I’m no longer incarcerated, but prison life continues to haunt my freedom. It’s called “post incarceration syndrome.”

I was wiping the counter in my new apartment when my emotions hit me along with the scent of Lysol. I couldn’t quite be the person I wanted to be: My kitchen was not spotless nor had I magically dropped 100 pounds in the few months since I was released. I looked around seeing all the stuff that was now mine from donations. It had not sunk in that it was really mine to keep. I was in disbelief that this is really my life now. I was there but I felt separated from my surroundings. I felt at any moment it all could be taken from me. The psychological effects of surviving a decade in prison are heavy in my current day-to-day life.

“Reentry is hard,” people say. I must have heard that phrase so many times while I was incarcerated. Nobody can tell you exactly why it’s hard, just that it is. That really is the truth. Reentry is hard. That statement, so cliché and so simple, is the truth in 13 letters. Nobody can explain to you why it will be hard nor prepare you, because nobody can tell you exactly what you’re going face — everyone’s journey is unique. Each incarcerated individual leaving prisons comes with their own baggage, good and bad. They come out carrying the paperwork, trauma endured and modest possessions of the life they have lived thus far.

Reintegration has been hard. In the six months since my release, I’ve made mistakes, reached goals, kept my word and randomly burst out crying. I’m sensitive to sound, and I self-consciously leave all the lights on in my house. I also randomly carry the toilet paper with me after I use the bathroom. I’m jumpy, I wake up confused thinking I’m dreaming, and the sound of keys make my insides cringe. Why do I do these things?Because I am experiencing post incarceration syndrome (PICS). While not currently recognized as a psychiatric disorder in major diagnostic manuals, it’s used to describe the psychological challenges faced by formerly incarcerated individuals. The symptoms include depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), difficulty adjusting to life outside of prison, and difficulty forming and maintaining relationships. The term was coined by Terence T. Gorski in 2001 to describe the struggles experienced by people who’ve left prison and are reentering society.

Although not recognized yet, PICS is a very serious issue for returning citizens. I am a testament to that. According to the U.S. Department of Justice, at least 95 percent of all state prisoners will be released from prison at some point; nearly 80 percent will be released to parole supervision. A lot of people like me enter the criminal legal system broken with no self-worth, severe addiction and traumatic backgrounds. Being in prison leaves you vulnerable to not only the powers that be but the chaotic environment around you. You are around people 24/7, have no privacy, witness violence, and are subject to harsh treatment from staff and peers. You live on high alert.

In my experience, the unpredictable environment of incarceration causes this constant state of high alert. It puts a heavy weight on your chest. The poor conditions experienced in prison such as overcrowding, violence, oppression, poor health care, lack of mental health services and loss of purpose contribute to the complex trauma that those incarcerated face. Getting out of prison does not automatically turn off this hyperawareness. My first few days out I felt the weight on my chest begin to lift. Reentry is not one big boom; it happens little by little. The decompression for me has also happened little by little. The weight was placed on my chest over a decade ago when my journey through the criminal legal system started. It is a weight that has become part of me over the years.

That day in my kitchen, without any warning, another small load of the weight was being lifted off of me. I continued wiping my counters as tears poured down my cheeks. It had only been a few days since I left the halfway house where I resided for six months. My emotions were raw. I swept and mopped my floor while I continued to weep deeply. It was like I experienced all the emotions of the last decade in waves: the ups, the downs, the hurts, the pains — but also the joys of finding myself. I felt strong and proud of myself. I made all my struggles mean something. I did my time — my time did not do me. I wept deeper with a relieved spirit.

I am home. I am safe. I am more than a number. I kept trying to convince myself. Then I realized, actually, it’s not over. Parole still has a hold of me. My freedom can still be taken away in an instant should I fail to follow supervision conditions. I know after everything I’ve been through that I can jump through hoops and get through parole — that’s what I do: I make it through. But I’m tired. I want peace. I am tired of having to endure. When will I ever be free from my worst decision? Will it ever end? I looked around at my new kitchen and reflected on my reentry progress. I have a cozy home. I’m reunited with my fiancé, who waited 10 years for me. I am seeing my kids regularly. I am in school. I work and I am emerging as an advocate for justice for incarcerated people. Everything I planned is coming to fruition. So why do I still feel the weight? Why do I feel at any moment, everything I’ve built can be taken away from me? I successfully built a writing portfolio while inside. 

I am a 2024 Represent Justice Ambassador. Why can I not allow myself to believe this is my life? Because the years of incarceration I spent enduring the harsh conditions, emotional warfare and chaotic environment do not go away. I cannot flip a switch and feel worthy after years of being nothing more than the number 93371. It is going to take time. Post incarceration syndrome is real. “It’s never going to be over,” I thought to myself, “even when my parole ends.” I’ll still be left with the effects. Then, right in the midst of my breakdown, the dryer obnoxiously buzzed, jolting me and throwing me into high alert all over again. This reminded me that my body and mind will always remember — despite how desperately I try to forget.mPeople like me are coming out of prison traumatized.

Unfortunately, hurt people can go on to hurt people. Without intervention there is no end near for the generational trauma that is being passed down. “Corrections” does not work, community does. Recognizing PICS and understanding the struggles of people returning to life outside prison is the key to creating that community in the United States.