I can’t recall the exact day they put us on lockdown due to the pandemic, but I know we are somewhere around the seven month mark. Seven months of even less freedom than we already had. Seven months of minimal to no rec time. Seven months of segregation from other offenders. Seven months of no visitation. Seven months of no jobs, church, or programs. Seven months of being cooped up in a wing full of women who are bored, angry and have no outlet.
At first, it didn’t bother me much. I have never really been the type of person who went out to rec. I’m vain and don’t want to cause premature wrinkles. I’m already prone to sunburn and freckle, so if I can avoid doing it on purpose I do. However, now that the daylight has hardly touched my skin in half a year, I’m going a little stir crazy. I want to go run around the track, move my stiff body, see people I haven’t seen since this started, and breathe some fresh air! Most of all, I’d like to hear the sound of life that isn’t echoing off of cinder blocks and concrete.
Fights have been happening left and right. (To be honest with you, one is happening outside of my door as I write this.) If they aren’t fist fighting or hitting people with locks, they are screaming at each other. Tension is at an all-time high. Tolerance is nearly nonexistent. Compassion is situational. And we are all scared for ourselves and for our friends and family.
As of today, there are 47 offenders who have tested positive for the virus. That is almost a quarter of an entire housing building. It is in the building that interacts with staff on a regular basis. Workers who are considered essential like kitchen workers, building and grounds workers (maintenance), and a few random girls here and there. And no matter what they try to do to contain it, there’s no guarantee it won’t spread. Just like there’s no guarantee out there. But the difference is that there is nothing we can do to help. We are sitting ducks trapped inside of a cage with nowhere to run.
You would think I would be privy to what’s actively going on at the place I consider my temporary home, but I don’t. I do know the Governor is here, The National Guard has posted up outside, and the warden has been here all weekend trying to counteract what’s already been done, but I don’t know what they’re planning on doing to stop the spread. So even though I wear my mask and wash my hands, I’m worried. This facility has multiple lawsuits against it for the insufficient medical treatment it provides. People here have died for far less when they didn’t have to. I’m scared for all of the ladies who have underlying medical issues and no one to advocate for them if they do get sick. Most of the nurses don’t care much about whether we make it out of here dead or alive. I’ve never seen anything like it. It is a reminder that most people view us as scum of the earth, from nurse to doctor, to the President of the United States. It is a sad fact that I still haven’t come to terms with because there is nothing I can do. Nothing but the same thing I tell my kids on a daily basis: Wear your mask and wash, wash, wash your hands.
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