#for as long as God grants another day and withholds another bus

[iwillkeepfighting]

psa to Whom it May Concern: I am alive

[freerabbitmanandpig]

My Friend With Parkinson’s

On Oct 1st of this year I was given compassionate release from Allenwood USP for (what was diagnosed as) an unspecified connective tissue disorder. I had served roughly 60 months of a 70 month sentence. To secure this extraordinary release my lawyer had sited the new emergency COVID increased risk criteria, pointing to my status of being prescribed immunosuppressants, as well as suffering from lifelong asthma. Being as that I’d been housed in a care-level 3 medical facility, most of my time had been spent around inmates with chronic conditions, many of them without a chance of making it home within the course of their natural lives. Conscious of the fact that many of these men lacked the financial resources available to my family, especially as the pandemic has left many people in the street without regular employment, I made promises to some of these men to attempt to get their stories out into the world.

Christian Tarantino (Reg. # 14684-050) is a middle-aged man that I met while in Allenwood. A gambler with a good sense of humor, who was generous with his friends and, while in the street, lethal to those who stood in his way. According to the FBI, back in the early 90s Chris was part of a crew that committed a number of armed robberies. In 2011 he was sentenced to three consecutive life-terms for the murder of a guard during an armored car robbery back in 1994, as well as the murder of one of the participants whom he feared would flip on him.

Criminals, conscious of their own status, tend to withhold judgement, and I’d be lying if the description of Chris as a “cold killer”, spoken to me with admiration by more than a few inmates, did not inspire this same admiration in me upon hearing the stories of his exploits. To be clear, I never personally heard Chris tell any stories about his case, or murder in general; the stories he did tell me were often funny ones about the club scene in NY, or his dog. The problem was that, when Chris spoke, I often had to strain to hear him. Still, the Parkinson’s had made him patient over the years, and he did not get frustrated when a person had to ask him to repeat himself, sometimes multiple times. No matter how long it took for him to finish the story, it was worth it to hear it all the way through – as I said, he was funny.

Chris and I had started talking more about his disease a month before my release, after having heard that the Marshall Project had published a short story of mine the year before. The problem, he’d told me one morning, was that a 15-minute analysis with the MD did not take in to account the fact that his PD fluctuated in intensity throughout the course of a given day. Even if you’re classified as a care level 3, you generally only get to see the facility’s MD once a year, with all subsequent outside appointments and medication adjustments being managed by your assigned PA. The key to adequate treatment lies then in the temperament of your PA. My PA was considered the best on the compound and was likely instrumental in getting me the workups and appointments I needed to secure my compassionate release. Chris’ PA was largely considered the worst on the compound (one of two), a bitter woman who often had to be compelled into action via administrative remedies, which Chris was inevitably forced to file. If he came to a sick-call and was not actively in the throes of intense contortions (which he sometimes referred to as ‘crazy legs’) then he was often disregarded. Chris and his PA were prone to devolve into shouting matches, nor was this a problem that she had only with him. Even when he wasn’t engaged in fighting the crazy legs, he was mostly still confined to his wheelchair. There were, on occasion, times when he felt in control of his legs enough to walk, albeit while holding on to another inmate’s shoulders. There was no shortage of willing shoulders, as inmates of all races would step up to ferry him, either to the computer room – where they would inevitable have to help him type his emails, or to the shower – where no handicap accommodations existed. This last omission struck many of us as particularly negligent, considering the yard’s care level. Another problem was the speech impediment. I’d often heard him ask, rhetorically, how it was that sounding like “a retard” when he spoke was not a clear enough indicator of the severity of his condition, regardless of the tremors. Of course ‘retard’ is not really the best adjective for any modern condition, but the point was still valid that, when he spoke, he sounded like a person recovering from a massive stroke – only he wasn’t recovering, Parkinson’s is a degenerative illness.

          The prison had no choice but to provide him with follow-ups to the local neurologist after a highly invasive surgery, known as ‘deep brain stimulation’, in which a device, a ‘neurostimulator’, was implanted into his brain. This local doctor told Chris flat-out that he was incapable of treating him at this stage in his illness, nor is the facility capable of recalibrating his implant.

         At night, a small group of us would walk to pill line to get our evening medications. I got Elavil and Gabba Pentin – the former for my interstitial cystitis, and the Gabba Pentin for more generalized pain. Chris, on the other hand, got a bunch of different pills, each with an Old Testament-sized list of potential side effects. To add insult to injury, the medical staff crushed most of his medications, as though this middle-aged man in a plastic, yellow wheelchair, barely able to get the cup of powder into his mouth, would somehow be able – or even willing, to cheek these many pills so that he could smuggle them back to the unit and…. What? For anyone curious enough to look, Federal Penitentiaries are full to the point of bursting with real narcotics. Who the fuck wants to sniff twenty different PD meds?

