Seeking Closure Amongst the Sharks

This may sound cruel, but I’ve always tried to find humor in some of the worse possible experiences of the prisoners I teach (maybe it’s a coping mechanism, maybe its faulty thinking on my part for never having visited the darker side of life myself), but lately there’s been nothing but sadness in my heart. Not even now when prisoners say the most outlandish things do I take note. It’s as if their words no longer have meaning; as if our language, our ability to communicate, has reached an impasse. Bottom line: their stories no longer strike a nerve in me. I’m getting to where I don’t give two shits about all the carnage at my feet, as if I’d rather step over it and continue on my lonesome way than get involved.

The prisoners have been noticing physical changes in my appearance, the twenty-plus pounds I’ve lost, the droopy eyelids, the sunken in expression of a beaten man. They’ve eased up arguing with me, the verbal bantering is almost nonexistent; it’s kind of strange.

When you’re in a large fishbowl and you’re dying spirit dangles by a thread, steeping blood in shark invested waters, the feeding frenzy begins. Yet, in my situation, the murders, the rapists, the pedophiles, the dope dealers, the gang bangers, and whomever else I’ve failed to mention, have actually showed compassion toward me. They don’t know exactly what I’m going through, but they’ve shown empathy. Some even think I may be dying. Still, I know not to let my guard down. It’s the nature of the business I’m in.

One older inmate, a black man prone to psychotic episodes, expressed his concerns regarding my lethargy. “You seem down on yourself,” he said.

I shrugged my shoulders. What more could I do?

He suggested various medications that have helped him through some dark periods in his life. I listened, but his words rang hollow.

I guess what really sucks is that after logging in over 40,000 hours dealing with convicts, after 19 plus years of coming straight home to what I thought was a happy life, to where I thought I could feel comfortable and share my feelings, everything has changed. I feel like I no longer have anything to show for all those days I worked to build my future. My biggest mistake: I let my guard down not at prison but at home. I’ve been told that the life I had been living for the past 15 years was nothing more than an illusion, a flat-out lie. And now it hurts. I’ve heard of plans to have the locks changed on my house. I’ve heard about seeing if I could be committed to a hospital. I’ve discovered that others knew my marital finality beforehand, yet no one spoke up, no one warned me for fear that I might “hurt myself” or “others.”

I have become another statistical blip on the map, a soon to be divorced father. Yes, I’m bitter, but I’m also glad to have seen my daughter grow up. I’ve been told that I’m an excellent father and that no, contrary to what I may think, I am not “hated”—I’m just not “loved” and it’s been that way for 15 years—no intimacy, no passion, no nothing. The fruits of my labor will now go to pay lawyers' fees and court costs. Such is life in a civilized society.