Despite Everything, They Love Solitary Confinement in Pennsylvania

Alone, alone, all all alone // Alone on a wide wide sea! // And never a saint took pity on // My soul in agony. – Samuel Coleridge

No pity, indeed. Mr. Coleridge must have been doing a little stint in solitary when he chiseled out those grim lines. Every poor moke who’s ever experienced time in “The Hole” can tell you, in a hundred words or less, what total isolation can and will do to the mind. Some people say it even withers the soul. And I believe it.

But these hellish conditions are nothing new. Anybody with an active YouTube account can learn about the unrelenting horrors of solitary. Studies have been done. Results have been analyzed. Modern day professionals have even declared this practice to be inhumane, traumatizing, and torturous. After a few mind-rending weeks in isolation, even the most formidable of men start feeling a big nutty.

Nevertheless, Pennsylvania loves to lock ‘em up.

In some sadistic circles, back rooms, and judge’s chambers, one might even be so bold as to suggest that excessive punishment is not only a trend but tradition here in the Commonwealth. One needs only to take a gender at the permanent record to confirm those ugly numbers.

Yes, sir. Nobody will ever accuse Fulton County, Pennsylvania, of being a wellspring of rehabilitative efforts. Quite the contrary, in fact. That harsh Punishment Ethic that had states’ attorneys drooling and euphoric 40 years ago, somehow, still dominates the courthouse today. On the evidence, there is no such thing as leniency along those malefic corridors.

Modern America may have enacted new treatment alternatives, federal mandates may even be supporting these new efforts, and our contemporary Justice System may also be encouraging these initiatives—but Fulton County wants no part of it.

Never mind the statistics, or results published by addiction specialists. Never mind the proof documented by mental health mavens. Never mind the heart-wrenching footage of mentally ill prisoners wasting away in solitary confinement. If the cruel gurus of Fulton County ever have anything to say about all that, those incidents are nothing more than radical flukes, rare events too fickle for serious consideration.

And I am one of them. Another statistic. Another troubled soul too vicious and unruly for sane treatment. It’s easier to torture than it is to treat.

On most days, I manage to sleep through the hunger and horror without incident. Sometimes, I will try and cram my entire body into the cell window just to absorb some precious sunshine. Need those vitamins, those crucial nutrients. Especially with the woeful portions of food we get here.

I bet Mr. Coleridge never had a problem like that. No, he surely must have fared better than we are here in Pennsylvania.

When are we going to end these barbaric practices? How many minds must be warped beyond repair before the Powers-That-Be effect a little change? And, for the love of God, when are we going to treat the afflicted with effective medications? How many hallucinations must a poor man endure before somebody says enough?

All excellent questions, of course.

But we cannot get into them right now. As you know, answers don’t come easy in the long, lonely hours of solitary confinement. Nor does much of anything else, for that matter.