Good or Bad, I Was One of The Ones

The sense of smell has got to be one of the most interesting senses of all. For example, the smell of honeysuckles reminds me of a time when I was in grade school. Or the smell from low tide at the beach reminds me of a fishing trip I took out to a place called Shinnecock canal. I caught my first winter flounder there and this is one of my best memories of all.

You never forget the smells from places. I know this to be true, and while above smells that I mentioned are good, there are smells from places in my memory, which are ungodly to say the least and cruel to say it best.

You’ll never forget the smell –

I can say that this place was ungodly to say the least. I can say the sounds are enough to make one crazy. I can say the feel of handcuffs around your wrist are uncomfortable, especially if the arresting officer or the correctional officers were unkind or had a score to settle.
There was definitely an “us against the” attitude in places like this.

I remember the times . . . .
I remember the smell of cleaning solvent that came from the holding facility. And I remember how the cleaning smell mixed with armpits and unclean bodies.
I remember the sounds of local winos and the old hobo-drunks who roared their vomiting puke into the echoing chambers of a stainless-steel toilet. I remember how the toilet that stood as both a piss-pot and a water fountain in the back, lefthand corner of their holding cell.
I remember the sound of footsteps and the jingling of keys. I remember hearing grown men cry. I remember hearing the opening of cell doors with black bars that slammed when they opened fully. And then they slammed again when they rolled to completely shut.
This is the sound of an exclamation point to say the least.

You can tell who has been “in” before and who has never seen the inside of a holding cell. You can tell who is scared and who is comfortable on the hard benches. You can hear the jailhouse lawyers who think they know the laws or what to say to the judge when the arraignments come.

This is amazing too because you can see how people become comfortable in terrible places and they can become comfortable with themselves too, after they did terrible things.

My first trip to this place was like something out of a movie. And somehow, I was relieved.
I cannot explain it. But I was relieved.
I was removed from my surroundings and while yes, the atmosphere was far from safe and further from peaceful, —at least, I was not out and on the run. At least, I knew that something was about to change. And, in fact, I am sure that I did not see it this way upon my arrest, but had I not been arrested on that day, I am not sure that I would be here to narrate my stories to you.

I was the skinny one. I was the one in the corner, hoping that no one tried to pull my card because if they did, I was incapable of defending myself. There was no way that I could fight back or be that kind of man it takes to survive in places like this.

I never assumed that I would be back. And of course, I was back, less skinny and less weak.
I found myself in trouble again. I was bigger but equally scared and just as anxious as I was when I went in the first time.

I learned to put on layers over my truths. I learned to hide myself in plain sight.
I wore masks to shield my fears. I played the role, of course, but all the world is a stage, am I right?
And if this is so, then most people play a role because even the so-called heartless and the toughest men can be beaten and broken and whiter away to a weeping mess.

I remember seeing people who were happy to eat what the guards fed them. I remember there were those who came in off the streets, and to them, jail meant that they would have three hots and a cot.
Three hots and a cot stood for three hot meals and a place to sleep. And again, I say it is amazing to see what people can grow accustomed to.

I know what I did in my past and I know what happened. I know that I was spiraling out of control, —and I know why too, and guess what? This is the biggest bitch in life.
We can only spiral out of control for so long, until finally, life comes along and changes your surroundings.
You start to lose the benefit of options, the more you sink deeper into an abyss.

I cannot say that I am innocent.
I cannot even say that I am a good man or a nice guy because there are parts of my persona that are capable of ugly things.

I do know where I came from. And I do my best not to take my advantages for granted.
I try.
I really do.

But life is life and there are times when life is painful or sad or otherwise, there are times when life is unfair.
The things we want the most either vanish or pull away from us.
I have been told that we can’t think better than we feel and we can’t feel better than we think, —and this is why we tailspin or go out of control and we go down in flames.

I am not a crook and to be fair to myself or my past; I never was.
I was angry. I was out of control
I was lost and falling in a tailspin, which is no excuse.
I was too depressed to defend myself or care for my own best interests.

In fact, I have no excuses and so, despite my reasons the or substance behind my behavior, there are no excuses or any reasons that can justify my mistakes.
Wrong is wrong.
Bad is bad.
And evil is evil.

I understand this.
There is a way that life tries to warn us.
And there are warning signs about people, places, and things—but despite the warnings or their frequent reminders, it always amazes me how to turn a blind eye or look away,

I smelled something the other day, which reminded me of my childhood home. I was instantly brought back to the smell of my Mother’s perfume and a time when I was sick and hurting and alone.
I still relate to those feelings of loss.
I relate to the feelings of being too distant to be reached and too far gone to be loved.
I was thinking about the pains from my mistakes and how self-induced harm can literally tear us apart.

I am sorry for my faults.
I am sorry for who I was.
I am sorry for all the harm I have caused.
I am.
And even if I am not forgiven, then so be it.

I am grateful, however.
I am lucky and fortunate.
I still have the ability to recover.
I have the right to change my mind.
I have the freedom to choose.
I have a roof over my head and a place to sleep, and while my choices might not be optimal at the moment and while it might not seem like I have a pot to piss in—at least I have a window to throw it out of . . .

Life can always be worse.
There was a homeless man who approached me. This happened a few weeks back.
I decided to show him a different side of me, which was unlike what the homeless man expected. He changed his focus from me to a tourist.
I said some things . . .
I said some unkind things to say the least and while I might have been justified at the moment, I have no right to say what I said.

I bought him breakfast this morning.
I did the same thing last week.

I could smell an old familiar smell on him . . .
He smelled like my jailhouse memories.

Thank you, God for teaching me humility this morning.

I am far from godlike and further from perfect than the person I fed this morning.
And no, I cannot think better than I feel or feel better than I think.
But I can do something to change my behavior, to change how I think, and in turn, to change how I feel.
This was how I started my morning