MarQui Clardy asks if solitary confinement was the right treatment for someone who just survived a suicide attempt in prison after his mental health issues were ignored.

My first time in solitary confinement was in 2008 while my case was still being adjudicated. The prosecutor offered me a plea bargain of reduced charges and a lenient sentence of as few as eight years in prison … in return for my cooperation against my codefendant. I scoffed at the offer and rolled the dice by going to trial.

Little do I know, the dice were loaded. Not only did the judge convict me on all thirteen of my charges, the prosecutor informed me that she was now going to recommend that I be sentenced to LIFE in prison. She bragged that the judge always went with her recommendations.

HOW’D SHE GO FROM OFFERING ME AN EIGHT YEAR PLEA TO RECOMMENDING LIFE? I wondered. IF I HAVE A RIGHT TO GO TO TRIAL, HOW CAN SHE PUNISH ME FOR EXERCISING THAT RIGHT?

LIFE! I’ve already been sitting in jail for more than six months. The thought of spending the rest of my life in this hellhole — away from my family — being served “sweat meat” sandwiches on moldy bread every day, crammed so densely in a cellblock that I can’t walk three feet without smelling other men’s farts or their body odor or their stank breath — is more than I can handle.

All I can think about is how badly I don’t want to be here … how I’d rather be literally anywhere but here. IF MY LIFE IS ALREADY DONE, THEN I MIGHT AS WELL JUST END IT ON MY OWN TERMS, I convince myself. YES. SUICIDE IS THE OBVIOUS SOLUTION TO MY DILEMMA. THAT’S HOW I’LL ESCAPE THIS MISERY. I begin hatching a plan.

Razors are passed out every day at 4:30 p.m. so we can shave. I’ve never gotten one before, as I don’t have a single string of hair on my face, but on this particular evening I sign one out. After hurrying to my bunk, I remove the blade and slice both of my wrists several times. I then curl up under my blanket to make everyone think I’m asleep while I bleed out. My plan is to just pass out and die peacefully while I’m unconscious.

Yeah, fate had other plans. The officer who’d passed out the razors returns to collect them much quicker than he normally does. After collecting all the others, he notices that I haven’t returned mine. So he comes into the cellblock searching for me … and finds me in my bunk, under the blanket with blood everywhere. He calls a medical emergency, and within minutes nurses come rushing in to get me. They take me to Medical where they get the bleeding under control and suture and bandage my wrists. When I ask when I’ll be able to return to the cellblock, I’m told I’m being put on suicide watch for two weeks while my mental health is monitored. MAYBE THIS WILL BE GOOD FOR ME, I think. I have no idea what’s coming.

Behind bars, suicide watch is nothing more than an especially cruel form of solitary confinement.

The ACLU estimates that, on average, at least 30% of all prisoners held in solitary confinement are mentally ill. Officers in jails and prisons don’t have the medical training needed to treat offenders who suffer mental illnesses; so when we have “psychotic episodes,” their standard reaction is usually putting us in solitary confinement – either as a punishment or simply so that they won’t have to deal with us.

I’m put in a single cell that’s MUCH colder than the rest of the jail. It’s freezing! And if that’s not bad enough, all my clothes are taken from me, as well as my sheets, blanket, pillow, and mattress. All I’m given is a green Kevlar vest which serves absolutely no purpose. I’m not allowed to receive visits from my family; there are no other inmates around for me to talk to and it’s impossible to sleep with my bare skin on this cold, metal bed frame.

But the worst thing is the boredom. I have no books, TV, or music to stimulate my mind. Living under these conditions with nothing but my thoughts drives me absolutely mad. I realize that this isn’t about helping me — it’s about punishing me for attempting suicide. This cell is designed to make me, and others who’ve been in here before me, so uncomfortable and downright miserable that we’ll appreciate the moldy “sweat meat” sandwiches and suffocating man odors in general population because we now know that things can always be worse.

Research shows that solitary confinement causes and exacerbates mental illness, leading those in solitary to attempt suicide at significantly higher rates than those in general population. Preach! In the entire 14 days that I spend pacing around barefoot and naked in this icebox, not a minute passes where I don’t contemplate more ways of putting myself out of my misery. On the final day, someone from the mental health department brings all my clothes, my mattress, and the rest of my belongings to the front of the cell where I can see them. She says she’ll release me back into general population, but only if I sign some papers promising that I’m okay and won’t attempt suicide again. In truth, I’m no more “okay” in this moment than I was on day 1. But the sight of my belongings and the prospect of being warm, seeing my family, watching TV, eating a hot meal, getting a good night’s sleep, and actually talking to other people makes me all too eager to sign those papers and get the heck out of that cell.

My punishment for attempting suicide is essentially a punishment for having poor mental health. Maybe this is why mentally ill prisoners are statistically more likely to spend time in solitary confinement than other prisoners. Officers don’t want to deal with us, so locking us away from everyone is their solution.

But this short-term solution has long-term consequences. When we’re released from solitary back into general population, our mental issues are not only still there,  they’re worse.

The same goes for when we’re released from prison back into society. So besides these officers, who does this solution benefit?

MarQui Clardy, Sr. #1404630
Lawrenceville Correctional Center
1607 Planters Road
Lawrenceville, VA 23868

The post Sent to Solitary After My Suicide Attempt in Prison first appeared on Prison Writers.