         During these evening walks (some of our only time outside of the unit since the pandemic started) the subject of my pending motion came up on a regular basis. It was news, if nothing else. As for Chris, PD does not put him at an increased risk for COVID complications, and although I’d heard him, on occasion, tentatively breech the subject of outright compassionate release, his main request to me was that I put his story up, in the hope that perhaps someone else from the outside would get involved and get him moved to a medical facility. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about falling down in the shower and bearing the indignity of calling for help, alone and naked on a wet floor that’s covered with other men’s piss and body hair. Before I was released, I wrote one final staff request for him to the medical coordinator attempting to get him transferred to a care-level 4 facility. This was not his first attempt to obtain such a transfer, and, for the purposes of the request, Chris provided me with a list of names of staff members who had seen him fall down, or else had helped him get back to his cell after an accident. It was a long list.

         For a man who devoted a large part of his life to fitness, it’s a hard pill to swallow. In my mind I am stuck wondering what three consecutive life sentences (or a thousand for that matter) really means for someone like Chris, who’s own body has become a prison. In a sense I have an idea – back in 2017, my uncle Steven Parr – a successful and well known archivist in San Francisco, was diagnosed first with Parkinson’s, which was later amended to a diagnoses of Lewy-Body syndrome – a disease that bears similarities to PD. His initial suicide attempt was precluded by his manager, Adam, who was on the phone with my mother at the time. His second attempt, however, was successful. To me, though, the most poignant encapsulation of Chris’s attitude was made apparent when I was pushing him to the showers one morning. He’d removed his shirt before getting back in his chair, and I was struck by his apparent muscle tone and total lack of body fat, despite his sedentary lifestyle,

“Damn Chris, you’re in a wheelchair and still in better shape than half these dudes in here.”

“Yea..” he spoke slowly – struggling to force his tongue to conform to the consonants, “..this is the worst thing god could’ve done to me.”

         In a way it was cruel how the progress in my appeal seemed to engender a sense of hope in some of the other care level 3’s working fervently, without the aid of outside capital or competent legal help, to obtain their own releases before the virus made it’s way to the yard. By Oct 1st the USP at the Allenwood Correctional Complex had 7 cases, all of them quarantined in the shu after having arrived on a plane, and then a bus, with who-knows how many others potentially infected. They’d already shut the medium back down as, despite their ‘best’ efforts at screening all arrivals, 15 cases had popped up in general population. As I already stated above, the administration fought me every step of the way – even after the motion had been granted and I was only awaiting the end of my obligatory 2 week quarantine, the staff refused to allow me to call my family, my lawyer, or even probation, so that I could arrange for transport. I didn’t know whether I’d be going straight home or to a program until the last minute. I could see it in their faces every time they brought me legal mail or were forced to set up my screening for the drug program that I’m in now – they didn’t think I deserved it. Like they had only just found out via the granting of my motion that they presided over an unequal system. I got 8 months back – goodtime I’d lost, along with years-worth of visits and phone calls - “privileges” they justified in taking almost exclusively over dirty urines, and for what? Suboxone. At my final workup the MD confided in me that, prior to the pandemic, they’d been told by the region to start preparations for the MAT program (medication assisted treatment) and to apply for the DEA approval to begin prescribing both suboxone and vivitrol. Unfortunately, these proceedings had to be halted to focus their energies on the then emerging public health crisis. Maybe it’s my prejudices, but itt seemed to me that these people took it personally – as though those reclaimed 8 months had come directly off the end of their own lifespans.

[thessalian]

Thess vs Penny-Pinching

In other news: JOB SHIT.

Phone call yesterday from Relentlessly Cheerful Agency Lady - the one whose voice grates on me like nails on a chalkboard, by the way. (You know that, “Hiiiiiiiiiii! How are yooooooooou?" Perky With A Chance Of Stepford voice? THAT one.) She told me that Agency Guy was on annual leave (again. And of course, he couldn’t tell me that shit, oh no) but that she had another role available from the hospital she sent me to interview for the other week. So I said, “Yeah, sure, put my CV in for it - oh, and by the way, I still haven’t been paid for work I did last month“. She said she’d get in touch with someone and get that sorted out for me.

To her credit, she did. Apparently I am getting the money on Friday. Thank the gods, something to work with. Of course, she did say, “You got the booking but you have to start tomorrow”. Which was less than ideal because transport costs. Because apparently it’s anathema to send me for bookings anywhere south of the river these days. So that was the situation I was left with - if I took the booking, I’d have to figure out transport. If I didn’t take the booking, it’d go to someone else and I’d have no way of knowing when the next one would come along. I took the booking. It’s fine; I have a little bit of cash on my Oyster card and a jar of emergency spare change which covers the rest. I’m pretty well used to taking the bus to bookings in that area, so no big deal. Aggravating, not impossible.

