SHun

Institution

​Various methods have taken me away from civilization: on various occasions, for various amounts of time, some for the protection of myself, some for the protection of myself against society. In total, around eight-ish of my 34 years have been spent in some form of institution, some with more liberties than others, hell, there was a point when anything less than a year was a relief. With more potentially on the way in the near future for a past mistake. Add that to the 20 years of wasted an addiction, there's 28 of 34 years gone. I'm a freakin' 6 year old! And that's not the first time I've been told that I'm a six-year-old. That's 28 years gone. 28 years I cannot change. 28 years I cannot get back. If what I've heard is true, that you stop growing when you start using, basically, I'm a 34-year-old six-year-old. Sidetracked. Focus.
Hospitals, besides a little fiasco with an overdose, have been mostly emergency rooms. Medically speaking only, as psychiatric hospitals are a whole different paragraph. There have been numerous occasions of over intoxication and alcohol poisoning. One cannot reach this state easily. Due to the quantity of alcohol I have consumed on a regular basis for as long as I have, a certain tolerance has been established. My body has adapted to extreme abuse which would nearly, or fully, kill most people. To have a blood alcohol level of .30 is nothing for me. On a good day, relatively speaking of course, my BAC climbs to well over .40 approaching .50. Doctors have questioned me as to if I had any concept of how dangerous this is and what it means on a physiological level. Basically, with a blood alcohol level of .40, it means 40% of the fluid in your body is alcohol. Alcohol replaces the blood and water which is vital to support life and proper organ function. Not me. My body runs on vodka, adrenaline, pain, piss, and vinegar. They also said at. 40 BAC most people would be in a coma or dead. Not walking around in sordid delusion. But strangely coherent? A lot of times when this happens I get referred for a psych evaluation. Sometimes it's because I making threats and accusations, because somewhere deep down, I load myself so much that I'd rather be dead. Other times it's because for someone repeatedly to damage themselves the way I do, there has to be some serious mental condition causing this type of. I was at Yale/New Haven hospital one time in the emergency room. After they screamed me, I was waiting for treatment. I don't remember for what. I don't remember why. I don't remember how I got there. I remember being at the payphone, presumably trying to call my mother. I couldn't get through or something. Hell, I don't even know if I dialed the right number. Hell, I don't even know if I put a quarter in the phone. Anyway, I threw the receiver against the wall which was connected to the payphone by steel cable. The steel cable was probably to prevent people like me from ripping the handset out of the phone. The receiver hit the person next to me. I didn't see him. He went to get security. I walked out of the ambulance entrance in the emergency room, and as soon as I got through the door to the outside I was surrounded by security who followed me out and pulled up in their patrol cars under the carport. Needless to say, I was on compliant when they said I was not able to leave because I was not in stable condition. When they reprimanded me to escort me back inside, I started pushing and wrestling my way free. In times of extreme distress, one may experience a sense of heightened hyper-focus. I counted four security guards directly engaged in an altercation with me, and I was holding my own, seriously. There were also two standing on the perimeter waiting for an opportunity to assist in the melee. Or hoping that four was enough to subdue me. You want to talk about hyper-focus, the two on the perimeter, one was female and one was the second to smallest male. The smallest male was one of the most physical with his offensive so I assessed him to have little man syndrome and the biggest potential problem for me from there end. Sidetracked. I was holding my own and I literally had security guards bouncing off me. I don't know how long I kept that up for, but I was able to maintain until the New Haven PD showed up, with two more cars, and four more guys. This little outburst got me strapped down in and six point restraints for the next couple of hours until I calm down. Restraints like that are used when handcuffs, or straitjackets for that matter, are not enough of a deterrent... or a restraint. Or, if you're Hannibal Lecter (?spelling). Straps were attached to each leg to prevent kicking, the chime to prevent punching, across my four head to prevent biting, and across my chest to prevent, how who the hell knows. Seriously, after all that other shit, what damage could I have done with my chest? My guess is to restrict breathing, and if that's not what it's for, that's what it did to me. Sadly, this type of restraint has had to be used on me on more than one occasion. I want to say three. Let's just say three-ish. It's torturous feeling to be immobilized in that manner. It's dehumanizing. Like that's the most despicable thing that I've done in the fact that it was solely my actions that brought me to that state is beside the point. Like I said, I'm not a sociopath. I can feel. When you begin to return to sanity and your motor functions return to your body in the numbness disappears so you can feel yourself wanting, needing to move because you've been without motion for hours on end, but you can't. That alone can send you back into insanity. And when I thought things couldn't get any worse, hours later when the psych doctor came into the room I thought the torture was through. But something about him instantly and spontaneously provoked hate in me towards