When he asked, “You’re not just going to ride out this bid with me and then leave when I get close to coming home, are you?” — it stopped me in my tracks. Because that question didn’t come from doubt. It came from the scars left by everyone who already did.
He asked me today, “You’re not just going to ride out this bid with me and then leave when I get close to coming home, are you?”
That one question hit harder than any argument, any accusation, any night spent crying after a fifteen-minute phone call. Because underneath those words wasn’t just jealousy or fear — it was pain. The kind that comes from a lifetime of people walking out the door once he started to believe they might stay.
See, loving a man behind bars isn’t a trend. It’s not a “hold him down” quote slapped on a Facebook reel. It’s constant emotional warfare between loyalty and exhaustion, between his trauma and your patience. Some days, you feel like a warrior. Other days, you feel like collateral damage.
When he asked me that question, part of me wanted to scream. Because if only he knew how many nights I’ve stayed up writing him letters, how many emails I’ve sent fighting the system, how many prayers I’ve whispered begging God to bring him peace… maybe then he’d believe I’m not here just to pass the time. I’m here because I chose him.
But trauma doesn’t understand choice.
It only knows patterns.
And his pattern has always been abandonment.
He’s been left since childhood — by parents who should’ve loved him, by people who used him, and by a world that labeled him “lost cause” before he ever had a chance. So when he asks if I’ll still be here when freedom’s close, he’s not doubting me — he’s doubting the possibility that anyone could love him without conditions.
I could tell him a thousand times that I’m not going anywhere, but words mean nothing to a man who’s been lied to by everyone who said they loved him. What proves it is the consistency — the letters that never stop, the emails I pour my heart into, the money I still find a way to send, the long nights spent on the phone when sleep would be easier. It’s the fight to get visitation approved, even when the system keeps slamming the door in our faces.
I’m not just “riding out” his bid. I’m building with him through it.
I’m helping him fight his demons, even when some of them are aimed at me.
And when he finally walks out those gates, I won’t be walking away — I’ll be walking with him.
Because love that survives concrete, cages, and chaos isn’t temporary.
It’s tested. It’s proven. It’s scarred, but it’s real.
So, no, baby — I’m not just riding this out.
I’m rising through it with you.
"As his wife, I’ve watched him fight demons his parents created long before the world ever called him an “inmate.” I’ve watched him unravel in the middle of the night from memories he never asked to carry, trying to make sense of how the same people who gave him life also handed him destruction. This isn’t just another “angry letter.” It’s a release. A funeral for the people who should’ve protected him. And a declaration that the man they tried to destroy is finally standing up — not for their approval, but for his own peace." ~ DeAnna
There comes a point where silence becomes survival. Where you stop waiting for a phone call that never comes, stop begging people who birthed you to see you, and stop bleeding for people who wouldn’t even hand you a Band-Aid. That’s where I’m at.
You see, I didn’t wake up one day broken. I was raised in chaos. Born into addiction, taught pain like it was a family tradition. My parents didn’t teach me how to love — they taught me how to survive. My dad was the first one to ever stick a needle in my arm, and my mom was the first one to make me feel like I’d never be enough. Between the two of them, they managed to destroy any sense of innocence I had before I even hit my teens.
People wonder why I’m angry. Why my words cut deep. Why my music sounds more like a confession than a song. It’s because I lived it. Every line, every scar, every sleepless night replaying all the times I needed my mom to say “I love you” and instead got, “You sound high.”
The other night, I called her in the middle of a PTSD episode — my mind spinning, heart pounding, trying to ground myself. You know what she said? “You sound like shit, are you high?”
No, Mom. I wasn’t high. I was hurting. I was drowning. I needed my mother, not an interrogation. So I hung up. Because every time I reach out, she proves to me that she never cared to understand the difference between her son and her shame.
And my dad — let’s not even pretend. He’s the one who lit the match to my destruction. The one who made sure I was just like him so he didn’t have to face what he became. He called it bonding. I call it betrayal.
I’ve spent 27 years trying to crawl out of the same pit my parents dug for me. Trying to find worth in a world that told me I wasn’t worth saving. Trying to rewrite the story they forced me into. They made me believe being hard meant being safe. That showing emotion was weakness. That family was just another word for control.
But I’ve learned something they never taught me: I can break the cycle.
I can love without fear.
I can be loyal without losing myself.
And I can forgive without forgetting.
So here it is — my final goodbye to the fake family that made me, broke me, and blamed me for the damage they caused. You lost me for good.
I’m no longer your scapegoat, your excuse, or your punching bag. I’m a man. A husband. A fighter. I’ve faced demons most people wouldn’t survive, and I’m still here. That’s something you’ll never understand, because you were too busy running from your own reflection.
This prison bid? It’s not my ending — it’s my rebirth.
I’m becoming the man I needed when I was a kid.
