Picture this: navigating the murky depths of the British justice system, entrenched in battles of mental illness, yet simultaneously cultivating an extraordinary idea about the universe. This is not fiction; it is a lived reality. This is a tale of adversity, resilience, and the power of the mind. From being sentenced to four years at Chelmsford Crown Court to discovering transformative cosmic ideas within the confines of a prison cell, this story is nothing short of intriguing. 

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Imagine grappling with mental be handling while in incarceration and knowledge of a potential treatment available, yet declining due to a past trauma. Brace yourself, as you are about to glean insights into a journey from HMP Chelmsford prison then HMP Highpoint prison to Runwell Hospital, a forensic unit for the mentally insane, all while ruminating on the birth of a planet and the possible habitation of Mars. 

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There lies a poignant moment at the half-way point of the sentence - a turning point where our protagonist gets transferred to Runwell Hospital. This shift is not merely geographical; it's a cognitive revolution, where the confined space of a cell transforms into a campus, inspiring an ambition of academic pursuit.

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What unfolds is a journey of relentless legal warfare for freedom, eventually leading to a victorious release and an unexpected label - 'Paranoid Schizophrenic.' It’s the equivalent of serving a nine-year sentence, laced with trials and triumph, and the never-ending battle with mental health.

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The day I was to be sentenced was upon me, and truth be told, I was under the impression that my punishment would land somewhere on the softer part of the spectrum - about nine months or slightly more. I regretfully admit, I didn't truly comprehend the enormity of the crime I had committed. As I recall, the Judge highlighted my refusal for medical assistance, and I distinctly remember avoiding eye contact as my sentence was read out, unwilling to accept responsibility for my actions, despite having pled guilty. The moment passed quickly, but the words – a four-year sentence – reverberated through the core of my being. I was to pay for the pain others had suffered at my hands with four years of my own. By this time, my Nan had passed, and unbeknownst to me, I was unaware of the day she was laid to rest, unable to even offer a prayer. I was cruelly shut out from the last rites of my Nan's life, a profound wrong.

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The day of my sentencing has faded into a blur in my memory, yet the jolts of shock from the years of imprisonment I was about to face still resonate. Facing up to the time I would lose, paying for my own mistakes - albeit under an unsound mental state - highlighted my failings. I failed myself, my family, and the few supporters I had, casting an unwanted shadow on us all. If I could rewind time, the person I would confront is the Michael who committed that offense, trying to instil sense where it was sorely lacking. Alas, reality offers no such opportunities. Waking up to the reality of my sentence triggered thoughts of suicide, slowly transforming into self-destructive behaviour behind bars. The isolation only increased as my desperate pleas for help were met with alienation from fellow inmates. My parting act at HMP Chelmsford in late 2003 involved hurling unforgivable, racist tirades from the confines of my cell, ignorant of their repercussions on the prisoners tasked with painting the cell afterward. But as fate would have it, I was relocated to HMP Highpoint, to serve the remaining years of my sentence.

 

Upon my arrival at HMP Highpoint, my perception was beyond the ordinary. By then, my hair had taken on a life of its own, uncut for over half a year. The moment of transformation came when a fellow inmate took the time to chat with me, leading me to shave off my hair and become a skinhead - a significant milestone during my imprisonment. As I began to converse and connect with my fellow detainees, a mere six months into my sentence. I developed a deep curiosity about the humans behind their crimes, even though some of their deeds were utterly horrifying. There was one transgression, however, that remained unacceptable to me - child abuse. Thankfully, it was a sentiment shared by a considerable group of my inmate peers, providing a sliver of solace amidst the chaos.

 

Amid the harsh environment of incarceration, I took a risk and engaged in my first drug trade – exchanging tobacco for a joint – certainly a small enough piece to lift my spirits temporarily. Securing a joint while confined is a feat in itself, providing a brief escape from the harsh realities of imprisonment. The stakes, however, were high back then. Being found out not only stripped you of certain privileges, but potentially added days onto your sentence via a system where you were summoned before the Governor for justification. It was an era where, shockingly, inmates were choosing heroin over cannabis, with the rationale being based on drug detection: heroin disperses from the body rapidly, while cannabis lingered for up to a month. The tragic irony lies in a system inadvertently pushing inmates towards harder substances, with no checks or balances. My first experience with heroin came soon afterwards. Thankfully, throughout my sentence, I often chose a joint over 'chasing the dragon', or heroin use, even though the latter was significantly more accessible at any given time.

