This morning I awoke to the sounds of birds chirping outside my window. The mirtazapine, a new drug for PTSD sufferers, seemed to do its job. I felt relatively relaxed and felt that I enjoyed a good nights sleep. It was still dark outside so I figured it to be before 6am. That's good. I fell asleep around 10pm. I stretched my legs apart to join up with Lorri's legs with no luck in finding them. She must be up, already. I did not smell the coffee, though. It is a rule at our house that the first one up makes the coffee. It is usually me because of my sleeping habits. A couple hours here, a couple there. No set pattern. Since I have been on this mirtazapine I have actually slept all night. It's amazing, really. I have not had that luxury in many years. The colonel saw to that. I eased out of bed and walked out on our back porch. No Lorri. I made a quick check of the house. No Lorri. Her car was outside so I knew she didn't go anywhere. It is possible she could have walked over to my Dad's but not without telling me. I picked up my cell phone and dialed Lorri's number. I was in the front room but I could faintly hear Lorri's phone ringing in the bedroom. It was just getting daylight and there was a faint light illuminating the inside of the house. I followed the sound of the phone. It was coming from the bedroom. When I reached the bedroom door I saw her lying under the covers. I was relieved and at the same time perplexed. I slowly walked up and pulled the covers back, bending down to kiss her on the cheek. The sound was that scream you would find in a bad horror movie. At first I thought it was Lorri screaming but it was me. When I pulled the covers back I didn't find my wife. What I saw was pure evil. It was the colonel with his pale complexion and breath that smelled of death. I knew it was too good to be true. He was letting me know that he was back. And he was here to stay.I really believe that I am possessed by a man that I killed over 30 years ago. Whatever I do He haunts me to this day. He is USAF Full Bird Col. Ret. Renold L Debarge.I have taken medication, group therapy, and individual therapy to try and cope with this Demon that lives in my head. No matter what I try I cannot get Him out of my sub-conscious. I have tried religion, self-hypnosis, self-awareness, all to no avail. I am convinced He will be the end of me. I am not positive that I will ever be completely away from Him. The reason is that He and I are the same. I am responsible for the years of pain, the years of incarceration, the years of self-medication, the years of fear, the years of creating an alternate self that has taken a life of its own. That is a lot of physical and emotional pain. It would have been better for me to kill Him. Killing Him would mean killing the part of my psyche that created the evil twin, for lack of better words. Believe it or not, there is some good that has survived as long as He.I have to find a way to be stronger than the other side. theblogmeister

See What I Mean?

  The last thing I was telling you was that I did not have $50,000 dollars lying around to get me out of jail. Then, I get a visit from the Col. this morning that shook me to the core. He has no respect bringing my mother into this. That is how evil He is.
 Back to my story. Do you remember me saying that I would not get my shoes back but something better? I will now explain why. I sat in jail for several months waiting on a court date. The D.A. knew that I would not elect to go to trial because of the habitual offender act. The 3 strikes and you are out law. I was facing 15 to life. When Jim, the D.A., finally got to me he offered me 20 years in state prison. Why so much time for a receiving stolen property charge, you ask? Well, they had not forgotten about that non-drug store that was connected to the drug store. Twice? Yes, they wanted me, bad. I knew they had me, so, I accepted the generous offer of working for the state for the next 20 years. I had no violent crimes in my past so I figured I would do 6 or 7 years and make parole. I was sent south( jailhouse lingo) in August and it was hot. I had to work out in that heat all day then come back to the camp and sit in the dorm, which, by the way, was hotter than the ambient temperature outside. The only place in that camp, with a population of about 1200, that had air conditioning was the law library. The only problem was that you had to be working on a case, pro se, meaning acting as your own attorney. I was not about to appeal my 20 years. That would just piss the judge off and the D.A. and I would get more time. Then I remembered about my shoes and how the police officer roughed me up, a little. So, I filed a 1983 form citing constitutional violations of my 4th and 8th amendments. I had me a case! I did not know how long it would last but I was enjoying the cool until it was dismissed. The funny thing was, I found cases similar to mine that was ruled on by the Federal Courts. I started doing a lot of reading and studying prior cases to cite with my briefs, pleadings or motions. All the time asking for the court to appoint counsel to represent me. It rolled on for the next three years. I had a ticket to every air-conditioned law library in the state. Then, one night at midnight, I was awakened and told to pack my bags that I was going to court. They asked if I had a federal case against me because the U.S. Marshalls service were coming to get me. I said no, I have one against the police. I was taken from Montgomery, Al. to Birmingham, Al. for court. I was met by a gentleman who introduced himself as my attorney. "Are I ready for trial?" he asked. Today? Anyway, the trial lasted two days and the jury ruled in my favor and granted me $10,000 dollars punitive damages. All because I wanted to stay cool.  theblogmeister

