A Second Chance...

Second chances...

Yeah, man...

Imagine yourself as a fighter.  Having worked your way through the ups and downs of a career, you've come to that one fight that is to determine where you are headed from this point forward.  If you win, it could mean the life you've always dreamed of--or at least the one you've worked for.

You lose...then the penalties attached to not coming out on top could vary from a minor setback to a catastrophic spiral down the well of despair.

You're holding your own for the time being.  Bringing a little more reality to the topic.  You're making ends meet, not going hungry, getting by without having to overextend yourself too much.  You aspire to be more, but that break just hasn't come yet.  The championship is comfort and a chance to sit back and just take a breather if even for a minute.  It's knowing that when you wake up in the morning, things will be a little bit better, just a little bit sweeter, than the day before.  As long as you are taking care of the simple things that can sustain your "fight," you're good.  Just getting by without getting knocked out will work for now.

That's when the fists of life knock the living s*** out of you.  It was something you hadn't expected.  You thought you were at least giving enough of what you had to stay in the ring.


 


You're beaten...broken...bruised.  The stress of wanting to be more than what you are, greater than the person you have become, hangs low over your head as the referee begins to count you out.  Your body hurts as would any type of pain, but it's your spirit and mind that hurt more...

I thought that when I got arrested the 2nd time, my fight had ended.  I was a habitual offender with multiple DUIs on my record.  The financial toll would force me to invest money I had planned for other ideas into saving my own ass from the most adverse of consequences following a guilty plea.  The relationship I thought I was heading toward would've surely fallen apart.  I can't really see a woman being interested in introducing me to her family knowing that I had a criminal record when the most anyone of them may have ever had was a speeding ticket.  It's like I wouldn't even begin to know how to explain to someone's parents that I have been to jail for an ability to consume an embarrassing amount of alcohol and driving anywhere, knowing the consequences (after the first arrest). 

Spiritually, I just knew I would fall apart.  Having not been satisfied with most of my life's experiences up to that point (other than a few occasions), I believed that this would be the end.  I would become just another statistic to the system, my obscure existence shrouded in mediocrity, falling a slave to my own destructive devices.

July 15, 2011

I could remember walking outside of that jail that Friday morning and never smelling air so sweet. Yes, some days there was a semblance of light that shone through the Plexiglas walls of the institution; however, this was a different kind of feeling. I had gone into my sentence afraid of what might happen on the outside without me.

Would I lose my relationship? Would I lose my job? Would I lose the love of others whom I hold dear? Would I lose me?

So often we find themselves on the wrong side of life, encountering life-changing experiences that test our resolve to remain strong in our convictions, faith, and dreams. Each time the doors shut behind me, I felt the sting of failure. I felt my family had no reason to look at me the same. YOU could not look at me the same.

My conversations with God had gotten longer at night, evolving from simply praying for my safety during this time to asking for strength for my family and friends to appealing to HIS mercy for A SECOND CHANCE.

A twinge of envy stabs you as you watch someone get freed when you’re in JAIL (remember that reference I gave you about the difference between jail and prison). At least that’s after the first person you see leave. You hope that your name is called as soon as your time is up and that they can move you out as soon as possible. Name after name is called and what was envy now becomes nothing more than hope. Hope that the person that just got out doesn’t screw things up this time around. Hope that they can get themselves straightened out and put their lives back on track to do something other than come back to jail. Hope is, ultimately, replaced by dreams—that when you leave, you would do nothing to waste a SECOND CHANCE on life.




R&B singer El Debarge returned to the world of music from a two year stint in jail (narcotics charges brought on by addiction) with what I considered to be one of his greatest songs in 2010. And a year later, the words from the chorus of “Second Chance” spoke volumes to the testament I felt moved to deliver to others as I continue to write this blog.

So tonight I lay me down to sleep...
And pray my soul to keep...
In that your love will rescue me, for the rest of my life...
I live to say good bye...
To all the promises left behind...
Here we are you and I...
A second chance...

