B81) Heroin in prison

On two different occasions and on different prison yards (Cook Unit and North Unit) I witnessed an inmate who nodded off with a needle in his arm (dorm living). Truth is stranger than fiction. There he was, asleep with a spent syringe of heroin hanging out of a vein in his arm.

On both occasions a guard eventually walked up on the inmates during their heroin induced nap and it was off to the hole where the convict would complain about the injustice of life behind bars.

I've read published opinions claiming criminals want to be caught. I forget the reason why but supposedly deep down inside these people want to be caught. Watching a convict nod off in his cubical with a syringe hanging out of his arm supports the aforementioned position.


When I arrived to Cook unit I was lucky (again) in which dorm I was placed. The next dorm down had a Nazi in it (Ed the Nazi) that demanded a fight with any new white man assigned to the dorm. Since convicts come and go on most prison yards with a great deal of regularity the boxing ring was in use on a regular basis. Ed the Nazi had a well established routine.

New white guy shows up and settles down into his newly assigned cubical.

Ed the Nazi observes the new guy and puts his plan into motion.

1. Remove all contraband from the cubical. After the fight guards will be escorting Ed the Nazi to the hole and then they will search his cubical looking for contraband.
2. Obtain heroin and get it into your veins.
3. Step 3 is where the miracle happens. With the heroin coursing through Ed's veins he miraculously grows a pair of testicles and now stands ready to fight.
4. Attack the new guy

After the fight both men were taken to the hole...

B80 A man's reach....

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for?

B79) I got my yearly physical

Tuesday August 21, 2012

It was time for the yearly physical. I'm fifty two and the physicals after fifty are supposed to be a yearly event. I would be a great deal more accomidating to this medical schedule if the physicals were not so damn invasive. That prostate exam almost makes it a deal breaker. My last physical was in 2008.  I was given a clean bill of health in 2008 and given another here in 2012. Aside from my left leg, ankle and foot I'm in good health. I attribute my good health status to the miles I get in. Even with a bad leg, ankle and foot I still get my miles in. They're not fast. There is nothing impressive about the distance and speed I ride at.  but I'm still in the game.   

Needing a yearly physical is a facts of life for a man in his fifties. They would be a great deal more tolerable  palatable if they did not include the prostate exam.

Prospective:
The toughest coach in the history of football (Vince Lombardi) died earlier in life than necessary because he did not want to get a physical. Imagine that,  all that "toughness" but not tough enough to get a physical. Coach could not deal with the exam. I learned this info on a recent documentary about Coach Lombardi. It was a great documentary that did an amazing job of defining Coach Lombardi's life and success. Definitely worth watching if you are a fan of football or a fan of leadership.

The physical gave me a new appreciation for what the ladies go through every six months when taking BCP’s.

Bottom line, I'm in good health.

I'm alive at fifty two and in good health. Nobody would have thought this possible when I was thirty two. I was surrounded by such negativity and toxic/cancerous lives. The work and how it was defined evolved. It went from being something exciting and

At some point I expected to be killed
t thirty three I doubted my ability to survive and see my fThe odds makers in vegas would have bet against me. I would live to see fifty two.



 

 

B78) Writer's block (part two)

It was unfair and inaccurate for me to have referred to my of recent lack of posting as writers block. That's not the truth. I did not stop writing. I stopped posting.  An odd form of doubt entered the equation of my blogging.  It did not make sense. It does not make sense. I post without editing all the time. I get the words out and move on. It's just emotion in print. That's what it feels like. This is what I'm going after. I'm hoping to make others feel what I felt.   

Eventually I reread my postings. Each time I reread them I'm humbled. My writing faux pas are endless. 

I need an editor. As joyful and good intentioned as my critics are with their willingness to point out my flaws, I need more criticism. Better criticism. Constructive criticism. It would be of immense help if my critics would direct me to their websites or their blogs so I can see first hand what my critics have to offer as an example of "right". 

Often critics are do as I say and not as I do............ kind of people?

I'm entertaining all offers for proof readers or editors for my blog. The pay is minimal (zero dollars. zero cents). If the blog takes off and we get a million hits a day then there would be some serious $$$$ financial rewards/ compensation.

B77) Golf

My impetus into the game of golf was provided by reconstructive shoulder surgery. The surgery was the result of my bull riding back in 1980.  (See blog: B46 The polish cowboy" for more details about my natural born skills for bull riding).

The surgery was scheduled for February 14^th 1988 (Valentines Day). I began to think about exercise as it related to rehabilitation. I needed to get involved with some activity after the surgery. Something fun. If it was going to be lots of fun I would feel more motivation to have a success rehabilation for the shoulder. I backed off running for a few years. From 1985 to 1988 was exercise in general was minimal. I needed to get involved with something but what?

The inspiration came as I sat at a stop sign near our house. Canada Hills Country Club was right in front of me. It was in front of me, next to me and behind me. There were two eighteen hold golf courses within walking distance of our house.

“Golf. Yes. Of course. That’s excellent”

We went to check out the Country Club together to inquire about membership. It was a non equity club. The admission fee was greatly reduced (waved) as they were in search of new members. We joined and I went shopping for a set of golf clubs. I ended up with TaylorMade TPC clubs and a PingPal for a putter.

