Panopticon

Matthew Davis                                             Stateville CC                                                 Crest Hill, IL

I have been back in isolation for 5 months now. In March I was caught tattooing and received 6 months punitive segregation. It has taken me a while to adjust back to the mentality of isolation...confined to my cell 24 hours a day, 5 days a week, surrounded by madness. We go to yard 5 hours on Saturday and Sunday. There are moments when I feel my sanity slipping and I have to fight to get it back. Some people aren't so lucky. Not everyone is built for this. I've spent a total of 12 months out of the last three years in isolation. In March of 2014, I got 6 months for 3 1/2 bottles of homemade alcohol, which was later proven to be kool-aid. (But not before I served all of those 6 months in isolation.) Most recently for tattooing "smile now, cry later" on a guy's hand. These last two times are nothing compared to my first 2 years in isolation. At least this time I have clothes, a toilet, running water, a mattress and other basic items, I am, however, thankful for those first 2 years because if not for that I may not handle my current situation quite as well. That's the scariest part for me, that I could have been part of this madness.

I'm currently housed in F-house at the Stateville CC. F-house is the last functioning "round" house in America. The round house is just that, a circular building with 4 levels of cells around the outer ring with a central tower, allowing, by the use of backlighting, a single observer to watch over an entire cell house. This is a great source of pride for Stateville officials, not so much for those of us housed within. A round house is an architectural figure called a panopticon. The panopticon was designed by J. Bentham in 1791, and its design is based on the idea of mental as opposed to physical subjugation. Bentham himself described the panopticon as "a millstone to ground upon the criminal mind." Later in Michel Foucault's book "Discipline and Punish", the panopticon is described as a tool "to induce in the inmate a state of conscious and permanent visibility that assures the automatic functioning of power." I, myself, have come to understand the function of the panopticon as one of self-policing. By placing the tower in the center with unseen guards inside, who can peer into any cell at any time, one will unconsciously, or consciously, follow the rules. While we do not know if we are being observed, we do know we COULD be observed.  This form of mental subjugation and oppression have been proven more harmful than helpful and the use of round houses has been discontinued in America~except in Stateville.

Because the building is round, not only can the tower man see every cell~every cell can almost see every cell. This allows me to observe first hand the madness brought on by lengthy stays in isolation combined by the mental pressure of the panopticon. I will look out upon the cell house right now and describe what I see...

Imagine the mouse cages in a laboratory stacked 4 high and 60 long. I see about 100 men just standing in their doors watching. There are about 20 or so guys "texting" each other by using a rudimentary sign language. I count 10 cells on suicide watch. That means the hospital and x-house are full, so there's probably 20-30 guys on suicide watch. There are so many guys kicking their doors it is hard to count~or concentrate. It's a constant BANG BANG BANG BANG...so loud and constant. I must have tuned it out because I'm just becoming aware of it. There are nearly 500 men over here, most yelling about something. It sounds like the dull roar of a football stadium. There is movement everywhere. I just noticed what most of the commotion is about. Four cells to my right, in 146, there is a puddle of blood slowly oozing under the door and out onto the gallery, Three police are standing outside the cell watching. I can only assume the guy is cutting himself...orange crush will most likely be here soon to do a cell extraction on him. Cutting is a very common thing back here. Mental health people come around once a week to ask if we are okay. If we say we're not, they schedule an appointment with mental health~usually in three weeks. (Uuuh, Im not okay right now, dummy!) Here comes orange crush. There are 7 of them dressed in bright orange riot gear. They just sprayed, I'm guessing, an entire canister of mace into the cell and all 7 ran inside. It took them a long 5 minutes to subdue the guy. Now they are marching him~ naked and backwards~ down the gallery. He's bleeding from a self inflicted cut on his arm and a fresh gash on his head that was most likely not self inflicted. He is taken out of the building. Maybe he will be back, maybe not, This has really set the building off, Probably 100 doors are being kicked. Trash is raining down. Insults fly. It's not even noon yet. Welcome to the round house.

Derealization...

I've been in isolation for six or seven months. I'm still naked. I've been developing callouses on my hips, knees, elbows and shoulders, so I'm sleeping on concrete a little easier. I pass time by pacing the cell~ two steps, turn~ two steps, turn~ two steps, turn. Back and forth. As I do this my mind drifts and I'm suddenly watching myself pace the floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. I watch myself as I begin to sing some old 90's grunge tune...Stone Temple Pilots "Creep" and then Soundgarden "Fell on Black Days". I watch as my feet begin to bleed leaving a bloody trail of footprints. Back and forth. Back and forth. Suddenly the walls start to close in around me. I'm screaming at myself to stop pacing and get help. I need help. But I keep pacing. I keep singing. Back and forth. I start to panic and find it hard to catch my breath as the walls begin to squeeze in tighter and I feel the cold hand of death on my skin. That's when I blink my eyes and realize I'm not pacing. I'm "back" in my body, standing at the door. I look down at a huge pile of paint chips I've picked off the door...."How long have I been standing here?" I ask myself. I turn and start pacing again. Back and forth. Back and forth. I still go through that daily, but I'm not naked in a box and I don't have paint to chip. 

