How do you imagine the reality of prison? Imagine that you have spent the last ten or so years behind bars. What do you imagine you would feel? What is your life really like? What is it that you miss the most? What is it that you hate the most about being in prison? What is the emotional impact of the experience as a whole?
Most people can not imagine the reality of being in prison. The thought of being in prison never crosses their mind, and, likely, never will. Of course, people believe that they have an “idea’ of what it might be like. This “idea” is built from a mix of Hollywood portrayals and reality television. However, Hollywood strips the experience of most of the truth and fabricates action and plots that make it more exciting than it really is. Reality television or documentaries cover only the real action, exaggerating it to seem like riots and stabbings occur on a daily basis. I have yet to watch anything on television or read anything in a book or magazine that accurately depicts the prison experience on a real and personal basis.
So what is it really like? The answer depends on whether you are a true criminal; a person who exhibits anti-social behavior in every aspect of their lives and a thought pattern that leads to negative actions and consequences without any real caring, exhibiting a maturity level comparable to that of a young child; or a “normal” person; one who values family and freedom, has a care for the rights and feelings of others, respects the manners and morals possessed by most of society, and grasps the concept of rules and why they are important.
For a true criminal, the lack of guilt and the inability to sympathize and empathize with others prohibits them from understanding the effect their actions have on others, Their narcissism prevents them from caring. They are able to accept prison as part of their normal life because they are able to see it as an inevitable result of their conduct. While they are in prison, they spend the majority of their time playing card games, laughing and joking with other like-minded individuals. They tell their “war stories” and take pride in their criminality. The reality of prison for them is just a continuation of the life that they lived outside of prison, without the “perks.”
True criminals believe that the world is centered around them. Their family and friends are believed to be obligated to take care of them while they are incarcerated. The have no care for rehabilitation in any sense of the term and put on a show when it is time to show they are a changed man. They constantly complain about “the system” because they feel they are being treated unjustly and unfairly when they are not being catered to. It is the ultimate “me against the world” mentality. Prison is just another place to them, holding no special meaning.
I know. I used to fit right in with them.
For a normal person, prison is very different. It is not the loss of freedom that affects a normal person. It is all of the little things that are experienced because of a lengthy prison sentence that hold meaning. It is all of these small things that are never thought of by anyone until they are pit in the situation to experience it. It is all of the things that are taken for granted outside of the cage.
In the beginning, the emotions are a gamut of negativity. Guilt, heartache, anger, sadness and fear overwhelm you to the point of agony. The sum of these emotions is so great it totally consumes you. However, these emotions are only the beginning of the hell that you are about to face. They barely scratch the surface and are the product of the shock of what led you to the situation in which you find yourself.
When you first come to prison, you find that it is not at all what you thought it would be. After the shock wears off, you fall into the typical routine: eat, sleep, and recreate. You will find that you do not really “fit in” with those around you. You begin to shun the normal activities everyone else participates in, avoiding conversation and contact with other inmates. Being around most other inmates makes you feel uncomfortable. You start looking down on the people around you because you disagree with the lifestyle they lead and feel as if you are a better person than they are.
Yet even this is tolerable.
What makes being in prison hard to cope with for a normal person are the moods that you find yourself in due to the things outside of prison that affect your emotions. A year or two into your sentence, your friends start to disappear. At first, you received mail every day from everybody. Now, however, you do not get as much mails as you used to. You start to feel as if time has stopped for you when you were sent to prison, but has continued on for those on the outside—a feeling that never leaves. You tire of the routine and look for something constructive to fill your time with be it work-related or education; anything that keeps your mind from getting dull and takes it off the fact that you are in prison.
After about five years, you find out who your friends really are. Maybe one or two still write or visit, everyone else has moved on in their lives without you. Even the majority of your family no longer writes on a consistent basis, if at all. You immerse yourself in school or work to keep from sinking into a depression. You feel forgotten and forsaken. The loneliness of not being able to have physical contact with those you love is all but unbearable.
