"The grass isn’t always greener…” “the grass is greener, until you get into the weeds…” “you’ll come crawling back…” “be careful, you’ll get blacklisted once you leave…”

These are the common phrases we hear from our co-workers and leadership when we consider changing agencies or career fields. A word of caution- do not take those words as an insult. If your employer or your co-workers wanted you gone, they would help you pack and assure you the grass is greener anywhere but here.
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The reality is, you will never be fully content with where you work. The same could be said about any aspect of life. If we continued to search for perfection, we would ultimately be left alone and lost at the end of the day. The imperfections of how we live should be embraced for what they are. The flip side to that coin is when we are truly miserable and the bad outweighs the good, it’s time to start thinking about breaking the cycle. Law enforcement agencies are quite literally one big family, and within that family are cycle breakers. A cycle breaker is someone who has lived through the family disfunction long enough to understand it’s no way to live, and in turn, they leave.

In my first few years of law enforcement, I worked for a local police department. It was my first job as a cop, so my optics were very limited in terms of what was normal versus what was toxic. Eventually I moved on and began working for a sheriff’s department which is where I still currently work. The contrast was night and day. However, where or who would I be if I still worked for an agency that I knew was toxic, yet I stayed anyways? I think we all know someone who is knowingly and willingly exposing themselves to a toxic working relationship and they refuse to help themselves. They may have their reasons, but eventually those reasons will turn into excuses, and those excuses will eventually turn into resentment- and that’s a great way to slowly become the guy who makes their agency toxic, and before you know it, you have become the angry guy that you said you would never become. You have become the cop that ruins other cops. A cancer within the agency.  

When is enough, enough? That’s for all of us to decide on our own. Granted, my agency isn’t perfect, but it’s my second home and I would have a hard time finding its equal. We have our issues, but at the end of the day I have co-workers who I consider family and a working environment that is, for the most part, healthy. Are there good times and bad? Absolutely. But that’s perfectly normal. It’s when the bad times start to become the majority, or when leadership fails to intervene, is when you should consider jumping ship. Be careful however in what you choose to identify as a problem, versus an obstacle. A problem can be negotiated, an obstacle may require additional resources. At the end of the day, be tactful in what you choose to address, and how you choose to address it. In my time with my agency, I have watched many co-workers leave and ultimately return. Their departure wasn’t for reasons of frustration but rather a change of scenery or new opportunities. To see them return was always interesting and a lot of them said the same thing- “I realized I had a good thing here, so I came back.”
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If we looked at our employment like we did a domestic relationship, would we see certain people living in an environment that was toxic or otherwise potentially harmful, yet they stay because it’s easier? Is breaking up or getting divorced the harder thing to do, so they stay for convenience yet live in complete misery? Absolutely. The reality is, the hard thing to do, and the right thing to do, are usually the same thing. There is no easy way to get out of a tough situation, and you will be challenged by others in the process. However, this life you are living is for you, and you alone. You need to decide what is the best path to walk on and let others judgement be drowned out by the winds of excitement and change. If it feels right, it probably is. There will be moments of concern and nervousness, but they will pass. With any big change comes the fear of the unknown. In time, those feelings will dissipate, and life will resume as usual. Never forget that you have the opportunity to be just about anywhere and do just about anything. As long as you still have a passion for the work, stay the course. If not, break out the map and get creative. You only live once. 

This entry will read more like a story rather than a blog post. If you were born before the year 1990, buckle up, and enjoy the ride back into adolescence.

