ISOLATION

Matthew Davis                                  Stateville Correctional Center                                   Crest Hill, IL

In the mirror is where I see my only enemy

Your life's a curse?

Well, mines an obscenity.

-Kanye West

What I am about to tell you is true. You will be tempted to reject it as a lie. You will find it easy to dismiss as the exaggerated complaints of a disgruntled convict. You will think that this could not, would not, happen in America. For, to believe, is to accept that what you thought you knew about "civilized" society is a fallacy. You will not want to believe it. Fight that urge. Open your mind. Open your eyes. This story is true. It happened to me. It is happening every day.

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~I~

The first thing I noticed when I entered the isolation cell was the word "shit" written across the wall in feces. I couldn't help but laugh as I thought to myself "well, ain't that some shit.". 

The next thing I noticed was that there was no toilet. There was just a small hole, about the diameter of a baseball, in the corner where a toilet should be. As these two things rolled around in my head, I began to feel a chill. It was really cold. Freezing cold. It was the beginning of March, and while it wasn't exceptionally cold outside, it was, technically, still winter. I put my hand up by the vent in the ceiling and felt ice cold air blasting through. To make matters worse, I was naked. 

~II~

I had been in the county jail for one year and four days on the morning of March 5, 2005. I woke up that morning as I had the previous 369 days~ to someone banging on their metal bunk, or arguing with the voices in their heads. I didn't let it bother me on that morning though, because I knew that my attorney was coming to visit me later that day to discuss my living situation. Up until this point, I had been housed in the "Special Housing Unit", or S.H.U, due to my case being "high profile". Of the twenty men housed in the S.H.U, I was the only one housed there for that reason. The other nineteen men were housed there due to mental illness. Being the only sane man in the asylum was taxing to say the least. I had been petitioning the warden to move me to general population for about nine months. I thought that today was finally the day that my request would be granted. 

Later that afternoon, when I met with my attorney, I could tell as soon as I saw his face, that he had bad news. He informed me that the warden had agreed to move me ~ only not to general population. I was to be moved to segregation. 

Anger doesn't even begin to describe what I felt in that moment. I went back to my cell and began demanding that the warden come speak to me. After about an hour, he sent his lackey, the assistant warden. The conversation that followed was incredibly frustrating, yet hilariously stupid. He was sent ot answer my questions, but every answer was the same. "It's the warden's decision." My anger finally boiled over, and I began a string of profanity laden insults that culminated with me throwing a plastic drinking cup ~full of WATER~ at him. I guess he got the point after that, because he left me to stew in my anger. 

A couple of hours went by, and I was beginning to believe that my logic had won the day. That I was not going to segregation. My hopes were dashed however, when a little after three o'clock, four officers came to move me. I was only a little surprised when, instead of going to the segregation unit, I was led to an isolation cell. 

I stared into the entrance of a small, dark concrete box. I was told to strip naked. Then I was pushed into the cell, the door slammed shut behind me. Now entombed in darkness, my nostrils were assaulted by the foulest stench. Human excrement. Mace. Body odor. And a bunch of other stuff i couldn't even describe. Suddenly, a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling blinked, grudgingly to life. Once my eyes adjusted  to the light, the first thing I saw was the source of one of the smells. Written across the wall, in three foot letters, was the word "shit", written in feces. Directly beneath the word, on the floor, was a huge pile of feces. Next to that, a small hole in the floor. Nothing else. Just a filthy, bare, concrete box. 

~III~

That first night was the worst. I quickly learned that the light was never turned off, and the flow of cold air was constant. I did not sleep. I just crouched in the corner farthest from the pile of feces, and tried my best not to touch anything. I didn't think that I would be left like this for long, so I just waited. I think that was the longest night of my life. 

One day turned into two, then a week. I was able to keep track of those first few days only because every day brought a new disturbing element for me to overcome. the first hurdle was sleep. I had to sleep. Unfortunately, the cocktail of body fluids covering the floor made it impossible to lie down. Every fifteen minutes an officer would come and look inside the cell to "check" on me. I found that while none of them would respond to my questions, or speak to me for that matter, if I asked for toilet paper, they would give me about ten squares. So, every fifteen minutes I'd ask for toilet paper until I covered a small patch of concrete to curl up on. It was only then that I discovered I would not be allowed to sleep for more than fifteen minutes at a time. The officers would hit the door until I woke up every time they "checked" on me. This was supposedly done to "make sure I was alive". I personally believe the reasons were much more nefarious, but who am I to say for sure. 

It was becoming very clear that my previous thought that "I wouldn't be left like this for long" was wrong. I decided that I would try to make my situation a little more comfortable. I began trying to clean the cell as best as I could. I had no running water, and nothing to clean with except toilet paper, but I did the best I could. I used a milk carton from lunch to scoop the pile of feces into the hole. Then I used the toilet paper to wipe the filth off the floor. I still couldn't touch the walls, but at least I could walk back and forth now. When I was able to sleep, I would always wake up with the toilet paper bed shredded, so I slept on bare concrete and used the toilet paper to keep warm. 

I realized, also pretty quickly, that they would bring my meals, which consisted of "meal-loaf", at irregular times making it hard to keep track of time. After a week or so, I stopped trying to count the days. "meal-loaf", for those who don't know, consists of whatever food was served that day, blended into a liquid, then baked into a loaf. It is entirely disgusting, and requires no utensils, so you have to eat with your bare hands. I didn't eat too much a first anyway, because I was dreading using that hole in the floor as a toilet. After a few days, however, i had no choice. I finally squatted down over that hole, and of course,  I missed. It took some practice, but eventually my aim improved.

