Prison Camp: The Interview
A Forum for Stories of Incarceration, Justice, and Redemption
Interview with Myself: Part II
In Part I of this interview, I explored the prison experience—daily routines, survival, rationalizations, and the endless pressure of “doing time.” Part II turns inward. It confronts the fallout and the question of whether renewal is possible. These exchanges draw from a dark place I’ve lived through, but they’re also part of the process every inmate goes through: desperation, nihilism, growth, and, if lucky, some measure of renewal.
Interviewer: an amalgamation of all the inquiries, questions from friends, family and others—direct ones, nuanced, non-verbal ones, the ones I could tell they wanted to ask but didn’t, the questions they should have asked, and those I was glad they didn’t.
John: self, author, former inmate, poseur.
Interviewer: What were you thinking during that period of crisis, resorting to all of those obvious illegal activities?
John: I hate that question. My wife asked me that question. Everyone asked me that question. She wanted to know how I could do it. Everyone wanted to know how I could do it. What was going through my head, what coursed through me while the door of my office was closed and I traced signatures with trembling hands, shaking with fear so I’d have to do it over and over again, hating myself. Still, I had to keep doing it to avoid the revelation and the disgrace lurking, until the self-loathing morphed to denial, which became over time as much a part of me as the color of my eyes.
Interviewer: What has been the fallout for you—friends, family, former associates?
John: Associates, former investors, partners, their families, heirs—all hate me. That’s especially painful because I have a terrible flaw: I want everyone to like me.
I’m not sure about my friends. Most head for the hills; a kind of fear of transmission by association. Others stay saddened and sympathetic from afar. And one or two commiserate and arrive to heal and help—few of those. Business associates delete you from their archives. Devastating for the family.
Interviewer: You said that for the family, it was devastating. How so?
John: Almost too painful to address. Not sure I’m up to it yet.
Interviewer: Isn’t that why we’re here?
John: There’s no way to measure it. Turning everyone’s life upside down. Unmooring a once-stable, prosperous family that fell apart after I was exposed. Worse than the public humiliation.
My wife and children all stood by me. Though my wife still questions me with quizzical looks and understandable misgivings. My daughter as well. Those who continue to support me are almost more painful—not by what they do, but by the guilt they engender, because you know you don’t deserve it.
Interviewer: Do you have a different perspective now—on your conduct, your impact on everyone?
John: My life is a continuum of regrets. I’m haunted by all the people impacted by my crimes. Uprooting lives. That never leaves me. When I think of all the things I did, I embarrass myself, so I try not to think about them for long. There’s probably nothing more terrifying than confronting yourself.
It’s only the miracle of being alive that keeps me going. Every day is still hopeful, even if that just means waiting until the clouds clear and the sun comes out again. The visceral always pulls me up.
Interviewer: Could you sum it all up for us? Have you found yourself?
John: I don’t know if that’s a real question. And I’m not sure I want to see the answer. I don’t know if there even is one.
How strange that, despite the unequaled intimacy we obviously have with ourselves—our thoughts, feelings, history—we never get to that answer as well as we might about others.
At the end of the day, I’d have to say: he’s still a mystery. Maybe I prefer that to the actual answer. Even if I knew it, I probably wouldn’t like it.
Interviewer: And your life?
John: Hemingway tried to summarize his life in six words. It’s now called the “Six Word Memoir.” Mine would be: A Long Slow Journey to Oblivion.
Interviewer: Have you found yourself? Do you see growth, a new path?
John: No. I go back and revisit all the tipping points, see them clearly, attempt to overcome the past, and move on. But I can’t beat it. At best, I can write about it. Some overcome the experience. I’m not one of them. Time has run out on me. I am what I was.
Interviewer: What would you choose as your last words to the world?
John: It would be a tie between I’m sorry and Fuck you.
This dialogue comes from one of the darker places I inhabited in the aftermath of prison. I share it not to linger in that darkness, but to make clear how deep it can go, and how far I’ve come since then. My life now is steadier, more reflective, and guided by a determination to rebuild with honesty and purpose. Writing pieces like this is part of that process, and though the words here remain stark, they belong to a journey that has led me to a more hopeful place, which I’ll share in my next post.
If this story resonates with you, or if you’ve wrestled with your own origin myths, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
Up Next on White Collar Journal:
Wednesday (Justice Notes): Criminal Justice Reform Efforts
Thursday (Notes from Exisle): Log/Verse: Daily, fragmented reflections
Sunday (Prison Camp): Out from the darkness