And the next time you think of me, remember this:
You didn’t lose a son. You threw him away.
And I finally realized, that’s your loss — not mine.
The Battle Between Love, Labels, and a Broken System
By DeAnna – Behind Bars Unfiltered
Let’s start with some brutal honesty — loving someone with Borderline Personality Disorder isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s messy, unpredictable, beautiful, and heartbreaking all at once. Now take that dynamic and place it inside the walls of a prison system where mental health care is treated like a punchline, where trauma is punished instead of treated, and where “rehabilitation” is just a word printed on paper.
That’s where the real test begins.
What Borderline Personality Disorder Really Is
Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) isn’t just “mood swings” or “acting crazy,” no matter how often society likes to paint it that way. It’s a serious mental health condition rooted in trauma, abandonment, and emotional dysregulation.
People with BPD experience emotions on a level that feels like standing in the middle of a hurricane — overwhelming, consuming, and hard to control.
According to the DSM-5, BPD is characterized by:
Intense fear of abandonment (real or imagined)
Unstable self-image or sense of identity
Impulsive, self-destructive behaviors
Severe mood swings and emotional instability
Chronic feelings of emptiness or loneliness
Explosive anger or sudden emotional shifts
Self-harm or suicidal ideation
But what the DSM doesn’t explain is why.
Most people with BPD didn’t just wake up one day with it. It’s the result of trauma — childhood neglect, abuse, instability, and emotional wounds that never healed.
They learned early that love could vanish without warning, that safety was conditional, and that to be seen or heard, they had to fight harder than anyone else just to exist.
Now Add Prison to That Mix
Now take that storm of emotion and drop it into a system built on punishment, not healing. Inside, emotions aren’t seen as pain — they’re labeled as “manipulation” or “disrespect.”
A panic attack becomes a disciplinary issue. A suicide attempt becomes an incident report. Crying out for help earns you time in isolation instead of compassion.
You can’t treat trauma by throwing someone in a cage, yet that’s exactly what happens every single day.
I’ve done medical transports with inmates who were doubled over in agony — some from a stabbing, others from severe medical emergencies. And do you know what happens when they finally get to the hospital? They’re shackled by a wrist and an ankle to the bed while they try to heal. You can see the pain in their eyes, the humiliation of being treated like a threat when they can barely breathe.
That’s not “justice.” That’s dehumanization disguised as protocol.
Inside prison, there’s no trauma therapy. No consistent medication management. No DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy) — which is the gold standard for treating BPD. There’s just chaos, control, and cold indifference.
And yet people out here still say, “Well, they did it to themselves.”
No — what this system does to the mentally ill isn’t punishment. It’s cruelty.
Loving Someone with BPD Behind Bars
When you love someone with Borderline Personality Disorder inside those walls, it becomes a daily balancing act. Every phone call can shift from laughter to tears in seconds. You learn to listen differently — to the pauses, the silence, the tone of their voice. You know when they’re slipping even before they admit it.
And through all of that, you stay. Not because it’s easy, but because you see them — the human underneath the diagnosis.
You know they’re not their outbursts.
They’re not their worst day.
They’re not their crime.
They’re trauma survivors who were thrown into a system that retraumatizes them every single day.
But the hardest part? Trying to find help in a place that offers none.
When your loved one’s inside, you become their therapist, advocate, and researcher all at once. You print out DBT worksheets. You mail articles about emotional regulation. You write affirmations. You become their anchor when the system refuses to throw a rope.
It’s exhausting, yes. But it’s also love in its truest, rawest form — choosing to fight for someone the world gave up on.
The Prison System Isn’t Built for Healing
Let’s be real: the prison system doesn’t rehabilitate. It warehouses human beings. It’s an emotional graveyard for people who needed treatment, compassion, and therapy long before they ever needed handcuffs.
People with BPD don’t survive there — they adapt. They learn to hide emotion, to swallow pain, to mask the very symptoms that need healing. And when they do reach a breaking point, it’s treated as defiance instead of distress.
If prisons actually wanted rehabilitation, they’d start by treating mental illness like an illness, not a liability. But that requires money, accountability, and empathy — three things the system refuses to invest in.
What Needs to Change
Trauma-Informed Training for Officers
COs and staff should be trained to recognize symptoms of BPD, PTSD, and addiction instead of responding with punishment or force.
Access to DBT and Real Therapy
Not the “check the box” kind of group sessions — real, consistent treatment led by licensed professionals.
Family Involvement in Care Plans
Loved ones should be allowed to provide input and communicate with mental health staff when necessary.
Transparency and Oversight
We need external audits of mental health programs and accountability for negligence.
Because right now, too many are dying in silence — physically, mentally, and spiritually — while the world scrolls past memes and jokes about “three hots and a cot.”