Being born in the eighties allowed me to be part of the last generation to live outside. I was the last group of the youth of America that would have no concept of social media, smart phones, dependency on technology, and the likes thereof. We were always outside as children. We rode bikes. We played games. We built stuff, and then we tore it down. We had organic adventures that allowed our brains to expand and grow. Communication with friends was via landline and if all else failed you walked to said friend’s house for in person contact. As a young boy, I can remember many times walking all the way to a friend’s house to simply discover that they were not home. At the discovery of their absence, I would shrug my shoulders and simply think of something else to do. In the early-1990s, entertainment involving technology in my house consisted of a television that could double as a life raft. It was made of solid wood. My brother and I estimated that it weighed nearly 2 tons. There were a handful of channels on it, and it was operated by a rotating dial attached to the TV. In the mid-1990s my father, a very frugal man, finally splurged and we purchased a new television with a remote. We also got cable. A real game changer for my brother and I at the time. The old tv was taken to the dump. A memory I can remember vividly as it was very difficult for my father and I to load it into the truck. Upon our arrival to the dump, my father pushed the TV out of the bed of the pickup. I was excited as I assumed that it would break, or the screen would shatter. It hit the ground with a booming thud. Nothing broke. In fact, nothing happened at all. It just laid there, completely intact. As we drove away, I watched a very large bulldozer run over the TV, I’m fairly certain the tracks on the bulldozer sustained some type of damage.
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As time went on, we would see more technological advances slowly enter our home. We eventually got a cordless phone for the kitchen which was pretty cool because it allowed for privacy. At the time, my interest in the opposite sex was growing and talking to girls on the phone within earshot of both of my parents while they watched 60 Minutes wasn’t exactly the most comfortable of forums. On a Saturday morning, I remember asking my father for my own phone line in my bedroom. Many of my friends had managed to successfully convince their parents to do so. Saturday mornings were always the best time to ask for things. When I asked him, he just stared at me as if I had asked him the square root of something. Then, realizing I was being serious, he laughed boisterously and continued reading his newspaper. That was the end of that conversation. Defeated, but not completely out of ideas, I inquired about getting a call waiting option for our phone line. Seeing that my persistence was not going away, he folded his newspaper and placed it on the table. He looked at me and said “No, we will not be getting call waiting. It’s rude to end a conversation with someone simply because someone else is calling. If it’s that important, they will call back. If it’s an emergency, they know where we live.” He picked up his newspaper and continued reading. I didn’t like that answer even though it made sense. My father then peeked his eyes over the top of the newspaper and said, “Would you walk up to someone actively engaged in a conversation and simply interrupt them because you wanted to talk to them?” I collected my Trapper Keeper binder from the table that was full of amazing reasons as to why I needed my own phone line and left the kitchen. He made a good argument, and he was right.

Both my parents were teachers who ultimately became administrators. In the mid-1990s, my mother was offered the position of principal at a school that was located in the downtown area. Not the most lavish of venues in terms of surroundings but the school itself was very nice, and the position of principal was not something to pass up. My father was happy for my mother but concerned for her new commute. It tripled in milage and would have her traveling through a variety of somewhat dangerous areas. A few months later it was Christmas, and I remember my father being particularly excited about giving my mother her present. His excitement in itself was strange. My father’s list of things that excited him was not extensive and primarily included camping trips, fishing, and finding unusual things on sale or otherwise mismarked in price. One time we were furniture shopping, and my father found a reclining chair that had been mislabeled in price. The salesman sold it to him as the price was marked cutting the cost of the chair in half. I think he talked about that incident for the better part of a decade. 

As my mother unwrapped her gift my brother and I were equally as excited to see what it was. The gift was about the size of a shoe box, and it appeared heavy. As the wrapping paper gave way, I saw the words “MOTOROLLA” on the outside of the box. As most husbands do, he started to explain the gift to my mother. I never understood why the male species subconsciously does this. Most gifts do not require an explanation. However, they usually start with what the gift is, despite it being right in front of them, followed by the reason why they bought it, and then ending with the option to return it if they were dissatisfied. I remember my father explaining his concerns for her commute and how he wanted her to have a “mobile phone.” The words danced around in my head. Mobile phone. I remember it being about the size of a football and it took roughly 30 minutes to turn on. When it was on, it was loud, and very slow. Dialing a phone number was a tedious process and very strenuous on the fingertips. Once the number was entered, you had to walk around for a while to find a signal. For those of you not old enough to remember, yes, you read that last sentence correctly. It did however have a small antenna that you could deploy when things got really serious. To this very day, I don’t think the antenna did anything other than extend. Despite all the negatives, at the time, it may as well have been from outer space. As a family, it was the craziest piece of technology we had ever owned. The phone was outfitted with a protective pleather sleeve that it dawned awkwardly like a fancy suit. It was placed securely in the glove box of the Ford Aerostar where it remained like an entombed corpse. I never saw the phone again.

