I kept my head down, becoming increasingly wary of whom I spoke to. Initially, I engaged with the few friendly faces I encountered, but I quickly learned that some of these inmates were like zombies—lost souls wandering through life’s underbelly. When I looked into their eyes, I saw a void, a darkness that made them seem utterly disconnected from reality.
I couldn’t help but wonder if I looked like them, trapped in this place, a ghost of who I used to be. The shock of my situation was still fresh in my system, and every day felt like an eternity.
When association came around, we were led out to a yard for some fresh air, a small reprieve from the oppressive walls that closed in on us. We all shuffled in a single file, moving counterclockwise around the yard like sheep in a pen, and I couldn’t help but feel the weight of my existence pressing down on me. My life felt like it had evaporated into thin air, replaced by this monotonous routine.
As we walked round and round in circles, I couldn’t shake the melancholy that enveloped me. The yard was filled with sad souls, each of them carrying their own burdens. I saw the lost dreams and fractured hopes that had led them to this moment, and I realised I needed to stay strong in the face of it all.
“Keep your head up,” I reminded myself silently, trying to push away the growing sense of despair. I thought of Catherine, her unwavering support, and the possibility of a future beyond these walls. I had to survive this—not just for myself but for her and anyone else who cared.
Each day in here was a lesson in resilience, and I was determined not to become just another sad story among the many who lingered in this forsaken place. I focused on the little things—the feel of the sun on my face, the faintest sounds of laughter from other inmates, anything that reminded me I was still alive and capable of fighting.
I sought out those small moments of clarity amid the chaos of prison life. With each passing day, I knew I had to find a way through this, to reclaim my sense of self. I wasn’t just going to fade into the background; I was going to fight my way out of this nightmare, one step at a time.
About two days into my six-and-a-half-year sentence, a sliver of anticipation pierced through the drudgery of prison life: it was visit day. As I waited in the sterile confines of the visiting area, my heart raced at the thought of seeing my mum and my stepfather, who had been a great source of support through this tumultuous chapter. And, of course, Catherine, who had stood by me even when everything felt lost.
When they walked in, emotions surged within me, and I felt an overwhelming wave of relief wash over me. Seeing familiar faces brought comfort to my otherwise chaotic existence. We embraced tightly, absorbing the warmth of each other, and I could tell my mum had been holding back tears, trying to stay strong for me.
“How are you doing?” she asked, concern etched on her face as we settled into the visitation seats. I could see the worry in her eyes, a weight I didn’t want to add to.
“I’m managing,” I said, forcing a smile. “One day at a time, right?”
The visit was filled with as much laughter as it was tears as we shared stories and tried to bridge the gap of my current reality. They had brought along a little care package, which included some basic necessities and... earplugs. A simple gift, but one that brought me unexpected joy, allowing me to momentarily escape the constant noise that surrounded me.
Catherine sat quietly beside me, her hand reassuringly resting atop mine. “I’m here for you,” she whispered, her eyes full of concern. Her presence felt like an anchor in the storm, and I was grateful to have her by my side.
As we talked, I found solace in their support, fuelling the hope that perhaps I could rebuild my life, even within these oppressive walls. We discussed plans for the future, the possibility of finding a way to navigate my situation, and how I could focus on making a new life inside.
“Just remember,” my stepfather said, his voice steady, “this doesn’t define you. You’re stronger than you think.”
Those words resonated deeply as the visit continued. I tried to absorb every moment, knowing how precious this time was. When the clock ticked down and our time together came to an end, I felt a pang of sadness wash over me.
“Hurry up and get out of here,” my mum said with a half-smile, a hint of determination in her eyes. “We’ll be waiting for you.”
As they left, I felt a renewed sense of purpose and the strength to face the days ahead. With the support of my family and Catherine, I knew that while prison might be my current reality, it didn’t have to be the end of my story.
“One day at a time,” I whispered to myself as I returned to my cell, ready to navigate the complexities of life inside. I was determined to carve out a new path and rise above the challenges that lay ahead.
My new story had begun, even if it often felt like an illusion—as if I were trapped in a matrix I couldn’t escape. My surroundings had changed, but I began to feel a shift within myself. I ventured around the ground floor during one of my wandering moments and met some decent guys, forming friendships in the most unlikely of places.
Among them was Dave, a well-travelled man with a story as rich as the life he had led. He was a former sailor—a real captain of a ship, filled with experiences that painted the world in vivid colours. Our conversations quickly deepened, and I found myself drawn to his wisdom, his outlook on life harmonising with my own desire for understanding amid the chaos.
Dave had a lot of gear in his room, and in my opinion, it felt like a slice of heaven compared to my previous cell. He created a little sanctuary within the austere prison walls, filled with books, some personal items from his voyages, and remnants of a life lived fully. It was a stark contrast to the grittiness that surrounded us, offering a semblance of comfort in the bleak environment.
On my first night living with him, he opened up about his circumstances. “I’m in here for cocaine shipping,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with resignation. “I’m looking at up to 30 years.”
“Fuck me,” I replied, taken aback. “And here I am complaining about my sentence.” The weight of his reality hit me hard, a stark reminder that I wasn’t the only one trapped in this system. In that moment, I felt a mix of empathy and guilt for my own grievances.