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Not long after my arrival at HMP Highpoint's initiation wing, I was ushered into my long-term dwelling, the rather unsavoury South 3. Starting off in a shared cell was a strain, considering my discomfort with basic acts of privacy around others. To my relief, though, I secured a single cell in about a week. Little did I know then, however, that this cramped space would be my home for eighteen long months. The long-term wing, South 3, was far from welcoming when I first set foot in it. Marlon, however, worked wonders with his paintbrush over the course of a year, assisted at times by yours truly, and managed to lend it some respectability. The fellow residents of HMP Highpoint, mostly serving medium-length sentences or lifers halfway through their terms, were as diverse a bunch as any. Then there were the eccentrics among us, like the man we all called "Pigeon", probably because he acted like one through flapping his arms when strolling the wing. There was constant conjecture about his mental condition, but one thing was undeniable - his absolute disregard for personal hygiene, revealed through the nauseating odour of his cell and his unhygienic habits, like brewing tea in his sink and drinking from it as and when. Discerning sanity from insanity is a daunting task within these walls - many just yearn for the relaxed ambience of a hospital. I, however, was likely the exception, considering I spent most of my time actively foregoing hospital care. Perhaps that spoke volumes of my own mental state.

 

It didn't take long before my first brush with internal discipline, and Baz was mostly to blame. As soon as I settled in my solitary cell, Baz smuggled his tattoo gun, initially just for a night. However, within a week my cell morphed into a makeshift tattoo parlour with Baz reaping all financial benefits, leaving me empty-handed. It's my fault, really, for allowing him to exploit me, a pattern I unfortunately knew all too well. It was no surprise when the authorities searched my cell and I bore the brunt of the entire operation, despite receiving no profit. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise; who knows how far it could have gone, I might have even ended up with a tattoo myself. Prisons, like life, teach you – if you consistently let people take advantage of you, they will continue, inspiring others to join the misadventure. After this harsh lesson, I developed a tougher shell. But the tables turned when Baz attempted to sell me cocaine, which to this day, I'm certain was merely grounded medication.

 

Soon enough, the holiday season arrived, and I found myself spending my first Christmas in incarceration. The ambiance was entirely unusual, and perhaps the best way I can describe it is this: many inmates are parents first. The heavy heart that accompanies the realization of all the precious moments being missed probably hits hardest during this festive season. That Christmas remains etched in my memory largely because of a song - 'Mad World', which dominated the radio airwaves as the number one chart-topper. I vividly recall harming myself that holiday, though the reasons still remain obscured in a foggy corner of my mind. What was unmistakably clear, however, was the immense journey that still lay ahead, including at least one more solitary Christmas. Even more daunting was the uncertainty of how I would reintegrate into society after this prison sentence.

 

During one particular visit, my mother and sister came to see me. The sight of my mangled appearance led to an emotional outburst from my sister, forcing her to abruptly leave our visitation session. My mother, caught in the middle of a heartbreaking situation, dashed after her. This validation confirmed my deepest fears -the toll my predicament was having on my loved ones. Did I yearn for an end to this cruel existence? More than anyone could ever know. But simultaneously, I began to experience a reaffirmation of my existence, a burgeoning belief that I bore a special and divine purpose. I felt an intimate connection to Jesus Christ, and believed that I had an essential story to unfold, one that held an ancient, indispensable secret. This belief in my divine purpose, my inherent connection to a greater power, kept me afloat amidst the despair and torment. I comprehended that I had committed wrongs, and that my life was heavily in debt to existence itself. As much as life had shortchanged me, I understood I owed it more. And that was perhaps the thought that saved me. Had I been aware of the extent of my incarceration during those desolate times, I'm unsure I would have made it through.

 

Among the positive aspects of HMP Highpoint, was the ample opportunities for interaction we had each day, with even more during the weekends. In a place like prison, it's the smallest details that often have the most significant impacts. Across from me, there lived an older gentleman by the name of Mick who was serving time for heroin dealing, and unfortunately lost his home to the Proceeds of Crime Act. His home was purchased through his hard-earned income, but he couldn't prove it as his earnings were cash and undeclared. It remains unknown what became of Mick after I departed from HMP Highpoint, but he was a constant, albeit unexpected, companion during my time there. He always shared his snout with me and often supplied me with coffee and sugar. Our conversations ranged broadly, covering all sorts of subjects.

 

Mick was a man I held in high regard, though he was not without his imperfections. Yet, one must bear in mind that he was involved in a trade that could potentially harm or even kill individuals, potentially even children. It's crucial to nurture a forgiving spirit within a prison environment because if you cannot pardon others, how can you expect them to reciprocate the gesture? The only individuals who ever showed me forgiveness were those who shared my bloodline. However, not everyone is fortunate enough to have this luxury. During my initial period in prison, I was devoid of family support throughout my remand time. Yet, when my conviction was confirmed, their support trickled in, whether in the form of visits or the dispatch of essential items like clothes and shoes. There were those I encountered who had no family, and contemplating being in their position, I can confidently say that I wouldn't be here sharing my story had I been in their shoes.