Resources for Families & Advocates
If you love someone with BPD who’s incarcerated, here are some tools that can make a difference — even from the outside:
1. DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy) Skills Handouts DBT Skills Training Handouts and Worksheets by Marsha Linehan
Focus on Emotional Regulation, Distress Tolerance, and Interpersonal Effectiveness. (Remove staples and spiral bindings before mailing.)
2. “The Borderline Personality Disorder Workbook”
By Daniel J. Fox, Ph.D. — practical, inmate-safe, and accepted by most prison mailrooms.
3. National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI)
🌐 www.nami.org
Offers printable family guides, support networks, and advocacy materials.
4. Borderline Personality Disorder Resource Center (NY Presbyterian)
🌐 https://www.bpdresourcecenter.org
Educational and support resources for families and loved ones.
5. Families for Justice Reform & Prison Wives Support Groups
Facebook communities like “Families of the Incarcerated,” “Prison Wives United,” and Behind Bars Unfiltered provide peer support and approved resource sharing.
6. DBT Self-Help Online
🌐 https://dbtselfhelp.com
Free printable DBT tools and exercises suitable for mailing.
Loving someone with Borderline Personality Disorder is already a storm. Loving them behind prison walls means holding an umbrella in a hurricane — but you do it anyway. Because love like this doesn’t walk away when it’s inconvenient. It digs in, fights harder, and believes in the person beneath the diagnosis.
To anyone walking this same road: you’re not crazy for staying. You’re not weak for breaking down. You’re human — and you’re doing holy work in a system that forgot what humanity even looks like.
Keep writing. Keep calling. Keep sending those letters, worksheets, prayers, and love.
Because inside those walls, your voice might be the only reminder that healing is still possible — and that even in a corrupt system, love stops nothing.
Behind Bars Unfiltered
Real stories. Real pain. Real change. Because prison stops a person’s freedom, not their humanity. #PrisonStopsNothing | #BehindBarsUnfiltered | #MentalHealthMatters
You see memes like this floating around all the time — the ones that crack jokes about how “good” inmates supposedly have it. You know the ones: they talk about sex three times a day, reading books, working out, and then “complaining” about prison life. People laugh, hit share, and feel smug because they think they know something about what it’s like inside.
I used to be one of them. I used to think prison was “right.” I believed it was what people deserved if they broke the law. I repeated the clichés: “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.”“Three hots and a cot.”“They’ve got it easy in there.”
And then… I worked there.
Let me tell you something: until you’ve walked through those locking gates — hearing that buzzer, watching that steel door slam behind you, feeling the air shift from free to suffocating — you don’t know a damn thing about prison. Until you’ve seen the reality — the mace, the gas grenades, the cell extractions that leave blood on the floor, the corruption that poisons everything from the inside out — you’re just parroting what you’ve been told.
Prison is not a spa. It’s not summer camp. It’s not a place where people are “living their best lives.” It’s a dehumanizing machine that grinds people down. Food is served from boxes literally labeled NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION. People rot for years in cells the size of closets. Medical care is a coin toss. And the same system that’s supposed to rehabilitate is often the one feeding the very problems it claims to fix.
And if you want to know how inhumane it gets — let me paint you a picture.
I’ve done medical transports where a man was doubled over in agony from a stabbing or clinging to life after a medical emergency. And where do they end up? In a hospital bed, shackled by a wrist and a foot like an animal, trying to heal with cold steel biting into their skin. No dignity. No compassion. Just chains and suspicion, even when they’re fighting for their life.
That’s the reality you don’t see on TV. That’s the truth they don’t show you in the memes.
And here’s another truth that will piss off the peanut gallery: not everyone in there deserves what they were handed. Not every sentence fits the crime. Not every conviction is even rooted in truth. But the system doesn’t care. Once you’re in those walls, the narrative is written for you, and the world outside is more than happy to believe it.
So the next time you want to crack a joke about prison life or spout off tired phrases about “choices” and “consequences,” do us all a favor — unless you’ve walked those tiers, smelled that chow, heard those screams, seen a man shackled to a hospital bed in agony, or looked into the eyes of someone broken by that system… sit down and be quiet.
Because some of us have been there. Some of us do know. And we’re done staying silent while people laugh at pain they don’t understand.
I’m tired of fake family love.
The kind that only shows up when I’m pissed off.
The kind that only wants to check in when I’ve finally had enough and let the anger spill out.
Where were you when I was silently breaking?
Where were you when I wrote long messages trying to be honest, trying to tell the truth about how I feel—about my pain, my past, about being locked in a system that’s designed to chew people up and spit out what’s left?
You ignored it. Or worse—you filtered it.
Didn’t share it. Didn’t want to “stir the pot.”
You didn’t protect me. You silenced me.
And then, when the weight gets too heavy and I finally speak up in anger?