Of course, there’s stuff I’m not sure about. Like the hours on this one, for example. I knew from my interview that this hospital, unlike many others, is happy to have agency staff work more than 35 hours a week. (I asked because the last two hospitals I worked at were intent on my either doing 9-5 with an hour lunch or 9-4:30 with the usual half-hour, and generally preferred the latter because having someone away from the desk during a working day is a no-no.) However, the information I received - AFTER accepting the booking, I might add; I got no information about the booking before I accepted it - says 9-5:30 are the hours, and it doesn’t mention how long a lunch break I’d be granted. If it’s the industry standard half-hour, we’re looking at a 40-hour work week. Given some of my issues, I’m not sure how well I’m going to be able to cope with that, but at least if it’s only a month, I can get through it.

...That’s if it’s only a month. I got told “a month, possibly longer”. Lately, that could mean literally anything. I have all but given up on having any certainty in my professional life at all. I’ve kind of had to. This is how it works - uncertainty in the job followed by weeks of uncertainty and austerity between contracts. I’ve applied for a couple of permanent roles but I’m trying to be choosy here, largely in the realm of commute. Because it’s the commute that kills me - we’re looking at an hour and a half minimum each way.

Honestly, I’m looking at the bright side as much as possible right now. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. There’s a job, yay! Though honestly, sometimes I feel like this is how my agency works; like they withhold jobs until I’m desperate enough to take damn near anything. Intellectually I’m pretty sure that’s not true, but that doesn’t change how I feel about it.

[goodkarmaman]

Hello truth

Why are you so ugly? Maybe it’s the way that I’ve dressed you. Now I must strip you naked. Take off all the clothes take off all the make wash away the perfume. And stare at you bare.

So truth I cheated on a woman I love very much. The girl was ugly and I was unattracted to her but she was available when the women I wanted to love forever wasn’t. I tried hide truth. But now I gotta set it free. Cheating is never something you should do and the woman I love should never be cheated on. She’ll never be cheated on in life again probably but if I’m honest the reason I it happened was because I was selfish and she was selfish too. Now one selfish deed should never be followed up with another you know the saying two wrongs don’t make a right? You have time right? Ok so let’s start at the beginning. .....

The first selfish deed. We started dating after I went to visit her. After that I made several attempts for her to visit me and everyone they where canceled or something “came up”. Red flag I should have knew she didn’t value me enough to respect plans that we made money that I put up and never got back. That two plane and one bus ticket. Almost a thousand dollars given away. The money isn’t the issue it’s the lack of respect to go thru with plans that where places with the person you’re dating especially when you’re long distant so visits can’t be as frequent.

Second selfish deed. After months of not seeing each other I fell in love with a voice. This voice was getting me sexually excited and we just talked about how amazing life would be together. Me lying to myself- the visiting was important to me and her canceling our plans really bothers me especially the Hawaii trip.

Now I’m at work and this ugly girl starts showing me attention. I’m not looking for it but her comments and desire for me stroked my ego. I wasn’t feeling desired my girl. I felt unimportant and something to just put in a schedule not someone time should be sacrificed for. So her attention though unwanted was something I didn’t know I needed. Pause: This is where I need to be upfront about my truth and feelings but I’m so in love my girl who keeps breaking up with me. But I withhold my truth focus on my needs...like I said selfish Play: I text her from time most of the time she text first but I entertained her. We make plans to have sex. We have sex and let me tell you it was so bad. I threw my life away for some bad pussy. Afterwards we try to make plans again but I end up blocking her and never talking to her again. I was so selfish it’s sickening I know.

My lies:: Something in her spirit would not let her let the situation go. Mind you this is months I fucked her and blocked her. She asked “did I have sex with her?” I lied and lied and said “no “. That was months so and we’re talking marriage. I knew it would eventually get out but I was fighting it because what I did was shameful. What I did would devastate her. I didn’t want to lose her. She finds out by going to the girl til this day I wonder why I gave her the real name but hey Gods revealing this. The girl tells her everything like she had a file saved for this shit. And then I have to tell her the truth

Partially the truth. I gave her minimum details about the situation and called some other things lies. To be honest I never lied so much in my life and then again the truth of my actions have never been so ugly either. So she got the full picture from the girl but only pieces of what im saying match and now she’s tryna figure out what true and what’s lie. She still doesn’t let it go it still bothers her and the ugly mistress reaches out to her from time to time. And she finally gets the missing details out of me. I went to her house and had raw sex. We tried to set it up again but I blocked her. Now that’s my only lie in this whole relationship but that’s a big lie. Like big big now everything I do is questioned.

The ugly conclusion. Even after all that I proposed to her and she said yes. The residue of my lies can’t be washed away. I know her not visiting played a factor in this but it shouldn’t have turned this sour. Now she can’t bare it she’s stressed and paranoid I’m out dont it still. It was really one time but that one time had a trickle down effect that left me all alone. So my fiancé is breaking up with me. That bitch. She tried to work it out but couldn’t I wish she would just broke it off when she found out. Well she’s leaving me for another athlete with more money. I am undeserving of love. She deserves happiness and I couldn’t give her that. I pray the lord grants her that, and grant me peace and mercy to cope with messing up deep love