And so the days passed. I am still amazed by what the human mind can, if pushed, adapt to. Once I accepted the fact that the floor was as clean as it would get, the filth on the bottoms of my feet no longer bothered me, I didn't think twice about eating with hands I hadn't washed in weeks. And, in spite of being disturbed every fifteen minutes, I was soon able to sleep peacefully. Most amazing to me, however, was the ability of my mind to simply occupy and pass time. I would sit and count the number of bricks it took to construct the cell. I would count those bricks, then immediately forget the number. It was like my mind knew that if I remembered that number, I'd have nothing else to do. I probably counted those bricks a thousand times and I cannot, to this day, tell you how many there were.

I had been in isolation for nearly two months. I had not had a shower. I was not allowed to send out or receive mail. I was not allowed visits, except with my attorney. I spoke to no one. I had nothing. Only my own thoughts to occupy my mind. I could feel myself fading. I think that, if not for the following events, I would have lost my mind.

~IV~

I knew that what was being done to me was, if not outright illegal, very close to it. I felt like there was nothing I could so to change my situation. So, in desperation, I went on a hunger strike. I should have foreseen the outcome, when not even the lightest concern was shown over my refusal to eat. I wasn't eating much to begin with, but, at first, hunger overwhelmed my every thought. After a couple days, I wasn't even hungry anymore. The days passed in a blur, until finally, on June 14th 2005~ a little over three months into my ordeal~ I was found unresponsive on the floor of my cell. I do not know how long my hunger strike lasted. I do not remember passing out, or how long I lay there before they found me. All I remember is waking up in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. Doctors put an I.V. in one of my veins, and stitched up the gash on my head from my fall. And after a total of four hours in the hospital, I was taken back to the county jail and promptly placed back in isolation.

Later that day my attorney came to visit me. turn out that the hospital staff was so appalled by my condition~ I weighed 120 pounds, was filthy, and covered with open sores~ that they contacted the public defender’s office. I had become so numb to my situation that I didn't even notice, or think about my appearance. When my attorney saw me, I woke up. The look of horror on his face actually scared me. He then informed me that he petitioned the warden for me to be let out of isolation and the warden’s response was that "when I left that cell, I'd be in prison or a body bag." In that moment I knew that if nothing changed, I would not survive. My mind shifted. I saw clearly that they were trying to kill me. I could roll over and die, or fight. I decided to fight. I declared war.

On the way back to the isolation cell that night, I collapsed in the hallway in front of the nurse’s station. I faked a heart attack to get the doctor to see me. I showed him the sores on my body and told him about the condition of my cell. The next day, I was finally given a shower and my cell was cleaned.

Bolstered by this small victory, from that day on, my every thought was about attacking the officers and the warden. Every time they opened the food slot to my cell I would reach out and try to grab them. I would try to pull their arm into my cell. I would try to rip it off, break it, bite it, whatever I could do to hurt them or make their job miserable. I also figured out how to get a shower. If I wanted a shower, I could jump up and hit the light bulb hanging from the ceiling until it would break. When the officers came to replace it, I would refuse to be handcuffed, forcing a cell extraction. They would spray me with mace, then rush into the cell and handcuff me. Protocol requires them to give me a medical shower after using mace, so I would get my shower ~ and they would have to work for it.

~V~

For over a year I had some form of altercation with an officer at least once a day. It could be anything from insults to physical altercations. I was constantly lashing out, and plotting my next move. I would attack the officers to, more or less, pass the time, but my real target, the focus of my anger, was the warden. I thought I had the perfect plan to get him. I just needed the opportunity to execute it.

That opportunity came one day when my attorney visited me.

Shuffling past the wardens office in handcuffs, leg shackles and a paper hospital gown, I began to , slowly, separate myself from the officers escorting me. As I neared his doorway, I asked "do you mind if I ask the warden a question?" When I reached the doorway, I had separated myself from them about 5 feet. The warden looked up just as I lunged across his desk. I felt my hands grip onto his tie and I yanked as hard as I could, intending to choke him to death with his tie. Up until this point my plan was flawlessly executed. The warden was so surprised; he didn't even try to stop me. Then two things happened that I could not have foreseen. First, in the melee, the paper hospital gown was torn way so I was naked. Second, and more importantly, the damn tie was a clip on. The fact that it immediately pulled away, instead of cutting off his supply of air, somehow confused us both. Time slowed to a crawl as we both started at the tie in my hands, then at each other, our faces inches apart. It seems he was less surprised because he recovered first and hit me with a right cross. Hard. Really hard. All I remember after that is lying naked on his office floor, then being drug back to isolation. From that point on my attorney visits would take place at my cell.

~VI~

I would end up spending 27 months in isolation. For two years and three months, that was my life. During that time, maybe two or three hundred men were put into the isolation cell next door to mine ~ the only other isolation cell. None lasted more than a week. Every one of them broke down at some point crying, and begging to be let out. In 820 days of isolation, of freezing cold, of humiliation, not once did I break down. Not once did I beg.

In 2010, I won a federal lawsuit for the unconstitutional treatment I endured at the hands of Joe Gulash, the warden of the Madison County Jail. The now former warden, Joe Gulash. They now have a toilet and mattress in the isolation cells. They no longer serve "meal-loaf". They now have guidelines restricting the amount of time a person can be left in isolation.

The isolation cells are still hell.

www.hopeforinmates.com

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.