late. The sedentary lifestyle, the lack of general movement like walking regularly, and the habit of eating poorly. It’s a common cycle for many guys in This World, a cycle of decline influenced by the larger cycle of pulling time.

As I write, I know deep down with conviction that a few of the guys in my housing unit will not be with us in a few years, because The Reaper will have come for them. The end of a cycle, and the beginning of another. I no longer have to sit and observe to spot the inevitable. Now I listen to my gut because the subconscious mind is always aware. Over a lifetime I’ve learned that my gut is never wrong.

Several weeks ago my gut told me death had arrived, not so much here, but out there. Over several weeks, guys around me began receiving news of the loss of loved ones. First it was my neighbor, then a guy one aisle over, and most recently my bunkmate. It made me nervous, this last one; it’s a little too close to home. More unsettling, my gut still nagged at me. Could there still be more to come?

Then a week ago, death finally cycled away, but not before striking one last time. So today I’m going to share that story with you because it had an impact on me. It’s just another moment of what daily life is like here, and illustrates that no matter who we are or what we’ve done in life, we’re all humans and have hopes and dreams.

Sometimes our dreams come true.

Other times they die before our very eyes.

Mac is a 220lb biker. His arms are sleeved out with tattoos, and a giant skull and bones peers fiercely from his back. His footwear consists of black boots no matter the season or weather, and he doesn’t say much. If he were an animal in the wild I’m pretty sure he’d be a mixture of a bear and a porcupine.

Years ago I watched Mac fight off three men that tried to rob his cell. They were gang-bangers, new initiates no doubt told to target him in order to earn their way into the group. What were they thinking? Of all the people, Mac was the last man most cons would dare to single out. All I can come up with is that they were blindsided by the foolhardy MYTH that they should target the biggest or baddest MF around to earn respect from the other cons. Shit, that’s the surest way to gain your first ever helicopter ride.

The trio dashed into Mac’s cell from behind, slamming the door shut as they did. For a heartbeat or two there was an eerie silence…

Then came crashing–a.lot.of.crashing.

Someone screamed. I’m pretty sure a skull ricocheted off the wall several times in rapid fire succession. Crack-crack-crack!

The cell door unexpectedly banged open, bouncing dumbly off of the brick wall. Two young kids, hell they couldn’t have been older than 20, bloodied and terrified, fled onto the range. The third would-be robber, an older black fellow, lay sprawled out on the floor inside the cell. Mac dragged the perp onto the range, dumping his form there. He eyed the cell block before returning back inside the cell. The door calmly clicked shut behind him.

And so, there the man lay. The body motionless–dead, as far as anyone could tell–for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, to the relief of some, and the disappointment of others, the man awoke and stumbled his way down the stairs and back to his cell.

Mac has always had few friends. It’s not that guy’s dislike him, quite the contrary, but simply stated, he’s not exactly a social butterfly. I’d say that most guys don’t know how to take him. He’s like a puzzle with jagged edges. You know the type, it drives you nuts at first but once you get going things get easier to figure out. Something like that. Get to know him and he’s alright.

Mac is pulling a life bit for murder and is on his 25th year. Time has a way of sucking the life out of you if you aren’t careful, and for most guys pulling long sentences they’re lucky not to be a hollowed out shell come their 25th year. At the very least, time tends to harden you toward the world. Memories erase themselves. Colors fade. Hopes and dreams die off. I don’t imagine that Mac gives a shit though. “It is what it is,” he has always told me.

Yeah Mac, I guess so. It is what it is and life sucks.

A few years ago Mac got married to a woman he’d met since being incarcerated. They were pen-pals for years, eventually her coming to visit and the rest is history. I met her once during a special family visitation event when my family was here. She was a soft creature, and seemed to glow as she sat beside Mac. Her smile was infectious, and she and Mac laughed nonstop that day. For the first time since knowing him, I saw Mac in a different and softer light. He seemed truly happy, a man who had hopes and dreams.