In the year 2000 I took my first drive in a 1994 Ford Escort station wagon with my father as the passenger. Looking back on it, and now being a cop, I would not suggest hitting major roadways without a permit for, as my father called it, “driving practice.” I suppose times were different back then as were many other things. I took to driving naturally and in due time I had my learner’s permit. At the age of 16 I obtained my actual license, and I was cleared hot for takeoff. The open road was officially mine. After a few weeks of driving on my own, I returned home from a friend’s house and my dad called me into the kitchen. There was a box sitting in front of him on the table. He looked me dead in the eye, pointed his index and middle finger at me and said, “this is for emergencies only.” I looked at him puzzled, he again repeated himself, this time louder and with more intensity, “This is for emergencies only.” Not knowing what I was committing to, I nervously nodded my head in agreeance. He opened the box and pulled out a cellular phone, much smaller than the one from Christmas in the years prior. It was about the size of a TV remove, had a small screen, and small buttons. This time, in a much calmer voice, he told me again that it was for emergencies only, and that it should always remain in the glove box. I agreed.

The next day, and every day after that, that phone was in my pocket everywhere I went. I must have been in an emergency every day because I was calling my friends, calling the skate shop, calling popcorn, calling just about everybody. Then, one magical day, I received a text message from a friend, and I sent one back. Texting was tedious work back then, but a very covert way to communicate when in class. If you were slick, you memorized the alphabet associated to the keypad and could essentially text blind, one handed, with the phone in your pocket. Texting soon became common practice among my circle of friends. Little did I know however, texting would only be part of my teenage life for about eight weeks. Those eight magical weeks would abruptly end with the arrival of the previous month’s cellular phone bill. For the younger audience to fully comprehend what was on its way to our mailbox, it’s important to understand how cellular networks worked back then. This was way before unlimited data, unlimited texting, and unlimited phone calls. Every time you used the phone, there was a monetary amount attached to it. Texting however, those bad boys were the most expensive feature currently in existence. 

Around the eight-week mark, on a Saturday afternoon, my father sat down at the dining room table to pay the bills. My brother and I were currently seated on the living room couch watching Goldeneye. We always had to fast forward the leg-choke sex scene to keep that movie in the rotation. Before the introduction of the internet and paperless billing, paying the bills was a long and sometimes tedious process. Envelopes, stamps, checks. It was quite the production. I heard my father put his glasses on as he started opening envelopes. Upon opening them, he would immediately begin making noises of frustration. No matter what the bill was, he reacted every time as if it was somehow a mistake, overcharged, or somehow at the fault of my brother and me- utility bills being the most common of repeat offenders. As he carefully reviewed each utility bill, he would make generic dad-like remarks under his breath about how our house used enough electricity to power a state prison, comparing our water bill to the Ritz Carlton’s, etc. Suddenly, I heard mumbling of what sounded like complete disbelief. This usually happened when my father saw the Mervyns bill from back-to-school shopping or when my mom used the credit card at Cost Plus. This time though, it wasn’t about Gecko Hawaii shirts or vases from Africa, it was the cell phone bill.

