Post Nine

Hard Times: Part Three

First, I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving holiday.  Speaking for myself, I ate way too much, watched too much football (Personal Shout Out: congrats to the Missouri Tigers on a 10 win season!), and had a hard time waking up Monday morning, but all in all it was a good break. 

One of the things that I thought about over the holiday was what to cover next.  I could easily turn my prison experience blog into one horror story after another, but that really wouldn't be accurate or desirable.  Prison, for all it's terrors, is a pretty boring place most of the time.  However, when things go bad, they go REALLY bad.  So this next post will cover the day-to-day grind of working in a hostile environment, and it's long-term effects on one's psyche.  I am not speaking for everyone, of course.  This experience is my own, and others who went through the things I did may not feel the same way, but I think it's a pretty accurate accounting.

Militarily speaking, being in a combat theater of operations is described by many as long periods of boredom punctuated by brief moments of terror (or what I call extreme emotional events).  During those events, people generally cease to function as a normal human being.  One of the reasons soldiers are screamed at in basic training is to make an individual react a certain way in combat.  Generally speaking, it's not in one's best interest to charge head first into machine gun fire; yet, that is what a soldier is expected to do.  Their training is designed to allow a person to do things they normally would never do.  Disregard for personal safety is not an easy thing to achieve, and even the best of us "break" under combat conditions. 

Now, I am not saying working in a prison is like being in combat; at least, not exactly.  Inmates don't have guns (well, almost never), and you're not being asked to do superhuman acts like many soldiers regularly do in combat.  There is, however, one way where prison is actually more stressful than combat.  In combat, you know the gunfire will eventually end, and the war will be over.  In prison, you don't have that luxury.  You can quit, sure, but if you want a job you must keep coming back, day after day, no matter what.  It's a grind that truly wears on even the toughest minded person.  It's why many inmates who serve life sentences truly become "institutionalized"; in other words, they are unfit for living in the real world.  It happens to inmates and it happens to staff who work too long in prisons.  Like a soldier in combat for too long they are irreparably harmed mentally by their experiences.

That first year in prison is the hardest time, whether you're an inmate or staff member, you will ever do.  I had combat veterans from Vietnam and Iraq who both told me that prison is more stressful.  Why?  Because it never ends.  In all ways that matter, working or serving time in a prison is like being in a war that never ends.  You're just the most recent victim. 

I remember the first day I met some of my inmates who were assigned to me.  Out of the gate, I was given around 200 to supervise.  Back then, Charlotte C.I. was still a general population maximum security prison (it would eventually become a lock-down Supermax).  Most of my inmates were "general pop" which meant that they had jobs and lived together in a dorm with relative freedom of movement.  So ingrained is that day in my mind that I still remember the first inmate who sat across from me for a progress report; I remember his face, his name, and his "DC number" (Note: all Florida prisoners receive a six digit identification number with a prefix that indicates their current stint in prison; for example, a DC number of C-123456 would indicate that the inmate is serving his fourth stint in prison as the first commitment begins with the number 0).  I remember those details not only because I have a good memory, but because I was scared to death.  The inmate in front of me was a murderer who had served over a decade in prison.  He had some assaults on his disciplinary record, he was uncuffed, and he and I were in the same room alone.  Someone like this, who has survived  and even thrived in the prison environment is not only dangerous, but truly frightening. 

Of course, it all went without incident.  The meeting lasted about ten minutes, and off he went.  While it meant nothing to this inmate, for me it was a major hurdle.  I figured out very quickly that even if you are scared out of your wits you must show no fear on the outside.  Inmates can smell it, and it is truly something that can get you hurt or killed.  As a staff member, you have the power, and it's up to you to stand tall in the face of violence and intimidation.  The only thing that inmates and even other security staff respect is mental toughness.  I have seen women who were outweighed by 150lbs chew out a hardened convict with no fear whatsoever; it takes guts to do that.  There is one problem with all this though...

In order to be mentally tough day-to-day you must be in a constant state of readiness.  For security staff this is a given as they have physical confrontations with inmates all of the time.  For a Classification Officer like me, though, who isn't in uniform it's a lot trickier.  While security had a certain level of authority based solely on the fact that they were the law in the prison quasi-civilians like me had no such innate authority symbols beyond our demeanor and reputation.  Security staff does not like to admit this fact, but I was just as much at risk for a physical confrontation as they were.  I walked the compound, went in the units, and put myself in danger on numerous occasions.  Sometimes, I would be on the yard surrounded by dozens of inmates without a security officer in sight.  Regardless of how tough you think you are this level of stress will take it's toll. 

Over time you develop a certain level of awareness, a sixth sense if you will, for danger.  Some would call it paranoia, but I called it survival.  For instance, I would always walk with a pen in my hand with the tip exposed held like a dagger.  That way, if I was grabbed from behind I could jab the pen straight into the inmate's neck.  Another thing you did without thinking was to always stand with your left foot forward (I'm right handed) when facing an inmate.  That way, you were always in a defensive stance to defend yourself.  You never allowed inmates to approach from behind.  When walking the yard you always turned to look every 30 seconds or so.  You never went into a secluded part of the prison alone, or in areas with many blind corners.  These are things you did instinctively, or you didn't last long.  You gained confidence that you could handle yourself, but the main problem is you had to turn "it" off. 

That sixth sense I describe is very valuable in prison, but of little use in the real world.  When I came home, I had very little in common with anyone on the outside.  It became hard to trust or deal with anyone because they didn't understand me or the nature of my job.  In effect, my job became my life.  It destroyed any chance of a positive social life on the outside.  I became secluded and recluse.  It was all very unhealthy. 

Unlike most of my colleagues, I didn't turn to the bottle or drugs.  I truly believe it was the grace of God that allowed me to survive, and become a productive member of society outside of the prison.  Most don't.  Dark humor:  we used to say that the Florida Department of Corrections had the largest pension fund in the state because no one ever lived long enough to collect.  It's funny how you both love and hate the prison at the same time.  It becomes a lot like a living, breathing member of your immediate family.  I remember in the Francis Ford Coppola Vietnam war film, "Apocalypse Now", where Charlie Sheen describes in the opening scene how all he could think about when he was home was going back, and when he was there we wanted nothing more than to go home.  It's a paradox, and only those who experience extreme emotional situations on a constant basis can really understand.  It's in every way unexplainable.

Once I finally left the prison system I met a Physician's Assistant who had been a Captain in the Special Forces (a.k.a The Green Berets).  His primary role was a combat physician, but he carried a gun, and killed people in combat just like any other member of his unit.  I told him what I had done for a living, and how after leaving I felt depressed and useless.  How I wanted nothing more than to go back.  How it made no sense, and how it was literally driving me insane with unmitigated rage at not being able to handle myself.  How I had dreams at night that I couldn't remember, but where I would wake up in cold sweats, shaking from some unknown demon I was unable to confront and defeat.  I was losing, and I needed help.

He smiled, and said simply, "You won't ever get over it.  But you can learn to live with it.  In time, the wounds will heal.  You have been through traumatic events, and your mind is not used to being at ease.  It has forgotten how.  But time will heal all wounds."

It wasn't much comfort, but a mild anti-depressant, along with tons of prayer, and a loving, patient wife got me through the immediate impact of not being in prison..  Now the dreams only come infrequently, and the paranoia has diminished to the point where I don't view unknown persons as a mortal threat.  That's progress.  And yet I still think daily about that place, and I probably always will.  Like a combat vet, we are both damaged, but getting by.  Like Rambo says,

"How do we live, John?"

"Day by Day"