Affidavit of Bryan's Paternal Aunt Concerning Family's Mental Health History

THE PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF COLORADO

Plaintiff,

v.

BRYAN DAY,

Defendant

AFFIDAVIT OF [BRYAN'S PATERNAL AUNT]

STATE OF MISSOURI
COUNTY OF [ ]

I, [XXXX XXX], being of lawful age and duly sworn, deposes and says that to the best of my knowledge and belief, the following is true:

1. I am Bryan Day's paternal aunt and have known Bryan since he was a child.

2. Bryan's father, [XXX] and I are two of three children born to our parents, [XXX XXX] and [XXX XXX]. There is a four year gap between oldest and youngest sibling. I am the oldest sibling and [Bryan's father] was the youngest.

3. Due to my role as caretaker for our mother, who suffered from mental illness, including schizophrenia, I have knowledge with respect to family's mental health history.

4. Our mother was hospitalized several times during our childhood and adolescence for mental health 'breakdowns' (this is the term used at the time). Our mother suffered from debilitating paranoia and agoraphobia that interfered with her ability to socialize and lead a normal life. Our mother's paranoia was such that she was afraid of going outside, was fearful of everything unknown or unexpected, and was obsessive. She was hospitalized in a mental health treatment center for a multiple month stay when I was in high school, and was re-hospitalized for mental health reasons on other occasions, though the dates of those hospitalizations escape me.

5. When I was in my thirties, my mother was placed permanently into adult foster care, where she lived for the next twenty years until her death.

6. My nephew Bryan Day, in early adulthood, exhibited some of the symptoms I saw in my mother in much milder forms. He was withdrawn and would isolate himself occasionally. I never voiced this concern because I was not around Bryan enough to feel I could suggest something like that to his parents. Bryan was always an incredibly kind and sweet boy and young man when I saw him, but a little withdrawn.

7. My brother [XXX], Bryan's father, suffered considerably during his life from physical ailments of several varieties related to his liver disease, which ultimately took his life. His life was difficult the last several years of his life, and that caused several stresses on his family.

Further the affiant sayeth not.

Dated this ___ day of November, 2009.

Excerpts from the Psychologist's Letter to Bryan's Lawyer for the Reconsideration Hearing

November 10, 2009

Mr. [Attorney at Law]
Denver, Colorado

Re: Mr. Bryan E. Day
Case#: XXXXXXX
City and County of Denver, Colorado
Courtroom 13, Honorable Sheila Rappaport

Dear Mr. [Bryan's Lawyer]:

I am responding to your request for a more detailed assessment of Mr. Bryan Day (27). You are aware that I was Mr. Day's treating psychologist prior his being sentenced to the Colorado Department of Corrections on July 31, 2009. You are also aware that I provided brief testimony to the Court at that hearing. Based upon our recent telephone conversation you wanted me to provide additional psychological/diagnostic information that was not offered at his sentencing hearing.

The information that I provided to the Court was obtained through my ongoing treatment with Mr. Day. Prior to preparing this report I reviewed a transcript of an interview that you recently conducted with Mr. Day, as well as an historical time line of significant and traumatic events that had occurred in Mr. Day's life prior to his committing the current offense and his subsequent incarceration. I also reviewed a written transcript of my testimony from his sentencing hearing.

Mr. Day has had a long history of social awkwardness and interpersonal isolation. He also has an extended family history of Schizophrenia with accompanying psychiatric hospitalizations. While he had never previously been diagnosed with this specific illness, his interpersonal adjustment history has always been characterized by significant personal and interpersonal challenges and disappointments....

During the course of my therapeutic contact with Mr. Day, he continued to verbalize that he regretted his offending behavior and that he was concerned about how the victim was impacted by his actions. As I indicated at Mr. Day's sentencing hearing, I believe that he is an excellent treatment candidate and that he is a low risk to engage in future violent behavior against this victim or any other female party. In fact during the course of my treatment with Mr. Day he participated in other female relationships without incident.

From a diagnostic perspective Mr. Day presents with symptoms or characteristics of a Schizoaffective Disorder DSM IV-TR 295.70 and a Schizotypal Personality Disorder DSM IV-TR 301.22. The essential feature of a Schizotypal Personality Disorder is a pervasive pattern of social and interpersonal deficits marked by acute discomfort with and reduced capacity for, close relationships as well as by cognitive or perceptual distortions and eccentricities of behavior. This pattern of adjustment generally begins in early adulthood. These individuals may respond to stress by experiencing transient psychotic symptoms, although the symptoms are usually insufficient in duration to warrant the additional diagnosis of Brief Psychotic Episode. These same individuals only rarely develop Schizophrenia or another Psychotic Disorder.

Individuals with this particular personality style are not necessarily aggressive nor do they necessarily present with a chronic or recurrent aggressive behavioral history. This is true for Mr. Day, who other than for this particular set of behaviors had never previously acted out in an aggressive manner.

Mr. Day responded well to treatment without the assistance of medication. At times it is necessary to treat these particular individuals for the accompanying symptoms of anxiety and depression. There is no clear information about treatment outcome with this particular personality style, however, in Mr. Day's case it is noteworthy that he responded very well to treatment and for the year (July 2008 through July 2009) prior to his sentencing hearing he was functioning in a more effective and socially appropriate manner.

I hope the enclosed information is helpful to you in explaining my observations of Mr. Day. Please feel free to reach me if you have additional questions.

Sincerely,
[Licensed Psychologist]
PL#XXX State of Colorado

thought

I never knew how much I hated rush hour traffic until the realization that I wouldn't have to put up with it for many years to come. The relief I felt was inexplicably thorough.

Dear Reader:

I am working on what I believe is the most revealing thing I have ever written about myself. It is a slow process, and has taken over twice as long as I expected it would. So far, it is still incomplete, much to my dissatisfaction. However, I do not wish to remain silent for too long, or to give the impression that I have lost interest in telling my story. Quite the contrary; I think about it all the time.
For this reason, I have selected a handful of letters for you to read. These were sent to me by my lawyer during the course of my reconsideration process, and they provide some third-party perspective on my situation.
Over the past few months, I have been talking to a prison psychologist on a weekly or near weekly basis. I have also explored treatment options for my depression, which seems to have been the root of most of my problems. I have settled on Prozac for now. It has increased my capabilities in a general sense, although my interest in creativity has noticeably subsided. On the whole, however, my ideas seem to be better when I think creatively, despite the lessened interest. The stabbing adrenaline feelings I used to get in my heart are gone.
Since late 2009, I have been playing in two prison bands; a rock band in which I sing and play guitar, and an R&B band in which I play bass. Each band practices twice a week and we perform for inmates on holidays. Very Johnny Cash. These guys are quite talented -- all the good drummers were in prison, apparently. At least, in Colorado they are. I have also taken up Buddhism. It would seem that I have been "Buddhistically-inclined" for several years now without quite realizing it. I wish I would have considered it a long time ago. It doesn't really matter, I suppose.
I have a day-job in prison. I help teach basic computer skills to inmates now, a process which is as often rewarding as it is strange. Sometimes it is a bit like teaching chimpanzees to write Shakespeare. However, a profound change occurs in an inmate's temperament once he "gets it." A glimmer of hope washes over some of these people when they realize they might have a shot at finding a rewarding source of income -- especially since the classes are accredited now. A few of them have crawled through the GED program and gotten pretty thoroughly trained on all of the office tools -- except Outlook, of course. They have really tried. I hope society does not let them down. I surprise myself sometimes; I get very interested in my students' progress.
I have met another inmate who has a blog on blogspot. His name is Jason Pecci and he's at: jasonpecci.blogspot.com. I knew I couldn't have been the only one. funnily enough, he's the only other atheist in the facility (of around 1200 inmates). He is a very nice and down-to-earth person. What a waste of human potential. I don't understand this country. I wonder sometimes if any of my childhood friends from Germany will read my blog. What did they imagine would become of me when I moved to America? Andre Rose, Javier Francisco, Ramazan Polat, Daniel Schneider, Marc Pieper, Johannes... I don't remember his last name. "Ob wir uns in 20 Jahren wiedersehen koennen... wuerden wir einander erkennen?" Dear Germany: America destroyed me. I have thought of you often.
Readers will also be excited to know that I have an accumulation of material that might be available soon; soon being a relative term, I suppose. A month? Three months? I hope you like it.
Thanks, as always, for reading.
Take care,
Bryan Day

P.S. I have asked that these four letters be spread out over the course of several weeks to give me time to work on this difficult entry. I hope this doesn't appear "gimmicky."

