Saturday, November 28, 2015

Chili & Willie

I spent the day with my aunt Connie in Woodbury. I used my whole eight hours of weekly free time and it was well spent. Not to take anything away from her, but I spent a good portion of that time lounging on the couch with my dog, Willie. It's the most time I've been able to spend with him since I got out nearly three months ago.

I was telling the story of how he was brought to my apartment in Rochester 13 years ago now. I was sober, single, and living alone, so my friend thought I could use a puppy, and she had found him abandoned in the woods at Quarry Hill, a park on the outskirts of town. I wasn't a dog person but I took him in. He was a cute little fluff ball. He couldn't have been two months old. 

The next year was filled with chewed up remote controls, socks, and shoes. Poop and pee awaited me every day after work, and every time I threw a ball, he would run to it and chew on it. That little fucker challenged my patience, and aggravated me to the point where I just wanted him gone. Then, one day, he just stopped. He started to let me know when he needed to go out, preferred to chew on his toys (and still my socks), and he loved bringing the ball back to me, over, and over, and over, and over... He had grown up. And I loved him from then on.

He has been through some terrible times with me. He has watched me throw my life away, twice. He has seen me get robbed, beaten, and has survived a car accident with me that sent us airborne at 70 mph into a culvert. I got out of the car and as I did he bolted out and across four lanes of rush hour traffic, somehow avoiding certain death. That accident was just one of three I've had as a result of falling asleep at the wheel from sleep deprivation. A direct consequence of meth use.

He has only ever showed me love, affection, and loyalty. Things that don't exist in the meth world. I felt terrible when I was sent away because he was getting old and I thought I'd never see him again. And when I did see him, it was clear he didn't remember me from two years previous. I was heartbroken, but I understood. Today when I cuddled him up on the couch, it was like the good days. I love him like I always have and hopefully some day he can love the new me.

My aunt and I had a fun time as well. We laughed, talked, and reminisced. We ate chili, went to Savers where there was a creepy Santa, and we took the dogs to the dog park. I got see both of her children who are amazing people, and we tried and failed twice to make a real fire, so we settled on the fake fireplace. It was a great day.

Friday, November 27, 2015

1K

I was checking out my statistics for the new blog today and I've now had over 1,000 page views! That's a pretty good start. So, to celebrate, I thought I'd share with you something I wrote while I was in treatment during my incarceration at the CIP.

The assignment was to read the Hazelden pamphlet on pride, and list five ways I can relate it to my life in the past and what to watch out for in the future. Here goes.

1. Pride: A barrier to my recovery. Simply not asking another human being for help, trying to run my own life of sobriety without the use of meetings, a sponsor, or my family was my huge downfall which lead to the inevitable relapse after nearly five years of sobriety. I failed to utilize my support network when I needed them the most. I realize this time around not only do I need them, I need them to know what to look for that would indicate possible lapse or relapse. That way even if I fail to ask for help, my support will be there as a safety net.

2. Sick pride during recovery: Something I do to avoid talking about real issues is talk about trivial matters, joke around, or use sarcasm. I cannot let those be my main forms of communication. If I'm in trouble I need to be able to say it. I believe I've made great progress in this area over the past five months, but I must continue to monitor my thinking patterns when I leave this place. It's a constant battle within me that I vow to keep working on.

3. Personal Inventory: It has been well over ten years now since I have done a written inventory. To do that again, I need to be completely open and honest with myself about all of the people I have hurt, and all of the terrible things I have done. I have been doing this by sharing in group discussions my personal history, and in my weekly treatment assignments. I will continue this work on the outside with a sponsor.

4. Forever an addict: Who wants that brand? Well, I do, and its very important for those around me to know and understand that. People I meet will have to be informed of that fairly quickly or a relationship could take a bad turn. Just like pride, addiction is not something to be cured, but is a work in progress. No matter how many years I may have under my belt, danger is around every corner. So long as I keep going to meetings, being honest, and working with my sponsor, I stand a good chance of survival.

5. Spirituality, the foundation of recovery: How could I possibly get help from somethin I can't even see? I need a God with skin on it, and in the rooms of AA, I can get just that: a God of my understanding. I have occasionally felt God at meetings, usually in bigger crowds or when a newcomer shares their experience. And when we say the Serenity Prayer at the end. I'm saying it too. I'm part of something much greater than myself, if only for a minute or an hour. It has a long-lasting effect and I even get that same feeling here when the company belts out the CIP Philosophy in unison.

To conclude, I need help from everybody I will ever know. Some more, some less, and probably always in different ways. I also need to keep my mind open and know that pride comes before the fall.


Ok that was it. I think it made more sense to me a few months ago when I had the pamphlet in front of me, but I still saw some good points, and see that I still have a lot of work to do. Happy Black Friday!!

Thursday, November 26, 2015

18 And Life To Go

18 months ago today I walked into a court room with one black eye, $78, and a substantial meth high. I had known for eight days that I would not be walking out of that room through the same door. The previous appearance I had made a deal to allocute to my crime and take a sentence of 50 months in prison. I was so sick of my life that I actually felt relieved when I was handcuffed and taken through the door that nobody ever wants to go through.

It was over. I had a pretty good idea then that I was done with drugs, and the people that lived their lives around them. It took a few months in prison, after a little time with a clear head, that I actually began the healing process.

I had destroyed so much in that two years. I had become a person that I despised. I traded my friends, family, morals, and life as I knew it, for a world filled with betrayal and illusion. I loved it. Or at least that's what I made it look like on the outside. Inside I had quickly decayed and when I was inevitably arrested in a hotel in Rochester with 52 grams, I hoped that was my chance to turn it all around.

Well I was able to bail myself out after 35 days. It took me less than an hour to get ahold of my drug of choice and I started right back up where I left off. This lasted for six more miserable months before I walked into that court room on June 26, 2014.

I'm going to keep this brief because I have already written a post today, and I have certainly written enough about my prison experience at Breaking Free. I just wanted to remind myself how this whole journey began. 18 months is a great start in recovery. Every day is a blessing even if I'm having a shitty one. It could always be worse.