I kept hearing words of disbelief followed by more mumbling, then he called my mom into the dining room. More words of disbelief. Then I heard mutual words of disbelief. Then, as a strange new addition to the monthly financial debate, I was called by name into the dining room. My dad handed me a piece of paper. I had never seen a cell phone bill before. Any bill for that matter. I looked at the bottom of the bill and saw the total amount due. It was in the ballpark of five hundred dollars and change. I remember thinking to myself “wow, that’s expensive.” I looked at both of my parents blankly and they just stared right back. I was confused as to why I was standing there and more importantly what involvement I had with the piece of paper I was currently holding in my hand. My father then asked me if I had been using my cell phone, to which I answered nervously, “Not a lot. But, yeah, sometimes. For emergencies and stuff.” Frustrated that my response didn’t provide further explanation, he continued to read the details of the bill, and there weren’t many. Before I knew it, he was repeating the same numbers and verbiage over and over. Feeling as though I was not free to leave, I stood there and watched as my parents continued to analyze the charges. They were ultimately unsuccessful in determining the cause, but they knew my number was somehow involved and more than likely their primary suspect. My father being a man of persistence and impatience in the arena of finance ultimately decided that he would visit the local AT&T store in person. Thinking that I would somehow not be a part of that excursion, I slowly started to exit the dining room. Before I could get one foot out the door, my father told me to put my shoes on, and get my cell phone. This was happening, and it was happening right now.

We later arrived at the AT&T store. My father was greeted by a young sales associate with glasses and messy dark hair. After he explained the reason for his visit, we all ventured over to the computer terminal where they could take a deeper dive into his account history. The young man then asked my father if he would like a physical printout of all phone and text logs associated to my phone number from the current and previous billing period. My father said yes. As the printer started to slowly produce page after page, I grew nervous. They kept coming. It wasn’t stopping. My father staring at me intently as a small forest was sacrificed in his quest for resolve. After what felt like an eternity, the printer finally stopped. It was smoking slightly. The call and text logs now warmly resting next to the printer could have doubled as a Tom Clancy novel in page count. I felt safe being in a public setting with lots of witnesses as my father thumbed through the pages one by one. I kept hearing him say the words “text message” with a tone of confusion as he perused the logs frivolously. My nerves on edge as I watched.

As we stood there in the store, I had some hope that with his lack of understanding and knowledge in this arena that he would ultimately dismiss this as a technical error. Perhaps some type of cellular phenomenon that simply could not be explained ultimately allowing us to leave the store and life would simply resume as usual. Unfortunately for me, that was not going to be his course of action. He then asked the sales associate a very important question- “what is a text message?” Listening to the sales associate explain what a text message was to my father was like watching a caveman hang glide. He did not understand. He did not want to understand. All my father knew at that moment was that a text message was a very expensive way to communicate. We got into the car, and my father held out his hand. I surrendered my cell phone like a general surrendering their sidearm upon capture at the end of a major battle. It was a long and quiet drive back to the house. Eventually though, after some conversations and debates that resembled that of the Clinton impeachment, I got my phone back. It wasn’t always easy being the oldest. I was the trial period for any form of advancement into adulthood where trust, liability, and financial cost lay in the balance. It was night and day in comparison for my younger brother and me. He may as well have owned a Tesla at age 14.

As time went on and I entered adulthood, I would watch the societal changeover in real time. I remember seeing an add for the iPhone, after that all the memories start to blend together. Before I knew it, we were full steam ahead into the social tech boom and reverse of any kind was no longer an option. Society would become technologically dependent on a variety of day-to-day activities that in times past were very simple in application. Human effort as well as human interaction would slowly decline, and we would eventually become entirely dependent on our phones. Text messages would replace quick phone calls. Eventually text messages would replace…all phone calls. Mapping systems and directions were as simple as knowing the destination. The phone would take care of the rest. Before we knew it, we would all be looking down into the palm of our hands every few minutes with our screen time becoming a multi-hourly event every single day. As the years went by it became the new normal. The next generation of teenagers would possess a smartphone as commonly as anyone else. Social interaction in that regard would be at all-time low. When I was in the 9th grade, I asked a girl out on a date. I spent a few minutes in the bathroom getting psyched up. A few of my friends gave me some advice. I looked good, smelled ok, probably too much cologne, but I was ready. I felt like a boxer in the corner waiting for the bell to ring. I was, however, not successful. As soon as the bell rang, I was already on the floor. I can remember the feeling of nervousness in my stomach as I approached her, and how that nervousness slowly changed into despair as I walked back to my lunch table. Getting rejected hurt, but it was a necessary evil for me to prevail. This new generation has no concept of this emotional roller coaster because they have never been forced to experience that level of social interaction and anxiety that will teach us how to grow and move forward. Where we would once speak, they now text.

