On Oct. 6, 1997, I killed my wife and injured my mother-in-law. I was arrested, and I tried to kill myself. I ended up at Clifton T. Perkins Hospital.
I met with doctors and nurses as part of a group several times each month for a year. They always asked me the same question: What are your plans as far as court goes? They told me anything I said would be not be held in confidence, that it would be reported to the prosecutor’s office. My reply was always the same: I would plead guilty to anything they charged me with. I never wavered from that path. As far as I was concerned, I had done something for which I could never be redeemed. It was the first and only violent act I had ever committed, and it more than made up for a lifetime of nonviolence. My lawyer thought we should try for second-degree murder and second-degree attempted murder, but I wouldn’t accept the lesser charges. We don’t have first- and second-degree types of death, do we? In pleading guilty, I would spare my wife’s family the horror of trial.
On a good week, dreams of my wife woke me two or three times. On a bad week, I’d be woken up to seven times. After nearly 11 years, that has not diminished and neither have the flashbacks. But no matter how bad it gets, I do not allow self-pity to enter my mind. I am not entitled to it.
How do you say “I’m sorry” for taking the life of someone’s only daughter, a man’s only sister? What kind of words exist to convey that message?
Three years ago an inmate credited me with saving his life, though I don’t think I did. I started to wonder if saving one life would balance the scales. It wouldn’t. What about 10? 100? 1,000? It wouldn’t because the life I took was unique.
I have not had one waking moment in 11 years when the murder of my wife was not on my mind, and that’s the way it should be. I have met people who blame society, their childhood, their parents, drugs, alcohol. They find God and say “God put me here for a reason.” Maybe he did. I cannot speak for others. I have always had an unshakable belief in God, and he had nothing to do with my being here. I accomplished that without his help. Society didn’t have anything to do with what I did. My parents weren’t responsible. I wasn’t drunk or on drugs. I almost wish I had been. The only thing left is me. As much as I wish I could shift the blame, I can’t.
I have to live with my actions. Unfortunately, so do a lot of other people. Besides my family and friends, besides my wife’s family and friends, my actions affected the police. My actions affected everyone from my neighbors to the state’s taxpayers, who are stuck with the bill for my actions.
Some very positive things came out of all this: I finally grew up, and I actually grew a backbone. George Eliot once wrote that “it’s never too late to become the person that you’ve always wanted to be,” and I believe that with all my heart. Even though I am ashamed of what I did, I’ve reached a point that, for the first time in my life, I like the person I’ve become. Being in prison shouldn’t stop a person from growing and learning. When I arrived here, I took a very long look in the mirror, and I didn’t like what I saw. There is a lot to be thankful for here, things I have come to appreciate. I have a roof over my head, a place to sleep and three (sometimes questionable) meals a day. How many people in this country lack those basic needs?
I’m not writing this because I expect to be forgiven, I just felt the need to tell you all that I’m sorry.
Bruce A. Ruth is an inmate at Jessup Correctional Institution in Maryland serving a life sentence.