His marriage was the one thing in life that made him happy. Oftentimes he’d tell me stories about his “gal.” His conversations about the future were hopes and dreams centered around her. “She’s awesome,” he’d say, or “We’re going to live together as soon as I get out,” or “she’s coming to visit!” Once he told me, “You know, life is good when you have someone to love.”

Yeah, I guess he did have a point.

Then one day I was walking through the cell block and someone stopped me. Mac, they said, had just received news his wife had passed away. What? That couldn’t be, I had replied, she couldn’t have been but 35. All anyone knew was that there had been some sort of accident.

I immediately went to find Mac. I had no idea how this news would affect him. I imagined scenarios where he simply snapped and went berserk, leaving broken bodies in his wake. Would he crash about in one final rage against the world or maybe strike at a guard? I saw him doing everything imaginable but what he was doing when I found him.

I found him in the bathroom. There he was standing alone, staring across the way at a distant wall. People shuffled past him unconcerned, and there he remained. Looking but not seeing, staring but unaware.

I cautiously walked up beside him. His eyes were red as if they had been rubbed.

“Mac?” I said. “Tell me it’s not true.”

His head turned toward me, and he tried to speak but failed. Tears welled up in the corner of his eyes.

Oh, Jesus, I thought. This can’t be true.

The unit’s laundry room was just around the corner, and I saw that no one was in there. I said, “C’mon man,” and went for the laundry so Mac would have a little privacy.

Once we were alone Mac said, “They said she was in an accident”–his voice was barely audible, it didn’t even sound like him–“She’s gone.”

Before I could reply, his body hitched and he put his head into his hands and began crying. I put my arms around him and patted him on the back and said the only thing I could think of, “It’s okay, let it out.”

And he did. He let out a terrible, anguished yowl, a sound that broke my heart, and literally cried on my shoulder. I patted him on the back several times before realizing that I, too, was crying.

And so time passed.

Some time has passed since that terrible day, and Mac puts on a brave face. As far as most people can tell, he’s the same old Mac, but I know better. Something inside him died that afternoon. I hear it in his voice, and I see it in his body language. He’s in my unit here, and I sometimes see him hugging the dogs a little longer now or staring off into the distance or talking a little less than usual.

Time is cruel to those pulling long sentences. It doesn’t care who you are. In This World, time eventually takes everyone you love away from you. His gal was the last thing he had, and now he is alone in the world.

But time doesn’t care.

It is what it is.

*If you enjoyed this post, please like and share with your friends. In the meantime, I’ll keep writing for you! Also, if you know of other blogs written by inmates, please let me know because I enjoy reading what other guys write. Frankly, it helps keep me sane

—Christopher—

The First Day

On By In 1st Times4 Comments

The bus ride from the reception center was six hours long. I had been at the Lorain Correctional Institution for 30 days. It’s one of two corrections receptions in Ohio. Each inprisons more than 2,000 men who will be put through a series of evaluation tests to determine where you will serve out your time. Corrections is big business in OH. Over the course of a year, each reception center processes thousands and thousands of new prisoners.

We had finally left the interstate and were now traveling down a rural state road. Fields of corn rolled past, and the landscape started to look the same, flicking past like pages in a picture book. At first we passed houses on either side of the road, but now they were far and few between.

The bus hitched and began to slow. Some of the old school convicts stirred from their slumber, and someone said we were close. Close, I thought. Man, this is really happening.

The vehicle rolled up to a feeder road and onto prison grounds. I saw double sets of chainlink fencing with razor wire–rows and rows of razor wire–glinting beneath the sun. Behind the fencing were large brick buildings with white barred windows. They gave the facade a sinister look and reminded me of teeth. I saw people in identical clothing walking about.

“Hey,” said the guy sitting beside me. He hadn’t said a word the whole trip, but had come alive all of a sudden. Both of us were shackled at the ankles and handcuffed and wore the same bright orange zip up one piece emblazoned on the back with the words ‘DRC INMATE.’ “This your first time?”

