Long Day

This day started out like any other. I get up for work, arriving at the construction site by 7:00 AM. Pouring concrete today. Around 9, I look up and see a brown sedan pulling into the parking lot. Two guys with ties get out – no smiles. They talk to the foreman and I see one pointing my way. Detectives. They come over and ask me to go in for questioning. 

 

By midday, I was in the police station. I hadn’t even eaten yet. I was questioned and arrested, my words recorded. In the holding cell, I wondered what was going to happen next, time ticking by ever so slowly. My mind raced, thinking of alternate histories. If only I had done this, said that, hadn’t gone there, or gone somewhere else instead: STOP. It seemed endless. Then I was hustled out for photos. No smiles in this one. This was 1989: fingerprinting with ink. Sloppy! I’m sure I signed a few things and was sent back to the cell to wait, time standing still. My mind racing again, no time for emotions to catch up. Numb! They finally brought food, what they called food, and I ate like a wild beast. 

 

There is no real contact, no real communication. I’m an object they have to deal with, like a bouncing ball or a load of laundry. I was hustled out to the car – it seems odd, like a dream, or like I’m not really there, looking at this scene like it’s in my head. I’m driven to downtown Pittsburgh, and people don’t even look at me in the back seat, but it seems like they know I’m in there. Time moves on; at this point it’s only been six hours but it seems like weeks. When I’m hustled in for my arraignment, it’s like an assembly line; move, stop, move, stop. The judge says something; I hear a dollar amount, then I’m hustled to a holding cell. It’s all too much. I can’t process what I’m thinking, experiencing, and feeling. 

 

Time stands still, not moving. I’m hustled into a boxtruck – a paddy wagon, like in the movies – and driven to another place. I can’t see where. There are five of us chained together. We enter what looks like an old castle. Dark, dingy. More photos, no smiling, more ink, more signing. I’m put into another holding cell and stripped naked, then I put on a jumpsuit and am given a bedroll with stuff inside. I’m hustled down a dark hallway, and then we stop at a door. I walk into a huge room that is very noisy – there are men everywhere: on the phones, running around, playing cards at metal tables. The cells are stacked on one side, I’m told there are no beds. 

 

It’s all so unreal, until I finally make contact with something real, something I know because, up to this point, it’s like a long scene from a movie. On the phone, my dad says tomorrow I’ll be out – Relief! Time doesn’t move though; tomorrow will never come. Now! It has to be now! Focus on getting through this. Tomorrow, wow, I doubt it. I sit there stunned by what is going on – I’m young, but no one bothers me. Everyone seems to calm down all at once – become quieter, less noisy. I pick a table to sleep on but sleep never really comes. Tomorrow, will I ever see it? Time turns into my enemy and there is no defense against it. 

 

Awaiting my court date, I reflect on “A Friend’s Goodbye – Danny’s Goodbye.” Growing up with someone you call a friend lets you know you are alive. Danny was that for me. We did so much together: playing army in the woods, swimming, exploring, talking – having fun. I felt wanted, accepted, a part of something. I always felt comfortable around him. Once, an abandoned old mine shaft entrance collapsed where we were playing. I don’t remember who did what, but we saved each other, growing closer through surviving being buried alive. We didn’t go to the same elementary school – he was public, I was Catholic – but we couldn’t wait to hang out together. We both wrestled little league, in different weight classes – he was bigger than me until I turned nine years old. While playing with walkie-talkies in a certain part of his yard one day, we contacted a girl sick in some local hospital. She was dying. Realizing that this made her happy made us happy. Danny was my friend and brother. We felt at home in each other’s houses. How I miss those times, miss Danny! Emotions well up inside me. Now there’s no Danny!

 

It was a time in my life with real meaning, one worth talking about, the remembering of Danny. When I was with Danny, my own pain and suffering were eased. He helped me deal with the ups and downs of life, enjoying the ups and getting through the downs. There were a few times we got mad at each other. Who was wrong, or what grievances we had, are all lost to me; we always made up and were stronger for it. Danny had his own health issues; there were times when we couldn’t play outside. He never let that stop us from having fun, though.

 

I started public school in Junior High. Danny, a year older, paved the way. Public school was a shock to a Catholic boy. We made friends with the kids on Circle Drive – Billy, Jody, and Michelle: all of us becoming fast friends. 

 

Danny was turning 16! Danny, Billy, and I were in my basement. Danny was fast asleep on the couch, looking peaceful lying there, my last good memory of him. That picture has never left me. Michelle came seeking our help, worried and excited, saying we needed to fix her bed. She was promising us all kinds of things. We had no problem with it, she was our friend, and we loved her. We all left on a mission. After breaking her bed down, Billy and I went into her brother’s old room. He’d moved out. Toys were throughout the room. We lifted the mattress and beneath it there was a gun.

