The Battle

By Eliborio Ayala

My name is Eliborio Matthew Ayala. I am currently incarcerated for an armed robbery and aggravated assault with a deadly weapon charge that I committed when I was 17. Before I get into the present tense, let me tell you what got me here. I was born in Albuquerque, NM, on May 27^th, 2006. I grew up on the westside with my mother and big brother; my mother was an alcoholic and constantly in and out of abusive relationships. Shawn was one of her boyfriends, and the first 2 or so years they were together were fine. It all changed when they both started drinking heavily. Shawn was an angry drunk and would beat my mother. Having been in past abusive relationships, my mother thought that it was his way of showing her love. I don’t have enough fingers on my hands to account for the times my brother and I had to pull Shawn off our mother, but despite the beatings, she still didn’t leave.

My mother, an alcoholic, was either drunk or on the verge of being drunk, and she left my big brother with the responsibility to care for and raise me on his own. My big brother taught me basically everything that I know today and took care of both of us most of my young life; in doing so, he became my idol and the father that I never had. Over those 5 years of my mom’s relationship with Shawn, I started to develop this thought that it was my fault that my mother was being beaten. I could never stop him from beating her, nor get my mom sober enough to get her to realize that that wasn’t love. Throughout most of the time she was in that relationship, my brother and I would sneak out at night to get away from the yelling and arguing. It was during one of those many times that I met a boy named Cody. He and I became close friends, and we found that we both had very much in common, except his mom was a drug addict.

One day, when his parents were at the store, we were in his room playing on his PlayStation. I went to the bathroom, and while I was washing my hands, I looked into the mirror and realized that the cabinet behind was partially open. Being a nosey kid, I opened the cabinet and saw one lone pill bottle. It was almost empty, but there were enough that I thought I could steal one. To this day, I don’t know why I decided to steal one, whether it was just being a kid

that wasn’t taught better, or just because it was there. Later that day, when I went home, my brother wasn’t there, so I figured that he was still at one of his friends’ houses. I went to the kitchen to make something to eat and then ran upstairs to watch TV. I fell asleep watching

cartoons, and instead of being woken up by my big brother, I was woken up by my mother and Shawn, yelling and banging. I went downstairs thinking, “What is it this time?” and was greeted by an empty bottle of liquor to the face. I crumbled to the ground, holding my forehead and crying.

My mother and Shawn were so into their argument that they didn’t even see my big brother come into the house through the back door holding a shovel. Before I knew it, my brother was giving Shawn the same beating he had been giving my mom only moments prior. Even though he had the element of surprise, Shawn was stronger and was able to wrestle the shovel from my brother’s hands. Shawn smacked my brother in the face with the shovel, knocking him out cold. Seeing my big brother being hit by this inferior, sad excuse of a man set something off inside of me, and before I knew it, I was on top of Shawn, hitting and scratching his face. The first chance I got, I went for his eyes; he fell back, clutching his eyes, calling me every foul word he could think of. I used the opportunity to wake my brother up and helped him out the back door and down the street to my friend Cody’s house, where we spent the night.

While my big brother was in Cody’s room watching TV and icing his face, I was in the

bathroom with the faucet on to hide the whimpering sounds that escaped my mouth as I cried my eyes out. I felt weak compared to my brother; while he was strong and responsible, I was emotional and gullible. After about 15 or so minutes of crying, my brother was frantically knocking on the bathroom door, asking if I was okay. I finally got a grip on myself long enough to think about what I was going to do about the constant abuse and neglect. The first thing that came to mind was the pill that I stole from this bathroom earlier in the day, and before I gave myself enough time to have the courage to do otherwise, I swallowed the pill and chased it down with some water from the sink. After I took the pill, I went out of the bathroom and back to Cody’s room, where my brother and Cody were watching TV. When my brother saw me walk into the room, he instantly got up, ran to me, and gave me a hug. He said he was sorry that I had to go through what I did, and not to worry, he was going to make it right and get us out of there. If our mother was going to stay with that man after what he’d just done to us, we would find somewhere else to stay. After some reassurance from my big brother and another breakdown, the pill started to kick in. Before I knew it, I was feeling something I’d never felt before, almost like I was floating; that’s how my drug use started.