When you get a second chance, there should be no doubt that the best you is ahead. Your best chance to live, love, and serve are now in front of you. A walk of faith is now required to quit dreaming and start realizing that the quality of your life doesn’t have to be predicated by the errors of your past. WE can bounce back from this. The chance to be great has not passed us.

So...take a deep breath. Open your arms wide. Embrace the opportunity. Say goodbye to what we leave behind.

And say hello to “a second chance.”

Jesus Walks...

Before I went to jail, I was told that there would be no outside books brought in.  So the thought of bringing and cookbooks or my GQ magazines was out of the question.  Not that I was completely sure why they would be adverse to bringing in magazines or literature that would help me keep my mind off of the hell I was experiencing from within, but that was the law of the land.  Nothing I could do about that.

However, I could bring a Bible...or some sort of religious text.  Naturally, being of the Christian faith (Baptist) and at the prodding of my family, I carried my Bible on the inside with me, hoping some mystically power from within would help me through my ordeal.

I often found in my short time here on Earth that skepticism and faith cannot exist in the same space.  That we cannot hope without hope, dream without actually having a dream ourselves, or inspire without first having being inspired. 

Those first few days, the words on the tattered pages of a old Christmas gift , held only significance because that was what my grandmother taught me.  She wanted me to believe early that God so loved the world, that he had offered the life of his only son to save fools and followers alike.  Yet, I was trapped, in this cage of granite, having been shackled in the midst of my peers.  The shame, I tell you, was like none I've ever experienced.

Jail.  Prison.  Mental Institutions.  they say that those places are a form of rehabilitation, "correcting" wrongs that can be made right.  But was that through means of serious reflection?  Confinement to the gallows of society where many a man could reach for the worse if no better?

Yet a Bible was all they allowed me to bring in.  My sanity lay in the power of a book that spans millenniums before my birth.  My comfort spelled out in the words of Jesus as he spoke to the people
in hopes of leading them to salvation.

Salvation???  Was I able to be saved???  Was jail God's way of saving me from myself???

I just had to ask.

Was locking me up God's way of keeping me off the street for a while? 

So that I'd not have another night similar to the one when I got arrested...so that instead of being in chains for charges only applicable to my own error in judgement, I wouldn't be facing charges attached to the tag identifying the body of another if not my own?

Often we reach for the redeeming hand of OUR FATHER when we are at our lowest.  I was no exception to the rule.  Flashbacks of the seizures on the cold, floor of the holding cell just a few short months ago.  The friendship of suicide lingering in my ear for but a brief moment.  The chains of judgement that held not only my body captive, but that of my spirit.  I was nothing short of feeling broken.  It wasn't that I had no sense of praising the MOST HIGH before, or that I didn't make efforts to give praise as often as I could (not should), but the clasp of my fingers felt as if superglue had held them together.  I couldn't have prayed any harder or asked for forgiveness more sincere than I had then.

That Thursday, I happened to be browsing through the "library" after  having stomached through a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs and some white stuff that looked like grits.  I was looking for something long enough to keep me occupied as I was going to be released the following Friday.  I couldn't say that the book I would pick up was as eye catching as the others, books about Coach K's tips to winning at life or Dr. Myles Munroe's "Releasing Your Potential" (a self-help manifesto regarding the use of our special talents for the glory of God); however, there was a healing power in the spirit of its pages--something I wasn't quite sure I was ready for.

Letters to God was Tyler's story...yet I somehow felt the testament of the young boy in myself.  I hadn't lost my father in a car accident as he had (he and my mother divorced) nor did I have older siblings to whom I looked up to (I'm the oldest).  And I wasn't dying of cancer...

Tyler's unbelievable reach to hearts of the characters in that book--from the drunk postman with whom he became friends to his widowed mother who wanted to have a love of her own again to his neglected older brother who just wanted to grieve in his own way--could not have come at a better time. 

Instead of asking "God, why me,"  I should've focused more on answering "God why not me???"