Suddenly, everyone wants to care.
Everyone wants to talk.
Everyone wants to remind me how much they “still love me.”
Stop.
That’s not love.
That’s guilt.
That’s convenience.
You want to say I’m angry? Damn right I am.
Because every time I open up, somebody decides my truth is too much—too raw, too messy, too inconvenient.
And guess what? I’m still left picking up the pieces.
Correction—my wife is left picking up the pieces.
She’s the one who’s there when the phone hangs up. When the mail doesn’t come. When the silence from my “loved ones” hits harder than any prison wall.
You think you know me because you’ve known me since I was a kid?
Nah. You knew the version of me that was still trying to survive the chaos.
You didn’t check in when I was using.
You didn’t speak up when I was spiraling.
You didn’t offer help when I was falling.
But now you want to pop up and critique my healing? My honesty? My anger?
Let me say this loud enough for every fake seat at the family table to hear:
I don’t need people who only see me when I’m breaking.
I need people who show up when I’m trying.
When I’m quiet.
When I’m fighting demons silently in a 6x8 cell and trying not to lose my mind.
You say you love me.
Prove it.
Not with empty words or messages sent once every blue moon.
Not by “protecting” others from my feelings.
Prove it with presence.
With action.
With consistency.
Until then?
Keep your guilt.
Keep your sugar-coated apologies.
Keep your filtered responses. Because I’d rather have no family than fake family.
Let’s talk about what it really means to be a recovering addict inside a prison system that runs on contradiction, corruption, and control.
You’d think this would be the safest place to get clean, right?
No drugs. No temptation. No street.
Just time to think, get right, and prepare for something better.
Wrong.
Let me break it to you straight: Prison is one of the worst places to try to get clean.
Because in here, drugs don’t just exist—they thrive.
And 9 times outta 10? They’re not coming in through inmates.
They’re coming in through the people wearing the keys.
Yep. The officers.
The ones paid to protect and rehabilitate? They’re the ones flooding these yards with poison.
Daily.
I'm not talking once a week or a rare drop here and there.
I'm talking daily drops, daily sales, and drugs flying off the shelves like it's a damn commissary item.
Crank, K2, strips, pills—you name it, someone’s pushing it, and someone’s profiting off it.
And those “someones” ain’t always wearing state blues.
They’re wearing badges.
Meanwhile, I’m over here white-knuckling it through every damn day.
Holding on to sobriety with both hands.
Not because I’m scared of using.
But because I remember who I was when I did.
I remember the chaos.
The lies.
The pain I caused people who loved me.
The wreckage I left behind every time I said, “I got this,” when I damn sure didn’t.
And now, I’m trying to be better.
I am being better.
But this place? It don’t make it easy.
How do you focus on recovery when your cellie is getting high right next to you?
How do you stay clean when your neighbor is overdosing two doors down?
How do you fight to be different in a place that wants you to stay the same?
You can’t sign up for an NA meeting without a CO making a joke about how “you’ll be high again by next week.”
You can’t request therapy without being labeled soft, or a liability.
You can’t protect your sobriety without them twisting it into suspicion, like you’re the problem.
Let me be clear: Addiction is a disease, not a moral failure.
But the way this system works? It punishes you for trying to heal.
They don’t want us clean.
They want us compliant.
They want us strung out, docile, easy to control.
Because a man in recovery? He sees clearly.
And clear eyes see the game.
But I'm not going back.
I’ve been that man. The one crawling through withdrawal. The one lying, stealing, manipulating—whatever it took to get the next fix.
Not anymore.
Now I’m the one who wakes up every day and chooses something better—even when everything around me is broken.
Even when the smell of smoke is in the air and the whispers of “it’s good sh*t” creep under the door.
Even when no one claps for me.
Even when nobody believes I’ll make it.
Because I believe it.
And because she believes it—my wife, my angel, my reason.
She’s seen me at my lowest. And she still looks at me like I’m worth something more.
So now I fight. For her. For me. For the version of myself I almost never became.
If you’re reading this and you’re struggling with addiction—inside or out—let me say this:
You’re not weak for wanting to change.
You’re not crazy for wanting something better.
And you’re not alone in feeling like the world is built to keep you stuck.
But even in here, where the air’s thick with corruption and temptation, I’m still clean.
Still choosing life.
Still walking through hell with my head up.
Because recovery is rebellion in a place that profits off your destruction.
When my mugshot hit the news, I found out exactly who my friends and family really were. Spoiler alert: most of them weren’t who I thought they were.
Instead of picking up the phone and asking, “DeAnna, what really happened?” they ran with whatever the news threw out. Overnight I went from being “the one who had her life together” to “DeAnna screwed up her life. DeAnna married a convict. DeAnna’s a drug addict. A dealer. We told her so.”
No one wanted the truth. They wanted gossip. And they fed on it.
