Mental Illness and Mass Incarceration: The Overlooked Link

Mental Illness Put Us in Here—But Nobody Wants to See That

I’ve spent the last 20 years incarcerated, and one thing I’ve learned is this: Mental illness is everywhere in here. I’ve lived alongside men who suffer from PTSD, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, depression—you name it. Some of them are doing life without parole. Not because they’re evil, but because they were sick and untreated when they committed their crimes.

It’s like society refuses to see the connection. Mental illness doesn’t excuse everything, but it explains a lot. And yet, in this country, we prioritize punishment over treatment—especially for people who need help the most.

I’ve watched this play out over and over again. A guy comes in clearly struggling, already diagnosed, maybe even on meds. Prison doesn’t help him—it makes him worse. It breaks him down emotionally, mentally, physically. The noise, the violence, the isolation—it’s toxic. And if he asks for help? Good luck.

They say around 37% of federally incarcerated people have a mental illness. Personally, I think it’s higher. A lot of us never got diagnosed. Some don’t even realize they’re dealing with something. We’ve normalized the trauma.

Even the more “common” conditions like depression or ADHD are brushed off in courtrooms. They’re not enough to earn leniency. And the serious stuff—like psychosis or delusional disorders—is only taken seriously when someone’s behavior becomes extreme.

But there are also conditions most people don’t even talk about. Like traumatic brain injury. You’d be shocked how many guys in here have head trauma from childhood abuse or street violence. That kind of damage rewires your brain—makes you impulsive, angry, unable to regulate emotion. Half the prison population is estimated to have a TBI. Half.

Then there’s persecutory delusion disorder. It causes people to believe they’re constantly under threat. Imagine thinking everyone is out to get you—how do you not end up in trouble acting on that fear?

Or PTSD. I’m not just talking about veterans. I mean kids growing up in war zones disguised as neighborhoods. Poverty, racism, abuse, incarceration itself—these are all forms of trauma. And we carry that trauma into every moment of our lives.

There’s also adjustment disorder—where everyday stress becomes overwhelming. That might not sound like a big deal until you live in a place like this. Cut off from your family. Disrespected every day. Living in fear of a random attack from a guard or another inmate. You’re told to never show weakness. If someone disrespects you, you’re expected to meet it with violence. That’s survival here.

How Can Anyone Expect Us to Get Better in a Place Designed to Break People?

We talk about being “tough on crime,” but really, we’re just being cruel to the broken. And the truth is, mental illness and criminal behavior are so intertwined that even professionals struggle to tell them apart. But our legal system doesn’t care about nuance. It just locks people away.

The labels don’t help either. Once you’re called a “criminal,” people stop seeing you as human. Society wants to throw us away and never look back. But that’s not justice—that’s fear and convenience.

I’m not saying people shouldn’t be held accountable. But I am saying that accountability and compassion can coexist. If a person’s actions came from an untreated illness, that should matter. If they’ve worked to heal and change, that should matter too.

Bryan Stevenson said it best: constant danger, shouting, fear—it changes people’s brains. Prison does that every day. And yet we’re surprised when people come out worse than when they went in.

I’ve met men who’ve transformed themselves in spite of this system. Through therapy, reading, prayer, journaling. I’ve seen growth. I’ve seen healing. I’ve experienced it myself.

But society needs to be willing to see it too.

Not everyone can be saved. That’s true. But a lot of us can. We just need the chance—and the support—to prove it.

Let’s stop pretending mental illness isn’t part of the story. It’s not just part of it—it’s one of the roots. And until we face that, we’ll keep throwing people away instead of helping them heal.

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