him. I vaguely remember that it was something he said. Some condescending smart ass remark while I lay there motionless in incapacitated. A position I laid in for hours waiting for him, thinking, desperate, angry. When I heard the door handle turn my eyes rolled down my cheek and locked in on the door. When he strutted across the room over towards me, taking his time like he hasn't been strapped down for hours, with his higher than mighty grin, and his (insert any down talking smart ass remark here), and he leaned over my bondage body. My eyes locked on his and I spit on him. Right in his face. All over his glasses, nose, and mouth. He had excellent reflexes, or that has happened to him before, because his right forearm and elbow smashed square on my left cheek and jaw. Then he took a step back, took of his glasses and wiped them of with his shirt, and ran the top of his forearm across his mouth to get the last of me off of him. The dick smiled at me like he got off on the entire chain of events. And he left with something to the effect of how big of a mistake I had just made. A contraption was put over my head after that to prevent any further projections from my mouth, and my time out timer was reset to zero. I was in seven-point restraints for the next who knows amount of hours. "Silence of the Lambs" has nothing on me. And this is still in the hospital. I haven't even gotten to the psych ward yet.
Actually, the psych ward I've been in haven't been that bad, relatively speaking. Usually by the time I get there I've been sedated, medicated, or in incapacitated attainted long enough to where I'm stable enough to not be a threat or danger, or treated like one. There are some crazy people there though. Obviously. Like I should talk. People talking to themselves, screaming out walls, cutting themselves, starving themselves, not knowing themselves, not knowing where they are,. At a visit to the New Haven mental health hospital (check name) I remember this crack whore prostitute had a thing for me. A kid who was about my age at the time who I hardly ever saw except for challenge smoke break, and when his parents would come on visiting day and bring Chinese food and board games. Anyway when he was with them he smiled, laughed, he would conversation with them. He looked like a normal kid. We were outside having one of our supervised 10 minutes cigarette breaks and I walked by him and said "what's up". He kind of mumbled something back that he was good and something about it being cold outside I think. It was winter and there was snow on the ground. It was a locked facility. Later that day, when one of the staff was taking my routine vital signs, I asked him what dude's story was. Sadly, it's in places like this where I tend to rise above and stand out as a star patient. Well, look what I'm being compared to. Thanks for the compliment, fuck me. He told me to stay away from dude because he was dangerous. I said he talked to me today and he seemed alright. The shock showed up on his face and Stanley and he asked me again to make sure he heard me correctly that, "He talked to you? He doesn't talk to ANYBODY." I didn't understand what the big deal was, but in observation, which I do constantly and have made in our out of, I noticed never seeing him on the floor except when his parents were there, he ate in his room by himself and was the only person allowed to do this, and he walked outside at the very back of the group, always, and smoked alone in the corner, I was able to come to my own conclusion, I am back to my art of observation, my conclusions are usually pretty accurate. Go head, test me. The psych tech couldn't speak of dues case because of client patient confidentiality, but from what he next told me in not so many words, I came to the conclusion that Andrew was there for murder. I wonder what it was about me that Andrew felt comfortable enough to talk to me, even as insignificant as our words may have been. I wonder if he saw something in himself that he also saw in me. Then, there was Vanessa. Vanessa was beautiful. Vanessa was half Spanish and have patience. Beautiful smile, beautiful accent, and beautiful scanning the color of mocha. She was cool to talk to and we hit it off instantly. Vanessa hated herself even more than I hated me. Vanessa stabs herself with a steak knife over 50 times in her stomach, abdomen, and through her left hand. Literally. The puncture wounds from the steak knife went through the back of her hand and penetrated through her palm. She confided in me that much of her reasoning for doing this involved men and past relationships. For some reason I wanted to be her knight in shining armor. For some reason, I always try to be the knight in shining armor. I want to take the pain away. We sideshow there for a little while after we were released from the hospital. We talked about moving away and starting over. I think she started to have strong feelings for me. I'd like her too, but I had also been dating someone else and needed to make a decision. My decision typically has my best interest in mind. Even when my best decisions are usually not in my best interest, if that doesn't make sense it doesn't have to. It makes sense in my head. I probably would've been better off with Vanessa, but my other girlfriend was living with me at the same time. I still wonder how Vanessa's doing once in a while. I hope she didn't hurt herself anymore because of me. What the hell was I thinking? That poor girl had enough problems. When have I ever made a problem go away? When have I EVER made a problem easier for that matter? Have I even EVER made a problem remotely more manageable than before I got my hands on it? In my entire life, I've never made anything better, only worse. Much, much, worse. Poor Vanessa, she was a nice girl. I destroy everything I touch. More on psych wards later.