Matt

Mental Warfare

Matt Davis                                               Stateville CC                                       Crest Hill, Illinois

Matt is currently spending six months in segregation. He was taken March 25th and will be released September 25th. He is having a hard time concentrating on anything long enough to complete another blog. I told him I could help him out. Out of the mass of letters I have there is a lot of substance in them. The below is taken from a letter Matt wrote me August 15, 2014. He was six weeks from finishing a six month stint in segregation.~~Krista

“You wouldn't believe the absolute lunacy I am exposed to on a daily basis. I've been consumed by the thoughts I talked about a few letters ago...could a normal "sound" mind actually withstand the pressure of prison or is it normal to go crazy and abnormal to deal with it and NOT go crazy. My ideas, thoughts and realizations go so deep that I'm sure you wouldn't want me to go into details...5 pages in, you'd give up! But check this out...almost every cellie I've ever had no matter how "sane" or cool they were, everyone has some weird shit going on. They might not be cutting on themselves or playing in their poop but the constant stress we are under will always manifest in some form. Most common is OCD. I'm constantly giving myself a "self-examination" to be on guard for weird shit. I don't have any "common" weird shit~ for instance the OCD~ but my thing is my routine. I do the same shit every day and if my routine is thrown off my whole day is ruined. I get so mad especially if my cellie is the reason my routine is interrupted...I mean I'm not going to beat somebody up, but I will hold resentments about it. It's insane! I said before how I wished I had a voice...the main difference between me and a lot of the guys in here is that I can recognize the psychological games the prison plays, therefore it doesn't affect me as profoundly. I'd like to write a book exposing the penal system for what it is. I feel like I've got a very clear and accurate view of what is going on. I guess youre wondering why I'm going H.A.M right now...Ready for some REAL crazy shit? Yesterday on the yard I had a long conversation with a young guy who eats himself. Yes, you read that correctly. He eats himself. Actually takes bites out of his arms and legs and eats it. The scars are horrific, complete with teeth prints. My question to him was, what events in your life led you to think it was a good idea to eat yourself? The answer was not completely informative, but highly enlightening. This fucking guy came to prison for burglary, with a 4 year sentence…that’s 18 months after good time. He was in a minimum security prison, got into an argument with an officer and allegedly slammed a door in the officer’s face. The door hit the officer in the shoulder. The inmate was issued and IDR (inmate disciplinary report) for staff assault, given one year in seg and transferred to the Pontiac CC. Pontiac is a seg only prison, where the absolute most incorrigibles are sent. People are literally rotting in seg for decades there. In Pontiac, the most bazaar things go on as normal day to day. A few examples… guys fill their mouths with shit, piss and semen and spit it into other people’s faces…or shit directly in their hands to throw at people…guys use a STAPLE, a fucking staple, to cut their penis off. One guy cut his ball sack open, pulled his nuts OUT and tied them to the cell door so the police wouldn’t open his door…something becoming more common is guys cutting their stomach open and pulling their intestines out. I could go on for days. So they sent this young man there, someone threw shit on him. He made a shank, got caught with said shank, then another shank and another…now he eats himself and doesn’t get out of prison until 2021…He is out of Pontiac, but doesn’t get out of seg until 2016…so they are going to expose him to the above mentioned things for basically a decade~ day in, day out~ then release him. How do you think it will turn out? Some days I’m glad I don’t have a TV because I’m more aware of what’s going on, and some days I wish I had one to just tune this madness out....” 

Forgive Me For I Know Not What I Do...

Matthew Davis                                                                         Stateville Correctional Center