 

My memory of this is like a dream, vivid, in slow motion. My breathing gets heavy. My heart races. I sweat every time I get to this part. It’s like watching a scene from an action movie, it’s super slow. Like you could almost change the outcome, you know, stop it from happening. Strangely, it’s like I split from the me standing there, to a vantage point higher up in the corner of the room, watching us as we move through the hallway, stopping at the bedroom door. Danny is in the middle of the room. I hear, “Danny, I’m going to shoot!” My view is back to looking over a shoulder. BANG! A scream, “BLOOD!” 

 

My eyes never leave Danny. My heart is still racing, this isn’t real. I’m numb, this is not happening. My heart is beating in my ears, a nightmare, a frozen force field. Danny is right in front of me and we’re alone – they’ve left us. This is my friend, my brother, who I love and care about. We look directly into each other’s eyes and I’m frozen. The corners of his mouth move into a smile, letting me know he sees something off in the distance. He is happy there is no more suffering, only peace and love. He closes his eyes, drops to the ground and I reach out. No, Danny! NO! My friend’s goodbye, Danny’s goodbye. 

 

This I’ve carried with me. I could have and should have stopped it. Could have saved his life, saved everyone from witnessing it and suffering this hurt. It’s my fault, I’ve believed this with all my heart. Dad confirmed it once back from the police station. I’m a murderer, and this burden is mine. It was ruled an accident by the police and I hated myself even more because of it. I was destructing slowly, fulfilling my own prophecy. Exactly three years from Danny’s death I committed my crime. I was sentenced a year later. 

 

The van pulled up to Western Penn. Shackled to my seat, I looked up. Atop the wall was a uniformed man with a rifle. Five of us were chained together. My heart sank as the metal gate slid open, metal on metal. We pulled in. Short, uniformed men searched the outside of the van. Once they finished the gates opened. We pulled up to a ramp and were ushered out and up into a room. The chains made awful sounds as we waited. We couldn’t shuffle our feet or take a full step. CO’s were yelling directions, “Hurry over there,” “Wait here,” “Stand here,” “More over there,” “Kneel on that chair.” They uncuffed the shackles, and then moved us to wait some more. We were then ushered to see medical, counselors, and others I can’t remember. Hurry up and wait. Time is once again my enemy. 

 

I was stripped naked and searched, issued pants, shirts, laundry bag, bedroll, and toilet items. They ushered me through the compound, past the chow hall, past where men were yelling in the yard. I saw a man, no a hulk, through the open door of the gym bench-pressing some unimaginable weight, an amount I couldn’t pick up with a crane. His arms were bigger than both my legs put together. It was all so overwhelming. I heard roars from the yard, CO’s yelling. A Lieutenant was saying something unintelligible. This place was like an old beat up castle, full of dark, dank smells foreign to my senses. There were five tiers, men everywhere yelling, and the noise was almost unbearable. I could barely see the end of the block. Over 600 men walked into a room and sat down. A big Lieutenant says, “Men, there are only two ways to do things here: Western’s Way or Western’s Way! Go find your cells!”

 

Time again to reflect on my family life, my past, the effects of the addict. Addiction affects every person that comes in contact with the addict. Addiction is more than likely not the root problem but rather the way the addict has chosen to deal with their root problems, which has become a norm in our society. You may wonder how the addict affects the people closest to them. It’s simple. Imagine standing by a beautiful clear, still pond. Now, throw a stone into the water. The stone disturbs the water, changing it. Ripples go out from the point of impact, changing the whole surface of the pond. The people close to an addict are similarly changed, disturbed by the actions of the addict. Those people are carrying with them the pain, hurt, worry and confusion created by the addict. This can lead to other problems, too. I’m not saying the addict is responsible for the actions of others; just know the addict causes harm to those who are closest. The ripple effect can reach far. 

 

There are many things people are addicted to; the list is long. Most, if not all, are harmful to the self and others. People become addicted because of an underlying problem or problems. Addiction is a tell-tale sign, the noticeable way people recognize the existence of a problem that poses a high risk to the person addicted. Once in recovery, the hard journey to discover the self and root problems begin. 

 

I myself have been on both sides of addiction. I grew up in a family where my dad was the primary addict. Dad was a heavy drinker. He would stay out late and come home only to cause a ruckus with the family. Rarely, if ever, did we get the “happy drunk.” Instead, he would be a mean, nasty, abusive drunk, who liked to cause trouble with his words and fists. Even when he was sober, he could go into a rage. The funny thing is, looking back, I would rather take the beatings than hear his rants. There would be a long list of obscenities, degrading remarks toward each of us, which would come out of his mouth. This is how he built up his anger enough to unleash his rage on us physically. No one in the family was immune. There were times when Mom instigated it, egging him on, which made me cringe inside, knowing what was coming. I dreaded him coming home at night. It was always there in the back of my mind. I could be at school, out playing with friends, having fun, but right under the surface I was feeling dread and terror for the night time. 