My Story Was Interrupted Last Night

The call came at 4:56 a.m. It was a painful groan coming from my father." I can't wake her up!" I hurriedly woke my wife and told her to get her clothes on. She could see the fear and pain in my face. No more words were needed. This was the call we had been dreading, yet expecting. My dad lives less than a mile from us and we were there in minutes. I ran to the back door, rushing through, and saw my dad leaning over my mom, who appeared to be sleeping on the couch. He was on his knees cradling my mom's head, pulling it against his chest. He heard me coming in the door and slowly stood. When he was standing he turned.The yell came from someone else, it seemed. I jerked up in my bed, soaking wet with sweat. My heart beating in rapid progression against my chest. My fist clenched. I began to sob. Painfully. I was experiencing another symptom of my illness, PTSD. Nightmares. The reality had actually occurred on march, 30 2007. My mother passed away. This time when my dad turned to face me what I saw was the Colonel. A syringe in his right hand and wearing an evil grin that grew into a snarl. That is when I awoke. The colonel has become my demon, once again. When I awake from these nightmares my body reacts as if the events in my dream are real. In my sub-conscious mind they are as real as the keys on this keyboard. I have no control when I sleep. I have begun to fear sleep. Avoid sleep. Pray. With all of man's medicines, machines and treatment protocols. It seems that with all I am offered there is nothing that can rid my mind of that day in 1978. One decision that has altered the course of my life, forever.

I go to sleep at night and wonder if he will return. He has been haunting me for over 30 years. I call him a demon. A demon of my own making, yet I have no control over Him. He waits until my conscious mind is at rest. He is a coward. Powerful. He owns my sub-conscious. He has yet to show himself while I am awake. I wonder how I am able to tame Him while I am awake. The doctors say I am suffering from PTSD but they cannot tame Him, either. All the group therapy and medicine they give me only seems to increase His power. I am the demon. Only when I sleep. You would not recognize that I have a Demon inside my head. I am amiable, easy going, fun. What lurks in the dark corners of my sub-conscious is anything but. It has to be evil. I cannot conceive it being good. Has the power it contains eternal? I cannot answer that question. Sometimes I feel the power growing. Other times meek. It is always there, waiting for sleep to overcome me. PTSD is His name. Will I ever have restful sleep? I will not give up. theblogmeister




 
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My Journal

  I can not accurately tell you how much narcotics I had obtained. I can say this; a hell-of-a-lot. With that much drugs one becomes very popular. I had friends that I did not know that I had. We had so much fun the next several weeks that I decided to repeat the process. I entered the non-drug store the same way as before and just so happened to have another large garbage bag hanging out my back pocket. Lucky me. I can not accurately tell you how much, as before, a hell-of-a-lot. This time I had gained a few friends that did not know you were not supposed to talk to the police about a drug store burglary. That must be why I got a visit from the local Chief of Police, who, by the way, asked me to come to the station to have a chat. He was kind enough to give me a ride. When we got to the station there were several other law enforcement officers present. I recognized them from previous visits. One, in particular, lost his temper because he did not like the answers to his questions that I was giving him. He was so mad at me that he punched me several times in the head and abdomen. There were four officers to one. Me. So, I did not punch back. They did not have any evidence and hoped that I would confess my sins. I did not see a preacher, so, I told them I knew of no such burglary. I had to leave my tennis shoes with the officers to aid in their investigation. I walked home barefooted. About 6 months later I was sitting in my recliner having just ingested several somas, experiencing jerking motions, when there was a loud knock on my door. I was still shaking a little bit, so, I yelled for them to come on in. Was I surprised when about a dozen narcotic task force officers came charging in, throwing me to my floor to hand cuff me. "We have a search warrant," an officer said." Do I need to be cuffed to let you look through all my stuff?" I asked. I was told to go outside and sit on the porch while they tore my house apart. Then they brought in a mean looking dog to sniff around. They found some items that were purchased illegally and took me to jail. I had a $50,000 dollar cash bond. It was the same officers I had left my shoes with months ago. I never got those shoes back but you will not believe what I did get.   theblogmeister

What Is Real?

  I have, once again, started having the nightmares that have plagued me for so long. This was a risk I took, knowing the consequences. I keep asking myself why I have so much trouble with something so old, very old. It happened in September of 1978. I decided to go back to that time and put what happened to me on paper. What I have lost. What I have gained. The only way for me to know if I had any positive results from my experiences is to weigh the good versus the bad. I have to relive what has happened to find out. I wish it was easy enough just to sit and say, I gained something or lost. The past year has been extra tough, for me. Is it because of my writings? I write because of the craziness in my head. The nightmares have been more frequent this year than years past. I do not know why that is. Writing has not slowed them, so, I will keep on writing. I have mentioned my battles. With myself and with the law. There is one battle that I am proud of and I will tell you why in due time. The years after the death of my brother and best friend were the most challenging. I did not cope well with his death. I used the coping mechanism that has worked best. Getting stoned. I do not mean getting a buzz on some weed, I am talking about really stoned. Narcotics. They worked to rid the Demon, for the most part, and worked well with the loss of someone I loved. I was married during the first year after my brothers death and while I was in a 6 month in-patient drug treatment center I was granted a divorce, I did not know anything about. Hell, I would have divorced me, too. It was probably caused by the diet I was on. Pharmaceuticals. While we are on the subject of Rx's I did something pretty damn crazy. There was a drug store in a little strip mall that had another store next to it, divided by a large door between the two stores. You could go in one store and walk through to the drug store or visa verse. I happened to notice that the non-drug store did not have any alarms on the door or windows. One night, after I grew some balls with the help of a handful of xanax, I broke the glass door to the non-drug store. It so happened that I had a large garbage bag hanging out my back pocket, which came in handy as I shopped at the drug store. It was 2am and there was not a soul in sight. I will tell you much more, later. I have to go.     theblogmeister

