My day started like most others. I awoke at 5:00 am. Per usual, the lights were still out. I live in a section of Miami Low called the Glasshouse. It juts off of Gator unit, and is the only open-bey cubicle portion in the prison. The rest of Gator unit and the other six units are comprised of cells with doors that lock shut. It’s quiet. I have a routine. I take care of morning ablutions, practice good dental hygiene, empty the garbage, wash the Tupperware from the night before. I make the bed and then coffee.
Through the process of each item on the morning “to do” list, I think about how this is just the maintenance work. The importance of minding the details, taking the extra time. These things fall into the category of “busy,” but not necessarily “productive.” But they represent an internal state that I didn’t always have.
I learned early in my prison sentence that depression can take many forms. One of its symptoms was a deep emotional resistance to making the bed, washing the dishes, taking care of oneself in some of the smallest yet arguably just as important ways, like flossing every day. This resistance would often express itself as an emotional burden defined as “I don’t feel like.”
Aspects of a depressed state present with thoughts like “I don’t have time for that,” or “I don’t feel like it right now.” But what these always really meant was the idea of moving, doing anything hurt too much, at an emotional level. It felt like annoyance and impatience and nausea at the same time. Just getting out of bed was a chore.
Learning these things awakened in me a need to battle against them. And since I knew that the staff and system was NEVER going to do anything to help in any way, I’d have to figure it out on my own. So I came up with creative ways to inspire me to mind the details, take the extra time, push through the challenges. This became a mantra of mine: “Mind the details, take the extra time, push through.” I realized that I had become good at what I had practiced. I held onto past traumas and allowed them to dictate the internal emotional environment of my body. But by practicing giving into them, listening to them, obeying their calls to do little to nothing, to complain, to make excuses, I was telling my brain to lock these practices in. To make them habit.
I learned that we become really good at whatever we practice. The brain doesn’t know the difference between practicing a golf swing or thinking negatively about making one’s bed.
So if being slow getting out of bed, putting off till later basic chores…minding the details…were formed habits, then I could form new habits to take their place. To at least compete, give myself a fighting chance. So I pushed through the walls of the “comfort zones” of those habits. Those walls were comprised of the feelings of emotional discomfort. They came with their own words of internal dialogue. They’d say things like “What’s the point?” So I started finding “the point.” If I couldn’t find one I’d create one.
When the alarm on my watch went off I made it a point to start awakening immediately, to force myself into a fully awakened and aware state as fast as possible. I stopped the habit of practicing the dramatizations of being tired. I’d shift from deep sleep to complete readiness to turn the day into something better than yesterday. I created a routine of things that I had to do. Things that would start to become habit. Things that would start to feel weird, uncomfortable if I didn’t do them. With each new habit formed minding the small things, my mood expanded. I’d feel those moments of “What’s the point?” less. I started to become more productive in the bigger things. Being busy became a gateway to being productive.
It wasn’t easy. I battled against the pull of the old habits. But perseverance started forming new ones. Then the new battled against the old. But I pushed through the noise, the storm, the confusion, the distractions. I wouldn’t feed the old anymore, feeding only the new. The old begin to lose their power. They weakened. The new gained greater degrees of power. They strengthened.
Now I work from within my cubicle about 70 hours a week doing law work for people. While “working from cubicle” throughout the day I’ll receive about a million questions from others. I accept everyone. I answer each to the best of my ability. When necessary I take notes, do research, bring answers back. There are a lot of younger people coming into prison these days. (I was 23-years old when I was sentenced to a 50-year term, which was reduced to 35-years 20 years later. I’m about to turn 49-years old. So I see those in their early 20’s coming in as kids.) Today I had another youngster ask if I could help them write a letter, address the envelope. I’ve seen a LOT of this lately. People in society no longer know how to do these things I had always taken for granted. But I understand. And I’m patient. I show him how to format a letter. I show him where the return address, the address, and the stamp goes on an envelope. (In my mind I wonder what has happened to the school system, wonder if these are taught anymore like they were when I went to school.) I help him write the letter. He responds as if I had just saved his life, which makes me smile. But I’m glad that he’s learning something from within this experience of prison that he may have otherwise never learned. It’s a start.
I put the finishing touches on a compassionate release request to the warden. Though I know the warden may as well not exist, since he, like most, responds to zero compassionate release responses. But it’s a necessary procedural step. I have to get the 30-day clock started as soon as possible. (Once 30 days pass, I’ll then be able to motion the court.) Most of my compassionate release clients are severely sick, made that way more by BOP medical neglect of their chronic conditions than the conditions would have ever made them if they had access to and received actual care.
I was about to get started on finishing a 2241 motion. But an announcement was made that the powers-that-be were kicking everyone out of the unit. “Go to the rec yard or library.” They’ve been doing this with the other units. They’re installing some new WIFI system, for medical reasons. They were told they had to by their bosses. Otherwise it wouldn’t be done. Or they’d redirect the funds received for doing so to buying themselves new office furniture, computer monitors, giant flat-screen TV’s for their offices, to throw staff BBQ’s. Someone with authority is watching though. So we’re kicked out. My rule “change with the change” rose up. And so I did. I shifted. I put everything away, regarding the 2241, knowing there will be a later, a tomorrow. I packed a bag for the rec yard, a change of clothes, two tuna packs and a spork pack, just in case. A folder with some documents I need to get copied. I wore my workout clothes under my class A’s.
I first went to the library, making those copies. This had me stuck there until the next move. 10 minute moves are made every hour on the hour. When the move was called I went to the rec. yard. I worked out for two hours while coaching a friend. I focused him on building his stabilizers. I don’t make it easy. It’s South Florida and humid. A humidity that defies logic. It’s what I imagine a turkey must feel like when cooking in an oven. I changed into my change of clothes. I made the next move.
On my way back to the library, just to change the day up a bit, the chow hall opened up. So I switched directions and went there instead. I ate, hung out and did some of that stuff that I HATE to do–killing time. (I find time too precious to kill. I have an issue with killing it. I had killed too much of it prior to my arrest. I’ve grown to make sure that it’s invested and never taken for granted.) I went back to the library, where I organized the copies I had made, getting exhibits in order. Hours passed like snails. I begin reading a book on Picasso. They called the move. I found out the unit was opened back up.
I came back up, got the sick guy’s compassionate release filed to the Warden. I made something to eat. I finished this journal entry. I prepared for tomorrow.
