Ex-Convicts Tell Us What They Noticed About the World After Leaving Prison

This article originally appeared on VICE UK

We've all watched enough prison dramas to imagine what it's like to be in jail—eight-by-eight cells with damp concrete walls, a single camp bed with a stained sheet, a square barred window and a cold, metal toilet in the corner. The thing we also learn from TV is that when you're in jail, your motivation for getting through every day is the thought of getting out. But what if it's not all celebratory on the outside?

In the week that ended on July 29, 40 offenders were released from prisons in the UK, and while the majority will remain on probation, they are once again free to live their lives. But with license restrictions and the psychological repercussions of having spent time inside, what's it actually like to leave jail? We asked former inmates about what they wish they'd been told about getting out.

Coming out of prison is never easy, whether you've been inside for two years or 22. I'd done 11 years inside when I was released in 2013 after serving half my sentence.

When I went inside I was using a Nokia 3310—smartphones and the internet weren't really on my radar. I thought an email address was called an email number. A whole decade went past in which technology came in leaps and bounds. I came out to a whole new world.

On top of getting to grips with the world being a completely different place, there's all these restrictions that come with getting out. You don't just serve your time and then it's over—it's never really over. I'm not allowed to leave the country, I've got to meet my probation officer for 10 years and I'm not allowed to earn more than £250 [$326] a week. Well, I can, but if I do I have to give it all back as part of the Proceeds of Crime Act (POCA).

POCA is basically when the judge thinks that you've been making money from illegal activities, whether they're sure or not. They'll say, "We believe that for the last six years you've spent and earned this amount of money buying and selling drugs, so that equates to however many millions, and you owe it to us." For me, that number is just over £6 million [$7.8 million].

Luckily, I actually have a job, thanks to some good friends, which is more than can be said for a lot of offenders. People think that the biggest struggle leaving prison is the psychological one, but it's the financial struggle that's a killer. It's not being able to earn over £250 a week, no matter how hard you work. It's knowing that without your family you wouldn't even be able to support yourself.

I'd just turned 18 when I got caught up in the riots in Ardoyne in Belfast in 2011. A month later, I was identified on CCTV by the police and charged with throwing a petrol bomb at a police officer and riotous assembly.

My mum had recently died unexpectedly aged 40 and it had a massive impact on the way I was thinking. At the time, I was smoking weed heavily. Despite my clean record, I was sentenced to five years—two in prison and three on supervised license. When I got remanded in custody, I didn't know what to expect, but prison itself wasn't as hard as I thought it would be.

Inside, I was told false promises about what the authorities would do for me when I got out, but the reality is that I was handed £68 [$88] and sent on my way. No help with employment, no help with housing, and no help with drug counseling, despite the judge ordering that I complete a drug rehabilitation program upon my release. I've been out for 24 months now and there's still no sign of that program ever happening. I asked my probation officer about it and they just said that it was down due to a lack of funding.

I had to get myself housed. I had to get myself into employment, and I had to get myself off the dope, which I'd been smoking heavily for 12 years, with no assistance from the authorities.

I now understand why people with no family links end up back inside again, because at the end of the day it's the offenders that keep the prison staff in a job. If I didn't have strong family links and an amazing girlfriend there's no doubt in my mind I would have reoffended.

I never wanted to live in Leicester, and left my parents' house when I was 17. After a few years working as a valet in LA I made a permanent home for myself in Marbella—I was in Spain until I was getting locked up. I could go for years without seeing my family, but was deported from Spain, where I served an eight year sentence for drug-related crimes, and placed under house arrest for two years. It came as a bit of a shock to be 35, back in a confined space, living with my 75-year-old mother.

I think a lot of people see house arrest as some sort of easy sentence, but it's debilitating. I was in solitary 22 hours a day, so coming out and having to talk to people who I'd spent my whole life happily escaping was challenging. Knowing that you're that close to freedom is torture.

Another thing no one tells you is that you'll be so excited to eat real food that you'll put on the five stone you lost from malnutrition inside. Swings and roundabouts, I suppose.

When you're released from prison they always promise that you'll get town and home visits before you leave to get yourself used to it, but I didn't get any of that. My partner picked me up and took me home, and then there was nothing. No support. No guidance. I'd been inside for 15 years and then it was over.

We came straight back home, but I hadn't been there for a decade. It was almost like I had to acclimatize myself to it, so I became a bit of a clean freak. I went into every nook and cranny to try and get to know my environment. In your cell, you know every square inch, so being in such a big space was intimidating.

Now I have to have my own room in the house, and it has to be freezing cold. It was 28 degrees in winter—so cold the bed felt wet. It's just what I'm used to. My partner said; "You've made your room into a cell," and I suppose I have.

I've been out for three years now, but I know that I've basically recreated my whole prison routine at home. I get up and go to bed at the same time, I do a similar job to what I did on the inside. It's a security thing. It's about finding a way of being comfortable in this world, and that means bringing in some aspects of my prison life. Being confined to space and routine is what makes me feel good now.

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When I was 19, I got in a drunken argument on a night out. One punch and the guy just fell and smashed his head on the ground. I didn't know whether he was dead or alive, and I felt so guilty that I handed myself in. I found out that he ended up in intensive care for three weeks with brain injuries, and required 24-hour care after that. I was sentenced to two years in prison, and although it was a really scary experience, it was the best thing that could have ever happened to me.

If I didn't go in there, I would've ended up dead. I was addicted to drugs—meth, coke, ecstasy, MDMA, cannabis. From my experience, I just don't have the same kind of access to those drugs, so I had to detox and get myself clean—and prison is as good a place as any to do that.

When I went inside, I didn't have maths or English qualifications, and now I've got both. I've also got a job at the Thinking Cup Café, which employs ex-offenders. They don't care about your past—they see you for who you are now and what you can be in your future. I went in with nothing, and I came out with something.

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