PRISONER EXPRESS

The jailers took my tie, my belt and my shoes, so I walked around in my new home leisurely in my socks. My initial thoughts were shocking, from the deepest part of my soul I heard my heart cry out “thank God, I’m finally free!” Why on earth would the jailers think I’d be suicidal? Wasn’t that why they had taken my tie and belt? Anyway, I actually felt guilty for feeling such elation at such a seemingly inappropriate time. But once you’ve heard my story, I think you’ll understand.

My story begins at my earliest memory. I was six years old and after being too old to be enrolled in kindergarten, I was placed into Ms. Minken’s first grade class. Ms. Minken loved me. She boasted on how good I did and how impeccable my manners were. She even gave me a daily kiss when school was over. This dear woman had no clue that the reason I worked so hard and said yes ma’am and no ma’am was because I was terrified of being beaten. My dad was in the Air Force. He was the “Great Santini” before Santini was even mediocre. Everything had to be ship shape and ready for inspection because if it wasn’t, the offending party would be severely beaten.

I was the middle child with an older sister and a younger sister. My big sister had to care for my little sister which caused her to have a maternal bond with her. I, on the other hand, was the odd man out in every family brawl.

At seven, I entered the second grade and had a teacher who didn’t care at all about her students. She treated us like chattel and destroyed my haven called school. No matter how hard I tried, this woman refused to accept me, so in rejection, I stopped trying to please her. My actions in slowing down exposed the fury of this woman. She never spanked me, but her caustic scoldings in front of the class put me in a state of fear that left me terrified to ask or say anything. If she called my dad, I would be beaten bloody again.

So there I sat, often in my own urine, through the second, third, and fourth grades. There was no safe place for me, I lived in this world totally isolated from all living creatures, not separated by walls but by sheer terror.

The first person to ever love me was Kelly. He moved in with me not long after our family moved to Stockbridge, Michigan. Kelly and I did everything together. We played, took baths and talked for hours. Then at night, we would sit together and look up at the stars and wonder where God was hiding. Kelly felt my isolation and somehow, even though he was just a dog, he knew how much I needed him.

After spending another summer hiding in my room, my dad came in and told me we were moving to Texas. This greatly excited me because my grand mother “Nannie” lived there and she never hit me. When we got to Texas, I was so anxious to see Nannie. When we got to her house, I ran in and hugged her. It was more that just a loving hug, it was a desperation grasp for her to please save me. But when Kelly came running in after me, Nannie yelled “get that damned dog out of here!” She hated the only person that ever loved me… and soon, I would learn that she had plenty of hatred for all of us.

During this period, I lived in a cot in the kitchen. At night, I would listen to the distant mournful blast of a train making its way into town. I felt so in tune with its melancholy cry. A boy that age shouldn’t have to cry himself to sleep �" but I did.

My dad announced that we would be returning to Michigan to bring our belongings back. I didn’t know it at the time, but dad had run off owing a ton of bills. We were now going to sneak back like thieves and retrieve our things.

He rented a U-Haul in Dallas and Nannie demanded that he dump Kelly out in the country. The thought of him doing that was too real for me, so I latched onto Kelly and wouldn’t let go of him. Dad picked us both up and put us in the back of the U-Haul. It was dark in there, but I felt safe with Kelly. Dad had only driven a short distance when he pulled over and popped open the back door. He said I was going to have to get up in the cab because he could get a ticket for me riding in the back. He promised that Kelly would be safe and I reluctantly obeyed him. We drove all the way to Rolla, Missouri, before Dad stopped.

I was too little to open the truck’s back door, so I stood there waiting for Dad to open it. When he did, my whole life changed. It was dark outside with large snowflakes falling in slow motion. Kelly was laying there in front of me and somehow I knew that he was gone. I climbed up into the truck and wept into Kelly’s fur.

A young mind has no way of dealing with such a catastrophic loss. Even though Kelly was just a dog, he was my whole idea and source of love.

We returned to Texas and I withdrew from the world. I was told to get up when Nannie got up and fold up my cot. Since I didn’t have a room, I had no place to hide from my parents and grandmother. Life was unbearable back then. My days consisted of dodging people. When I found a spot to hide out in the garage, I felt safe… as safe as I felt years later in that prison cell.

In time, Dad finally got a job and we moved into a tiny rent house. I was excited because I had my own room. I was at the age where my body was coming into puberty. I began having erections and didn’t know why. It was horribly embarrassing and I hid to keep others from noticing. My older sister poked fun at me while my little sister showed curiosity. This curiosity was a form of attention that I had never received from anyone. So through investigating each other, she and I began to become friends. It wasn’t until my mom walked in and caught us playing naked together that this friendship ended. Neither one of us knew anything about sex �" I think we did it for different reasons. My little sister did it out of rebellion and I did it just to receive her attention. It was at this time that my mind connected togetherness sexually with what love was. After all, Mom and Dad slept together and they loved each other �" and my two sisters slept in the same bed too.

