On December first of 2010 I was released from prison having served seven years of an eight year sentence for involuntary manslaughter. I was convicted – and guilty of – having killed a man whom we’ll call Jose, in an automobile accident. I was drunk. It was 2003.
At the time of the accident I was by every measure a full-blown alcoholic. I was dependent in every way on alcohol, and drinking was by far my highest priority. My life had become, by its very nature, unmanageable and with it came a level of sociopathic behavior that ensured my life was a cold and lonely one. It is not an existence that I miss.
Delving into my experiences in prison, or the things that I undertook while there, is a waste of space in my opinion. Prison is, as people expect, an odd sort of place which defies much understanding or logic. My release from prison was rather unceremonious; I was picked up by my fiancée – whom had forged through seven years of loneliness and loss – and together we began trying to rebuild some semblance of a future. I admit that this all sounds rather dark and dour; it’s not my intention. The truth is that things were beautiful in very elementary ways from the very moment my foot set outside the door of the facility. What is important to take from this brief qualification is that I never lost sight of what happened, or why I was placed where I was. Nor had I lost sight of the fact that I needed to atone for many things that I had done – Jose’s death chief among them.
Christine, my fiancée, was supportive and loving throughout my incarceration. She understood – or attempted to understand as much as possible – what it was that I needed to do in my life. I believe that she appreciates even today that my life is no longer my own, and that in some existential ways that I’m living for two people. This sort of notion may seem a bit misguided, but it is a debt in my mind. One that I know consciously I’ll never be able to fully repay, but one on which I need to make continual payments. The payments? Living righteously and meaningfully. Being a good person. One who is committed not only to recovery, but to service and compassion.
I’ve fallen short of that thus far.
I suspect that it’s quite easy for people reading this to feel no sense of compassion or empathy – I appreciate that. I seek neither pity nor understanding. Well … maybe a bit of understanding. If only for the sake that I’d hope that people can recognize that I DO desire to atone, I DO desire a meaningful life, and I DO desire to live a good life which is defined in part by my commitment to others.
In the past couple of weeks I’ve struggled with control, with decisions, and with the level of involvement of others in my life. It has been an interesting psychological process which I would find fascinating – were I not the subject. I have been callous and insensitive to Christine and her teenage son. I have begun a development of pride and self-righteousness, which if left unchecked, would have ensured a fall. Perhaps a hard one. Things came to a head on New Year’s Eve – the first that Christine and I had in fact ever spent together. She called me to task for my behavior – and in a moment of serenity, I was able to see things for what they were: sliding.
So where am I today? I’m not sure. I get overwhelmed pretty easily by the many things which need to be done. Part of that is just the simple task of making common decisions and choices about prioritizing. This isn’t something that I’ve had to do – in any meaningful way – for a number of years. I find that I get easily entranced by minutiae and fail to grasp the significance of the important things and people around me. I sacrifice the greater picture for the sake of the smaller picture.
I have lost touch with much of my devotion to faith, and in a large part, I think that I’ve lost full cognition of my commitment to my meaning as well. It’s not enough to recognize the problem – it requires constant attention. But I’m glad that I can see it for what it is, and gather the courage to face it with my full time and attention.
