I find strength and direction in the words of Martin Luther King Jr., Mahatma Gandhi, Nelson Mandela, and Oscar Wilde — all of whom were formerly incarcerated people. Their experience is that of every prisoner for the experience of incarnation transcends borders and time.
One of my favorite writings is the Ballad of Reading Gaol, by Oscar Wilde. Wilde was imprisoned more than 150 years ago in Europe’s infamous Reading Gaol prison. A former socialite fallen from grace, Wilde is reborn through the trials and tribulations of his time while at Reading Gaol.
(“And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats / None know so well as I” — Oscar Wilde)
Wilde struggled to cope with what he witnessed at Reading Gaol. Fellow prisoners preying upon one another, executions by the Hangman’s nose; and the beating of an imprisoned child younger than 10 years old at the hands of Reading Gaol’s warders. The boy’s crime? Shoplifting bread for nothing more than to stave off Poverty’s cruel hand of starvation.
(“In Reading Gaol by Reading Town / There is a pit of shame.” — Oscar Wilde)
Every prison has its pit of shame, metaphorical for the dark acts kept hidden from the light of day. I am captivated by the words of a prisoner who lived centuries before me, for our experience transcends time. Every incarcerated person can relate. If I slow down but for a moment I can hear the heavy metal clank of Reading Gaol’s cell doors, feel the damp on my skin and taste the mustiness of air, for despite the separation of time some things in prison don’t change.
Early in my sentence the State of Ohio executed its incarcerated people with cyclical rhythm. On those days the gravity of execution weighed heavy on many of us.
Oscar Wilde too struggled with the executions of his time. He understood, as I do too, that we give up a piece of our humanity when society clutches revenge close to it’s heart.
(“To see the universe and all pervading spirit of truth face to face, one must be able to love the meanest of all creatures as one’s self.” — Mahatma Gandhi)
In the 1990’s I became a certified GED tutor. I tutored the kids that were here, juvenile boys the youngest of whom was 14 years old. Like Wilde, I felt for the kids.
My experience with the juveniles taught me a lot about myself. The boys suffered from childhood traumas with many having been sexually abused; or came from broken homes; or came from the foster care system — many from all three and then some. The more I got to know them the more I realized they were just like other boys. They yearned for acceptance, love, and guidance. They dreamt the same dreams every teen boy dreams, except for them dreams were all they had.
(“The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort, but where he stands in times of challenge.” — Martin Luther King Jr.)
My time tutoring the boys greatly impacted me. As Oscar Wilde did I too witnessed similar things, boys struggling to cope and make sense of their situation; and, boys who were beaten by the very people entrusted with their safety. What is a yong man to make of this? I was still a kid myself back then.
On a balmy afternoon when the sky was blue and unfettered, one of my students was murdered on account of his skin color. I was devastated. The evil that lurks in every prison had struck close to me.
I had poured my heart and soul into that kid and then he was no longer. My mind literally couldn’t process what had happened. I had gotten to know the boy and realized he simply yearned for a guiding figure in his life — it seemed all the boys yearned for that.
I hid my trauma and pain from family. I have always shielded them from unnecessary worry as most incarcerated people do. I’ve only recently begun writing about that long ago event.
In prison we experience things only our nightmares can prepare us for. We hide that which the world makes us hold, while groping through shadows searching for light.
Sometimes the act of breathing is a triumph in itself.
(“The greatest glory in living is(n’t) never failing, but rising every time we fail.” — Nelson Mandela)
After a lifetime on the Inside I have found myself. I know my purpose in this world and I live it each day. The adversities I have faced, the traumas I’ve overcome, and each dream that has crashed and burned has molded me anew. I arise from ash and dust every day.
Nelson Mandela was an angry youth when he was cast away to prison. Over 27 years of imprisonment he arrived at the same conclusions I have: There is no room for anger; only love defeats hatred, and hope illuminates darkness. To adopt these principles is to move the world for when you hate, hate finds you but when you love, love comes to us. Mandela exemplified these truths.
No one is infallible. No matter what a man or woman has done we are still part of the same family the human family. We are redeemable. However, we must first be willing to lower the sword of personal bias and judgement in order to see this.