In school, I was a complete unknown. After moving around so much as a kid, (I had attended 8 different schools before the eighth grade) I was a social misfit. Aside from this, I had a legendary case of acne. My only acquaintances were the fourth string nerds with infectious diseases. Even still, I kept my grades up and eventually got old enough to get my learner’s permit. This meant, I could get a job and a car.

The car was a 1970 Mustang, red of course, and the job was a night baker at a donut shop. I was suddenly assuming control of my life and gaining a bit of self-esteem. But all of this came crashing to the ground when Julie came into my life. Julie was a natural blonde, had bright blue eyes and instantly loved me. Actually, she loved my car and my paycheck. I was just an added attachment. Julie taught me what sex was and we spent all summer staying busy at it.

In my mind, I loved this girl with all of my heart. She was precious to me �" even though my mom called her “horse face.” Julie was probably the ugliest girl in town, but to me she was Farrah Fawcett majors. When Julie told me she was pregnant, I instantly proposed to her. It crushed me when she laughed in my face. She said I was an idiot to think we could get married. After all, we were barely 16 years old. When I asked her about our baby she said she “was going to get rid of it.”

I had no idea what love was, but in my heart, I knew I loved that child. But again, it was just like with Kelly, my child’s life was snuffed out in Julie’s dark womb.

Even after the abortion, Julie and I stayed sexually active. In 1980, I totaled my Mustang and bought a midnight blue Trans Am. This car came complete with a brand new girlfriend. Sheri was an upper class Julie. There really was no difference in them �" except when I got Sheri pregnant and asked her if she wanted an abortion, she recoiled at the idea. She actually wanted to have my baby. Did this mean she loved me?

About two weeks after learning of the pregnancy, Sheri’s dad, a city cop, came to my work and picked me up in his squad car. Sheri was in the back seat and as we rode off, her dad said we were going to get married. We were so excited because we were certain that he was hauling us out to the woods to kill us. I had experienced nightmares about proposing to a girl. I woke up vomiting from the stress of such an idea. But with Sheri, I never even asked her to marry me and that marriage lasted exactly 20 years.

I took married life seriously. I had to find a decent job, but as a high school drop-out, the only thing I qualified for was the Army. Our daughter was born while I was 8,000 miles away in Germany. There’s a bonding that occurs at the birth of a child and I missed it with my daughter. She was almost a year old when I met her.

I served out my Army time honorably, then came back home to find a job. I went back to work in a grocery store and Sheri went to work at a bank. Our daughter was raised in daycare.

As time went by, Sheri and I grew distant. I wasn’t ugly anymore and several other women were making plays for me. I desired these women sexually and out of fear of losing the only woman whom I believed loved me, I never cheated on her. But all of this extra attention increased my sexual appetite. I was now a sex addict and I didn’t know it.

My relationship with Sheri was built on co-dependence. I married her because I believed I loved her. She married me because her dad told her to marry me. When problems arose, we had sex. When I was on my way out the door, Sheri would announce that she was pregnant. There was simply no escape from that miserable existence. So I decided to rebel. I enjoyed sex, so I decided to escape through it. I’ll spare you the details, but I extended my sexual boundaries greatly. This was primarily through pornography and x-rated videos. I was drunk with sex and after exposing my daughter to the pornographic pictures and videos, she and I relived the life I had with my little sister.

Afterwards, the guilt and shame put me into another form of isolation. I loved Sheri greatly, and now I had a horrible secret that would destroy us.

Our lives went on for several more years and the chasm between Sheri and I grew in magnitude. It got to where I couldn’t stand to be around her �" but I still had that unshakable childhood fear of upsetting her. In 1997, that fear was instantly destroyed when I had grounded my daughter for having failed all of her exams. She got hysterical and said I couldn’t do this to her… and she went and told her mom I sexually abused her.

When she said those words, it was like the weight of the world had been taken off of my shoulders. She asked me if I was mad and I said “no, tell her everything.” Sheri exploded and I confessed to all of it. She called me every name she could think of, then told me to get out of our house. I was suddenly reliving my life at Nannie’s house. I had no place to go, no friends to call, and no idea what to do.

I really did abuse my daughter but back then, I didn’t have a clue as to why I did it. My wife called and suggested that I call our pastor. I did, and he was out for the week. My mom suggested the Minirth Meyer Clinic, so I went there. The receptionist was a girl in her twenties. I told her I had abused my daughter and needed help. She called out to one of the staff psychiatrists who told me rather directly that they were not in the business of helping abusers. He then showed me to the door.

A few days later, my preacher showed up. I went to meet him in his office and once again confessed everything to him. He told me he needed to call a friend for advice and asked me to step outside while he made the call. He invited me back in and said the police were on their way to arrest me. I felt like he was a brother who stabbed me in the back.