Often we believe we suffer as a means of punishing our deeds than are less than flattering, never thinking that the true purpose for our lives can be revealed when our faith is in jeopardy.

God's hand had been on me the whole time.  It was through Tyler's bravery through adversity that I could finally feel a hope for my own perseverance through my time.  I was not to question the plan.  HIS grace was sufficient enough.  I share that grace with you through these words:

And he said to me, My grace is sufficient for you: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest on me.

I had finally found my church in the wild...

The "Chain Gang"

As the six prisoners each shuffled their feet in an eerie unison, Sam Cooke’s “Chain Gang” came to mind:

That’s the sound of the men…working on the chain….gang…

They weren’t actually going to work on a chain gang; but hoping in the passenger seats of the sheriff’s department van seemed nothing short of being shipped off to some hot part of Athens to wield some type of labor instrument necessary to perform some cheap work.  In fact, they were headed off to the state courthouse downtown for the regularly scheduled “Status Check” as participants of the county’s DUI/Drug Court program.

We were dressed more like Halloween characters rather than actual prisoners aside from the full bodied chain apparatus, shackling our hands and feet…

Chains…

Bound from movement of limbs anything more from 6 inches to the left or right of either side.  Even if I wanted to scratch the unlikeliest of itches, it’d just have to wait.  The chains weren’t coming off.

We were the last to enter the 5^th floor courtroom.  Participants who had been assigned to the program as part of their respective sentences lined most of the pews in the room as those who were transported from the jail had to sit together.  The stares were embarrassing although I knew that they had been in the same position as I was at one point or another, yet that didn’t bring any less shame to my thoughts.  No one in the room had been at liberty to judge other than those members of the program’s administrative powers; and while there eyes may have given off the “seen it all before” vibe, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of judgment that I was being labeled as just another case in their file…another criminal for them to watch.

And in all honesty, I was.

Athens-Clarke County DUI/Drug Court program was the brainchild of State Judge Kent Lawrence.  A former UGA letterman and graduate, Judge Lawrence formed the county’s version of drug recidivism program as a means to cut down on the number of repeat offenders of drunk driving in the Athens-Clarke Co. area through a means of intensive probation and accountability as an alternative to just throwing people in jail and letting them dry out—only to go back on the streets after their time is done and do the same stupid thing over again.

48 weeks of treatment.  Group therapy which involves meeting with substance abuse counselors once a week.  Mandatory, random, drug testing at the discretion of the court/program.  AA meetings.  “Check-ins” that served as a means for just making sure all participants are following rules or as a means to collect a random sample for drugs and alcohol, which included the day’s “status conference.”

Not to mention…$240 a month for program fees/costs.

Top that all off with a bulldog of a probation officer who probably didn’t give a **** (insert your own four letter word) about what it took to get you sober just as long as you did what you were told and were inside your residence (or at least the county limits) when he came a knockin’ – you were either going to be on top of your stuff or your ass would’ve been in jail with very few questions asked.

“Status conference” was like a roll-call of sorts, making sure everyone who was signed up to participate was doing what they needed to do to get through the program.  If you were a model participant or made progress, they would praise you.  I you were a hard case, they would encourage you to do better thought some means of encouragement that would include sanctioning of even the smallest of privileges you were allowed as grounds of not following the rules.

This was only my first “status conference” so there was little for the judge to way other than to welcome me on my path to “RECOVERY,” promising that they would do all they could to make sure that I was offered every advantage to have a chance at a new life without using drugs or alcohol.

I had yet to hear a word the judge had been saying.  My concern lie with no one else in the room other than that of the mind of the prisoner occupying the orange jumpsuit I had been assigned.  While the attention of the others was on the judge, my attention had floated away to when I had told my grandmother about my arrest that night.  Vividly, I could recall he using the adage “like them stupid a** ni---s” to describe my behavior in which my already damaged psyche had burst into flames made of remorseful tears.

Obviously, she had seen and heard the countless number of men in our city…our community…our family that had been taken into custody for a number of reasons, becoming just another statistic of the country’s penal system. 