The noise woke me up with a startling jolt. I sat up in bed listening intently for the noise to reoccur, to pinpoint its location. It took almost a full 5 minutes to hear it, again. It seemed to be coming from the front bedroom. I looked over at my wife watching her chest rise and fall in rhythmic motion. Deep sleep. I gently eased myself from the covers and sat up putting my feet on the cool floor, trying to decide if I were dreaming. No, I had heard the noise after I sat up in bed. I slowly started to head for the front room, the old house trying to give away my presence by creaking floors. Stopping in the kitchen I paused, listening for the unrecognizable noise. Nothing. I was sure it came from the front of the house, the living room or bedroom. As I crept into the living room I began to hear something. This was not the sound that had awaken me from a deep slumber. Totally different. A sound not unlike the rhythmic sounds my wife made earlier, except this was a sound made by someone that was on a respirator. A mechanical sound that was coming from behind the bedroom door.The beating of my heart almost drowned out the sound but it could faintly be heard. I was about to turn and go back to bed for fear had overcome me when I heard the distinct low, raspy voice of a man. I could not make out any words. I started to get extremely anxious, my pulse beating hard and fast in my head. Go back to bed. I wanted to do just that but I had to find out what was going on. I needed to know if the Demon had found a way to enter my world. The conscious mind. With all the strength I could use, I slowly opened the door. cont, theblogmeister

Nocturnal Demons

The room was bathed in a bright white light. After a few moments my pupils adjusted and I began to make out what was in the room. The empty bedroom of my own home. How could this be? How can trauma from my past enter into the real world of my presence? I was in room 225 of ward 2-east at the Eglin AFB hospital in Ft. Walton Beach, Fl. An empty bed with the head of the bed at a 45 degree angle. Beside the bed was an IVAC pump with a bag of Lactated Ringers hanging on the pole, the IV tubing running toward the middle of the upper part of the bed where an arm would lie but I could not see anyone in the bed. I could hear the rhythm of a heart monitor. A steady, slow rhythm. The TV was on with the sound turned down. Running water in the bathroom. I walked toward the bathroom to see if anyone was there. I felt a stabbing pain in my neck. It felt like I was stung by a wasp. The warmth came immediately. My breathing became labored. My brain pumping massive amounts of adrenaline into my body. My only thought was to run. Then a crushing pain in my chest like the weight of a truck sitting directly on me. I collapsed to the floor struggling for my last few breaths I had in me. I looked up and saw Him. Smiling. His eyes wrinkling at the corners. The smile turned into a snarl, then He began laughing. He is back. He has not crossed over in my light. He still owns the night. theblogmeister

I m Writing, Again

  I went on such a bender after the death of my brother most of my memories of 1990 were a blur. I had lost my best friend and had the Demon trying to break through the haze of drugs. At this point I had still not told anyone about killing the colonel. I had been to doctors but I was very selective of what I told them. I was abusing narcotics in massive amounts. It is hard to believe how much drugs can be ingested after someone has built up a tolerance as I. Most  of 1992 was spent in prison, as I told you before. Something had to happen, and fast. I was,once again, writing prescriptions to support an insatiable habit. There would be times I would have to stop writing them until things cooled off. That is when the Demon did not have to fight his way into my sub-conscious. The door was open. He walked right in.

