#prison health

[indizombie]

The issue of overcrowding in prisons evident in this report is an important reminder of our overreliance on incarceration and the need for alternatives. Ministries of health play a critical role in protecting the basic human right to health. This report highlights the value of a health and human rights-focused approach in dealing with offenders, providing important insights into the specific steps that can be taken to improve our systems, for people in prison and for all of society.

Carina Ferreira-Borges, WHO regional advisor for alcohol, illicit drugs and prison health

[transsexualfiend]

Cripplepunk, madpunk, and neuropunk aren't just "I'm disabled and also left-leaning". It's a specific realm of activism rooted in dismantling the systems that put disabled, mad, sick, etc folks at a disadvantage in society. This mean not only being against the very systems that harm us but also understanding their colonial origins and continued racist legacies. (Anti-ableism, anti-sanism, anti-psych, etc). This means not only just identifying and finding pride in your disability but also building and constantly evolving your understanding of disability and diversity and learning how you can change your worldview to accurately highlight the struggles of disabled people. (EVEN if it sometimes means you will be uncomfortable or unsure of unlearning some kinds of hate.)

[queerism1969]

[politijohn]

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[trans-axolotl]

"According to 988, emergency interventions occur in less than 2% of all calls to the Lifeline. However, available data suggests this is a significant underestimation. A study released in 2022 by the NRI, a national organization that collects and analyzes data on public behavioral health systems, revealed emergency intervention figures significantly higher than the often-repeated “2% or less.” The study included information on the outcomes from 988 centers and non-988 crisis centers in 31 states. In the states that reported data about emergency interventions, an average of 3.6% of calls resulted in law enforcement being dispatched (21 states reporting), 16.9% of calls resulted in mobile crisis units being dispatched (25 states reporting), and 1.9% of calls resulted in EMS being dispatched (17 states reporting). Strikingly, the state reporting the highest number of law enforcement interventions initiated by crisis hotlines placed this figure at an astonishing 17.3%. This data suggests that the actual number of emergency interventions being initiated by 988 is likely far higher than what SAMHSA and Vibrant are currently disclosing to the public.

The reach and potential consequences of emergency interventions should not be minimized. Since 988 was launched in July 2022, the Lifeline has received over 10 million calls. Even if 988’s stated 2% statistic is correct, that impact lands at over 200,000 emergency interventions initiated by 988 centers in the past two years alone. Within our research, participants who experienced emergency responses initiated by crisis hotlines detailed encounters of police violence, discrimination, involuntary hospitalization, forced medication, and physical and sexual assault. The extent and severity of these consequences illustrate how emergency interventions initiated by crisis hotlines can expose help-seekers to institutional violence and devastating outcomes that can worsen crisis."

-The Problem With 988: How America's Largest Hotline Violates Consent, Compromises Safety, and Fails the People. Safe Hotlines Report, 2024.

[shyleviathan]

one of the first arguments that a fatphobic person will make when pressed on the topic of their fatphobia is: "well you never see any fat old people," as if to imply that being fat will automatically kill you at the age of 60.

Okay but that is straight up incorrect. I literally do see fat old people all the time. They're in my family. They're my neighbors. They visit my workplace. They're my coworkers. They smile at me on the street. Fat old people with grey hair and wrinkles and loose skin. Fat old people with hanging tummies and thick arms and double chins. Fat old people who are active pillars in their communities and are good to those around them. Fat old people who are alive and healthy and retired and are loved by their families.

Fat old people are not myths. They are only invisible to fatphobic people.

[notfeelingthyaster]

i don't like how the joker movie and other joker representations make him mentally ill and blame his crimes on his ailing mental health (instead of on joker venom which i think it's still comic canon)

[fenrichaita]

the mental health industry is an auxiliary of the police state. It is not a tool of healing in the same way that a prison is not a place of rehabilitation. In both cases, you are more profitable while demoralized, detained, and stripped of your rights, than autonomous and empowered.

[bimoonphases]

@wolfstarmicrofic September 19 - prompt 19: Dementor [word count 533]

Peter was actually happy there were Dementors around the castle grounds. They would protect Hogwarts, but definitely not in the way those idiots at the Minister thought. They wouldn’t protect their precious school and precious saviour from a murderer, but rather themselves and their oh-so-flawed system from the truth. And they would protect him as well. Peter was even happier to discover that Dementors little affected him in his rat form. He had enough to worry about as it was. He could only imagine what twelve years in that hellish place that was Azkaban had done to Sirius, and actually hoped the terror he was sure to have of the Dementors would keep him away from Hogwarts. And from him specifically. Still, he couldn’t ignore the hundreds of memories he had of Sirius appearing from some secluded place in the castle apparently out of nowhere, the whole of the Marauder’s Map memorised in his brilliant mind. And if Peter had found out as he had stayed hidden in the red-headed boy’s pocket that Dementors didn’t affect Animagi as much, Sirius surely had found out as well.

