120 Day Shock

My public defender, in an effort to keep me from going to prison, requested that I be sent to a 120 day drug treatment program within the Dept. of Corrections.  The judge granted this for some reason.  Maybe he just realized on some level that I needed help beyond merely being sent to prison.  I doubt very much he ever had any intention of letting me out after only being gone for four months. 

This program was commonly called "120 Day Shock" and I still believe that to be an accurate term for the program; it was a shock.  It was tremendously stressful in so many ways that from day to day I never knew if I was going to make it or not.  Not physically, but mentally.  I could sleep relatively safe at night, but after about two weeks I was always on the verge of snapping emotionally/mentally.  The only thing that got me through was the constant tease of possibly being able to go home. 

Prison experiences are quite surreal in retrospect.  I find myself saying in my head, "damn, that really happened,"  because it seems so dream like.  Writing about all that time spent in the hole, a part of me cringes inside.  After being out, life being completely different for so long now, it's like a dream.  Have you not had that dream that affects your whole day?  It's like a dream that affects your whole life though.  Even I can't believe now, that I went through this shit.  120 days is only four months, but in that situation it was a very long four months.  The constant stress, the constant emotional turmoil from being forced to deal with my feelings.  My anxiety was pushed to an all-time high.  The stress was on another level.

They do an assessment report on every inmate during the program, and it gets sent to the judge, recommending whether or not a person should get out or not.  This idea forces everyone to follow the rules.  It is a very effective way to control a large number of people.  That is why there really isn't any threat of physical danger.  Getting to go home is held over everyone's head constantly.  There were over one hundred inmates in there, give or take, pretty much at all times.  The facility that I was sent to was inside the Potosi state prison fence.  It was a large metal building painted blue.  The building itself wasn’t as secure as the actual prison.  It didn't need to be.  No one in there wanted to escape.  They will shoot you if you attempt to escape.  One warning shot, then you had better be able to dodge bullets.  The guards are so bored they practically pray someone tries to escape. 

Showing up there was a complete shock to me in all ways.  I had just spent months solitarily confined.  Now I found myself in an open room with over one hundred people in it.  All the bunks were divided up by cubicle walls that were about four and a half feet tall.  Every inmate had a wooden box for his stuff which slid under the bed.  Plywood painted grey.  That was it.  It was literally a rule that it had to be kept locked and there were only certain times it could be open.  There were so many rules.  Any little thing could get you written up.  Inmates that don't follow the rules don't get to go home.  The guards played the game well. 

I shared a cubicle with two other guys most of my stay there.  We all three happened to arrive in the same week.  I was always being treated differently because of my age, so my cubicle was up front and off to the side.  The one guys face was mostly melted.  Almost his whole face was scarred permanently.  It looked like melted wax.  He had been melting copper in his back yard in a kettle.  He was showing off or something and threw some gas in the kettle, which blew out and caught his face on fire.  It was quite a story to hear him tell it.  That guy was a tough mofo.  He said he never screamed or nothing.  Even without him trying to it was an amazing story. 

The other guy was some South Side St. Louis cat with the typical city thug wanna-be attitude.  He was in a total state of denial about his situation, so him and I never got along.  I can’t stand fake people.  He thought he was hot shit, but he had the heart of a house mouse.  All talk. It's easy to be tough when you know no one will fight.  Had freedom not been being held over my head he would not have talked to me like he did.  His tone of voice would have been improved if you know what I mean. 

Every day was the same.  You have to stand a certain way to be counted numerous times every day.  Form lines a certain way to go to chow.  Everything is structured.  Everything is done a certain way.  It was just like public school in a way.  Except in there snitching was practically encouraged.  Forcing all these dudes to be up in their feelings generates tons of drama.  There is always cats trying to get away with shit and always those willing to snitch to get ahead.  It was a really bizarre experience.  Like military/girl scout/therapy/high school drama all crammed into one.   It didn't seem much different than juvy, so many four year olds trapped in grown up bodies. 

I learned a lot about males in there, that they really aren’t any different than females, they just pretend to be.  It’s better to say we are just humans.  That whole idea of acting a certain way because of gender really goes away if you actually pay attention to what people do.  All cooped up like that, a lot of those dudes acted just like a bunch of stereo typical girls.  They acted just like you would expect females to act, speaking the sexist language of this culture; they acted like bitches.  It was fucked up to me.  The stereo typical ego driven male would ridicule me for dealing with my feelings, when to me he is the weak one for being unable to do so. 

My favorite time was rec.  If the weather was nice we would actually get to go outside for an hour.  After months alone in a cell, being outside is glorious.  I craved it.  Being outside with no shackles, or cuffs, with no guard standing directly at my back is beyond glorious.  It was dreamlike.  I would just stare at the sky, and fly free in my mind. 