The Betrayal Hits Different
I can live with strangers talking. What gutted me were the people I loved—the ones who claimed to love me.
I had a man I carried on an off-and-on affair with. A man who couldn’t come clean to save his soul, but still had the nerve to call himself my “best friend.” He was buddy-buddy with my ex-husband, even called him “family.” And then he turned around and told me I was a fool.
Why? Because I chose to marry someone incarcerated. Because according to him, “all inmates are manipulative fuck-ups.” He said he was disappointed in me. That I was “smarter than that.”
Here’s the difference between me and him: I was big enough to own my dirt, to come clean about what I did. But was he? No. He stayed hiding in the shadows, pretending to be loyal while throwing daggers at me for being honest about my choices. That’s not friendship. That’s cowardice wrapped in self-righteousness.
Family, Fear, and Fake Concern
And then there was family. People who told me to my face they were “scared” of my husband. Scared because “inmates are violent, evil.” Scared because the man I love has a record, while conveniently forgetting that plenty of “free men” sitting in their church pews on Sunday are just as violent, abusive, or broken—but that doesn’t scare them.
Then there were the ones who didn’t say a word. They just walked away. Silent. But not really silent, because they had plenty to say behind my back. They whispered. They gossiped. They built their own little narrative of my life without ever once coming to me.
The Stalkers and the Informants
Three years later, some of these same people still watch me. They stalk my every post, my every move, just so they can gossip about me. They run back to my ex-husband to play little informant, his loyal minions feeding him “updates” on me like I’m some reality show they can’t stop tuning into.
For what? What do they gain? Do they think tearing me down makes their own sins smaller? Do they think stalking my life somehow validates theirs?
Here’s the truth: if you still hate me but can’t stop watching me, you don’t hate me—you envy the fact that I had the guts to live my life out loud while you keep hiding in shadows.
The Difference Between Me and Them
The difference between me and them is simple: I can own my choices. I can admit when I’ve fallen. I can stand up and say, “Yes, I screwed up here. Yes, I’ve loved wrong. Yes, I’ve sinned. But I also chose love. I chose loyalty. I chose truth.”
They, on the other hand? They hide. They condemn. They gossip. They call themselves “good Christians” while living in a way Christ wouldn’t recognize.
John 8:7 says, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.” And let me tell you—those stones flew fast when my name hit the news. Not because they were sinless, but because throwing stones at me meant no one was looking at them.
My Loyalty Stands
So here I stand, three years later. Without the friends I thought I had. Without the family who promised to love me. With empty holiday tables and silent nights. But I also stand with my husband—the one who loves me unconditionally, flaws and all. The one who shows me daily what loyalty looks like. The one who owns his past and is fighting for his future.
And if that means I lost everyone else? So be it.
Because if you can’t see him for more than an inmate, you can’t see me for who I am either. And I’d rather sit at an empty table with my integrity than at a full one with people who only ever loved me halfway.
You ever notice how fast people throw the word “redemption” around?
Like it’s a prize you win.
Like you hit a certain checkpoint in life, level up, and boom—you’re redeemed.
Nah. Let me set the record straight:
Redemption is a war.
A daily, bloody, internal war.
And it doesn’t come with parades or pats on the back.
It comes with people questioning your motives.
It comes with the system doubling down on your past.
It comes with silence from the ones who promised to be there, and fake smiles from the ones watching you like a damn hawk, waiting for you to slip so they can say, “See? I knew he couldn’t change.”
Let me tell you something: I’m still in that war.
And just because I haven’t lost yet, doesn’t mean it’s been easy.
I’m not out here claiming sainthood. Hell no.
I’ve done dirt. I’ve hurt people. I’ve made choices that chained me to this life.
But you know what else I’ve done?
I’ve owned it.
I’ve sat in cells most men would lose their mind in, facing every ghost I ran from for over a decade.
I’ve cried like a damn child in the middle of the night, wondering if anyone out there really sees me anymore.
And I’ve held onto hope like it’s the only thing that can’t be stripped from me.
You know why?
Because there’s a woman out there who sees me now.
Not the felon. Not the addict. Not the inmate.
She sees me—Ryan. The man, not the mistake.
And for the first time in my life, I want to live like I deserve that love.
But here’s the thing most people don’t understand: Redemption doesn’t happen once. It happens every day.
Every time I choose silence over rage.
Every time I let go of my pride and admit I’m wrong.
Every time I get up, even when there’s no reason left to.
It’s not glamorous.
It’s not some teary movie ending.
It’s raw, repetitive, painful work.
But if you’re out there reading this, and you’re in that fight too—I see you.
You’re not weak. You’re not broken beyond repair.
You’re just healing in a world that profits off your pain.
Keep going anyway.