P.P. S. Happy Thanksgiving :p

Deja vu

"But there was also a scarecrow self -- an unacknowledged, angry, aggrieved shadow, who lived in a scarecrow body. It was plotting from the beginning to sabotage the other self. That took a long time. But, meanwhile, she was sending messages in a bottle."

Strange Piece of Paradise
Terri Jentz

In 1998 I vividly recalled a dream I had as a child. In the dream, I saw a large, tall man with a shaved head wearing sunglasses. He wore a white button-up shirt tucked neatly into black work pants, which were partially obscured by a utility apron of some kind. His sleeves were rolled up casually though neatly. Around his neck hung a loose black tie, implying a concern for appearance that hesitated before intruding on his comfort.

This apparition presented itself to me in the form of a reflected image on the window of a green station-wagon. A grinning, wily man talked to him from the driver's seat. Cynicism oozed between these two conspirators, and the topic of their conversation filled me with a vague unease, though it wasn't clear to me what they were talking about.

Although well proportioned, the reflection made the man's shoulders appear enormous, and his arms seemed as pillars. The contrast of shadow on his face revealed the extreme desert heat of day that played across his face and body. The heat looked as bad as anything hell itself had to offer, and sweat beaded on the man's forehead. His work costume was adorned with various soot stains from some day-labor task or another.

But there were more invisible qualities to this character than appearances suggested. Darkness emanated from him like an obscuring veil. It seemed to me that evil clung to him. Smoke rose from his breath, his shoulders, his hands, and his hair. What's more, he was lithe, charming, and very smart; he could even be manipulative if he wanted to be, yet he had no motive as such. Malevolence sat unrestrained in his mind, like a naked body reclining in a bare, concrete room. His existence struck me as perverse, not that I could vocalize such an opinion, but his entire being seemed to taunt passers-by.

He was a walking riddle, every bit as dangerous as a devil. He would have been just as provocative too, but for his human appearance, and that obscuring aura. He thrived in the indifference of surrounding human beings. He looked like a bully in that ugly-yet-handsome sort of way. He knew his inner hideousness possessed a sort of power, but he refrained from using it. Why? Not out of kindness or a respect for life. He practiced a lazy self-deprivation for fun, perhaps as an escape, or maybe as preparation for a task as yet unknown. In simple terms, he looked very mean. I remember being quite terrified of that man as a child.

I had completely forgotten him until a '98 summer when, as a teenager, I was taking a cigarette break from my part time job as a bag-boy at a grocery store. A coworker had pulled up alongside me in his car that sunny afternoon. We shared a smile and some jokes. I caught my reflection, and felt a surge of adrenaline as my childhood self reeled in horror. The image staring back at me called to mind a perfect deja vu. The man I feared in that dream was me. I had dreamt that exact moment over a decade prior. All my fears were falsely perceived.

It was around that time that I had begun to unwrap, so to speak, a symbolic box whose contents revealed how I had been slowly developing into everything I had ever feared. I listened to music which was very scary to my childhood self. I dissociated with the religious ideas I had been taught, which of course damned my childhood self to hell. I was also angry at my near-sightedness -- I had actually wanted to be an air force pilot as a child. I had virtually no friends, and I didn't like most of my peers. As I've mentioned, suicidal urge plagued me and made me very cynical and angry at life, which was probably the scariest part of all. Many problems, and my inability to cope with them, had led to poor scholastic performance, and I didn't have the means to pursue my musical ambitions scholastically. Had I been seeking my fears or did they set out to find me? I still haven't really found the answer to that question.

This process of embodying fear has continued to unravel into my adulthood -- I never knew I would get kicked out of the military. I never knew I'd become a chronic smoker, drinker and occasional drug user. I never knew I'd spend my adulthood single or childless. I never knew I'd have extreme difficulty just making enough money to sustain myself from month to month. I didn't know companies could prey on customers. I never suspected my emotions could become so deeply drenched in sorrow and despair. I never knew I could lose my mind. I never thought I could terrorize anyone, or ever come to light a house on fire, yet here I am. The worst person in my life is me.

As I've become more frightening and unfamiliar to my childhood self, I understand more clearly just how limited my childhood, adolescent, and early adult worldviews were. But for whose benefit is my consciousness expanding? My own? What tasks await me, that I shall be glad to have acquired use of these strange experiences? Additionally, I am left with the unsettling knowledge that most of the world has the same expectations of me that my childhood self did. Most surprisingly, to myself; I am still me, nothing has changed, and I like myself more than I ever have. I have never felt more human or understandable than I do today. Have others embodied their fears to learn that there is nothing to be afraid of?

This process of familiarizing with the "scary"-- which I don't quite have a name for -- resembles my deja vus; of familiarization with the unfamiliar dreams of my subconscious. By the time I had my aforementioned deja vu, they were already a familiar phenomenon. The re-lived dreams, which have called on my life frequently and to strange effect, have probably had a greater hand in shaping my perception of time as non-linear, cause and effect as illusory, and free will as farcical, than any other idea, theory or philosophy. It has been my sternest teacher, and could be the chief cause of my tendency for devil's advocacy.

As I understand it, deja vu refers to the sensation that a scene has been seen before, or that a phrase has been uttered twice in the same way, or as a tick of some kind of mental 'feedback-loop'. When I experience deja vu, I recall several things in rapid succession. First, that I have dreamt of the moment. Immediately after, I remember my emotional state while dreaming, which supplies a clue as to the time frame of the dream itself. Next, I begin to remember sensory details of the bed I was sleeping in, further narrowing the time frame. (Night lives are marked by a succession of textures, comfort levels, and bed sizes.) Memories from the day's events soon become clearer, which, in the past, have ranged from a kindergarten school day to a party's alcohol binge or a hotel night's stay on a family vacation. Afterwords, I begin to remember my thoughts as they came when I first viewed the dream. They are surprisingly congruent.

Initially I am confused by the total unfamiliarity of the scene out of its proper context. Sometimes I recognize the characters in the dream, but they are all "wrong." Haircuts are different, or styles of dress are completely out of character. Sometimes there is 'in-dream-knowledge' that a person possesses a certain job, perhaps, or has a significant other I've never met or some other piece of information that doesn't exist in my present life. The setting is so patently unlikely that I cannot fathom how life could bring such an incongruent event. Could you imagine a child's interpretation of a dream of conversing with a prisoner? Would you recognize yourself today, twenty years back? Often, the least recognizable character is me.

My final thought as I remember the dream-state is generally the same: "This could never happen," I think, or, "it doesn't make any sense," or even, "how could this happen?" The memory lingers as I simultaneously exist in both moments; the dream and the reality are one, transcending time. The universe -- I must admit it's hard for me not to anthropomorphize the universe in these odd situations -- remembers it too. In unfolding my life before me, it has proven me not just wrong, but completely powerless to render judgment as to the probability or improbability of anything. "Absolute uncertainty," the Universe mutters in its silent, wordless way (which is to say, that's how I used to perceive it), "everything is complete and utter uncertainty." I have been proven wrong so many times, so often, about so many things, deja vu or not, that it actually causes me discomfort to even hear people speak in certain terms.

Like the keyhole nebula, this uncertainty seems to resemble a cosmic middle finger. It's downright frustrating. I suppose, from a certain point of view, the human struggle is somewhat contrary to the natural order of things in the chaotic sense, which could, from a theistic perspective, form a hypothesis for what the knowledge of good and evil might propose to stand for. When someone decides that certainty is good, he is at odds with Chaos, who wields the power to spite in ways one would never have thought possible. Evolution also pits man against uncertainty. Our brains are hardwired for pattern recognition in the hopes that we can make the slightest sense of it all. And we do, in our mentally-rendered, symbol-ridden way.

In the past, my deja vu has put me on somewhat antagonistic terms with the universe, with existence, my personal demons, and with god. This antagonism has had more to do with my path towards atheism than anything else, which, if anything, is an indication of how ridiculously stubborn I can prove to be. It wasn't logic that led me away from religion at first. Rather embarrassingly, it was the suspicion that god was deliberately screwing with me.

Paranoid suspicions like these are probably the roots of all religion; they certainly have a role in forming the personal collection of superstitions which describe my reaction to the elusive Belfast, whom I shall describe soon. I should probably clarify at the onset that I've never seen Belfast, heard him, felt him, or perceived him in any direct way, shape or form. I've never fully explored his emergence in my psyche, either. But lately I've been realizing something. Just as my dreams have transitioned to reality and my fears have transitioned to self, I'm beginning to see that, strictly speaking, Belfast was me, too.

