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Do you still have people on the outside? I’m lucky to have a wife and family that still want to be part of my life. The hardest part of prison for me is not being locked away. It’s easier living on the inside, a simple routine, where boredom is the main enemy.
The hardest part is being cut out of my loved ones’ lives. My participation reduced to: a 12 minute phone call; a 30 minute Zoom; the occasional email or letter; and increasingly rare contact visits.
My loved ones go about their lives, their stories unfolding; while mine is caught in an endless, irrelevant loop. I’m a ghost, haunting their lives as they deal with issues and overcome hardships, with no ability to help them.
My mum’s elderly. I worry she won’t be around when I get out. That plays on my mind – especially when I’m down.
Currently we only exchange letters. I often wonder if the last time I talked to her in person (the day I told her I was going to prison), was the last time I’ll ever talk to her. I hope there will be an opportunity to reconnect.
Talking to my wife on the phone, when she’s sick or in pain, are the most heartbreaking moments for me.
Being unable to help her. She has a lot of ongoing health issues; twice in the last month she’s fallen. First injuring her back, and then her knee. After the second fall, unable to stand, she dragged herself to the front door of our house so she could unlock it. She didn’t want the paramedics to break it down and let the cat out.
She fell around midnight; so the calls to family for help went unanswered. She lay there for two hours. Cold. Alone. And in pain. Waiting for the ambulance to arrive. How can I possibly make that up to her? Would it have happened if I had been there?
What does the rest of her life look like now? These questions hang around my neck like heavy chains, threatening to crush me under their weight.
Do you still have people on the outside? I’m lucky to have a wife and family that still want to be part of my life. The hardest part of prison for me is not being locked away. It’s easier living on the inside, a simple routine, where boredom is the main enemy.
The hardest part is being cut out of my loved ones’ lives. My participation reduced to: a 12 minute phone call; a 30 minute Zoom; the occasional email or letter; and increasingly rare contact visits.
My loved ones go about their lives, their stories unfolding; while mine is caught in an endless, irrelevant loop. I’m a ghost, haunting their lives as they deal with issues and overcome hardships, with no ability to help them.
My mum’s elderly. I worry she won’t be around when I get out. That plays on my mind – especially when I’m down.
Currently we only exchange letters. I often wonder if the last time I talked to her in person (the day I told her I was going to prison), was the last time I’ll ever talk to her. I hope there will be an opportunity to reconnect.
Talking to my wife on the phone, when she’s sick or in pain, are the most heartbreaking moments for me.
Being unable to help her. She has a lot of ongoing health issues; twice in the last month she’s fallen. First injuring her back, and then her knee. After the second fall, unable to stand, she dragged herself to the front door of our house so she could unlock it. She didn’t want the paramedics to break it down and let the cat out.
She fell around midnight; so the calls to family for help went unanswered. She lay there for two hours. Cold. Alone. And in pain. Waiting for the ambulance to arrive. How can I possibly make that up to her? Would it have happened if I had been there?
What does the rest of her life look like now? These questions hang around my neck like heavy chains, threatening to crush me under their weight.
My wife still has to accomplish the mundane chores of life, even though every movement hurts. No-one’s going to cook her meals, or wash her clothes. I desperately want to be at home to look after her. To let her to rest and heal.
Even a hug would make a difference, but she’s 400km away. I haven’t seen her in four months, but I don’t ask about contact visits anymore.
She’s not in any condition to travel all the way out here; and I don’t want to make her feel guilty. We have an agreement between us: no guilt. Easy to say, hard to achieve.
It’s not just the actual challenges your loved ones face – it’s the “what ifs”? You worry about what might happen while you’re sitting ineffectually in prison.
I don’t feel angry at the legal system, or the prison system. I committed a crime, and I deserved to be here. What I feel is anger at myself; and overwhelming guilt that I’ve left my wife alone to fend for herself.
Would it be better if I were alone? Sometimes I envy the prisoners who have no one. Not having to care would be easier. I could content myself with prison life, filling my days with trivial tasks, worrying only about myself. But I can’t. These ‘significant others’ truly are significant to me. I love them. And I worry about them.
It would be easier not to care. There’s a great temptation to block off your emotions, to succumb to the numbness prison offers. But caring helps us retain our humanity. In prison you should hold tight to your humanity; or you may lose it.
Dealing with emotion can be difficult, but I owe it to myself, and my significant others, to forge through. The biggest disappointment to those left outside would be for me to finish my sentence, and leave the best part of myself behind. To get out and not be able to care.
Life in prison is simple. Watching loved ones go through life’s trials is hard.
My wife still has to accomplish the mundane chores of life, even though every movement hurts. No-one’s going to cook her meals, or wash her clothes. I desperately want to be at home to look after her. To let her to rest and heal.
Even a hug would make a difference, but she’s 400km away. I haven’t seen her in four months, but I don’t ask about contact visits anymore.
She’s not in any condition to travel all the way out here; and I don’t want to make her feel guilty. We have an agreement between us: no guilt. Easy to say, hard to achieve.
It’s not just the actual challenges your loved ones face – it’s the “what ifs”? You worry about what might happen while you’re sitting ineffectually in prison.
I don’t feel angry at the legal system, or the prison system. I committed a crime, and I deserved to be here. What I feel is anger at myself; and overwhelming guilt that I’ve left my wife alone to fend for herself.
Would it be better if I were alone? Sometimes I envy the prisoners who have no one. Not having to care would be easier. I could content myself with prison life, filling my days with trivial tasks, worrying only about myself. But I can’t. These ‘significant others’ truly are significant to me. I love them. And I worry about them.
It would be easier not to care. There’s a great temptation to block off your emotions, to succumb to the numbness prison offers. But caring helps us retain our humanity. In prison you should hold tight to your humanity; or you may lose it.
Dealing with emotion can be difficult, but I owe it to myself, and my significant others, to forge through. The biggest disappointment to those left outside would be for me to finish my sentence, and leave the best part of myself behind. To get out and not be able to care.
Life in prison is simple. Watching loved ones go through life’s trials is hard.
The handling of Aboriginal art and the ignorance around cultural significance by prisons in Victoria is appalling. This was my experience. It happened to me more than once, and no one was ever held accountable.
I don’t want to be on Centrelink – I want to work. I will cook, clean, waitress, pick up rubbish – anything. But I cannot because of a Police Check and Working with Children’s Check.
Walking out of prison without keeping up with digital advancements is like emerging from a cave clutching a Nintendo 64 while everyone else is coding in quantum and you’re still trying to pay with Monopoly money in a now cashless society.
Save the dramas, forget the muster, and if one or two people are missing, they’ll be out, charged, denied bail, and back in before the next count anyway.
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