This is a strange time of year for me. February 29th marked the 12th anniversary of my arrest for murder. Something strange happens to me around this time every year and for the longest time I didn't even know it was happening. What happens is that I lose interest in almost everything positive in my life and I fall into melancholy. In these weeks I feel the full weight of my guilt, I feel like, due to my unforgivable mistake, I do not deserve to have anything good in my life so I unconsciously become lax in anything positive I've got going on. My loved ones usually suffer the effects the most by my unexplained distance.
It's only been the last couple of years that  I've actually been able to put a label on what I feel. Guilt. I don't like feeling this way even though I know I SHOULD. Guilt. Shame. Overwhelming sadness. Confusion. Regret above all. I think about all I've gone through these past twelve years...the torture, beatings, and other indignities at the hands of the police...The years of isolation... My child knowing another man as "dad"... The pain I see on my families face...The horrible things I've witnessed... It's all taken a toll. I know that to some people all of that is not enough pain or punishment and in fact, NO amount of pain or punishment will ever be enough. I wonder what's the point? If no amount of suffering is enough to atone, will anything be enough?
I wonder... If I had not been caught... If I had been so affected by what happened that I spent the next 50 years, the rest of my life, working with children, the homeless, at risk youths, anything, just giving of myself without gain or expectation, would that be enough? If I then confessed on my deathbed, would I be viewed as evil, unworthy of love or happiness?
I say all of this because I am surrounded by wasted human lives. I live in a cesspool of suffering and NO GOOD COMES FROM IT! Longer, tougher sentences do not deter or reduce crime. Making someone suffer every indignity known does not bring anyone back to life. It does not make society better or safer. It does not make anyone truly feel better. BUT what if I was given the opportunity to actually serve society?
I'm not suggesting that I be let out of prison tomorrow or even ten years from now. I need to be punished for my reckless actions. I abused drugs and alcohol and the worst happened. I took a life. I SHOULD be punished. I SHOULD suffer. I SHOULD feel guilt and shame. But I should feel all of that for a PURPOSE. My purpose in life has become to use all I've suffered to keep the next person from making the same mistakes.
That is the future I dream of when my guilt and shame force me into submission. That thought gives me the hope to push through and FIGHT towards my purpose.

Matt

24/7

Matthew Davis                                       Stateville CC                                      Crest Hill, Illinois

The question I'm asked most often by people not in prison is “what is it like in there?”. My answer is usually “it sucks.” While that answer is totally accurate it does nothing to describe what its really like in here. The truth of the matter is that inmates are victimized and dehumanized nearly every second of every day. I'm not talking about the victimization sensationalized on every prison movie or show on TV where we are depicted as this cancerous society destroying ourselves. You've all been conditioned to believe that violence, rape, theft and extortion are prevalent amongst the inmate population. Yes those things do happen but it is mostly done to us by prison staff. Any violence, real violence,  is promoted and facilitated by prison staff. Confused? Let me put it this way. Prison is like high school nearly everyone knows everyone. Everyone, including staff, knows who the troublemakers and bugs are. Troublemakers are tolerable, but bugs are not. In case you're wondering, a bug is someone who is basically crazy in the weirdest ways. They exhibit any of the following behaviors... cut themselves, talk to imaginary people, do not wash their bodies, scream and holler, have major OCD, and just do weird shit in general. I know that doesn't sound bad, but imagine being locked in a 10x12 box with one 24 hours a day. But I digress. My point is that staff knows who these guys are and in order to create unease and unrest they force those of us who can cope and deal with this situation to live with those guys. Right this very instant my cellmate is sitting three feet away from me arguing with an imaginary person. I have been locked in this box with him for almost a year for nearly 24 hours a day. Do you think the stress is hurting or helping me? I have to sleep in here with a guy who quite obviously hear voices or some shit and, oh did I mention he is a convicted murderer. There are enough bugs to house them together but they would rather put them with us. So, the violence, the real violence, comes when you had back to back bug ass cellies for years and one of them finally crosses generous line you’ve drawn. You are forced to beat, mame or even kill that person because let's face it no one’s coming to help you. You’re in a  small ass concrete box with a murderer and well shit happens.

So that's what it's like inside your cell. Once you leave your cell for 20 or 30 minutes, maybe a couple hours if you're lucky, you got a deal with the officers bullshit. Everyday is met with a new, unexpected, irrational rule. Today you can wear a ball cap but are told to take your hands out of your pocket. Tomorrow, you can put your hands in your pockets, but can't wear hats. The next day you can do both but have to stop 50 times in the hundred feet it takes to get to the dining room. It's insane, but effective for mental domination.

At times it seems like the only relief you can find is with a friend or family outside of here. There's a few catches, though. If you want to call someone it's nearly five bucks for a 30 minute call. If you want to write a letter, the mail room is nearly a month behind so while my letter will get to you and 3 or 4 days your response won’t reach me for about a month. If I am blessed to have someone willing to visit me they will be forced to endure rude, overbearing officers in the visiting room with blasting AC in the winter. I might get one visit, but the chances of another are slim.

It may seem like I'm complaining. I guess I am. But my complaint does not stem from my treatment. My complaint comes from the fact that my treatment is in direct contradiction to the mission statement of prison. Just go to IDOC.com and tell me if my treatment, my environment is conducive to the goals of allegedly set forth by the prison system.

After this rant, you can see now why I always stick to the simple answer of “it sucks”.