Author's note: Sorry for the lateness, the sparseness, etc. Things have been crazy lately. This would make a great introduction to the entry I wanted to write, but it's all I could eke out. That's prison for you! Plenty of downtime and not much to show for it. See you next time?

elitefitrea.com

Dear Readers:

The elitefitrea.com website is now up. It is a placeholder for the more complete website that Bryan is designing in the prison computer lab, but contains his sketch of the elite|fitrea logo, using the font he created, and provides a link to download his two completed musical works - "Rand" and "July". He finished those the year before he went in (July 31, 2009).

As always, please send your comments!

Continuation

"Earlier in our televised conversation, Jill (Mytton, therapist) had described this kind of religious upbringing [of belief in hell] as a form of mental abuse, and I returned to the point, as follows: 'you use the words religious abuse. If you were to compare the abuse of bringing up a child really to believe in hell...how do you think that would compare in trauma terms with sexual abuse?' She replied: 'That's a very difficult question...I think there are a lot of similarities, actually, because it is about abuse of trust: it is about denying the child the right to feel free and open and able to relate to the world in the normal way...it is a form of denigration; it's a form of denial of the true self in both cases.'"

The God Delusion
Richard Dawkins

Having a rudimentary plan in mind; and with work in the evenings to distract me from myself somewhat--as well as earn me an income for my musical hobby--I had acquired the sense of direction necessary to help me overcome many of my symptoms and pull a 3.9 GPA my senior year. This balanced my overall GPA at an even 2.0, which, my father later admitted, was higher than what he had achieved in 1969. My father had always exhibited trepidation in telling me about his life, but I have pieced much of his story together from the various snips and fragments he told me through the years. It shares some similarities with my own.
Although he was sane and sound, my father's life was not without mental hardship, nor free from an influence of madness. His mother, a Czechoslovakian immigrant, was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia around the time he was 10 or 11. She was committed to a mental hospital and remained there for most of my father's teen years. In her absence, my father and his two sisters accustomed to a quiet, detached lifestyle with an emotionally distant father--my paternal grandfather, whom I met briefly as an infant before he passed away.
Like mine, my father's childhood was relatively sheltered, but in a different way. Where my childhood was a cocoon of literal-interpretation style Christianity, reinforced by the culture and language barrier that existed between me and the German children I went to school with, my father's, on the other hand, was a Catholic upbringing, with attendance in Catholic school and none of said language barriers. I also lived in different kinds of communities from my father; he was more of a city kid, I think, where I was more of a small-town, rural sort. (Google-map Oftersheim, Germany, for a picture of my early life, and Dachtel, Germany, for a later snapshot, where you'll see my 'backyard'--a huge expanse of valley and forest at the Western edge of town.) Differences aside, my father was able to relate to me his own feelings of isolation and alienation--and culture shock--when he was suddenly thrust into public High School after his mother was hospitalized.
Through these helpful conversations, I learned at a fairly early age that I had a "crazy" grandmother. Curiosity about her condition led me to read up on it at some point, although I cannot remember precisely the age I was when I discovered that one of the risk factors for developing schizophrenia was having a relative with the disorder. Sources are usually quick to point out that the illness does not seem to be inherited, per se, but that it does tend to run in families. This curious fact confused me, as it does researchers. Could it be some sort of memetic 'virus,' brought on by the mental effects of long-term family habits, even seemingly innocuous ones?
At the time, however, what compelled me most about her illness was that it proposed the possibility that my sadness could somehow be related to her, if not directly then indirectly in the sense that it could be another kind of mental illness. I had never opened my mind to the possibility that such things could happen in my life, my family, my world. I doubted the validity of my own introspection, so I tried to think little of it, but I began to watch my behavior, and gauge it against what I learned to be certain warning signs-- a simple example being hallucinations, for instance. I told myself that I would know not to 'freak out' (whatever that might entail) since I would have had the foresight to know that they were within a realm of possibility. I watched for more subtle clues in myself as well.
This is not to say that I occupied my time with retro-introspect only; that wasn't all I did. I tried some of the teenager stuff--I tried alcohol, tried weed, tried smoking, tried breaking out of my Christian box when it came to girls--etc. I maintained the things I liked and dropped the things I didn't, and I succeeded in breaking out of my shell, at least somewhat, by age 17--although I wasn't as independent as I would have liked. But even that was changing--the more I worked the more freedoms I seemed to earn from my parents, whose behavior changed from what I thought of as relative strictness to mute indifference. Their focus had shifted more to my sister, and of course to my father's ever-progressing illness.
As my enlistment date neared, I began to have a feeling in the back of my mind which told me that I shouldn't go. I think that when people speak of gut feelings, they probably have something like what I felt in mind. It was a palpable disquiet in my senses. I was pretty nervous. When I talked to my father about my doubts, he intoned the importance of the contract I had signed, and the importance of following through with contractual obligations. I accepted that at face value, and I must admit that I felt a bit trapped by it as well. Eventually, I became so sorry for not listening to that feeling, that it could have helped 'open the door', so to speak, for the symptoms I heeded in 2008--but obviously this is mere conjecture.
On November 28th I stepped off an airplane in San Diego, got on a bus, and was soon acquainted with those yellow footprints all Marines know and talk about. The year was 2000. Boot camp was pretty awful, I'll admit. It is interesting to note the similarities between prison and the military--boot camp in particular. Recruits are kept in such a suppressed state, that when the drill instructors call cadence (this refers to shouting the words, "left" and "right" over and over), they are almost lulled by the melodic style Marine Corps drill instructors have exclusively adopted. Arabic calligraphy comes to mind when I think of the 'music' they sing--when art was banned under Islamic law, calligraphers learned how to draw images using Kor'anic verses. Similarly, Marine Corps drill instructors display their pride and instinct for paternal affection through cadence-singing. I merely mention it to demonstrate how restricted things are there.
In boot camp, knowledge of time is suppressed, talking is banned, and efforts by recruits to keep track of dates are suppressed and sometimes punished. It is strange to see (and feel) the psychological effects that take place in a person in a place like that. It isn't a stretch for me to imagine how North Koreans can become, well, the way they are, in defense of their leader. It's an existence beneath the dignity of the human mind, for sure, and is only justifiable, if it can justifiable at all, when it is temporary.
Tension is also high in boot camp; I'm not sure what sort of pressure drill instructors are under to perform, but one of ours was moved to another platoon because he couldn't restrain himself from physically assaulting one of the recruits (I'm unclear on whether it was an actual assault or something more like a "shaking"). I digress, however. There is plenty of literature on boot camps for the reader--I learned everything I was supposed to and have largely forgotten it by now. What helped me summon the energy and drive to complete it at all, if you're curious, was my desire to learn the language I had chose --Japanese-- and move on with my life as quickly as possible. I was very excited; even proud at times.
When I graduated from infantry training, four or five months later, I received my orders, and my first shock of disillusion. I had been assigned Arabic as a training language. I don't know how to properly convey the weight of this shock, but I was able to put if off because some official or another told me--and the other linguists who graduated with me--that we could expect for it to be changed upon our arrival at the language school; that Arabic was just a 'placeholder' text of sorts. I was hardly consoled, and my suspicion was raised.
At the language school, a week or so later, my suspicion was realized. I learned that I was indeed slated for Arabic. As an added surprise, the Marine Corps did not teach Japanese to its enlisted members at all--no small oversight on the part of my recruitment team. Either they didn't know this or didn't care. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. I was at a complete loss, and I wanted out of the Marine Corps immediately. To me, that was a simple, straightforward concept. Those in positions of authority over me had a different opinion on the matter.
It would take three years before I could accept that I would have to break the law to gain my independence. I had a 5 year enlistment contract with a 3 year inactive reserve period, and the Iraq war was in full effect by the time I smoked pot to get out. I did not want to lie to get discharged. Nor did I want to feign injury or deliberately maim myself--although I seriously considered drastic measures, such as cutting off my toes; or less harmful ones, such as hiring a gay prostitute and leaving pictures prolifically around the base. But those solutions were too comical for me. I wanted the right thing to happen, for the right reasons. I could not fight in a war for a country that had pulled the rug out from under me; and certainly not for one as enigmatic as the Iraq/Afghanistan conundrum that remains in front of us today.
Under the conditions I faced during those three years, my first delusions began to arise. They were mild. So mild, I'm not sure if they were delusions, thought experiments, or common mental investigations. My depression, on the other hand, grew to unmanageable proportions--I fell into deep, dark despair, and pulled myself through a constant mud of suicidal urge. Still, I didn't think to do anything about it. I don't know why. Perhaps I thought it was a natural reaction to my situation. My depression was such an incrementally increasing thing that I scarcely noticed I was getting worse, and all the reasons I had found to quiet my sadness melted away daily. I began to self-destruct more, inch by inch. It was a way of assuaging the death drive. I experienced cynicism and anger I had never known before.
My unique situation--and outlook--drew a number of strange and wonderful characters to me as well. I think you would be surprised, reader, at some of the bizarre scenes I've played roles in. There is (or was) a strange, emergent sort of culture in the military, consisting primarily of people like myself, who really shouldn't be depended upon for military successes. I would argue, if I could, for enlisted members to gain the right to de-enlist whenever they want. If you think that would have dire consequences in war and defeat the purpose of a military, well, I'd say that's a good thing, especially in these modern examples of warfare.
With situations as they were in the wake of 9/11, one of the more horrifying days of my life, I became a Pacifist. It was a slow and grisly process. To this day I marvel at the amount of pain and suffering I had to go through to become so disenfranchised with war, greed, corruption, religious fanaticism, and intolerance. The irony and duplicity of a Pacifist coming to set a house on fire later in life is not lost on me, either. In some ways I believe I discovered my humanity with that crime, in the sense that most people have double standards and are hypocritical to some extent or another. I still maintain that I am a Pacifist, and I still abhor violence.
The tipping point in my decision to use drugs to get out of the military came when my engagement fell through (despite my troubles, I'm capable of loving people, and am pretty good at it.) I suppose I have my ex-fiancee to thank for giving me the 'freedom' to get out of the military when she left me. I had been staying for her sake because she wanted to live with me and go to college in Hawaii, where I ended up being stationed. She abruptly changed her mind at the last minute, opting instead to chase B-rate rock stars around the Midwest. She didn't agree with my choice to leave the military. Her opinion was that war 'would be good for me.' I find this to be a relatively common truism in the US.
After the breakup, I had also deteriorated emotionally; to the point of slipping back into the external-decision-engine of my childhood--this time using coins. I became obsessed with change, probability, and tracked inconsistencies in coin flip probabilities; thousands of them, which I tallied either mentally or on sheets of paper. I believed that I saw something greater to it all, although at that point I had no conceived overarching theory. My mind festered over time and free will, constantly. If science could prove that free will was illusory, what was thought? What was the difference between an internal decision and an external one? What made a coin flip come out one way or another, if all actions were determined by actions that had already been determined in the past (and somehow at the same time)? How was the future any different from the past, practically speaking? What could cause any of my so-called life choices to bring me such misery as I experienced? I pondered at a kind of inanimate-deism. I wondered if that was what religions had always been trying, unsuccessfully, to refer to.
Once again, music rescued and pulled me up eventually. as well as the excitement of getting out of the military, but I was different this time. Something had changed about me. I had gone somewhere; learned something, and brought that knowledge back with me, tacitly. I cant think of a good way to share it, but I'm trying to as I tell my story. The depression was there as always, but not there was this other, black, formless, disembodied "think" that wasn't there before. For whatever reason, I came to name it Belfast, though I spoke of it--of him, really--to no one.