Now it was her first-born grandson, her “Boobie,” that was now the statistic.  A two-time delinquent with mug shots to boot.  Was her pride hurt?  Sure.  I won’t run down my accomplishments again as I had in an earlier post, but why wouldn’t have she been proud of her oldest grandson?  Why wouldn’t she have wanted the best for me?

Yet as I ran my hands down the grooves of the cold links of my handcuffs, I had to ask myself:

Why wouldn’t she have been ashamed to know her grandson is in jail?  Why wouldn’t she have not cursed me out more than she had before as my name…her name…our family’s name…would have been marred by what was viewed as a destructive habit?

My hands tightened around the shackles, carelessly daydreaming that Hulk-like powers would surge through my body to free me from my bondage…or that the judge would just be merciful because I was the one who was “different” and just let me go.

Judge Lawrence had wished us well throughout our journey in the program.  While the “free” persons filed out of the courtroom to go back to their own lives (or what lives they led, all things considered), the chained prisoners stayed put until everyone had cleared the room.  The officers charged with our care instructed us to gather ourselves to be transported back down to the holding cells to wait for our transport vehicle back to the jail. 

One foot in front of the other, we shuffled to assemble in a straight line…making that sound again…

The same sound as the men…working on the chain gang…

Prisoner 74319...

My sentence carried a somewhat minimal effect than what it could have had the judge went by the typical rules of a person convicted of DUI for the second time.

My lawyer negotiated a plea by reducing my jail time in half on the grounds that I enter into a court mandated program (which I am currently in as I write this blog) that was specifically for multiple offenders in attempts to redirect their thoughts about alcohol abuse and impart knowledge in regards to possible addiction to a mind or mood altering substance.

It’d be safe to say that the week I spent in jail was one of the most life-altering experiences I had ever encountered. TV and press scare you into thinking the worse, and while many of the horror stories are true, the most frightening thing I learned about being in jail was the trained mindset of other inmates who were in the same “dorm” as I was.

These guys weren’t hardened killers or drug lords. They were DUI cases, probation violators with minor drug offenses, and child support dodgers. Most of them seemed like decent guys, some who may have just run afoul of the law by chance and others who didn’t give a damn. Yet, it was the mindset, the mental capacity for some of them to think that their best lives were better off spent in jail, caged like some kind of deviant animal just because they were used to it.

After the first 24 hours (and a jailhouse moniker attached to me by a card-playing slick named Tony), my resolve had been confirmed:

This was not my best life.

Did I believe I was too good for jail??? 

Hell yes, I did.

• Class valedictorian:  Done
• Voted Most Likely to Succeed:  Did that, too
• Best in Service:  All me
• College Grad (Go Dawgs!!!):  BAM!  That was me again.
• Prisoner 74319...

The wristband that resembled a hospital ID bracelet posted only my first and last name, followed by the number 74319 as a means to identify me on a list of many...as well as a means to make calls to the outside world that was still going on without me just fine.

Think for a minute...

60+ grown men milling around a university-style commons area, bunk beds lined along the walls.  They are dressed in dark blues or khaki jumpsuits and facility-issued slippers.  15-16 hours of the day would be spent staring at 2 large plasma TVs, playing cards, reading, or swapping stories of the life we once lead outside of confinement.

Food served on trays that wouldn't have been used in even the poorest of school cafeterias were served three times a day.  It might not have been "Iron Chef" approved, but it was just enough to keep you alive.  As I stomached down the bologna sandwich with one side plastered with a slice of white bread and the other side with a multi-grain slice, I could see Paula Deen's face turn sour at the thought of hearing one of her biggest fans eating something she wouldn't have fed the catfish she catches in her backyard pond. 

Love and best dishes, my ass...

