“My Addiction” is an essay that was written in 2017. I was locked away in a jail cell at Clark County Detention Center (CCDC) in Las Vegas, NV. Facing a life sentence. I ultimately received a twelve year sentence.
Where I come from, hope is just a concept. It’s an idea that most of us don’t share. The focus is on survival, securing a nine-to-five job, just trying to make it home to your family every night, For many of the people that I know, that’s where the ambition stopped. The idea of more just didn’t register.
But for me, that was all I could think of. I’m addicted to the pace and sound of the hustle, the luxuries in life, and the power that goes along with being able to afford those luxuries. I believe it is always better to have and not need, rather than to need and not have.
I hustle hard so I can play even harder, on my own terms, on my own time. My goal is to win at everything I do. I’ve done what I’ve done in my past to survive and to place myself in a better position in life. Many people start out hustling – whether it’s selling drugs, robbing people, or some other illegal hustle – with delusions of grandeur, blind to the inevitable outcome. Not me. I know the costs of what I’m doing. I understand the risk, but I want something better out of life.
Today, I’m locked away in a jail cell, waiting to be sent to prison, and all of my life, I didn’t give a damn whether I lived or died. It has been all or nothing for me. I knew the consequences of my actions would lead me to one of two places: the penitentiary or a casket. Acutely aware of my fate, I’ve even calculated possible jail and prison sentences and where I may have to serve them.
At any given moment, I’m ready to die. I don’t care; many people locked up around me share the same mentality. When you’re born into poverty, you know that death comes for you first.
At 29 years old, I’ve already outlived a third of my childhood friends. Because of gun violence and drug abuse, I’ve attended more funerals than weddings and christenings combined. Half of my surviving associates are behind bards. Just breathing, however heavy, is a risk. But I am immune to the weight of the load. I have to be. In order to survive prison, or at least buy yourself a little more time, it’s almost as if you have to sell your soul. You trade your feelings, your compassion and in many ways your humanity for heartlessness. There is no room for emotions. Anything less than savagery can cost you your life. And like I said, I don’t care.
It’s not that I’m afraid to die. I wasn’t afraid of coming back to prison either. My biggest fear is knowing all of the money I’ll be losing out on. I put myself in isolation. I’ve cut off any and everyone who’s not with me, who’s not willing to have my back. I’m never comfortable in here. My focus remains solely on my one objective: To build generational wealth, by breaking my family’s cycle of poverty. That is my reason for hustling. I have a plan, and an end game.
I’ve gotten in contact with my best friend Hakimah. We write each other letters and speak on the phone often. She has even visited me here. Our friendship is stronger, and I love her more than anything else in my life. I can’t even fake it with her. I know how I’m living is wrong. And although I’m prepared to die, there is a small part of me that just isn’t ready to give up.
Instead, I lay on my bunk every night before finally falling to sleep and recite the same mantra: “Before you take my life, give me a sign”. There’s two ways to reach rock bottom: you can either fall all the way to the bottom, or you can pull the bottom up to you. Either way, here in my jail cell, here it is. Rock bottom. While you may hear the muffled sounds of the streets out there, in here I can only hear doors opening and shutting, keys rattling as the officer walks by, and the chatter falls off in the background. This is the sign I’ve asked for.
I’ve always been the leader of my associates, but they don’t know what to make of what is happening to me. And truthfully, neither do I. I’ve gone from running the streets – and I do mean running them- to being in this jail cell, a size of a small bathroom, 24/7. For the first time, I realize that I must break my addiction to the streets if I want to have a life of longevity; I know I have to change my life. It’s that simple.
“I always felt like I had nothing to live for. I’ve always felt like I have nothing to lose…..until I lost it all”.
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