The Demon: Revisited

  Sleep is trying to overtake me. I try to fight but the medications win every time. It doesn't take long before the Demon to pull me into the abyss of the sub-conscious. He is powerful, relentless, unforgiving.His only goal is to re-play the trauma of my past. He controls my mind in the night.His power is nocturnal, In formidable.The result of over 30 years of a bond He has created between my waking self and my sub-conscious.He hates the fact others know of Him.He is afraid.Afraid of being locked away where memory has no breath.He is afraid of losing His power over me.My nightmares are becoming desperate.He is becoming stronger than the chemicals I use to quiet Him.To tame Him the way it was before.It seems that His power is strengthening.My therapist tells me to give him no quarter.Take away His name.Take all of His power.I practice ways of stealing His power by not giving Him credit for my sleep problems.Self talk and self awareness.It seems the more I learn about PTSD, the stronger He becomes. It is not supposed to work that way.The coping skills are a way to deal with problems of the light.Nothing, it seems, works for the night.Colonel Renold L. DeBarge. Full Bird.In life a smart, witty, gentleman with a heart of gold.In death He lives on.Why don't you leave me alone?I ask God to take Him away.Erase Him from my memory.Give me peace. Rest. Freedom from fear of the night. He is creeping into my days, too. I isolate myself. I avoid crowds. He watches me but He has no courage to confront me in the conscious state.He knows His power is limited, if non-existent during the day. He patiently waits. He knows I can't stay awake, forever. The night is His stage.He knows I can not escape the night so he waits, and waits, and waits.Like a small child that waits on the tooth fairy but knows the tooth fairy will not come while he is awake.So, the child, with excitement, hurries to fall asleep. I envy that child.I envy his beautiful, bountiful, sleep.     theblogmeister

Life After Cornbread

  Have you ever lost someone that was real close to you? It affected me almost as much as it did when I killed my patient. I hardly remember the next 6 months. I stayed so stoned I barely could work. I did work, though. I had to do something to take my mind off my problems. I managed to stay out of jail for a while. The Demon was fucking with me hard. I would have nightmares about the colonel killing my brother. My partying brother was gone. I had two more brothers, one older and one younger. My oldest brother worked at Goodyear and was heavily involved in union stuff. My younger brother lived in Houston, Tx. so I hardly saw him. I was married at the time to a woman that I had nothing in common with. I got her pregnant and felt like I should marry her to help raise my child. That marriage did not last very long. If you did not do drugs and married that woman you would be a doper when you left her. I had too many problems to be in a relationship with anyone. I started going to see a psychiatrist at the VA about my nightmares. He put me on a bunch of shit that I did not need. Just made everything worse. My parents talked me in to going to a drug treatment facility. It was an inpatient program that lasted 6 months. I agreed to do it. I had some experience with drug treatment so I excelled in the program. I was appointed by the staff to be a senior resident. It was more like a police. I was supposed to write other residents a demerit which would prolong their stay. Hell, 6 months was long enough, so, I refused to write anyone up. I got fired. Fine by me. I was the first resident to make it through the whole 6 months without getting a demerit. Whoop-de-doo! I did learn a lot about treatment, though. I also got divorce papers while I was there. Another whoop-de-doo. I did not care, anyway. I did make it 6 months without getting high. You know what that meant. I had problems with sleeping. I had some residents that asked to be moved out of my dorm because they thought that I would do something to them at night. Scarety-cats.
  I graduated with honors and left the place, got into my truck, and went to an emergency room in Rome, Ga. They admitted me. The doctors said I had some fractured ribs with a possible punctured lung and they wanted to watch me to make sure the lung was okay. Fine by me. I laid up in that hospital room and got me a shot of Demerol 100mg every 4 hours. Free. I gave them a bogus name, ss#, and told them I owned my company, which was bogus, and told them to send the bill to my bogus address and I would file it under my bogus Workman's comp. I left after a couple days but not before I acquired me a prescription pad. It was on like a chicken bone, then. Have you ever noticed how many friends you have when you have a lot of dope? It's amazing. They should do a study on that one. Look, all I was trying to do was quiet that Demon I had in my head. The only way to shut him up was drugs. I'm not talking about weed it had to be scheduled 3and 4 drugs. I was in for a rude awakening.   theblogmeister