Acid Chronicles~~Volume 1

The room is impossibly small. Four bare blindingly bright white walls and a couch. The light from the bare fluorescent bulb in the ceiling is enough to burn my retinas right out of my eyes. I'm crammed onto the couch with 5 other teenagers. All our eyes are bulging, dilated and wondering. Our teeth grind loudly, involuntarily. There were more of us, where they went I couldn't fathom a guess. I feel my insides flip as I ride the peak wave of the LSD saturating my mind. About 45 minutes earlier I had taken a four way of some extremely potent acid called Charlie Brown. About 15 minutes ago I couldn't stop giggling. Now I just wish the damn light wasn't so bright. I wouldn't mind if the walls would stop wiggling like jello and I really wish I wasn't crammed on this little ass couch like a sardine. I really need to get up. I can hear my mind telling my legs to move. I can feel the message travel from nerve ending to nerve ending all the way down my spine. My legs don't move. Far from panic, I am intrigued by the sensation. I close my eyes and concentrate. I feel the sensation, feel it reach my feet. I open my eyes I see my feet moving. Why can't I get up? Then I notice the closed in feeling. I'm sandwiched, wedged really, between a cute redhead staring intently at the palms of her hands on my left and a heavy set kid with acne frantically picking at his clothes on my right. I realize I can also feel their energy. Like vibrations from a speaker. It's too much. Too much energy. Too much to process. I gotta get up. Near panic I shoulder them aside and jumped to my feet. Free of the confines of the overcrowded couch I feel very large and expanding. Like if I don't hold myself together I will fly apart. I look up and the ceiling is almost touching my head. A piece drops onto my shoulder. I taste it. It's sour, but good. I reach for the ceiling only to have it retract from my touch. The energy changes. The room hates me. The light is blinding. I shouldn't have tasted it. I'm filled with regret. Blind I stumble into a kitchen. Everything is white, blinding lights. I find my way to a bathroom. My eyes close in relief as I open the door, slide inside, and close it behind me. I open my eyes to see a tiny bathroom full of people. I found the rest of us. They don't even notice when I enter, as they are staring intently at the wall. As my eyes adjust I can't believe what I see. Black ink swirling around the walls. I reach out to touch it and it sticks to my finger, covers it quickly and begins to crawl up my arm. Shit! I shake my arm slinging black ink all over. It splatters on the wall and resumes its lazy swirl. I stumble from the bathroom. I can feel it creeping up on me. A bad trip. Once the thought invades my mind it quickly consumes me. I'm not new to this. Acid trips are good or bad depending on your mood and mindset. I needed to leave the place, these crazy people and quickly. I wander back to the hateful sour room with the tiny body filled couch. I see a face I recognize and feel a little relief. “Bro, you gotta take me home, please.” I beg him. He looks at me like he doesn't recognize me and says “we are home.” Shit!! I gotta get home. I need to be in a place I know. A place I'm comfortable. A safe place. And I need to get there soon or this is gonna suck real bad. I notice that the ceiling is drooping again and I want to sit down. The couch is uninviting, just a pink blob with arms and legs sticking out at impossible angles. So I sit on the floor. I can feel the crowded energy from the mass of bodies on the couch and suddenly my clothes are extremely tight. I can barely breathe or move. I need to take them off. I quickly strip down to my boxers only to find the very air oppressing. No matter how I move or position myself the constriction is suffocating. I lay still, trying to breathe. The carpet is like a bed of nails on my flesh. The ceiling pressing me into it. I'm going to explode. I open my eyes and see clearly. I see my friend on the couch. “Bro I'm about to have a bad one. I gotta go home. Take me now.” It must have been the look on my face, or the fact that he just watched my skinny, twitching body flop around on the floor for thirty minutes, or maybe he needed a break too. At any rate, he agreed to take me home. I don't remember the ride home. All I know is that once in my home and in my room and in comfortable clothes and Jim Morrison soothing me with talk of how strange people are, I felt at peace and the peak of the trip hit once again as I lay in bed bathed in the purple fluorescent glow of a black light. It all made sense. I have never felt more comfortable and one with the universe as I did in that moment. I could feel myself dissolve into particles and float like dust on the invisible currents of wind. I blended with all of the earth. Everything made sense. The only point to life is to be life and that was just fine with me. I had been listening to Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon on repeat for God only knows how long when the phone rang. It was my friends asking why I left the party and was I ok. I was feeling exceptional. So good in fact that I totally forgot about that evil apartment that tried to snuff me from existence, so naturally I agreed to return. It was about midnight and I had a good 3 or 4 hours left on this trip so why not go back to the party. Without asking for an address I quickly hung up, changed clothes and jumped into my Malibu without a care in the world.

I believe that my trip allowed me to become connected in some way with the universe enough so that I was able to exert my will upon my immediate surroundings. That may sound strange but it is the only way that the following events are possible and my only explanation for how I'm still alive.

