I have been to prison seven times, and each time has felt harder than the last. The physical and mental torment is difficult to describe. I carry deep guilt toward my family, especially my parents, and I regret my choices. I want to go home, but I can’t, and that leaves me anxious and restless. People outside rarely understand what prison life is like—the hardship, sorrow, self-blame, and suffering can only be known by those who have lived it.
This is how I ended up here: because of a difficult family background, problems at school, and the friends I kept, I came into contact with drugs and eventually went to prison—what I think of as the “suffering of incarceration.”
My first imprisonment happened after a relapse. I was controlled by a group of so-called friends who sold drugs. I even helped them traffic drugs, but before I received any payment, I was arrested.
When I was young, I joined the triads partly because of how media glorified them. Movies made members look stylish, powerful, and protected—like joining meant no one could bully you. They also portrayed “brotherhood” and loyalty as if members would help each other no matter what.