This is also about the time you realize that you do need to change some of your ways after seeing yourself reflected in your peers. You go to the rehabilitative programs, which rarely teach you anything or show you something about yourself that you don’t already know. You figure out that that these programs do not have much to offer you and you are on your own when it comes to fixing the problems that you see in yourself. This is a long road, but it is the necessity of it that drives you to take it.
After about ten years, there is nothing left to focus on but prison. The routine is set and even transferring to another prison doesn’t change it. There aren’t any more educational opportunities to take advantage of. You really loathe the people you are forced to be around 24 hours a day. Your focus shifts to internal thoughts.
The internal thoughts dictate the emotions and moods so deep into a lengthy sentence. All memories, good or bad, do nothing but bring pain. Writing to the one or two people that you are still in contact with becomes an arduous task because you have nothing to say that isn’t related to the negativity of your experience. Thinking about getting out scares you. Thinking what your life will be like when you get out seems like nothing more than a fantasy. Thinking about what your life could have been makes you cry. Thinking about your life as it is makes you depressed and angry.
For a normal person, it impossible to avoid depression in prison. Ever day becomes misery, and is reflected in everything you say and do. You feel totally empty and unfulfilled. There is nothing to fill that void except hope and even that is weak. You seem emptiness of mind and escape from your prison outside and in. For a normal person, prison is the embodiment of misery on a level that can not be described, only experienced.
This is what makes prison life hard to cope with for a non-criminal. This is the true penalty for losing control and committing a violent crime. This is the justice of the justice system. The loss of individual freedom is small in comparison.
As for me, I fight the depression and loneliness on a daily basis. I struggle to mate the “What could have been” with the “What could be” and the “What I want,” every day--for that is the source of the strength I need to cope with my life as it is.
Imagine that.
Showing posts with label survival. Show all posts
Showing posts with label survival. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Masks We Wear
All of us wear masks disguising our true selves from time to time. We don these masks to protect our vulnerabilities from being exposed and to control how we are perceived by others. What mask we wear depends on when we must don it and who we must don it for.
A normal adult will wear three different masks throughout the day: a mask covering his vulnerabilities when his family is depending on him; a mask hiding character flaws and personal demons when around the general public; and a mask controlling the perception of his friends and co-workers. Sometimes a person will don a mask meant to fool himself during times of personal turmoil, fear, and uncertainty. In most cases, there is a firm border separating when each mask is to be donned.
In society, these masks do not define who a person really is—they simply emphasize and exaggerate various parts of his personal character while minimizing or hiding others. This is and example of the cliché “You can’t judge a book by its cover.” In all but the closest of personal relationships, however, the “cover’ is all that is available for this judging; for to expose what lies beneath puts a person at a disadvantage to others by allowing vulnerabilities to be witnessed. In a relationship with a large amount of comfort and trust, these masks come off and true character can be shown freely without consequence. The strength of a relationship and the definition of a person’s character depends on this.
In prison the masks never come off and the border that separates these masks is not well-defined. Vulnerability and weakness can never be exposed because there is always someone waiting to prey on it. We hurt, yet cannot cry. We fear, yet cannot run. We smile, yet are not happy. We feel sad and weak, yet stand firm against it, feigning acceptance and strength. We feel hopeless and empty, yet march forward ever searching for that light at the end of the tunnel. We hear the words of comfort from our friends and family and thank them for “being there” for us, yet we still feel alone. We feel guilt for the things we must do to preserve our minds and bodies, yet we can show no remorse or regret.
We hide our pain from our friends and families and each other. We disguise our vulnerability and weakness with hardened, desensitized emotions, anger, and arrogance. We play “model inmate” for the prison staff and “Mr. Badass” for the other inmates. We bury our hopes, fears, and dreams, and replace it with numbness.
These are the masks we wear in prison. These are the masks that never come off.
Never being able to shed these masks is not without consequence. The mask worn most often tends to dominate, and incorporate the others into one convoluted, complex, tumultuous, interwoven and conflicted personality; no more lines, no more borders, no more definition, just chaos and confusion.
