All For More (or Less)

I admit that I have been “there” before. I say this because I am no better, or worse.
I am only me. But you and I knew this a long time ago.
I remember this well. I remember the different times and the troubles with chaos.
I remember the spells of outrage and desperate needs.
I have lived through this somehow, and somehow, I am still alive and here to tell you about this.

I am not one to say that I am tough or strong. I would not call myself weak; however, strength and weakness are both relative terms.
I know all about what happened, what took place, what I did, and I know why too.

I sat in my so-called holding cell and thought about my impending doom. I thought about the possible consequences and the looks of intensity on the faces of the arresting officers and how they handled the bodies of me and the other arrested souls.

I am sure that we can all relate to what I am about to submit.
There are sights, sounds, and smells that you never forget. Some of these are good, like how the smell from honeysuckle bushes remind me of springtime when I was young.
Or the smell of low tide, which is not altogether pleasing. But this reminds me of cold winters and long walks on the beach at Point Lookout, otherwise known as my Sanctuary or place of peace.

There are other smells, or sights, and sounds which are less enjoyable. Some of them are absolutely regrettable. Some of them are perfect and wholesome.
For example, you never forget the smell of your grandmother’s skin. And you never forget the smell in your favorite relative’s house.
On the opposite end –
I’ll never forget the smell of Jack Daniel’s or Southern Comfort.
That’s for sure.
I don’t think I will ever forget the smell of barnyards and pigpens.
But those are bad smells that I remember with a happy regard.

Otherwise, there are other sights and sounds that never go away. There are smells that are still the same and equally ungodly.
No one ever forgets these things.

Or should I say, “Not me.”

I remember sitting in the aftermath of my consequences. There was no way out of this for me.
I was forced in a place and waiting for the results of my mistakes.

I thought about the correctional officers who walked up and down the corridor. I thought about the almost perverse look of enjoyment on their faces as they escorted their new arrivals in handcuffs.

This is what I saw –
Guards smiling without pity and new inmates walking in, awaiting their impending doom while placed inside of a small holding cell.
The room is damp and dimly lit. There is nothing to this place, but a wooden bench and a stainless steel commode/water fountain.

However, and as mentioned, there are sights, sounds, and smells here too.
You know?
For example, the sound of hard shoes and heels on the guards as they echo and clack against the tiled floor.
There is the sound of keys that jingle from their key chains. And let’s not forget the sound of caged doors that roll open and shut and how they slam closed with the exclamation of an upcoming doom.
“Fuck this place!”

There are the late-night howls that come from the drunks as they vomit in their holding cells. There are the filthy smells of unclean bodies, urine, and there is all of this and more which goes on beneath the humming of the overhead fluorescent lighting. These are the lights that run outstretched in the long corridor that runs outside the holding cells.

There is no natural light. Everything smells remanufactured and stagnant. All you hear, smell or see are the depressed and degraded truths of people who might have been better, but no.
They fell away.

By the way –
Death lives here.

Death is here, alive and well, and this is another view of people who die alive because they become lifeless here.
Their life is paused or temporarily suspended for years at a time.

They become nothing else but a story to the rest of the world. Their names are put on the dusty shelves of old memories and their so-called reputation loses to the idiocy of their false bravado and tough-guy bullshit.

 I thought about how the crowd in the courtroom gasped when they heard about me or my truths. I thought about the lies that people tell to embellish their truths and expand their chests. I saw how the world was bullshit and people try and appear unbothered or unafraid.

Here’s the truth about this.
No one is so brave. No one is so incredible. And no one is unbothered or unafraid.

Even the huge, and physical specimens come with emotion because despite their brutality or their strength, there is an underlying truth of submission. There is a surrender to failure because the truth is, they knew they were better and they knew they could be more.
But no.
They cancelled themselves and their hopes because something inside of them was wired poorly. Thus, this became them — criminals, and lost to a thought process that buried them alive.
Or at least, this is how I see it.
I could be wrong.
(But I don’t think so.)

There are different people in places like this. There are first timers and young kids who the law sees as adults. There are the once-hopefuls who became hopeless.
There are the common drunks and, of course, there are drunk drivers who were locked up and woke up, unsure why they were in a jail cell. There are the local hoodlums and drug addicts and junkies. Then there’s the bad ass who fulfilled the prophecy for themselves and became the beast they once saw as a shield to keep them from being exposed.

