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She jumped out of the window.
She'd smashed it with her toilet seat first. Sat on the glass-strewn ledge for a while. Taking it in. Her reclaimed power. Autonomy. Control. And the others; they were egging her on. Whooping and hollering from hundreds of windows. It felt almost like comradery. A joint “fuck you”. The others are overexcited and it's infectious. Glorious. One of the Governors looks tearful; knowing perhaps he is just ever so slightly out of his depth. It is solemnly and hushly whispered that they will “have to call in the Nationals—the Negotiators”. A bit like your mum, emotionally overspent and sleep deprived, telling you “just wait until your father comes home”. But she didn't wait. She jumped. Fuck the Nationals!
She was fine though. She went all gung-ho Kung Fu style and tried to attack the paramedics when they arrived. High on something—spice? We went back to our desks. In hindsight, maybe having double glazing without bars on the windows of a prison cell isn't such a bright idea. Maybe.
I am a mental health social worker and I work in a female prison. If you ask me how my day was, I will say “oh fine—busy”. I will not tell you that a woman jumped out of a window.
I trained at Goldsmiths with inspiring and challenging tutors, finishing my training at HMP Holloway prior to its rushed closing—the ripple effect of which is still felt within the female estate today. I worked for several years within community mental health teams before feeling the pull of prison again. The pull of prison. I've often wondered why, but I'm not sure. I'm not the only one. We have many returnees. The fit is comfortable and familiar. I feel at home. I have found that, largely, as a woman working within prison and the NHS—two sprawling institutions—that there is more parity in this setting. The female voice is equal and the unique setting of prison allows for unique communication. Perhaps that is what feels comfortable. I am not silenced here. I feel that I can work true to my t