After three decades, I feel like I’m dying a slow death.
Prisoners have remained silent—some out of shame, others out of fear of retaliation, but most because that’s just the way it’s always been.
As a young, educated white girl, I confused everyone I encountered in law enforcement.
I would never wish it on anyone, but there are just some people you can tell will be back in prison over and over again.
This isn’t a place that provides treatment, help, or even empathy to those who suffer from stress, depression, and mental illness.
I failed to realize that staying out of trouble is as much about mental health as it is about physical safety.
We were stuck in a ghost town, and ours were the only lives left.
I fought first for my rights, and then for my life.
It sounds simple, but I’ve seen guys who called themselves “rat smashers” pick the wrong rat to smash.
You could get butchered and the guards wouldn’t know it until they discovered your bloodless corpse lying crumpled on the walkway.