Moreover, the train ride on September 1st had brought another gigantic problem with it as well. It wasn’t enough spending it, like he had done with every single day since the news of the breakout from Azkaban, frantically wondering where he could run to to save himself, if there was any place more secure than Hogwarts, if Hogwarts was actually that secure faced with twelve years of wrath and betrayal and the mind and abilities of a Marauder. It wasn’t enough being fussed over with because he looked ‘ill’ when all he was was utterly terrified, or being once again face to face with James’s son who, as the kid face slowly left him to be replaced by the sharper traits of being a teenager, looked more and more like his father, his eyes sometimes dragging over him unknowingly as accusing as his mother’s. No, when the kids had closed their compartment door he had smelled it first and then seen it with his own eyes. Remus. Remus was there too, fast asleep in a corner, looking worse than he had ever seen him. But Remus would know if he took even one look at him, or if the wolf in him took a whiff of his scent. And if Remus knew, it would be over. There was no way he would survive as soon as the certainty that Sirius had never betrayed James and Lily hit Remus. No, despite twelve years of heartbreak, the moment Remus knew the love of his life was innocent, and what he had had to endure because of him, he would run back to his side, Ministry, Dumbledore and Dementors be damned. And if Peter was deadly afraid of Sirius’s wrath, fueled by grief, twelve years of nightmares and possibly the legendary craziness of his family at this point, he was even more afraid of Remus’s level-headedness, the calm he always had in front of even the most awful things. Yes, if Remus and Sirius found each other again, fell into each other’s arms again, Peter was as good as dead.

[sunnynwanda]

Could you do a story where a guard of a Supermax prison befriends a supervillain, because he treats him like a genuine human being instead of an animal; and later, all the power-dampeners suddenly fail; and all these villains just revolt against the guards; but supervillain makes sure he’s safe since he was always kind to him?

I understand if you don’t wanna write this!! 💜

Soulitary

It was silent. Excruciatingly so. Supervillain could hear his own heartbeat, the rustling of the fabric over his chest that accompanied every exhale, the strained motion of his eye ticking. He could almost feel the darkness surrounding him.

At first, it was painful. Supervillain was so reliant on his powers that getting deprived of them physically hurt him. His limbs were too heavy, his chest too stiff, and his body too weak. He couldn't move for a fortnight and barely ate anything until he had lost enough weight to be able to lift his body off the floor. Movement, as limited as it was in his cage, seemed to keep him sane. 

The pain subsided, drifting into the back of his mind over time. 

He adapted to the constant darkness of his cell, too. The initial nightmares of horrible creatures lurking in the dark no longer occupied his shattered dreams. There were no monsters with long claws and cold, slimy fingers reaching for his neck, looking to choke the last breath out of him. No, there were no monsters in his cage. The monsters were outside. Patrolling the corridors, mocking the beasts they were ordered to guard, spitting at them and laughing like hyenas, beating up anyone who dared to answer. Supervillain learned to tune out their voices and ignore their sneering remarks. 

But human nature is a terrifying thing. Supervillain got used to the weakness weighing him down. It was not as difficult to lift his head or hold a spoon to eat whatever animal food he was getting fed anymore. He came to terms with the absence of sunlight as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. He even went so far as to condition himself to tolerate inhumane treatment.

The only thing he could not adjust to was the isolation. Solitary confinement. The actual worst they could have done to Supervillain, who adored the confused commotion of his big family. He thrived in chaotic environments, where people talked over each other, laughed out loud and always had something to add to the conversation. 

Conversation. That was what Supervillain was bereaved of. And he felt it - the need, the yearning of human connection. As little as a hello would be enough. Just a word that was truly uttered – not conjured by his frenzied consciousness. 

When he first hears the gentle knock on his door, he doesn't believe his ears. The guards never ask for permission, they barge right in, not dignifying the captives with boundaries. Animals deserve no respect. Thus, Supervillain waits, allowing his eyelids to drop again. He doesn't know why he bothers to open them in the first place when it's pitch black around him, regardless. 

The knock comes again, this time louder. Then he hears a hushed voice. "I'm coming in." 

When no reply follows, the Guard (Supervillain assumes it must be a new one) turns the key, pushing the door halfway open and entering the cell. 

"God, why is it so dark? I can't even see where I'm stepping... Ouch!" He springs back upon stepping on Supervillain's foot and crouches down to place the bowl of food on the floor. "I'm so sorry, I couldn't see."