As I pulled out of my driveway it began to rain. By the end of my street it was a downpour. I drove the next 10 miles in the pouring rain with only a vague idea of where I was going. Not that that mattered much. I pay little, if any, attention to the road. I was mesmerized by the rain on the windshield. The way the water whipped back and forth. The way the rivulets changed direction with my speed. I was jolted out of my hypnotic state as my car hit something and I was thrown against the steering wheel. I looked into a wall of water as my car died. After the wipers cleared my view I could see that I was sitting in the middle of the intersection leading directly into the apartment complex from earlier. I tried to no avail to start my car. I opened the door and water rushed into my car. I stepped out, knee deep in water, into the downpour. I looked around. Nothing. No one to be found. I thought I could push my car through the intersection but that didn't work. Dejected, I got back in and tried the ignition one more time. To my surprise the engine sputtered to life. I only had to drive about 30 feet into the entrance to the apartment complex. I was looking upon about 500 identical apartment. I had no idea which one held my friends, so I picked one at random. I knocked. Waited. Knocked again. The door swung open a couple seconds later and instead of a familiar face I was confronted with an angry old man in his dirty whitey tighties. Without saying a word I ran back to my car resigned to return home. Again the car wouldn't start. Sometimes when under the influence of LSD dumb ideas seem completely logical. So, I decided to walk home. Ten miles away. In the pouring rain at 1:30 in the morning. I only made it about 50 feet when a car pulled up next to me. As a window rolled down I saw a familiar face. I was a manager at a gas station and I had hired a 16 year old kid just 2 days ago. I got into his car and he asked me what was wrong with me. I offered the obvious lie that I was drunk and my car wouldn't start. He took me back to my car in awkward silence and told me I should try it one more time. I complied and to my amazement, it started. It even ran a little better. I thank him and hightailed it for home. I don't remember this ride home either. In fact I don't remember much else from that night.

The next afternoon I woke up feeling that “morning after an intense trip” feeling. Sore muscles, fuzzy head and a vague feeling of not rightness. I had to be at work at noon so I got myself together and headed out. Again my car wouldn't start. The events of the night before, while fuzzy, came slowly back. I popped the hood and saw the muddy water all over the engine. I pulled the cap off the distributor and water poured out. The distributor houses the electric points for the ignition. A drop of water will disable it. There was a pint of water. My car shouldn't have gotten me home. I wonder to this day how that car was running. Maybe I willed it to run.

Falling into Darkness

I wrote this poem a while back to describe prison ...or being in prison. right after dude jumped off the gallery in December of 2013... It's kinda dark but hey, this is a dark place.....

The void is calling ever stronger
When the voices in my head make sense
It takes all my strength to hold on longer
I teeter then topple over the fence
It just cant get much harder
Cant last that much longer
And the void is calling ever stronger

Now the darkness engulfs me completely
Things lose meaning, touch lost feeling
A new tragedy installed weekly
Things I've seen leave me reeling
And the pitch black touches me softly
Please let it end, I ask meekly
And the darkness engulfs me completely

Then I wake in a nightmare
Days begin to blend into each other
Of the world outside I'm unaware
As weeks and years embrace like lovers
Life for life, they say it's fair.
Life for life, I'll pay the fare
And I sleep to end this nightmare.


Matt

Nihilism

My life is overwhelmingly uninteresting. That is the sad conclusion I’ve come to. My childhood was normal. My teen years uneventful. And my short lived adult life was unfortunate and pitiful. I suppose my most remarkable characteristic is not the life I lived, but the life I took, that I took a life. I’ve peaked your interest now haven’t I? How is that even possible? Should I be sad that in 35 years on this earth the most unique and interesting part of my life is the part I most wish I could forget? But, that’s life I guess. Our tragedies always overshadow our triumphs. The most moving stories are rarely of glory. Beauty is not found in love, but in love lost. The story of a woman throwing herself from a cliff because the man she loves, loves another-now that’s entertainment. But, where does that leave me? If my story was full of joy, would you be interested? Should I relish and rehash my most painful moments just so you will pay attention to me? To have your attention is to tear open festering wounds. Should I do that? Is that what you want? Could I do that? Let me guess, my suffering is somehow worth it because it brings you joy? Yeah, I see your smile through my pain. If my story was of my death, would that make you happy? That I should die just for your adoration sickens me. But, you like that don’t you? You sadist. That is what you are, after all. But, it’s not your fault. We were born into this. We are born though pain, into pain, so that others will find pleasure. That’s life. We crave horror. Find comfort in chaos. Solace in violence. And pleasure in pain. We idolize monsters, even as we persecute them. In what other world- what other lifetime- would the likes of Charles Manson, Ted Bundy, Richard Speck, Richard Ramirez, John Gacy, The Zodiac Killer, The Hillside Stranglers, The B.T.K. Killer and even Jim Jones be considered pop culture heroes! You do the math. What are we doing? Where are we going? Well, I, for one, refuse to play your sick, twisted game. I plead the fifth. I will suffer in silence. If you don’t like it, go read a newspaper to get your fix. You’ll find plenty there.