Rehabilitation. Substance abuse programs will only work if you have a desire to stop using. And even when you do want to stop, they say only about 15% of people can sustain long-term sobriety. I think three years is what they considered long-term. And there was even in a statistic in there that onein10 or three in10 would die. So let me get this straight. If only 1 1/2 people will make it and one to three of the rest of us are going to die, than that means to me that I'm not lucky enough to make it and history has shown I'm not lucky enough to end it, than statistically speaking... I'm fucked! That's not very encouraging. The first rehab I went to was a real fancy place that some celebrities and a Kennedy or two and a famous retired talk show host son have resided at. My parents researched this place extensively and it was supposedly one of the best in the country. I, to this day, have no idea how much or where they got the money for. They wanted me to go after one of my milestone events, maybe it was after the overdose. I was either to go to rehab or get out of my mother's house. Seeing out being self-sufficient was becoming harder and harder or as my addiction got worse and worse, I chose rehab. Not without a fight though. I said everything I could to get out of it. I always do. It's a defense mechanism that has recently been identified from an outside source that I always knew I did but I never realized I did. That mechanism rarely works anymore with those who know me. In my defense, I always have the best intention when I'm bargaining for life and death. Sidetracked. Anyway, I came home from somewhere and my mother had a bag packed and ready to go. She wouldn't leave my side until I got in the car. I couldn't even smoke a blunt I had already rolled in my dresser. The program was 14 days, wait, maybe it was 21. Regardless, I said what they wanted me to say. I always do. It's another defense mechanism. With this though, you're either going to laugh or get offended at my sarcasm or vain humor or you're going to be blown away by my intelligence and fall into the thought process or role that I want you to. Again, it is something I always knew I did but never realized that I did. Usually, the version you got depended on fear, respect, or value. If I didn't fear u, u got sarcasm. Test me because most likely it's with full intent of provocation. If I respected you, then other determining factors would come into play. That one could go either way. And if you had something of value, and value can be a relative term, then intelligence is needed most. Sidetracked, my mother and Nana came to one of the family group meetings. These two heroin addicts watched the movie Trainspotting over and over. I made out with this Kruger type a couple times who confessed in group she sought comfort in younger man then felt regret and shame the next morning when she sobered up. She said this in a group shortly after we made out. She looked right at me the whole time she was sharing. What did she want from me? Sympathy? The minute I got home I ran to my room to see if my plan was still there. It was. I got high. The next time I went to rehab was after gel in California. My desire was much stronger due to a probation order which would send me back to jail for the remainder of a three year joint suspension where if I violated the terms and conditions of probation. I stayed sober for three years. From 2004 two 2007. My life had turned around. I was going to college, had an amazing girlfriend I would soon get engaged to, a great job for a full-time college student, I thought I was cured. At first, I was able to control my consumption for nearly two weeks. Every once in a while in those two weeks I overindulged, but on that second weekend something inside of me snapped like I had never stopped. All that hard work and sacrifice and penalty that I paid was for nothing. I held on for as long as I could but I threw it all away, completely, in less than one year.