There are people who are loud and those who are quiet. Also, there are the seasoned veterans who know the system.
They know the guards enough to know how to get by.
There are the ones who don’t mind the free meal and they seem to enjoy the room-temperature milk and the dry bologna sandwiches which they give you at the courthouse at lunchtime. Then you head over in a van to the county jail. Unless you made bail, that is.

There are people who come to jail to rest for a while.
I know this sounds crazy.
But crazy or not; it’s true.
Some people go to jail to get their “three hots and a cot,” as in three hot meals and a cot to sleep on.
But hey, I suppose this beats being homeless in the wintertime.
Right?

As the saying goes, some will explain that jail is their way to “lay down,” and get away from things for a while.

I wonder about this.
At the same time, I understand what it means to be institutionalized, which is more than being in an institution.
Institutionalized is what happens when a person cannot successfully live outside the institutionalized wall. We see this often too.
Don’t we?

By the way, this is something that no one talks about.
No one mentions this because habits like this make no sense — and how could habits like this make sense?
How could jail become addicting?

There are those who prefer jail or they use places like this as a personal tool. They feel comfortable and somehow thrive while living inside the prison system. Again, this is sad, but true.
They know when they’ll eat and when they’ll sleep. Their days are certainly numbered and organized for them.
For the record, this can be said about both physical and emotional prisons.
We all want freedom . . .
. . . but we often keep ourselves locked up.
We are the warden and the prisoner.

As for the system itself, the system is cruel, I agree.
But at least the cruelty is honest.
As a matter of fact, one could argue there’s more honesty in the jailhouse culture than there is in some of the biggest boardrooms in Corporate America.

Maybe this is because the nature of prison itself is violent and brutal — brutal, yes, but at least there are no surprises.
There are no smiles and grins without the understanding that everything has a cost.
Everything comes with rules, and for every action, there is a strict and harsh reaction —either that, or there’s a shiv or shank to poke at the flesh or stab the arteries of someone who forgot to follow them.

My guess is this can all be summed up as a game which is commonly known as “Fuck Around and Find Out!”

But more, and for the jury’s consideration, let us remove the coldness or the hard facts that yes, this exists and this is real.
Yes, this is more of a mirrored image and a physical representation of someone’s personal struggles and mental health.
I agree with this and no, there is no denying that there are reasons why we are innocent until proven guilty.
However, there are those who are guilty of all charges and yet, they knew what they were doing.
Or did they?
When we talk about crimes or self-destruction, is this more of an action that speaks louder than words?
Is this a promotion of some kind of inner turmoil? While I understand everyone must pay and be held accountable for their crimes, I think it is important to understand the story and the background of people, places, and things.
How else can we raise awareness or teach people how to improve?

I do not subscribe or accept excuses. People are filled with them, especially when they’ve been caught “in the act.”
But for now –
Let us remove the legal form of prison. Let us remove the so-called stigma and rather, let us look at the imprisonment of the mind.
Let us look at how people paint themselves in corners and make it so they can do nothing else, but fail.

Let us get back to what happens to us when we implode or self-destruct.
Let’s talk about what happens when we live, act or feel with a broken heart.
Or does this make things too common? Or do you think that people will reject this testimony in fear that it might shine lights on them as well?

Let’s talk about how abuse leads to more abuse or how we interact with people that live with actual trauma.
I have often listened to people dismiss others who have lived hard lives.
I have heard people say, “I’ve been there. Done that,” when in fact, no, they haven’t.
No two things are exactly the same.
People are different.
Circumstances can be similar, and the same can be said about results, but to each his own. Or to remove gender – everyone has their own shit to deal with.
Okay?
This means we all have our own way of handling pain, interpreting information, and processing real life as it happens in front of us.

I have seen, spoken with, and related to people who lived in their own emotional prison. I have lived there, myself.
They all wanted more. Same as me.
They all wanted better for themselves.
And sure, everyone had a reason of an excuse why their life could never be happy.
Sure, the stories are real and so are the obstacles.

There was always a reason or an obstacle or a problem with their dreams coming true. I agree.
I have some of my own, to be exact.

I subscribed to this as well, which is why I am forced to scale down and to rewind. I have to go back a few paces so that I can learn to live better and be happier with less.

Look . . .
When there is no room left for excuses and there is no room left for blame, then there is no one left to accuse anyone else, and our denial becomes moot and otherwise pointless.
I often say this, which was inspired by the spoken word of Saul Williams, but “if it is up to me, then it is up to me.”