(“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” — Oscar Wilde)
I never dwell on the past. I choose to pursue a new life, one based on core values of community, faith, family, integrity, honesty, and transparency. I credit the titans — Martin Luther King Jr., Mahatma Gandhi, Nelson Mandela, and Oscar Wilde — for having had courage to write about their experience. Through their works I find strength, purpose and direction.
In prison we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
*Christopher Monihan is a writer, author, journalist, and Stillwater Award Recipient. His newest book ‘Christopher and Friends: Reflections From Behind the Wall’ (ISBN: 979-8262373062) is available on Amazon.
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Tag: Incarceration
Prison Trauma
There is something important to me that I want to share with you today. Within prison there is a lot of trauma. My prison isn’t unique in that regard, but I state it as an often overlooked statement of fact.
Over 31 years of uninterrupted incarceration, I’ve learned that the majority of incarcerated people have backgrounds steeped in traumas. Many were abused as children, grew up in broken homes, or experienced the foster care system (don’t get me started on the foster care system. Children in foster care are exposed to all manner of trauma). A high percentage of the men around me tick off more than just those three boxes.
All of this pales in comparison to what I first termed IBPTSD in my 2023 PJP op-ed (What Caused His PTSD? This Prison Right Here) which is Incarceration Borne Post Traumatic Syndrome Disorder. Jails and prisons harm mental health by design; they are structured to maximize control and confinement. Little consideration is paid to how this impacts mental health. This is the second often overlooked statement of fact.
For example, community areas in cellblocks and dorms utilize constant on security lighting. At night these lights illuminate sleeping areas and beam through cell windows. Jails and prisons also employ high intensity outside security lighting. These lights pour through outside facing windows compounding the issue.
When I was in the county jail a light in front of the row of cells remained on for the entire 130 days I was there. By the time I left the Stark County Jail I suffered from extreme anxiety and insomnia. It’s worth noting that the detrimental effects of sleep deprivation on mental health are well documented.
Another example of how jails impact mental health comes by way of testimony from Erica Rowe. She recounts her experience with lice in jail:
“When the jail gets full the jail issues these plastic boats which are placed on the floor with a mat. I slept on the floor in one of these boats and it was freezing cold all the time. One night I felt something crawling over me. I hop out of the boat freaking out and calling for the officers…”
Erica is taken to the jail nurse:
“It was lice and I knew it was that because as a kid I’d had it. The nurse forces me into allowing her to cut my hair off…She grabs a pair of scissors and hacks my ponytail off ‘to make it easier’ for the NIX treatment.
“I was so attached to beauty and vanity I cried when she did this. I have few memories from the county jail 19 years ago, but this one still stands out.”
Another source of stress for incarcerated people is the loss of personal autonomy. Days are regimented and subdivided by numerous counts of the incarcerated population. Incarcerated people are told when they can eat, use restrooms, shower, visit with family, and recreate amongst a hundred other things. It is well established in studies that loss of personal autonomy negatively impacts mental health.
However, no one seems to meaningfully consider this next statement of fact: In prison thousands of individuals from all walks of life, shouldering all manner of trauma and addiction are thrown in together and expected to normalize. People with violent backgrounds, sexual predators, suffering drug addictions, and gang members who know nothing but life in the streets are all thrown into one place. I ask, What do you think happens? The violence and chaos marking a typical day in prison impacts mental and physical health.
Assaults, robberies, murder, mini riots–I’ve witnessed them all. I know what death and drug overdose looks like. I’ve witnessed suicides and rape. None of this shocks me anymore for the abnormal of the prison experience becomes the new normal.
I wonder sometimes, if when I am free again and alone with time to myself, if these traumas I’ve boxed away in my subconscious will come gibbering back to collect their due. If I were to dwell on what I witness I would end up like so many incarcerated people deeply traumatized. This isn’t to say I don’t cope with my own IBPTSD because I do. I’m luckier than most because I cope out of sheer will. Others aren’t as fortunate.