I’m just playin’ people…you know I’m just as sick as you.

Matt

Breathing Under Water

Matthew Davis                 Stateville Corectional Center                      www.hopeforinmates.com

I am currently 11 years, 3 months and 22 days give or take a few hours, into a life prison sentence. (Don’t feel too bad, I basically deserve it.)In these 11 years, 3 months and 22 days, I have endured the absolute worst that the I.D.O.C.  has to offer. Until recently, I was considered one of the worst of the worst inmates in I.D.O.C., so maybe they felt justified in my treatment. Never the less, through my years of endurance I’ve had the chance to witness first hand, just how destructive the prison systems psychological warfare tactics, like isolation, can be on the human mind. Let me begin by telling my story so you can better understand what I’m saying.

On February 28, 2004, I smoked PCP for the first time. On February 29, 2004 I woke up on my friends couch with blood all over me. My panic only increased when I saw that same friend lying motionless on the floor in a pool of blood. In a state of utter confusion and blind panic I ran out of the apartment, and found my way home. Less than 12 hours later I was in police custody. I was a petty criminal, constantly in trouble, but Id never done anything that could prepare me for this. Upon being taken into custody I was interrogated for three days, during which I was not allowed to sleep. Then I was taken to the county jail where I was “booked” in. My visibly confused and upset condition was interpreted as “suicidal”, so I was put in a strip cell. For those of you who don’t know what a “strip cell” is, allow me to enlighten you.

A “strip cell” is a 6x4 feet concrete box. There is a hole about the size of a baseball in the corner for you to use as a toilet. You are naked. You are cold. No one will speak to you. A bright light is kept on 24 hours a day, 7 days week. Meals consist of “meal loaf”. Meal loaf is whatever they served that day all blended together, and pressed into a loaf. The meal loaf is brought at irregular times. Soon you lose track of time. You sleep no longer than 15 minutes at a time, as an officer will wake you up on 15 minute intervals to “make sure you’re alive”. You are bored and cold. Those two conditions become your most pressing concerns as reality fades away. After a while, maybe 12 meal loafs, you become angry. You start kicking the door. Boom. Boom. Boom. When an officer comes in to check on you, you show them how alive you are with a string of profanity. Every 15 minutes, a string of profanity, then back to kicking the door. A few meal loafs later, you switch tactics, to compliance and reasoning. “I’ll be good”, you tell them. You’ll do “whatever you’re told”, you’ll say. “Just let me out”, you beg. Nothing. A few meal loafs later you switch to apologies, for what, you have no idea. “I’m sorry”, you offer humbly. “It wont happen again” you promise, even though you have no idea what “it” is. This goes on and on. Each interaction is met with a blank stare by the officer “checking” on you every 15 minutes. Only, you don’t know its 15 minutes. Sometimes it seems like 30 seconds, sometimes hours. Time ceases to have relevancy in the “strip cell”. When you get no reaction from anger, no results from pleading, and an endless stream of meal loaf, you are willing to do anything. An officer comes, you pound on the door. “Hey, Hey, Hey!” you scream. No reaction or response. You are invisible. You begin to wonder, does anyone even know I’m here?  What about court? You begin to think that since you’ve gotten nowhere with normal, rational actions, you’ll shift gears. As the next officer approaches your cell, without even being aware, you smash your head into the window. The officer stops, looks at you, SEES you. Finally, you exist. So you do it again. The officer says, “Hey buddy, are you okay?”  “NO!” you scream and as you begin to again, beg and plead to be let out, or at least get some clothes and maybe a shower. (after all, by now you’ve defecated 5 or 6 times with no running water or toilet paper, and you’re feeling unnaturally dirty.)The officer says, “I’ll be right back.” Relief floods you as you slump against the door. Tears stream down your cheeks. In the distance you hear a rumbling. Its getting closer. It sounds like something heavy, rolling on rusty casters. Its really loud now. It stops right outside your cell door. You hear voices then silence. Five seconds. Fifteen. Thirty. Then a key in the lock. You scramble to your feet as the door is ripped open. What you see is almost too much to  compute. Six or seven officers standing around this, this, chair? It looks like some medieval torture device, with its hard edges and leather straps. What’s worse is all seven officers are looking at you! Then they rush you. They lift you bodily and force you into he chair. You are immediately strapped and a bag is placed over your head. It’s cloth and you can just barely see through it as the chair begins rolling. It only rolls a couple feet, spins around and the officers walk away. You hear a door slam closed. As you settle in, you can feel the hard plastic dig into your legs and back. You can see just enough to realize that you are in the middle of the strip cell, facing the door. You are still in the strip cell. Naked. Cold. Confused. Strapped to a chair. A couple of minutes, or hours, who knows, your meal loaf comes. Someone unstraps one of your hands so you can eat. It is immediately strapped back into place. Every two hours someone comes in and lets one of your appendages loose for five minutes. “Arm or leg? Left or right?”, they ask. You need to use the restroom, request denied. You soil yourself. More meal loafs come. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty-five? You lose count. The door opens. Your restraints are loosened. You’re led down a hall to a shower. The water is cold. It’s wonderful. You are led back to the strip cell. The chair is gone. You step into the cell as the door closes behind you. You’re back in the strip cell. Naked. Cold. And you think. “This ain’t too bad”.

