Holidays in Prison Are the Hardest Time of Year

It’s the last week of November, the middle of the night. Moonless. Cold. And outside the sky is a darkened clutter of dank, drippy clouds. The earth, sodden and grey. Along a sidewalk puddled with silvery rain stand utilitarian structures the color of cigarette ash with lots of sharp corners and narrow plexiglass windows, each one a housing unit for some of Oklahoma’s most violent criminals.

There are no trees. The grass is dead. And everything is limned in the unnatural yellow glow of security lights. I’m inside, face pressed to the steel bar running the length of the window in my cell, looking on as rain purls from the eaves of the building adjacent to mine, my thoughts on Christmas and how I’ll again be spending it in prison away from my family.

After I turn from the window, my eyes settle upon the outline of my cellmate’s body as he lies in his bunk underneath a woolen state-issued blanket. He snores so quietly that it’s almost imperceptible. I watch for a moment the subtle rise and fall of his chest, envious of his ability to sleep, as my sleep for the last several days has been restless and intermittent at best, though I’ve barely left my bed.

The holiday season in prison is always the hardest time of the year for me. It’s during this time that I find myself consumed with such profound hopelessness and bitter frustration that life loses all its vitality and I find it difficult to muster the energy to do anything. I often spend days in bed, cowering under the lording rule of an omnipotent depression, unable to go to the chow hall, shower, or even concentrate on a book.

I’m apprehensive to call my family – usually a source of comfort and of peace for me – because it only hurts more during this time of year to hear their voices and know that I won’t be seeing them. And the letters and cards they’ve sent that are meant to cheer me up and let me know that I’m not forgotten go unread, piling up on my table like a stack of unpayable bills.

It’s as if this colossal sadness comes in with the cold of the season and takes over my body, leaving me utterly useless and wasting away until long after the new year. Most nights in November and December are spent awake longing for the warm embrace of family, and silly afternoons with friends wearing loud and gaudy Christmas sweaters.

When I’m not thinking about home, I’m thinking about my failures and my worthlessness and the fact that I’m the only one to blame for my situation. Sometimes I find myself thinking about the very real possibility of suicide. And when that happens I pray for strength. My cellmate rolls over to his side, pulls the blanket from his face, opens his eyes, and speaks: “Still up, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you better get some sleep cause you’re going to the chow hall in the morning.”

“I’d rather not,” I say.

“Too bad,” he says, “It’s not up for debate. And you’re taking a shower too, you smell terrible.”

“Okay,” I say softly, my voice sounding tiny.

I don’t say anything else. There is no need to try and argue – I mean – what can I really say? I stink. And though I don’t know how many days I’ve gone without showering, apparently its been long enough that other people have noticed. Either way, I’ve never been the smelly guy before, and his words are humiliating.

Eventually, he falls back asleep and I crawl back into bed. But unlike him, I don’t sleep. Instead, I lay awake until light from a burgeoning sun begins to fill the cell. The lighter the cell becomes, the fiercer my anxiety becomes. Because I am not looking forward to going to the chow hall. I’m not even hungry, but my cellmate isn’t going to acquiesce, and he’ll berate me until I give in. So it’s best if I just get up and follow him.

And then, finally, just as the entire cell is brightened by ambient light, I hear his blanket slip across the nylon of his mat as he sits up to place his feet on the cold cement floor.