With his hands now free, the Guard reaches for the flashlight on his belt and turns it on. Supervillain has to cover his eyes - he did not remember light hurting this much - squinting despite his hand obstructing it. It takes him a few moments to adjust, then he wipes the tears off and focuses his gaze on the Guard in front of him. Too young for this miserable place, he thinks to himself while his captor studies him. It's only when their eyes lock, that the Guard comes to his senses, apologising profusely.

"I am so sorry! I did not see you there. I mean, it's hard to see anything in such darkness, but still. My bad." Supervillain is too stunned to react for a number of reasons. Since when did the guards apologise? It was part of the job to inflict suffering on their subjects. Did this one not complete the training? Or was this a trap? Was he acting deft to catch Supervillain off-guard and wound him unexpectedly? 

The Guard, however, keeps rambling. "I thought you would be asleep when you did not answer. It's not an excuse though. I should have checked. That's part of my job, is it not? Ah, you probably wouldn't know." He runs a hand over his face, clearly distressed. Supervillain is amused and too shocked to react. That's the most talking he has heard in months, and a part of him desperately demands to answer. The Guard rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "Anyways, here's your food. I don't exactly know what that is, but you're so skinny, you should eat it."

Supervillain's mind is screaming at him, begging his mouth to talk, to say something – anything. God, move! Talk, god damn you, a word, any word!

But before he can squeeze out said word, the Guard waves him goodbye and locks the door, leaving him alone. 

He never touches the food, too consumed by the incident to think about anything other than the ray of light – literally and figuratively –that walked into the solitude of his cage. He spends the next several hours in feverish dreams bordering reality until the morning arrives, poisoning him with a blood-curdling idea that the Guard was nothing but a figment of his own imagination – a chimaera created by his delusional mind. Yet, despite his best efforts to convince himself it was an illusion, his memory opposes, bringing forth every detail of the interaction – albeit one-sided – that he managed to engrave in his brain. 

Supervillain is still deep in deliberation when a knock on the door attracts his attention. He freezes, breath hitching in his throat as he waits with desperation for it to come again. It does not. Instead, the key turns in the lock, and the door screeches open. 

"I'm going to turn the light on, if you don't mind," the Guard warns. Supervillain is dumb enough to nod in the dark. "Here we go." 

He flicks the switch outside the cell door; the bulbs buzz worriedly, and light floods the ascetic room. Supervillain looks around, seeing his dungeon for the first time. He notices his blanket in the corner and the untouched bowl from yesterday. 

"Hey, you didn't eat at all! Is everything alright?" The Guard chimes into his thoughts. His voice is laced with concern that feels foreign in this place. When Supervillain shakes his head, the Guard smiles – the room, somehow, becomes brighter. "It's bad, isn't it?" 

Supervillain nods, and the Guard chuckles, placing a new hot bowl in front of him. He looks up in surprise and is met with a shrug. "Figured it might taste better hot." 

The expectant gaze of the Guard is the only reason he reaches for the bowl. It's as shitty as before, but it warms his insides. He hums in appreciation, taking another spoonful. The Guard smiles again, now more cheerful. "Should I leave the lights on? Or do you like it dark?"

Supervillain finally finds his voice. "Light. Thank you." 

The Guard nods before exiting, and Supervillain curses himself for not saying more. He should have talked, for god's sake. This is the first person to treat him like a human being for the past eight months, and all he could muster were three words. 

He feels pathetic. This wasn't him, not really. The true Supervillain was voluble, articulate with his words and emotions and loud. Very, very loud. He loved the attention it earned him, loved being on stage. Performance was part of his persona, his public image of a supervillain. The presentation was what gained him the fame. The same fame that led him here. Alas, he sighs, leaning his back on the wall. 

At least he has light now. 

***

It's been almost four months since Supervillain's confinement changed - the granted light and occasional conversation made his exile from society feel less strenuous. His Guard would come in once a day, as per the rules. Aside from that, he gained a habit of sitting outside his door after the evening rounds, telling Supervillain about his day or the news. His cheerful voice would catch Supervillain off-guard at first, but he grew accustomed to it, as well as to the daily dose of prison gossip. The people in the city were dejected - mass arrests that were supposed to bring peace to the streets had a reverse effect. Supervillain couldn't help the foul smile this knowledge brought to his face. He did not comment. 