Being a father or mother in prison exacts a heavy mental toll. Felicia Sullivan, an incarcerated mother in Ohio, shares her experience:
“The arrival of 9PM count brings on the challenge of laying my head down on my pillow, with the hope of falling asleep. Wanting no time to recall the day.
“I struggle with excruciating pain knowing my children are growing up in this cold world without me. To fend for themselves now raised in separate households.
“Having lived a life of feeling only pain, I have to do things to remind myself that I’m still alive. That I still have a piece of my old self even if it’s not a healthy piece. That girl still exists.”
I focus on the impact of IBPTSD to draw awareness. Without recognition hundreds of thousands of incarcerated people will return to communities struggling to pick up their lives.
In the past several years numerous states have instituted the body worn camera (BWC) in prisons and jails without well thought out protocols on how BWCs would impact the mental health and civil rights of incarcerated people.
In Ohio BWCs were implemented without careful consideration for incarcerated people’s civil rights under the federal Prison Rape Elimination Act (PREA). At my facility an officer initially wore BWC while conducting strip searches. The practice ended only after the threat of civil rights lawsuit under the PREA act by the ACLU.
The same thing appears to be playing out in other States. Amber, a friend of mine in Michigan incarcerated at the Women’s Huron Valley (WHV) correctional facility, shared with me her experience with BWC prison borne trauma.
She related that it’s already bad enough that we’re removed from society and thrust into deplorable living conditions which she (and I can attest, that this is true for many others) says is mentally and physically hard as it is. Add to this, for women many of whom are survivors of sexual assault, to be recorded by BWC during a strip search is traumatizing.
Since writing me for this post her facility modified BWC policy during strip searches. Protocol now requires officers to turn off BWC video but continue to record audio. This is little comfort to the 900 WHV incarcerated women for compliance rests solely with the officer.
In Ohio, an officer removes a BWC before conducting a strip search. It leaves no room to bend or break policy. Michigan could take a play out of Ohio’s playbook.
There is no official recognition of IBPTSD in psychiatry’s authoritative reference manual the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM-IV). The closest recognition exists in what the psychiatric profession calls Post Incarceration Syndrome, where restored citizens struggle to reintegrate.
There needs to be focused studies on how the prison experience itself causes trauma. Once recognized incarcerated people can receive IBPTSD psychiatric help while incarcerated, which at this time does not exist.
*Christopher Monihan is a writer, author, journalist and Stillwater Award recipient. He is incarcerated in Ohio.
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Valhalla! by Christopher
Today I had an aha moment.
No, not the type of aha moment free world people experience when encountering something truly eye opening, but the type only incarcerated people know and experience after decades of living in a cage.
Every one of Ohio’s 50,000 prison incarcerated people are issued a Samsung 10″ tablet — it’s not that glamorous, these are refurbished 5th and 6th generation monstrosities in a world of 20th generation magic — and we have access to numerous free, but mostly pay-to-use services. Prison is big business. There’s money to be made from the backs of America’s most vulnerable population, their friends, and families.
I was swiping through he GTL Library app of offerings. Think of the app like an online library of sorts where there’s magazines, books, and ebooks. It’s nothing like the limitless content of the internet, everything is censored and specially curated. Anyhow, I stumbled upon the audio book, “Who Moved My Cheese?”.
I tapped the Who Moved My Cheese? icon and an audio book reader launched.
I suppose out there something as mundane as an audio book reader wouldn’t warrant mention let alone a blog post — but in my world this is discovery on scale similar to teenagers stumbling upon online porn.
I glanced around casual so not to draw attention. Content my discovery went unnoticed by the men around me, I focused on the reader’s unknown icons before settling upon the safe familiarity of the play button.
I hurriedly plugged in my ear buds and tapped play. For the next 5 minutes a man’s voice droned on and on about how he had come up with the idea for Who Ate My Cheese?. My excitement quickly drained away. This guy was kinda boring.
I decided to venture deeper. The way I saw it I could do no harm, besides I had already made up my mind I couldn’t possibly sit through two hours of this man’s mind numbing voice. That is until I discovered Valhalla.