March 3rd, 1989 My Worst Day

 In the late 80's I was doing a pretty good job of fending off the Demon. I had some bad nights and some unconscious ones. I had preferred the later. I still could not believe that the colonel was still giving me so much hell. I will go back and bring up some of my really bad dreams and re-post them to give you an idea of how things were going. I mentioned my brother, Cornbread, before, but let me introduce him to you  all. He was a great guy. We always had each other's back. You know the saying that dynamite comes in small packages, well. that is Bread. His real name is Charles Herbert Riley, II. And do not call him junior. Chaz, Bubba, Bubba Chaz, but he will always be Cornbread, to me. We were as close as any brother could be. We have even shared the same woman. At the same time. He was a 70's rocker, long hair, guitar picking, pot smoking , coke snorting rascal. He was a hell of a friend. Through the years he was constantly totaling cars and raising hell. I was always right  there beside him. While he was in OKC he was cruising on a KZ1000 when a pick-up truck pulled out in front of him. He broadsided the truck and he landed about 75 feet past the collision. My friend from the Air Force, Henry Steele, was working at the hospital where he was transported. My parents flew out there and Henry took good care of them. Cornbread had split his skull in several places, staying in a coma for 11 days. He did wake up and was brought back to Bama when he was able. He had to start taking Dilantin, a seizure medication, and he hated it. Made him feel useless.. Bread recovered from that mishap and we went back to doing what we knew best, partying. We were the baddest Foosball team around. Everyone tried to beat us. We were unbelievable. I played back and he played front. He had a lightning fast pull shot that nobody could block. A hell of a mean toe shot, too. He got a few dollars from the wreck in OKC and bought him a GMC Sierra Classic. One beautiful truck. On the night of his birthday, the day Elvis died, in 1988, he dropped me off at my house and he was supposed to head to his place. Instead, he ended up in the ER with a broke neck. No paralysis, thank God. He did have to wear a halo for 12 weeks. It did not slow him down, though. We built cabinets with the both of us eating Tylox and he still wearing his halo. We were something to behold. 'Dain Bramage' became his new nickname. I'm sure he was battling demons of his own but I never asked. I never told him about killing the colonel, either. Life was good as long as we were stoned. Which was the majority of the time. Then I received a call from the Baptist Memorial Hospital's ER department. Chaz had been involved in an automobile accident. I told my Mom, "Let's go check on Bubba, he's had another wreck." She was eerily quiet. Hell, this was routine for him. No big deal. Mom did not say a word on the way to the hospital. Just before we turned in the parking lot Mom looked at me and said "This does not feel right." I tried to reassure her but she sat down in the chair in the ER waiting room and did not move or say a word. I could look straight down the hall and see the cubicle he was in. I saw an awful lot of feet. When someone would come out I could see that they had him in MAST trousers. I do not think they use them anymore but what they would do is like a pair of pants that you pumped air into to keep the blood in the upper extremities. Military Anti-Shock Trousers. When I saw those I thought, oh shit. This is bad. My two brothers and my sister had arrived and we were waiting on Dad. He was at work about 25 miles away. They worked on him for about 45 minutes before the doctor and a couple nurses came out and said that they did all they could do. How sorry they were for our loss. My Mom sat back down and did not move. She was in shock. My sister started crying. The doctor started to walk off and I said, "Hang on a sec, Are you telling me that my brother is dead? I never heard what was said for the next half hour. I went berserk. I busted all the glass out of every door and window in that place with my bare hands. I was pulling up chairs that were bolted down to the floor and slinging them through the coke machines. I went ape shit. The last thing I remember of that day was being surrounded by uniformed officers and holding me down to give me an injection. It was over. Cornbread, Bubba, Chaz, Charles, was never to be seen, again.   theblogmeister

Locked-Up

  It was not long after the episode with the tennis shoes that I was transferred. I was sent to Ventress Correctional Facility. The prison system just had started substance abuse programs (SAP) and I was in the pilot program. The program lasted 8 weeks and involved a lot of 12-step based models.I excelled in the program so much that I was asked by my counselor to give a speech at graduation. I did not know it at the time that Gov. Guy Hunt would be present at the ceremony. The governor of the great state of Alabama! I prepared my speech and on graduation day gave it with much enthusiasm. The governor even came up to me and told me what a good job I had done and he hoped I would continue my plan after my release from prison.
  After graduation, I wrote the parole board requesting a parole reduction. Remember, I was sentenced to 8 years and the normal parole was 26 months. A few weeks later I received a hearing date for 13 months. They had cut my parole in half. Cool! I stayed at Ventress a couple more months then I was transferred to Montgomery Work Release. It is a program where you get a job, a real job, and the camp gets 25% of your money. By the time I made it to MWR I had only 30 days left before my parole hearing. The camp would not let me work in the free world . so, I became the camp's maintenance man. I got in real good with the Captain and when my hearing was a couple days away the Capt. asked if I was going to my hearing. I told him that I did not know it was allowed. He told me to call my parents and tell them to come get me on the day of my hearing and he would give me an 8 hour pass to attend my parole hearing. Sounds good to me. The day finally arrived, my parents picked me up, and off to downtown Montgomery we went. I walked in the parole hearing waiting room with my parents in tow. There were several people already there, I guess they were family members of other parolee hopefuls. It is very uncommon for an inmate to attend his own hearing and you could tell by the reaction I received from the clerk. She asked my name, I told her, she asked how was I related to David, I told her that I was David. Her eyes got big as quarters, she then hustled us out a door and asked us to wait in the hall at the back of the hearing room. I looked at Mom and Dad and we just shrugged our shoulders. "I assume that this does not happen very often." my Dad said. I guess not. About an hour later we were called in before a five panel hearing board. They asked me a bunch of questions, then spoke to my parents, then asked me to step forward.
  "You understand that we cannot tell you whether are not that you made parole." the chairman told me. "But, I think you will be pleased." Two weeks later I am back at Glencoe trying to find a legal way to quiet my Demon. This is important to remember. My first trip to prison only lasted a few months at the county jail. My second trip was reduced and I only served half of what I was supposed to serve. Have you ever heard of the Habitual Offender Act? Well, the next time I am not so lucky. I get hammered. You will not believe what happens next.   theblogmeister