Throughout my childhood, I continued using drugs, Oxycodone, Percocet, and Vicodin.

My mother was hospitalized with an aneurysm caused by her alcoholism. That’s when the Children, Youth, and Families Department (CYFD) took my brother and I into the state’s custody. Being in the state’s custody, we weren’t to have contact with our mother, but an exception was made because the doctors said she wasn’t going to make it. Going into that hospital, and seeing my mother laying on her deathbed made me sick to my stomach. I broke down crying. My mother told us that she loved us and not to worry, then gave us a hug and kiss on the cheek. Leaving the hospital, I couldn’t get the mental image of my mother out of my mind; skin and bones, the blood in her mouth, the bags under her eyes, it was then that I realized

how bad her habit had gotten. My mother survived the aneurysm, and she went into rehab to work on her addiction. She regained custody of my brother and me. I asked her how she did it, and she said she did it because she never wanted to have to make my brother or I go through what we had been ever again; she did it for us. In later years, I learned the only way to get and stay clean is to do it for yourself, for if you do it for anyone else but yourself, you won’t get anywhere. When I heard my mother say that she got sober for us, it made me feel like I had more worth than I gave myself credit for, and feeling that way made me realize that I didn’t want her to see me walk down the same path that she went down.

That’s when I decided that if she could get clean, then I could too. It took around a week for the withdrawals to finally give, but once they did, I realized how much I had been missing out on. During our time in the state’s custody, my mother got into a relationship and ended up getting pregnant with my little brother. In 2018, my mother gave birth to my little brother, Jordan Cruz Hyde. Jordan was one of the best things that ever happened to me: to this day, there is only one thing that beat seeing my little brother for the first time in my life and that was me finding out that my girlfriend was pregnant with my son, and due to my poor decision making I wasn’t there to witness my son come into this world.

Jordan and I have a relationship that could never be broken. For the 3 years of his life, everything was great, that was, until my mother started to drink again. Being an addict myself, I can understand why she started to drink again, but my older brother didn’t. He was constantly breaking down, begging her to stop drinking. He said he wasn’t going to continue to watch her drink herself to death, and he was going to take Jordan and I with him. I tried to get through to her, too, but all our begging and pleading went in one ear and out the other. She did stop drinking, but the way that it came about left my big brother and I traumatized for the rest of our lives.

On February 18^th , 2021, at only 15 years old, my brother and I found our mother dead in her bedroom. She died at the early age of 32. The night before, my mother and I got into an argument because she asked me to go to the store to get her a bottle. In response, I told her that I hated her, and I hoped that she died, and went back to my room. The next morning, I went to her room to apologize and tell her that I would drive to the store and get her a bottle to make it up to her, but when I went to wake her up and get the keys, she wouldn’t wake up. I shook her arm to try to wake her, but her arm was cold and stiff. I shook her frantically, hoping this wasn’t what I thought it was, and when she still wouldn’t wake up, I broke down. My shouting brought my brother into the room, where he then asked what was wrong, and I told him that our mom wasn’t breathing. Hearing this, he pushed me out of the way and told me to call 911. While I called 911, he started giving her chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth, trying with everything he could to resuscitate our mom. By the time the cops came, there wasn’t anything for them to do, and all they said was that they were sorry for our loss.

Due to our mother’s death, we went to stay with our auntie, who only took us for the paycheck that she received every month. I dropped out of school in seventh grade at the age of 12 to care for my little brother, and while I was living with my auntie, it was no different. After we moved in with her, my big brother left because he was tired of the way that our aunt was treating him. It was shortly after that, once I put Jordan to bed, I would sneak out to go hustle up money for liquor. I would hit licks (make some quick cash), rob stores, stick people up, to get the money that I needed to keep a steady income for my liquor. I would then use around 25% of the money to buy liquor and use the rest to buy drugs to sell to make a profit. It went like that for around 2-3 months before the alcohol wasn’t having the desired effect, and I started using again.