The surgery was horrific. It went well but the pain was overwhelming. My right SC Joint (sternoclavicular) was reconstructed. The SC Joint is where the collarbone meets the breast plate. They cut off about an inch of my collar bone then reconfigured tendons and ligamants.  

When surgeons start cutting off bone ---------------------------  it's going to hurt.

I woke up in post-op screaming. The pain meds didn’t work well and I was overly vocal about the pain. It was like torture. They moved me into my own private recovery room because of all the noise I was making. Then they hit me with a big dose of Thorazine which put me into a catatonic state. The downside of this pharmacological choice was the pain. It was not accounted for. The Thorazine stopped me from yelling and screaming but it didn’t do squat for the pain.  

Eventually I was taken to my room. I had a roommate. He had a bed that was mechanical. Up and down. It's what we think of when we think of a hospital bed. My was not and I was in agony. The slightest movement was incredibly painful.

My family doctor stopped by to check on my post surgical condition. It felt like one of those Steven King moments. I could see my doctor standing at the foot of my hospital bed. I was unable to move or speak. That fucking Thorazine laid waste to my mind. I wanted to say:

“Help”.

“I’m in pain”

“Get me out of here”

I could not utter a single syllable. My eyes worked perfect. I could hear but it sounded like an echo way off in a distant canyon.

She smiled then left


All hope was then lost.

The following day I was released from the hospital and given a prescription for Tylenol 3. I stopped by my family doctor’s office for help. I was in search of medication that would help. I showed her what the surgeon gave me. She tossed that script into the garbage and handed me a new prescription.


There's a limit to what medication can do.

I had a massage therapist show up at the house every day for the next two weeks. When the masseur showed up and I was in agony. When he left I felt the agony was gone. It was remarkable. Truly remarkable. While I was getting the massage a cassette tape for hypnosis healing was playing in the background.

I drove by the Country Club every day. The golf clubs were sitting in my living room.  This helped to inspire me in a positive way.

The orthopedic surgeon was astonished at my recovery. I don’t recall how long it took before I was on the golf course, four weeks. Maybe six weeks. When the doctor gave the green light I became very active. I embraced the game of golf with all my enthusiasm. It was the right game at the right time. I bounced around to a few different instructors eventually I met a local instructor that spent sixteen years on the PGA tour. The man knew the game of golf and he was an excellent instructor.

With the right teacher and the right amount of practice I went from a nineteen to a nine in six months.

There was a poker table in the men's locker room. Often there would be a poker game on Sunday afternoons. I played all the time. We would have the cocktail waitress come into the men's locker room to deliver our drinks. There were some good times there.

B76) Writers block....

Or should I say  "bloggers block".


I know why the block has presented itself. The question I'm facing, how to get past it?


I'm at a loss.

B75) bla bla bla

same shit different day....

B74) My taste in movies changed...

My taste in movies changed as a result of the accident. I know sounds weird but truer words were never spoken ----------  or written. It’s an odd thing having something like that change. I'm especially thankfully my tastes in music was unaffected. I don’t know if I could have lived with myself if all the sudden I became a die-hard fan of country music or worse yet, a die hard fan of the musical styling’s of Lawrence Welk.

“Take me now god”

Experiencing all that agony affected me. It continued to affect me in new and different ways. Since the accident I’ve walked out on seventy percent of the movies I’ve gone to see. Maybe the number is closer to eighty five percent. Maybe it’s ninety percent. I am getting better. I am trending to a better/healthier statics. It probably was ninety percent the first year. Eighty percent the second year and so on…. Half of those movies, if not more, were seen at the dollar theater so it’s no great financial loss when I walk out. It stings a little when I pay eight bucks and walk out but,

"You gotta do what you gotta do"

“Am I right”?

“Word”!

I’m almost always alone at the theater. I go in the afternoon during the week. This helps in making sure there will be no crowds. I'm happiest when I'm the only person in the theater.


"The joy of solitude"


I never know what's going to set me off driving me out of the  theater. It could be anything. Once it was a preview/trailer for an upcoming movie. In the trailer they showed a couple on a motorcycle weaving in and out of traffic at a very high rate of speed. That was way too dangerous for anyone to do for any reason It was horrifying to watch.

“Check please”

It’s not just new movies, some of my favorite movies from the past are no longer watchable for my new eyes. Sometimes is the content of the movie, sometimes not. I walked out on a movie that glorified a criminal, a thief, a murder. I couldn't take it. To show such despicable and duplicitous individuals succeeding has become unacceptable for me to watch in a movie.

It has gotten better. The first year I was upset while watching the injustices handed out to Marmaduke at the play ground by all the other dogs. It literally had me so upset I teared up.

"Good god man, get a grip"


Who am I now?

B73) I should have quit the job

It took six months before I found out my security clearance was approved permenantly. Immediatly upon finding out about my security clearance I sat down at my desk and typed up a letter of resignation.

There was no hesitation. I remember thinking, my work here is done.

