Jail -Inspired by the story 'Adrift' by Steven Callahan (1987)

 There is little to do now except keep watch and daydream. My life keeps passing before my eyes in intricate detail, like a B-movie rerun too often. I try to shift my thoughts to the things that I want to do when I am freed. I will spend more time with friends and let them know that I love them. Daydream of future plans of being free, of business, invention ideas and big happy meals, ease my desperation. STOP IT! You are not there. You are here in purgatory. Do not give yourself false hope. Think about survival!

But the desire still lingers. It is my one relief. I slowly come to terms with the disappointments of my past. But i begin to see that I have had some valuable  experiences and training  in my hardships. possibly even enough to survive this. If I can pull through, I will be able to lead a better life. And even if I don't live to see my 32nd year, maybe I can still make this time useful. My writings can be found in my cell. My ideas may be useful to someone to change the world. It's the last service I can render. Dreams, ideas, and plans not only are an escape, they give me purpose, a reason to hang on.

I have endless fantasies of food and drink. I long to be able to open a fridge door and take how ever much food I please. Each day passes as an endless age of despair. There is a great emptiness in my stomach. A cramped incessant yearning. It visits each day and at night in my dreams. Fantasies of hot fudge sundaes with numerous varieties of ice cream dance through my head. Hunger is a witch from which there is no escape. Her spells conjure these visions of food and deepen the pain.

I have found myself to become somewhat schizophrenic though not dysfunctional. I see myself divide into 3 basic parts; physical, emotional and rational. When I think about my court date and being denied my freedom, my emotional self feels fear and stress which adds to my physical pains and inflammation. I instinctively rely on my rational self to take command over the fear and pain. This tendency is increasing as my time here lengthens. The lines that tether my 3 selves is getting tighter. My rational commander relies on the hopes, dreams and cynical jokes to relieve the tension in the rest of me.

Visions of food snap at me like whips. I feel  little else. The small amount of food given, provides little comfort to my bones.  Worse, is a deep emptiness in my soul. There are no good conditions in jail. No comfortable positions in which to rest on a steel bed. There are only bad, and the worse. The uncomfortable, and the less so. 

I reflect on my future "When I am free, I will.. I will.. I will.." I have always been a dreamer. Nothing is beyond possibility. If it could be imagined, it lived. Creations of the mind are not bound by physical laws. The remaining time, I sit quietly and try to divert my mind. I work on design ideas and business plans I will complete in a warm comfy warm when I am freed. Designs of flying machines, products, and life goals, all find their way into my journals. I find reassurance in contemplating multi-leveled realities. Last nights imagined hot fudge sundae was almost as good as the real thing. I have grown to love dreaming of food since my first week.

I have become both the real, and the dream. I now see many worlds surrounding me :Past, present and future; The conscious and unconscious; The tangible and the imagined. I try to convince myself that it is only the present that is hellish and all other worlds are untouchable securely unimprison able. I want to desperately keep these other worlds safe from pain and depression so that I can escape to them when ever I wish. My own propaganda is intoxicating, but I know realities sharp, penetrating, dominating qualities. I am not free to leave.

Was it only half a day ago that I felt so confident that I convinced myself that reality was just a small part of my life and that my imagination could give me security? Now it seems that extreme pain and medical neglect is all that there is and it makes me want to die. I cannot escape from this place even in dreams. How slim my chances really are of being free soon. Perhaps I should simply give up rather thatn to continue this pointless struggle and suffering. There are promises to the cosmos that when I am let out of this mess, I'll surely be good from now on. 

How I would like to take command of my situation to entertain myself with enlightened thought to heroically forget pain and fear, to keep control. If there is any enlightenment that I have awakened to, it is that men's minds are dominated by their aches and pains.

I have a window to view the outside, but I cannot enjoy the incredible beauty. It lies beyond my grasp. Taunting me. Knowing it can be further denied to me by the hammering mallet of a judge.  I cannot relax and appreciate it. I have a view of heaven, from a seat in Hell.

My rapidly shifting moods chase one another until I feel completely confused. My wondering mind often stumbles upon words from what seem like a lifetime ago. Fragmenting pieces of my past fall snuggly into place to reform a pattern and give depth to things at the same time were merely whimsical. Sometimes, I somehow rise above mutinous apprehension of fear and pain. I have overcome so much already. I now have a choice : To plot myself to a new life, or to give up and watch myself die. I choose to fight for life for as long as I can.

