Although I’ve never considered myself a criminal, for as long as I can remember I’ve always worried about going to prison. The unrelenting fear of incarceration has long been my personal existential cross to bear. Some people obsess over what happens after we die. I panicked over whether or not I could go to the bathroom in front of other people.
Prison always seemed to be a fate worse than death: the absolute worst thing to befall a human being. I got in trouble for a lot of little things as a kid, nothing major. But the fear of being locked up seemed as real as arthritis or Alzheimer’s something that would simply happen when I hit a certain age.
I was afraid of prison. Afraid of the other inmates, that they would all be dangerous; afraid of the boredom, afraid of the food. I bought into the image created by TV and film: a cinder block bursting with violence and suffering.
Like I said, I never considered myself a criminal. In fact, I like to think I’m a “good guy.” I’ve always been kind, and pride myself as a ride-or-die friend. I have both my bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in social work and have a 15-year career in the field. And I’ve been in prison since Jan. 9, 2024.
As I reached my mid-20s, my mental health became a liability. I have bipolar disorder, a condition that can lead to risky behavior and poor decision making. I describe my manic episodes as feeling like I’m drunk without having had a drop to drink. It’s a good feeling, with disastrous results. For a long time it manifested in emotional outbursts, mood swings and wild spending. There were bursts of creativity paired with substance abuse. And finally, in my early 40s, just as the world was opening up after a pandemic, I committed the crime that brought me here, a year into a 10-year sentence.
It is painful for me to talk about my crime. The shame still lingers, like a cancer in my very bones and cells. But if we are going to go on this journey together, it is important you hear it from me. I was in my second year of working as a therapist. I had been successful, enjoying praise from clients and colleagues alike. Sometime after the worst of COVID was over, the excitement of the vaccine rollout swept me up and I fell into a severe manic state. Having dealt with a bipolar diagnosis my whole life, the mania wasn’t new, but this time it was extreme. I made a terrible mistake during this manic event and communicated with a client about psilocybin mushrooms. After a year on pre-trial release, I was sentenced for a controlled substance violation; conspiracy to deliver, a class C felony. I’m deeply ashamed of what I did, the harm I caused and I don’t know if I’ll ever move past it.
I used to think I’d kill myself if I ever had to go to prison. When I found out that I was facing prison, I attempted suicide. Call it fate, call it luck, call it divine intervention—I survived. And although I find myself writing this from my nightmare scenario, I am grateful for being given a second chance.
What have I found behind these cement walls? A mixed bag, to be sure. There are elements out of my greatest fears. I have a wife and two sons who I miss so bad it hurts. And “boredom” isn’t even the correct word for the kind of non-existence I endure. But there are blessings, too. I have the great fortune of being the GED tutor, helping guys better themselves. I have friends. I have a routine. I have hope.
Here inside they don’t call us “inmates” or “convicts” like on TV. They call us “incarcerated individuals.” But we know what we are. Prisoners. Different from free people. We’ve done things society deems so atrocious that we are kept hidden away, separated from our families. It weighs on you, this separation. It changes the way you think about yourself, the way you see yourself in the world.
A week before writing this I got “laid down.” That’s prison talk for being denied parole. A second year of separation. A second year of doubt. A second year of shame made manifest. It came as a blow to me and my family. The first year felt like a lifetime; it’s hard to imagine more. But I’m determined not to let it break me. I’m determined to be a husband and a father. I’m determined not to become bitter. And if you’ll join me, I’ll share my story.
This article was originally published in Little Village’s March 2025 issue.