In the corner of the app I spotted a discreet double “§” looking icon. I tapped it. A new screen appeared. Bulleted percentages of 100%, 125%, 150%, 175%, and 200% trailed from top to bottom. Highlighted by default was 100%.
I tapped 125%.
The mans voice returned except this time he seemed somehow cheerier. I tapped 150%. Now he babbled on like a gaggle of teenage girls. 175% and he spoke as if hopped up on lines of crystal meth.
I eyed 200%. My heart pounded and my palms grew moist. I cast a furtive glance around me and thumbed 200%.
The man’s voice raced back like a used car auctioneer. Holy shit, I thought. I CAN listen to this book!
*Christopher Monihan is a journalist, writer, and 2024 Stillwater Award recipient. His newest book “Reflections From Behind the Wall” is now available on Amazon.
December 03, 2025
Here we are December 2025 and my 31st year of incarceration. Had you asked me when I began my sentence how I’d feel come the year 2025, I might have passed out. Just the thought I could still be incarcerated 31 years later might have sent me seeking a high ledge.
Yet, here I am. You want to know something? I feel optimism and gratitude in this moment. I am grateful because time sanded away all the rough edges of my ignorance and immaturity, leaving a man with direction, understanding, and purpose. My time on the inside has opened my eyes.
I know many of you know this about me having followed my journey for years. I am grateful to all of you, knowing that my life is worthy of interest and inquiry. Because of you I thrive and find meaning and purpose.
To the many new readers who have discovered me, thank you for taking time out of your lives to follow mine and those of other writers here.
2025 has been an amazing year. The universe reflects back upon us that which we send out into it, and I want to share a little with you that has come back to me.
In May and for the third time in as many years, I spoke in front of hundreds of people at Harmony’s annual Sunflower Arts and Music Festival held at the Ohio Reformatory for Women. The festival brings together three prisons — two men’s, one women’s — for a day long event celebrating our shared humanity and common bond. On YouTube visit the channel: HarmonyProjectOnline. There you will find the incarcerated men and women of Harmony, along with the amazing people of Harmony and supporters (free world and within Ohio Corrections). You will also see me in several videos!
The Harmony Project visits my prison once a week and for an hour we sing and share in community. For that hour I literally forget that I am in prison. Harmony’s volunteers are heaven sent and although Harmony is nondenominational I can’t help but think of these words from the Bible:
“Be sure to welcome strangers, for in so doing you may have welcomed Angels unaware.”
If there are Angels among us, I know who some of them are.
This summer I was accepted into Kindway Embark’s highly coveted and respected faith based reentry program (Google: Kindway Embark of Columbus, Ohio). We meet twice a week for fellowship and discipleship. Kindway Embark’s volunteers are amazing, caring human beings that I am grateful are a key part of my life. I look forward to coming back into Ohio’s prisons with Kindway Embark someday as a volunteer. I want to spread the same hope to Ohio’s incarcerated men and women that I receive when these volunteers are here. If you are with Kindway Embark thank you from the bottom of my heart.
My voice continues to thrive and as a writer 2025 was a good year. I saw my work in numerous publications most notable Prison Journalism Project; Inside; Exchange; and publications at Columbia and Cornell universities.
My personal mission to draw awareness to incarceration borne PTSD (ibPTSD) continues to gain traction with new contacts in academia and nonprofits; and I discovered and joined an amazing writers group consisting of some of the most accomplished incarcerated writers in the country. It’s no secret I live to write and write to live.
I have only begun. Upon release I shall go from incarcerated writer to founder and editor of my own organization dedicated to magnifying the journalism, writings, and lives of America’s marginalized incarcerated people. Nobody knows the hidden truths of incarceration — and can shed light on them, for we have lived it first hand — better than current and formerly incarcerated people.
Most importantly an organization founded and staffed by formerly incarcerated people know the Unknowables that free world editors can only dream of knowing. Everyone else is on the outside of the birdcage looking in.
When I read the works of history’s most notable incarcerated people, such as Oscar Wilde or Nelson Mandela to name a couple, I feel a shared bond and understanding for our experience transcends distance and time. I truly know and that is why every incarcerated writer has ever put pen to paper.