The shows on TV that depict life on the "inside" tend to lean toward the more violent aspects of life behind bars; and while "jail" and "prison" are two TOTALLY different terms in regards to confinement (prison is relegated to persons who get more than a 1 year sentence), the fight for manhood and sanity is more prevalent in the mind rather than it being a solely a physical battle.  Only focusing on barbaric thoughts and actions, society has trained our minds to revert to our animalistic instincts in order to survive what we think we might know lies ahead in the coming days.

Natural fear and anxiety forces me to my bunk as I kept a close eye on the other inmates around me.  While the names slip my mind, the faces an etched into my brain as the weathered effects of aging through life in and out of jail had offered distinct images of what society would label as "my peers." 

The biggest threat to me doing time unscathed was  running afoul of the officer on duty; however, the motives of others around me who had more experience in the life were just as unsettling.  Whatever advantages I was going to gain to make the best use of my time...or at least make the time fly by...were going to be by adapting as quickly as possible.  I did as much as I could not to give off any type of vibe that I was going to be easy to get over on, exhibiting the fear a type of penal system predator would flock to.  I was nobody's "bitch" or "boy" -- and I had no intentions of being such.

Killers or not...if you're in the "system" long enough, you'll pick up habits to prey on others.  It was all about coming out on top whatever way you could.

Are You Ready to Get R.E.A.L.???

April 16, 2011.

There's no question as to how I got put in jail a second time or what had gotten me arrested on that morning. It took some time to make peace with the fact that such a foolish decision was not the result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that the consequences of just waiting on someone to take me how would’ve resulted in nothing more than me having to endure hanging out just a few more hours and waking up early to start the next day’s festivities. Driving under the influence could have not only ruined my professional life, but also a personal life that had started to look quite bright.

This blog isn’t a gripe session about the shame and agony I feel giving my life to a program that I would have under no circumstances have joined had I not been arrested. It’s not about bashing a judicial program designed to combat drunk driving. It’s not even about living a lifestyle free of alcohol or drugs through adapting to principles of a 12-step program. I am already living through that. That’s not your life (or at least it’s not anymore).

This blog is about bouncing back from pitfalls that could have broken you, sent you to a hell that even some of your closest family members and friends had no idea about. It’s about conquering the torment of being labeled something you are not by pushing back through a means of making your SECOND CHANCE count.

Please don’t let the word “RECOVERY” fool you.

It’s not just for addicts and fiends. It’s for everyone who took the path often traveled and finding themselves seemingly trapped by circumstances that were never beyond their control. They just chose to do otherwise because they had done it so many times before and the consequences were small—if any.

But in order for you, me, all of us to make this life count (in what may be some of you all's last go-round), we have to start keeping it R.E.A.L.

RELATE. Your story doesn’t have to be my story, but there is a sure guarantee that you have one. Lose someone close to you and felt your world was crumbling before your eyes? Give up on a dream because you thought the cards were stacked against you? Thought about taking the “easy way out” because nothing ever seemed to go right? Trust. I’ve been there and; and sometimes, I find myself wondering if this hell I’m experiencing is ever going to leave. Navigating this struggle to live a full life is kind of like being Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible. The mission, should you choose to accept it, is to become comfortable enough to share that story so that others can find the comfort and empathy necessary to share a story of their own.

EMPOWER. In sharing a piece of our lives with others, we realize that we often have more in common than not. Opening ourselves up is but a small step forward to live out our that aspect of our lives that we may have placed on the back burner or completely lost due to lack of motivation. I may not totally understood the entire concept of why I have to attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, but one ideal that really stuck to me was “carrying the message.” I believe everyone has a story, good or bad, that can be an example to someone who has or will come to that fork in the road of life and be forced to make a choice. It is my hope that the information presented to you would be instrumental in making choices that benefit your life in a positive way, rather than have to go all the hell myself and so many others have gone through to come to the realization that we weren’t meant to live a life of mediocrity.

ALTER. The “message” gathered from sharing one’s life with even an audience of one is just as powerful as if connecting with an audience of one hundred thousand. The idea is to touch, connect, and change. We must change the way we operate in our daily lives by changing our way of thinking. Instead of dwelling on negative outcomes, develop a mindset intended on personal progression. The road to RECOVERY is not about doing things completely perfect to achieve a utopian outcome of a life rid of internal/external battles. Trial and error lead us into a space essential to appreciating growth in our journeys as we strive to find our place in life.