I Need Some Help

  I am waiting to receive my service-connected disability. I am presently drawing 20% which is only 243.00/month. My 20% is because of my back. U.S.C. 38 4.16(b) clearly states that if a veteran is receiving service-connected disability and is unable to sustain gainful employment because of a service-connected disability then that veteran is deemed totally disabled. I am drawing $391.00 social security disability because of my back. I have had 4 back surgeries since 2006 and am unable to do much of anything. On top of my spinal fusion I am suffering with PTSD. That is what I am writing about in my blog. It is an amazing story that is incredible to believe. It is all the truth. I have not embellished any part of my story. My wife has been diagnosed with fibromyalgia and she is, too, currently unable to work. I have $634.00 coming in to this household every month. I need some help. It is getting harder and harder to pay my bills. I am not asking for a handout but if you want to donate and help me keep my internet so I can finish my story it will come back to you in some way. I might even make a little money if you buy from amazon clicking on my site. I do not know how much longer this appeal will last but once it is over we will be okay. So, please tell your friends and neighbors to come to my site, click on amazon and buy what you need so I can keep on writing. I am going to turn this story into a book, someday, and let whoever wants to buy it they will not be disappointed. If you want to donate:  David Riley  802 Taylor Rd. Glencoe,Al. 35905.  You would be a hero. Please help and please keep reading. theblogmeister

The Big House

  No more county jails, for me. This was my second felony and off I went to Kilby Correctional Facility. It is where everyone first goes to get classified. Psychological profiles, aids testing, and a general physical. I was pretty healthy at the time but I had hurt my wrist in a scuffle at the county before being shipped to Kilby. I was put in the thunder dorm. It got that name because there were about 500 inmates in a metal building in the middle of summer. Air conditioning? Not a chance. It was a crazy place. I saw this white dude sitting on his rack (bed) when a huge black man came up to him and picked up his new tennis shoes and started to walk away with them in his hand saying, "Thanks, white boy." I thought , oh shit, surely he is not gonna let him get away with it. The white dude said nothing. About an hour later I heard a commotion going on in the latrine and the guards were blowing their whistle, which usually means there is a fight. I made my way back there and could not get through because of the crowd. Then the white dude that got his tennis shoes stolen came by me being escorted by a guard, handcuffed. I asked around and found out the white dude waited until he caught the black dude taking a piss at the latrine. The white boy took a mop wringer and hit that black dude in the back of the head, knocking him out. He then picked him up and laid him in the latrine, took his shoes, and walked off. He got ratted on and spent a few days in administrative segregation. When the white boy got out of admin seg, nobody, I mean NOBODY, would steal dust off his bed. That was prison life. If you showed any weakness they would pounce on you.
  While I was locked-up I got a reputation for being a crazy man. I had no drugs, not for a lack of supply, and had incredibly horrifying dreams, screaming out about demons and killings. No body would mess with me. It had been 7 years since I killed the colonel and it would only get worse. A lot worse. I was sitting on my rack and the hospital runner came to me and said I needed to be at the clinic. I went to the clinic and there was 2 guys sitting there. The door opened and a name was called and this black dude to my right went in. He came out about 15 minutes later and something was obviously wrong. He looked pretty shaken. I said, "Damn, dude, are you okay?"
  "Man, I ain't never fucked with them sissies. I don't do drugs."
  I said, "What did they yell you in there?"
  "Man, I tested positive for HIV." he said
   I was shocked. I did not know what to tell him. It wasn't but a couple more minutes and the police was taking him to the aids dorm. A few minutes later the door opened and they called the black guy that was sitting to my left into the clinic. After several minutes later, the other guy came out the clinic. I knew this dude was a sissy, I was in E-dorm with him/her when we first got to Kilby. "Well, I guess I'm going to Limestone."
  "Why is that?" I asked.
  "Cause I got the ninja, but I already knew it." Here comes the police to take him/her to the aids dorm.
  Okay, I am beginning to freak out. How the hell did I get that shit? My mind  was going a hundred miles an hour. How am I gonna tell my family" What am I gonna do? What seemed like an eternity the clinic door finally opened. I walked in, with my head in my hands asking the doc what I was gonna do. He said, "What do you mean? I just want to get an x-ray of your wrist."
  "WHAT? You mean I ain't got the aids?" He paused a minute, then started laughing.
  "No, no, no, you do not have HIV." I almost hugged him. I told him that he just scared the hell out of me, I was dying of aids for a few minutes. That was a nightmare of the waking kind. But, it is only just the beginning. Hell awaits.   theblogmeister