Letters

Dear Readers:

I am designing a simple website and would like to devote a small section of it to answer any direct questions you may have. Please send them to inmateletters@gmail.com or if they are short questions feel free to post them as replies to this entry.

The section will be titled "letters" and will feature letters from readers to myself. Letters from readers to "the inmate population as a whole," as well as letters from inmates to readers. I have no criteria for what is "acceptable" material, so it could turn into quite the experiment before it is through.

Please contribute in any way you find to be suitably interesting.

Bryan

Overture

"These boys, now, were living as we'd been living then, they were growing up with a rush and their heads bumped abruptly against the low ceiling of their actual possibilities. They were filled with rage. All they really knew were 2 darknesses, the darkness of their lives, which was now closing in on them, and the darkness of the movies, which had blinded them to that other darkness, and in which they now, vindictively, dreamed, at once more together then they were at any other time, and more alone." -- Sonny's Blues

Overture

I believe that my personal monster was born in Germany. I'm not sure when, exactly. It subsisted on breadcrumbs and dust in the beginning; literally this means that, as there were few traumas in my early life, my symptoms went unnoticed; to most people anyway, including myself. In the wake of my case, I am learning that at least one family member noticed.

I used to think that my symptoms were caused by something, but now I feel inclined to believe that they have always existed, even before I existed. They hover in the air like a presence sometimes, feeling both like a disembodied Self and a foreign entity; like a Me-From-The-Future and a Me-From-The-Past. Often it feels like my existence is just a re-incarnation of the symptoms and that my personality is more like a by-product. I can't really expect you to understand or identify.

Since my psychotic break, I have imagined consciousness in the dust of the cosmos. I think they really exist, with intelligence ranging from that of an amoeba to a human and beyond. I don't know if they mingle with people or are even aware of them, but it seemed to me that I interacted with at least three of them at the height of my experience. Right at the end they felt like disembodied versions of people I know ------ but I should wait until that part of the story before revealing their identities. It makes me wonder about quantum entanglement, the size of the universe, the sea of subatomic particles in my mind, etc. But maybe those beings were simply an extension of my psyche (or whatever), as a perceptive distortion. Does it make a difference?

Whatever it is, my symptom-machines prolonged dormancy ended around the time I was 12 years old. This coincides with the time I moved to America. Growing up in Germany was an extremely pleasant experience. I'll have to tell you about it sometime. It's not immediately relevant, except to say that it set me up for some vast disappointments. I don't even remember what I was expecting, but my first impressions of America were no where close. I could say that with certainty.

My adjustment to daily life here could be described as "extremely poor". I became totally lost eventually ------ having no real friends, no rewarding experiences in my life, no goals; just nameless, unfulfilled desired. I remember, from seventh through ninth grade, that there were times when I turned to my environment as a sort of 'decision engine'. I also remember thinking that it was a dangerous thing to do ------ use an external decision engine in such a way ------ but I couldn't perceive why. I could hardly perceive anything at the time. There weren't reasons for doing anything, it seemed. Life seemed ... very insipid; very disappointing and empty. Only a few pictures of me exist from this period. I looked as blank as I felt.

My external decision engine was a bit like a game: when I would think of something that had been bothering me; a doubt or a problem, I would boil it down to a yes or no question. The first object to catch my eye would supply the answer to the question. If the object came in multiples ------ as fence posts, for instance ------ I would count them, with odd numbers meaning 'yes' while even numbers signified a 'no'. It provided a small respite from my confusion at least, and it provided me with something like a will. I think many people have played a game like this from time to time. It's of a take on the 's/he loves me, s/he loves me not' game. In fact it may have derived from that; love sickness has predominated my childhood, adolescence, and my adult life. When I played, I thought ------ or hoped on some level ------ that I was communing with God, although I knew that I probably wasn't.

By high school ------ I'm glossing rather quickly here ------ the monster had blossomed into a young adolescent. I had discovered anger as a coping mechanism. I lived and breathed hatred. I loved hatred. I hated everything; sometimes myself, sometimes others, sometimes institutions, sometimes cultural values; usually all of that. I think anger helped me deal with the inevitable frustrations of battling the malaise without understanding it, and probably had much to do with the frustrations at the short-comings I perceived in America's school system, when I compared it with Germany's. I had very little energy, and my Pavlov's hierarchy was generally at a point which was too low for me to concern my self about responsibilities; whether social, scholastic, etc. I wished something would kill me most of the time, which is an entirely distracting frame of mind to be in.

My parents certainly knew something was off about me by then, but their hands were tied. The flip-side to my schizo-affective coin could be my father's hepatitis C treatment and diagnosis. Understandably; my parents were preoccupied with my father's health much of the time. I often take my father's illness for granted; forgetting that other people have more interactive relationships with their fathers, or perhaps ever their families as a whole. At the best of times, living with my father was like suddenly living with someone you have long since become estranged to. At the worst of times, it was like living with a sick and dying pet. I have known mere shadows of my father since moving to this country. Now I can only interact with him by analyzing my own instincts and thoughts. My childhood memories don't do him much justice.

I found a legitimate escape from my surroundings eventually. Music provided a respite from the restrained emotions I bathed, swam and often drowned in. It gave me something I could call my own; something I could make actual decisions about, and, in doing so, it restored my humanity somewhat. It restored me to a kind of living that was just enough. It wasn't a jubilant or gleeful existence but now I had access to a greater range of choices than disappointment, sadness, or anger.