"Goodbye"


I never sent that resignation letter in. While typing the letter I realized there was another victory within my grasp, the renewal of my contract.  If the Federal Government wanted me to come back for a second year I would have considered that another success. Another trophy for my imaginary trophy case.

After my contract was renewed I began to feel like a sellout. This is not what I am supposed to be doing. This is not my destiny. The days began to feel like torture, like prison. I resented everything. I began sprinting to the door at five o’clock. I sprinted to the train both coming and going to work. I began to hate the job.

I went from going to work in terror every day. I worried about being fired for lack of being able to obtain a security clearance. After obtaining the clearance I went to work every day feeling a tremendous sense of pride. All the pieces seemed to be falling into place. I bought a house, a beautiful five bedroom house and I live alone. The house was four years old when I bought it. The market had been crashing. I bought the house in February of 2009. Got an FHA loan.  Look at what's possible. I felt more astonishment than pride. I also began to believe my message:

“It is possible to create a meaningful life after six years in prison”

It didn’t last. The feeling of joy and pride. I was supposed to move on. Do meaningful work. Go back and help those most in need. I was now feeding my lust for possessions.

1. Bachelor's Degree
2. Masters Degree
3. New house
4. New Nissan Frontier (4x4) in garage
5. New Honda VTX1800 parked next to the 4x4 in the garage
6. Good Job full time job
7. Adjunct faculty at the local college for my part time work
8. Security clearance
9. Credibility....

Who am I know?


Time to move on.... I am not supposed to be working in a cubical for the next twenty years.  No.  

B72) Cook Unit Florence Az

This is year three in prison. Cook Unit is a low medium yard.

By the time I got to Cook Unit I was divorced. Not only was I divorced but my ex wife began to put the screws to me. Every phone call home to talk to my daughter became infuriating and intolerable. I had to hear about what a great guy her new boyfriend was. He worked for his dad and was overpaid for the little work he did according to my ex. According to her he made lots of money, owned a home and stood to inherit lots of money. (very important to her) . She praised the new boyfriend and declared him to be such a

“wonderful father to Brittany”

She became vicious with her words. Everything said on the phone was meant to tear the flesh off. It did. She wanted to be hateful and she was. It got worse from phone call to phone call. I was in a state of mind thinking I deserved it.  All of it. Why? Because I failed.  

Part of this didn’t add up. I’ve always believed miserable people spread misery and happy people spread happiness. She just fell in love. Now she is living with the man of her dreams (according to her). If she was in such a blissful place in life why was she unleashing such torment on me during my phone calls home ?

It was starting to get to me. The evil and hatred coming at me from every conceivable direction. The inmates were all miserable. The guards were miserable. The administration was miserable. The civilian kitchen workers were miserable. Prison feeling like hell on earth had been a daily feeling up to that point. It’s hell. Some days more hellish than other days.

The landscape alone was barren of life.

My ex was pushing me closer and closer to that proverbial edge. I began to feel as if I was in a losing battle against hatred and evil. Nothing like the summer heat of the desert to burn in all the little nuances of this shit filled experience. I was on overload. I felt myself drowning. I was drowning in a sea of hatred and evil. It was one call home too many. More of her talk about how her new boyfriend being

“The best father possible to Brittany”

I’d been treading water up to that point. From time to time I’d slip down under the surface of the water. Then I’d fight like hell and pop back up again. Gasping and gulping down mouthfuls of air before being sucked back under again by the next hellish event.

Even though Obi wan kanobi was there in the background telling me:

“Don’t give in to the dark side”

I did give in. I’m sorry Obi Wan. Hatred now owns my mortal soul. Hatred, it’s all I could feel. If I could just get within arms reach of her again. This is my thought. If I could get close enough to get my hands on her. That’s my new prayer. If I could get close enough, this is my new wish. This is my new thought and thinking. Please let me get within arms reach of her again. One more time before I die. I’m going to choke the life right out of her.

This was the last thought I had before bed every night. The first thought I had every morning. I thought about it before breakfast, during breakfast, after breakfast. I thought about it before lunch. During lunch and after lunch…..choking the life out of my ex-wife became my single minded obsession.

I felt like everyone else now. We’re all in Hell together.

That did not last long. As soon as I felt this true “oneness” with hatred I flipped out. I had a full blown anxiety attack, panic attack or whatever attack. My terror level was off the charts. I did not know what to do. I had no idea how to fix this. How am I supposed to go back in time and unthink all those hateful thoughts and wishes?

I do not know.

What have I done?

There’s no one I can turn to. Even if I was a free man I would not know who to turn to in a time like this.

I want nothing to do with the dark side. I find nothing but terror in thinking I might have done something metaphysically to harm myself. I’m trapped in a world of hate. What am I supposed to do now?

All I can come up with is a mantra:

“Love is the answer”

Maybe this will work.

“Love is the answer”

It’s the last thing I say to myself at night. It’s the first thing I say to myself in the morning. I say it to myself on the way to breakfast, during breakfast and after breakfast. This evolves into a single minded focus of attention:

“Love is the answer”

Days passed. They turned into weeks. Then months. Little by little I got better. It may sound crazy but I believe that mantra helped.

“Love is the answer”