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Thank You

As I stare into the fire that I made this morning as the only source of heat I can control in this house, I rake my brain to come up with things to be thankful for on this snowy Thanksgiving day. It isn't easy because I don't have everything I want, but that's not what I should be thinking about as hard as that might be.

One year ago I was sitting in prison, probably playing games with Mr. Doty and Mr. Hohertz, the two guys that made my stay tolerable. I know I was thinking about how I would be free this year, and that things would be much better. Well even though those are both true, I still feel alone and blue. I'll be cooking for myself, and sitting in the quiet, empty space that I have created with the mistakes from my past, and my decisions from the present.

I was invited to go along to a lunch with some family at a distant relatives but the thought of having to explain my whereabouts to so many Catholics made my brain freeze up. I was hoping that maybe Mollie would come hang out with me for the day but she has long-standing plans with friends she has known for years, and of course you can't fuck with free will, something I can't seem to get a grasp on.

So what am I thankful for? Well, how about a roof over my head, food in the fridge, and people that do care about me. That's a good start. Mom, we don't always see eye to eye, but you're my mom! You were the one on the outside that got me through the toughest, lonliest days in prison. And you supported me and put up with me when I got out. Oh, and you created me, and raised me by yourself. Fuck you, Garry Arthur Clark, wherever you are.

I'm thankful for Mason Doty, even though I may not always show it, or express it the way you want me to, I know you've been there for me since the day we met in that awful place. I don't have an easy time expressing my feelings with anybody, so don't think I'm just not talking to you, its everybody. You've helped me around every turn, and you made my life on the inside so much easier. $100 million, billion, a reference only two others will ever know.

Connie, I wish we could spend more time together. We will this Saturday and I can't wait. You took in my dog who I hadn't seen in years, and who didn't even remember me. You made him more reachable to me even though I haven't seen him since he made the move. You are a survivor of more than just cancer. You have survived a life that has tried to hold you down time and time again, you shine! You were such a huge part of my life growing up, and I want that again. We have many memories to make.

All of the Maertz clan and Nina. I don't know how you still love me after what I've done over and over in my life. I've drifted in and out for so many years and you show me that you care whenever I return. Bill, Maggie, Hannah, Tom, Akiko, I will do everything in my power to not let you down again. I can't predict the future, but I can shape it through action and inaction. I choose action. I look forward to reuniting as a whole on Christmas. I'm nervous, but happily excited. I love you all.

Mollie. Mollie, Mollie, Mollie. You are possibly the hardest working person I know. Not just at work, but at life. You know what you want, and you are going to succeed. You already know. I am thankful that you continue to find time to talk to me and even hang out. I don't know how you do what you do with only 24 hours in a day, but you manage and still have some semblance of a life that includes everybody you care about. Everything you have worked so hard for will come to fruition even if it takes a little longer than you want it to. You are an amazing person, and I am lucky to have you in my life.

And to my friends down in Fillmore county who still come to see me, call me when I need a call, and show me that they still care even though I traded them for meth, I miss every moment we ever had. You're a huge part of who I am and I will always have a desire to live down there again. Thank you for not giving up on me.

There is so much good in my life. Sometimes my head gets stuck on the bad because it was my life for so long. I may feel sad and alone today, but I have everything that I need, and a little of what I want. And if I'm not thankful for that, then I will never know happiness.

A final thank you to all those who take the time to read my blog. As you finish reading this, consider what you have in your life. Don't just say what you're thankful for, tell somebody why you are thankful for them. And may they do the same.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of my friends and family! I love you.

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Now That Was A Trip

The best way to do it is lie down on the couch, turn off all forms of light, and then cover yourself with a blanket. Kind of like a sensory deprivation chamber, homemade. Of course first you have to snort the stuff, and let me tell you than nothing I have ever come across has been anything nearly as painful. Nothing is as pathetic as watching yourself in the mirror after snorting just .1 grams of dried Ketamine, an animal tranquilizer.

The burn starts immediately and you want to pull it all back out but it's too late. You paw frantically at your face but you can't reach the place behind your eyes. And most importantly, you have to get to the chamber before the drug kicks in or you're unable to get the full effect, and you literally can't move.

The visuals were intense my first time. I laid back, closed my eyes, and suddenly everything was green, just like in the dreams I would have 20 years later in jail when detoxing from meth. I began to spin, but not like a dizzy drunken mess, but a slow spiral into the couch that suddenly opened up into a whole new world.

What felt like hands easing me downward started to actually appear and gently twirl me around. Everything was brilliantly green now, like night vision, and that's when the teddy bears welcomed me to their den. They were so happy and cheerful. They didn't say a word, they just floated around me while the hands began to take me on a flight. I knew it was an illusion but I didn't want to try to control it because sometimes that messes up the visuals, and once they're gone, its not the same. Unknown structures passed me by and the bears left for home. Green turned into darkness as my guiding hands began to lift me up.

I knew I was on the couch, but I knew that I wasn't quite there yet. Not until the sun poked its head through the blanket and a voice called to me, "Are you alright?" And just like that, it was over. My friend had come to check up on me, Ketamine can be quite dangerous. In a period of less than 20 minutes I had been tranquilized and come back to reality. It took only another 20 minutes to recover completely. That was the only time I experienced that level of trip on any drug, and I will remember it forever. I tried many times after that but was too drunk to stay unfocused.

I don't ever want to romanticize my drug use. The end result is what counts, but I did have some fun along the way. I have to throw in a little good with all the bad although to most of you that probably didn't sound like a good time.

I wish all of my readers a Happy Thanksgiving. This year will be a little more solemn for me than even last year in Moose Lake prison but at least I can go outside if I want to, and I can cook for myself which is the plan. Goodnight.

Monday, November 23, 2015

The Bike Job

We started walking at about 2am. It was a quiet fall night, a light breeze making the dry autumn leaves dance around and scratch the ground in a beautiful symphony.

