December 27, 2013

Hello, readers. I haven't written in about a month or so. I am still enduring abuse by the Texas prison system for filing a complaint against some officers.

The tactics they use are not letting me make commissary when I need to or by making me wait 13 hours in a dayroom without going. I'm placed on a unit that is so large that for me to walk to the chow hall on my cane, I hurt so bad I cramp and cry. I did, however, get to make commissary on the 23rd of December but had to pay a guard to do so. Oh, it was just a soda, water, and ice cream. But why the hell should I have to do stuff like that?

I'm placed in a building here at this unit without security cameras, the only one of the unit. Why is that? Don't they want a record or something? That just happens to befall the inmate who has filed complaints against abuse.

I'm approached daily for sex by these men who don't seem to give a damn. Hell, I was approached before they even found out I was a gay man. Now it's worse. Some do get the int. Still others hope I'd change over night. Answer me this: why does this unit put the gay man in another building with all the other gay men but leave me to this one, the one without cameras?

I'm not allowed, so far, to visit their library to check out a book. I can't get to the education department to reenter college, and they won't allow me to attend A.A. meetings. I can't even get a lay-in to attend church or see the unit chaplain. After what happened on the 25th, Christmas Day!

And to be honest, this is what is hurting the most. I was told my dad died on Christmas and, to be frank, I didn't think it would hurt this way. There were things left unsaid. At least we had started to build a relationship I had spent years trying to destroy. That was all given to me through working the 12 steps and trusting that process. What really hurt was the next day, I asked an Officer Morris if he could call the rank so I could see the chaplain. Because I was hurting real bad. Officer Morris said, "Why? He's not a doctor," and walked away.

Still, to this moment, I haven't seen anybody except the two kind ladies who told me. I wish I could remember the sergeant's name. She was so kind and Ms. Robertson was very uplifting. At least there is some type of compassion still left in this cold, dying world.

I usually start the new year off with a poem for that year. But this year, I had to write one to get me through this hurt and pain. Like it has always done, my poetry cures me of my fears and anger. Please, share these words with me...