Once my auntie found out that I was using, she started treating me like dirt, and instead of her asking if I was okay or why I started using, she’d put me down. I got tired of it; I told Jordan that I loved him and left. In hindsight, that was extremely selfish of me to leave Jordan, who at that point depended on me on a day-to-day basis, but at the time I was more worried about getting high and just tired of the way my aunt treated me. For around 8-9 months, I couch surfed, spending nights at friends’ houses. Then, eventually, I wore out my welcome due to their parents not liking me and thinking that I was setting a bad example for their children (completely

understandable, I would’ve done the same thing if I was in their position). Now I was homeless, spending most nights in hotel rooms that I would rent using the money I got from the licks I would hit.

One day, my brother ran into me while I was selling dope on a corner. When he saw me, he lost it and nearly beat me within an inch of my life, asking me what I thought I was doing out selling dope rather than being with Jordan. After our fight, I told him that I wasn’t going to go back to our aunt because I couldn’t stand the way she treated me. In response, he grabbed me by the front of my shirt and told me that I was better than that, and we continued our argument. I eventually convinced him to go back to my hotel room with me, where we then drank and reminisced about better times. When he asked me what I was on, I told him heroin and fentanyl. He then asked me why I started using. I told him that using made the pain go away, in return, he told me to let him try it. I let him try it, not knowing better, and currently on the verge of being drunk. From that moment on, we were always together. I showed him all the different ways I got my money, and we would then hit licks together. We were constantly trying to get the money to rent out our own place, but of course, that was easier said than done, being we both had to support our habit.

One day, we split up to go hit up the block to sell some “product”, knowing we’d meet up with each other when we were done. I saw him walking back toward me, but I also noticed a truck creeping up slowly behind him. Several gunshots rang out and I watched my brother crumble to the ground, clutching his stomach. I grabbed the gun in my waistline and started shooting at the truck as it sped off. Once they were out of view, I threw my gun in the gutter next to the bus stop, and I ran to my brother. I was on my knees crying, telling him to stay with me, telling him to look at me, to keep his eyes open. I was yelling for someone to call 911, but by the time the ambulance came and took us to the emergency room, he was gone. While I was in the room in the hospital, crying over my big brother’s lifeless body, the police came into the room and started asking me questions. I told them that while I was walking to meet up with him, I went to light a cigarette, and the next thing I knew, I heard gunshots and looked up to see my brother lying on the sidewalk. When they asked if I saw any faces, recognized the make/model of the car, or saw a license plate number, I told them no; I planned to hold court in the streets. Since I offered no information, they gave their condolences and asked me if I needed anything. I was angry, I said they could get out of my face. Why were they asking questions right after I saw my brother killed in front of me? I spent the next 10-15 minutes telling my brother I loved him and praying for God to take care of him.

Seeing my brother die in front of me changed me forever, and I started pushing myself to the limits, hitting licks every day, using as much as drugs as I could, and in turn getting me locked up. When I was 17, I went to hit a lick on a store. The plan was to get cash from all three registers. I got inside, got the money, ran outside, and took off running across the street to the getaway car. We celebrated by buying a few bottles and picking up some product. About a month later I was walking to the gas station. My plan was to have someone pull out some

liquor for me when 9 different cop cars pull up on me with guns drawn, telling me to keep my hands where they could see them. I was then searched for weapons, then shoved in the back of the police car. On the way to the station, I asked them what I was being arrested for, armed robbery. Of course, I said I didn’t know what they were talking about. I was then taken into custody and brought to Juvenile Detention Center, JDC, where they took my mugshot and assigned me to a unit. About 48 hours later, my lawyer was there to visit me, where he explained the severity of my situation. Not even two months prior, I had been charged with drug trafficking and receiving and transferring of a stolen motor vehicle. He said that it wasn’t looking good, especially since I missed my court date for the trafficking charge. I asked him how much time I was facing, and he told me that the trafficking charge alone carried a minimum of 9 years, and they were trying to give me 14 years for the armed robbery. He said he would try to work a deal for me, but not to get my hopes up.

