Stressful Mornings in Prison

Imagine a daycare center—the toddler room, to be more exact. The smell of soiled pants and spilled rotting milk. The loud noise of children slamming toys together, screaming, crying, making animal noises. One child hits another for not sharing or playing with them. Now replace those children with women aged 18-72, and you have just stepped into prison.

When I’m asked what it’s like here, I always say it is a cross between a daycare and a looney bin. My mornings are the absolute worst. This morning, in particular, really ground my gears!

I am never able to wake up naturally. This morning, I was jolted out of my sleep by a woman laughing loudly. Generally, laughing is a good thing, but not at 6 a.m. and when it sounds like Woody the Woodpecker.

Sleeping here is extremely hard since my mattress is only four inches thick—if that—and my bunkie moves so viciously on the top bunk that I feel like I am in an F5 tornado. So when I finally get to sleep, it is a true miracle.

So when I am jolted awake by none other than the laugh of The Pecker himself, I am, to say the least, frustrated.

I sit up, shooting Miss Woody the dirtiest look I can muster. She, in return, smiles, oblivious to the fact she is the cause of my sudden awakening. I sit on the edge of my bed, dreading getting up and starting my day.

I removed my earplugs with tweezers because I had shoved them so far down in my ear canal that removing them took a fine skill. I go to the bathroom to change because getting dressed in our rooms is strictly forbidden.

I know what the bathroom holds, but no matter how many times I make this journey, it still smacks me right in the face like a softball going 80 mph. The smell should be a felony all on its own. I know shit stinks, but a combination of eight other people’s shit is overwhelming. It takes my breath away, and my eyes fill with tears.

I try to move as quickly as I can to take care of my business and change. I make my way to a stall and sit down on the toilet to relieve myself, and it is warm. I immediately cringe because I know from the warmth of the seat that someone has sat here for a long time to contribute to the felonious smell that graces my nostrils. A warm toilet seat brings me no comfort here.

I know I have to keep it together and try not to pass out because, with my luck, I’d fall face-first into the used tampon someone has thrown on the floor for public display. I make my way to the sink to brush my teeth. If the fecal matter isn’t successful in laying me out, the smell of a rotting animal protruding from the drain might do the job. What doesn’t kill me will make me stronger, right?

Brush, brush, just get it over with. I spit right onto the mound of food left in the sink by someone who was too lazy to pick up their leftovers from washing out their bowl the night before.

Now that I have successfully walked through the depths of hell, I can check the computer and get hot water. However, I have to walk at a snail’s pace because the computer room is always coated with dirty water. This is not our fault but a lack of maintenance from prison officials.

The smell of mold smacks me in the face as I walk in. As I fill my cup with hot water, I look up to the water dripping out of the hole in the ceiling, with mold growing in all directions. Since I have been here, the staff have painted over the mold, normally before we have visitors in suites. But the mold always grows right through the paint job.

I make my way over to the computer, knowing that it is another miracle I didn’t fall. I type my “hellos” to my family quickly and get out, knowing mold is not good for my health. The noise level alone should be classified as cruel and unusual punishment. Women here make animal noises—for what purpose, I have not a clue.

One woman stands and says, “What does your dinosaur say?” followed by “Rawrrr” loudly over and over again, all day long. Just today, I’ve heard cows, chickens, cats, and dogs. Mind you, this is a low-care facility, so everyone here is supposed to be mentally stable.

Then we have our local commentator. She yells in high-pitched voice things such as “mainline” (time to eat), “someone left their soap in the bathroom,” “someone shit on the floor,” and “it’s cold outside.” You name it, she announces it.

Then we have the baby talkers. These women talk like babies, yelling out loud, “her made me mad,” “her is being mean to me,” or “me tired.”

Now, maybe if this happened at different times, it would be somewhat tolerable, but all this is happening in unison all day long.

I shove my earplugs as far as possible and try to just make it through one more day. I fear the mold will make me sick or the noise will drive me mad. Prison is a casket waiting for you to lay down and give up.

April Sparkman #16455510
FPC Alderson B3
Glen Ray Rd. Box A
P.O. Box A
Alderson, WV 24910

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