What do you imagine when you picture a counselor’s office? Is it soft, cozy, inviting? Maybe a sofa and low lights and a nice smelling candle and some art on the walls?
Now imagine my office. The prison counselor. Typically, there’s concrete floors, bars over the windows. Perhaps, a single metal table, welded to the ground. Only two chairs, made of flimsy plastic so they can’t easily be thrown or broken into sharp pieces. I take notes in a non-spiral notebook (no metal allowed), and a felt tip pen—in case it gets stolen, I won’t get stabbed.
Some settings are better. In juvie, maybe they allow a couch that is carefully engineered so the offenders can’t hide contraband in them. And the offenders may be allowed some soft fidget toys that must be counted before and after they leave since they can’t take them back to their cells.
County jails are usually the worst. I could find myself conducting interviews through a set of bars with someone blackout drunk and covered in a variety of stinking fluids on the other side.
I’ve worked in most types of jails and prisons as a counselor for mental health, substance use, and sex offenses with both adults and youth. I’ve also worked in community corrections, where people live and work in the community while serving their sentences.
These stories I’m sharing include composites of people that I have met through the years, always stripped and rebuilt to protect privacy while preserving the core truth of who has shaped me in my work.
It’s hard work. I witness pain, suffering and death. It’s inspiring work. I witness strength, resilience, and determination.
I feel compelled to write about my experiences working with incarceration because holding it all in is… killing me.
Welcome to Dying on the Inside.
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