We were wearing work gloves because the task at hand could be quite dangerous. We were carrying hammers as was the plan. The streets of St. Paul were quiet and empty, just the way we needed them to be. It was time to put in work.

We reached our destination without a worry and did a quick look down Snelling Avenue for traffic. It was empty. We gave eachother a simple nod and drew back our hammers and at the same time we struck the huge plate-glass window which erupted into a deafening downward flow of shattered glass. That's the moment where you're either in, or you're out. We were in.

We walked through the opening and I thought I hit my head on something but there was no pain so I kept going. Our goal was simple: steal two Cannondale mountain bikes worth $2,500 each (back in the late '90s) and get the hell to the safe house as fast as possible. We were inside less than a minute when we had what we came for and made our exit. As we came out, a car slammed on its brakes and a guy yelled out, "Are you OK!?" We ignored him and started pedaling.

In my periphery I kept seeing something on my left side but every time I looked back it was gone. We went as fast as we could through the side streets, price tags spinning around from the handle bars. And fifteen minutes from the time we started walking we were safe. But it wasn't over yet.

As we went inside the house our friend that lived there looked at me and gasped. "What the fuck happened to you?" he said. I'm sure I looked puzzled.

I looked down and saw myself covered in blood. I had scraped a chunk of flesh off of my head and it was bleeding profusely. What I had been seeing out of the corner of my eye was my blood shooting out and turning into a mist. My hair was caked, my shirt ruined. Fortunately once the adrenaline rush was over, the bleeding stopped. When we called the buyer for the bikes I informed him of the incident and he said his girlfriend would take care of it, which she did. Tweezers and iodine worked, but left me with a noticeable scar on my left temple.

That was the first of many large thefts that I was a part of when I was a teen. I did not learn any lesson, and even though I got away with several bikes over the years, it was what my first felony arrest was for. If only I could talk to me back then.

I wrote this story before but I think I did a much better job this time. You should feel like you're there with me. Please share this if you like it.

Sunday, November 22, 2015

It's Back

For anybody that read my previous blog, you may know that I have RLS. Restless Legs Syndrome can be pretty tricky to describe, but at some point in this post I'll do my best to do just that.

I ran out of my prescription for Artane about two weeks ago. For the last couple nights, the symptoms have begun creeping back. For me its not a slow irritating sensation in my legs that makes it hard to get to sleep. It's a terrifying jolt of nerve pain that courses through the back of my knees at the exact moment that my brain enters REM sleep. My legs kick out and it scares the shit out of me, getting my adrenaline pumping, and making it tough to get back to sleep. Repeat until morning. It also effects my elbows once in a while. I can tell in advance if it's going to be a particularly bad night because when I get tired there will be an unexplainable tense feeling in all four of my limbs. I'm feeling it right now. It's going to be a bad night.

Sometimes I would kick the steel bed posts or shelving and wake up my cellie and injure myself. I would often wake to the sound of things crashing to the floor, my foot in a sharp pain, and myself swearing. I was lucky to have understanding cellies.

When I was in prison I would pace back and forth all night in my cell. No amount of cramping, exercise, or sleep deprivation made it go away. I could sometimes nap during the day, but that's when the C.O.'s were being loud over the P.A. system and steel doors were slamming, people yelling, people pooping next to your head...... Anyhow, I eventually saw a Doctor and I got pills and I slept.

So, what do I do out here? I filled out the paperwork for health coverage while I was at CIP. I never heard a thing about it. I tried to track down the MNSure building, but it doesn't appear to exist. My aunt gave me a number to call but I don't know what to say. My mom sent me a link for open enrollment but I've already enrolled. So, how do you go get pills? I've never seen a Doctor for anything other than Salmonella but that was an emergency. What is a Doctors phone number? Can I just call a number and its a Doctor? How much is a Doctor? I just don't think I want to go to one. They will want to know all sorts of other stuff too I bet. Finger in my butt? Hand on my balls? No thanks, sir!

I think I'm going to try to live with the symptoms rather than try to figure out how to use a Dr. I went for 35 years without using any kind of pill. Granted the last ten years I could have slept through anything. Maybe it will go away.

Friday, November 20, 2015

Six Days in the Hole

It was a year ago today (or maybe tomorrow) that I packed my simple belongings in one red transport bin and was moved from St. Cloud Men's Reformatorium to Moose Lake State Prison. I was so excited to make the trip for it was the beginning of my journey to boot camp and my early release. My hopes were high that I would be able to start my training right away. I had done roughly twenty push-ups total in the previous five months of Incarceration, and hadn't run except for a few times around the bases in softball. I knew I had to be in pretty good shape to pass the fitness test to even be able to go. Or so I thought anyhow.

Anyhow, after being shackled by my ankles and wrists, and had another chain that went around my waist and then connected everything, they loaded us on a small, very secure, bus and drove the two hours to Moose Lake.

Upon arrival I had to smile. I could see offenders walking around freely, with no supervision! Of course there were barbed wire fences around everything, and cameras everywhere, but still, I had come from a place where all movement was controlled: guards up and down the hallways, hall passes just like in school, and of course we were locked in our cages for about 23 hours per day. And the noise was insane. Never a moment of quiet. Well, as it turned out, I would get my quiet.

Anytime you arrive at, or leave from any institution, in my experience, there's always two hours of sitting in a rotting kennel before the guards actually do anything. This was no different. But as I said, I was happy just to have made the move. They finally called us out individually and when it came to my turn, all they asked was if I would fit in a large. A large what? All prisoners wear the same shit. They then threw a bag at me and said to change out, I was going to be temporarily housed in segregation until there was room in general population. What the fuck!? Why would they bring me here if there wasn't any room? If you ever go to prison, don't ever ask any employee anything. They don't know. Period.

They walked me down the sterile endless white hallway of the former insane asylum to health services where they asked if anybody had raped me since I left St. Cloud. I replied with a joke which gets a blank stare. Different guard, same stare. There must be a class. I hadn't been raped and I didn't have any  other medical issues so off I went to the hole.