In all my hardships of homelessness and imprisonment, I clearly see the vast differences in human wants and human needs. Before jail, I almost always had what I needed. Food, Shelter, clothing, and companionship. Yet I was often dissatisfied when I didn't get everything I wanted, when people didn't meet my expectations, when a goal was thwarted, or when I couldn't acquire some material goody. My plights give me a strange kind of wealth. The most important kind. I value each rare moment that is not spent in pain, desperation, hunger and loneliness. 

I pool my energies to get through each day. I'll see my lawyer soon to discuss how much time I may have to serve. "You'll probably get two years" she says. It's a sobering realization. Can I even last another year if I had to? My mind turns to the unbearable sufferings long-term prisoners endure. I can't imagine doing over 2 years here. But then again, what about those who serve 10+ and live to talk about it? But they do not have the medical issues I have, which are many. If I was healthy, maybe, just maybe, I could do the time. 

I envision my own end coming at any moment with the snap of my neck or back or the pain getting so unbearable, that I must kill myself out of instinct. But somehow I feel fated to survive. I lost almost everything with my arrest. But it is intriguing to think what it will be like to start over. There is no freedom to get on with my future yet. I am not dying and I am not finding salvation. I am in limbo. I'm determined to taste Pizza Hut once again. I will give myself another chance to feel  warmth of human passion. I do not think of "If I get free" but only "When I am free"

Perhaps when I get back, I'll have a cookout somewhere with friends and family. Yes, I must return for that. There will be smiles and laughter, fresh cut grass, trees swaying in a fresh breeze. I'll have them at last. We will have a brontosaurus of a barbeque. Trees of salad and hills of ice cream. People will ask me what it was like. I will tell them I hated it. ALL OF IT! You can never love it. You can only do what you must. I hated the sounds of steel doors, the loud obnoxious inmates, the medical neglect, the bed of nails and the never filling or satisfying amount of food. Weeks on end it's the same cold or hot empty painful prison beating me, winning.  I even hate what little amount of items we are allowed to store in our bins. I hated counting minutes for going on 250 days-now 272. I hated.. I hated.. I didn't know a man so much hatred and so much longing within him. Yes, I will be free someday. I must. But at the same time I fear my body cannot last much longer. The only remedy I think exists for my pains, is  good healthy food, sunshine and physical therapy. All of which  I will have no access to during my imprisonment. 

I'm almost at a year, felony time. I'm halfway to freedom if I get two years. I've lasted longer than I ever dreamed possible in the beginning. Each day, each hardship, each moment of suffering has brought me another small step closer to salvation. I imagine 2 stone faced poker players throwing chips into a pile. One player is named "freedom" and the other is named "death". The stakes keep getting bigger and bigger. The pile of chips now stand as tall as a man and as big around as a tire. Somebody is going to win soon.

Food dreams become more real than ever. Sometimes I can smell the food: Once I even tasted the dream, but it's always without substance. Even in reality after I eat, I am still hungry. It is also these few options of food that are toxic to my body, as it adds to my inflammation. Stabbing spasms, twinging, throbbing, convulsive, cramping, pinching, piercing pain in my neck, shoulders and back I cannot take it. I won't make it.  Stop it! I want to live! to live! to live! can't! must! Quit your bitching! My emotions have been stressed to the point of breaking. The smallest things set me into a rage or a deep depression or fill me with overwhelming compassion.

I have a nagging feeling that I am accompanied by someone. As I doze off, my companion assures ,e that he/she will watch over me and work on a project. Sometimes I remember conversations that have been shared, confidences, advice, etc. I know it could not have happened, but the feeling persists. My invisible companion assures me that I can last.

To give myself courage, I tell myself that my hell could be worse. That it might get worse and I might prepare for that. My body is certain to deteriorate further as the medical staff continues to ignore my desperate pleas and requests for treatment. Parts of my body feel as if they are in flames. The worst kind of sun burn you could imagine. The fire from my back, neck and shoulders shriek upward and the flames burst forth into my eyes and skull. In a moment, my spirit is in ashes and tears well in my eyes. They are not enough to even dampen the conflagration. Maybe I am Prometheus, cursed to have my liver torn out each day and have it grow back each night. I watch my body rot before me. I am in an infinite vortex of horror whirling deeper and deeper. Thinking of what I will do when it is all over is a bad joke. It feels like it will never be over. It is worse than death. If I were to search the most heinous parts of my mind to create a vision of Hell, This would be the place. Exactly.