Bailing water with a teaspoon: Why I left law enforcement

I’m not a cop anymore.

I get asked about that a lot. Why I joined. Why I left. Why I didn't “stick it out” so I could cash in on that sweet pension. Why I ever did it in the first place when I could have just sat behind a screen writing code and making decent money without smelling dead bodies or getting vomited on at 3 a.m. or have some drunk shit in my patrol car.

Here’s the truth: being a cop is one of the worst jobs in America.

Nobody signs up for law enforcement because it’s easy. Nobody says, “Hey, I’d love to work 12-hour shifts, get paid shit, and have people spit in my face for doing my job.”

Most of us join because we’re chasing something. Purpose. Camaraderie. That feeling you got in the Army where your team had your back and you had theirs. That brotherhood.

For me, it wasn’t about power or authority. It wasn’t because I wanted to play hero. It was because I missed the kind of bond you get when you do hard shit with good people. You don’t get that in an office, writing code and arguing about Asana tickets.

And let’s be honest ... there’s also a tiny part of you that wants to believe you can make a difference. That you can step in when others won’t. That you can protect the good people from the bad ones.

But here’s the kicker: no one warns you how fast that idealism burns off.

Long hours. Crap pay. The kind of stress that rewires your brain and poisons your relationships. A front-row seat to humanity at its absolute lowest. Oh, and everyone hates you. You can’t forget that part. You’re the villain in every news story, every viral video, every movie where the cops are always corrupt or racist or both. Doesn’t matter that most of us signed up because we actually gave a damn.

I couldn't stay because it was destroying me.

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Let’s talk about why.

You can’t help people who don’t want to be helped. We call them "chronic bad decision makers." They know the right choice. They see it. They consider it carefully... and then dive headfirst into the worst possible option like it’s a goddamn Olympic sport. It’s almost like they’re trying to die by a million paper cuts. A slow suicide through bad choices. And you, the cop, are supposed to stop them. Fix them.

But you can’t. You can't legislate away bad behavior and you can't arrest people into doing the right thing. What about "scared straight?" It's a lie. It's bullshit. It happens sometimes, but the vast majority of the chronic bad decision makers are broken for life and don't consider the consequences of their actions. Their brain doesn't work any more.

So you drag their drunk ass out of yet another wrecked car at 2 a.m., knowing full well you’ll be doing it again next month. Or maybe you won’t. Maybe next time they’ll plow head-on into a minivan and kill a grandma and two kids.

You think that’ll change anything? Nope.

Parents will still buy their 20-year-old shitbag son a brand new truck the next day because “he’s a good boy.” Yeah.. uh. Good boys don’t blow a 0.22 and murder strangers on a Tuesday night.

And then when you catch him drunk again, mom will scream at you. Because somehow this is your fault. (True story.. actually happened, to include the killing of grandma, two children and getting a new truck.)

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You want a face to put to this? Let’s talk about Jenny.

Jenny isn’t her real name for obvious reasons. To my knowledge, she’s still alive… but she’s on the fast track if you know what I mean. And Jenny could honestly be any one of a hundred people I dealt with over the years.

Jenny was a very pretty girl once. Stupid pretty. The kind of pretty that turns heads in a small town. But then she got stupid. Got into drugs. And I’m not talking a little weed and beer in high school. I’m talking all-in, life-destroying, brain-melting drugs.

By the time I was dealing with her, she wasn’t that girl anymore. She was the “town hump” sleeping with any guy who could get her high. She’d bounce from one drug-dealing loser to the next. By 27, she looked 47. Hollowed out. Her body wrecked, her mind even worse.

Her family? Dead, in prison, or done with her. No friends. No support. Just a sad, broken shell of a human being who didn’t even realize how far she’d fallen.

And here’s the thing ... she was nice.

That’s what killed me. She wasn’t angry or combative like so many others. She still had this faint ember of kindness. But it wasn’t enough to save her.

Jenny was banned from every business in town because she’d just walk in and steal. Not food. Not anything essential. Purses. Jewelry. Knickknacks from Dollar General. Crap.

The calls became so routine the managers didn’t even bother with 911 anymore. They just called me directly.

“Hey Deputy Ellis… Jenny’s here again.”

“Okay. Be right there.”

I’d walk in and she’d smile at me like I was her friend.

“Oh hey Deputy Ellis!”

“Hi Jenny. You know you can’t be in here.”

But she didn’t know. Not really. Her brain was fried. She’d done so many drugs that whatever part of her that understood actions and consequences had been burned out.

I had no choice but to arrest her. That’s the law. And on the ride to jail she’d promise me—over and over—that it was a mistake. That it wouldn’t happen again.

I’d just nod; “Okay Jenny… see you next week?”

It wasn’t cruelty. It was resignation. It was reality.

Here’s the part that stuck in my gut though.

The experience with Jenny made me feel more like a shitbag “dirty” cop than any accusation ever thrown my way. Not because I was dirty. I wasn’t. I was a damn good cop. I worked hard. I gave a shit.

But there wasn’t a fucking thing I could do for her. Nothing. And knowing that… knowing I was powerless to help someone so utterly broken… that’s what ate at me.

Jenny was one person. But there were hundreds of Jennys.

Day in. Day out.

And you start to realize you’re not saving anyone. You’re just shoveling water out of a sinking boat with a teaspoon.

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You see things you can’t unsee.

Smells you can’t ever wash out.

The dead. The broken. The worst moments of people’s lives on repeat. And you’re supposed to just swallow it down. Go home. Hug your wife. Eat dinner like nothing happened because dear god you can't share it with them. Good luck with that.

Then try sleeping. It can be difficult. Not just because of the nightmares, though that happens too, but because court is during the day. Grand jury? Day. Training? Day. Oh, you work nights? Sucks to be you. Hope you enjoy running on four hours of sleep for months straight.

And don’t get me started on the public.

They demanded body cameras. Fine. You know what we found out? Body cameras are a cops best friend. 99.9% of cops aren’t the problem, they are just good hard working folks trying to do a hard job. 99.9%  of the public we deal with on the other hand are liars, assholes, or both. Everyone lies. About everything. All the time.

Even the people who whisper in private how much they “appreciate what you do” won’t say it in public. God forbid their neighbors see them support the cops. That’s social suicide these days.

No these same "appreciative supporters" will stand around filming you with their iphone while you get beat by some drunk assclowns instead of actually helping. I don't think these people understand what "support" is.

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The ONLY good thing? The camaraderie.

You’ll never find tighter bonds than the ones forged on the street at 4 a.m. when it’s just you, your partner, and the knowledge that backup is 10 minutes away if shit goes bad. That part—the brotherhood—that’s what kept me there longer than I should’ve stayed.

But it wasn’t enough.

In the end, I left because I could feel it eating me alive. It was driving a wedge between me and my wife. And she’s more important than the job. More important than you and your safety. More important than getting the drunks off the road. So I walked.

Selfish, I know. But it had to be that way.

Here’s the most fucked up part though; The shit still calls to me.

There’s something about it... maybe the purpose, maybe the adrenaline.. that gets under your skin. Even knowing how bad it was, even knowing how it damn near broke me... some days I still miss it.

Maybe I'm more like Jenny than I want to admit.