Segregation is used for people that get in to fights, break major rules, and for people who have followed all of the rules like me. I thought maybe it would be just overnight but it lasted for six miserable days.

I was given five pieces of writing paper, two envelopes, a two inch long toothbrush so I couldn't sharpen it and kill myself or brush my teeth, a cup, used underwear, and a liquid toothpaste. And a few changes of clothing and bedding. Oh, let's not forget the pillow. Imagine a prison pillow and then don't change anything. It's not soft, not hard, offers no support, and is possibly filled with unused Bob Barker liquid hygiene products. Who knows.

The first thing I did was used up all five pieces of paper to write to a couple people and write about my move for the blog. That was day one. Day two I sat, stood, napped, paced, and sat. Day three, about half way through, the book cart came through. Yay! The gentleman pushing it around appeared to be a product of incest at best and didn't understand what I was asking him. I simply inquired of a couple different authors and he looked as though I had done just that. So, I pointed to a book and said the color red, he responded to that and set a book outside my door. Four hours later, while serving dinner, a guard threw it through the hole that they pass trays through. I can't remember the title but it was the most boring piece of shit book I have ever read. Why couldn't I have said a different color?

I had no concept of time other than day and night. One day a guard walked by and asked if I wanted exercise. I said yes, he told me to stand by. I said I'd stick around, he stared. An hour later I heard my door click open. I shyly stepped out and immediately an angry voice yelled, "Close your doors!" over the intercom. I did. I had brought out my mail, my shower stuff, and some kites I had written about the status of my stay in the hole. Up and down the hallway I looked for signs of life. Nothing. Just a steel table and chairs. I sat. Nobody ever came by. And after what I assume was an hour, the angry voice told me to go stand by my door and I eventually went back in. And I sat. And I stood, and I tried to read. And I thought about what had gotten me into this awful mess in the first place. I'll give it that: that time in seg. made me never want to touch drugs again, and it stuck with me.

Six days without a shower, without a conversation, without laughter, acknowledgement, or even a simple reasonable explanation. I felt so alone. I did make one phone call to my mom which was great, the highlight of my stay. But that was short too.

I decided to write about it again because, in a way, its the same way I'm feeling now. I'm alone. I'm sad. And I hate it. But I can deal with it out here. I'm putting this down so I know this is better than isolation. I'm typing this on my phone right now which I can use to call people. Nobody ever calls me, but that's on them. I have the power to reach out. I can eat when I want, what I want, and I can take another shower if I want to. I can even take a shit now without people looking at me!

ISR really sucks. But its only three more months and then my freedom opens up. 16 hours a day from 6:30am until 10:30pm I can do what I please. Six months of that, and I'm on regular parole and I can do what I want within the confines of the law. I have to look forward, if I keep doing that, I won't go back.


There Was A Time

I was baptized and bar-mitzvah'd, and now I have no religious preference or beliefs. It's rare that I get to use two Z's in a sentence and probably even more rare for the combination above. On occasion, as I'm walking to an AA meeting, I walk past my former Synogague and I wonder if there's any help in there for me. Help in the sense that I need to find spirituality. It's a huge part of the 12 steps of Alcoholic's Anonymous, yet it's the one thing I haven't found there or when I went through treatment. I can't get past the concept of a God. God to me is just another Santa Claus or Tooth Fairy: a story your parents tell you to make you do something a certain way or just behave. I can't recall a time in my life when I believed in God.

But there was a time when I had spirituality in recovery, nearly 15 years ago. When I  left Hazelden after four months of in-patient treatment I set off for Florida for a one year stay in a half way house, where I met some amazing people and had the best year of sobriety of my life. I needed a God with skin on it, and that's what I found in the rooms of N.A. down there. The people became my higher power because, as a whole, they were greater than myself. I think of that time there often, and I wonder if my life would have been different if I had been allowed to stay.

I had to leave because I had Felony warrants in Minnesota. When I came back to clear them up, the judges in Ramsey and Hennepin counties were so impressed with all I had done to change my life, they essentially kicked me out of jail despite my probation officers attempts at keeping me in. All I had to do was file a request to the fine folks in Florida to allow a felon to finish out probation there. I was already a resident as I had filled out the Declaration of Domicile and lived there crime free for a year, but I was denied anyhow.

To me, that was the start of a very long lapse which eventually lead to my relapse and eight subsequent years of alcohol and drug abuse. I did stay sober for nearly five years, but my distorted thinking and lack of a good support network was my downfall.

I can use all of this information now to deal with situations as they arise now. As I continue to fix what's been broken in my life for so long, I will always use Florida as my reference for good recovery.

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

A Day In The Life

Or maybe a week, rather. I thought I would walk you through a day and week of my life so you can have a better understanding of what it is like to be on house arrest/ISR. I also wanted to take this opportunity to describe as best I can what it is that I do for a living. So, without further adieu, this is a day in the life of Vince.

Monday through Friday all start the same. A terrible noise comes out of my phone at 6:20AM and I fumble my usually backward arm over to the table next to my bed and make it stop. I'm not a snoozer, so I'm up for the day. I spend fifteen seconds staring at the empty space where I hoped I would have messages, (I actually had one this morning) and I verbally and physically get out of bed. Coffee, breakfast, make my lunch, and maybe a little time with the foster kittens if they're here, and I'm out the door at 7:30 to start my commute to work.

It's not a long walk, but it starts with most of the Ramsey St. hill and those stairs near the top. Ugh. I catch the bus at Selby and Western and take it to University where I wait for the train that takes me to AMG Laminating off of University on Prior. It's about a quarter mile walk from the train which might suck come winter time. When I arrive, I have about twenty minutes to kill so I make more coffee and play games or see if anybody likes me on Facebook.

