You’d think that after almost a decade in this place, I’d have this prison thing down pat. But every day continues to feel like the weight that I carried when I first made impact. It has never gotten easier or the complexities simpler. It’s remained a mass storage facility, that barely functions on archaic policies that apparently can only be enforced if you’re wearing a cowboy hat and a gun. Not only does it feel like I’m on another planet, it also operates on its own version of time, that remains at all times, in its only setting: SLOW.
Additional policies and additions to updated changes continually are posted like flyers. Just some reminders that if you’re capable of reading this, then give yourself two points. And if you need teeth that’s not an option, we do not provide anything. But hey, if you’re gay and all of a sudden transgender, then by God we’ll give you some estrogen to grow some tits. Can you even fathom that? If you lose all your teeth you’re provided with not one but two possible options. One is a free liquid diet, three times a day, that even comes with a plastic cup. The other option is to get nothing at all and, well, basically, go fuck yourself. “Free tits over here, get your free tits while they’re nice and hot,” I can hear the tit vendors cheering.
Nothing makes sense and I’ve come to understand Texas’ methods of corrections and confinement can be translated across the state as “a riddle trapped inside a rhyme.” I’d made an investment early on when I started doing time. I decided to comply with their rules instead of receiving infractions and throwing a wrench in its gears. But while the gang members and dope pushers keep them distracted, I’m going to research and educate myself and know what rules they simply make up, and which ones will get them fired. With some exceptions everyone employed here hates their co-workers and supervisors much more than they hate us. “Jack’s a great guy, he killed two people, but just look, who else can clean windows like that.” But, let one of them drink someone else’s soda, and the rage is on a whole other level. It’s everyone kissing each other’s ass, and throwing up in their mouth each time they do it. But for decades now they’ve relied on the buddy system and no credentials or degrees or an ounce of common sense. I don’t consider anymore correcting their English because “If it ain’t broke don’t fix it.” When Get-Er-Done is a mission statement and possum’s good eatin’ where would I begin to get them at least in the same year as every fucking body else.
I’ve cleaned my plate, and reeled in my line here recently and decided to redirect my focus. I’ve spent way too much of Texas’ time worrying about other people’s parole and release date, and what I can do to make things easier. While the spit on my face may not have been attractive, it must have been the look I was going for. Because I took leave of absence from recognizing when it was time to put myself in first place, first and foremost.
This is not coming from a place of sadness or even pity for myself. It’s a matter of respect for my mother, and how those who loved her failed. My mother’s final wish would have been for family to remember me. She’d never forgive them, not even for a moment, for dishonoring what she would absolutely expect of them. I wonder if down the line it will be them who suffer for their vacancy and more. That absolute heartlessness and lack of forgiveness that radiates in their soul. When their mother’s son, your brother, the oldest, has been sentenced by his loved one to the harshest kind of sentence. The one where you not only suffer with regret and remorse and complete absence of freedom, but have also been read his rights and served with the statement that you’re no longer cared for or loved. I have settled my own personal hell of abandonment and decided to march on. I don’t base my relevance or my need to be reminded that I matter anymore on people I once believed would always be there. I know as a survivor and my constant “under construction” signs that we are all works in progress. Collections of our own experiences and the average of those we surround ourselves with. I would tell you about the things they put me through, the pain I’ve been subjected to … but the Lord himself would blush. The countless feasts laid at my feet, the forbidden fruits for me to eat, but I think your pulse would start to rush.
I’m not looking for absolution, I’ve been forgiven for the things I’ve done. But before you come to any conclusion … try walking in my shoes … you’ll stumble in my footsteps.