When we expand the scope and see the totality of what this lack of social interaction has done beyond the realm of simple communication, we would see major issues in the arena of public service. In a job that requires you to deal with multiple people, multiple times a day, and often in the same style scenario repeatedly, the gift of gab is going to be your best friend. In all my years of law enforcement, the most powerful tool on my belt was never something I could physically grab from my waist, but rather use. My voice has been, more times than not, the literal reason why I, or someone else, is still alive. Simple conversation that deescalated a scenario involving a firearm from someone’s hands or some canned language that managed to convince someone to step back from the ledge- I’ve done it enough times to understand the power of conversation, and more importantly, the ability to listen. It needs to be genuine as well, you can’t ‘fake it’ to someone who is staring death in the face, they’ll see right through it.

The art of conversation is slowly becoming a past time and verbal Judo a lost art. As of lately, most academy graduates seem to be struggling with the same three things: 1. making contact, 2. obtaining information, and 3. deciding a course of action. Number two and three would follow in suite very easily, it’s number one that seems to be the biggest hurdle to jump. If we were to diagnose the issue, the obvious prognosis would be a lack of social interaction based on a technological dependency. If we were to attempt to find a cure, that is where things get difficult. There is no easy or fast way to remedy this issue. It will take time, energy, and patience. It is however completely attainable if we start to introduce or otherwise encourage social interaction in our everyday lives. Technology has provided us with monumental advancements that have made our jobs easier, bad guys afraid, and our communities safer. In terms of basic social interaction however, it’s time to get back to the basics. How we do that is up to the generation who lived it as a reality. If you can, be part of the change.
 

​I would be lying to the audience if I said this year was completely normal for me. Normal for all of us in my circle. Sometimes things can surprise you. Things we thought we would never have to worry about. We all like to assume that we know what’s going on, and more importantly to assume we know what’s going on with those close to us.

For most of the people that we care about, we assume they are OK because they’re in our circle. They are a part of our tribe. As a result of that strong relationship, sometimes our ability to assume completely overshadows our ability to inquire. It’s not that we don’t care, it’s more so that we assume that we don’t have to. We assume that person would come to us if something was wrong.

In the realm of life and death however, assumptions are dangerous. I would assume that most of my friends and co-workers would come to me with an issue they were facing. I consider myself to be easy to talk to. More importantly I also consider myself to be a good listener. Relationship issues. Problems at work. Depression. Anxiety. Stress. Drinking. The list goes on. Sometimes we simply need to verbalize things to truly understand them.

The problem is, how comfortable would you feel telling me that you were thinking about killing yourself? Or even bringing up the topic entirely? That’s a topic that gets buried deep inside you. It’s a taboo topic in most arenas. That topic however could cause the listener to be forced into a very serious role of decision making. A decision that could ultimately save someone’s life. “Do I say something? Were they being serious? What’s going to happen to them if I say something?” These are all natural reactions, but there needs to be follow-through regardless of how it makes you feel.

If someone is willing to tell you about it, even if it’s vague, that small amount of information they gave you was extremely difficult for them to put into words. While the words themselves may have rolled off their tongue with ease, they are sharing those words with you for a reason, and I assure you, those words did not come easily from within. They had to dig, move things around, and drag those words all the way up to the surface just to have them heard.

​When we consider the possible repercussions of verbalizing those words, we will literally weigh out the options in our head. "Will I get put on leave? Will they take my guns? Will I lose my job? Will everyone know about it? Will I look weak? Will people accuse me of faking it? Even if I get better, will people think I'm crazy?" It's safe to assume that most of us would shut the door after that internal assessment and move on with life. The risk far outweighed the reward, or so we thought. Little did we know that shutting the door doesn't solve the problem. If we continue to shut the door, over and over, eventually we will find ourselves locked inside that room with nowhere else to go. When it gets to that point, it isn't even a question anymore, you have trapped yourself inside with only one escape route- death. 

