Stay Up, Don’t Die

A life sentence is basically a slow death. They can keep adding time, over and over again. I just left a prison where I met four different guys who had served 50 years and counting. Some of them were still standing tall, still with fire in their eyes, still surviving the test of time. Others, though, had let the weight of it all break them.

One guy I did time with had been locked up since he was 16. He was in his mid-forties now. He had caught a murder and some robbery charges, and he’d been to the parole board eight times—denied every time. Mostly because of his behavior: fights, assaults, drugs. Decades of rejection like that could break any man, but somehow, he still stood. A lot of guys die mentally before they die physically.

Like Weeg. At first, I saw him as a role model. He was strong, disciplined, and his workout routines were something else. He'd take the whole rec yard—about a half-mile loop—and turn it into his training ground. A lunge squat into a burpee pushup, kick each hand, alternate his knees to his chest, then mountain climbers, adding a hooping motion to the sides. He’d do that nonstop, for an hour straight, drenched in sweat, especially on those blazing summer days. When you looked in his eyes back then, you saw strength. Resilience. I used to tell him he could be an exercise coach. He reminded me of Billy Blanks.

Then, over time, his eyes started to dim. The fire faded. He got strung out on K-2, the prison drug of choice, usually laced with all kinds of chemicals. I saw how mad he’d get when he couldn’t get his fix. He had money, but it was never enough. He was chasing an escape. I tried to talk to him—“Bruh, snap out of it.” But he wasn’t hearing it.

Prison can be a lonely, dark place, and that’s true whether you’re physically locked up or trapped in your own mind. But you can’t ever give in. No matter how bleak it looks, you have to keep that engine inside you running. You have to believe you’re going somewhere.

Weeg didn’t. He overdosed one day and got sent to the hospital. They said whatever he smoked had fentanyl in it. He was out for days. When I saw him after, I told him, “Man, I heard you almost didn’t make it.” He just nodded and asked, “You got something over there?” Still chasing the high. A year later, he got so loaded he didn’t even make it to his cell. They found him on his knees at his door—unresponsive. That was the end of Weeg.

So many go out like that.

Then there was Moody. Old head, had to be at least 70. Been down more than 30 years. People said he got caught up in a shootout, some people got killed, but he wasn’t even the one responsible. Who knows? What I do know is he used to box, and he trained a lot of guys in there. His technique was solid. He even did some law work. I trained with him a couple of times, but his cell smelled so bad, I couldn’t keep going back. He lived alone—nobody wanted to be in there with him, and the prison let it slide.

Over time, Moody started slipping. He wasn’t as active. Kept falling on his way to chow, busting his head open. He ended up going to the hospital and never came back. They sent him to Hocking Hills, a prison hospice where they send guys who can’t take care of themselves anymore.

Then there was my guy Fat Pat from Columbus. Solid dude. Muslim brother. We worked in the kitchen together, and every morning, before our shift started, we’d play chess. He was a hustler—always selling food, making moves. But his health was bad. His breathing was rough. One time, on the way to the kitchen, he collapsed. Instead of rushing to help him, the C.O. just stood there like he didn’t know what was going on. We had to yell at him to get medical.

Pat was supposed to get a pacemaker put in that Monday. But he told me he wanted more tests first. “You know this is for life,” he said. “I gotta be sure.” That was the last conversation we had. The next morning, he was gone. Just like that.

That one shook me. One minute, someone is right in front of you. The next, they’re just… gone.

I’ve learned you can either embrace the fact that you’re alive, or you can let life eat you alive. No matter where you are—free or locked up—you gotta appreciate your health, your mind, the fact that you still have breath in your body.

I’ve met men who have served 30, 40, even 50 years, but they still stand with life in their eyes. Strength in their handshakes. They’re still here. They still choose to live.

So next time life hits you hard, remember: Stand up. Don’t die.