PRISONER EXPRESS

Sitting in the darkness of the closet, I sat sweating form the suffocating heat or shivering from the cold. I waited in fear; trying not to make any kind of noise. The closet scared me. I was young enough to still believe in monsters under the bed. Santa Claus was real to me. I would cry because I believed there was something in the darkest corners of the closet. My stepmother would stomp her feet (to sound like my father) and then quickly open the door, making me cry out. And she would just laugh at me, then slam the door shut. Other times, she’d wiggle on the door knob and whisper, “when your father gets home, I am going to make him mad,” thus provoking him to come at me in a rage, which I paid for.

This cell of isolation, this cramped space where my breath is recycled, is eerily like the very closet of my childhood. The first year inside this dungeon I lost a lot of weight. I am six-foot two and I arrived weighing 241 lbs. I was on the weight lifting team and I practiced martial arts. My body was toned like a body builder. After twelve months I was down to 174 lbs.

Nightmares plagued me. In the day light hours I suffered flashbacks and got lost in confusing thoughts. I experienced illusions. The apparitions of Jesus and Lucifer materialized at their own conveniences. The dead seems to happen to stop by. My grandfathers, friends, Cliff Burton, Kurt Cobain, Selena and Aaliyah. Then there was this demoness who would slither out from the shadows. A goddess or angel sat with me when I got so sick I had to take treatment therapy. Often, I jerked awake from an unknowing sleep, nearly jumping out of my bunk, my heart racing from the echoing of a slamming door and the trace of my stepmother’s wicked laugh.

I do not know if I can relate to other prisoners concerning solitary. In a way, I have been in solitary, in some form or another, all my life. I know that some of the things I’ve said sound crazy. I guess what makes prison worse is that I have no where to feel free from it. As a child, there were moments where I was free from the closet. Here, my suffocating never ends. Justice is getting more from me than what I can pay.

Some men here feel that solitary life is good. They desire it because they don’t want to work, go to school, participate in programs and deal with everyday life. They wish to hide behind the steel doors and sleep their lives away. For me, this is just a slap in the face. I have not given up on life to wish it to be empty of everything, to want it to be a meaningless void.

It’s been awhile since I’ve thought about all this. I no longer have hallucinations. All that felt like a horrible dream eons ago. I have learned to feel hopeful again and not live in this fear. I’ve discovered this clarity and peace to live in the present. My cell now is a place that is clear and unclouded. It takes an immense effort and discipline to do all of this. It’s not easy. I tend to trip over my feet in this cell. Sometimes, it’s hard to get back up. I am not giving up though. One day I will be free after all this pain. That’s all I wish for: Freedom.