Due to a pending court case and the fact that I had nowhere else to go, I checked myself into another rehab in November 2008. For almost three months I was doing well. I picked up the pieces and was doing what I was supposed to do. Work hard, stay strong, stay clean. Making excuses for how or why I relapsed isn't going to change anything. Hell, half the time I didn't know why. I don't know how to control it. That's why it's called the disease. And that is not the program speaking because I have fought the program and some of its beliefs and methods repeatedly. I, and still the only loser. Besides, I learned somewhere on my journey to take responsibility for my actions. I'm pretty sure that was a lesson handed down from my father. He's a great man. It's been easier to put the load on my shoulders and let me carry it. I always have. For some sick reason I welcome the challenge, I overcome the pain. And I have yet to overcome any challenge. I have yet learned to let go of the pain. It started with non-narcotic muscle relaxers that didn't show up on the toxicology panels they used for testing. The next day was a half pint of vodka. The next three days were in the hotel till I was broke. Then, I went to jail. Again.
County Jail. Besides the probably dozen-ish or so times I've spent overnighters in jail, I have also been sentenced to what totals I want to say close to four-ish years in county jail and one year in state prison. Ironically, I came out to California to create a better life. I failed miserably. I suck at life. The first time was for that three DUI's I received in a 4 week span. I was in jail from June 2004 to April 2005. On top of that, I had three years supervised probation, court fines, three are suspended driver's license, 18 month DUI classes, and the whole 9 yards. The only good thing that came out of this was the motivation its back sparked. Temporarily. I accomplished more in the two years I was sober than in the previous 10 years of my addiction. If I could have maintained that drive, that tenacity to succeed, this book would never be written. It wouldn't have had to bed. Because my life would have been salvaged. Because my life would have been better. Much better. The second county year was after I got my fourth DUI in 2008. This was a major violation in California. Not that what I did was right, and I am lucky I haven't seriously injured anyone, and unfortunately I haven't seriously injured myself, but because a minor fender bender occurred, and the fashion in which said fender bender occurred, and my prior offenses, the district attorney wanted to punish me severely. And hindsight, I probably deserved it. I hired attorney was able to get a plea bargain for me to avoid a three year state prison sentence and reduce a violent felony strike to a simple felony. The charges included: DUI, hit and run, and assault with a deadly weapon (implication as my vehicle being the weapon). The sentence was another county year, three years join suspension, and five years' supervised probation, three-year license revocation, fines, 18 months DUI classes, again, and 9 months of inpatient rehab immediately following my release. I deserve it. I did this to myself. This is the consequences of my actions. On a side note, I am currently awaiting sentencing on my 50 why that occurred in 2013. In my defense, I was not driving and I'm being charged with a DUI for being in a parked vehicle in the parking lot. That is not justification, but it is a very serious charge that my best offer today has been three years. I can't serve three more years. I can't serve three more days. I have been fighting this for nearly a year and a half now. I am running out of time. More on that later. Back to jail. Jail sucks. The food sucks. Underwear stained. It's filthy. Dirty. You're treated less than human (which I do deserve I feel at times but some things that occur behind those walls borderline cruel and unusual punishment. It's loud. Violent. At any minute you could be in a riot. You literally weather away inside a concrete compound. I have met a few solid people in there though. Different rules apply in places like this. There is honesty amongst thieves. There is camaraderie amongst captives. When I wrote this, nearly a decade ago, it says: "as of today I have 47 days to the gate. Then I'll go straight to rehab to finish off my sentence. Any violations or failure to comply will send me to prison for the remainder of three years. Do you think that would be motivation enough? Of course you would, the threat of losing my life were taking someone else's due to the dangers of the way in which I have lived should be enough to though. Only Time will tell."

Spoiler alert. Time has spoken, I'm not done yet. I have 4 weeks today till my next, and close to last court date. Regardless of what I have done to repair the damage, the firm changes that have been made to enhance my quality of life, the validated progress I've made from decorated professionals, none of it matters. It never does. I have no hopes that the resolution of this case will go in my favor. And I have a reservation that I don't think I can do any more time and that I want to continue on the path that I am on because it is honestly working. And I cannot afford to lose everything one more time. There is no way that I will be able to come back again. This IS my last chance. I have made a plan. I do not want to follow through with it. I'm scared. I'm capable.