Painted Prison Walls (Part 4) - Thanks ...Brother

Painted Prison Walls

Part IV – Thanks …Brother.

Two guards walk me into my new pod. I look around briefly to see some pretty mean looking faces staring back at me. At this point I realized everyone was watching me, their gaze cutting straight through me.

I’m shown to my new cell and the guards leave. My new cellmate walks in and introduces himself. He’s tall and skinny, probably in his mid 40’s and looks like he’s had a pretty rough life.
As I start to put away my things we engage in small talk and he brings up some do’s and do-not’s and gives me an idea of how to hold myself. This was such a relief at the time cause up until this point I had no fucking idea. Some of the don’ts were to never call anyone a dog; a dog was basically a snitch, someone who couldn’t be trusted. One of the do’s was if anyone ever calls you a dog you hit them, plain and simple, because if you don’t people just take that to mean that you are anyway… which you guessed it, you get beat up anyway. Another do was always keep your space and self clean, anyone who didn’t was considered “chat” and this would also lead to being harassed or beaten. Another do was if you ever find yourself in a fight to never back down. As one might expect that would be seen as a sign of weakness and would make you a target. The list goes on but they are a few of the most important.

I spent my afternoon just hanging out in my cell playing cards; I was actually terrified to head out into the yard. Once the afternoon muster came about I was forced outside into the pod quadrangle area to have my name marked off before dinner. Here I am a 19 year old kid walking amongst god knows who… most death stared me, a couple said a quiet hello, I said hello back. I kept to myself and kept my head high, I wasn’t showing any signs of weakness if I was going to survive these 6 months without getting into trouble.

After dinner we were locked in our cells for the night, my new cellmate and I shared stories and talked more about the jail experience. I learnt that he spent most of his life on the streets and had been addicted to heroin since he was a teenager. He had been to jail many times over the years, mostly for theft and told me how it was a bit of a second home for him. He got fed, had a roof over his head, and this is when I found out he was taking methadone which explained a lot about why he was appearing to get quite tired as we chatted. So he got his fix whilst he was there as well. This was an eye opening conversation for myself, the first of many to come over the next few months.

I woke up the next day for muster to find that we weren’t being let out today. Something had happened in another pod the previous afternoon so we were in lockdown for the day, well this day turned into five days in lock down. I was personally relieved, especially after my cellmate found out at one of his counseling sessions that it was because someone had been stabbed in another pod. Sobering is an understatement as to how that made me feel.

At the end of day five we were let out for the afternoon, I got out to stretch my legs but didn’t wander too far. I waited around for muster and dinner, going in and out of my cell, just doing laps of the quadrangle seeing if anyone was interested in talking or a game of cards. Muster came and I ate and got locked in for another night. It was nearly the weekend – day 7 or 8 of being locked up, and I still hadn’t even been allowed to speak to any of my family.
The following day I was taken to see a counselor and another person who’s job it was to go over where I was at and when I could expect to be going to minimum security- basically briefed me on my situation.
After talking to the counselor I was able to finally call my parents, the sound of my Mum and Dads voice through the phone was such a relief but crushed me as well. I did my best not to cry in front of other inmates but it was impossible to hold it all in. We talked briefly and I assured them I was ok and that I was looking forward to when they could visit. They were hoping to come that weekend which was a huge relief!
The weekend came and I waited and no one showed, I was devastated and when I was able to call I found out that they needed to book a visit and they hadn’t realized they needed to do that so they weren’t able to get in, they were as heart broken as I, so goes another week to soldier on through.