After two weeks of talking to the wall, the Guard was ready to give up. He had promised himself he would stop trying after the fourteenth night, which ended up being the night Supervillain replied. It was a short comment on the newly installed power dampeners that were to substitute the old ones. Supervillain pointed out that the old ones were more than efficient, leaving him drained of strength and energy. The Guard then asked if that was the reason he was so skinny, and so the conversation flowed. Supervillain told him about the thorny months of his captivity, how it took him countless days and nights to submit to the unfamiliar weakness. 

During one of the many conversations that followed, they talked about his past, the origin of his unnatural power and the reasons for his incarceration. Supervillain never denied being dangerous – he embraced it gladly, though he never used his power against innocent civilians. Sure, he had committed his fair share of crimes, as regarded by the authorities, irrespective of his cause. But there were worse things he could do.

The Guard told him of his past dreams and aspirations, all of which were crushed when he lost his parents and had to step up to provide for his younger siblings. He came from a household where no one got left behind, and Supervillain finally understood where his kindness stemmed from. 

One day, when the Guard came from the last round, Supervillain was the first to speak. They sat on the opposite sides of the door, back to back and separated by thick metal, yet connected stronger than before. 

"So, will you be leaving soon?" Supervillain fails to mask the melancholy in his voice. So much for being supportive!

The Guard pauses for a long moment before shaking his head no. Supervillain can't see him, but the reply is clear as day. "Your brother's graduating next month, is he not? You can stop working here and search for a new job. More suitable for you."

"I can't," his voice comes softer than a rustle. He presses a clammy hand to his forehead to calm the burn beneath his skin. 

"Why?" In all honesty, Supervillain does not want him to answer. He doesn't want him to go either, but keeping him here feels blasphemous. Despite the cell draining his life force and loneliness ravaging what's left, Supervillain would rather be forlorn again than allow his friend to waste his youth here.

"I can't, Supervillain," the Guard repeats, even lower now, not trusting his voice to speak louder.

Supervillain curses under his breath. "Why not?

Do not say what I think you're going to say, they plead. I don't think I have the strength to alienate you or push you away to make you go. 

"Because I won't leave you here alone." The Guard gets up, walking away to avoid being lectured on the stupidity of his reason. He lacks the nerve to be any bolder. 

He doesn't return until later at night. Supervillain is stiff against the door when he hears approaching footsteps and shuffling. Then comes the soft voice. "I'm sorry."

Supervillain sighs, rubbing his eyebrows to ease the tension. "You did nothing wrong." The claim is met with silence, so he adds. "Apart from getting attached to the wrong person, that is."

The Guard chuckles, shaking his head and bringing his knees to his chest. "Are you the wrong person?"

"I'm a convicted criminal." A fact he had to remind himself daily when he first got here. You are a convicted criminal, and the guards will treat you as such. Except the treatment was far worse than that, until his new friend showed up.

"Doesn't mean you're evil," the Guard chimes into his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. 

"You don't know me," he notes, though it's not entirely true. 

The Guard smiles, leaning forward and placing his chin on his knees to rest his neck as he mumbles. "I think I know more than anyone else."

***

The wailing of the sirens forces Supervillain awake in the most unsettling way. The alarm lights under the ceiling flicker red, alerting him further. He springs to his feet with a speed he hasn't had in a long time and then stops in his tracks because it strikes him. The overwhelming force that hits him right in the middle of his chest, spreading all over his body, obstructing his lungs with suffocating constrictions, rushing through his veins and reaching the tips of his fingers and toes to erupt in sparkles of sheer unrestrained raging power. It's surreal. All-consuming. Galvanising. He revels in the agitation that washes over him, wave after wave. His senses are overstimulated and raw. 

He feels lightheaded as he attempts to focus his eyes on his prickling fingers. It takes him a moment to identify the cacophony of sounds outside. 

And then the realisation dawns on him. 

The power dampeners are off. 

In a prison with the worst criminals of the damn century. He closes his eyes to tune out the noise and think, but his mind is too frantic to concentrate. The moment the inmates realise their powers are back, all hell will break loose. Supervillain knows they will revolt. He would, too – after spending months being treated worse than an animal.

The Guard. The image flashes through his thoughts so fast it almost burns him. With renewed anxiety, he bangs on the door. There's no response, and the ideas running through his head coat his stomach with dread, hot and muggy. He knows it's about to get dirty, and, in all honesty, those guards deserve it. But not his Guard. Not him. Anyone but him. 

He presses his palms against the door, channelling all his fears and worries into heating the metal till it melts under his fingers. It drips down to his feet, forming a pool. When the lock is soft enough, he whips the door open, but as he is about to step outside, someone crushes into his chest, pushing him back and shutting the door behind them. 

He lets out a sigh of relief as the Guard presses his back to the door, holding it closed. 

"That's not going to work." 

"Please don't go out there!" 