When there’s silence, or when the room is so quiet and empty that the only sound you hear is the ringing in your ears — or when the walls are all empty and the decorations of your life are all stolen and removed, trust me, there’s no place to hide. 

There’s no mask to hide behind. When there is nothing left but the finality of truth, I swear, the symptoms have all combined.
The trigger was pulled and the self-destruct button was pushed. And BOOM!
All else explodes.
Here lies the answer, alone in a cell, whether figuratively or literally.
This is the outcome when you fall through the trapdoor of life.

“Where the hell is the bottom of this pit?”
I don’t know, son.
But it seems like I’ve been falling for decades . . .

We all know there is a science to this. But each person has their own science.
Some people live this way. Some have other mental challenges. Some live with secrets that are too painful to be voiced.
Some have too many invisible scars in their reflection and they fail to see they are actually beautiful.
Some live with weaknesses that cause the rage to be their first defense.
And this one is me above them all.
These are things that I can relate to.
Rage
Hate
Hostility
Betrayal
Defiance
And the list can go on
(if I allow it to).

Some people sink quietly and while dying unaddressed or unnoticed. Some lost to their anxiety or depression, And some lose while their actions are screaming out loud, “Please can someone fucking help me?!?!”
But no one does.
Do you know why?
This is because everyone is busy saving their own goddamned lives.
That’s why.

I once heard a speaker say, “I swear, it’s like you have to save your own life, every day, on a daily level.”
This is true.
We, I, or you, and anyone else in this world are both the warden, the inmate, and the keepers of our own freedom.

We tend to forget this.
We tend to lose ground or give up our rights to improve.
We self-destruct by unhelpful choices and pray that somehow, all will be well,l in the end.
But no.

Dear Jury –

No one’s language is ever so invisible. No, we all give off signs. We all have our own “tells” so-to-speak.
I can hear this.
I can hear these things, when your voice is somewhat low or packed with an otherwise sullen emotion.
Or when you seem somewhat removed because I know someone poked at one of your invisible pains.
They did this on purpose; or better, they did this with the sole purpose of hurting you. There are those who exist and cut you deeply so that your invisible wounds will never heal.

Maybe this is why I notice you more than others.
But to the rest of the world, or to you, Dear Jury, there is a real science to why we go or stay, or why we say what we do or act like we act.

Some people try to hide this or compensate themselves.
But this never works.

I can see you too.
I can see deeper than the surface levels and I can tell the pains you talk about are sacred and they come with an unspeakable history.
Mine do too.
That is, of course, if you haven’t noticed.

I know and understand the remnants of both figurative and literal holding cells — meaning that yes, I have been caged up before.
I’ve been in a cage for longer than I care to report.
I have listened to the sound of barred doors as they rolled shut.
I heard the sound of grown men crying in the middle of the night because they knew their life was ruined.

I have heard big strong men call out and scream for their mother.
By the way, do you know what the most common last words for a man on his deathbed are?
Momma . . . or Mother, or whatever it was they used to call out when they were infants.

I have felt the push and pull of some courtroom bailiffs as they brought me before the judge. And as for the judge, I know them both figuratively and literally as well.
I know what it feels like to be caged and kept from living my best life in a figurative way.

Man is as he thinketh.
Right?
And so, if all I am is who I think, or if all we can be is who we believe, then what happens to the soul when we believe that we are nothing at all?

How can there ever be some kind of reformation or recovery when there is no belief that recovery is possible?
What becomes of someone when they believe they are less than or ugly?
What happens to their talent or their genius when a person thinks that they are foolish and worthless?

I will offer this to you and allow this to settle. And no, this is not to pull on your heart strings or to avail myself a better verdict.
I know that I will face my charges by a greater judge someday, I suppose.

However, as we discuss the charges against me or you or us as people, I offer the resignation that comes when people see no other way, no answer, no hope, and no regard for their own life.

I wish I had someone to talk to when I was a kid . . .
Someone who understood instead of a man with a clipboard, taking notes and asking me, “and so, how did that make you feel?”

I might have missed my calling.
I might not ever be the writer I dreamed to be.
But one day, I promise you . . .
I will save a life.
I will repay what I took.
I will repair myself and recover from my losses.
And, if I am lucky, I will end my life with the most beautiful girl that my eyes have ever seen.

I swear.