I felt a bit more comfortable this week, I hadn’t been stabbed and I’d been able to have a couple of card games with other inmates and just talk some shit. Still I felt like I needed at least 10 more sets of eyeballs around my skull and most of my time I was still sitting in my cell.
An older aboriginal guy started to come and play cards with me in my cell. He seemed pretty friendly and my cellmate seemed to know him. After a while he was coming down most days and playing cards and teaching me new card games, he kept insisting I go up to his cell to play but I was happy just hanging out in my own cell and rejected his offers for a while. The week went on and I had another counseling session just checking up with where I was at and was talking to my parents every few days, which was really helping me to relax a little.
That weekend was another lock down, something else had happened and here we all were stuck in our cells again.
I waited with great anticipation for my parents to visit and watched as different inmates were called to go have their turn, FINALLY my name was called. I was excited but nervous I had heard that going in and out of visits was a bit of a process. What kind of process? I was soon to find out.
I was taken to a new part of the jail and strip searched and given an orange jumpsuit to wear out into the visitation area. How cliché.
As I walked in I remember seeing my Dad and my Sister Sam sitting there but where was my Mum? I can’t actually remember who else was there. I looked at my Dad and watch as his face sunk his face muscles tightened to fight back the welling up of tears; my face was no doubt doing the same. I can’t remember if I was allowed to hug them or not. It was so hard seeing them; I think this first time seeing them was definitely the most difficult but still such a relief. I wish I could remember the conversation but it was quite a long time ago now. I do remember reassuring them I was ok and asking if there was anyway I could get out… My Dad had spoken to some politicians and a few others but no luck and with a minimum 6 months to wait till you could appeal the sentence there would be no point going down that path anyway.
So where was Mum? I was shocked to hear Mum was not allowed in, she had forgotten her shoes so they refused her entry (my Mum rarely wears shoes anywhere). Probably the most surprising part about it was that the prison hadn’t been destroyed and all the guards weren’t cowering in a corner somewhere. I can’t even imagine what my poor Mum was going through sitting in the parking lot. It made me pretty angry with the guards and just the situation in general.

I didn’t get to see my family for very long, it was all over way to quickly. When it came to saying goodbye my emotions became a bizarre dichotomy; I just wanted to go with them. Part of me was almost convinced I was going and yet the other ready to submit and go back inside without a fight.
Now going back in was an ordeal, they questioned me first and then did the most thorough strip search they had done so far, the only thing they didn’t do was put their fingers in my arse but I guess they assume squatting and coughing would dislodge anything up there… that said though. I’ve never pooped my pants by squatting and coughing. I guess there fine with you getting away with it if you can get it waaaay up there, you know, points for effort.

They took me back to my cell and I was left feeling pretty relieved, my celly seemed pretty chuffed for me as well. We chatted and hung out that night talking more life stuff all in all it was a good day.

Week 3 began with the usual routine, up early for muster and breakfast, hyper aware of what’s going on around me, adrenal system working over time. I guess this is how prey feels when there’s a predator around… Or maybe they just feel that way all the time.
Then back to my cell, my safe space. Just writing that makes me feel all sorts of fucked up… all sorts of angry and sad. But I think it’s something that I see in a lot of people and in myself outside of the prison system. Just in this case the prison cell is where you are comfortable… where you can feel in control. This is one of many reflections that lead to me being an extremely angry and rebellious young adult when I left jail, but maybe that’s all a story for later.
I had gotten myself a drawing pad and pens and pencils as I had taken up drawing quite a bit in my spare time, as opposed to all that other time that was not so spare, like playing cards with the guy I spoke about before.
I was still enjoying playing cards with him but he had started to nag me about coming up to his cell and playing cards up there. As I wasn’t all that keen on being anywhere than my own cell I kept rejecting his offers. This began to irritate him and I noticed his attitude toward me change quite fast. He started visiting my cellmate and myself but rejecting to play cards with me. In my innocence I felt bad for him and I looked at my unwillingness to make an effort to play cards with him in his cell as a failure on my part, and to fix the friendship I had to make the effort.

So I decided to head up to his cell and join him for a game of cards basically cause I felt like I had done something wrong and hurt the “friendship”.

