More sadposting, essentially. Prison is stressful. You feel forgotten about, degraded to a lower grade of human. All that you do feel utterly contemptible to everyone free.

In a way, people do forget about you. You are out of sight and life moves on — jobs and joys mean you are low priority. Everything is either more immediately gratifying than what I’ve got going on or more immediately stress inducing and thereby demands focus, time. All I’ve got is time, as it goes.

Such a minute portion of militants find engagement with me of importance — to those who don’t, I am likely that robber who deserves to be in here. Seven and a half years of my life are being stolen from me, seven and a half years of a halted transition it seems to become.

There are times I feel being truly martyrized, guillotine or garrote, may have been preferable. There is something unusually cruel about isolation; of being isolated surrounded by strangers; losing all affinity in my day-to-day whilst my community is estranged from me further.

I know it’s a bit taboo to share negative thoughts — I’m somewhat in the position where it is a choice of suffering in silence or doing iconoclastic crap, faux pas or not. Life is hyper public in here, being emotionally vulnerable is risky with little reward — rather just carve in stone what this system does to those who defy it. Thou shalt suffer.

The prison has, in its weird way, continued its retaliation for my lawsuit. I have no therapist assigned currently, as if they ever helped — I’m given a high functioning label and denied all aid. I guess if you all care about is how functioning someone is — define functioning — then it matters little if they’re processing trauma, grief, existential dread, or any other aspect of my PTSD. All just “part of prison”.

-Comrade Candle