We even have a mask to hide that from everyone, including ourselves.
Given enough time in the prison environment, this giant mixed-up mask being worn constantly tends to supplant who we really are. First it blurs the line between who we really are and who we have to be to survive. Eventually, no matter how hard we struggle against it, we lose ourselves to the confusion. The mask dominates and defines us; we literally become what the mask represented. Once lost, it is all but impossible to find ourselves again in this environment.
When I first came to prison at age 17, I put on a mask out of the necessity for survival. I adopted the role of a tough, emotionless, somewhat crazed, violent criminal. I made other inmates see me as a person to be feared and respected, someone who did not care about the consequences of his actions, someone you did not make angry. They also witnessed an intelligence exceeding that of most criminals; one that was cunning and devious. I wore an air of confidence, sometimes downright arrogance, that bordered on egomania.
I also donned a mask meant to deceive those who have direct control over my life; correctional officers, counselors, unit managers, prison administration. They see a hard-working, polite, calm, intelligent, and respected young man who has been completely reformed, deserving a second chance at life.
For my family and friends, they did see some of the truth. I was growing and trying to become a better person even though I could not show it to anyone else. Even so, I hid from them the reality of my life in prison and the things I had to do in that life. They’ve seen me smiling in the visiting room and heard a brightness and situational acceptance in the tone of my letters even though I felt hollow, depressed, and angry about my situation.
I am now facing the consequences of never shedding those masks. They have blended into one and, at some point, I have lost myself. I have let myself become a hardened convict. Until quite recently, I felt no fear, shed no tears, felt no love, felt no real emotion. I was righteous in my anger and my justice. There was no vulnerability in my defenses or weakness in my armor. I could play hardened convict and model inmate at the same time, then flip a switch and become that happy, caring person my friends knew me as. The penitentiary had defined me as a person. I didn’t even realize it.
Over the last two and a half years, as I get closer and closer to my minimum, things are changing. My friend Laura has been busy chipping away at my armor, and that has allowed me to dream again about what I want for my life. When she visits, she takes pieces of my mask off, and I am able to feel again. The smiles she brings out are of genuine happiness. When she leaves, though, the mask would go back on--cracked, but whole.
The recent crisis between my oldest friends completely shattered the mask that Laura had cracked. There were tears, pain, fear, and love, all of the emotions I haven’t felt in a very long time. There was also a realization of how lost I had become and how much pride I took in being that penitentiary-bred avatar.
It disgusted me.
Becoming aware that there was no longer a separation between who I am and the mask I wear was the first step in finding the answers to the questions I need to ask and answer to find the way back to myself. It is the beginning of the unification of who I am with who I want to be.
Though the original mask has been shattered, I must still wear a mask to protect myself as I cannot escape my environment. However with the help of my friends, it will not define my character and I will never become so dissociated from reality again.
With my friends to guide me, I will ultimately figure out who I want to be and no longer walk blind in the search for definition.
I am on my way.
A normal adult will wear three different masks throughout the day: a mask covering his vulnerabilities when his family is depending on him; a mask hiding character flaws and personal demons when around the general public; and a mask controlling the perception of his friends and co-workers. Sometimes a person will don a mask meant to fool himself during times of personal turmoil, fear, and uncertainty. In most cases, there is a firm border separating when each mask is to be donned.
In society, these masks do not define who a person really is—they simply emphasize and exaggerate various parts of his personal character while minimizing or hiding others. This is and example of the cliché “You can’t judge a book by its cover.” In all but the closest of personal relationships, however, the “cover’ is all that is available for this judging; for to expose what lies beneath puts a person at a disadvantage to others by allowing vulnerabilities to be witnessed. In a relationship with a large amount of comfort and trust, these masks come off and true character can be shown freely without consequence. The strength of a relationship and the definition of a person’s character depends on this.
