Exactly two years ago I was in jail. Not metaphorically. Real jail. I was alone there for a day and it changed my life.
The first thing I noticed when the door closed was the heat and still air of my cell. I sat on the bed gingerly and began to actually take in the filth. Along with an orange jumpsuit, I’d been given disposable slip-ons to cover my feet. I stood up and began to pace manically, to explore the scene where my bottom was taking place.
The toilet was a steel oval with no seat and a single tap dispensed small doses of water. I walked to door and looked out at the guard, a patient guy with a bodybuilder physique. He said something unkind and I recall thinking, “Does he know who I am?” Clearly not and totally irrelevant.
I sat back down again and thought. The walls were white and green, the product of peeling point and no maintenance. In the corner lay a Bic pen. I walked to pick it up, stood up and looked at the wall in front of me. Then I understood.
“Free DJ Sneaky”. “Fuck Jose Lopez”. “Fuck Trenton PD!”
Widening my gaze, I took in a massive maze of these terse declarations. All statements of unfairness and anger. Some were lacquered with what I realized were mouthfuls of food, chewed and spat on top of the writing as a violent statement of rage and disgust. It was overwhelming, like finding a gravestone and realizing it’s one of thousands as far as the eye can see.
Suddenly I stopped. Stopped thinking of what to write about my jail cell legacy. Stopped being clever. Stopped thinking of saying the best thing. I realized these hundreds of prisoners before me all felt the way I did. They were all there unjustly. They were angry. It was part of a web of injustice and someone else’s fault.
I dropped the pen and spent the time remaining throwing water, cup by half full cup, on the filthy, peeling walls. I remember watching it gather and flow into a single escape drain and feeling comforted, as if I’d taken a step in the right direction. Liquid catharsis.
That night I was given back my clothing, wallet and phone and loaded into a sweltering prisoner bus, sitting in a human sized tube with 10 others, fighting claustrophobia until they dropped us somewhere near a hospital in Trenton.
I looked for my wife who had told the judge she’d pick me up. I tried calling her, over and over. Nothing. In fact, nobody else picked up either and that makes sense. I had alienated and frightened them all. I gave up and started walking the 8 miles back to Princeton.
I found somewhere to spend that night and the next day went to the hospital, spending the next 2 months in treatment.
2 years later I am well and grateful for it. I realize that every step in my journey has felt difficult and has been tentative. What matters is that I keep stepping in the right direction.
Some observations about the journey. First and foremost, I gave up trying to do things my way. AA gave me a template and for the first time in my life, I used it. I prayed, first just the Serenity Prayer, then looking a pictures of my loved ones.
Then I got a sponsor and worked the Steps. I started helping others. I have also erred on the side of safety, taking medication I don’t like because I’m willing to sacrifice the 20% “genius” that the pills prevent for the stability to earn a living and be a dependable Dad. I have also stopped dividing mental and physical health. They are one and the same. I live a disciplined routine which is not my nature. I go to sleep early, get up early, exercise a lot and eat healthy food. I have lost 92 pounds. I’ve become strong.
Professionally, things have also improved. 9 months ago I thought I’d solved my comeback with a huge job and a high salary. It fell through and I was devastated. I’m proud now at how I handled it.
I doubled-down on pursuing things I love, planting seeds that have since sprouted. More importantly, I vowed to use my free time to write at least 2 Substack pieces a week. That writing has helped me process things and led to a professional gig writing about AI and Democracy which has given me credibility and led to gigs.
What matters most is 2 years. One step, one day, at a time. I never want to go back to where I was. Not in jail but sick and unable to figure out how to get well.
It all began with a simple pledge to write and I can’t explain how important that was. Of course, those first pieces hearken back to the most important one, the one I didn’t write 2 years ago. Dropping the pen at that moment was the start. A realization that maybe when you’re in a cell alone it’s not the time to share your brilliant message.
It’s time to take a moment to just sit down and think.
And maybe clean up a bit.
Strong. Handsome. Smart.
Happy you are back, and to have you as a friend.