Freedom: Into the Real World

by | Dec 22, 2015 | 0 comments

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I left Her Majesty’s Penitentiary in a haze.

I made sure as the van pulled away that I didn’t look back at the jail. I wanted to – and was surprised at how hard it was not to turn around. But I didn’t. I was not superstitious, but might was well play it safe anyway.

I just sat wishing that my head would clear.

The drive to the airport was long and uncomfortable. There was no excitement of being on the right side of the wall and that confused me. I should be jumping for joy right now! I should be ecstatic! I was free! But my pill soaked mind was just not up for it. Instead I was afraid.

I didn’t know what there was to be afraid of, but I was scared.

When we pulled up to the airport I must have been expecting the guard to come in with me. When he passed me my things and wished me well, for a moment I didn’t know what to do. I had never been in an airport alone before and suddenly I felt very small and young. The van pulled away and I walked into the airport on shaking legs, my heart pounding in my chest. When I found the right counter and passed my ticket to the lady behind it I tried to stop my hand from shaking but failed, and was suddenly very conscious of the jailhouse tattoos on my left hand. Hell, the five dots on the web of my thumb actually meant ‘I did time in jail’. So I knew it was pretty obvious where I have just come from.

The plane ride was boring, as all plane rides are. At one point while I was looking out the window seeing nothing, the excitement hit me. This was real! I was on the way home! The last two years were now history and I was about to start my life over again. I wasn’t sure what the next step was going to be but that didn’t matter. The rolling in my stomach had been replaced by a strong case of butterflies as reality swept over me. I suddenly wanted a drink very badly.

I was free. Right here – right now – I was free.

And I was going home!

No Escape

Standin’ still,
Time to kill,
Can’t find any reason
For this rhyme.
Holding fast,
Fight the past,
Escape the prison
Of my mind.

It should be easy
But I’m confused,
Thought I’d won, but
I think I lose.

I should be so happy
Just to be free,
But this is all
So strange to me.

What’s going on?
Don’t understand;
Someone help me –
Learn to stand.

Standin’ still,
Time to kill.
Can’t find any reason
For this rhyme.
Holding fast,
Can I last?
Escape the prison
Of my mind.

Self doubt,
Shattered dreams.
Nothing is really
What it seems.

I’m not the person
I thought I would be;
Life doesn’t mean
As much to me.

Standin’ still,
Trying to kill –
All the poison
Within my mind;
Chasing dreams;
But it seems
Escape I’ll never –
Ever find…

© Barry Veinotte

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It was January 22nd, 1986 and as I walked through the door and into my mother house I stepped into Christmas. The tree was still up, with mounds of gifts underneath. My mother and sister had waited, left everything in place, to have Christmas a month late when I came home. I was speechless. Mom had even made a cake. It was the absolute best homecoming I could have received. They, like myself, thought that I was finally home and home to stay.

My first couple of days back in the real world were spent being sick. I shivered and shook and felt plain lousy. I guess it took some time for my system to get used to not having any sedatives in it. Though most of the pills you were prescribed in jail were mild and likely thought to be non-addictive, I went through withdrawals. But then again, I did not just take what I was prescribed or as prescribed.

Freedom didn’t taste as sweet as I had expected. Out in public I was paranoid: Thinking that people were whispering behind my back. Sometimes this was true – I caught people whispering to each other after I passed by. ‘That’s Barry Veinotte. He just got out of jail.’ Often it was paranoia, but often it was real. It is amazing how many people seem to think they are whispering when they are not. When I heard these things, or saw the looks that people gave me when they didn’t think I could see, I burned with anger.
I did not belong here. I did not belong in jail. I didn’t belong anywhere.

And I wanted to drink.

Things stayed fairly calm for a while. I didn’t have money or access to much booze but I managed to get what I could when I could. No real trouble happened for a while, except my father’s girlfriend walking in to find me with the house full of kids while dad was at work. I didn’t expect her, and we all cleared out of there in a hurry, me grabbing what was left of my whisky and wanting only to get away.

I didn’t really know how to relate to my friends. I didn’t have a lot to talk to them about. Time had kept going for everyone back here in Labrador West during the two years that I had been gone, but in a lot of ways, had left me behind. I didn’t talk a lot about where I had been, the things I had done. It just didn’t seem like reasonable conversation material. I had no idea what had gone on in their lives, and didn’t really want to tell them much about what had happened in mine..

I told them some stories, making sure the version I gave made it all sound cool and me sound tough. I didn’t tell them about the darkness, the parts of it all that still gave me nightmares and only really left me alone when I was buzzed up on something. I didn’t tell them about being scared all day long and longing to be locked in my cell at night so that I would feel safe. I didn’t tell them about laying in the hole and praying for God to kill me. I told them part truths made to increase my own reputation. They would pass on these stories to others, in yet different versions, and soon the stories that were going around about me were very far from the truth. But I didn’t care. Let them think I am crazy and they will leave me alone. Worked in the pen so why not out here?

Some of my friends were not allowed to hang out with me, though they still did. Their parents would bring up my name when they got into trouble: ‘If you don’t straighten up you are going to end up in jail just like that Barry Veinotte!’

I didn’t have a lot of friends, and those I did have didn’t always want to be around me. They had limits to what they would do, how much they would drink, but I didn’t. I never knew when to stop. It was all or nothing. When I had enough booze in me I became a different person, and my friends would often drift away, leaving me on my own in my drunken stupor.

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We would hang out in the recreation center quite often, trying not to get kicked out for being there without a reason. I would hide my beer in the downstairs bathroom with someone keeping watch for the night manager while I drank them – usually as fast as I could get them into me.

On one occasion my mood turned dark in a hurry. There were four of us in the washroom, and I was just finishing up the last of my beer. I was fairly drunk and apparently paranoid: I thought one of the guys said something to me. The other guys all told me that I misunderstood what he had said, that I needed to lighten up. The more they talked the more convinced I was that Ryan was talking down to me.

“So you have a problem with me do you?” I asked him.

“I never said a thing Barry. Honest man, I never! You’re my friend! I wouldn’t disrespect you!” he replied.

I grabbed him and threw him up against the wall, pulling my knife out of my pocket at the same time, flipping it open and pressing it up against his throat, my left forearm across his upper chest.

“If you ever wanna fuck with me you had better think fucking twice about it!” I hissed in his face. “I will cut your fucking throat in a second. You got that?”

“Yes Barry! I wouldn’t fuck with you man! I wouldn’t!”

“Managers coming!” one of the other guys said from the doorway.

I dropped my knife in my pocket and started towards the door, meeting the night manager in the just outside the doorway. “What are you guys doing down here?” he asked.

“Nothing.” I replied.

“Well you know you can’t hang out down here.” He continued.

“Yeah we’re leaving anyway.” I said.

As I walked away my anger subsided as quickly as it had come. In its place I felt shame and confusion. What the hell had I just done? Why had I done it? Were the guys going to tell someone about this? If they did I would be back in jail real fast. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I apologized to Ryan. He accepted. I didn’t know what had gotten into me, I had told him. I just kinda freaked out.
“It’s fine Barry man. Don’t worry about it. We’re cool.”

And the strange thing is, we were. The incident was never brought up again and Ryan never treated me any differently afterwards. We still hung out together. For me though the incident would continuously replay in my mind over the years. I should have taken it as a warning, but I didn’t. It should have made me want to stop drinking, but it didn’t.

I just went off in search of more beer.

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That’s what ya get for lovin’ me.

~ Waylon Jennings

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