I spent over two years in that cell. Let that sink in for a minute. Over two years. In that time my mind was broken, put back together, and broken again. Countless times. Each time I lost a little of myself. But the human mind is a crazy thing. For instance, I used to count the bricks used to build the cell. Subconsciously, knowing that was the only stimulation available, I would immediately forget and have to recount. I counted those bricks thousands of times and to this day I couldn’t recall how many there were. When I wasn’t counting bricks, I was plotting against the officers. I would get occasional attorney visits, from family or when the smell of me became obvious outside of the cell, I’d get a cold shower. Those were my opportunities. I made it my mission in life to make them feel a little of my pain. If I died in the process, well, shit happens, I guess. (I suppose this is a form of self harm, but nothing like what I would witness later) Every time they opened that door, I attacked. I always lost. I was always outnumbered. I didn’t care. Eventually mace had no effect on me. I would spend weeks covered in mace. That was my life.

The only good part of being found guilty, was that my time in the strip cell came to an end. I was sent to prison and my mind eventually began to operate for what passed as “normal”. I had been exposed to numerous horrors that would shock even hardened individuals, but I’m grateful, in ways for my experience. For one, there is nothing that this prison system can do to me that I haven’t already survived. There is comfort in that. Secondly, if you were thinking that my treatment was illegal in America, you’d be right. I filed a lawsuit, which was settled for an amount that allowed me to live a little more comfortable here in prison. I also forced the jail to install an actual toilet in the strip cell, provide a mattress and some form of clothing. Small comfort knowing I made them do that. Overall, I was lucky. My mind was not lost for good. Changed, most definitely, but there nonetheless. I have seen men who are not so lucky. Don’t believe for one second that my situation is unique. There are men right now, as you read this, cutting themselves or eating feces. I know a man who, after everything he could cut himself with was confiscated; he began biting chunks-CHUNKS- out of his flesh. He swallowed the chunks. Another man cut his penis off. Another shoved ink pens- yes, plural, as in multiple ink pens- into his urethra. Guys swallow spoons. One guy cut a hole in his stomach and pulled a length of his intestines out. Reading this you’re thinking these guys have razor blades or something like that. No. They use sharpened staples. Sharpen the clasp from a legal envelope. It takes them DAYS to cut themselves. Can you imagine, cutting a body part OFF with a staple over days time?  Most recently I watched a man with a smile on his face, jump backwards off the 5^th story landing to his death. It took him 18 hours to die.

I have a theory. The idea of rehabilitation is based on behavior modification. The problem is the methods used by I.D.O.C are arcane. The only reward in prison for modifying your behavior, successfully is to NOT get punished. Those of us do positively modify our behavior are still punished because prisons in and of itself is punishment. Unfortunately, the prison systems idea of punishment is to demoralize and dehumanize us on a daily basis. They use psychological manipulation to achieve their goals. When playing with people’s minds, you gotta expect it’s not always going to go as planned. But, as they say, you gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet. Their favorite response and ONLY answer to mental breakdown is heavy medication. That is because the only other option is to STOP doing what they’re doing. The handful of us who go crazy, cut our “parts” off, or kill ourselves are considered collateral damage.

Our only real defense is to recognize these tactics for what they are- Tactics. There is a reason that the “48 Laws of Power” and “The Art of War” are books banned by the I.D.O.C. Once you become AWARE of WHY the tactics are used, they lose power. In other words, you can’t drown a fish. They are actively preventing us from growing gills so that the fear of drowning keeps us compliant. I’ve learned to breathe under water and kept my sanity.

Zombie

Stateville Correctional Center                      Matthew Davis                      www.hopeforinmates.com

          February 29, 2004 is a day I will never forget.

          February 29, 2004… The day I died.

          I suppose my death could be called a suicide. I prefer accidental overdose, but the means of my destruction are not entirely important. Not so much as the aftermath which ensued.

          Most people will never get to witness their death and ensuing funeral service, but through an unfortunate series of circumstances that is exactly the position I found myself in. My death was far from unusual…violent, painful and quick- all concepts familiar to society. My demise was only extraordinary in its untimeliness, and the fact that technically, I am alive.