Back inside though there was no such freedom.  There was no sunlight ever.  Everyone was divided up into groups.  No room had a window.  Each group had a state employee who was kindly dubbed counselor, and that was the only window to the outside world.   These groups were a major source of stress.  Because of the inaccuracy of memory I really can't say if this person was a legit counselor or not.  Most people don’t dream of having her job in life.  It doesn't pay well.  I don’t honestly know if she was a good counselor or not.  She did show me compassion though, and she did give me a chance to talk about myself without judging me.  I think she could tell that I was one that actually wanted to change, but was just really fucked up.  She was also the one who was going to be writing my evaluation and sending it to the judge.

She had to of been in her late forties at least.  Short plump woman.  Blondish old hair styled with big curls.  She always looked tired.  There were always dark circles under her eyes.  It probably made her look much older than she was.  They were trained to not give out personal information at work, so I never really knew anything about her.  They are not supposed to let inmates get to know them.  This is for good reason too.  They are only supposed to get to know us.  Our group had all sorts.  People were always coming and going. 

I will never forget this forty eight year old black guy that would tell stories from the projects.  Those stories let me know not ever to fuck with him.  It wasn't stories you make up to be cool.  This cat was for reals.  You could sense it about him.  I could feel it.  He was like me and always on edge.  His calm is not the same as everyone else's calm.  Whenever she thought it was his turn to talk he would often just look at her and tell her that he was not going to change.  He was a heroin addict.  He did not fuck around. 

That whole being called a pussy thing really made it hard for me to realize that I am straight up sensitive.  I associated it with being weak.  Having associated being sensitive with my sense of masculinity made it difficult to realize what a strength it can be. On one hand is was saving me, but on the other it was wrecking me.  There is no on/off switch.  If I am sitting in proximity to people up in their feelings, no matter how healthy my state of mind, I can feel it too.  I can sense things they don't even know.  I don't know how to turn off the intuition.  Those group sessions were raw.  Matter of fact, it was always raw in there.  That whole place had the vibe of permanent tension.  Most of the people in there were withdrawing in some way shape or form, and everyone of them was stressed about not being home.  We could all sense our freedom.  

Most dudes do not sit around in an open room with a bunch of other dudes and express their feelings so that they can stop using drugs.  The whole focus in there was all about why we do drugs, and not doing them anymore.  Makes me laugh even saying it that way, but that is what they expected.  We were expected to deal with our issues out in the open.  With the person in the room who writes the reports right there in the room, dudes had no choice but to be up in their feelings.  I am too sensitive for all of that.  Way too fucking sensitive, and not only that, I had my own trauma to deal with. Shit was intense. 

I would literally pull the hair out of my legs while sitting in group therapy sessions listening to others deal with their shit.  Dealing with my own.  Just like county jail, there were heroin, meth, cocaine addicts, drunks, whatever drug addiction you could name.  There were even guys who liked to huff gas fumes.  If you could name it, there was a guy in there suffering from it.  When you collect that many people from practically random situations you get a real sense of how much crazy shit happens in the world.  It isn’t like TV in this regard.  The TV doesn't deal with this part.  Sitting in those rooms with those guys, with a counselor assessing us constantly, was in and of itself a cause of high energy.  Essentially she was constantly trying to get us to see our own egos. 

No one is happy when they are not wishing to see their ego.  The person who identifies solely with their ego never likes it pointed out to them.  The ego is always harsh, when it first realizes itself.  She doesn’t have to worry about fighting a guy for calling out his ego though.  Stressed to the max from my environment, trying to assess my own emotions, and dealing with everyone else’s crazy shit; it was overwhelming.  Dudes on edge were everywhere.  How fucked is that?  I missed being alone in a cell. 

There is scientific proof that the feelings one experiences before the memory part of the brain forms has a lasting effect on the nature of a person.  To give an example, a baby that is separated from its mother typically has a negative emotional response when that happens, and for the rest of its life that person will have a greater sense of rejection in social experiences even though that person will have no memory whatsoever of that experience.  The part of the brain that remembers wasn’t developed yet when the separation occurred, but the human still knows it happened.  Every human being is the exact result of the experiences in which it has been through, but this too is only one of the layers to the total person.  I didn't know it then that I was one of those children.  I couldn’t formulate the thought fully yet, but I was in the beginnings of dealing with this knowledge psychologically.

Despite all the stress I was learning very valuable information.  Not only was I learning but I was applying it too.  Analyzing what the counselor was doing in group taught me some psychology.  I had access to psychology books as well.  Instead of Comp I, or Calc, I was taking Hard Knocks 101.  If you want a real education go to a prison and sit in on some forced group therapy sessions for a few months. It’s not a small number, the people in the world who have been shit on in life.  For the first time in my life I was getting to see a big part of the world that I never knew existed.  I've come to learn there are a lot of people who don’t know it exists.  Like Steinbeck in the Grape of Wrath, I was watching it all unfold right in front of me.  All of these people had been thrown under the bus. 