From my new vantage point, I realized that I had spent my 12th through 16th years as an aimless, walking corpse of sorts. I hadn't felt myself in years. It was inevitable that I would contrive to take music in a serious direction. It was the only career choice I could see myself making that didn't end in suicide, which was exactly where my aimless, walking, waking death had been leading me. I had almost killed myself twice before turning 15. Do you know what stopped me? I feared that I hadn't accounted for every detail and wouldn't be able to pull it off. When contemplating the benefits of jumping off a building, I considered the potential cons of merely breaking my neck and rendering myself a vegetable. While reflecting the merits of lighting oneself on fire, I feared it's extinguishment more than the foreseeable pain. The simplicity of drowning was spoiled by the bodies survival instinct, guns were unavailable, and bathroom outlets had those insufferable re-set switches. I didn't want to be discovered on the brink of death and labeled as a cry for help ------ for what was 'help'? What would it do? Consist of? Who would be responsible for giving 'help'? And who would foot the bill? I could tell by the kind of ice cream my family bought, that something was not quite right with their financial standing so I perceived that it would be an unwelcome burden; to say nothing of the added complexity it would place on my father's situation.

But what kid knows about that sort of stuff anyway? I feel as though I'm making excuses for my younger self. The fact is, most kids with mood disorders go untreated. CNN recently indicated that a study has found that one in 10 teenagers have mood disorders. The extent to which they are untreated was not revealed but had been reported as a majority. A separate study by the Journal of Abnormal Psychology (Intervention To Strengthen Emotional Self-Regulation In Children With Emerging Mental Health Problems - Proximal Impact On School Behavior) indicates that only one in eight children with behavioral disorders ever receive treatment. If there is any similarity for the rates of treatment between the mood disorder and behavioral disorder groups, I would not be surprised.

Perhaps if I were more informed as to my parent's financial position, I could have made a real decision about my treatment. Perhaps if I had known that my mind was not within the tolerance for normal, I could have made an informed decision about treatment. Perhaps if I hadn't been taught as a child that man was born to suffer due to a sinful nature, I could have made a rational decision about my treatment, but none of those things happened.

More than anything, I feared explaining myself (among the many other things I've mentioned, this blog also serves as a way for me to fact that old fear). I feared being punished for feeling the way I did. Punishments for trivial things like missing homework, bad grades, or forgetting to call home were bad enough; I couldn't conceive how horribly suicidal thoughts could be punished. I feared being medicated and locked away. to me, that was worse than death. My entire adolescence became an exercise in hiding my thoughts, hiding my feelings, hiding my desires, and how to blend in with everyone else -- not in the sense that I copied other people's dress or behavior (my social skills might have developed faster -- or even more thoroughly -- had I thought of that), but in the sense that, if you saw me in a crowd, I'd be the least noticeable person; the easiest to forget.

I found solace in the idea of hiding in plain sight. Words like efface soothe me to this day. I won't say that I consciously learned to use body language which keeps people from noticing me, because I have no such knowledge, but I do have a bunch of nonsense compulsions. They had become incorporated into my personality. It has worked to my benefit in situations like prison or the military and to my detriment both at the bar and in business, where social interactions are more important. (Curiously, a low dose of alcohol impairs these compulsions, often to a point where I am considered charming, so they are intermingled with my inhibition somehow).

I think it's easy to see why I latched onto music to the degree that I did. My decision to choose it as a desired vocation seems just as obvious a follow-up to me; after all, the possibility of making a reasonable living in a musical vocation is clearly demonstrated throughout history in hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of iterations. The nigh-fanatical finality I have cultivated in my decision to pursue such an existence should have just as obvious a basis to the reader -- music, being the only thing so far that has proved capable of pulling me from my fog, is strongly reinforced as a meaningful drive in my life. It is tied into my very survival instinct.

Now, here's something I've thought about a lot: Remember the line in Fight Club, where Tyler talks about his generation being 'very, very pissed off at the discovery that not everyone can become rock stars or movie gods?' I don't think that's a fair description of what's happening with me. I don't care about fame or wealth, but sufficiency. Frankly, I consider the record industry to be a pretty corrupted, scary place that has little room set aside for artistry as it pertains to 'The Human Condition' and its strive for purpose and meaning. I've struggled with what I think of as "fair" rock-stardom (or perhaps 'socialized' rock-stardom... I've developed a business model for a record label that is based on this idea). I don't need millions of dollars, fame, or notoriety to be happy. And, while I certainly entertained the possibility of such an existence when I was a young teen, I'd like to quell any notion that I could be some sort of spoiled child, demanding of status and wealth while holding my own life at ransom. I don't consider your life to be worse than death, or beneath me, or whatever.

My musical talent wasn't very noteworthy at first, except that it came quickly and easily to me. After a few years I had found a few friends who seemed inspired by it and who expressed a desire to form a band. In turn, they showed me new music, new jokes, new attitudes -- and friendship in the general sense. I had some genuine friends for the first time since living in Germany. I recognized this fact immediately and appreciated it, although I have always been at a loss when it comes to actually displaying appreciation. We formed various bands together, performing for a few parties and a talent show.

We could have done more than that, but school and work predominated in our day-to-day existence. All of us had part-time jobs in addition to our High School responsibilities. We understood that it would take a while before life could settle to the point that we could focus on real musical endeavors, and that could take years. My friends had plans for college, and I needed something to tide me over while they got that out of their systems, for reasons I'll explain. I hadn't yet branched much into other instruments, and I didn't consider myself a singer. I felt that I needed a band -- a whole band -- and my friends and I reciprocated an interest in securing them as the members of such.

I had also, however, performed very badly in High School & felt that college was inaccessible to me. this I chalk up to a gross ignorance to America's idea that everyone should go to college. I had a more German picture of the world, in which only the scholastically minded choose such pursuits. My only interest other than music at the time was in Japanese language and culture, but that would have been too expensive for me to pursue. Since I had credits in JROTC and lived in what felt like an unprecedented era of peacetime and prosperity, I felt that the military could tide me over while teaching me some valuable language skills. Basic research pointed to the Marine Corps. Why?

In Middle School I had a friend who had lived in Okinawa. He described Japan to me somewhat, as much as one can know about it from inside an Army base anyway, and he even spoke some of the language. I suppose his friendship had a hand in raising my awareness of Japan, and Japan is an interesting enough place (with a duly interesting culture) that any suitably aware child will inevitably geek out on it. From time to time I would find news articles detailing the illegal exploits and delinquencies of marines in Okinawa (I'm talking about the occasional rapes that have occurred there), and, already feeling disaffected from the US, I felt that much of a stronger endearment towards the Japanese.

To me, the general delinquency of the enlisted Marine Corps members, coupled with a presence in Okinawa, meant that they would need a PR department. As I got older, I thought it stood to reason that they probably maintained a small 'PR force' with a strong proficiency in Japanese language and culture. Such proficiency was a challenge in which I felt extremely interested. I didn't like the idea of defending the sort of monsters marines often become, but I considered it necessary to obtain my desired skill; having no money to pay for school, or the well of patience or fortitude to jump through the scholastic hoops of leaping from one community college to another. I considered it a sort of trade-off -- of physical hoops for symbolic ones. If there was one skill I had acquired; it was that of willing myself through daily events -- ignoring suicidal urges over prolonged periods of time requires a great deal of willpower.

I tested extremely well on the ASVAB, I remember my recruiter being very excited, telling me that I qualified for -- literally -- every job they had. This saddened me a little; I wondered if I was scholastically minded after all, but my depression had led to some pretty abysmal performance -- I landed a resounding 0.58 GPA my freshman year of High School. (Sound unbelievable, doesn't it?) And, aside from my money problem and my grade problem, there was the problem of deciding on something to study. At the open houses my mom took me to, people acted like I was crazy when I inquired as to the existence of any sort of 'Japanese Program', and the music schools required an audition with a classical instrument -- something I had no experience in (I don't remember my High School having anything such as 'classical instrument' classes -- I would have taken all of them). What else was there for me? Business? Political Science? Philosophy? My family thought I should be a lawyer. Did they know nothing about me? This was all in the summer preceding my senior year, and I was 17.

The recruiters told me all about the Defense Language Institute and the languages they taught -- including Japanese. They told me that the only way to get to the Defense Language Institute was to become a signals intelligence analyst. It wasn't PR, but th ejob description seemed impressive and appeared to require a great deal of proficiency. Believe it or not, I still didn't really understand how mentally unhealthy I was as I swore in and signed the necessary documents. I joined under the provision of the Delayed Entry Program, meaning I would finish my senior year and ship out pending my successful graduation.

My mood anticipated little of what was to come as I joined the Marine Corps. Either by deliberate act of omission or through sheer ignorance, my recruiters were liars; every one of them; from the enthusiastically mustached Corporal to the one-eyed Master Sergeant. To top that off, my ignorance to the state of affairs in the world, in addition to my lack of knowledge about depression, as well as my risk for developing schizophrenic symptoms, put my life and security in dire jeopardy, to say very little of my comfort and well being. (Continued in entry after next.)

