Living with Demons

a story of mental illness behind bars

This piece is not a comfortable one to read, neither was it easy to live or to try and put into words to share it. In my time incarcerated, I shared my cell with many different women, and it was rare for me to experience having a bunkie who didn’t live with severe mental health challenges. According to research conducted by NAMI, the National Alliance on Mental Health:

People with mental illness deserve help, not handcuffs. Yet people with mental illness are overrepresented in our nation’s jails and prisons. About two in five people who are incarcerated have a history of mental illness (37% in state and federal prisons and 44% held in local jails). This is twice the prevalence of mental illness within the overall adult population. Given these rates, America’s jails and prisons have become de-facto mental health providers, at great cost to the well-being of people with mental health conditions.

Despite court mandates, there is a significant lack of access to adequate mental health care in incarcerated settings. About three in five people (63%) with a history of mental illness do not receive mental health treatment while incarcerated in state and federal prisons. It is also challenging for people to remain on treatment regimens once incarcerated. In fact, more than 50% of individuals who were taking medication for mental health conditions at admission did not continue to receive their medication once in prison.

People with mental illness often face challenges to navigating life in a jail or prison. Behaviors related to their symptoms can put them at risk for consequences of violating facility rules, such as solitary confinement or being barred from participating in programming.

”Mental Health Treatment While Incarcerated” from NAMI

Full article here.

Before beginning this story, I want to acknowledge that it includes themes of self-harm and violence within the context of incarceration. These are difficult but important realities. I share this with the intention of bringing greater awareness to experiences that are too often unseen.

Living with Demons

‘A’ is in a rage this morning, at war with the world and herself. Her screams pulsate through the cell, reverberating through my body. She’s careening towards crisis– spiraling faster and faster to God only knows where and I can only be along for the ride.

In a flash, her anger rips free– her hair the first thing that she reaches for, yanking and pulling until chunks come out in her hands.

“Not enough,” something inside of her seems to whisper and she balls up her hand into a fist. My eyes slam shut as fear pierces through me–there’s nowhere to go that’s out of reach of her heavy hands.

Thunk–thunk…

The deadened beat of bone meeting flesh floods the cell… again and again.

At first, relief courses through my mind and a breath fills my lungs–not me, I realize. Then my eyes fly open when I realize it's her own body taking the brunt of this violence. I reach out to hold her hand back as she winds up once again.

“No, ‘A’ don’t do this. You don’t deserve any more harm. Please don’t do this,” I plead with her.

She rips her hands from mine with a strength beyond human–

“Yes, I do. I’m bad. I’m worthless. I deserve to be punished.”

Each statement said almost as a compulsion, each one enforced by the slam of her fist into her face—again and again and again.

I sit next to her powerless, loving, lost. Devastated in the face of this self-inflicted harm.

Eventually her fist slows as the anger transforms into despair, and she collapses to the ground exhausted and spent. A quietness falls over our cell, broken only by the sound of her gasps and desperate pleas for the pain to stop, for the voices to go away and leave her alone for good.

“I can’t take anymore,” she wails through her tears.

I remain by her side, bearing witness and allowing my heart to break further with each gasp from her trembling body. Time passes but I’m not sure how much in this world away from worlds where there are no clocks or windows to the outside to get a sense of any passing. Eventually she calms and slowly looks up towards me and says:

“I could use that hug now.”

I open my arms and she falls into them as I gather her close and rock her gently side to side. Gently, but firmly, I hold this woman old enough to be my grandmother in arms, my tears joining hers.

The deputies will be in soon for shift change inspection. She begs me not to tell, she can’t face going back to the “hole” in the bam-bam suit. She promises me she won’t hurt herself anymore.

I remained silent as she asked when it was our time to be scanned and inspected– all the time wondering was it the right choice to make?

Later that day she tells me she can’t eat, that her jaw is sore for some reason. She wonders aloud if she slept on it funny the night before to make it hurt so.

I look into her eyes and see she truly doesn’t remember this morning– for her it’s gone but for me I’ve not been able to think of anything else.

She goes to stand in front of the mirror spending time gently probing her cheek, searching for answers in her flesh. I’m not sure what to say, so I remain silent once more. The demons she fights in her mind are her own to do battle with. Slowly a dawning recognition enters her eyes–

“I did this,” she whispers to herself. She turns back to look at me sitting on my bunk.

“I did this?” she asks of me.

“Yes,” I softly replied.

Together we cry once more.

I hope that by telling these stories and naming the person behind the pain, we can begin to see that harm to one is harm to all—and start the work of doing things differently.

Thank you for being here and for supporting this work 🙏