LIVE. By resolving to recover from your setback (whether it be mental or physical) and developing a means of inspiration to become more than what society, parents, friends, etc. have labeled you as, you will come to know that LIVING out your purpose is more than telling people about who you used to be. The true goal is guide them into developing a sense of who you are now and what better way to show them by transforming your truth into a walking testament to the person you are ready to become. You’ve been given a second chance to redefine “BRAND: YOU” and to go back to your old way of doing things is as counterproductive as it was before you came to this point in life. This is where the rubber meets the road…and all you got to do is BRING IT!

R.E.A.L Talk, R.E.A.L. Recovery is my story. This journey extends outside of my own path through a judicial program designed to reform alcoholics and alcohol abusers alike into free thinking individuals, intent on embracing a life void of the vices that once kept us trapped behind more than steel bars. Alcohol may not be your problem.  Your problem may not even be related to living on the wrong side of the law; however, there are bits and pieces we can all take away to at least understand that there is always a choice when it comes to living what I like to call "our BEST LIFE"--and that the choices we make have the potential to impact generations far beyond the LIFE in which we lead today.

I’m am not an alcoholic; however, the ideals of healing not only my body but my mind through positive thinking and the proper foundation to move forward are lessons I have taken from this experience to deliver to whoever wants to listen. The people I’ve met and the things I’ve seen along the way are reasons enough to carry and develop my own message to others who seek that push to get back up from a fall that we once believed we’d never get back up from.

So...

Are you ready to get R.E.A.L.???

God Takes Care of Babies and Fools...

Recovery (n.)

Webster defines it as the process of combating a disorder (such as alcoholism) or a REAL perceived problem.

Dictionary.com lists a definition of a different sort: Regaining in substance in a useable form, as from waste.

Google (who seems to have an answer for everything) described RECOVERY as "the action or process of regaining possession or control of something stolen or lost."

Obviously, it's just that simple. So simple, even a 5th grader could deduce that the word recovery represents some form of fixing, a healing (if you will), of something once thought damaged or irrepairable.

Is that what I was?  Was I damaged?  Was something inside of me irrepairable?

What started out as a night with the boys ended in a blur of flashing lights, handcuffs, and a violent seizure on the floor of the Athens-Clarke County Jail...

Gasping for air from a condition dormant only until extreme anxiety engulfs my entire being, I could remember flapping around on the floor like a fish out of water, hoping to completely pass out before they could open the holding cell.  Losing complete consciousness...hell, dying or the perception thereof, could have been the only means of me leaving that place.  And for a brief second, dying on that floor didn't seem so bad.

I, ladies and gentlemen, have the uncanny ability to drink far more than the normal person my size (5'8, 175 lbs) and still function like a"normal" human being.  Walk.  Talk.  Drive.  All the typical functions of what is perceived to be "regular."  However, on two seperate occassions, I have been convicted of driving under the influnce in the state of Georgia--earning the distinct label of a habitual offender.

Habitual (adj.)

Regular, usual...

I had made a habit of drinking and getting behind the wheel of my vehicle, as many of you who are reading this blog have done, knowing that you take pride in being able to "hold you liquor" enough to get you safely home without having to worry about any harm coming to you or others.  And I thought the same thing.  I could hold it...and very well indeed.  Yet, I had taken my fairshare of chances, rolling the dice of life--finally rolling another snake eyes.

The old folks say God takes care of babies and fools; and at age 28, I was disqualified from the "baby" category, yet I was playing the role of the "fool" quite well.

I hadn't killed anyone, or even injured anyone the night of the incident (at least physically), and my job was still safe as I had informed my employer of the situation.  It was the shame and shackles connected to an upcoming jail sentence, followed by a drug treatment program stint, that really set the stage for what was to come...