8:30 hits and the fun begins. I'm the newest guy on the staff so I'm sort of just a general worker although only the owners really have a title: Owner. A make a quick round to see what needs doing. Strapping and wrapping skids (pallets) is one of the things I do most often. Once a job is completed or a skid is full, it needs to be banded with a steel strap that secures it. Paper weighs a lot, and it is expensive to replace any printed and laminated paper so we don't want it falling all over in a truck. So, after I strap these things down tight, I put it up on a small hydraulic lift and begin the wrapping process. It spins around and around while the clear stretch film is layered on tightly. Up and down the film goes, around and around the skid goes. There's a short video I posted on Google+ that shows it.

Other than that, I do some cleaning up which is usually just sweeping piles of plastic off of the floor into the trash. And I also do a lot of catching which is unloading finished product on to a skid from a machine. Sometimes I do this with two or three machines at a time which can be fun. All the while I'm keeping my eye out for trucks to load or unload, that's part of it all too.  I like to keep busy and I prefer to keep moving.

Currently we are in the middle of a rather large job. 100,000 sheets of store shelf talkers for the brand Malt-O-Meal. They are the things that show you a picture of the cereal and the name with a little splash of milk or whatever they have on them. They are U.VV. coated which is not your traditional laminate. It's a liquid coating that goes on via a roller then is cured under a very bright ultra-violet light. We can move them through very quickly. 50,000 since Monday.

Ok, that's about all my brain can handle writing about work. Moving on, at the end of the day I do the reverse trip from the morning. I'm gone from 7:30-6PM. Last night and tonight I leave from 7:30-9:30 for AA meetings. But generally, I can't leave the house. I'm also allowed four one hour blocks of exercise per week which I used to use for running, but now use for walking, and I want to use in a gym. I need to get a membership.

Saturday and Sunday are different. I get to go shopping from 9-11, which turns into about an hour after you figure in public transportation. And I will get to use my eight hours of weekly free time from 1-9 this Saturday. And Sunday I do community service at the Goodwill Outlet, hours vary. II do look busy on paper, and I do get to be out of the house a fair amount. But keep in mind that before and after I do anything, I have to start from home. And relying on the bus definitely takes some time away.

It's only for 3 and a half more months. I can make it through this ISR without going crazy, right? Yep. I'm on it. I hope I was thorough enough without being boring.

Until next time....

Monday, November 16, 2015

Two Rough Days

This is the second time I will have written this. I somehow erased the whole post I just wrote. So, here goes.

   The day after Mollie told me she didn't want to see me anymore, I walked out on my mom after she said something that made me feel like I wasn't wanted here. Two days in a row, the two women I was closest to, pushed me away. One of them maybe even pushed me down a little. 

    After I left the house illegally, I walked for an hour or maybe two to the Goodwill to do my community service. Along the way I contemplated the meaning of life, the concept of diffusion which I find fascinating, and what the fuck could be so wrong with me. I had to ask myself if I am happy with myself.

    To that question, I can only answer yes. Fuck, I have survived my life. Nobody has ever done that before. I have been through more shit than Andy Dufrane. And the thing is, if I'm beating myself up over losing a girl, and having a fight with my mom, then I'm really gonna hate high school. I'm only nine weeks out of prison, and I haven't had one bit of trouble with my agents, I'm doing everything I'm supposed to be doing, I got a raise at work today without even asking for one, and I brought a tomato to work
Today instead of an apple by accident. Life isn't so bad.

     While I was at work I got a message from my mom asking if we could talk. I said yes, and we had dinner and a discussion. It didn't go well, we got into a fist fight and we stabbed each other..... No, no, no. It went just fine. She's my mom, and were living together, again, sharing 800 square feet. We're different, but we can work together and things will be good.

     I would like to thank a few of you who have made the effort to express their words of wisdom and experience regarding my situation. It is/was of more help than I let on, I assure you. Thank you. You know who you are.

     That's all for tonight. Peace in.

Saturday, November 14, 2015

Hurt

     Today the woman I've been seeing made the decision to stop what we had going. Did it come out of left field? No, sadly. But it still hurt.

     It made more sense than it didn't. I am simply so restricted in my life because of some terrible choices I've made in the past. I get a total of eight hours of free time per week. Other than that, the only time we can be together is here in my mom's house, which has become awkward for all of us.

     I respect the fact that she cut it off before I became too attached. And there's always a chance things could happen later on down the road. I really do like her. I've been in so few relationships in life, it felt so good to be wanted. But I was stuck here, and couldn't give myself to her. I couldn't even sleep over at her place for another ten months from now, provided of course I didn't move in with her. But neither of us was ready for that. Well.... Ok I was.

     I need to be in a better place in life so I can go do normal things. This I.S.R. DOES NOT allow for me to do that. In four months, just short of that actually, I will be far less restricted. I will be on curfew for six months, but I'm free to do what I please from 6:30AM-10:30PM, seven days per week. I think that will be the taste of freedom I've been looking for. I feel more imprisoned now than I did in the six months at C.I.P. You may think that sounds crazy, but.... Try it. Nothing, and I mean nothing that I learned in boot camp other than in treatment and once in a while out in communities being of service, prepared me for any real-life situation or experience.

     Sure, I'm grateful for the early release I was given. You know what's really frustrating though is reading any news article about sex-offenders. I saw yesterday one about a father who drugged his teenage daughters friend, then sexually assaulted her. He got ten months in jail. Ten months.... In county jail. And he will be on probation, not ISR or parole, back in the community.

Wow I really changed gears there didn't I?! Well, its been a badday, and I feel like I've fallen down. But I will get back up. I always do. And I will keep moving forward, because that's what I have to do. I'm the fuckin' man.


Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Camp Heartland Revisited

This is a post from my former blog, Breaking Free. I was limited to only 700 words then, so I thought I would add a little more of my experience there on this one. I will italicize any new material, and will make note of any other editing I may do. Enjoy.

Three weeks before  I left prison I went out on my last Restorative Justice program.  R.J. is generally the only time we left the compound. For about two thirds of my stay at the Challenge Incarceration Program, we would go out into the community once per week to do manual labor in the area of Willow River, MN. We did everything from washing windows at a senior citizens home, to shoveling sand off of the highway after a flood, to digging a trench for insulation around a Habitat for Humanity home. Naturally when It was my turn to leave, I was looking forward to a good day.  Well I got what I asked for.  Nine of us packed all of our gear and headed out to Camp Heartland in Willow River.