          My funeral, however, was extraordinary in every way possible. The service was not held in some lavish funeral home with the prerequisite flowers, cards and beautifully polished casket in which I will rest eternally in peace. Also absent was the moving eulogy, full of witty banter to mark the passing of my life. Instead, my funeral was held in a court room, where man and woman alike spent countless hours recounting my every transgression. And, while an abundance of tears were shed during my funeral, they were not shed out of sadness for the loss of my life, but for the trail of destruction left in its wake.

          At the conclusion of my funeral, the man presiding (not a priest, by the way) stood in his flowing black robe and proclaimed one word…LIFE! Imagine the meaning of that word in a dead man’s mind. LIFE! LIFE! LIFE! The word echoed to every nook and cranny of my mind. The irony of it all so overpowering that, had I been alive, my heart may have stopped. Instead, I couldn’t stop giggling. 

Hope

Stateville Correctional Center                  Matthew Davis                          www.hopeforinmates.com

I was 24 years old when I committed the crime that I would regret for the rest of my life. I killed a friend during a drug fueled argument, which in an ironic twist of fate, I barely remember. I was arrested about 24 hours after, charged with first degree murder, and it was deemed that if found guilty, I would receive a death sentence. This is the beginning of my story, thankfully not the end.

It is said that a man with nothing to lose is a dangerous man, and I am no exception. I felt confused, lost, angry, and hopeless in my situation. I stewed for months, feeling lost. Eventually I began lashing out at those unfortunate enough to be around me. I pushed my family away and assaulted nearly every cell mate I had. Very quickly it was deemed that I should be housed in isolation. Isolation cells are the ugly hidden truth of the American Prison System. I was thrown naked into a small concrete box in the freezing cold and the lights kept on 24 hours a day. There was no toilet, only a small hole in the corner. I slept on the cold, bare concrete floor. With nothing to occupy my mind and no idea if it was day or night, with no human contact. The hours, weeks and months began to blend together. Hopelessness consumed me and I began to lash out at the only people available-the police. I would lash out in small ways by sometimes verbally assaulting the officers or in larger incidents when I would physically attack them. However, no matter how small or large my outburst, the beatings I would receive in response were consistently swift, overwhelming and severe. This was my existence for nearly two years… constant abuse and the promise of execution.

Stop and imagine for a moment. For two long years a man presumed innocent in America, is held naked in a small box with no toilet or running water. He doesn’t know what day it is or even if it is day or night. He sleeps, freezing, on a bare concrete floor. He has no contact with any humans except the often frequent beatings meted out by his captors. The promised lethal injection looking more and more like an escape.

You may choose to disbelieve this account, and you have that right. But what if it is true? What if I am only one of thousands of people treated this way? What if most of us get out one day?

My escape came in the form of a life sentence. Looking back now it is all a blur. Those two years just a moment in time. But, on October 18, 2006, it was a fresh wound. I had no idea what my future held, only that the hell I was living was over with. I was being sentenced to life in prison, and I was relieved!?! The whole process took about four hours, during which I was so overwhelmed I heard nothing. I was given the opportunity to speak so I read three pages I had wrote that morning, in ten minutes, in the presence of four officers. I don’t remember what I said, but I can assure you it was pointless and rambling. The only thing I remember, and I will never forget, was the emphasis by the prosecutors that I have no hope…ever. I had no hope, so it struck me as odd. Hell, I had no hope, dignity, pride or joy so why is it so important to them? The line I’ll never forget is “his victim had no hope, so he shouldn’t either.” It didn’t then, but it makes so much sense now. They spent two years draining me of even the memory of hope, now they wanted to ensure I would never find it again.

So, off I went into the broken thing known as the I.D.O.C…hopeless with nothing to lose, dangerous. For the next five or six years I lived the life of the worst of the worst. Violence. Segregation. Violence. Transfers. Violence. On and on, round and round. I was a zombie. Stumbling through life for no other reason than my body refused to quit. My mind was in shambles, but for some reason that line kept repeating in my thoughts…”his victim had no hope, so he shouldn’t have any either.” For years that line would pop into my head at the oddest moments.

One day, near my 30^th birthday, I had enough of life. I was at my lowest point. I either had to figure out a way to change or give up. I started thinking that if it was so important to the prosecution, the people who want me dead, that I have no hope, then it should be equally important for me to have hope. As this idea dawned on me I grasped the only hope I had. My child. I hadn’t seen or heard from her in seven years, but I could HOPE that that would change. And when it did change what kind of man did I want her to see. I began making changes within myself, always with the hope of a better future. It was amazing. My entire world changed. I began rebuilding relationships with my family, and eventually I reconnected with my daughter. She has become one of my biggest supporters. I even found love and despite my surroundings-happiness. I’ve managed to build a life within a life sentence and it’s all because of one small spark of hope. Hope is something that as a “free” person, I never really thought about. Consequently, when I was at my lowest point it never crossed my mind that hope was all I needed. Now armed with that knowledge, I hope to bring hope to those who need it most….the hopeless.