His cell was on the second level of the pod, I hadn’t been up here before, I had never had a reason to but as I walked with him I felt very much like everyone was watching me and judging me. We entered his cell and sat down and played cards and talked shit. All my worries seemed unjustified at this point and I continued to head up to his cell at times to play cards and hang out.
In doing this though I felt a very different vibe from others around the pod when I was out for muster and meal times etc. Although I rarely spoke to anyone I could sense an element of disrespect or dislike that wasn’t there before. Was that how people really felt or was it my own internal processes projecting onto the people around me, I guess I’ll never know.
I wish I could remember this guys name but I must have blocked it out. He came down one day and invited me up to his cell to play cards like most other days. I was keen and headed up with him. We sat down and played several hands before shit started to get weird.
(Stop reading here if you need to, some people may find this difficult to read.)
I noticed that he had touched himself a couple of times, which wasn’t super weird, most guys touch their dick from time to time. Whatever. But then he pulled out a pile of pornos and passed me one.

I didn’t really know what to make of it at first, I was bombarded by so many different thoughts and emotions, I definitely felt uncomfortable but I was rapidly trying to analyze the situation, I had looked at pornos with other mates before, but they were close friends I had known for a long time, and we were just teenagers being teenagers… right? Is it right for a grown man to do this? Is this just a normal thing in jail? I was stuck in my head.
I decided not to look at the porno he had passed me and placed it on the bed beside me. He flicked through his and looked to be reading the stories, he quoted from them and showed me pictures of the girls and asked my opinion. At this stage I was feeling uncomfortable but I also didn’t know what to do. I guess I was stuck trying to decide whether this was ok or not.
He began to touch himself as he flicked through the pages, I began to panic, I didn’t know what to do. He pulled his erect penis out of his prison track pants. His penis was ugly and seriously bent out of shape, I felt sick in my stomach, I stood up and said loudly, “woah dude what the fuck?” He lent forward quickly and grabbed the waistband of my tracksuit pants and pulled them down exposing my penis, which he grabbed for with his other hand. I hit his hands away and told him to fuck off. I turned around and went to leave. When I turned around I noticed another inmate standing at the door to the cell, I stormed toward the door and brushed him out of the way and left the cell. I walked back along the boardwalk toward the stairs, I felt like everyone was watching me but I dare not look. As I walked down the stairs another two inmates death stared me as they walked past. Did everyone know what just happened? I went into my cell and from then on I don’t remember much else of my time in Silverwater jail but I will finish up with the last few bits I do remember after the following jump into the future. (This incident has been one of the most confusing and hardest things I have ever had to reconcile with, and I could just continue from here and leave it as is but I feel it wouldn’t explain where I’m at with this event. I’m going to jump now to 2009)

As I have written above, that is what I remember of that incident, I was sexually assaulted but I got away from any serious trouble and that’s how I told myself the story in my mind too. I never told anyone about it and tried to forget it ever happened but my subconscious mind knew better and eventually it decided it was time for me to remember.
This is where things became very confusing for myself. I had recently come out of an abusive relationship and was living with a couple of mates. We were drinking a lot and I was in a pretty low space…although it wasn’t that bad as I was just stoked to be out of the shitty relationship situation I was in, finally! But still, I had just had someone put me down and abuse me for the last year and a half so I was pretty damaged too.
One morning I woke up and recalled having really intense dreams about a black man shoving his cock in my face and forcing me to give him a blowjob. His dick was ugly and repulsive and was the thing that stood out as the most surprising and disturbing aspect about the dream at that point. Being someone who identifies as being bi-sexual having a sex dream about a guy didn’t seem that weird… it was just a bit disgusting. Well actually more than a bit but I’m not going to go into any more detail.
A few nights later I had another dream about two or more black men forcing me to have sex with them, this time one of them held a knife to my throat and whilst the other/s did as they please. (This is all really fucking hard to write about… I can’t help but feel as if people will judge and mock me for all of this).
I awoke from this dream in a state of shock, it deeply disturbed me and I could not stop thinking about it. This time I was reminded of what had happened whilst I was in jail and I didn’t know what to make of it all.
At this point in time I had little to no understanding of the Unconscious Mind or how it worked. I had no fucking idea what was happening.
Over and over it spun in my brain until one night drunk and early in the morning I came to the conclusion that what had happened in my dreams were the real memories of what transpired when I was sexually assaulted in jail. (This however was a huge mistake on my part, I think.)