“Yeah,” I said.

He grunted to himself. “I’m David, but everyone calls me Spider. What’re you locked up for?”

“I shot a cop.”

Spider’s eyes widened, then squinted. They looked me up and down as he took the time to determine my truthfulness. Whatever skepticism had washed over him dried up just as quickly, and his demeanor brightened.

“No shit,” he said.

The bus slowed with a loud pshhht! of the air brakes. I watched as we pulled up to the giant electric gate. Whatever conversations that were found were suddenly lost as everyone moved for a window. I squinted between the metal mesh and bars to see what was happening.

The gate slid slowly open and the bus trundled forward before it creaked to a stop again. The gate slid shut behind us. The driver killed the motor and silence filled the compartment. I heard and felt beneath the floor board the banging of the underside storage compartments being opened, inspected, and then slammed shut again. A big guard roamed about around the bus with a long metal pole in his hand. It had a flat round mirror at the end, and he thrust it beneath the undercarriage as he walked. Someone opened the hood and inspected the engine compartment before slamming it shut.

I heard the radios crackling as the guards communicated and the bus came alive again. Another giant gate in front of us slid open now, and the bus lurched forward and onto the compound. The bus drove up to a back door of a row of buildings that reminded me of what the back of a strip mall might look like.

A guard stepped onto the bus and said: “Listen up, girls. When you hear your name called, step forward. Get off of the bus and follow the stairs up to the door. There is no talking; if I hear you talking, I’ll put your ass in the hole.”

He then began calling names from a list, and the bus started to empty. My name was one of the last ones called, and I was thankful. I didn’t want to be the first person off the bus. I suppose it was my last attempt and desire to not have to recognize that this was really happening. I was apprehensive of what I’d see and experience, and my stomach was in knots.

When I stepped through the door of the building I found myself in a hallway. There were several guards, and they escorted all 30 of us down the hallway to the receiving department and into a large holding room with concrete benches.

One by one we were strip searched and given new clothing, state issued prison uniforms which guys call “blues,” because the pants are blue and the shirt is blue. My uniform had my name and number on the pants and shirt as did everyone else’s. Everyone was issued one laundry bag, two additional sets of state blues, three washcloths, two small white towels, three pairs of socks, three pairs of underwear (“tighty-whitey’s” as guy’s call them), three white T-shirts, a dark blue toboggan, and a cloth belt with a side clasp. All of the clothing was and is made by inmates throughout Ohio at other institutions. I was then given a small booklet outlining all the rules you’re expected to follow.

“When I call your name, come over here to get your picture taken,” said a different guard now. He seemed nicer than the first one. He was motioning toward a corner of the receiving department where stood a camera on a tri-pod. There an inmate was taking the pictures. He had tattoos up and down his arms, and he didn’t seem the least bit worried or concerned about anything. It was a stark contrast to how I felt.

“Hey, man,” said the convict behind the camera. “What’s your name?”

“Christopher,” I said.

“Great to meet ya, Christopher. I’m J.D. and I’m gonna your picture for your ID card. I’ll take three photos. Two looking that way”–his hand motioned left, then motioned right–“and then one looking at the camera.”

“Okay,” I said. The guy seemed pretty cool, and for the first time in a month I started to relax a little. I wondered if everyone else here was like him.

After I had my ID made, I clipped it onto my uniform. One by one we were escorted to another door, this one leading onto the yard. The guard opened the door, and I stepped back into the sunshine.

“Your housing unit is over that way,” he said, and pointed. “Follow the walkway all the way around, and it’s the building on the left.” He then closed the door and left me standing there. I suddenly felt vulnerable and alone.

I followed the walkway across the yard, and I had the absurd thought, Follow the yellow brick road, kid. Just follow the yellow brick road. I had my laundry bag slung over my shoulder. There were guys everywhere, some standing or walking about, and others sitting on bleachers or playing basketball in front of the cell blocks. Everyone seemed to be watching me as I passed. Where, I wondered, were all the other guys that I rode in with? I looked about the yard but saw none of them. It was just me.

