The Dark Night of Self-Torment

Only Crazy People Eat Shit

In this episode I learn what “crazy” really means in prison. You’re not crazy if you’re playing with your shit, painting with it, acting out with it, using it to get attention or get moved. That’s coping. But if you’re eating it? That’s a different story altogether. Check the crazy box. As I’m trying to understand the mental health landscape inside a women’s prison, I start to see that Bedford isn’t the end of anything — it’s the beginning of the real work and the real sentence. I’m writing through synchronicities, shouting matches with God, the collapse of my marriage, the tiny law library victories, the fear I’ve carried since childhood, and the slow, steady shift from despair to purpose. I’m learning the difference between self‑effort and self‑punishment, between fear and faith, between surviving and actually fighting for my life. This isn’t a conclusion. It’s the moment I finally understand I’m just getting started. And then — poof — I’m gone.

The Dark Night of Self-Torment

Early August doesn’t hit me with outside blows — it turns inward. Melancholy settles in like fog, and self‑punishment becomes a daily ritual I perform without hesitation. I move through these days dissecting every thought, every failure, every imagined future, turning them into weapons and using them on myself with precision. Hope flickers, smothered by exhaustion, loneliness, and the suicidal thoughts that circle the edges of my mind. Bedford finally feels like prison — the place and the people. The walls close in, the unit grows hostile, and the waiting becomes another form of punishment. I am unraveling, haunted by phantasms of my own making. I torment myself mercilessly, inflicting a level of cruelty the system could never match. Survival becomes less about hope and more about endurance — holding on through the long, hot, airless hours until something, anything, shifts.

Beaten Bloody and On the Ropes

Late July hits me like a series of blows in a mismatched prize fight — me on the ropes, bruised, bleeding, and getting clobbered. The shock denial, the fear of being moved to another prison far away, the anniversary of my mother’s death, the collapse of my marriage, and the sudden and casual cruelty coming through the phone all land before I can brace. The synchronicities that once steadied me still flicker at the edges, but they’re drowned out by fear, grief, and the sense that staying in the current has capsized my boat and I’m sinking fast. Bedford shifts from retreat to crucible; the unit feels hostile, the waiting unbearable, the negativity suffocating. I move through the days in a haze of prayer, anger, exhaustion, and a despair so heavy it feels physical, fighting to keep any hold on myself while my mind keeps slipping toward the edge. Conversations with the few people who love me offer brief flashes of relief, but the days are thick with sorrow, confusion, and the feeling of being abandoned by almost everyone I counted on. This is the stretch where I am losing my grip, where faith flickers, where the hits come too fast to absorb, and where holding on becomes its own act of survival.

What Is Needed Is On Its Way

The days take on a strange clarity here, as if everything is arriving in a deliberate sequence—books that echo one another, letters that land at the exact moment I need them, conversations that fold into a larger pattern I can finally feel forming. Bedford begins to feel less like a prison and more like a spiritual retreat, a place where my cube becomes a kind of penitent’s cell and where routine turns into revelation. Workouts, small conflicts, small comforts, and the steady rhythm of the unit all move through me with a growing sense of alignment, as if I’m being guided step by step toward something taking shape inside me. A birthday visit with Grace becomes a moment of pure grace in every sense, anchoring me in love and purpose, while old shame and old fears begin to lose their authority. Even the hardest parts of my past start to make sense as necessary steps toward this awakening, and the synchronicities that keep appearing teach me to trust the current fully. This is the stretch of time where I begin to understand, with a certainty I didn’t have before, that what is needed is on its way and exactly on schedule.

The Weight of Small Things

In this episode, I leave RCOD for the back buildings, and the world shifts in ways only someone who has lived confinement can understand. These entries capture the shock of small objects and even smaller freedoms — a pen, ice cubes, coffee, soap, and finally having real implements for grooming after months of making do with a plastic spork. The smallest items suddenly carry the weight of dignity, grounding, and hope. I’m learning how to hold boundaries, how to navigate small conflicts without losing myself, and how to stay centered in a place that constantly tugs at my attention and energy. Scripture, synchronicity, and the first stirrings of purpose weave through the ordinary rhythms of Bedford: humor, kindness, irritation, routine, and the rituals that make a life feel human again. This is where I begin to understand how the smallest things can anchor a day, a spirit, and myself.