In prison the masks never come off and the border that separates these masks is not well-defined. Vulnerability and weakness can never be exposed because there is always someone waiting to prey on it. We hurt, yet cannot cry. We fear, yet cannot run. We smile, yet are not happy. We feel sad and weak, yet stand firm against it, feigning acceptance and strength. We feel hopeless and empty, yet march forward ever searching for that light at the end of the tunnel. We hear the words of comfort from our friends and family and thank them for “being there” for us, yet we still feel alone. We feel guilt for the things we must do to preserve our minds and bodies, yet we can show no remorse or regret.
We hide our pain from our friends and families and each other. We disguise our vulnerability and weakness with hardened, desensitized emotions, anger, and arrogance. We play “model inmate” for the prison staff and “Mr. Badass” for the other inmates. We bury our hopes, fears, and dreams, and replace it with numbness.
These are the masks we wear in prison. These are the masks that never come off.
Never being able to shed these masks is not without consequence. The mask worn most often tends to dominate, and incorporate the others into one convoluted, complex, tumultuous, interwoven and conflicted personality; no more lines, no more borders, no more definition, just chaos and confusion.
We even have a mask to hide that from everyone, including ourselves.
Given enough time in the prison environment, this giant mixed-up mask being worn constantly tends to supplant who we really are. First it blurs the line between who we really are and who we have to be to survive. Eventually, no matter how hard we struggle against it, we lose ourselves to the confusion. The mask dominates and defines us; we literally become what the mask represented. Once lost, it is all but impossible to find ourselves again in this environment.
When I first came to prison at age 17, I put on a mask out of the necessity for survival. I adopted the role of a tough, emotionless, somewhat crazed, violent criminal. I made other inmates see me as a person to be feared and respected, someone who did not care about the consequences of his actions, someone you did not make angry. They also witnessed an intelligence exceeding that of most criminals; one that was cunning and devious. I wore an air of confidence, sometimes downright arrogance, that bordered on egomania.
I also donned a mask meant to deceive those who have direct control over my life; correctional officers, counselors, unit managers, prison administration. They see a hard-working, polite, calm, intelligent, and respected young man who has been completely reformed, deserving a second chance at life.
For my family and friends, they did see some of the truth. I was growing and trying to become a better person even though I could not show it to anyone else. Even so, I hid from them the reality of my life in prison and the things I had to do in that life. They’ve seen me smiling in the visiting room and heard a brightness and situational acceptance in the tone of my letters even though I felt hollow, depressed, and angry about my situation.
I am now facing the consequences of never shedding those masks. They have blended into one and, at some point, I have lost myself. I have let myself become a hardened convict. Until quite recently, I felt no fear, shed no tears, felt no love, felt no real emotion. I was righteous in my anger and my justice. There was no vulnerability in my defenses or weakness in my armor. I could play hardened convict and model inmate at the same time, then flip a switch and become that happy, caring person my friends knew me as. The penitentiary had defined me as a person. I didn’t even realize it.
Over the last two and a half years, as I get closer and closer to my minimum, things are changing. My friend Laura has been busy chipping away at my armor, and that has allowed me to dream again about what I want for my life. When she visits, she takes pieces of my mask off, and I am able to feel again. The smiles she brings out are of genuine happiness. When she leaves, though, the mask would go back on--cracked, but whole.
The recent crisis between my oldest friends completely shattered the mask that Laura had cracked. There were tears, pain, fear, and love, all of the emotions I haven’t felt in a very long time. There was also a realization of how lost I had become and how much pride I took in being that penitentiary-bred avatar.
It disgusted me.
Becoming aware that there was no longer a separation between who I am and the mask I wear was the first step in finding the answers to the questions I need to ask and answer to find the way back to myself. It is the beginning of the unification of who I am with who I want to be.
Though the original mask has been shattered, I must still wear a mask to protect myself as I cannot escape my environment. However with the help of my friends, it will not define my character and I will never become so dissociated from reality again.
With my friends to guide me, I will ultimately figure out who I want to be and no longer walk blind in the search for definition.
I am on my way.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Who Am I Really?
