What’s prison like? People who write me often want to know and prior to January 7, 2010, my first day here, I wondered the same thing. Well, let’s see if I can describe it—at least the physical aspects of my environment. I will save the emotional aspects for another day. One thing is for sure, words cannot accurately paint a picture of prison, this place I now call home.

I am confined in a garage-like, dormitory setting with 38 to 40 men packed in like sardines. Everything is metal—trunks, bunks, lockers, tables, and the tiny, lone window on the back wall. The walls are cinderblock—dented faces painted grey many times over, bordered by rust and old pipes. It is a boiler room without the boiler.

I sleep on a “prison pillow,” thin and narrow, on a bunk equipped with a one-inch foam mattress wrapped in plastic. The air is stale, and the thick stench of cigarette smoke mixed with body odor moves through the tier courtesy of an oversized utility fan suspended from the ceiling. Nauseating isn’t the right word. In the winter it’s freezing; in the summer, hot like a sauna with temperatures climbing to over 117 degrees.

I brush my teeth with a tiny piece of plastic, about two inches long, and shave with a singular blade about the same size. And to think I used to complain about my Mach3 razor! There is one small, cloudy mirror in our bathroom. There are no light switches. Lights come on automatically at the crack of dawn and shut off by ten-thirty at night.

I live on the bare minimum, but this minimum has become my norm. I spend countless hours a day sitting in my green plastic chair working on projects for my future, reading and writing, leading a Bible study, and corresponding with friends and family. My own personal living area consists of a 6’ by 8’ living space, 3 of those feet are occupied by my bed. The toilet bowl is steel, the sanitation revolting. Shower and bathroom privacy, NONE!

I was just thinking the other day that I haven’t felt carpet under my feet in almost two years. Little things that I used to take for granted like music, silence, or fresh air, are considered luxuries here in prison.

But this is the life of my doing. One night, one poor decision, an innocent life lost. No excuses. No complaints. I am paying the price for my reckless decision to drink and drive, even though that price can never commensurate the permanence of a lost life. I have purposed to honor the name of my victim, Mr. Hort Kap, in all that I do from here on out. But even so, it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

Today is all I have, tomorrow doesn’t exist—that’s how I approach each new day here in prison. The judge gave me one day at a time for five and a half years and I make the most of every day.

This will pass, all things eventually do, and my only prayer is that God will take my disaster and bring good from it. Comfortable it is not, but my mind has been at total peace since day one. I may be confined, but my spirit is not. Dusty floors, dirty walls, grimy gates, but because of my faith and reliance on God, I am content, at peace, and fully free.

To say that I am grateful for what God has done in my life is an understatement! I killed a man and deserve to pay with my own life. But God has shown mercy to me, and has given me hope in the midst of the darkness here. My surroundings are all I have, but with GOD, I have more than most.

(ED. NOTE: The author, of Court House, is serving five-and-a-half years in state prison after pleading guilty to manslaughter and driving while intoxicated in October 2009. Matt’s blogs have been read by over 100,000 people in every state, 114 countries, and in 67 different languages.
www.themattmaherstory.com)