MyTimeToBlog
It's October 8, 2025, the start of my 27th year of incarceration. I woke up around 3 AM, realizing that this day had arrived. I prayed for all those impacted by my actions that hurt so many, then I struggled to find sleep again. My mind began reminding me of my crimes, the horrors I faced alone, and the fact that I'm in a cage, growing older. This usually broke my spirit, but now I'm better equipped to handle my depression.
When I decided to confront my emotions in a positive way, I sat with my peers, sharing my thoughts. I usually would be reluctant to speak up, because I'm worried about what they'll think of me. I committed numerous crimes to become incarcerated. So, I would bite my tongue and let the pain of yesteryear keep me in its clutches...now, instead of doing that, I poured my heart out, tears streaking down my cheeks.
You didn't live in that misery; you released it. You had to. Why? The corrupt mind would cultivate a pit of despair, which would swallow you whole. That's why drugs were a foreign thought now. As were angry outbursts that made others shy away from me, because they saw it when I couldn't: I wasn't ready to let go of all the pain.
That pain--God in heaven--it crushed me down to my fragile knees. I cowered in a drunk stupor, lying that I was sober. This lie became a theme as I snuck from cell to cell, buying drinks and drugs to numb me from my reality. Sleep, that was what I wanted, because in an awakened state, I'm hurt by what I've done--and I felt nobody could help me.
This came true...I assumed, when October arrived. I drained my inmate account for a trip to Drugville. Nobody knew what I was running away from, because I didn't know how to open up. I didn't want to, simply over one solitary word: monster. Me. That's what I felt like, so to keep the monster from my mind, I intoxicated it with heroin, molly, marijuana, cocaine, and sleep.
Every year, I celebrated my shame. I detached myself from my confinement by pretending I was fine. I cried inwardly as I staggered through one day after the next. I wore my Halloween mask daily. Hi. What's up? Are you doing OK? How's your family doing? This was me, being nice to others, while I prayed; they never learned my truth. God, please don't let them.
I did laps around the facility, going to work, attending church, and chow call. I'm carrying that fake smile. I'm embracing my guys. The talks were upbeat, but I'm sweating under the shirt I wore. Each encounter reminded me that I'm incarcerated, and the hands I bared brought pain for so many. I bowed my head, hiding my tears.
I found sanctuary in my cage, alone, sleeping. There, I could dream of being free to stop myself from that dreadful day. I would grab my younger self and scold him. I would plead with him that there was another way. There always was...But I would awake in my cage, straining my eyes to see more than my personal hell.
Twenty-seven years...in prison. Not a single day goes that I dwell on that moment where it all came crumbling down. I would take October on and fail to make it through those 31 days sober. I would cry. I would beg God over and over for a second chance. All of it is totally ruining my spirit as I see my life in a cage still.
I remember this drifter sitting with me in our vocational class. He would smile, and share how he hitchhiked around the country, then opened up about how he read everything--and that a quote triggered him to become more: I count anyone braver who conquers his enemies, for the hardest battle is the victory over self. Aristotle said that, a philosopher from a time forgotten. That quote haunted me like my crimes.
Every day, I would repeat that quote over and over. It became a mantra that I symbolized as my battle cry. I started understanding that I needed to defeat my issues by coming to terms with what I had done. I built my mind up for the following October. I'll admit, I was afraid, but I still readied myself for that month--and when it came, I held my head high.
I spoke with others about my crimes for the first time. There, I shared my all, even as I cried my heart out. Nobody belittled me; instead, they embraced me and shared their crimes and how it hurt them as well. I wasn't alone.
As I shared, my addiction was a blanket I felt warded off my hell; others told me that I was making the problem worse: drugs created a false sense of self. What you need to do is create a positive outlet. So, I tried writing out my issues, even reading what I wrote with my friends. They took what I wrote and said I should get it out to the world. A positive outlet that now mattered more than a temporary high. Who knew it was possible?
I battled through 31 days of a month that totally ruined my life. I began thinking differently, especially when I could smile. Something that I thought I couldn't do--not me, not when I did the worst thing ever. But when I did smile, it was bright, big, and vibrant. I pulled people closer to me, and they learned my story. That was when I was taught about making amends.
Twenty-seven years incarcerated, and now I'm creating a workbook to help those incarcerated become better versions of self. This is what I'm doing to show that I'm more than my worst, and it'll--hopefully--honor those I hurt. Please let them see I'm working to become my best. Please.
It's hard to exist in a cage and find that you could be more than one moment that destroyed everything for those you hurt. There wasn't a book, a guide, or a class that presented a blueprint to becoming more than your worst and being able to comprehend that you can be forgiven. This took me a lifetime. A freaking lifetime of shame.
Now, it's October, and I'm sitting in a program I facilitate to help returning citizens reenter society. That's me, the helpful man who channeled his pain into something productive for all to see and utilize for the betterment of all.