They speak at the same time, and Supervillain can't help the smirk that fights its way to his face. "Scared I'll harm your friends?"

"I'm scared they'll hurt you." His eyes are enormous as he stares up at Supervillain, who looks much healthier now. He looks alive. His skin is no longer grey, his lips and cheeks are coloured in pink hues, and even his eyes sparkle with new vigour. He takes hold of Guard's shoulders, pinning him further against the door to stabilise his shaking form. 

"Stay here. Be quiet." The Guard shakes his head no, grasping Supervillain’s arms with an unspoken plea. Supervillain softens. "It's okay. I will keep you safe. I promise." 

With that, he moves the Guard to the side and exits the cell, sitting down against the door – roles reversed from hours before. From time to time, the Guard hears people come and run the moment they spot Supervillain's menacing form.

It's only four hours later that the military arrives, clearing the area and arresting the surviving prisoners. As they bring order to the facility, checking floor after floor Supervillain opens the door. He is met by a tear-stained face and hard stare of his Guard. Supervillain huffs out a laugh and draws him into an embrace before pushing him out the door.

"Try not to forget me when you leave," he jokes half-heartedly, but the Guard shakes his head with surprising firmness. 

"I will get you out of here no matter what it costs me."

He never steps foot in the prison again but manages to keep his oath three months later. When Supervillain exits the gates with release papers in hand, he does not expect to be met by a mixed bunch of his siblings and strangers who all seem to be acquainted. It's moments later that he notices another familiar face he failed to spot for lack of the usual uniform. He shakes his head with a cheeky smile and rushes towards the kindest people in his life. 

Supervillain never has to endure silence or solitude again. 

Alright, there's a lot to unpack here :) First of all, thank you for the wonderful request. It turned out longer than expected, as well as took me longer to finish, but then again, the idea deserved to be worked on. I enjoyed crafting this story immensly. So thanks for that as well. I know other writers have been doing the request too but avoided reading their stories to keep mine clear of influences.

I hope you enjoy this despite the delay. Once again, thank you! xo Sunny

Masterlist

[thoughtportal]

In March 2021, sheriffs in Etowah county, Alabama, arrested Ashley Caswell on accusations that she’d tested positive for methamphetamine while pregnant and was “endangering” her fetus.

Caswell, who was two months pregnant at the time, became one of a growing number of women imprisoned in the county in the name of protecting their “unborn children”.

But over the next seven months of incarceration for “chemical endangerment” in the Etowah county detention center (ECDC), Caswell was denied regular access to prenatal visits, even as officials were aware her pregnancy was high-risk due to her hypertension and abnormal pap smears, according to a lawsuit filed on Friday against the county and the sheriff’s department. She was also denied her prescribed psychiatric medication and slept on a thin mat on the concrete floor of the detention center for her entire pregnancy.

In October, when her water broke and she pleaded to be taken to a hospital, her lawyer says, officials told her to “sleep it off” and “wait until Monday” to deliver – two days away.

During nearly 12 hours of labor, staff gave her only Tylenol for her pain, the suit says, allegedly telling her to “stop screaming”, to “deal with the pain” and that she was “not in full labor”. Caswell lost amniotic fluid and blood and was alone and standing up in a jail shower when she ultimately delivered her child, according to the complaint and her medical records. She nearly bled to death, her lawyers say.

After she was taken to a hospital, she was diagnosed with placental abruption, a condition in which the placenta separates from the wall of the uterus and the fetus is deprived of oxygen, meaning there was a risk of stillbirth. The baby survived, but Caswell was immediately separated from her newborn.

[sissytobitch10seconds]

THE MARIGOLD IS NOT A METAPHOR FOR GENERATIONAL OR PARENTAL TRAUMA. IT IS A LITERAL, TANGIBLE FORCE THAT CHANGES THE UNIVERSE THEY LIVE IN. ERASING THE MARIGOLD IS NOT A METAPHOR FOR KILLING ONESELF TO MAKE THE UNIVERSE A BETTER PLACE IF YOU HAVE TRAUMA. STOP MISCONSTRUING THE ENDING JUST BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T LIKE IT.

[glorious-spoon]

just found out that my sister in law and nephew will be joining us on vacation this year, which would be lovely but for the fact that she's also bringing her shithead MAGA husband whom even she dislikes, and i may be obligated to drown him in the ocean if he opens his mouth in front of me

[uncanny-tranny]

I sincerely believe that institutionalization is a deterrent for healing. The state of many institutions is incapable of handling people in acute need, and more often than not, we are traumatized from institutionalization because of this reality.

[politijohn]

Source

[orcarnage]

Wingless Hawk