Who am I really? Who do I really want to be? I was recently propelled into crisis mode by a situation involving the only two people in my life who have known me since before I came to prison. Both were long time friends with each other and I love both of them dearly. A man broke that precious bond of friendship between these two women, and I was forced to choose which one to support based only on what I was being told by each of them. My reaction to the cause of this situation, what was being said, and the direction in which it was headed as well as the pain it caused me demands that I answer these two questions or face dire consequences.
In 1998 as a troubled teenager with a not-so-good family life, I earned a spot in one of the state's most violent penitentiaries, populated by nearly 4,000 of the worst men the world has to offer; the worst of the worst. Being small, white, and so young in such a place is not easy; you are prey and must figure out how to survive. You must choose between forfeiting your integrity and manhood for protection, or fighting for your life—alone. I chose to fight.
In my particular circumstance, self-preservation meant I had to become more ruthless, more violent than those around me. I had to be willing and able to hurt, and maybe kill, with no hesitation or compunction. Initially, it was about survival. The things I was forced to do to survive in the twisted world of prison earned me a measure of respect and fear. With that fear and respect came a semblance of power and control over those around me. My intelligence and natural ability to lead allowed me to quickly work my way up the ranks to the top tier of the complex political structure of the prison system.
To be a respected leader in prison society, you must follow the unwritten “Convict Code.” This code is a somewhat skewed code of ethics and morals that requires a convict to maintain a certain level of integrity by his behavior, actions, and responses to the actions of those he must live with. This at times requires me to impose penalties and retribution on those in violation of the code. Over the past twelve years I have been responsible for many things that would be considered inexcusable outside of prison society. The convict code has become ingrained in my person and has become a natural part of my thought process. It is almost instinctual for me to act according to this code…
I did not realize this until I became involved in the situation between my two best friends. I have long since left the penitentiary for three other prisons, each many degrees less violent and chaotic than the last, in an attempt to escape being a “convict” and try to become a better person; one who would be able to live a respectable life outside of prison. I thought that I was doing quite well avoiding situations that would draw a convict response, thinking that when I was no longer forced to live with people I could not stand, I would be fine.
In certain situations, I still have the desire to react a certain way, and that is understandable. Everybody experiences the desire to want to hurt someone in anger sometimes. I feel an immense amount of guilt for all that I have done, and realize that it is a step in the right direction. I am in the process of learning how to handle all of the guilt even though I have yet to forgive myself for a number of things I have done that went beyond survival and were done out of sheer hate and anger.
My first reaction to the situation I was placed in by my dearest friends was one of extreme anger. The pain that it inflicted on the three of us was like a personal attack and, in the world in which I live, a personal attack requires retribution. My first “want” was to eliminate the person who caused the problem. That desire was so strong it was enjoyable just thinking about it. The only reason I was able to restrain myself was due to the respect and love I have for my friends and the knowledge of the pain it would inflict on them.
Because of that, I was afforded time to think, and I discovered I had not really become a better person. I was just avoiding the situations that brought the convict out in me. The convict was in my marrow.
I do not want to be a convict anymore. I do not want to be some vicious, violent criminal. Yet it is a part of who I am because I have lived among them, and lived like them, for so long. Coupled with the tremendous guilt and the revelation of it all, I face an almost unbearable inner conflict on a daily basis.
So who am I, really? Who do I really want to be? Being forced to choose which friend to stand by also meant I would lose the other one. I had to make the right choice and also decide how to deal with the pain and anger doing so brought out in me. I chose to support one because I believe the most wrong was done to her by both her husband and her former best friend. I changed my focus from the problem and the cause of it to minimizing the effects his leaving them has on the life of my friend and her children.
Though the situation is fluid and things continue to happen to fuel my anger, I no longer have any desire to hurt the man who is the cause of it all. My concern has become the well-being of my friend and her children and the assurance that they are able to have the best life possible in their time of suffering and need.
I believe I have found a direction away from the monster I have lived as for all of these years. Though I am unable to answer the question of who I really am, I believe I am now on the way to figuring out who it is I want to be. If I want to have a chance a life beyond the penitentiary, I must figure out the answer to both questions, and work on merging them into the same answer.