Because redemption isn’t about being forgiven by others—it’s about forgiving yourself enough to believe you can still build something beautiful out of the wreckage.
Let me tell you something they don’t want you to know:
Prison doesn’t break everybody.
Sometimes, it sharpens you.
Not in the way they think—fists up, cold heart, dead eyes.
Nah.
I’m talking about a different kind of sharp.
The kind that happens when you’re forced to sit still in a world built on chaos. When you're stripped of everything but your thoughts. When silence isn’t peace—it’s pressure.
That’s where I’m at right now.
Still in the hole. Still in max. Still being punished for a label I didn’t ask for and a past I’m no longer living in.
But for the first time in a long time, my mind is clear as glass.
You’d think after all this time, all this isolation, all this retaliation, I’d be angry. And I am. Don’t get it twisted. But underneath that? There’s clarity. There’s purpose. There’s a shift happening inside me that no amount of lock-down can stop.
You know what happens when you’re forced to spend 23 hours a day with nothing but a bunk and your own demons? You either lose it… or you face it.
And I’ve been facing it.
All of it.
The trauma.
The abandonment.
The mistakes.
The lies I told myself and the lies they told about me.
The little boy who was never protected.
The young man who stopped caring.
And the grown-ass man who finally found someone worth becoming better for.
Her name is DeAnna.
She didn’t just believe in me when I was down—she’s been fighting for me when I didn’t even have the words to fight for myself.
And that? That kind of love rewires a man.
I’m done wasting time trying to prove myself to a system that made its mind up about me before I ever stepped off the bus.
Now? I’m proving myself to me.
To her.
To the version of myself I’m becoming.
I used to think the real world was “out there.”
But the truth is, the realest shit I’ve ever had to face has been right here—in four concrete walls, with nothing but truth echoing back at me.
So if you’re wondering where I’ve been—this is it.
In the pressure cooker.
Where they hoped I’d crack, I’m crystallizing.
Where they tried to silence me, I’m finding my real voice.
And when that door opens again, whenever that is—
I won’t be the man they locked up.
Some of y’all probably thought I disappeared, went dark, or gave up.
Nah.
I’ve just been fighting battles that don’t come with warning shots.
I’ve been surviving behind walls that don’t care about progress.
And I’ve been silenced in every way they know how to silence a man without a noose.
But I’m still here.
Still breathing.
Still pissed off.
Still holding onto a sliver of something that looks like hope.
When you’re in this place long enough, you start learning the difference between “quiet” and “forgotten.”
I’ve been both.
But I’m not gonna be either anymore.
The truth is, they don’t like men like me talking.
Not because I’m violent. Not because I’m a threat.
But because I’m waking up.
Because I see through the bullshit.
Because I’m the kind of inmate that doesn’t just want out—I want change.
And that? That’s dangerous.
Since my last blog, they’ve sent me to max. Again.
Because of lies. Because of labels. Because of a file someone padded with fiction and fear.
It’s been almost ten years to the day since I first walked into a max yard as a 17-year-old kid.
Now here I am, 26, just days from 27, and I’m being branded all over again.
Not for something I did, but for something they say I am.
A shot-caller. A gang head. A threat.
Funny how you can say “I’m not affiliated” till you’re blue in the face, sign papers saying the same, and they’ll still decide who you are for you.
That’s how it works in here.
Your words don’t matter.
Your actions? Irrelevant.
All that matters is what looks good in their report.
What fits their narrative.
What keeps their power protected.
They say prison is about rehabilitation.
That’s bullshit and barbed wire.
This isn’t about correction.
It’s about control.
But here’s the part they didn’t plan for:
I’m still telling my story.
From the hole. From max. From the concrete floor where they hoped I’d break.
And I’ll keep telling it, because silence is what lets them win.
So no, I haven’t posted in a while.
But don’t mistake the pause for surrender.
I’ve been in the storm, collecting fuel.
And I’m still here.
Still writing.
Still changing.
For me.
For my wife.
For every single one of you who’s ever felt voiceless, labeled, or buried alive in a system built to forget you.
Let this be the reminder:
Just because you haven’t heard from me… doesn’t mean I’m not coming back louder.
It’s wild how life will put someone in your path and make you believe you’ve found a safe place to land.
Someone you thought was a confidant. Someone who made you feel like your trust was finally in good hands.
And then one day, without warning, you see it.
The truth.
The little cracks in their mask that they tried so hard to keep hidden.
I think the hardest part isn’t the betrayal itself — it’s replaying every conversation, every laugh, every moment you thought was real, and realizing they were just… playing a part. A role.
And you? You were just the audience.
It makes you question your own instincts. Did I miss the signs? Was I so desperate for connection that I ignored the red flags waving in my face?
Or were they just that good at pretending?
People like that… they don’t break you with one big act. They chip away at you slowly, making you believe they care, while quietly stacking the pieces they’ll later use against you.
