Six Years Under Water
Originally posted Aug 1, 2019
Six Years Under Water
The first few years of prison aren't so bad—at least they weren't for me. Sure you're thrown into a jarring, unsettling, circumstance, and adjustments have to be made. But at the beginning of a twelve year prison sentence you don't have the luxury of faltering. You start out strong, steeling yourself for the penance to come. You forsake comfort and commit to loneliness as a bedfellow, you swear that self neglect will become your cutlery.
This self-empowered fortitude lasts a couple of years—at least it did for me. Six years in and I can feel my shield slipping.
Time outlasts us all.
Halfway through my struggle, I'm finally home sick. I mean genuinely homesick.
In the beginning, the daily phone calls and visits were more for them than me. At times they were almost chores to be finished, deeds to be done in the purchase of reassurance for those who love me.
Something has changed.
I can't catch my breath.
Now the phone numbers are dialed, the letters are written, and the visits are attended in a desperate attempt to keep from fading into the ether. Out of sight out of mind is a mantra that had bled many a convict into nonexistence.
Now, I miss EVERYTHING. My heart aches with absence. With every cell of my being I miss it all.
I miss waking up late, milking a few more guilty minutes of sleep next to a person who cares. I miss the hurried breakfast, the cold coffee and stale cereal. I miss the traffic and shitty DJs of the morning commute. I miss stopping for gas and buying a Red Bull, maybe a pack of squares. I miss going to work and dealing with people, even the ones I don't like. I miss the half an hour lunch, dining on terrible vending machine food. I miss clocking out exhausted. I miss waiting for the car to warm up in the winter, to cool down in the summer. I miss leaving it all behind on the drive back. I miss coming HOME.
I miss the outside world of freedom and EVERYTHING that entails. The shit you'd never even notice until it's too late.
TV and music have become bittersweet reminders of a place I can no longer frequent, of company I can no longer keep.
I've been waiting six long years now to take another breath and I'm running out of air. Phone calls, letters, and the occasional visit are the closest I can get to breaking the surface. Until they open the gates and kick me out, I'll be here struggling for air while holding my breath...
All I can do now is hope that water recedes before I burn through what's left in my lungs...
They say, it's not the first few seconds of drowning that kills you; it's the last.
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