An intimate first person non-fiction storytelling experience about incarceration in the United States
Christopher
So here we are. Another holiday season behind concrete and razor wire fencing. What number is this? I think it’s my 28th and Felicia’s fifth, but I’d need a calendar to tell you for sure. I often wonder, does it really matters at this point?
For me that’s 28 Thanksgivings, Christmas’s, New Years, holidays that used to hold special occasion and memory. Now I mostly recall snippets of a fond past.
Continue reading “Surviving Another Holiday In Prison by Christopher & Felicia”
Forward By Christopher
Every so often I receive stories written by people who were recently released and are now back home. They’re stories about events of mistreatment endured at the hands of other inmates or even the very staff tasked to protect them. I’ve noticed that these stories always seem to find my hands after the author is safe at home. I can only speculate, of course, as to why, but I’ll leave you to decide.
I think, however, it’s important to note that while the author of this post encountered unprofessional staff, they are not representative of the majority. At least, that’s my experience. We have a director in Ohio that will not tolerate unprofessionalism.
This is a two part essay. The second part titled “My Residential Treatment Unit Experience” will post shortly following this part one.
—-Christopher—-
The End Of A Beginning
By Cara Bailey May 2022
Everyone has a story to tell. Some are good, some are bad. But what is a story if they all read the same?
My journey here at Ohio Reformatory for Women began in 2017. Hurdle after hurdle, becoming angrier by the day. Feelings of being lost. Not sure how or if I was going to be able to survive 8 years of incarceration.
Sentenced to17 years in Prison to be served at the Ohio Reformatory for Women.
It’s a day I will never forget. The first year Iived in misery. Full of anger, self hatred and shame. Then the old saying, ‘misery loves company’ echoed into my mind, causing me to stop and think, “There has to be a reason why I am here?”
I was with my ex-husband 17 years. Spent many of those years on the bathroom floor praying for a way out. Praying for strength to leave. And now I am here sentenced to 17 years. Coincidence? I don’t think so.
I stand frozen in the dark. I’m mesmerized and taken back by the beauty of the soft, white snow falling around me. I can feel the bitter cold through my state issued blue scrubs. The delicate snowflakes vanish against my bare hands just as quickly as they land. When was the last time I noticed the intricate detail of each snowflake so unique? Or felt the cold winter air rooting deep into my lungs? The correctional officer’s voice echoing out
I’ve been wanting to write about this subject with everything I’ve been seeing in the news lately, but have been scared of judgement…even from the readers of this blog…but it has kept me up at night recently, so I guess that’s the final push forward I needed to speak my truth.