One day while going through the routine a guard came and got me out of nowhere.  He said they needed to talk to me in the office.  That is very weird.  Maybe someone died or something.  During the walk I was worrying about my grandmother.  I was taken to my counselor’s office.  The guards and counselors offices are up on a platform along one side of the big open room where all the cubicles are.  They sit up higher so that the whole room of bunks can be seen more easily through the glass.  There is no privacy.  When I got to her office the two guards didn't turn to leave.  That’s strange too.  I'm nervous now.  Something is wrong.  The hair on the back of my neck is standing.  There was an older guard that worked days who was actually a decent guy.  He was always nice to everyone, but still did his job kinda thing.  He showed respect, and always got it back in return.  He had a way of talking to people.  He was giving me a talk about being calm.

It always makes me laugh when people think I can be calm.  My calm just isn’t what most people think of as calm, that’s all. It always makes people nervous.  Some people just can't accept it.  They always think something is wrong with you if you can't be as calm as they think you should be.  The crazy eyes don't have an off switch. 

Turns out my girlfriend was pregnant, and they were getting to be the bearers of the bad news.  Obviously it wasn't going to be my baby.  Knowing me for my antics she decided to contact them ahead of me, so there my counselor sat with the letter in her hands.  She didn't want me flipping out and fucking up my chance of getting out, but had to tell me.  She didn't need to worry.  I didn't flip out.  I always knew it was only a matter of time.  I wasn’t even mad.  I was just hurt.  They didn't get it.  Didn't you know a man is supposed to be upset if "his" girl has sex with someone else? 

I wasn't upset because she was sleeping with other people.  I wasn't a complete idiot.  I knew my eighteen year old girl friend was not going to be monogamous with me being in prison.  I was an idiot but I wasn’t completely stupid.  I was upset because she was all I had on the outside.  If I lost her there was nothing; no one else.  Her and I wrote letters constantly.  She came to visit me whenever I could have visits.  She took my phone calls whenever I could call.  Lover or not she was my best friend.  She was the only friend I had.   She was much more to me than just sex.  My heart was broken.  I thought this meant she was gone from me forever.  It's not difficult to just leave behind a guy who is in prison. 

I had another anxiety attack a few days later.  The severity of my situation was really bearing down on me.  In line waiting for lunch my hands just started shaking again.  Before I got to my seat with my tray my hands were out of control.  I couldn’t hide what was happening.  I was trapped.  I wasn’t going to get out.  I’d lost all contact with the outside world.  A guard noticed me.  He said I had gone pale, and then saw my hands.  I couldn’t really tell what was going on.  I just complied.  He pulled me out of the chow hall and took me to my cubicle.  He was going to get someone else.  I couldn't say that I needed to be alone.  That I needed to be in a cell.  I wasn’t going to be able to keep myself from crying.  Of all the places to be an emotional person; prison is not the place.

I was taken to see my counselor.  She informed me that I had an anxiety disorder, but I told her I wouldn’t be taking any medication.  I refused to be labeled in such a way.  I wasn’t going to sign myself up to see a psychiatrist.  I didn’t want it on record in my file, that kind of information.  I was just going to deal with it.  It helped me just giving it a name, but in my mind she wasn't qualified to hand that label out.  I did however give me a place to start. It was perfectly natural that I was filled with anxiety. 

I was not recommended to be released on probation.  All in all I knew this was a good call.  In my heart I always knew I was not going to get probation.  I robbed a freaking bank.  You don’t get probation for robbing a bank.  I also knew that the progress I had made in that shock program just wasn’t enough.  I was not bitter about the decision because I knew if they let me out I would have been right back in, or worse, I would have ended up being that guy who just repeats the cycle.  With all my being I did not want to be that guy. 

After that it was a bad dream for a while.  The stress got even worse.  I wasn’t in physical danger yet, but it was constantly being thrown in my face that soon I would be.  My age was being pointed out to me, verbally, in front of others.  Somehow I ended up in the Farmington treatment center while waiting to go back to FRDC.  It was a nightmare.  The average age there was much higher. The guards at Farmington fucked with me a lot.  They were constantly shoving it in my face how much I was going to love prison since I had been denied getting out.  Always rubbing it in my face that I failed.  It was every man for himself now, and they made sure I knew it.  The rules of the game changed once again. 

It's like a dream now.  All those super stressful days; day after day.  It's in my head, but it's just like waking up after a dream and it immediately fades away.  All those little details simply fade away before I can write them down.  I know what happened, but I don't really want to remember it anymore.  It's all just stress.  Tons and tons of stress.  I needed a break from the stress. 

Waiting to go back to FRDC meant going back into the hole.  They were saying it could be up to six months before there would be a bed open at Booneville.  Everyone kept telling me that because of my age I would go to Booneville.  Booneville Correctional Center is mostly for cats twenty five and under with less than fifteen year sentences.  I fit that description, but six more months in the hole waiting?  Six months was going to be too much.  Even I knew six more months all alone was going to have a negative effect on me. I was learning the hard way that some things just can’t be undone.