It was sobering to realise the gravity of his situation. “You’re probably still in prison today,” I said, a sense of dread washing over me. Here was a man who had lived a life of adventure, now shackled by choices that led him to this brink, facing the possibility of a life spent behind bars.
As I settled into my new living arrangement, I couldn’t help but admire Dave’s resilience. He faced each day as it came, approaching our situation with a sense of humour and an unyielding spirit. His stories about life at sea—the thrill of the ocean, the camaraderie among sailors—served as a reminder of what freedom really meant.
Now that I was in this corner of the prison, I felt a flicker of hope. Surrounded by people who understood the complexities of our lives, I began to form a new perspective. My journey wasn’t over; it was merely a detour. With every conversation, every story exchanged, I felt the spark of determination rekindle within me—an urge to navigate through this reality.
And while prison was far from paradise, friendships with people like Dave became the buoyancy I needed. Together, we’d weather the storm of our circumstances, finding ways to support one another while navigating the uncertain tides of our fates.
I still didn’t understand why they mixed inmates together—from petty pickpockets to cold-blooded murderers. It seemed fundamentally wrong, a recipe for chaos in a place that thrived on tension and despair. One day, I encountered a 23-year-old nob-head who was so desperate to gain favour with the officers that he may as well have been licking their boots. It was cringe worthy watching him parade around, buying top-class snacks from his canteen, hoping to earn an easier ride.
But in the grand scheme of things, it didn’t help him. I learned that he had brutally killed his 21-year-old girlfriend, dousing her with petrol and watching her burn just because she wanted to end their relationship. The sheer horror of it all made my stomach churn. “What a cunt,” I muttered under my breath, anger and disgust mingling inside me. He was facing life without parole, rightfully so.
On another occasion, I witnessed the aftermath of a more tragic incident. A fellow inmate took his own life, unable to cope with the weight of what he had done. He feared what would happen if he got out, knowing that a gang rival might retaliate against his family—his mother, in particular. It spoke volumes about the grim reality of prison, where the threats didn’t just come from behind bars but extended into the lives of loved ones outside.
I realised how quickly they could get to you in here, how a single moment of weakness could lead to unimaginable consequences. The psychological strain was palpable, and it became clear that survival in this environment required more than just physical strength; it demanded mental fortitude as well.
I was wising up swiftly, adapting to the constant flux of emotions and dangers around me. Observing the behaviours of my fellow inmates taught me invaluable lessons about trust and vulnerability. I learned to keep my guard up, to be mindful of who I let in. The thrill-seeking bravado I once had faded into a pragmatism born of necessity.
In this harsh reality, I knew I had to navigate carefully through the tangled web of relationships. I was no longer just a participant in the chaos; I was a survivor learning the rules of an unforgiving game. If I wanted any hope of moving beyond these walls, I needed to proceed with caution and resilience.
It was a tough lesson, but one I was learning quickly. This wasn't just about serving time; it was about reclaiming my identity and finding a way through the storm that had consumed my life.
I knew that one day I would be free, that I wouldn’t have to constantly look over my shoulder, being watched and recorded like a criminal in some twisted reality show. I held onto that belief, the notion that this ordeal would eventually come to an end. But for now, I had to navigate through this current complication, one step at a time.
Each day, I found solace in the fact that I could call home—a lifeline that tethered me to the outside world. Catherine answered every time, her voice a blend of support and worry. I could sense her struggle, carrying the weight of my predicament alongside her own life challenges back in the Isle of Wight. I felt like a burden, and that realisation gnawed at me, but I knew I had to lean on her, even if it felt selfish.
My mind kept drifting back to the idea of moving to a Cat D prison, where conditions would be more relaxed and, ideally, I could transition to an open prison. The thought of being in a setting where I could see daylight, breathe fresh air, and perhaps have some semblance of freedom was a flickering light at the end of the tunnel. It became my goal, a glimmer of hope that we thrived on in here.
Hope was a powerful thing—it was what kept me anchored amid the chaos of prison life. I watched as some inmates became consumed by despair, but I refused to let that be my fate. The hunger for freedom pushed me to stay focused, to keep dreaming about the day when I could leave these walls and reclaim my life.
With every conversation I had with Catherine, and every small victory I achieved in navigating prison life, I felt a little stronger. I was learning to adapt, cultivate my patience, and find resilience within myself that I never knew existed.
Yes, I had made mistakes, and yes, the spectre of my past loomed large, but it wasn’t the end of my story. I was committed to doing whatever it took to find my way back to a life unencumbered by fear and regret. Each day brought me closer, and with every ounce of hope I clung to, I knew I was moving toward a brighter future.
After five long months of being behind bars, I received a message that I was approved to transfer to Ford Prison, conveniently located near the sea. The news felt like a lifeline tossed my way, a chance to breathe again as I navigated the complexities of my incarceration. My behaviour at Wands worth had paid off, and I had earned a modicum of respect—both from the staff and the inmates.