We waited 30 minutes and the police never showed up. We called them back and said I would come down and turn myself in. At the station, I confessed again to the desk officer and was placed under arrest. When this officer escorted me back to the jail, he said I had to be the stupidest S.O.B. he’s ever known for confessing to such a thing. I was locked up and told not to tell anyone why I was there. The officer said if any of the other inmates knew my charge, they would attack me. Two days later, I learned I was charged with two counts of sexual assault and facing two 99 year sentences.

Two weeks later, a friend posted my bond and I was released. I still had no place to go, so my mom invited me to stay with her. My attorney refused to talk to me. He said I was sick and that I was going to prison. He got mad at me for going out and trying to get psychiatric help. He remedied this by setting me up with a counselor who saw me once a week and refused to discuss anything except the incident itself. This went on for two years and then finally, my court date came.

I begged the court for mercy, but the judge didn’t care. He sentenced me to 45 years and I was taken to that brightly lit jail cell.

It took a few minutes for it all to settle in. I was suddenly back in my own room, just as I was as a child and no one could get to me. I rejoiced that the door was locked. I shouted like a little kid because I was free from everything! No more wife, no more pregnancies, no more bills, no more pressure of any kind! My isolation was my salvation.

It was in this isolation that I found the peace I needed to find the answers to life. I chronicled these answers in prose and poetry, one of the first poems I wrote was “The Family Tree.” It told of how a man can believe he’s on top of the world and instantly be nothing at all. In 2006, I wrote the first half of my “Ode to Loneliness.” I wanted to die back then. I had been isolated for seven years and my heart was broken. In 2008 I had a breakthrough. I saw what loneliness and isolation truly are. When you read this poem, you’ll see the face of the loneliness that seduced me.

Another poem is called “High and Hidden.” It pointed out my desire to change �" and that’s exactly what I did. I saw myself for what I truly was and the prison for what it truly is and wrote an essay called “The Beast.” But even after coming so far in my recovery, the world refuses to accept me back. I felt the need to write the world an apology �" and so I wrote it out in a poem, “The Apology”… but still, the world hates me.

I came to prison in 1999. My fifth child was born six months after I got here. The guards told me I would never see my kids again and that if I caused them any trouble, they would tell the other inmates why I was here. On December 12th, 2000, that’s exactly what they did. I was nearly beaten to death and required emergency surgery. When the medical staff found out what my charge was, they put me into a 3’ x 3’ visitation booth and left me there all night long. When the morning shift came in, an officer popped open the door and found me in a pool of blood. He laughed and said, “damn, you’re still alive?”

They took me to a local hospital and as they were prepping me for surgery, suddenly I was back in my father-in-law’s squad car. Were these people going to kill me? When they pushed that large needle into my arm, I inhaled deeply and wept into Kelly’s fur.

When I awoke from the surgery, I was blind. One eye had been crushed and the other eye had been beaten into my sinus cavity. The doctors extracted their justices on me by holding my pain medications. Shortly after the surgery, the pain was so great that I passed out.

While laying there temporarily blind (my vision has returned), the inmate in charge of bringing me my food, ate it all himself. I concluded that my only option in life was to declare with all of my heart that I was innocent. I began lying in 2000, and stopped in December of 2008.

After eight years of living a lie, I found myself isolated from the truth. My entire life was a lie and I hated myself. I realized that hating myself is far worse than being beaten to death. So I started doing the unthinkable. I stood up before everyone and confessed why I’m in here. To my surprise, nobody even remotely tried to kill me. Something even more surprising happened, dozens of other men found their way out of their fear and whispered to me “I’m one too.”

There are many faces of isolation and as I discover them in my life, I uproot them by exposing them for what they truly are. To me, isolation is a refuge from those who refuse to understand me. It’s an oasis in a battlefield of savages who don’t give a damn about anyone but themselves. It is also a very high tower that looks out over society and sees it for what it is. Men like me reside in this tower and in our hearts we hold the cure to many of society’s diseases. I think that it is a fitting reward that these cures will die with us. We have every reason in the world to hate you. But since we understand you, our hatred is abated. We understand that for you to love us, you must first love yourselves. Since you refuse to learn how to honestly love yourself �" your fitting reward is your own self-imposed misery. It’s you who have chosen to live with fear and hatred, it’s you who have built this high tower of refuge for me and it’s your hatred that keeps your enslaved to the financial upkeep of the fortress of concrete and steel all around me. I’m safe in here… how safe are you out there?

It’s noteworthy to add that in all probability, I will die in here. I truly could be a very bitter old man… But I’ve taken the time to write all of this out for one big reason. That reason is because somewhere out there, there is a little boy or little girl who is being brutally abused as I was. They will submit to their abusers and live out broken lives that will one day crash in upon them. It is my hope and my prayer that this testimony of my life will somehow lend an understanding to the fact that the abuser is just the abused all grown up. Please help them both by showing them the one thing they are both searching for… show them what love is before they destroy themselves.