“I believe my first duty is to survive.”

— George Carlin

In a tribute to the unsung heroes operating the mental health programs for alcoholics, drug addicts and drug dealers in New York prisons — here’s a further snapshot of actual treatment and planning that goes into their recovery. I was fortunate in that I was a trained professional who was not allowed to take part in running the program but could benefit from its brilliance. Since I was more of a political prisoner than anything else, compliments of a Vindictive Prosecution for my writing, I was there to observe. And write. When I wasn’t worried about being killed it was interesting

(Ms. Roddy was the social worker hired to run the program and this was the ASAT residential treatment program IN prison).

“Do you worry? Often? Sometimes? Never?”

Asking someone in prison to answer an emotional quiz, is like asking a person about to be shot in the head whether  he’d like there to be 5 or 6 bullets in the gun when Russian Roulette started. How could any rational human be claiming to be in or even near the mental health field ask such a question? Yet, here it was.

I’m sitting in a group of 5 guys, since we’d  broken down from the larger group, as little clusters in the Rec room. Roddy is off bullshitting with the C.O. about her latest date, and, to kill time for the afternoon group she ran we were given a 3 page print-out to answer. Each of us was given the questionnaire to check off our answers,  put in our folders and  discuss amongst ourselves. We all looked  at each other.

“So, do you worry? Often. Sometimes. Never,” said Dierburger the self-professed alcoholic with a few missing teeth, an outbreak of some kind of skin disease on his face, unkempt hair, sallow complexion and  a head-held sideways, near-drawl in his voice.

“I dunno ’bout you guys,” he says, “but the only think I’m worried about is when I’m gettin’ outta here.” He laughed with some conviction but with little energy. Anyone who breaks into a store and comes out with $10 in change and one beer, hasn’t even made it as a decent criminal.

I thought about my wife paying the rent. Yeah, I was worried. But, it was unlikely  to do me any good. I was also worried about when the fuck I was going to get out — alive. 

But, of course, I’d had to check “Never.”

Prison was about masking your feelings, not sharing them. The Administration was concerned about lawsuits so any hint of mental instability, even though we were all surrounded by crazy people, had to be denied. There was zero percentage in “sharing” anything of real emotional value. You could wind up in a psychiatric ward, shot up with drugs for your trouble.

And, my days were filled with strategic lying about what the two women wanted to hear. Too much talking and you were trying to upstage THEM and too little talking and you were not participating.

“Okay,” said Black,”what’re  you guys called?”

“Enigma,” I said.

“So, ‘Mental/emotional assessment’ this says,” Dierburger continued, “let’s see, ‘I am moody’ well fuck that, ‘I trust others’ oh, here, ‘I feel depressed’ that’s good. How the fuck do you wind  up in prison and not feel depressed?”

“Yeah,” said Al, the white, 50 year old guy who’d wound up in prison  for having a fight with some guy, “this one’s good, ‘I feel guilty’  so, how the fuck do you get into prison if you don’t act fucking guilty?” He goes down the list. “This is good, ‘I feel adequate’ adequate to what, to get through this bullshit, and ‘I have difficulty sleepin’ — yeah that’s good. The asshole next  to me is farting and coughing all night and his radio is on full blast with his earphones on and I can hear the fucking song  blasting from my cube.”

“I like this one,” said Domo, the quiet black kid. “My diet includes fiber, I eat fat foods, I balance nutrients.”

Dierburger laughs and pipes up, “where the fuck do they think we are at the Four Seasons, this is a shithole that only offers Soy. There’s no fat here. There’s no nutrients here. And, there’s definitely no fiber here. It’s all soy bullshit disguised  as food.”

“Okay,” I said,  watching Roddy through the bubble window that allowed her  to fuck  off  with  the C.O. and  continue  to watch  what we were doing.

“Look at page three,” said Al, “‘I am happy with my life’, now can they seriously expect us to answer that question. ‘Oh, sure, I’m fucking deliriously happy. I’m in a fucking prison with  a bunch of shitheads in a program with a fucking kangaroo running it.”

Dierburger laughed, as did Domo. Yeah, ‘I feel worthy’ isn’t that from that old T.V. show Wayne’s World, I feel worthy, I feel worthy. What was that?

“No,” I said, “I’m not worthy, I’m not worthy. That was the line.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said. “lissen, dis is bullshit. Jus’ fill it out the way ya think she wans ta see it. The whole fuckin’ thing is a crock a shit.”

The small groups were told to pull their chairs in a circle. It was to be group time again. We circled our chairs and all faced each other in a circle of about 30 guys. Roddy said  to continue and then went back to the bubble to talk about her latest  boyfriend.

They all looked at each other and a few said, “We gotta talk.” 

Another  guy said, “fuck dis.”

Another said, “we do dis stupid shit, les’ just do a story,” and a few looked at·each other.

There were glances at Roddy through the bubble glass window so  that the C.O. could see into the Rec room and there was also a large convex mirror, as there was in the dorm so that the officer on duty could see all areas from his desk.

“You start Albina,” said Black. He was referring to Tuki, whose last name was Albino, but was often mispronounced.

“So I was goin’ outta da door,” said Tuki, “an’ I see Roddy waitin’ fa me inna bus.” He was leaving  in a couple of days and this was  his great creative leap. “Ta you Q.”

“Okay, so I see Roddy an’ she say in’ she wantsa blow me,” and everyone starts laughing and slapping their knees as Q is trying to keep it moving, “onta you Mr. Worthy.”

Worthy was an intense  black guy who was built solidly and seemed  as if he was perpetually angry and a predator on the prowl, but  who would suddenly evince a big grin and then say something funny. “Nah, on ta you Dee,” he said.

Dee, a 6’4″ black guy started, “so, Roddy tells me ta gedon the bus an’ we godda go to da bar but pulls me onta the bus and we get  in back an’ she’s goin’ down on me and lickin’ my Johnson,” onta you.”

It was my turn so I looked through the bubble window to see if Roddy was paying any attention to us and did NOT want to be caught saying ANYTHING of a  sexual nature, no matter what. So I said, “I was driving my Rolls and told her to get off the bus and join me and saw Bigs,” who was sitting next to me “and I asked Bigs if he wanted to drive us around.”

This was ASAT. 

This was Recovery. 

This was a drug and alcohol treatment program.

I needed a drink.

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