Friends, Thank you for the supportive and heartfelt comments. Once you peel away the machismo and bravado from an inmate, you will discover a scared, insecure and lonely person. All any inmate needs is to know that he is not forgotten; even a stranger can make a difference.
We all deal with stress individually. Some are serial television watchers, content to let their imagination fill the voids in their life. Some are rabble rousers and prefer to play cards and dominoes all day. Some work out, some sleep and even others try to scam and steal whatever isn't bolted down. My stress management is writing - essays, short stories, plays, storytelling, scathing missives that are never sent. Some suffer writers block, I can't turn it off. Mental Health and societal issues are often the topics when I write, I am fascinated by the potential psychological healing power of theater and storytelling. You have given me another outlet for my words, thank you.
Rather than me bore you with mundane details of prison life in the Covid-19 era, tell me what you would like to learn. I'm sure most of you have experienced MCI through the rose colored lenses of Otterbein and HBC, or perhaps have been to a play and been impressed by how well behaved, polite and charming the inmates have been. Trust me when I say you have been exposed to the top 1% of inmates, the other 99% includes some men that are evil and devious, folks you will never meet in your current orbit. I would be happy to give you the ugly truth on prison, just ask your questions!
This is one of my Rainy Day Writings - A Chemical Holiday
This Christmas will be the same as his sixteen previous. Mr. Hendrix (name changed) will arise, take his appointed seat in the dayroom and stare with eyes void of purpose into whatever station his brain is tuned into at the moment. No television is present. He will laugh at imaginary movies and argue with unseen foes.
After breakfast he will wait for the first of three pill calls for the day, medication The Gods of Mass Incarceration mandate he 'needs' to remain compliant and rational. He will come back and nap after the exhausting ritual - everyday, same time. Ah, the sanity in sameness. Lunch will be special today because it's Christmas! Roast beef, gravy, mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables and cake make this a great day!
Pill call #2 is announced at 12:30 PM, his afternoon cocktail of 'beneficial' brain-melting poison. The midday cocktail of pills will not make him drowsy, but provide a couple hours freedom from the fog of antipsychotic medication he exists in. He will be lucid, gregarious and charming, spinning yarns we all have heard dozens of times. He will talk of family and children, and future plans with them. In reality, his family has disowned him. He receives no mail, makes no calls and has no outside support. Several of us will give him one of our Christmas cards, letting him believe it is from his family or a friend. He cannot read. He will smile a toothless grin and put the cards on his shelf. A good Christmas, indeed!
He will watch television in his cell, napping intermittently; channels with animal programming are always a good choice.
Dinner will be a bagged lunch of peanut butter sandwiches, chips and cookies. He may shower after dinner if his bunkie reminds him, possibly even put on a change of clothes. He will visit the dayroom and resume unfinished conversations from the morning with people that only exist in his mind.
The last pill call of the day is the busiest, he will join hundreds of other men in a nightly ritual where the strongest medication of the day is administered, intended to keep the Night Demons at bay, The drug addled horde will shuffle enmass to the pill dispensing window, their steps having a funeral dirge quality, minds occupied with singular purpose. All have vacuous stares.
For some, this is the only time they will leave the block today. Most look gaunt and pale from not having been outdoors for months, or even years. They leave in their wake a stale effluvia. Few shower, having no awareness of personal hygiene.
Mr. Hendrix will swallow his pills, and make his way back home. His medication is powerful, having an almost immediate effect. He will fumble his way to bed, eyes glazed, slurring his words, a walking mental squash. Collapsing into bed fully dressed with blues and shoes on, he will spend the next ten hours in deep, comatose slumber. He urinates on himself often, not having the awareness or ability to stand at the toilet less than two feet away.
This is how Mr. Hendrix will spend the next 24 years. Holidays will come and go. Upon release he will be turned over to society with a functional IQ less than 60, his cognition and social skills having been eroded by years of mandated drug rituals. He will have no useful work skills, be illiterate and fully dependant on others for his care and well being. He will be 86 years old, his debt to society paid and his rehabilitation completed!
Happy Holidays, Mr. Hendrix!
The End
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