It is a very beautiful campground.  I didn’t know anything about the place until I got there.  We piled out of the van and lined up and stood at attention and received our orders for the day. We weren't allowed to look at people, ar move, at all. We were supposed to stand at a military position of attention until told what to do.   It’s almost always some sort of cleaning detail and that is exactly what the plan was for that day.  Then an employee told us who goes there, and why.  Originally it was set up as a retreat for children with H.I.V.  Now it’s for any child with a life threatening  illness.   We were given a brief tour in which he pointed out the cabins we would be cleaning.  They were small but functional and full of dead and living creepy crawly insects.  Nearly all of the beds had a ‘waterproof’ sheet which startled me a little because there’s really only one thing you need that for.  Enough said.  At that point we gathered our supplies and got to work.

As is with all places up north, the ground was infested with river rock. And although I definately did my fair share of work, I spent a good amount of time looking for agates. I went into a few different cabins and mopped, dusted, and cleaned windows. All the while conversing with my fellow squad mates about what we thought was going on at this place.
 
After a couple cabins, the officer in charge came and got me and said there was a project inside I could do, so I followed him in and I ended up cleaning a huge sort of room with a stage, costumes everywhere, and lots of muddy footprints. Even as I was writing this next part I don't think I knew what an impact it all had on me.  To back up a little, on the way down to the basement, covering the walls from top to bottom were drawings and kids’ names and dates when they were there. Each brick in the wall had its own personality. Its own colors, name, and sadly, date.    There were thousands of them, and later I would find even more outside.  I kept looking at the walls as I cleaned, and I started to notice other things about them.  And that’s when shit got real.  Next to or on the bricks themselves were little white crosses and dates.  I realized what it meant, and I couldn’t believe how many there were.  I decided to take a little break and wander around and I just kept seeing more names, more dates. This was the first and only time while at C.I.P. that I openly broke the rules by not adhering to the cleaning detail. I was in shock, yet fascinated at the gravity of it all. So many children left their mark, and never saw their brick again. So many other kids left their mark knowing they may never be able to see theirs. How brave they must be to keep battling their terminal illnesses.  I felt emotion for the first time in a while.  I couldn’t believe that all of those kids had been here and left not knowing if they would ever make it back.
It was then that I really felt guilty about how much of my life I had wasted when these kids were dying off left and right.  How could it possibly be fair that I was out dealing drugs and being completely irresponsible in every situation and never got killed along the way while these kids were literally fighting for their lives?  I took some time to read a lot of the writings on the wall.  Every one of them was positive about their situation; little kids who truly appreciated whatever time they were with us in this world.  It is even making me a little misty-eyed as I type this.  I don’t ever pray, and I don’t believe in God, but right there, right then, I said my version of a prayer in my head the words of which only myself and they will ever hear.  I continued to clean.

For over five months I had been eating only prison food which sounds and tastes exactly like prison food.  That day, the employees that were there (there were no kids there when we went) cooked up a feast for us.  All things we hadn’t seen since our sentencing.  We sat around a table and for the first time in years I sat at a table with people and ate.  I ate three brownies for dessert after eating as many fresh vegetables, slices of garlic bread, and I’m drawing a blank on the rest of it but it was amazing, and we all felt like humans that day.

As we were leaving, I saw even more names.  These ones engraved in the sidewalk that circled a water fountain.  All of the had two dates, and I had to walk away after I saw the name of a four year old that had died the day before his birthday. At this point I actually took all of the agates out of my pocket that I had found that day and tossed them gently into the memorial garden. It's all I had, and it wasn't much, but I felt good about giving them these beautiful gems that this earth created.   I can’t waste any more of my life, it’s just not fair to them.

If you ever are looking for a good organization to donate to, I recommend Camp Heartland.  Let them show these kids some fun before they leave us way too soon.

So, I guess I didn't add all that much, but it was pretty powerful to begin with. Someday I would love to go back and do some volunteer work on my own time. There is literally no better cause that I can think of. 

Monday, November 9, 2015

Allow Me to Retort

After I turned off three burners, moved my still sizzling bacon to the side, and made sure no fire hazards were present, I carefully tiptoed through the dark so my mother wouldn't think I was using too much electricity and put my shoes on to help get our three new rescue kitties. I went to the car, got them out, and took them inside where I set the kennel on the couch with the door open so they could come out when they felt comfortable. I quickly took off my shoes by the kitchen and went in to resume making my grilled bacon and three-cheese sandwich for dinner, alfredo sauce for later use, and a Philly steak sandwich for tomorrow's lunch. Delicious! At that point my mother bent over and picked my shoes up and said, "will you please take your shoes off by the front door? It will save on vacuuming." I shit you not. And although I know that walking through two more rooms to take off my shoes would actually increase the amount of dirt on the floor, I bit my tongue. Because, you see, I love my mother. But, because she decided to write a rather hurtful post about me and my "sloppy       spacing", which I still hear the world complaining about, I will be silent no longer.

Mother, not every fucking situation needs to be a life lesson. If for some reason you hate the fact that I use toothpaste, then say something! Don't shut it away with all of my other hygiene products in the loudest cupboard with a swinging light bulb that ever existed. I actually try to be quiet because you sleep with your door open two feet from the bathroom! So a few nights I didn't even brush my teeth because I didn't want to open that stupid closet. And for the love of god, stop leaving dishes in the sink if I'm not allowed to! Heaven forbid if I accidentally put your banned-from-the-dishwasher-dish-of-the-week you take it out and leave it in the sink for me to learn a lesson. People, guess what!? She left her sloppy egg pan and spatula in the sink this morning and I had to wash it! Oh my god!!

