It is a late night passed midnight towards the end of August in the year 1989. The scene opens to a mainly empty processing room at the county’s holding facility. A large counter acts like an island with aged and natural wooded vertical slats appear on the outside and a white desk top. The counter is a separation between uniformed officers and the processed inmates.
The uniformed officers are behind computers and desks. Phones are ringing and there is talkative chatter with regular office noise in the background.
The processing facility is aged and outdated. There is the musty smell in the facility, which reeks from the stench of hoboes and the traffic of new arrests that arrive to be processed. After the processing is completed, the arrested person is escorted down to a holding cell until the time when they are ready to be arraigned before the judge.
Of all things to believe in life, there has to be at least a semblance of hope. There has to be at minimum, at least a trace of light because otherwise, what else is there except for the dimness and the shadows of doubt?
Of all things to believe in, no matter how bad things may seem or how badly one might want to jump from their own skin; no matter how dark it gets or stormy or bumpy the road may seem, there has to be at least a minimum sense of drive.
Yesterday was a pretty day. The sun was out. The sky was blue and the winds were warm. If you didn’t know what was going on then you couldn’t know what was going on. Yesterday seemed like a regular, ordinary Sunday. To some though, or actually to a great many, yesterday had an entirely different meaning.
The truth is we cannot blame the government. We can’t blame the police. We can’t blame the virus either. As I write this and remain as heartfelt as possible, I write this with partial understanding, yet, I am also partially lost. Please forgive me as I go on. And quite honestly, I understand if you choose to exit here.
She kept her son’s room exactly as it was. She kept it this way to keep his innocence and preserve his memory because there was nothing else left.
Nothing was ever moved or changed. His baseball hats were hung on the same hooks on the back of the door. Posters still on the wall. Clothes still in his drawers, jacket still hung on the post of his bed, and his baseball magazine was placed exactly as it was and unmoved on the nightstand.
This was his boyhood room with boyhood memories. This was her son. He was the lost one that went to something which no one saw coming.
There is a science to us all. There is a science to the way we live and the way we think and act. There is a science to how we do everything.
There’s a science to the way we interact and a science to the reasons we reach out to certain types of people.
Everyone has a personal science, which is behind everything we do. This comes from our background and our surroundings. Our science is born from our genetics and our social influence. This also comes from our chemistry. In fact, there used to be a billboard that said, “Depression:is a flaw in chemistry not character.”
Young man disappeared into the machine last morning
His breath shook when powder dissolved into bloodstream
Waves pulse through the body
Minds give way to rituals that divide life from lifelessness
All else fades as the pulse slips away
Come here, said the fly to the spider
I’ve been looking all over for you . . .
Every so often I get calls, late at night, and on the other end of the call is a desperate voice from a desperate person in the middle of a desperate time. They speak as if I can immediately recognize their voice. Sometimes it’s easy to tell. Other times, I have to listen for a while.
I never ask who it is. I just listen and let them talk until I figure this out on my own. This never takes long.
Sometimes the person is crying. Sometimes the person is talking in a low tone, afraid that someone might hear them and they’re paranoid about some exterior force with some ulterior motive.
Oftentimes, the person is incoherent or drunk or sick or on the run and trying to keep themselves from being locked up in a cage.
Nothing is ever comfortable when anxiety hits. As someone that understands anxiety first hand, I have made it a point to reach out to others that struggle with this as well. I wanted to speak with people that live with different anxiety disorders or struggle with panic attacks.
As a means to learn more, I shared text threads with small groups of people that reached out when the anxiety hit.
This was not done as a professional by any means. Instead, the groups and conversations were used to gain a better perspective. Plus, I wanted to learn helpful tactics to help myself as well as others. More than anything, I wanted to understand what works best.
I had never done much professionally or unprofessionally in the field of education or mental health before. I was never educated in the usual classes; however, I have done my share of field research on both a personal and interpersonal level.
I have attended my share of learning seminars and taken a fair amount of courses. I have a few certificates and a strong resume; yet still, I have been subject to the snobbery of those with different experience or higher ranks of education.