As I begin to write, I am nearing the end of my fifty-fifth day in the “SHU,” the Special Housing Unit, also known as solitary confinement.

During these last 55 days, I have been confined in a 7 x 12 room that contains a standup shower, a bunk bed, a desk, and a sink with a toilet attached. Under normal circumstances, we can receive an hour of outside recreation Monday through Friday as well as three hot meals a day. As you all on the outside know, a global pandemic is far from normal circumstances.

The terms of my sanction for getting caught with a cellphone are thirty days in the SHU along with a loss of commissary and phone privileges for six months. The Bureau of Prisons uses a point-based system to classify prisoners into different levels of custody: the camp is the lowest level of custody and requires inmates to be below twelve total points to serve their time at a camp. Despite my disciplinary shot for having a cellphone, I still only have eight points. The BOP has utilized what’s called a “management variable” to temporarily increase my points for a year to change my custody level to “low,” which sends me to another prison. Because I have already been designated to another prison, I am now stuck in the SHU until they decide to start transferring prisoners again. This pause on transferring is a direct result of COVID-19. As of now, they won’t even start considering the process of transferring prisoners until after June 30th. Even then, it seems incredibly unlikely. In short, I am in what our country considers the worst punishment available for prisoners, and there is no definite end in sight.

Since I’m under 24-hour lockdown, I haven’t seen the sun or breathed fresh air in nearly two months. I have only had one hot meal a day with bologna sandwiches for dinner every single night for the last fifty-five days. The SHU is meant to break men under normal circumstances, but with the current circumstances and the knowledge that it will be like this indefinitely, I can say unequivocally that I am currently experiencing the hardest time of my life. I know that when times are tough, it’s not uncommon to feel like a period of darkness has always existed and will continue for eternity—where even the memory of happiness is so faint that it’s possible it never existed. Somehow knowing this is true, knowing that I was happy once, that I had freedom and a family and I will one day have them again… it doesn’t make this current existence any less hollow, less dark, or less hard.

The most ironic part of all of this for me is that I am in this situation for, essentially, weed and a cellphone—two things that most people are finding quite necessary during this global pandemic. I am sure that the first question many of you have is, “Do you regret it?” Or maybe, “Was it worth it?” The answers to those questions are “No” and “Yes,” respectively. Obviously, these questions are hard to answer, and I find myself asking the same ones daily. I always end up with the same answers, though, because I have learned so much by being here, and I stand by my belief in the positive benefits of cannabis.

When we’re young, we think suffering is something that is done to us. When we get older, when the steel door slams shut, in one way or another we come to understand that real suffering is measured by what is taken away from us. As soon as I was arrested in June of 2016, my suffering began. True freedom was the first thing taken away from me along with money and pride. Living under the storm cloud of a likely prison sentence is far from being truly free. Once the feds came, my suffering got even worse. More freedoms were taken away and replaced with the assurance that I would be spending a great deal of time in prison. In some ways, it’s almost harder living in a world with the knowledge that everything you cherish and value has a time limit attached to it. It’s easier once you’re inside because no one here can binge a show on Netflix over the weekend. No one in here can meet a beautiful girl for drinks and dinner downtown. No one here gets to hug their daughters every night. All those tiny freedoms are already gone. The fear of their impending loss is what tore me up before I came in. Strange isn’t it? That the fear of future suffering is suffering in itself.

I got to federal prison feeling completely defeated, especially considering the last couple of months before prison felt like a funeral preparation. A funeral for me, for my own death. The last of the things I loved were taken away from me: my sister, my nieces, my parents, and my beautiful daughter. I had to say goodbye to all my friends and the girl that I loved. I knew that nothing would ever be the same.

From that moment on, nothing has really changed when it comes to suffering. It was nice having a phone, feeling like I had a voice again, but the truth has always remained that I am still in prison, and I am still suffering. Whether I have a cellphone, commissary, and sports to play, or whether I am starving in lockdown, shitting in front of another man every day, I am still missing the same things that really matter to me. My freedoms are gone. I don’t regret using the phone because it helped me make it through eight months of suffering. It was worth it because it linked me to new people I would have never met otherwise.

Life is all about people and perspective. Nothing in the world teaches you more about how important both of these are than being in the Special Housing Unit. There are men who are broken here, but I refuse to become one of them. Every day is one day closer to the end of this suffering. I do miss everyone I talked to greatly, but without risking what I am going through now, I would have never started writing or opening myself up as I have. They can certainly take a lot of things away from me, but I will never let them take away who I am. My identity is mine and mine alone.

A small ray of hope in all this darkness: I have found a great friend in Mitch (@/PrisonBirkin on TikTok), who is my cellmate. We make each other laugh, and sometimes we stay awake nearly all night talking about life and lost loves. We keep each other positive when one of us gets down about our situations. We read all the books we can get our hands on and write letters when we can. The whole reason this post exists is because I wrote it to a person in a letter. Transcribed and posted, it has now found its way to you. I am allowed to receive letters and pictures, and I would love to hear from any and all of you.

I hope to write again soon. Sending all the hope and love that I have.