Now, some of you may have detected some sarcasm there. Well done. But I can assure you that from the moment my mother had the washer and dryer brought up into the smallest bedroom (mine), she's been slowly trying to drive me away from here. It all started for me the day I got a job and she was actually mad at me because I had to work instead of sit at home and wait for the plumber. She actually had the nerve to tell me I should ask if I could start a day later. I still have that message on my phone if anybody needs proof. Then where I really lost it is when she told me I had to ask her first if I were going to have family over. And from there it went south. I haven't wanted to communicate with her since.

I'm not going to include a lot in this post. But I will say that I don't have friends over often. Somebody recently said that maybe she has forgotten where she came from. And I think that may be true. When I was in prison and we were writing back and forth, and speaking when we could, I thought we had become closer than ever. And after two months I want to leave this house as fast as I possibly can. I have honestly thought that if I had no love interest, I would actually feel better going back to finish my sentence. It was just a fleeting thought, but even prison guards don't care if you have a lamp on in your room. There's no changing her ways, we both know that, I just wish I had known what I was walking into when I left prison.

I love you, mom. But you were trying to control the blog. You edited it without my permission, and that was when I wanted out. I kept writing for myself, and the one time I asked if you could write a post you fired off a very public paragraph about you needing more than ten minutes to write something. The world would have gone on.

You don't need to be ashamed of me or embarrassed of me anymore, mom. I thought we were over that. I thought you had broken free of that shame. You had not, that's why I had to leave the blog. I was hurt. I was pissed. Maybe we should have read between the lines. 

Saturday, November 7, 2015

Constant Reminders

What a great day. I got to go to my favorite sushi restaurant, Saji-Ya, with my favorite girl, Mollie. I had been craving sushi for years, and despite my best attempts, they never even tried to make it for me in prison. This was just one of many plates we polished off. It was a completely gratifying eating experience that I had put off for way too long. The companion I had with me made the day even better. A beautiful woman I hope to share many memories and meals with. She let's me open up to her and I can tell her things that I just don't get to talk about with anybody else. She makes me feel good; happy. And the feeling appears to be mutual. More to come.......

We finished up, paid up, and proceeded to exit the restaurant. On the way out I hesitated, but decided to use the bathroom before we continued our day. The bathroom is utilized by the two semi-adjoined businesses: Saji-Ya and Dixie's. When I opened the door the first thing I noticed was a pair of legs protruding from under the stall door. Nothing shocks me, so I continued about my business (I had to go pee-pee!) until I heard a light snoring. A little odd, I thought. I sometimes snore, but I usually do it when I'm in bed sleeping. I decided it was necessary to investigate further, I just needed to finish up. Before I did there was a jolt of leg movement followed by an abrupt end to the snoring, followed then by an eerily familiar noise: the sound of a compressed air canister being discharged into a mouth. At first I thought somebody was draining the nitrous from a whipped-cream can, but then I heard it hit the floor with an empty, hollow noise and I knew what it was. Duster. Canned air, commonly used (only once by me) to produce a very intense high in which the participant often blacks out. I'm sorry, African-American's out. Gotta be politically correct!

I peeked around the corner into the stall and saw a man lying against the toilet snoring again, with the duster can in his lap. I went out and got the manager and we went back in to assess the situation. He wasn't responding, so I took the duster can and we walked out. The manager decided to call the paramedics at which point I asked if he needed me anymore, and thankfully he said, "no".

 As we were walking away i said to Mollie that that reminded me of, well, me. That is the condition I could have been found in hundreds of times in my life. Not necessarily from duster, but from blackout drinking, involuntary slumber caused by sleep deprivation from days of meth use, or paralysis from ketamine ingestion. My first thought as I heard and then saw the emergency vehicles going to where we had just been was that I hope they take him to detox, and that somehow he finds his way into a meeting somewhere before his disease progresses and he passes out in the middle of a road, which I have done, or while driving which I have done three times, each incident resulting in a high speed crash with inanimate objects, thankfully. But the reality of it is, if you're passed out on the floor of a public restroom because you didn't have anywhere else to inhale duster, it's already progressed. It took me years of living like that daily before something good finally happened to me. I got arrested, and I've been clean ever since. Happy, sober me.

Thursday, November 5, 2015

Alcohol: The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems.

The rusty wire that holds the cork, and keeps the anger in, gives way, and suddenly it's day again.
Roger Waters- Pink Floyd

I was never an angry drunk, or even really an angry person. But I can identify with that line from one of my favorite songs, Two Suns in the Sunset. Replace the word anger with stupidity, desperation, or disaster, and you have my life as an alcoholic pegged. More than a few periods of my life revolved around alcohol. I think they were all equally terrible, but this is what I have to consider the worst.

Just after the turn of the century, a few months before I went to Hazelden and began the greatest years of my life, I was essentially homeless for a couple months. I say essentially because for a while I was the useless lump on the couch of a very good friend that for some reason put up with me, even while battling his own demons with the crack pipe. It was February in St. Paul and it was as cold as ever. I had slept a few restless nights on a train bridge over Snelling Avenue before going to his house on a whim for some heat and a possible buzz. I had $20 to my name and was hell-bent on spending it on crack, one of my biggest vices in my earlier years of drug abuse.

That's not what this post is about. The $20 lasted me a good 10 minutes and we joked about me being pretty much a loser and then he told me he had a keg of beer on his back porch that had been there since the fall. It had surely frozen over but it might still be good. It turns out that it was nearly full, completely flat, and rancid as hell. That did not stop me. Off and on for the next two weeks or so, that keg was my life. 16 gallons of pain. He would go to work and that's when I would get up and start drinking. I had no food, but he had some dry goods like canned gravy and jellied cranberries that I would eat from time to time. It is true that a human can survive off of beer alone, I would know.

I would drink until I was unable to function, take a nap, and do it all over. On occasion, I would go out into the neighborhood to steal various things from garages in hopes of selling it, or trading it for crack. It worked once in a while, but more often I would just end up going back to my keg. Sometimes I would be so sick and tired I would go back to the train bridge to sleep it off. After a while I had to pretend I had a job so I could still stay at my friend's place, but once payday had arrived, I left for good. Not before draining that keg completely and giving myself an ulcer.