Back in my cell, I found myself thinking about all my past decisions, thinking about what I could’ve done differently. Around a month into my incarceration, I got another visit from my lawyer, who handed me a piece of paper and said, that’s what I was able to get. My first plea was 14 years with the Department of Corrections (DOC) for the armed robbery, with all other charges dismissed. I said that wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t going to let them scare me with the maximum time when I knew I could get a better deal. He told me to think about it and that was probably the best that he could do considering there was a witness willing to testify against me. I told him to try to get a better deal. About 2 months later, a corrections officer (CO) came to my cell and told me that my lawyer was on the phone. I immediately went to the phone and my lawyer told me my second plea. It was a cap of a one-year commitment at the Youth Diagnostic and Development Center (YDDC) and a floor of 2 years’ probation. He came to have me sign the

papers the next day and I told him thank you. Later that week, I was released to a treatment facility to see if I could be on probation without me violating right away.

Treatment went well for a while, but eventually I got tired of being out of jail but still not having any freedom, so I ran. I was caught after a month on the run and brought to the Metropolitan Detention Center, (MDC), where I stayed for 2 months waiting for my court date. They ended up letting me out again, and I ran again, earning myself another trip to MDC. While I was out the second time, I got my girlfriend pregnant, and that made me change my look on what I was doing. Hearing that I got her pregnant had me feeling truly happy for the first time in years, and I realized it wasn’t just about me anymore; it was about my son as well. I was then brought to court, where they made their decision to give me one year at YDDC.

Now that we’re all caught up, I can tell you about what I’ve been fortunate enough to learn since being committed. When I first arrived, I knew I wanted to get my life back on track, starting with my education. I hadn’t been to school in years, but it wasn’t as hard as I expected it to be and, in a way, everything came naturally to me. The school told me my Northwest Evaluation Association (NWEA) scores placed me in the 90th percentile, and I was on my way to earning my GED. Upon getting my GED, I signed up for the summer semester at Central New Mexico Community College.

I never once saw myself going to college, yet here I am, taking English composition, two electrical trade classes, and a welding class. Getting locked up opened my eyes to what I am capable of, as well as the fact that if I plan on being there for my son, I must be able to take care of myself first. Upon my release, I am going to a reintegration center called Eagle’s Nest, where I am to complete 3 months of supervised release.

Upon completion at Eagle’s Nest, I am enlisting in the Army to serve my country. While I wasn’t there for my son’s birth, I know I will be there for the rest of his life since the only person that can choose what happens in that aspect is me. I was fortunate enough to have had my big brother growing up. I plan on being in my son’s life because he needs his father. I plan on embracing what I’ve been through throughout my life and letting that be the foundation that I build upon to better help me build myself up. Not just as a man–but as a father. I want my son to know that even though I was dealt a crappy hand of cards, I didn’t let that define me; instead, I

used it as a tool to make me the man I’ve become. I want to be able to look back on my life and see how far I’ve come, and share my story with those who have also been dealt similar hands,

letting them know that they aren’t alone and not to let their past control their future because at the end of the day the only person that has the power to control how far they go in life is themselves. I recently came across a very familiar quote, “With dedication and hard work, you can do anything.” When I read that quote, I then found myself thinking back years ago when my brother was still alive, saying very similar words. Being that I am on the road to improving myself, I now realize how powerful those words can be. When you translate my name into English, its meaning is The Battle, and I can’t think of a more fitting name for myself than that.