That is my goal, and I have only 400 days in which to accomplish it.
In 1998 as a troubled teenager with a not-so-good family life, I earned a spot in one of the state's most violent penitentiaries, populated by nearly 4,000 of the worst men the world has to offer; the worst of the worst. Being small, white, and so young in such a place is not easy; you are prey and must figure out how to survive. You must choose between forfeiting your integrity and manhood for protection, or fighting for your life—alone. I chose to fight.
In my particular circumstance, self-preservation meant I had to become more ruthless, more violent than those around me. I had to be willing and able to hurt, and maybe kill, with no hesitation or compunction. Initially, it was about survival. The things I was forced to do to survive in the twisted world of prison earned me a measure of respect and fear. With that fear and respect came a semblance of power and control over those around me. My intelligence and natural ability to lead allowed me to quickly work my way up the ranks to the top tier of the complex political structure of the prison system.
To be a respected leader in prison society, you must follow the unwritten “Convict Code.” This code is a somewhat skewed code of ethics and morals that requires a convict to maintain a certain level of integrity by his behavior, actions, and responses to the actions of those he must live with. This at times requires me to impose penalties and retribution on those in violation of the code. Over the past twelve years I have been responsible for many things that would be considered inexcusable outside of prison society. The convict code has become ingrained in my person and has become a natural part of my thought process. It is almost instinctual for me to act according to this code…
I did not realize this until I became involved in the situation between my two best friends. I have long since left the penitentiary for three other prisons, each many degrees less violent and chaotic than the last, in an attempt to escape being a “convict” and try to become a better person; one who would be able to live a respectable life outside of prison. I thought that I was doing quite well avoiding situations that would draw a convict response, thinking that when I was no longer forced to live with people I could not stand, I would be fine.
In certain situations, I still have the desire to react a certain way, and that is understandable. Everybody experiences the desire to want to hurt someone in anger sometimes. I feel an immense amount of guilt for all that I have done, and realize that it is a step in the right direction. I am in the process of learning how to handle all of the guilt even though I have yet to forgive myself for a number of things I have done that went beyond survival and were done out of sheer hate and anger.
My first reaction to the situation I was placed in by my dearest friends was one of extreme anger. The pain that it inflicted on the three of us was like a personal attack and, in the world in which I live, a personal attack requires retribution. My first “want” was to eliminate the person who caused the problem. That desire was so strong it was enjoyable just thinking about it. The only reason I was able to restrain myself was due to the respect and love I have for my friends and the knowledge of the pain it would inflict on them.
Because of that, I was afforded time to think, and I discovered I had not really become a better person. I was just avoiding the situations that brought the convict out in me. The convict was in my marrow.
I do not want to be a convict anymore. I do not want to be some vicious, violent criminal. Yet it is a part of who I am because I have lived among them, and lived like them, for so long. Coupled with the tremendous guilt and the revelation of it all, I face an almost unbearable inner conflict on a daily basis.
So who am I, really? Who do I really want to be? Being forced to choose which friend to stand by also meant I would lose the other one. I had to make the right choice and also decide how to deal with the pain and anger doing so brought out in me. I chose to support one because I believe the most wrong was done to her by both her husband and her former best friend. I changed my focus from the problem and the cause of it to minimizing the effects his leaving them has on the life of my friend and her children.
Though the situation is fluid and things continue to happen to fuel my anger, I no longer have any desire to hurt the man who is the cause of it all. My concern has become the well-being of my friend and her children and the assurance that they are able to have the best life possible in their time of suffering and need.
I believe I have found a direction away from the monster I have lived as for all of these years. Though I am unable to answer the question of who I really am, I believe I am now on the way to figuring out who it is I want to be. If I want to have a chance a life beyond the penitentiary, I must figure out the answer to both questions, and work on merging them into the same answer.
That is my goal, and I have only 400 days in which to accomplish it.
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