I came upon the front door of the cell block, a solid steel door with a slit window and a giant metal handle. What am I supposed to do now? I wondered. Do I just wait here? Do I knock? I peered through the window. I saw steel tables with seats that were bolted to the floor, metal benches bolted to the walls, a guard’s booth with two guards, and 50 to 60 convicts milling about. Some played cards at the tables, other were in groups standing around. Someone in the crowd noticed me at the door and told one of the guards who then let me in.

The cell block had two tiers, essentially an upstairs and a downstairs. A metal railing ran the length of the second tier, and all the cells had steel doors with vertical slit windows. Cell doors had numbers identifying the cell (I was headed for 265). You could only enter a cell by having the guard electronically unlock the door. I couldn’t help but notice how loud it was in the cell block.

I arrived at 265, and the guard downstairs punched buttons on a control panel to open the cell door. There was a loud angry buzz, followed by a heavy lock turning over, and I stepped into my new home. The first thing I noticed was how hot the cell was. The air hung thick, and it felt like a sauna. There’s no air conditioning in the cells. It’s something you eventually get used to.

My new accommodations measured 8’x6′, basically the size of a standard bathroom. There was a steel bunk bed and a stainless steel toilet and sink combo. I had the bottom bunk, which I later learned was a fortuitous event as no one ever gets a bottom bunk coming straight off the bus.

My cell mate was an old school convict that was pulling his 12th year in a 15-life sentence for murder. A big, burly bald headed white guy who was relieved I wasn’t black. I’d learn in short order that he was a racist of the highest order and was affiliated with the Aryan Brotherhood. He was also a bit unhinged upstairs, as he clung to damn near every conspiracy theory that he ever heard. Within my first 24 hours as his cell mate he had tried recruiting me toward his stilted, racist worldview. He also introduced me to his distorted religious beliefs, that the Bible says that white people are the children of God. I hadn’t even unpacked what little possessions I owned and he was already cramming this crap down my throat. Little did I know that within the coming weeks my first fight would be with one of his friends over the issue of race.

Later that evening I made my way onto the yard for the first time. I went down to recreation (or “rec” as guys call it) to check out the facilities and the weight room. There was a simple asphalt paved quarter mile track, and around the track were pull up bars, dip bars and push up bars, all permanent and cemented into the ground.

The track was full of cons working out doing push ups or others exercises. Some guys walked and talked, others hung in groups smoking cigarettes or weed. I was surprised at how much drugs there was and how unconcerned guys were about blazing up right there on the yard. There were no guards in sight, save for the occasional passing of the armed perimeter truck. On the yard you were on your own.

That night I lay in my bunk wide awake. You could hear the conversations other guys were having as they either talked through their windows or through the air vents. Eventually the din and the noise of the day slowly faded as guys one by one clocked out.

At some point I found sleep, but it was fitful and filled with nightmares. What did I dream about? Oh, I don’t know. Dreams are fleeting, you know? I’m sure they centered around scenarios of me screaming and running for family, as this was a dream I had for many years. Sometimes I’d wake, heart pounding with a scream in my throat. If I really did scream in my sleep, my cell mates never told me. Sometimes I’d jerk awake late at night, having failed to save a family member or outrun some tragedy, and I’d cry myself to sleep.

For most guys, the first day is more than just a ‘first day.’ It is the beginning of a long journey of discovery, trials, and tribulations. Some men never complete this journey and are consumed by time. Others survive but are for the worse. As for me? The first day marked the beginning of the end of an old life. And like the caterpillar, I have left that life behind me and now fly toward a future that I didn’t believe existed all those years ago.

Time has a way of putting things in perspective.

For better or for worse.

*If you enjoyed this post, please like and share with your friends. In the meantime, I’ll keep writing for you! Also, if you know of other blogs written by inmates, please let me know because I enjoy reading what other guys write. Frankly, it helps keep me sane.