During my time in Wands worth, I had connected with something deeper within myself. I began practising Reiki, a skill I had honed while in France, helping to heal those who were struggling physically and emotionally. The results were astounding; I saw people experience relief from pain and anxiety, and I became known as the “Reiki Man” in the prison.
It felt incredible to harness my abilities in a place where hope often seemed in short supply. Word spread quickly, and soon, I had quite the following. Inmates would come to me for sessions, seeking comfort in the gentle energy I provided. As a result, I found myself accumulating canteen food—people would trade meals or snacks for a chance to experience a session with me.
Each successful session reinforced my sense of purpose, a reminder that even in this bleak environment, I could make a difference, however small. It was gratifying to feel that I was helping others while also creating a semblance of normalcy in a life that had been anything but. I reveled in the sense of community that blossomed around me, as inmates opened up about their struggles and formed bonds I hadn’t anticipated.
With the impending move to Ford looming, I felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. Would I be able to continue this newfound role in a new environment? The thought of the sea, the gentle waves crashing against the shore, brought a sense of peace. It felt like a fresh start was on the horizon—a chance to regain a part of my identity that I had lost in the chaos of my past.
As I prepared for the transfer, I reflected on how much I had changed during these months. The journey hadn’t been easy, but I had found strength in healing others, discovering resilience I never knew I possessed. The world outside may still be filled with uncertainty, but in this moment, I felt ready to embrace whatever awaited me at Ford Prison.
As I arrived at Ford Prison, I was finally let out of the van and stepped into a new chapter of my life. The first thing I noticed was the vibrant colour green—the grass and the trees swayed gently in the breeze, a sight so striking compared to the dreary, oppressive grey of my past. It was a small but wonderful feeling, like a fresh breath of air after being suffocated.
I was instructed to head to the reception to check in. The process was standard, and soon enough, I was shown to my room in a billet shared with other inmates—a building reminiscent of wartime camp accommodations. The noise was overwhelming, filled with chatter and the sounds of people grappling with their own realities. It was chaotic, and I quickly realised my mission: to get out of here and into the main building, where I hoped conditions would improve.
After a week or two, my persistence paid off. I was moved to A Wing in the main building, which felt like a significant step up. They started calling me “long stay,” a term that meant I was becoming a more permanent fixture within the system. Now, I had my own room with my own key—a luxury in prison terms.
Life was beginning to feel a bit better, but I kept reminding myself that this was still a prison. The stark reality of my situation hit me every day, especially when I saw other inmates struggling with their circumstances. Despite the improvements, there was a constant undercurrent of tension and unease.
In my own room, I took some solace in the privacy it offered. I began to establish a routine, using it to focus on my Reiki practice and continue helping others when I could. There was something oddly comforting about the structure of prison life as I became more accustomed to it. I even found a few friendly faces among the other inmates, people who, like me, were looking for ways to navigate this new reality.
Yet, as I settled into this rhythm, the shadow of my past loomed large. The court date and the uncertainty of what came next still weighed heavily on my mind. I couldn’t let the comfort of my situation lull me into complacency; I needed to stay vigilant and keep my focus on the future.
As I adjusted to life at Ford, I found a small sense of peace among the chaos, knowing that I had earned a little more control over my circumstances. But deep down, I still carried the desire to reclaim my life fully, and I wouldn’t rest until I was truly free once more.
As soon as I settled into my room, I met my next-door neighbour, Shayne. I couldn’t believe my luck; he was from my hometown, and we discovered that we had mutual friends. It felt like a small piece of home had been dropped right into this cold, institutional environment. We clicked instantly, sharing stories and laughing about our pasts, which gave me a sense of comfort amidst the uncertainty.
I soon gathered from our conversation that Shayne had received a three-year sentence for exporting stolen machinery and importing cigarettes and alcohol. He recounted his escapades with a cheeky grin, and somehow, the weight of our situations felt lighter when we were together.
Then I met Robby, another inmate who piqued my interest. He was intriguing with a hint of mystery surrounding him. I learned that he had received a 20-year sentence for a crime he vehemently insisted he didn’t commit. He had been set up by his old partners, the story tangled with drugs and betrayal, and he ended up taking the fall for something he hadn’t done. It was a hard pill to swallow, the injustice of it all carving a mark on his spirit.
Despite his circumstances, Robby carried himself with an air of resilience that was hard to ignore. He had navigated these halls long enough to know the ropes, and his insight provided an invaluable resource as I settled into this new life.
As I forged these friendships, my life began to feel a bit brighter. With Shane's humour and Robby’s wisdom, I found that I had good friends to lean on in this stark environment. Together, we navigated our days, shared meals, and even laughed about the absurdity of our situations. Talking about life outside, reminiscing about the things we had taken for granted, made the hours a little less painful.
Having companions in this prison felt like a lifeline. We forged connections that allowed me to open up about my own fears and aspirations, a support system I hadn’t expected to find. While we each faced our own demons, we did it together—and that sense of camaraderie helped dispel the loneliness that had once threatened to engulf me.
Though the weight of our pasts still loomed, I focused on the present. I was grateful for the friendships I had built, feeling slightly more hopeful about the road ahead. It wasn’t just about surviving; it was about finding moments of joy and strength in the most unlikely of places.
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