83. Lessons from a Jail Cell
The last time I was in jail is a memory etched deeply into my mind, a turning point that, though profound, did not result in an immediate change for me. It began one fateful afternoon when my reckless decisions came to a head. I crashed into a parked car, and when the police arrived, they discovered I was in possession of 550 Xanax pills. I was charged with a class B felony of criminal possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute, along with driving while intoxicated (DWI) and leaving the scene of an accident. The gravity of those charges didn’t fully hit me until I was processed at the police station, standing under the fluorescent lights, being fingerprinted and photographed for my mugshot. That evening, I was arraigned in court. The judge’s stern words were a blur as my mind raced through the events from earlier in the day. Shortly after, I was transported to Orange County Jail, where I would end up spending Easter of 2019. It wasn’t just the humiliation of incarceration that awaited me; I was also about to face the brutal physical toll of detoxing cold turkey—a term used to describe abruptly stopping the use of substances without any medical tapering or substitutes.
Upon arriving at the jail, I was sent to the medical ward, where I was placed in a single cell to detox. The cell was barren, containing only a metal cot, a toilet, and a sink. They gave me a thin blanket, a set of jail-issued clothes, a few toiletries, and a handbook containing the rules of the jail. I was not allowed anything else. I spent 23 and a half hours a day locked in that small, cold cell. The only time I was let out was for a 30-minute window to take a shower and make a phone call. On some days, even that half-hour was taken from me because the guards were busy dealing with other prisoners. I remember staring at the walls for hours, counting the holes in the concrete blocks to pass the time. It was maddening because time seemed to stand still for hours on end.
The detox itself was a cold turkey withdrawal. It was pure agony. My body rebelled against me, desperate for the substances it had grown dependent on. I was drenched in sweat, my blanket soaked through and offering no comfort. Despite shivering uncontrollably, I couldn’t get warm. The showers barely got above lukewarm, adding to the discomfort. Every muscle in my body ached, and the nausea was relentless. My head pounded as if it were in a vice, and sleep was nearly impossible. Every moment felt like an eternity.
The food was another ordeal. The trays they slid through the slot in the door contained meals that were barely edible. Everything seemed to resemble potato salad—a pale, mushy concoction with a nauseating smell that I can still recall vividly. I was barely able to eat anything they served. Most days I only ate a single slice of bread that I washed down with tap water.
Amid this bleak environment, one guard stood out to me. While most of the staff treated inmates with indifference or disdain, this particular guard—I never learned his name—showed me an unexpected kindness. One day, during a brief interaction, he said something that has stuck with me ever since: “The only difference between me and you is that you got caught.” His words hit me hard. They reminded me of the thin line separating those who end up in jail from those who don’t. He treated me like an equal, not just another inmate, and that small gesture of humanity meant more than I can express.
Spending Easter in jail was a sobering experience. It was a day that should have been filled with family, hope, and renewal, but instead, I spent it isolated and reflecting on the choices that had brought me there. For most people, an experience like this would serve as a wake-up call, a lesson learned the hard way. And while I wish I could say that it did for me, the truth is far more complicated.
Not long after my release, I returned to the same destructive patterns. The pull of addiction proved too powerful, and I found myself unable to break free. The disease of addiction doesn’t care about your intentions or the lessons you’ve learned; it consumes your thoughts, your willpower, and your ability to see a way out. It wasn’t long before I landed in a nearly identical situation, repeating the same mistakes despite knowing where they would lead.
Looking back, my time in jail should have been enough to scare me straight. The isolation, the physical pain of detox, and the loss of freedom were things I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but addiction is a relentless force, one that doesn’t yield to logic or fear. It took many more mistakes, losses, and moments of despair before I truly began to fight for my recovery. For those who have never experienced addiction, it can be difficult to understand why someone would continue down such a destructive path after facing such severe consequences, but addiction is not a choice; it’s a disease, one that hijacks your brain and convinces you that you need the very thing that’s destroying you. It’s a battle that requires not just willpower but also support, treatment, and an unrelenting commitment to change.
My time in Orange County Jail is a chapter of my life that I’ll never forget. It’s a stark reminder of the depths I’ve been to and the pain I’ve endured. While it didn’t immediately change my path, it planted a seed of awareness that would eventually grow into the determination to seek a better life. Today, I’m still fighting that battle, one day at a time, and I’m determined to use my experiences to help others who are struggling with the same demons. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that recovery is possible, but it’s a journey that requires patience, resilience, and an unwavering belief in the possibility of change.
And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope. If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.