A Criminal's Life

  The Lortabs were just not getting it. I was having more and more problems with the Demon. He was keeping me up and terrorizing my mind. His world had become the night. I had to do something, fast. I went to jail for writing scripts once but if I am careful I could get away with it for a while. It was worth it to me. The Demon had become a formidable foe. I found a doctor that would write me Lortab-10, one hundred and twenty each month, but my tolerance was so high it was like taking aspirins. Time for the script writer. I went to a doctor in Anniston and found a pad lying around and scooped it up. A family practitioner will have the numbers already printed on the pad as an ER doctor will have to write the number in himself. Here we go, again.
  Everything was going great for a while. I was able to get a couple more pads so I had several to choose from. I would usually write for Mepergan Fortis, no more than 40, and would not stop until we got 3 scripts filled a day. That's between 90 to 120 pills a day. If you do not know what meps are they contain Meperidine( Demerol ) and Phenergan . They were very easy to shoot IV. That's what me and my buddy would do. I would pass out and have the best sleep and no memory of the Demon. That is why I loved them so much. The down side to doing those thing was that you would start dreaming while wide awake and talk to people that was not even there. It was like a light switch being turned off. One minute you are okay and the next thing you know you are dealing a hand of cards and telling the next player to hurry up. Then you were back at the table with the empty capsules everywhere. You had to have someone to baby sit you so you would not leave the house. Do you understand what I must have been going through dealing with the Demon by using drugs with such hellish side effects. Anyway, I got busted, again, for the same thing. This time, because I had went through a drug treatment center, they only gave me 8 years. I had to go to  the real prison. Let me tell you, it is nothing like the county jail. You would not believe what I have seen in the Alabama prison system. I'll tell you about it, later.   theblogmeister

Busted

  I plead with the man holding the shotgun on me to let me go. He told me to sit down and shut up. No problem. A few minutes later the St. Clair County Sheriff's deputy was putting me in hand cuffs. It took about 20 minutes before we reached the jail. I was booked in and placed in the bullpen with about 20 other thugs and this would be my home until I could find someone to post my bond. It did not take long. I was bonded out the next day. My mom put up the $250 dollars, 10%, and I was home the next day. I could not understand why the druggist called the law. It was common knowledge that he would trade pills for weed so I was surprised that he had me arrested. It would be another year before my court date would come because of the backlog of criminal cases in the state of Alabama. The Alabama Department of Corrections, the prison system, was very overcrowded causing the log jam at the county level. I mean, when you are giving 15 years for possessing one joint to first time offenders you will have a backlog.
  It had been over 5 years since I had killed the colonel and the nightmares were not going away. If anything, they were getting worse. As long as I was self-medicated, I was okay. Street drugs were too expensive for  my taste. I did not like alcohol so it had to be narcotics. I kept on building houses and buying tabs when I could find them. It makes it especially hard when I look back at what I had and see what I have become.
  I was sentenced to two years in prison for the attempting to obtaining narcotics by forgery. I was lucky and got to do my time at St. Clair County jail. The prisons were still over-crowded and they welcomed the idea. I spent 10 months in the county jail as a trusty. I was in the kitchen getting lunch ready for the guys upstairs when Terry came back and said,"Guess who we just brought in ?" I said, "Who?" Doc Wilson. Well, Doc Wilson was the dude thar made me sit down and shut up with a shotgun pointed to my face. "No shit?" He asked if I wanted to strip search him before he went upstairs. They had busted Doc for trading 100 Talwin for a quarter pound of weed. "Hell yes, I want to strip search him!" We walked down the hall and I was standing just outside the office door when Terry told Doc to go with this man to be stripped and searched. He looked up in the direction of where Terry was pointing and saw me and I watched all the color drain from his face. I told him to come with me. Terry was having a hard time controlling his laughter and so was I . Poor guy. He thought I was about to do some unspeakable things to him. He followed me back to the kitchen and apologized for holding the gun on me and calling the police. He said that he thought I was the police trying to bust him. I felt sorry for the guy and told him not to worry about it  and he did not have to take his clothes off. I also told him to tell Johnny, the trustee upstairs, I said to look out for him. Jails are not for the weak. That was my first time to go to jail. There would be many more and many stories with them. Through it all, the colonel never left me.    theblogmeister

Back To Bama

  The oil bust in the early eighties affected all of OKC's economy so we had to move back to Bama. I continued my fractured rib scam and even had a hospital admit me to ICU. I have done that scam over fifty times and have never had a doctor tell me there was nothing wrong. I was telling a friend of mine about it and he could not believe it. He said there was no way I could go to an emergency room with nothing wrong and get narcotics. I told him what he needed to do and I let him pick the hospital I told him that he would have to talk to the business office lady and what to say to her. He asked why I could not tell her. I told him that I would be busy with my acting, not being able to breathe normally, can't talk, etc. etc. In a couple hours I was wheeled out of there into my friends car having had several shots of morphine IV with a prescription for 40 Lortab-10 with 3 refills. He could not believe what he had just seen. I should have been an actor, he said. He was amazed. I told him it was simple. Having worked in the medical field and around doctors I got to know their personalities. If a patient is presented with obvious breathing difficulties and is in tremendous pain, having had diagnostic tests done, a doctor will not come out and say that he does not know what is wrong.. It is an ego thing. Doctors, for the most part have a God complex. They will not admit being seen as inept. I was such a good actor faking my symptoms the doctors had no choice. They had to find what was causing my symptoms. I gave them the symptoms of fractured ribs, remember that the first two inches of the rib at the attachment of the sternum are cartilage and do not show up on x-ray, they diagnosed me with fractured ribs. It really is amazing.. I did not think of it then but imagine how much my chest has been exposed to radiation due to all those x-rays. It is a little scary, now. It was not long before I had to stop with the rib scam and had to resort back to writing scripts. Then I was at a drug store with a script I wrote and the pharmacist picked up the phone to call and have it checked. I reached over and hung the phone up and said, "Don't do that." The next thing I know I am staring down a double barrel shotgun. This is not good.     theblogmeister

