(Content warning: Incarceration, law enforcement, suicide)
Dictacted 11.25.24 from Dane County Jail, Madison, WI
Dear Mom,
Well, that one was a lot, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, Mom, I would say I hope I didn’t upset you, but I know that’s not possible. I upset the people who had to edit it; I’m upset myself. It’s upsetting, to say the least.
I don’t know if I explained it before, but that’s how I’m posting all this. Remember when I worked for the police department, and we dictated our reports into the phone, and then a stenographer typed them? It turns out that after doing that for eight years, it comes right back to you. Here in jail, I stand in the day room on the payphone, and I dictate the blog posts, just like I did police reports. Except this time, I’ve got three people who love me and care about me editing and posting for me.
I’m going to try to keep this a little lighter, but there is one tough question I feel like I should cover: Why? Why so public all of a sudden? Why now?
Seems weird, doesn’t it? Remember when I did Ironman the second time, in 2018? Remember, we were sitting by the Lakeshore, and that fellow came by with the camera and asked me if I wanted to get interviewed for the annual promotional video? He asked me if I wanted to say something about why I was running the race that year, and I said, “Absolutely not; go talk to someone else.” I don’t like public attention. I like a private life. So why am I writing a tell-all blog about the worst experiences of my life?
Well, Mom, something happened to me after the events of the last entry. It happened after my last serious suicide attempt, and it happened again after the events I described in my previous letter. It’s like, for a while, I exist on a different plane. I feel like I’m the only character in technicolor in a black-and-white movie, but I’m also the only one who notices that I don’t belong here. It takes a moment to pause, recalibrate, and convince myself that I’m still here, the world is still turning, and I’m expected to carry on as if everything is the same. But I don’t quite know how to, because I wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place.
Just like last time, I stopped obeying the rules I’ve made for myself, mantras I’d told myself time and time again. Be safe, don’t make any waves, and especially don’t do anything you know will upset anyone. Hide your pain, and always sacrifice yourself first.
I know you don’t play video games, but I sure do. It’s like I hit save in a video game, and I intend to go back to that save point, the “reset” I can always return to if things should happen to go belly-up. But for the time being, I’m just crashing through the next few levels to see what kind of chaos could be in store. And if it works out, I’ll hit save again, which will be the new save point.
Anyway, the last time this happened, the result of that suicide attempt was a doubling down on all my efforts to drive my life into the ground. This time, that reckless abandon means renouncing the secrecy that kept my demons hidden from everyone around me. I’m feeding myself to the wolves. I’m daring the world to prove I’m worth hating as much as I hate myself. I’m showing them every last ugly detail and challenging them to loathe me, to loathe my ugly, like I loathe my ugly. This is the opposite of everything I ever tried to present myself as, to you and to the world. This is the most unpolished, ugly, raw version of me there is.
Damn, Mom, I’m sorry, I said I’d keep this light, but you needed to understand why exactly I am in a place where I want to be this public about my experiences. But in an effort to move back to “light,” let me cut back to my immediate environment, and show you it’s not all radical honesty and self-loathing.
I know you understand a little bit about what it looks like here, Mom, but I should set the stage for readers who have never heard a first-person account of what they call the “Old Jail,” the Dane County Jail City-County Building, in which I make my temporary home As I detailed in a previous entry, they sent me right on ahead to general population, not in the men’s jail but in the women’s. That’s what I always refer to as “Lady Jail.” Everyone seems to get a kick out of me calling it that. I think it sounds funny coming out of my mouth, probably as funny as the way I look mixed in here with a bunch of women.
In the first post, I already described solitary confinement, aka “seg.” Allow me to tell you of the upgrade to my accommodations here in Lady Jail.
As I mentioned, I’m in the City-County Building, with the main headquarters of the police station right down on the first floor. And here I am, just a few floors upstairs. I am so close to something that had previously been such a large part of my life, and yet so far at the same time. It’s almost as weird as it was the first time I was in this building, when the Ironman route went right below us, and I watched the Ironman from up in the jail instead of participating. I have lived lifetimes since I ran that triathlon. I think most people experience strangeness in their lives, but my life seems a little extra bizarre. Maybe everyone thinks that, though. I mean, what is “normal” anyhow? I’m starting to feel that it doesn’t exist.