I burst out in tears to my mates, I said I had been raped and started to explain what had happened. I cried as I scrambled to recollect my memories of what had happened with what had happened in my dreams. The story from this point onwards basically went- I had not escaped from the cell and had been stopped by the other inmate who pulled a knife and held it to my throat and forced me back into the cell where both men raped me at knifepoint.
After that night I shared this with my Dad and we cried together for ages. This than became part of my story and I shared this revelation with others. BUT I’m almost certain that I fucked up. After years of self-reflection, therapists, talking with other people and learning more about the mind, I believe that the original story that I wrote above was correct and that the dreams were just my unconscious mind’s way of bringing urgent attention to what had happened so that I would start to process it. So I ask myself, was this narrative what my unconscious mind or my higher self intended to tell me? Was I supposed to be that confused by it all? Or did I simply just mess it up due to the fact that I was never taught how to navigate my own mind? Cause fuck knows schools don’t teach that shit! And it was never something really discussed amongst my family or friends.
So why do I think all this was my higher self or unconscious mind’s intention? At the time I certainly felt like those around me acted as if I should have just been fine after going to jail. That I was ok and that I had just gotten over it… Admittedly that’s how I wanted it to be and with my zero knowledge of mental illness and PTSD and the like I pretty much ignored all of the tell tale signs that I wasn’t okay, and went about life as if nothing was wrong. So was this a way for that other part of myself to call to attention the work that I needed to do on the inside, was it like a giant alarm bell? It certainly grabbed my attention, and the attention of my family. The consensus reaction implied they wanted me to get help for what had happened. Which to be honest a part of me felt extremely relieved, I felt understood, I felt like the people around me acknowledged what I had been through.
But had I ever spoken to anyone about my experience in the way that I am talking about it right now? Maybe, but probably not…the tune was how I survived, not how it affected me. Not how traumatic and emotional it was. I was just happy to be free and alive.

So maybe there’s an element of a cry for help because I had no idea what to do with all of the emotion I was feeling, I was just overwhelmed with anger, sadness, resentment and a whole plethora of emotion toward the world around me, and no map. I didn’t have the tools or even the idea that I needed to actually look at myself, to fix myself. All of that came later, after I hit the bottom.
So at this point in time I am going with this narrative; that I escaped and was not raped but I was sexually assaulted. It’s a relief but at the same time, just believing the other story was traumatic in itself and I feel so stupid for confusing things so much. I guess when it comes time to go into this with the EMDR therapy I’m doing now I may be able to sort it out once and for all! Either way this has been such a challenge to write, I did not want to finish this blog until I felt like I had reflected enough on the situation to be satisfied that I was speaking my truth or at least what I hold to be true now as I have been slowly unraveling this knot over the last few years.

… Back to my time in Silverwater.

As I said the rest of my time in Silverwater is pretty blurry, in fact I don’t think there was much longer till I got sent to John Moroney- a minimum security prison in Windsor. But I do remember I was moved into a new cell, same pod but on the opposite side and on the second floor. My new cellmate was an Armenian guy in his 30’s, he was pretty chill and we didn’t talk much but he knew the family of one of the Armenian kids from my school, which was weird. The days kind of all blended together, I stayed well away from the guy I was playing cards with and spent most my time drawing and writing. Eventually I found out I was going to be moved, I didn’t know how to feel about it, I had gotten used to my surroundings. What was another jail going to be like? Surely minimum security had to be better than what I had experienced so far.

Part 1: https://steemit.com/blog/@benfenson/painted-prison-walls-part-one-understanding-in-a-car-crash

Part 2: https://steemit.com/life/@benfenson/painted-prison-walls-part-2-the-slow-beast-of-injustice

Part 3: https://steemit.com/life/@benfenson/painted-prison-walls-part-3-robots-and-cattle-yards

Link to my blog post: https://byodiversity.wordpress.com/2018/05/02/painted-prison-walls-3/

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