—Christopher

“I Haven’t Killed Anyone Yet.”

On By In Addictions, In This WorldLeave a comment

I live in a world filled with men whose personal drug addictions have shaped their lives. Drug addictions are common here, and they span the entire spectrum of abuse.

Over the length of my incarceration, I’ve witnessed terrible addiction-related moments, and these events have helped shape my views and desire to prevent future generations from walking the path of incarceration.

It seems to me that alcoholism receives little attention in today’s opioid driven media reporting, yet alcohol is responsible for the majority of addiction deaths every year here in the U.S. Driving while intoxicated is the most visible outcome of alcoholism, but less visible is the toll alcoholism takes on one’s body. Thousands of people die every year from alcohol related complications.

My family is no stranger to the deadly effects of alcohol. Years ago, my step-brother Kelly was killed by a drunk driver. In Kelly’s case, the driver went to prison. His sentence: two years in minimum security. Two years for taking a child’s life. Worse, once the offender was released, he went on to repeat the same mistake.

For many years I became angry whenever meeting someone incarcerated for drinking and driving. It was worse if I’d learned they’d killed someone in the process. Being incarcerated with individuals who were convicted of similar acts was difficult to accept, and I often found myself in conflict with these individuals.

Of all the addictions and all the men I’ve talked to about their addictions, the DUI crowd is the least repentant. There’s something about alcohol that causes uncompromising denial. But what? What is it about alcohol that causes this? Is it because it’s legal? Is it because alcohol is socially acceptable? I don’t know, but I suspect that each of these points are probably part of the answer.

I had a conversation with a 28 year old fellow named Trevor who was on his sixth incarceration for DUI. Yes, his sixth. This time around he was serving 18 months. As far as Trevor was concerned, he was handed an injustice by the court. So far, Trevor has served eight years of his life in DUI sentences. We have a saying in This World to describe Trevor. We say Trevor is doing “life on the installment plan.” The only person who doesn’t realize this is the person on the plan.

What’s striking to me here is Trevor’s level of denial about his drinking problem. It’s a common theme I’ve encountered over and over again with the alcoholics. Some of the excuses I’ve heard over the years span, “I only had a couple of beers,” or, “I wasn’t drinking,” or, “I’ll be more careful next time driving,” and even, “I’m a better driver after a couple of beers.” What? However, the grandest, most insane excuse I’ve ever heard came from Trevor.

It was a warm summer evening. I was walking with him on the yard, and I had asked him about his sentence.

“How long,” I asked, “is your sentence?”

“Eighteen months,” he said.

“Wow, that seems like a long time for a DUI.”

“That’s what I told my attorney!” he said. “When he told me that the prosecutor was only offering 30 months for a plea deal I couldn’t believe it. I told him, ‘No way. You go back and tell the prosecutor no deal.’ That’s how I ended up with 18 months.”

“Wow, 30 months?” I asked. Something, I thought, didn’t sound right. 90% of the time the DUI guys get a slap on the wrist, six months at most. “That seems like a long time for your first DUI, don’t you think?”

“Hmm? No, it’s not my first. And yeah, it’s a friggin’ long time.”

“How many times have you been locked up for DUI?” I asked.

“Not many.”

“Three?”

“Does it matter?”

“Well, no,” I said. “I’m just trying to understand why the prosecutor was trying to give you 30 months.”

“Man, I don’t know, because this is only my sixth time.”

“Oh,” I said, lamely. I couldn’t believe it was his sixth DUI sentence; that just blew me away. “But,” I said, “it is your sixth.”

“What?” he said indignantly. “What’s it matter if it’s my sixth or third? He still shouldn’t have given me 18 months.”

“Alright, I’m not judging you; don’t take it that way. I’m just trying to understand the courts logic, that’s all.”

“It’s not like I hurt someone,” he said.

I felt my heart pick up speed. I knew where he was going with this and I didn’t want to go down that road. Yet, my mouth kept going. It wouldn’t stop!