I am happy to announce the publication of my newest book, “Reflections From Behind the Wall” (ISBN 979-8262373062). It is now available on Amazon. It contains hundreds of selected essays and posts from May 01, 2021 thru September 2025 written by myself and men and women incarcerated across the country. My first book, “Behind the Wall: A Prisoner’s Journal” (ISBN 9798514441983) is also available on Amazon, first published in 2021. Both books are priced very low so readers may be able to afford more than one copy. Please share them with others and thank you in advance for your support. I am grateful.
I guess you can say I’m feeling empowered. My time on the inside has challenged me to be the best version of self I can be. I begin each day with my head held high and each night I rest knowing that I have lived.
There’s meaning and purpose in all that we do, but only if we choose to allow it to be. No one can take that from us.
Christopher
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Christopher Monihan is a writer, journalist, and Stillwater award recipient. He is incarcerated in Ohio.
Don’t Call Us Inmates
*A version of this essay first appeared in Prisoner Express, a Cornell University Durland Alternatives Library publication
In my quest to draw awareness to the plight of the oppressed and enslaved within America’s Prison Industrial Complex, my writings bring me into contact with other like minds. I am empowered when these are fellow incarcerated people like myself.
We are part of an exclusive cadre for better or for worse — today, tomorrow, and forever — that we didn’t choose but I long ago embraced. We share a collective bond borne from adversity forged through time, that transcends race, creed and socioeconomic backgrounds. We are incarcerated people and formerly incarcerated people.
We are unbreakable.
Incarcerated people return to society shunned and labeled “convict” “ex convict” “inmate” words meant to subjugate a class of people to societal margins. We have thrived despite purgatory existence, endured corruption and bore witness to their crimes and survived it all. Words will never hurt us.
Like others in my cadre my days are regimented, by choice, of course, and not due to any edict or arbitrary rule. No act of verbal or physical assault has conquest over me for I am forged from 31 years on the inside.
Take heed for I am on a mission to lift us, humanize us and empower us. I didn’t ask for this but I will rise to it.
All around me oppression abounds. How is it that a father or a mother should be forced to slave daily earning pennies an hour working a prison job? I stand witness to the mental distress etched across faces young and old. It is cruel and unusual punishment.
What you may not know is that this is by design for the 13th Amendment permits it:
“Neither punishment nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for a crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.”
And we lecture other nations on equality and basic human rights?
Nationally incarcerated people average 14 cents hourly earnings working a prison job. Here on Ohio a tube of toothpaste costs $3.17 in prison commissary. This is the equivalent of 22.6 hours of prison earned wages for Ohio’s incarcerated people average $20.00 a month working 36 hour work weeks. A pair of socks from one of Ohio’s sole source vendors costs $1.95 which is the equivalent of 14 hours of monthly wages; basic bra $9.95 or 71 hours of earnings; and a box of tampons runs $7.95 or nearly 57 hours of monthly wages.
Put another way, this would be the equivalent of a free world citizen working 165 hours to afford four basic items. Would you tolerate this? Yet, somehow it is acceptable that incarcerated people nationwide endure this burden.
How is it okay that the poorest families are disproportionately burdened with financially supporting an incarcerated mother or father, daughter or son?
Families of incarcerated people are systemically preyed upon by monopolistic companies such as JPay, Securus, GTL, and CorrLinks to name a few. It is here in America’s jails and prisons where an email can cost 50 cents, a local phone call $18.00, and a 15 minute Skype style video “visit” $15.00.
Every incarcerated person and their loved ones know these truths for we live beneath this yoke everyday.
I empower incarcerated men and women and draw awareness to life on the inside. This blog is one place where our voices are heard. My journalism is another place, and I engage with local, state and national organizations where restored citizens are helping one another while fostering awareness in the public discourse.
I educate and never pontificate. I fight for those who don’t have the strengths that I do or who have surrendered behind these walls and can no longer live.
I am Christopher Monihan or Mr. Monihan to the thousands of incarcerated people and restores citizens that know me. I hail from the state of Ohio but not by choice.
Those who follow my writings already know these truths. For those who are new, I am grateful to meet you.
Christopher