Death is a one-way ticket. Our departures vary from time, place, and method in the airport of life. I’ve seen countless suicides. I’ve seen people kill themselves in all kinds of different ways. I suppose the only differentiating details would be how they did it, and how long they were alive before they actually died. As the years went by, the only real consistent theme that I saw was that most family members saw it coming. Even if it was completely unexpected, it wasn't. Exclusively however, in almost all of them, I heard the same three words over and over again…”I should have-“

A lot of people tend to focus on the weeks leading up to the holidays in terms of checking on people. It is statistically accurate that most suicides or suicide attempts do occur shortly before the holidays. Typically, between Thanksgiving and Christmas. It has been my personal findings however that most of these issues arise after the holidays, when people truly realize that they have nothing, and nobody called to verify their physical existence. It's important to remember that most people in that boat will not be proactive in seeking assistance, they are waiting for a reaction on someone else’s behalf. They are waiting to be proven wrong, and quite often are proven right.

As a nation, we are at an all-time high for suicides and suicide attempts. These suicides are not limited to a specific age group, across-the-board, the numbers are through the roof. Numbers are however skyrocketing specifically among veterans, law enforcement, and a variety of other first responders. In that regard, statistically we might be looking at the highest suicide rate in the history of this nation. Why the spike? Why now? Many of us can relate to the totality that the year 2020 gave to all of us. It was hard for everyone. Consider the door, and the things you keep inside that room. That part of your brain where you stash all the trauma and suffering. If that room is already packed, where do you put the new stuff? Do we let it manifest into our day-to-day activities? Does it come out as anger or stress? Do we process it with physical emotion? Or do we simply shove it inside that room and shut the door? Then when the time comes to address it, can we even process the clutter, or do we simply decide that death would be an easier alternative?

Often times we watch our co-workers shut the door. Yet we do nothing. Going back to the concept of assumption, we would much rather assume than confront. It's human nature to take the easy way out and simply not talk about it. Therein lies the problem: there is no easy way to talk about it. It’s not a conversation any of us want to have. It can make us uncomfortable. We are again forced to weigh out the options in our heads. "Will I make them mad? What if I'm wrong and they get offended? Will they call me a rat if I tell my supervisor? Should I just ignore what they said?" Consider this, the actual conversation, regardless of what is said, regardless of how long or short that conversation is, could make or break a person ‘s ability to move forward. If you are an outgoing person who is willing to put forth the effort and energy to check in on people, I promise you, sooner or later, you are going to save someone’s life and you won’t even know it. If you are not an outgoing person and you simply can't do it, find the outgoing person in your group, and let them know. I assure you; they will be glad you did. 

It should not however be an issue of can or cannot in the realm of day-to-day interaction. Make it a habitual point to talk to your tribe. To say hello. To have lunch. If you're sending an email and you don’t need the paper trail, leave your desk, and go find that person. Say please and thank you. Ask people how they are doing- and mean it. Don’t neglect the lost art of physical touch. A handshake, a pat on the back, a high five, a hug, all those things mean something. If some of your tribe is still worried about Covid, replace the handshake or hug with a fake touchdown pass, a wave, a finger gun, you can even blow kisses- but not to everybody. Be careful with that one. Especially at the office. 

As the holidays come to an end and we begin the new year, remember that it doesn’t take much to change someone’s day. It’s not hard to text. Phone calls are even better. Make mental health a priority for you, and those around you. We are all linear creatures of habit. Despite many differences, we are all the same. Check in on your tribe. Check in on yourself. If you’re someone that can be relied on for just about anything, make sure those around you know it. If you think you might need help for any reason, make sure those around you know it as well. Most of the things that we think we can’t talk about, had we simply talked about them early on, would more than likely be non-issues today. Change and redirection in the arena of suicide will only come if we allow it to. If we consider the mission at hand, we can control it if we simply get ahead of it. 
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