Panic Attack
Must have been somewhere in 1993 or 1994 that I learned the destructive force of anxiety.
Prior to my involvement in the baseball program I was part of a ministry outreach begun by Chaplain Earl Smith and Carl Gleeman. Earl was the chaplain of the Protestant chapel and together with Carl they developed a cell to cell visitation program. I began to be a part of it in 1986 and came into the prison every Thursday evening to go to the blocks and talk to the inmates in their cells. We would distribute Bibles and other Christian literature as we endured the thick cigarette smoke and clamor of voices that was a normal part of life in the five tier high blocks.
Sometimes we were in North Block, other times in West Block, rarely in South Block with its four divisions, Alpine, Badger, Carson, and Donner. The time I have in mind I was in West Block. We never went into East Block with its overflow from Condemned Row and segregation cells. The “Row” was mostly in North Block, kind of a sixth tier that was not visible if inside North Block; once the row was full, East Block was used for the condemned prisoners.
It was not a pleasant winter’s night and I ended up going alone to West Block. This is where new convicts would be housed early on, and often I found some who still had on ordinary street attire. The guys, most in orange jumpsuits, had been fed and were all locked down in their cells. At the time, there was only one man per cell and the wire mesh had yet to go up over the bars.[1]
Entering the block, I stood for a moment to look and listen. The concrete and steel acted like a megaphone almost and the noise was almost overwhelming. It was far louder than anything I had experienced in any other block.[2]
Amidst the myriad of voices I could hear someone yelling out, “I was not supposed to be here. This is a mistake. Get me out of here. I don’t belong here.” Desperate, scared, panicked–these and more were evident in the pleadings–and I knew no one would be paying attention.
The voice seemed to be up on the third tier, so I climbed the steel stair-well and followed the ongoing protestations until I came face to face with the subject.
White, middle-aged, no tattoos in evidence, no piercings; he looked like a regular guy with family and a job, some education, someone who lived the average American life. When he saw me a visible sigh of relief came from him and he fell at his knees almost ready to worship me. We shook hands, exchanged names, and in a rush or words he let me know how it was that the whole thing was a mistake.
I have told the story so often the details are yet assessable to my mind. He was in for what might be called a white collar crime, which I think was fraud or theft, but on a large scale. No priors, never involved with the criminal justice system, and he left at home a wife and some kids. He lost everything he had gained, the house would be sold, and it would be five or more years before he would be free.
Anxiety is a powerful emotional/mental condition and is common to us all. I figured out I was prone to it when I was fifteen years old and was a contributing factor to my focus on psychology in college.[3]
Anxiety, if untreated, can quickly move into dangerous territory. As I understand it, there are two kinds of anxiety: One, the anxiety of feeling trapped, that something has happened or is going to happen, and, two, separation anxiety or abandonment anxiety. Here then is this guy, he got greedy, wanted more than his share, and something awful had happened and more was likely to happen, things that he could not even get his mind to explore, and he was separated from all that he loved and felt comfortable with.
Right in front of me he was having a panic attack, and no one would or could do anything about it. In fact, he might get beaten up, by officers or other cons, if he did not bring it under control. In time, after some months, he might get some meds prescribed, a pill that would calm him down, but that was only a maybe.
The panic he experienced, if left untreated, might usher him into deeper trouble, maybe into a full-blown psychosis. That guy was well on his way, and likely, in the years in the brutal environment that was and is San Quentin, he might never recover.
Now, what does this have to do with baseball in SQ? The answer is integral to the story that follows and the stories that went before. These are the ball players down on the field. To one degree or another they have experienced the damaging impact of uncontrolled anxiety, even Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which belongs in the anxiety category. And I knew from day one in 1997 when I started working with the guys on the baseball team that they would, at least some of them, be struggling with diminished ability to cope with the real world.
By the way, I am not fixing blame; we have what we have and if we, and by we I mean our society, even if we understood the dynamics of it all and at the same time had the means to deal with it, probably even then the problem would be running wild. We are all subject to the vicissitudes of the human condition. Prison is an attempt to mollify it at least to some degree.
[1] The mess was meant to prevent attacks on the officers, or other inmates, who happened along. Some cons knew how to turn toilet paper rolls and the paper itself into spears. Urine and feces would be collected and thrown into the faces of officers–not very pleasant and this in the day when anyone of the inmates might be HIV positive. With the mesh, things were safer but mesh blocked out most of the already dull light from penetrating into the cells.
[2] The cons in North Block would not tolerate the yelling and cacophony characteristic of the other blocks. North Block was for mainliners only and they wanted to live quiet and peaceful lives, at least, as best they could.
[3] During the 1970s I operated the Marin Christian Counseling Center in San Rafael. I was the only counselor and did not charge for my services. I was an unlicensed counselor and advertised as doing “pastoral counseling.”