In any case, I’m in general population, cell block 610, to be specific. There are eight cells in this block. The block amounts to a room that’s probably 50 feet long and 30 feet wide (just a little larger than the pickleball court). There are four little cells on each side of the day room, which is in the middle. Each is about the size of a tiny bedroom or a very large walk-in closet.
On the far wall of the cell, you have your bed. To your left, a sink and toilet combination. There’s one shelf on the wall where you can stack your books, papers, and hygiene items. There are a couple of hooks for clothes, and they also give you a plastic storage bin. That’s where I keep my commissary food as well as my extra jail clothes.
There’s not much to it, but I do enjoy the privacy. Across the street, in the newer building, the Public Safety Building, people are kept in pods. There are a lot more than eight people, and they all sleep in this large living space full of bunk beds. You don’t get your own room (I suppose it’s called a cell, technically). But they’re all in one big space together, which I think would be overwhelming for me. I like having my own space.
So, in the middle, there’s a day room, and there’s not much to it. There’s a big long metal table. That’s where we eat dinner and watch TV. On another metal table, there’s a TV. Stacked below that is a library of books and some playing cards.
It’s nothing fancy, and there’s not tons to do, but there’s always plenty to read. I also have this project to work on, and as I mentioned before, I’ve enjoyed getting to know the ladies who have been shut in here with me. I respect them, in ways that I honestly don’t think I’ve ever been able to respect another human being. We see each other at what are arguably some of the worst moments of our entire lives, and that allows us to have a special bond, one you can only have with someone who’s gone through the same trauma and heartbreak that you have endured.
I don’t think there’s been a single person I’ve met in jail who hasn’t had problems with addiction in their life. And that means that addiction can be discussed more honestly and frankly than I’ve ever heard it addressed outside. I mentioned to Becky that it feels like an AA or NA summer camp, except we’re all in the very first couple steps and they don’t trust us very much, so they lock us up and say, “Nobody leaves.” But I guess it’s more like a winter holiday camp this time.
And unlike any kind of holiday camp I’ve heard of, the outdoors are beyond reach for the most part. In the Public Safety Building, no one goes outside, and in the City County Building they say it’s got to be over 35°. At this point in the winter, I doubt that will be anytime soon. Remember when I went on the roof when I was here last? Walking out into the sunshine that afternoon in September, just after being moved from solitary confinement to general population the first time, I felt like the subject of one of those animal rescue videos that are meant to pull at your heartstrings. Watch as Eli Experiences his First Breath of Fresh Air in Two Months, the clickbait would read.
I was a police officer in this city, working out of this exact building for years, and didn’t know you could go on the roof until I was incarcerated in this jail. There’s a whole basketball court in the yard up there just for the jail! Anyway, keep your fingers crossed for a little bit warmer weather, because I sure would like to visit that roof again and feel the fresh air and see the lake. It’s a view of the city of Madison that I have told you repeatedly I don’t need to see again, but every time I see it, I am grateful for it.
All right, Mom, that’s it for now. We had buffalo chicken macaroni and cheese for dinner, and that’s probably my second favorite meal behind the white chicken chili. The ladies know I’m blogging in here, and so do the deputies. The women I’m in the cell block with have floated the idea of doing a jail food blog as well on top of this. So, for anyone reading, if you think you’re up to the task of transcribing narrations from jail and posting them on the internet, I’ve got some aspiring food bloggers ready for you.
Well, according to the Madison Police Department, the special victims unit comes to talk to me tomorrow. I’m still in a great deal of pain, without any Advil or Tylenol to help. But, the bottom line is, I’m happy I’m here. I don’t honestly feel like I want to or should be leaving right now. I feel safe in a way I haven’t for at least a couple of months. The walls that keep me in are keeping other things, other people, out. And for right now, I need that.
But that knife cuts both ways. I am accustomed to talking to you daily. We’ve talked almost every day through some of the highest and lowest points of my life. Sometimes, we have tough situations to discuss, and sometimes, it’s just the day-to-day mundane, but you’ve always been there for me. So, I know you’re not picking up the phone now for many reasons, and I know you’re not at the other end of the phone I’m talking into right now, but I hope you’re out there reading this. Stay strong, Mom; you know I love you, and always will.
Still me,
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