Some Musings on Responsibility

Before I continue, there are a few fears I'd like to lay to rest. I'm not sure if they're my fears or your fears, but I want to address them anyway. This isn't in response to anything in particular, either; it's just that I've been meaning to say a few words about the topic and I may as well do so now.

I mentioned briefly in my introduction that I take responsibility for my crimes. I sometimes wonder whether or not this blog is in keeping with that idea; it certainly isn't intended as a shrugging of such. I'm curious what the 'traditional' response to a blog like mine would be. I must admit that I'm not quite sure what my responsibilities are - I can imagine complicity with my sentence and a vague promise to "do good" should suffice (neither have any impact on my release), although I am left with the impression that no one particularly cares what I do so long as I don't break the law, which goes the same for anyone anyway.

I did mention that most prisoners shouldn't really be in prison, so let me elaborate on that a bit as well. Since becoming incarcerated I've learned that Colorado, in particular, is very tough on crime compared to other states. In fact, most petty criminals in here have plans to move to a different state after their release. I suppose this is a type of deterrent, but it has some goofy results. For instance, I met a man in here who is serving 24 years for stealing a lawnmower from Home Depot. His name is Martin Mahoney; his DOC number is 61998. I mean, really guys. How does this happen? You're paying over $750,000 on him over the course of his incarceration, for a lawnmower.

I asked around and found out there's a such thing as "aggravated" sentence; apparently Martin had a history of stealing stuff. It doesn't make much sense to me, though; no lawn mower can be worth 24 years of a human being's life. Is this how American's think? I've noticed there isn't much of a respect for human life in this country (to use my personal experience in public school, the military, and the private business sector as a basis for observation); after all, there are people serving less time for shooting at its citizens. ¹

Who came up with aggravated sentencing anyway? How does it make sense to incarcerate a repeat criminal even more? I mean, if we're going to subscribe to the idea of people as "lost causes," why not just kill our offenders like they do in China? ² Are normal sentencing ranges not sufficient? And what does "sufficient" even refer to -- punishment, rehabilitation, 'preventative maintenance'? Clearly his previous incarcerations did nothing to improve his life or elevate his status in the community. Few people want to rob, and usually turn to it out of necessity. But all this side-tracking is forgetting the point. A man was sentenced to 24 years for stealing a lawnmower. We're really not so different from Saudi Arabia or North Korea after all, are we? That such a thing can even happen is an affront to human dignity, to say nothing of the freedom for which America purportedly stands. I don't think he even got away with the lawnmower. As I recall, he was apprehended before getting away. Presumably someone has since purchased the lawnmower.

It's as if this country is actively contriving reasons to incarcerate people for longer periods of time. A paranoid feeling exists in inmate communities; I don't subscribe to it although I can understand its sentiment that rising conflicts of interest have led to a culture of pro-incarceration in the judicial system. Isolated incidents of corruption have been found to exist ³, but has the problem really become endemic, as so many of our incarcerated citizens think? It's an extremely difficult pill to swallow.

The 99% - the 'chaff' I mentioned in my previous entry - accounts for people like the lawnmower man who do not present an immediate danger to society and are severely over-incarcerated. These are people who could be on ISP, probation, in community corrections, in house arrest, or who could be working on paying off a fine to the city or merely paying court- ordered restitution, this instead of prison sentence rather than in addition to. The status quo is not only a costly tactic, but one which merely delays its problems. Did you know that violations of parole, probation, community sentence, etc. have an automatic prison sentence of six months? Why not just add a ten day 'penalty' or something? It costs taxpayers $15,000 every time a person on parole drinks a beer or smokes a joint and gets caught. Need I even go into the danger of illegalizing trivial things? When the punishment for being two hours late and for assaulting someone are the same? How can we expect ex-cons to respect the law?

Please don't construe all this ranting as a belief that I don't deserve some kind of penalty, or that Lady X and Mr. Y don't deserve a surety that I won't be a danger to them in the future. While I doubt that they would want one from me personally (and probably wouldn't believe it if they had one), you'll learn more about my situation as I detail it, and then, I suppose, you can make up your own mind about my sentence, and about what justice means to you personally. But there are a few more aspects to my responsibility I'd like you to consider, and they are more personal and emotional, if not more complicated.

I would consider it morally 'wrong' to profit from, say, a book about my crimes (to my knowledge it is illegal to do so), so I'm posting my story here, for free. That was part of my idea; you get to learn the whole story, while I suffer the embarrassment of being 'exposed', along with any other unforeseen repercussions. For instance, I think I could possibly anger some people. It's audacious, after all, for a convict to up-and-post his first-hand experiences on such a public platform, and I may even unintentionally provoke "the wrong person" - whoever he or she might be - into retaliating against my person in some way. I spoke with many friends and family about it before I began; even with some inmates (many of whom don't know what blogs are and failed to grasp the concept), and consensus is in favor of the idea. More importantly to me, my family thinks it's a good idea.

So, what if my blog becomes popular? Or perhaps less-than-popular; say, a readership of 1,000-10,000 people. That's quite a network. Would it be immoral to collect advertising revenue? What if I started a fund for victims similar to Lady X and Mr. Y? What if someone desired to use samples of my writing for commercial use or scholastic use? What if someone wanted to pay me to write a column? Where would my 'responsibilities' lie then? I believe all of those things could happen. In fact, I would like them to, someday. But how would Lady X or Mr. Y feel about that? Does that matter?

I hesitate to assume anything about either of them; they don't strike me as particularly forgiving or forgetting individuals. I don't think they know the truth about what my mind was going through during the time my crimes were committed either; but again, I don't suspect they care. In fact, they'd probably rather I fell off the surface of the earth altogether - a death sentence in effect. I killed myself for them once and survived, so perhaps they can rest knowing that, in some universe out there, I did in fact die for my crimes and can never trouble them again.

(In this area my perception is a bit blurry - there is a belief, or perhaps merely a thought-experiment, floating around out there that no one really dies, but continues living in those few universes in which they didn't die for whatever reason. This continues until every human being that has ever existed lives on in that single universe in which they survived the universe itself... somehow. Can they interact with one another after that? Maybe in one of the universes they can. My perception here is blurry because I'm not so sure that I did survive, and also since my perceptive distortions were strongest in the hours preceding my 'death'. I received some intriguing answers to some very alluring questions.)

Anyway, they got what they wanted - a long incarceration period and money. I sincerely wish them the best and hope they can get over any terror I caused them. I don't seek forgiveness either, since that could open the door for reconciliation, validating the perceptions I had during my psychotic break in the first place. You'll understand more what I mean by that near the end of my story. I am masking their identities and painting them in as honest a light as I can. What more can I really do for them? Nothing; it'd be inappropriate for me to even consider doing anything more.

I intend to become successful in life; I feel everyone should, particularly ex-convicts (after all, the more successful they are; the less likely they are to break the law again). I hope no one has any problems with that. My responsibilities may not be precisely clear to me, but I know failure is not among them.

As an aside; it's much more difficult to write these entries in a timely manner than I anticipated. One would think that, being in prison, I would have nothing but time to think about how to best relay my tale, and all the more time to write it out, but that's not really true. I apologize for my delays. I told you that I would write something every week or two and now I've been going at a pace of roughly one entry or so per month, if that. This was not my intent. I am working on a much larger entry: a backdrop against which I hope things will make more sense, and am satisfying my own standards for narration. Speaking of, I hope you will over-look the small typographical errors - they are an inevitable result of my second-hand blogging process. Thank you for your interest, by the way! I have been sent your comments and I appreciate them. The other inmates cannot quite conceive what I am doing. Well, some of them. I feel very fortunate. I'll see you in my next entry period.

1. News article: Pueblo Chieftain column, reproduced above.
2. Hyperbole - obviously I don't believe this to be a genuine solution.
3. News article: The Trouble With Private Prisons, reproduced above.

Embracing Self

I've been trying to think of the best way to introduce you - the reader, the stranger, the non-crazy person-to my crimes. I read a neat book this weekend. Here's an excerpt, from Nothing Is Terrible by Matthew Sharp. The book bares no resemblance to my life but I find its prose resonating and its main character extremely identifiable:

Please indulge me here, reader, as I ease out of the 'prologue' and into 'chapter one' of 'my'
'life'; take a moment and try to think of everything that happened to you every day for a
week of your life starting in, say, September of the year you were ten years old. Did you try
it? It's really difficult, right? In my case it's especially hard since around that time my mind,
unbeknownst to me, began its own program of forgetting. My mind's reason for forgetting
was, I assume, to banish grief from it's domain, and in this it was only partially successful.
Some of the grief remained, while certain other virtues of mental and emotional life fled;
kindness was one, memory of daily events was another.

