Three months in open prison and I’m finally starting to settle in. After almost 6 years in my last prison, I was so aware that I might find a prison move stressful I hadn’t realised that I had in fact become acutely stressed by the process – I was thinking I had it all under wraps!
But two weeks ago I found I had to inhale in order to put my jeans on – it turns out that I had put on about 7kg in 10 weeks – that’s over a stone in old money. After my move I had become a bit more withdrawn, and ironically, despite being in open conditions I was spending more time in my cell. The Covid lockdown hasn’t helped matters, not having a reason to get up in the morning meant I was staying up later at night – I was gradually becoming nocturnal. I had also been eating so much crap, munching through biscuits and generally making bad choices from the food servery options. I suddenly realised that I had been burying my anxiety by insulating myself from the world and by comfort eating. Then a tight pair of jeans woke me up.
Once I had identified that my move was the trigger to my changed behaviour I was able to take action to change things and thankfully I am getting back to my old self again, in two weeks I have shed 3kg of the 7kg I gained. Despite the lockdown I am enjoying some of the benefits of being in open conditions. But this whole experience has reminded me of the difficulties that going through changes can bring.
Moving prison is like moving school. When I was 12 I was a real veteran, on the top of the heap in Primary School. I left Primary school in May feeling like a lion and came back to Secondary school in September feeling like a mouse. Everything is alien, all of the comforts are gone, all around is new and potentially perilous.
Now that I can reflect on my move to open conditions I can see that I repeated a pattern of behaviour – I had followed exactly the same processes when I first came to prison.
I took stock of my cell, scrutinising my surroundings. I noticed every scratch on the furniture, the graffiti, the cracked plaster and the stains on the walls and floors that I hoped were from errant tea-bags. But soon enough I started to look at my cell with ‘softer’ eyes, I became accustomed to my cell and I started to apply more acute scrutiny to the world outside my cell; the corridor, the washrooms, the association area, the landings above and below and the exercise yard. I gradually built up a comfort level with my surroundings – a sort of geographical ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ I suppose.
In prison, the only variables tend to be the people that you encounter – the place just stays the same. My first prison was a Category B local jail that had been built in the 1840’s. While the plumbing and electrics might have been upgraded over the years, the building was as intimidating and unflinching as ever. On the landings outside my cell the detail on the cast-iron Victorian landings and stairways were caked and plugged with a century of paint, but those stairs still rang out under our footfalls, still unbowed by the weight of time and the steps of myriad ghosts. I found it impossible to reconcile the number of men that the cell I now occupied had previously hosted over a period of 170 years – how many more men would follow after me? How many men breathed their last breath on this earth alone in that brick box. Yet I called it home, I found comfort there and felt great anxiety when I had to leave. That it is difficult to face change is not surprising, but I find it ironic that change can be so difficult – even when it is a change for the better.