 

I am the youngest of five. I have three sisters and one brother, aged 14, 13, 11, and 6 years older than me. My parents were both 42 when I was born. I believe Dad had PTSD from the Korean War. He got off on being pissed off, a rage-a-holic. I’m no doctor, nor do I have a degree, but the fact that I lived it makes me somewhat of an expert. In some form or fashion, each of us in the family has had an addiction or dysfunctional personality. Personally, being addicted to alcohol, sex, food, and drugs, I was also a fear-a-holic, doing things to keep fear steady in my life. I was addicted to how it made me feel. 

 

This one time at band camp (a little humor, no), Mom was cooking breakfast one Saturday morning. It was just her, Dad, and me. I said to Dad, “Hey, if you and Mom ever get divorced, I want to live with you, Dad,” not even caring that I just crushed my mom’s heart, creating deep pain. I did it so Dad would maybe like me and not hurt me anymore. As an adult, I hated myself for doing that. 

 

I would go to school carrying with me all that hurt, pain, confusion, and dysfunction in my daily routine. I affected my friends, girlfriends, classmates, teachers, coaches, teammates, neighbors and other people distant to the addictions of my dad, family and myself. These dysfunctions caused so many problems for me and those I dealt with. I really never knew who I was, I played roles that I thought I was going to be. I was an actor. I had no real identity. I wanted to hide the fact that my dad, family – hell, even myself – were all screwed up. I would try to act like other kids. It only lasted short periods. Inside, my emotions would boil over and come out in negative ways. Yes, I could have asked for help, but it wasn’t the thing to do in the 70’s. If Dad found out, it’d be my worst nightmare! You didn’t talk “bad” about your family or discuss your problems. Got to keep up the image. So many people were affected by me and my family.

 

I started using alcohol and drugs as I got older. Food became my friend. Sex was a fantasy to escape my ugly reality. I believe I have some form of PTSD. I started using rage like Dad, becoming addicted worse than my dad, finally ending up in prison. This is where I started tackling each one of my addictions, dysfunctions, and behavior problems. I realized that these were all the outward signs of my deeply rooted problems; misinformation, behavior lessons, and trauma from childhood. I began to be retaught, to learn from the groups and the wealth of information available from others. I learned to be healthier in mind, body, and spirit. I spent time discovering who I really am, growing to really know myself. I started to like, and then love, myself for the first time. My God, the father, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit led the way for me. 

 

I always believed that God, my family, everyone, didn’t love me. Dad had never told me so, until one time on a visit. Dad and Mom came to see me every other week. In 1992, two weeks before a massive heart attack would take his life, as he was leaving the visit, Dad, turning to me and with so much emotion said, “I love you, son!” Wow! On the way back to my cell at Rockview, I cried, a good healing cry. I’ve heard guys say they never had a dad or a father figure in their lives. I would’ve traded places with them in a second. After facing and dealing with most of my past issues, I began to see how much my dad had really loved me. He cared and wanted a better life for me. He didn’t want me to turn out like him. Sometimes you don’t see all that until later. I don’t look at my past as something I want to hide. It motivates me to do better, be better, to be the best person I can be for myself and others. 

 

My past wasn’t all negative; there were a lot of positives. It was hard for me to see them, though, at the time. Oh, I wish that I hadn’t hurt anyone in my past. But, for better or worse, my past created who I am today. My past is the journey of my life. I can look back and learn from my mistakes. I can help myself, and anyone along the way who will listen, by being a positive influence and making a difference; a meaningful difference in life, in society. Time is no longer my enemy! From the brokenness of my past, the true meaning of love shines through. Love makes a difference. 

 

Time has given me the opportunity to apologize to my three victims; to take account of my actions and realize there are no excuses. There is no easy way to address this; no easy way to make amends for the harm I caused my victims. Yinz (Pittsburghese for two or more people) are not at fault in any way, yinz are blameless. I am to blame. It is my fault, and mine alone. I am responsible; there are no excuses, no justifications for my behavior. Making amends is an action that involves much more than an apology. Recognizing that the past cannot be remade, I am holding myself accountable. By my hand, my willful acts, my behaviors, I violated you individually as people. No person deserves to go through the pain and hurt I caused you. I take full responsibility for my actions. This is a crucial step if healing is to happen. 

 

The trauma that I caused yinz not only affected yinz but your family members, friends, and the community. My actions have led me to examine myself and find the defects within my character so that I will never hurt someone again. Completing many treatment programs and classes helped me to see the damage I’ve caused and to help transform myself, my thinking, and my behaviors, so that I will now be a person who makes a positive difference in people’s lives and society as a whole. 

 

I have a drive; a duty to become aware of my selfishness, to be selfless. This is the life I now lead. It’s bigger than me; it’s how I affect people around me. The journey of this process for me – now that time is my friend – has given me energy to strive to work diligently on improving myself every day to become the best version of me so that I have NO MORE VICTIMS.