Change of Scenery

  I moved to Oklahoma City, OK. in the early 80's. It was too hot for me in Bama. I went with my brother, Cornbread, and we found good jobs making good money. The only problem with me going to another place, guess who would follow? The Demon. I swear I could not shake Him. I went to doctor after doctor and they wanted to put me on psychotrophic drugs. Turn me into a Zombie. There was not much work for zombies in OKC so I would not take the zombie drugs. I figured out a new scam. I would get my brother to take me to an emergency room and I would act like I had a broke rib, could not breath well, stabbing pain just to the left of the sternum (breastbone). My brother would give them bogus info about how he owned a construction company and I fell off a scaffold. They are thinking workman's comp so I get the A-1 treatment. Did not have to wait. They would hook me up to an IV and give me narcotics IV, take x- rays and c-scan. They would come back and tell me I had fractured ribs and the only thing they could do for me was make me comfortable, ala, narcotics. You see, the first couple inches where the rib attaches to the sternum is cartilage, does not show up on x-ray. They would hold the films to the light and point out my 'rib fractures.' Then give me a bunch of dope to take home. In and out in 2 hours with a lot of drugs. We did that scam All over OKC for a long time. All the while the Demon was at bay. But soon, he would be in control for a long time.   theblogmeister

Monsters Inside Me

  There is definitely something wrong with me. I know this. I am being punished for what I did back in 1978. Am I punishing myself? I am no dumb ass, by no means. I am not the smartest person, either. I understand how the mind can hurt or heal. All I know for a fact is that I am being inundated by these nightmares that are debilitating. I can't give in. I have to make a living. The only way I am able to do that, right now, is to take narcotics to quiet my Demon. Otherwise, I would be a walking basket case because I could not get any sleep at night. I am in a catch-22. Thanks to the colonel I am living on the edge. I had my brother right there beside me. He had his own demons, I guess, because he would do as much, if not more, dope than I. The dope kept coming as long as I was writing. I got to the point when I had five or six prescription pads with their DEA number. I knew not to write any scheduled three drug with a refill. It is against the law. Schedule IV, like lortab, refills are possible. Percodan or Tylox, 5mg of oxycodone, thirty max. I knew enough about medicine to not slip up. But, I did. I let too many people in on what I was doing. I showed my face at way too many drug stores, so, I would get other people to get them filled and I would give them half. It worked out for the both of us. Until I let the wrong one in on my scam. He got busted and told the cops where he got the scripts and guess who paid me a visit? That was my first felony; probation. The nightmares got a lot worse as I became used to the drugs. Tolerance. I had to do something drastic. If I can live through it.   theblogmeister

It Was Time To Go

  It had taken Major C. a little longer than I had hoped to get me a discharge. He called me down to his office in February 1980 and gave me my discharge. I said goodbye to all my buddies and the drugs then I headed north to home. My home is in Glencoe, Al. about 60 miles north of Birmingham. It was good to be back home but I had left something behind that I much needed; drugs. Without the drugs is when my Demon first appeared in my dreams. I would wake up in the middle of the night drenched and panting. I was definitely running from Him. It was not an occasional dream, it was every night. The only thing that would quiet Him was the drugs. I had thrown away a potentially great medical career because I allowed my feelings for a dying man cloud my judgement. What was I to do, now. I had to work to care for myself in a new career. My brother was a carpenter, so, that is what I chose. I attempted to see the VA doctors but PTSD was not a recognized disease back in 1980. I was sent to a psychiatrist and was placed on anti-depressants, which did not work. Then the nightmares started becoming a huge problem that would interfere with my sleep, therefore, interfere with my waking hours. It is hard to be afraid to sleep and stay up half the night then try to do manual labor during the day. It does not work. I was building houses and working and walking walls sometimes 30 feet off the ground. I needed those pain pills. So, I started writing prescriptions from pads that I would steal from the doctors office or ER and taking them to a pharmacy and get them filled. This was too easy but it worked. For the next couple years I built houses and wrote prescriptions. Life was good. But, once again, life would bite me on the ass.    theblogmeister