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I remember Christmas in prison fondly. I was with all my closest friends – my only friends. When they send you to jail, everyone and everything you have goes away. Five years, 10 years – hardly anyone can maintain a healthy long-distance relationship in that time. Those relationships slowly fade away until all you have left in your life is other people in prison.
And then you throw in that some of us, like me, don’t really get along with our families. Shocking I know! But Christmas for me meant awkwardly sitting there while, at best, no one spoke to me. At worst, they did talk to me and that meant an impromptu intervention, consisting of put-downs and criticism. Each Christmas was anxiety and shame. I’d leave knowing no one respected me and I was a disappointment. I’d get a gift card though, so small win?
But, in prison, I made friends. Good friends. Dear friends. People I can honestly say I loved and respected. We’d sit around on Christmas and eat roast ham and potatoes, sipping grape juice, like one of those families on TV that actually like each other.
I remember Christmas in prison fondly. I was with all my closest friends – my only friends. When they send you to jail, everyone and everything you have goes away. Five years, 10 years – hardly anyone can maintain a healthy long-distance relationship in that time. Those relationships slowly fade away until all you have left in your life is other people in prison.
And then you throw in that some of us, like me, don’t really get along with our families. Shocking I know! But Christmas for me meant awkwardly sitting there while, at best, no one spoke to me. At worst, they did talk to me and that meant an impromptu intervention, consisting of put-downs and criticism. Each Christmas was anxiety and shame. I’d leave knowing no one respected me and I was a disappointment. I’d get a gift card though, so small win?
But, in prison, I made friends. Good friends. Dear friends. People I can honestly say I loved and respected. We’d sit around on Christmas and eat roast ham and potatoes, sipping grape juice, like one of those families on TV that actually like each other.
Then came parole, and I sat at home, alone on my first Christmas out. Mum and Nan were sick at the time. I got a phone call from my friends back in prison saying, “We’re having a big cook up. Merry Christmas. We love you!” Then the 15-minute, 9-dollar phone call ended, and I sat in my silent house again. It happens to so many of us. Your partner has left you, or the kids won’t speak to you. What do you do now that you don’t belong anymore?
All sorts of things run through your head. Toxic thoughts. Bad thoughts. I can’t list them here as I don’t think it’d be helpful. It may even be triggering. But one thought that nagged at me – why am I bothering with parole? I’m all alone …
I cooked my sick Nan lunch and sat with her for a while. She passed away shortly after … not from my cooking – the doctor was very clear on that! But her passing left me even more alone. The silence got so oppressive. It was so silent it was loud, if that makes sense.
But, because I had my beautiful Christmas in jail, I learnt something special: that no matter how bad things are I can still find something that makes me happy, that even behind stone walls and razor wire, piss tests and cell searches I was still happy with my little prison family gathered around on Christmas.
Now I take strength in thoughts like that.
No matter how lonely I get, how hard they make the rules for me to follow, I try to find happiness somewhere in it. It’s a lesson I have taken to heart. A Christmas miracle!
I’m so grateful for memories like that, because things can be tough when you’re all alone and rebuilding your life from a smoking ruin. But now, a few Christmases later, I’m not alone. I will spend Christmas with people who care about me and love me. I’m so glad I could make it to this point. And I’m sure you will too, guys. Merry Christmas.
Then came parole, and I sat at home, alone on my first Christmas out. Mum and Nan were sick at the time. I got a phone call from my friends back in prison saying, “We’re having a big cook up. Merry Christmas. We love you!” Then the 15-minute, 9-dollar phone call ended, and I sat in my silent house again. It happens to so many of us. Your partner has left you, or the kids won’t speak to you. What do you do now that you don’t belong anymore?
All sorts of things run through your head. Toxic thoughts. Bad thoughts. I can’t list them here as I don’t think it’d be helpful. It may even be triggering. But one thought that nagged at me – why am I bothering with parole? I’m all alone …
I cooked my sick Nan lunch and sat with her for a while. She passed away shortly after … not from my cooking – the doctor was very clear on that! But her passing left me even more alone. The silence got so oppressive. It was so silent it was loud, if that makes sense.
But, because I had my beautiful Christmas in jail, I learnt something special: that no matter how bad things are I can still find something that makes me happy, that even behind stone walls and razor wire, piss tests and cell searches I was still happy with my little prison family gathered around on Christmas.
Now I take strength in thoughts like that.
No matter how lonely I get, how hard they make the rules for me to follow, I try to find happiness somewhere in it. It’s a lesson I have taken to heart. A Christmas miracle!
I’m so grateful for memories like that, because things can be tough when you’re all alone and rebuilding your life from a smoking ruin. But now, a few Christmases later, I’m not alone. I will spend Christmas with people who care about me and love me. I’m so glad I could make it to this point. And I’m sure you will too, guys. Merry Christmas.
I put the window down, and the wind rushed through my hair, and, as if by magical happenstance, How to Make Gravy came on the radio. His voice rolled out like it was coming from someone familiar, telling the story of Joe, writing home from prison before Christmas.
I had repeated this phrase to people so many times to emphasise how incredibly unbelievable it is that I failed English and am now going to be a published author.
I’d never have guessed at the amount of movement happening within the prison system. Not just within a particular prison – that in itself was eye-opening – but movement between prisons.
Prisons de-individualise and dehumanise people. This is often more apparent for people who already do not fit the mold of a “normal person”, such as those with autism spectrum disorder (autism).
Help keep the momentum going. All donations will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
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Help us get About Time off the ground. All donations are tax deductible and will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
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