In February of 1987, deputies were transporting inmate William R. Blake to court in Dewitt, New York, to face drug and robbery charges. Blake grabbed a deputy's gun and shot two officers, killing one. He was apprehended immediately. For the past 25 years, Blake has been in solitary confinement in a prison in upstate New York. He will not leave prison alive.
That is quite a long time to spend in solitary confinement. And Blake has written quite a powerful essay about what it is like. The essay, which
is scheduled to published in was recognized by the Yale Law Journal, is published in full on the website of the advocacy group Solitary Watch. Blake is not a man in search of pity. But his ordeal sounds completely inhuman. A small sample:
Trying to put into words what is so unlike anything else I know or have ever experienced seems an impossible endeavor, because there is nothing even remotely like it any place else to compare it to, and nothing that will do to you on the inside what so many years in SHU has done to me. All that I am able to articulate about the world of Special Housing Unit and what it is and what it does may seem terrible to you indeed, but the reality of living in this place for a full quarter of a century is yet even more terrible, still. You would have to live it, experience it in all its aspects and the fullness of its days and struggles added up, to really appreciate and understand just how truly terrible this plight of mine has been, and how truly ugly life in the box can be at times, even for just a single day. I spent nine years in Shawangunk's box, six years in Great Meadow's, and I've been here in Elmira's SHU for four years now, and through all of this time I have never spent a single day in a Mental Health Unit cell because I attempted or threatened suicide, or for any other reason. I have thought about suicide in times past when the days had become exceedingly difficult to handle, but I'm still here. I've had some of my SHU neighbors succumb to the suicidal thoughts, though, choosing death over another day of life in the box. I have never bugged out myself, but I've known times that I had come too close. I've had neighbors who came to SHU normal men, and I've seen them leave broken and not anything resembling normal anymore. I've seen guys give up on their dreams and lose all hope in the box, but my own hopes and dreams are still alive and well inside me. The insidious workings of the SHU program have yet to get me stuck on that meandering path to internal destruction that I have seen so many of my neighbors end up on, and perhaps this is a miracle; I'd rather be dead than to lose control of my mind.
Had I known in 1987 that I would spend the next quarter-century in solitary confinement, I would have certainly killed myself. If I took a month to die and spent every minute of it in severe pain, it seems to me that on a balance that fate would still be far easier to endure than the last twenty-five years have been. If I try to imagine what kind of death, even a slow one, would be worse than twenty-five years in the box-and I have tried to imagine it-I can come up with nothing. Set me afire, pummel and bludgeon me, cut me to bits, stab me, shoot me, do what you will in the worst of ways, but none of it could come close to making me feel thing as cumulatively horrifying as what I've experienced through my years in solitary. Dying couldn't take but a short time if you or the State were to kill me; in SHU I have died a thousand internal deaths. The sum of my quarter-century's worth of suffering has been that bad.