“Right,” I said. “But what if you did?”

“But I didn’t–”

“Right, but what if?”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“Well,” I said, “it sorta does.”

“How so?” he said. “You tell me how so”–his hand went out, stabbing at me an inch from my chest–“because what I do on my free time has nothing to do with anyone else. I’m not hurting anyone!”

I looked at the stabbing finger. I felt my teeth grind together.

I said: “Okay, I see your point. I get it. But, when we drink we aren’t at our sharpest, and–”

“Speak for yourself.”

“–driving is the poorest decision that–”

“I’ve been drinking since I was 12 and no one is going to tell me what I can and cannot do! Not the court, not this place, and certainly not you!” he said, finger stabbing inches from my face now.

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” I said. “But, what would you do if you had an accident and you hurt someone? Just think about it for a second.”

“I haven’t killed anyone yet!” he shouted at me.

I bit my tongue and tasted blood.

“I haven’t killed anyone yet!” he said again.

“You’re right,” I said. “You haven’t. But someday you might and it will be too late. You’ve got a problem, Trevor, and you need help.” I then turned and somehow walked away.

Prior to the conversation, Trevor had told me he already had to blow into a breathalyzer to start his car. It was a result of a previous DUI. Prior to that, he said he had been mandated to attend AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) twice a week at the local community center, and prior to that he told me he had ‘totaled’ most of the cars he’d ever owned while drinking and driving.

Trevor spent the remaining months of his sentence attending AA in the evenings. I thought that perhaps our conversation had spurred him to seek help. When I ran into him again, I asked him what made him want to attend Alcoholics Anonymous. Was it because of our conversation?

His answer? He had decided to attend AA so he could receive the good time credit toward early release. Plus, he had said, they always had coffee.

My experience with Trevor wasn’t unique. Most of the DUI guys I’ve talked to reacted similarly, though not nearly as aggressively as Trevor. Denial, denial, denial sums up most of these conversations and is representative of the type of thinking that’s involved with this crowd.

I’ve thought about the long current structure of addiction services within the institutional environment and wondered, What could be done better? I’ve concluded that the institutions simply aren’t the best equipped to help addicts. Yes, we have programs here designed to address addictions, but oftentimes participation is voluntary. A big fault that I see with these programs is that they all offer attendees a way to reduce their sentence by automatically adding “good days” every month toward early release. There is little accountability aside from program administrators requiring participants to attend classes and periodically participate during class sessions. As a result, most offenders view programming as a means to an end.

I would change this structure to remove automatic good days, and I’d introduce a standardized form that program administrators complete, detailing an individual’s class participation and understanding of session materials. These forms would be filed into the offender’s institutional file and made available to the court and the to offender’s attorney upon request. Early release consideration is then decided by the courts based on the detailed progress as revealed in program reporting. Change ‘automatic’ good days to ‘automatic pending court approval.’ This way program administrators are able to provide valuable input based on their observations, offer a meaningful way for the courts to hold an individual accountable, and to make informed decisions. This also gives offenders more incentive to take rehabilitative programming seriously, and when they do, there is a much higher chance of introspection and thus genuine change. Without introspection, there can be no rehabilitation.

AA is an excellent program, and time has borne that out. It’s sister program, NA (Narcotics Anonymous), is also an excellent program with a long and successful track record, and we have both programs here. What sets these programs apart from others is that offenders can begin attendance while incarcerated and continue once released, by attending any one of the AA and NA gatherings that take place everyday in this country. I think the solution to handling individuals with addictions is to immerse them in comprehensive addiction counseling, intensive inpatient (or outpatient) programs, and to marry this with oversight programs that hold an individual accountable to his recovery and sobriety.

Placing Trevor in prison over and over again serves no deterrent. It’s a terrible waste of public resources, and it serves no other purpose than to satisfy public thirst for punishment. Barring incidents where an individual is physically harmed due to the negligence of those gripped by addiction, incarceration should be the last resort.