For days after I left, I roamed around the streets. I had nothing. No food, shelter, or clean clothing. No dignity, pride, or self-respect. And I didn't care. It was the lowest point in my life and I've been to prison. None of my friends wanted me around because I just brought chaos to every situation. I hated myself so much. I had some terrible emptiness inside me that I just couldn't figure out. I walked, and I walked, and  I walked.  My only goal while wandering was to find the next free buzz, which always meant stealing from people or businesses. Every time I was able to pawn something for a few dollars I would go to the liquor store and spend it all. I would sit by myself on the bridge where it all began and cry myself into blackout, then sleep.

Finally, half way through April of 2001, I made the best decision I have ever made. I walked to my mom's house and left her a letter. It was quite desperate sounding, I'm sure. And it paid off. I don't remember the details, everything was blurry back then, but I believe it was the next day that I was admitted into Hazelden Center for Youths and Families. It was Easter Sunday, and it was the beginning of nearly five years of sobriety for me.

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

A brief history of myself.

For those of you just picking up this new blog of mine, allow me to tell you a little bit about myself. I'm a 37 year old single male living in St. Paul, MN. I don't normally like to brag, but I just got out of prison and I live with my Mom.


I've been writing since the beginning of my incarceration in late June of '14. The original blog was roughly half written by me, and the other half written by my mother although it was all typed by her from my handwritten letters from prison. 


It's not just a story of me in prison. It's a story of my life from two different perspectives, and its interspersed with some of her past and present. We have both been through more than our fair share of hardships, but mine were all as a result of my own actions.

Breaking Free is where it all began. This is where it continues. I have a lot still to tell, and I want to elaborate on some of my most popular stories. I may weave in and out of different times in my life but I will always keep it fun and funny, and the main goal is to deter the future alcoholic/addict from travelling down the same back alley of a life that I did.

I have been out of prison for nearly two months now and am finally starting to feel comfortable around people and all the chaos of the daily grind. I attend three 12 step based meetings per week, all that I am allowed to go to as my schedule is controlled by I.S.R. (Intense. Supervised. Release.) Essentially house arrest. I can go to work, three meetings, a two hour shopping pass, a four hour free pass, and four one-hour blocks of exercise per week. That's all. The agents come see me about four times per week at home or work. I take breathalyzers and drug tests routinely.

It's a tight leash but I'm intent on not going back. Prison is a horrible place where most people seem to only get worse. I was one of the lucky ones that went through the Challenge Incarceration Program, a boot-camp environment where I went through a complete life transformation that lasted six months. You can read all about it at Breaking Free, and I will continue to slip memories into new posts as they pop into my head.

If you like what you read, please share this blog with friends and family, as almost anybody knows somebody that could benefit from my life story. Thank you, and enjoy my blog.

Sunday, November 1, 2015

Bloodwill

VINCE

Well it didn't take me too long to find something to write about now did it? So much can happen in just a few short days, and I was just very excited to start out on my own with a clean slate. Since this is the beginning and I'm sure I will eventually pick up new followers, you can see all of my original posts at Breaking Free where I started this journey 17 months ago.This new blog will focus mostly on the daily grind on the outside. I'm pretty much done talking about my stay in prison, although I'm sure I will include little bits and pieces as I remember them. So, without further adieu, here it is....

Almost every Sunday since my release I've been doing my community service at the Goodwill Outlet store in St. Paul. I get to sort through all the crap before it's wheeled out to the sales floor in giant blue tubs we call boats. I get to see all the good stuff first, and today I got three shirts and a pair of good jeans for a total of $5. Sorry, back to the story. Every once in a while as we're ripping through bags and sorting things we will grab a bag that contains garbage, it's actually fairly common. Today was no exception, and I picked up a small white grocery bag and tore into it and the most horrific, disgusting, vile thing I have ever seen jumped out of the bag and just barely scraped itself along my bottom lip. It was a maxi-pad, covered in stale, black blood. The smell hit me first followed shortly after by a swarm of something that wasn't fruit flies, but something in my opinion even more sinister. As I dropped the bag and backed away, I got the feeling that the bugs wanted to be out of that situation just as much as I did. The smell was simply the worst thing that has ever gone into my nose, and I have snorted much cocaine and meth through these nostrils. It reminded me of nothing, but if I had to guess I would say it's quite possible that bears could easily track its smell from miles away and even they might be disgusted once they got closer. I had work gloves on but I put on some vinyl gloves just to be safe as I picked up the cleverly disguised bag of horrors.Happy Halloween! Giving back to the community is part of I.S.R. (Intense Supervised Release(sort of like parole on steroids)). I feel I'm owed something for having to deal with that particular situation, then  the supervisor came by and gave me a Tootsie Roll, and everything was better. Enough about that.

Yesterday I got to hang out with an old friend. I think it had been at least 15 years since I had seen him, and it turns out we were both released from our respective prisons on the same day. We reminisced about how we used to be, and we laughed a lot about the things we had done as teenagers. We were terrible. And we both have the same ideas about going back. We don't want it, and we are willing to follow our rules and directives to make sure we're not at risk.

We went to the Har-Mar Mall,, somewhere between St. Paul and Roseville which used to be a fairly empty, but it turns out the place was pretty busy, and there weren't too many closed stalls. Good news for shoppers.
We talked and shopped and I noticed nothing was awkward between us. It was like we were back in our early teen years only without any break-ins or burglaries (allegedly). We were good friends for years and I would like to keep this friendship going. It helps to have people around me that can identify with my stint in prison, and the struggle of daily life.

There's no word counter that I can find yet so I think that's it for now. I don't know how often I will be posting but I'm going to shoot for every other day and hope I can keep it interesting. Please, please share this and the other blog with your friends, family, and especially with the still suffering addict/alcoholic. They are who I write for, and "they" includes me.

Stay tuned for more, and thank you for taking your time to read this.I believe these are all from my earlier years of sobriety. 




And Counting

I remember vividly waking up at 5:19am, one minute precisely before the lights would come on; the indication that it was time to stand a...