Behind the Walls

Solitary confinement transforms already vulnerable women into perfect targets for institutional violence. During my eight and a half years in solitary, I witnessed firsthand how this supposedly protective measure became the perfect breeding ground for abuse. The isolation, the dependency, and the power imbalance create conditions where sexual and physical violence aren’t just possible, they’re inevitable. In Texas, where summer temperatures regularly reach triple digits and concrete cells become ovens, I learned that everything from basic necessities to human dignity comes with a price. 

The architecture of solitary confinement deliberately creates complete dependency on guards, who are predominantly young males overseeing mostly young women. When you’re locked in a cell for 23 hours a day, fundamental needs such as food, water, and hygiene products must pass through the hands of someone with total power over you. This reliance isn’t accidental, it’s a feature of the system. 

I remember days when asking for an extra roll of toilet paper was met with the familiar refrain: “What you gonna do for it?” The question lingered in the air, heavy with implication. When your access to tampons or pads depends on the whims of male guards, your body becomes currency in a transaction you never agreed to. 

By design, the isolation is a fertile hunting ground for sexual predators costumed as corrections officers. Without functioning cameras or with cameras monitored by colleagues equally guilty of misconduct, privacy doesn’t exist. My cell in the hole had a mesh viewing window that I wasn’t allowed to cover, even while using the toilet. I can’t count how many times I found myself trying to use the bathroom while a male guard stood outside making trivial conversation, his eyes never leaving my exposed body. Some women resort to deliberate poor hygiene, going weeks without bathing, hoping that body odor might serve as a deterrent against unwanted attention. My neighbor tried this once, but the tactic backfired when a guard wrote her up for “Failing to Obey a Direct Order” by failing to maintain proper hygiene, a disciplinary infraction that would later be cited in her parole denial. 

The power wielded by guards extends beyond simple observation to active humiliation and coercion. Male guards routinely watched us shower, twirling their fingers to instruct us to turn around so they could get a better view. During mandatory searches, they would deliberately brush against us or, when we were handcuffed, position themselves so our restrained hands would brush against their genitals. One week after I refused a guard’s advances, my water was mysteriously “malfunctioning,” unable to flush my toilet or drink tap water, I endured three days of dehydration and humiliation before an indifferent maintenance worker fixed the “problem” with a simple turn of a valve that had been deliberately shut off. 

The threat of retaliation makes reporting abuse a dangerous proposition that few dare to attempt. According to the Bureau of Justice Statistics, over 70% of incarcerated women have histories of physical and sexual abuse prior to entering prison, making them particularly vulnerable to continuing cycles of victimization. When my friend finally gathered the courage to report a guard who had been forcing her to perform sexual acts in exchange for her mail, the investigation was conducted by his relative within a week. She received three disciplinary infractions, all falsified, each one a clear message: stay silent or suffer. Her hunger pains that followed as her food trays mysteriously contained half portions were so loud she mistook them for thunder. 

We suffer unique psychological consequences compared to our male counterparts in solitary. 

When your access to tampons or pads depends on the whims of male guards, your body becomes currency in a transaction you never agreed to. 

Studies show incarcerated women are prescribed psychotropic medications at significantly higher rates than incarcerated men. We also exhibit higher rates of self-harm and suicide attempts than men in similar conditions. During my time in solitary, I witnessed, almost daily, suicide attempts and several completions. One woman, barely nineteen, slashed her wrists after a guard threatened to “lose” her parole paperwork if she didn’t comply with his demands. Those of us with developmental challenges or mental health issues are particularly vulnerable to manipulation. Another neighbor, a woman with clear cognitive disabilities, believed a guard’s promises that he would help with her appeal, if she performed sexual favors, only to discover he had no influence whatsoever on her sentence. This infliction of emotional trauma isn’t limited to people but structures too. 

The geographic isolation of women’s prisons compounds the emotional toll of solitary confinement in ways unique to females. Over 80% of incarcerated women are mothers, yet most prisons are built in rural, isolated areas deliberately difficult for families to visit. The desperation to return to our children creates a powerful leverage point for abusive staff. I’ve witnessed women endure unimaginable degradation, silently accepting sexual assault in exchange for a favorable disciplinary record so they can leave solitary. My own daughter grew from an infant to being a college freshman during my incarceration. I’m imprisoned in Texas and my entire family resides in Michigan, so I’ve only seen her twice. For my first seven years in the hole, I was only allowed a five-minute call every three to four months and that’s only if my disciplinary record was good. It was. But when a guard implied he could arrange extra phone privileges, the temptation to compromise my dignity was almost overwhelming. 

Female guards, far from being allies, often become complicit in maintaining this abusive system. The few women who worked in solitary during my confinement were more concerned with fitting in with their male colleagues than advocating for us. I remember when a female officer witnessed a male guard making explicit comments about my body as I showered. Rather than intervene, she laughed along, later telling me I should be “flattered by the attention.” Female staff who did show compassion quickly learned to suppress it or found themselves transferred to a different building. The culture of corruption and abuse envelopes everyone, transforming even potential allies into participants or silent witnesses. 

The consequences of this environment extend far beyond the sentence itself, creating lasting trauma that follows women like me long after release. In solitary, we aren’t just punished with isolation, we’re also forced to witness and experience cycles of abuse so routinely that they become normalized. Like domesticated animals, we learn that resistance brings pain and compliance brings relief. This conditioning, this breaking of the spirits, is perhaps the cruelest aspect of solitary confinement for women. When I finally left isolation after eight and a half years, I found myself flinching at kindness, suspicious of generosity, and incapable of trust. 

The walls of my cell may have fallen away, but the psychological prison remains, a testament to a system designed not to rehabilitate women, but to break them.