It was the beginning of the end
… of his harsh winter.
He was sitting in front of the desk, with the diary open. He was turning to the old pages and reading his old entries. He wanted to look at them before he wrote his entry for today.
He giggled as he read the pages. He could hardly believe it was his writing. So much sadness and bitterness for everything, the prison, the wardens, justice, God, his release, his friends who kept reminding him of how lucky he was, himself…
He thought the old entries were not written by him, but of an angsty teen with too much hormone to spare.
But it wad no denying that the teen was once him. Until recently, he had been living a life of a ghost. Everything scared him. He hated all kinds of human interaction. He felt like everyone was against him. All he wanted was to become invisible, to disappear from this world forever.
All of that for one reason: people just could not stop talking about his release. He had never considered it a blessing. He just wanted to forget it like a bad nightmare. Imagine having your nightmare coming to the front page! There was nothing fascinating or funny about his release. He hated that people did not understand what it felt to always fry the eyes open for unexpected danger, to make friends one minute then see them die the next, to not being able to tell a friend and an enemy apart, to never know when you would be the next to die.
And to be strapped onto the guillotine while the blade slowly lifted up. At that moment, he just wished the blade would fall down quickly so that all his pain would end. He despised that journalist who wasted his time to find the real killer.
Although all of his hatred had a good reason, he had always felt that he was being overdramatic toward people around him. He refused to talk to anyone. He turned into a monster in their eyes. He shouted at them, threatening to hit them. After each outburst he beat himself up for being a horrible person. And then another day passed and he once again failed to control his impulse to hurt someone when he heard a slightest hint of his prison time. The cycle of anger and self-hatred went on and on.
Then he met that person who said the exact thing he wanted to hear.
“Your suffering served a great purpose.”
He turned to a page on his diary. He thought he found the page. Yes, it was around this time that the tone of the diary started to change. He did not trust therapists, he turned to one and he failed to help him. He only went for this second therapist because he wanted to please his girlfriend. He had little hope for things to change.
But things did change, for the better.
On that fateful day, he was crying uncontrollably in front of the therapist. He told the therapist everything about his prison time and he did not want to do it. The therapist just quietly gave him a newspaper he read the other day. He pointed to an article about how all police departments in the entire country were being investigated about how they handled criminal cases. He then explained to him that because of his wrongful conviction, the public was aware that there was something wrong with the police system. Soon they would have to fix the system, and there would be no more unjust death. He had potentially saved hundred of people in his prison.
The therapist then said something that would forever ingrain in his mind: “You see? Everything happens for a reason. Your suffering served a great purpose.”
As he lay in bed that night, he realized that he was the only prisoner and warden of his own prison. And as the warden, he had all the choice to imprison himself forever or earn a release. He worked hard to get out. He stopped bullying himself. He opened up to people. He tried not to get angry.
After all, his purpose in life was to stop injustice.
He was amazed that as he changed, his world changed with him. He was surprised that most people who asked about his release were genuinely concerned about him. He got his old friends back. He felt more energetic waking up in the morning. Everything he saw suddenly became bright and vivid, even the blooming little flower outside his door. Food started to taste like real food. And he slept better, no longer interrupted by nightmare.
He was starting to earn his true prison release.
He had just eaten breakfast. It was the third breakfast he made for himself since his release. Before that he had no breakfast, and he was eating old bread for meals because he could not stand fresh food, being too used to prison food. It tasted good and healthy. Food would taste good now and then, but the good taste was short-lived, and before long he was vomiting for eating fresh food. It had been three days since he had eaten real food without vomiting, so he was quite sure it was going to stay like that forever.
His last diary entry was a poem about his first homemade breakfast. He remembered being so smitten by the breakfast that he wrote a poem about it. It was both ridiculous and powerful at the same time. He was sure he was the only one understand the powerful part, and he did not mind at all.
He felt that he was reaching the beginning of the end of his winter.
He turned to a blank page, ready to write his entry. He had so many things in his mind that he did not know where to begin. Finally, he wrote one sentence that he thought would sum up everything he was thinking and feeling:
Even the harshest winter is followed by spring.