I mentioned my depression to another inmate recently, since he asked about my symptoms, and he was surprised to learn that I could remember having it as a child. In retrospect it is easy to recognize such things (cliches of this phenomenon abound). I didn't know it was depression at the time. I thought everyone felt the way I did.

In kindergarten strange feelings were much easier to deal with. During an anti-social bout I could tell my Mom I didn't feel like going anywhere. Kindergarten, being a glorified daycare, wasn't a big deal to skip. I wonder if I had feelings of resentment for the German children who had no trouble communicating with one another. I was certainly frustrated that I knew few English-speaking children (and the ones I "did" know were often strange). Regardless, if I felt overwhelmed I could stay home.

Things changed after I reached 1st grade. I felt horrible for my dad, knowing that he didn't have a choice either, for suddenly I understood that he couldn't skip work anymore than I could skip school. I didn't completely understand adulthood, but I knew I would reach my father's age someday and I seriously pondered whether life was worth it. From time to time these ideas would resurface and I grew to become familiar with death wishes. Having no communicable basis for these feelings, I introspected.

School was not a problem in and of itself - it was usually tolerable. I don't think my moods were based on laziness, either. It was different - a depressed outlook changes everything. Experiences are tinged with sorrow, sadness, enmity, etc., which often render them seemingly pointless. Why are parades thrown if they incite such anger and frustration, why do people gather when all they wish to do is leave? Thoughts like these often made me suspicious of the motives of adults and societies, but that is not to say I treated everything thusly. I was just suspicious and inquisitive enough to become an insufferable devil's advocate. My mother often thought I argued for argument's sake (she still accuses me of doing so), but now I realize my thought process as a child: how could I not argue against the status quo or challenge that which is taken for granted when it had not made me happy? I also believe that growing up among foreigners has allowed me to notice when people are acting on an often arbitrary assumption that is universally accepted. I could tell that more things were relative than people let on to - and I also knew that I felt unsatisfied, morose, tired, directionless. I did not know for what I was searching.

I believe that adulthood has made it even more difficult to recognize uncommon feelings. Minds cannot overlap, and only common experiences can be shared. Perhaps people with schizophrenic symptoms don't have a habit of making up vocabulary to describe their moods and experiences, or perhaps they are adverse to attempts at sharing them. (Perhaps they are not so universally common, either.) I tend to stumble over words in person, often pausing to think of some fleeting memory of a word... and somehow I am always interrupted by my surroundings, closing my mind even further and agitating me severely when I am stuck trying to communicate an idea. Blogging is still pretty new, and in this area, that of sharing my experience in the hopes of garnering perspective, I believe it's perfect for me.

My lawyer sent me an article by Mayoclinic.com relating to schizoaffective disorder. One of the symptoms really grabs my attention. I exhibit all of them, but this one stands out to me especially. I read it over and over the first time I gleaned the paper. It describes catatonic behavior, which is not something I considered myself as exhibiting, except for the description itself - lack of response, sometimes with an extreme agitation that's not influenced by the environment.

Could it be referring to - that?

I cannot tell you exactly what I meant by that, although it brings to memory a conversation with my friend Michael. "Why do you do this?" he asked. "Why do you get so weird around people sometimes?" We were at JR's for the second night in a row. The night before I had felt more or less "normal," but that night I felt the agitation. I feel it all the time, usually triggered by a certain kind of carelessness that irks me and always has - and I feel ridiculous mentioning it except for the rage it induces. I react by clamming up and glancing around, seeking a less crowded space; perhaps this does appear catatonic to other people.

The trigger is when people in my presence are talking loud enough to be overheard. It doesn't matter what they are saying. The content of their message isn't important; neither is the place - the setting of the conversation. Sometimes it doesn't even matter how loud they are speaking, just that they are talking at all and that their message could be interpreted in any way by someone other than myself. But since the place, the content, and the method of information do not matter, what is the true trigger, the agitation itself comes from nowhere! I believe it stems from a paranoid fear I developed in my teens and early adulthood - I haven't completely rid myself of this rather embarrassing compulsive superstitious fear: I am terrified of invisible things.

I don't know what I think they are. Are they ghosts? Spirits? Angels? Demons? God? A waking, conscious universe? It doesn't matter. Ultimately it's all the same concept. Cognitively I am able to understand that a part of my brain recognizes patterns, interpreting incorrect sequences of post hoc ergo proctor hoc and attaching significance to trivial details. I subscribe to Richard Dawkins' idea that the human brain uses 'shortcuts' to perform complicated tasks more quickly (to paraphrase crudely), and that they could be responsible for a side-effect of superstition. I will divulge more information about this fear in a later blog entry.

There's an inmate in here named Jason Fujiwara. He's a short, skinny guy who walks around the pod, moving his arms like an animatronic puppet, swaying his head from side-to-side as he converses with invisible conspirators. He regularly laughs at his food. Sometimes he talks to the rest of us, and when he does he seems lucid enough, but his face scrunches and his eyebrows furrow in concentration. It takes effort for him to interact with us. Maybe he wants to and doesn't know how? Consensus among the inmate population is pretty uniform: how did he get here? Why is he in prison at all? He should be somewhere where he can get help.

Besides all that, Fuji isn't even a danger to anyone, except perhaps to other short, skinny, Jim Henson creatures. I don't even know what he is here for, except for a suspicion that it is drug-related. Another inmate I know used to shoot heroin with him. I don't have the fortitude to talk to Jason. Despite his weirdness, he is not very interesting that I can tell, anyway.

If I were to hold up a ruler to represent a scale of severity for Jason's symptoms, I would say that he walks back and forth between the 5 and 9 inch marks with the 12 inch mark representing someone who is "beyond all hope" or at least all hope that's not very expensive "in fact, I'm not quite sure what I mean by hope here, perhaps a larger capacity to take care of himself - although using said criteria he's done somewhat well finding a place where food and housing are completely free." Sometimes Fuji's just weird, and sometimes he's way out there. For myself I think I walk back and forth between the 2 and 5 inch marks. The average person, I think, walks back and forth between a 1/2 and a 3, with 3 representing something like moderate superstition. It takes a lot of bravado for me to muster the courage to essentially say, "Fuck my compulsions I'm doing what I want to do no matter how it makes me feel". Can you imagine someone from TLC's Horders telling that to themselves? This often causes me to live in two worlds at the same time - the "real" world that you and I interact in, and the "other" world which I am constantly ignoring for the sake of my friends and family. But I'll get to that later, too.

We get a few cable channels in prison - many people are surprised to learn that we have TVs, coffee machines, radios, typewriters, but I digress - one of the channels is Fuse, which hosts Lady Gaga videos pretty often including her interview with them from a while back. I found her interpretation of people as monsters to be a fun and interesting idea, and it's one I have adopted. I have always felt like a monster or a masquerading demon of sorts ("wraith-like" is a word that comes to mind when I see my shadow), and it has always caused disconnect between me and my perception of others. I never thought of extending the perception to include everyone, but now that I have, I like people as monsters. It all makes more sense to me that way. Societies, value systems, varying concepts of justice; these all make more sense to me if people are monsters. Animals might be a better choice, after all humans are animals. They are fiendishly cunning. Devising intellectual instruments, they control one another in the effort to secure resources, spinning off societies & cultures as so much waste; so subversive they don't even realize that's exactly what's happening. Humans certainly match the criteria for animals - but what are monsters if not exaggerated animals anthropomorphized and possessing our degree of cunning? They manifest our fears of big scary animals sure, but more importantly, of big scary intelligent animals. A lion by itself is scary, but give it just a modicum more intelligence than it's known to possess and you have a monster in your imagination. Yes, man as an animal is accurate, but as mankind differentiates between himself and his animal brethren (at least, "we" do, in this US of A and in most other countries). Mankind has forgotten that it is an animal, culturally. Another word is needed. That word is monster. But monsters don't have to be evil, or even scary. And that's not a new concept at all. When I was a child I read about Where the Wild Things Are. Those monsters were not scary. No, I suppose monsters are only scary when there's a conflict of interest. And humans are especially so then, aren't they?

Back to the point at hand. I'm in prison, and I'm trying to tell you my story. The core of it, I think, is that I was not true to myself. I feared myself, felt that I was too different from others (from you). I felt trapped by my job, by Bank of America, by my own car, by my destroyed shoulders and lack of healthcare. I knew that the resources to support my existence were out there, but I had no way to access them. I was a failure by every measure I had erected for myself. I became very manic. With nothing to lose and death wishes to guide me, my invisible fears became real. I have talked with some schizophrenics online at the somethingawful forums and some of them describe tactile hallucinations as the sensation of bugs crawling on their skin. Mine were not like that.