For less than the amount it costs to incarcerate Trevor for six months, Trevor could spend three to four months in intensive community corrections based inpatient or outpatient drug rehabilitation programming. Not only would Trevor have a greater chance of realization and change, the courts would maintain meaningful oversight and accountability for an extended period of time. In addition, Trevor would be able to participate in community based projects that give back to the community while simultaneously attending rehabilitative counseling. Both efforts help to bring the individual to an inflection point, where one considers the consequences of his actions.

As a nation, we have a responsibility to meaningfully assist those gripped by addictions. It’s a win/win for everyone, and it’s the way to guide addicts back toward the path of recovery.

Angels Among Us

On By In Angels, Pivotal Moments1 Comment

When I started this blog, I knew I wanted to write about what incarceration is like here in the U.S., and I strive to stay true to that at all times. Today I’m going to share with you something very personal. Since my experience while incarcerated has influenced what I am about to tell you, I present it here.

Have you ever wondered, “Why are we here? What is our purpose in life?” How about the age old question, “Is there an afterlife?” I pondered these questions for years before I found the answers, but before I tell you how I came to understanding, I want to tell you a story.

When I was a child I had a friend who was always kind to me. When I was afraid he’d comfort me, and when I was sad he’d lift me up. Sometimes though, when I wasn’t expecting it, he would show me wonderful things. On very rare occasions he showed me evil things, but only because he wanted me to be aware. Most importantly, I knew what he was and I never questioned it. He was what we would call an angel.

It wasn’t until I grew older where I became aware that this wasn’t normal. None of my friends talked of similar experiences, and whenever I mentioned this to my parents they always told me I had a vivid imagination. When I was a child I took these occurrences in stride as I thought it was normal to see, hear, and talk to angels. I thought everyone did.

My encounters ended sometime when I was 12 years old. When the last one occurred I knew it was the final time. There was always an unspoken communication, and the last one was specifically to say goodbye. It was a traumatic moment for me and it was a goodbye that I struggled with for a very long time.

From that moment onward, darkness seemed to come into my life. Slowly I began to question the existence of God. What type of God, I wondered, would show a child a glimpse of heaven and then abandon him? When I looked around I began to see all the things I never saw as a child. I saw hatred and anger in people, and I saw pain and suffering everywhere. By the time I was 18 years old I had become a staunch atheist and was in full rebellion against the world.

When we were children, all of us saw the world differently than how we do now. If you watch and listen to children, you discover that they are willing to love you unconditionally. Why is this? It’s because children are naturally attuned to God and loving others. For them talking to God or angels is nothing out of the ordinary. There are tomes of works that attest to this. Hollywood has even made a number of movies about the experiences of these children.

It took a near-death experience when I was 20 years old, followed by years of introspection, before I came to understanding. We all share a common destiny, and now I understand why the angel’s goodbye was necessary. It was so that I would discover on my own the answers to these questions, because with discovery comes understanding and spiritual growth.

So then, why exactly are we here? We are here to discover our purpose in life. This is the underlying core of our existence. If this is so, then what is our purpose? Our sole purpose in life is to find God, and through discovery we learn that all of us are part of the same great family. Every major religion in the world has at its core one purpose: to help us find God. Think about it. It’s true. It doesn’t matter which faith you follow, because at its core this is what its all about. Is there an afterlife? Definitely, and this is found through personal discovery. Some of us discover this as children through interaction with angels; some discover this after experiencing a near-death experience or through great sickness; still others discover this by talking to those who already have.

How can I be so sure I know the answers to these questions? I know because I’ve experienced everything I just wrote about. Amazingly, my experiences are not unique. Some of you out there already know this because you too have experienced similar things. But for those of you who are unsure, I say to you I speak the truth.

No matter what you believe or where you are from there is a path offered to us all. It has but one destination, and it is solely up to you to discover it. To discover is to see, and to see is to understand. With understanding comes enlightenment, and with enlightenment comes peace and happiness.

—Christopher