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 at
P.O.A. I had to pee, but I didn’t have time to do that before, so I simply lay
still on my prison mattress for the last time, and I wondered what it would be
like to sleep on a real mattress for the first time in about 15 months.
That day began just like the previous 181 had: a mad rush
after count to get the beds made, use the bathroom, get dressed for exercise,
and stand in line at a position of attention until told to do otherwise. On my
last day in prison—five years ago today—we did the Reebok Step tape for 40
minutes. I had done it with my squad roughly 100 times before, and I was
baffled that some of them still couldn’t keep in time. I thought of the last
six months and how much progress I had made in my life, and I hoped that all of
my hard work could keep me out of prison or out of trouble generally forever.
When exercise was over, we brought our steps back into the back portion of the
gym with the weights and air conditioning, and we single-filed our asses very carefully
back to our barracks to shower and get dressed for graduation.
Five years ago I graduated Minnesota’s toughest boot camp
program. I say that subjectively, as I don’t know of any other types. I think I’m
probably close to correct. It’s probably safer to say that I graduated from
Minnesota’s toughest and only prison treatment/boot camp program. I haven’t fucked
up since.
Life hasn’t been perfect since my departure from the grips
of addiction. I have been completely clean and sober for 2,266 days, which is
an incredible feat considering the previous roughly 8,000 days were spent
wallowing in my own metaphorical feces. For nearly two decades, I simply couldn’t
catch a break from myself.
I wanted to expound on a story I’ve only ever touched on, but I think was significant in the long run for me to want to make the actual change in my life necessary to be successful. A
week before I was sentenced to prison, I was out on bail, selling meth, and
getting high 24/7. I was driving around stolen or borrowed vehicles, one of
which had a toggle switch and a doorbell button rigged up to activate all
function. One particular day I drove that vehicle to a friend’s house to make a
drop. When I arrived, there was a strange man sitting on the couch. He beckoned
me into a bedroom to make a transaction, and I foolishly followed. When I got
inside the room, there was another man who I knew, sitting on a couch. The new
guy—I’ll call him Tim—sat on a chair next to me, calmly pulled out a knife, and
told me to take off all of my clothes as I was going to get robbed. The blade
itself was very short; about an inch square, with a very shiny pointed tip. I
sort of laughed at the idea of taking off my clothes, and instead emptied out
my pockets for Tim.
I was nervous. I was already sweating because I was full of
meth and adrenaline. I knew that he was
more likely to use a small blade that wouldn’t likely damage any vital organs,
but still send me a message. I stood up to pull my pockets inside-out, and that’s
when he punched me. It knocked me back a bit but I stood up and remained calm.
He nervously felt around my pockets for anything else, which he did not find.
And then he punched me again, in the same spot. This time I felt it. His ring
hit me right on the bridge of my nose, and there was a good bump forming
immediately under my eye. I tasted blood, and I felt it running down over my
lips, the warm rush tingling cold as it descended my face. Tim laughed and
stated that he thought I was a cop, which is why I was getting robbed. He left
as fast as he could.
I never understood
that part. Why would somebody rob someone they thought was a police informant?
It still doesn’t make sense, other than the fact that in the meth world,
everybody is suspect. Rats make up the majority of dealers, users, and
suspects. I never offered up any information on that event, nor any other to
any officer in my years of using and dealing, but I got punished anyway.
That was just another day in the meth world. There was
always calamity and chaos, and there were very few real friends. The few that
were good to me back then, have also sobered up and remain acquaintances. The rest are still out there, doing the same
thing, in prison or on the streets.
I’m here on my living room couch, typing on my laptop, having
just taken one of my step-daughters to school, waiting for the other one and my
pregnant wife to wake up so I can make breakfast in our beautiful house. Five
years ago, this is what I was thinking about at 5:19am. I wondered if this was
possible, and I hoped that I could use what I had learned in prison to stay
away from stories like these.
Five years and counting, I remain on the good statistical
end of recidivism, and every day is brighter. We have a new daughter on the
way, and my next hope is that girl will never know her father to be a drunk or
an addict. My goal is to be a better father than I had, which should be fairly
simple, all I have to do is be present, and watch her grow. I think I’m already
on track to be a good dad, so I’m not going to change anything right now.
Today is just another day I didn’t get high or drunk. Today
is truly a miracle.