And by the time you see it, the damage is already done.
I’ll recover. I always do. But what they’ve really stolen isn’t money, or time, or opportunity.
It’s the version of me that still believed people like them didn’t exist.
So here’s to lessons learned the hard way.
Here’s to boundaries.
Here’s to recognizing that not everyone clapping for you is in your corner.
And here’s to the quiet satisfaction of knowing…
if you’re reading this, you know exactly who you are.
Four Mexicans jumped me last week. Broad daylight. Caught on camera. Most of my personal stuff? Gone. Jacked. And what’s SSU doing about it? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Because when it’s gang-related, the system doesn't want the smoke unless it lands on their front step.
Let me be real—this ain’t a sympathy post. I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. This is just my reality, and maybe, just maybe, someone out there will hear this and reroute their life before it’s too late.
Right now, I’m being shipped off to a maximum-security yard—again.
I’m 26 years old. Days away from my 27th birthday. And this will be my second time walking through those gates.
My first time? I was 17. Just a kid. They sent me to max back then, too—like they were prepping me for a life I hadn’t even signed up for yet. Fast-forward nearly a decade, and here I am. Older, maybe wiser, but somehow right back where I started.
Why?
Because SSU decided I was the head of a gang.
Inside these walls.
Despite me never claiming that. Despite me telling them otherwise. Despite me signing paperwork that flat-out states the opposite.
But in here? My words don’t mean shit.
You don’t own your story. You don’t control your truth.
The suits do.
THEY run this place. THEY make the rules. THEY write the narrative they want the system to see.
It’s not about what you do.
It’s not about how good you’ve been, how many write-ups you avoided, or how many times you tried to earn your way to something better.
None of that matters when THEY decide who you are.
And they don’t decide based on facts. They decide based on convenience, control, and cover-your-ass politics.
If labeling me a shot-caller makes their job easier, if painting me as a leader of something I never claimed helps them keep the real problem buried, then that's what they’re gonna do. Simple as that.
This isn’t justice. This isn’t rehabilitation. This isn’t correction.
This is containment, plain and simple.
And if you don’t play by their game—even if you walk the straight line—they’ll rewrite the rulebook just to remind you: You’re not in charge. We are.
So yeah, I’m headed back to max.
Not because I did something wrong.
But because I stopped playing the game.
Because I spoke up.
Because I asked for protection instead of retaliation.
Because I’m trying to change in a place that doesn’t reward redemption—it punishes it.
Let me rewind a little.
This life started long before the gates slammed shut. I was just a kid—a scared, broken boy with a needle in his arm at 13, thanks to my own father. That trauma wrote the intro to my story, but I’m man enough to admit now: the chapters after that? They were mine.
I chose the streets. I chose the drugs. I chose the hustle and the pain and the pride. And eventually, I chose silence. I didn’t speak out when I should’ve. I didn’t ask for help when I needed it. I wore my scars like armor, not knowing they were actually chains.
But I’m choosing something else now.
Even in this cell, even after being jumped, robbed, blamed, and labeled—I know who I am. And it ain’t what they say. I’m a man in repair. A husband. A fighter for something real this time. Her name is DeAnna, and she’s my home, my anchor, and the reason I still believe I can become more than what this place has tried to make me.
I’m done pretending this life didn’t leave marks. It did. But scars ain’t shame—they’re survival stories. And I’ve survived damn near everything they’ve thrown at me.
So if you’re reading this, and you're out there still straddling the line—thinking you can dabble in this life and come out clean—don’t be stupid. There is no dabble. There’s only in... and deeper in. Until one day you’re in a 6x9, writing blog posts from the hole, hoping someone hears the warning shot in your voice.
You don’t want this life. You don’t want to be stripped down to your drawers in a concrete box, wondering what it would’ve felt like to be free before the prison walls became your reality.
I can’t undo my past. But I sure as hell can own it. And I can use it.
I’m not done yet. Not even close.
I’m still breathing. I’m still healing. And I’m still reaching—because if one soul out there reads this and says, “Damn… I don’t want that to be me,” then maybe this pain served a purpose.
Until then, I’ll keep writing from the darkness. Because even in the hole, I still believe I was meant to shine.
Being a prison wife isn't for the weak — let’s just get that out there right now.
We don’t choose this life because it’s easy, glamorous, or something we dreamt of growing up. We choose it because love showed up, and it didn’t come with a convenient timeline or a perfect package. It came real, raw, and wrapped in barbed wire — and we said yes anyway.
Because that's what loyalty actually looks like.
While the world screams “walk away,” we show up — day after day — holding down the damn fort with nothing but our own strength, a whole lot of love, and maybe a good cry in the bathroom when no one’s watching. We do this through 30-minute calls that cut off mid-sentence. We do it through letters written with hope and pain inked on the same page. Through visits where the touch is limited, but the connection? Untouchable.