I am trying to imagine how to convey exactly what I thought they were. I could use words like angel, spirit, ghost, demon, guardian, guide, but these words are ideas which are attached to other ideas which run on different operating systems from the one I am trying to convey. Pretend these concepts are all limited interpretations of the same thing; of an invisible representative of some hierarchy of invisible intelligentsia that transcend the forth dimension somehow. I'm not talking about deities. I am saying: imaging all the things that are common to angels, spirits, ghosts, demons, guardians, guides, etc. as they are found in the sum of human lore, and forget everything else. Picture one such being. Now imaging a host of them interacting with your nervous system. I'll get on this later.

The whole point of this blog is to reconcile my desired future against my statistically probable one. There's a weird double-expectation in society and among inmates that I am trying to stay clear of. The majority of the people that I interact with every day are in love with failure. They are in love with incarceration, imprisonment, shortcomings, excuses, and they don't even know it. They are apologetic, touting justice when it suits them. The robbers say, "the murderers are scum," while the murderers say, "the child-molesters are scum (in fact, everyone does)," while the child-molesters say, "the gang-members are scum," and the gang-members say, "the other gang-members are scum." They talk about incarceration all day long. They watch shows about crime & justice, listen to music about crime & justice, have conversations about crime & justice, and quite frankly it is the most boring topic I can think of, especially here. "You're already living it," I want to yell, "there's no point aspiring for even more!" This is true for you too, American reader, your society loves every piece of it. My father used to joke and speak lightly of prisoners, "ha ha, that's what you get," even while he was dying of cancer and his own son was being put through the ringer. He told me once, "son, I think if you do end up going to prison, you won't be in there for very long. You are not like those other people."

The joke is on him, though. Here's the punchline: not only am I going to be here for a while, I am a bit like these people. So are you. So was he. The "wheat" of those who "should" be here is approximately 1%, the rest are the chaff. Our country is so fucked, America. I had no idea, just like you have no idea. You won't, either. I can't convince you, I won't even try. Actually, I will a little. But not too much. There are so many voices that are trying to [convince you] every day that I feel little need to add my own to the gnashing and wailing. For myself, I think there is still hope. Can people identify with my story? I think so. Am I monstrous? A little, and so is everyone. Am I dangerous? I don't have a desire to cause anyone harm, so, no. I'm not any more dangerous than you are. I am comfortable where I am and where I am going.

Back to the love of failure, which story is better, mildy crazy guy flips his lid, goes to prison, introspectively heals himself and becomes a comeback success, or mildy crazy guy flips his lid, goes to prison victimizes himself and disappears into an existence of Yum brand servitude? There are so many versions of the latter it makes my head spin. I already know how that life pans out. I choose the former.

I would like you to read another excerpt, this time from my sentencing hearing. Before you do, here's another blurb from Nothing Is Terrible: Sorrow makes its own principles, which are not necessarily shared by the unsorrowful; I hope you will bear this in mind as you read on. This was written and read by Lady X. Tread lightly, for you walk upon her memes:

On Sunday May 18th I woke up early to leave for the Colfax marathon with my dad who met me at my apartment at 5:00 a.m. I found my rear windshield smashed in. I filed a police report. I had to pay my car insurance deductible to have my windshield replaced.

On Tuesday May 20th I woke up early to go to the gym. I got in my car, but I didn't get very far before I noticed something was wrong. Four screws were forced through my two rear tires, two per tire. I went back and looked at my assigned parking spot and found additional nails and screws positioned where my tires would be.

I filed a police report. One tire had to be replaced and the other repaired. I was terrified I was being targeted and I had no idea why. I didn't know if I was being followed everywhere I went. I was afraid to be around friends or family in case I was being followed. I was nervous at work and at school. Every time I came out to my car I was worried some new damage would be there.

I knew I had to get away from my apartment as soon as possible. I spoke with my landlord who allowed me to leave at the price of my security deposit. I rented the very first apartment I could find and moved in that weekend which was May 24th and 25th.

On Tuesday May 27th I received the first email it was an email from the email address: housyoucar@gmail.com. The subject was, how is your car anyway and the message was I noticed you moved this weekend. This was all the proof I needed to know that I was being watched, followed and someone meant to harm me.

I responded to the email that evening as follows. Who are you and why are you doing this? The reply came the next morning, I am trying to complicate your life. Saturday morning I woke up to work to find a voice mail from my dad asking me to call him. My dad's house had been set on fire at 4:40 in the morning. He was asleep at the time the fire was set. He woke up from a sound and got up to go to the restroom. He noticed a light and saw the fire.

He called 911 who responded to the fire and put the fire out. If he had not woken up, my dad could have died. I received a final email from howsyourdad@gmail.com with no message, only the subject you could have prevented it. The email was sent just 12 minutes after the fire was started. The email address howsyourdad@gmail.com proves the fire was lit with the knowledge that my dad was inside and could come to harm.

I have never been so scared in my life I was being followed by someone with malicious intent to both me and my family. My request for the judge is that this case not be evaluated solely on property damage but as a deliberate act of violence with the worst intentions. Thanks.

Not everything in her statement is true. I didn't have the fortitude to say such at my hearing. As a consequence, I received a ten year sentence rather than something closer to four. Is it fair? I don't know. What is fairness but a glint in the eye of the beholder?

The Devil You Know

Hi. My name is Bryan. I'm a prisoner, and I've decided to write a blog about my life. I have no illusions that my history and background aren't a mouse-click away, or that my career choices will be somewhat limited when I get out, so I figure I have very little to lose in openly writing about my crimes and experiences. I'm schizoaffective, which means my interpretation of what is real and what is imaginary can be tenuous at times. I've also had depression since late childhood, but am recovering well in prison.

I am choosing to write a blog about my story because I feel it is informative, important, and interesting. Many things could have prevented my crimes from happening the way they did, perhaps even at all. While I take responsibility for my actions, I cannot help but feel accessible health-care may have diagnosed my mental disorders earlier, while also keeping them from getting out of hand. Stricter consumer protection laws on credit card companies could have prevented my living situation from deteriorating to the point it did, which may have kept my psychotic symptoms from developing. It's complicated but I feel good sharing.

This blog is intended for a myriad of people. It's for family members of a person with mental illness, or people that suffer from mental illness, even people who are just curious about mental illness. It's also for prisoners, cons & ex-cons and their families, psychologists & psychiatrists, philosophers, and intellectuals (I may be overlapping somewhat). It also serves as a warning for those who feel trapped, poor, or are otherwise hurting and are thinking about doing bad things, but I think it should also serve as just an obvious a warning for those who routinely practice the habit of putting people in positions to feel trapped, poor, or desperate.

Before committing my crimes, I was a straight laced, relatively normal person with a clean record. I was always employed, generally paid bills on time, and pursued a dream of becoming an independent musician. I have been in the Marine Corps, worked as a restaurant manager in several different store chains and was trying hard to find a day-job that could pay my bills while giving me the time to focus on my music. This all-too-familiar (even cliched) plight was devastated by my schizophrenic symptoms. I knew I had some eccentricities and I knew I was depressed. But I was ignorant to how serious my mental problems were becoming, and lacked the resources to seriously consider investigating them.

I intend to write something every week or two. The first few entries will deal with the external details of my crimes (the most serious of which was arson) and then I'll move on to my subjective experience and the distorted reality I had created for myself. I also hope to use the band facilities at my prison to record simple songs and perhaps even get them posted online. Additionally, I am taking up painting to describe the area in which I experienced my psychotic symptoms. The closest English word I have found to describe it is "noosphere" a philosophical concept that describes the realm where mental images are formed and interact, presumably in the form of memes and similar concepts. Tactile hallucinations reinforced my perceptive distortions, and I independently became aware of the universe as described in The Secret, even perceiving myself as falling though different universes with different versions of history.

Many of my memories became repressed due to denial, the length of the court process, and a suicide attempt which put my mind into a fog for almost half a year. Two years later I am still remembering details I have forgotten or repressed. In this respect my blog will also help me uncover hidden memories of which I may not be aware of. I invite the reader to join me on my journey.

Ultimately, my blog will move on, but before it does I hope to satisfy most curiosities about my crimes. Sometimes I notice myself thinking that I "prefer the devil I know to the devil I don't." This doesn't exactly translate to human beings, but maybe I can become one of the devils you know, and perhaps you'll even prefer me.

-Bryan