Prison and Mental Health
Breaking the stigma by sharing our stories and vulnerabilities
“Prisons transcend what people who are not behind the wall can imagine. The U.S. is setting a new standard for desensitizing society to inhumane treatment, especially with regards to solitary confinement, because it methodically kills all that is human within us—our most basic need for social interaction—and drives prisoners to the abyss of insanity.”
—Mumia Abu-Jamal
I’ve been incarcerated for 14 years and out of those 14 years, eight were spent in solitary confinement. That’s a majority of my incarceration spent in isolation. While I was in solitary confinement, oftentimes I would go to outside recreation escorted by two guards handcuffed and shackled. Once outside, I’d be locked in an individual dog cage as were my peers, where we’d talk about what’s going on in the units, sports, politics, TV shows, etc. Mental health wasn’t a topic we discussed despite the fact that these conditions of confinement we were subjected to was explicitly designed to deteriorate our mental health. It’s hard enough for one to be incarcerated in prison’s general population. For those in solitary confinement each day is a fight to maintain their sanity. The conditions of solitary confinement are well known to create or worsen ones’ anxiety, depression, paranoia, irritability, withdrawal, hallucinations, hypersensitivity, self-mutilation, and thoughts of suicide.
Given all that is widely known of the negative effects of solitary confinement, it begs to raise the question: Why do prisons continue such practice which has been deemed cruel and unusual punishment? The answer is relatively simple. Such brutality is not only consistent with the history of Amerika, but it’s as American as apple pie. Other than solitary confinement, another example is the death penalty. A lot of innocent men and women have been wrongfully convicted and murdered by the state or the federal prison system, while many continue to languish on death row despite all evidence proving their innocence. Case in point: Kevin Cooper in California.
In my personal experience, the worse part of being in solitary confinement was year-after-year going by without ever knowing when I would be released. Upon my arrival at Red Onion State Prison in 2012, Virginia’s Supermax, I was reminded that I’d never see General Population again, so as the years went by, inevitably, I began to believe it.
Nonetheless, after eight years, I was finally released. When I got to General Population, it was the first time in nearly a decade that I was around so many people, moving in all directions, the noise and chaos of the prison environment. I instantly noticed how uncomfortable I was around so many people to the point I would self-isolate and withdraw. I was constantly anxious and sporadically depressed. In the midst of my attempt to readjust to my being in General Population after such an extensive period of time, my grandfather passed away. I was under tremendous stress. Yet even though I was no longer in solitary confinement, what I was subjected to continued to haunt me—the assault by 13 guards while I was handcuffed, the electric stun belt, being strapped down and left immobile for days, deprivation of meals, outside recreation, no showers, the violent cell extractions, being incommunicado from family, comrades and friends, vivid images of when I observed a peer’s lifeless body being carted out of the cell after he committed suicide. All these things plus more took a toll on my mental health.
Because I didn’t want those closest to me to worry, I would suppress my vulnerability and what I was going through and opted to deal with it on my own. I’d externally project an image of someone who is strong but deep inside I was suffering in silence. It’s a terrible feeling to suppress, even deny, your own pain and feelings. You constantly worry about your vulnerability being seen as some form of weakness or you worry about how people’s perception of you may change. Whatever it could be, none of it is worth the psychological toll it takes on you.
At the risk of sounding contradictory, I also fathom why most people, specifically those in solitary confinement and prison population are fainthearted about seeking help for their mental health. I understand that in many cases, talking to the prison’s mental health professionals (I use this term loosely) can be used against us in some capacity at some point of our incarceration. Therefore, this legitimate hesitancy to discuss our mental health with anyone is a survival mechanism. I’ve long ago learned that talking to those trusted people close to me about my struggles has been cathartic and therapeutic in many ways.
Anxiety and sporadic depression is something I deal with. I acknowledge that solitary confinement has had an impact on my mental health. No one subjected to years in solitary confinement comes out unharmed. Here’s what George Jackson said about that: “There are only two types of people released from these places. The rebels and the broken. The broken ones are so damaged that they will never again be suitable members of any social unit. Everything that is good when they entered the joint is gone when they leave. It brings out the very best in a person or destroys them entirely, but none are unaffected.” It certainly brought out the very best of me, but I wasn’t unaffected either.
Whether incarcerated or not, we all go through things in life. Some events create wonderful memories, whereas others leave us traumatized and prison is traumatizing, for it does nothing to ameliorate one’s mental health, but merely exacerbates it. I share my story in hopes to encourage others to share theirs and to know that mental health isn’t some taboo conversation. We are all in this struggle together. Let’s share our stories, educate the public and break the stigma on mental health.
All power to the people!
Peter Kamau Mukuria #1197165
Red Onion Sate Prison
P.O. Box 1900
Pound, VA 24279