We wipe our own tears. We build them up when they’re breaking down. We speak life into them when the world around them is trying to kill their spirit. We send strength in envelopes and wrap our prayers around them like armor.
People love to label us as “naïve” — as if love has to follow a script they approve of. But this isn’t naivety. This is the kind of ride-or-die loyalty that most people couldn’t even spell, let alone understand. Loyalty when it’s inconvenient. Loyalty when it’s hard. Loyalty when no one else claps for it.
If you’re living this life, then you already know — you’re part of a sisterhood that moves in silence but loves with the volume cranked up all the way. We might be quiet out here, but don’t ever confuse that with weakness. We are warriors in lip gloss and hoodies. We carry weight most people wouldn’t survive.
So shoutout to the real ones.
To the women who keep answering those calls, who keep showing up for visitation day with butterflies and a bag of quarters, who write “I love you” a thousand different ways without ever needing the words back. To the women who said I got you — and meant it. This one's for you.
We stay solid. We stay true. And no, we’re not alone — not now, not ever.
We weren’t rushing. We weren’t looking over our shoulders. We weren’t worried about who was calling or what chaos was waiting around the corner. We were just… breathing.
This photo was taken before everything started unraveling again—before I let old ghosts pull me back into the fire. Before I made choices that hurt the one person who never stopped believing in me. Before I gave in to pain I hadn’t dealt with yet.
But that day, by the water, standing barefoot on the red rock, I was just a man trying to show my wife what peace looked like. Not the fake kind we tell ourselves we’ve earned. The real kind. The kind you find when the noise in your head finally shuts up for a minute and lets your heart speak.
I wanted her to feel what I was feeling—calm, centered, almost human again. I didn’t grow up with peace. My peace had to be fought for. It had to be carved out of trauma and silence. So to be able to give her a piece of that, even if just for a moment, felt like magic to me.
But truth is, I was still running. Running from the pain that never really left me. From the memories of fists flying between my parents, the screaming, the chaos. From the guilt of reconnecting with a dad I thought I wanted something from. From the pressure of trying to be the man she saw in me while I still felt broken inside.
And I slipped. I fell back into the darkness I swore I left behind.
But that moment—this photo—it reminds me that peace is possible. I’ve lived it. I’ve breathed it in beside her. I’ve felt the world pause in her presence and give me space to imagine something better.
That’s what I’m fighting for now. Not just to come home—but to come home right. To come home whole. To create that peace again and protect it like hell. Because I saw what life could be when I was free from the noise. I showed her. And next time, I won’t just show it to her—I’ll live it with her, every damn day.
Prison doesn’t just strip away your freedom—it strips away your dignity if you let it. But there comes a time when you have to stop letting it break you and start using it to rebuild yourself.
I’ve been through enough to know one thing for sure: if you don’t take control of your own life, no one else will. People say they love you, they say they’re here for you, but when it comes down to it, they show you who they really are. That’s when you have to make a choice—let them keep dragging you down with their excuses, or stop tolerating the lies and start setting boundaries that protect you.
I reached out to my sister recently, asking her to reach out to my mom for me. She doesn’t have a Securus account, and I can’t reach her directly. Simple request. But instead of support, I got excuses. “I have my own family.” “It’s hard with my husband and kids.” All the reasons why it’s too much for her to take five minutes to help me out. And the same old tired words—“I love you” and “I’m here if you need me”—only to be followed up by the same crap every time.
I’m done with it.
I told her straight up that I’m tired of all the excuses. Tired of the same old bullshit. I’ve never asked for anything more than a simple request, and I’m tired of being treated like my needs are just an inconvenience.
I don’t need anyone to fight my battles for me, but I do need people to stop pretending like everything is okay when it’s not. I’m the one who’s been the black sheep, the one who’s always taking the blame. But you know what? I’m done being the scapegoat for their failures. It’s time for them to start taking responsibility for their role in this family too.
And you know what else? I’ve got my own family now. My wife. And that’s where my loyalty lies. So, from this moment on, stay the fuck out of it. If you’re not willing to step up and be real, don’t bother pretending like you’re part of my life anymore.
I used to think that being a part of this family meant enduring all the drama, all the bullshit. But I’ve realized something: I’ve got to protect my own peace. I’ve got to stop letting the same people who’ve hurt me keep playing that same damn game.
And it’s not just my family. It’s with everything and everyone. Life is too short to keep fighting for people who aren’t fighting for you. So, from now on, I’m only putting my energy into what’s real. Into the family I’ve built, into the people who show up for me, into the future that I’m working toward.
Prison may have taken my freedom, but it’s not going to take my dignity or my power. I’m reclaiming both. And I’ll keep moving forward, no matter who stays behind.