 

I distinctly recall when Hayley Danbrowski joined the prison guard team, she was a beacon of hope in a murky situation for me. Prison protocol forbids any social interaction with the prison guards, yet Hayley was an exception, someone whose company I genuinely appreciated. If the circumstances were different, outside these prison walls, would I have been attracted to her? Undeniably. She was like a breath of fresh air. HMP Highpoint housed a significant proportion of female guards, which was advantageous as they often commanded more respect and acknowledgment. Then, there was Penny. Penny was responsible for teaching Art. I crossed paths with her when I signed up for prisoner education. You had to indulge in either work or study to get through the mundane days at HMP Highpoint, education was a half-day affair, meaning lesser money for me, merely £5 per week. Yet, the intellectual stimulation it provided was invaluable to me.

 

Firstly, I dove into the world of art by painting a heartfelt image for my father--one that reflected an intimate moment between my late grandmother and my aunt when her daughter, my cousin, was born. It was a surprising revelation for me, as I had never dipped a brush in paint prior to that. Specifically, what I benefited most from was learning how to mix and blend colours to produce the desired visual impact. Penny taught me the order of operations: layered skin-tones first for my grandmother, followed by a wash of hair colour to simulate her thinning hair, which allowed the underlying skin colour to slightly show through. This experience nestled within prison walls sparked a ray of hope--that perhaps I had uncovered a skill I could utilize.

 

I began creating pencil sketches for my fellow inmates, earning my tobacco in return. My knack for accurate portraits stems from my obsessive pursuit of perfection, a trait that allows me to capture each individual's unique traits perfectly. It's true, some attempted to swindle a free drawing from me, but they never succeeded. My advice to everyone - never deliver your work until you've received payment, that's your only leverage. If you're lucky enough to find a legal business opportunity while incarcerated, steer clear of any dodgy dealings - it will only lead to trouble.

 

Throughout my prison term, my imagination was prone to wild flights, creating illusions that seemed as shifting and unpredictable as the weather. I was once told that my prison cell was a mirror of my mind, free to recreate as I wished, a concept that drove me to endlessly decorate my cell during my stay at HMP Highpoint. My perceptual distortions were a mixed bag of fear and insightful observations of my milieu. One vivid episode was when I was convinced, I spotted a gap in the boundary fence, a delusion that dominated my mind for days while incarcerated at HMP Chelmsford. I was under the illusion that this was the system's invitation for my grand escape. This particular fantasy rendered my stay in HMP Chelmsford unendurably grim. Eventually, I chose to chuck such thoughts to the wind and informed a guard about the phantom crevice. In response, the guard inspected the area only to confirm that it was a mere mirage, bearing no trace of a real escape route. That incident seemed to extinguish my escape fantasies, although my self-harming tendencies and other delusions persisted unabated. I often conjured up scenarios of fellow inmates being handpicked to share the wing with me, a classic symptom of my growing mental affliction. Among my grandiose misconceptions was the belief of spearheading a business from behind prison bars, and commandeering a helicopter for my business errands, an outrageous notion even by my standards. Reflecting on my life trajectory, I concede that my experiences and the people I intermingled with contributed to my mental breakdown and the onset of such symptoms. The hardest part of grappling with such illusions is dealing with the crushing disillusionment when they shatter, a blow that would often exacerbate my suicidal tendencies. The impact of such delusions varies across individuals; while others find them frightening, for me, they often offer a fascinating escape from my desolate reality.

 

When you're confronted with ample free time, your mind can spiral into overthinking. I found myself obsessively seeking answers in my own thoughts, particularly revolving around the enigma of Mars – a planet that, in myriad ways, was symbolizing my own personal failures. After much contemplation, I developed a theory that attempted to explain where Mars fell short. I centred this theory on the notion of a 'puffy planet'. Albeit the masses of Mars and Earth are strikingly similar, Mars presents differently due to a slightly slower spin on its axis and further distance from the Sun. Earth's faster spin could be just a brute outcome of a massive asteroid collision that ignited spinning acceleration, I deduced. My belief was that, once the planet attained optimal rotation, it would 'puff up' akin to Earth and Venus. This 'puffing' might be a result of the core exerting outward, opposing gravity - the friction of these competing forces generating heat, leading to an active core similar to Earth's. An active core consequently leads to the formation of an atmosphere that can trap the Sun's warmth. Also, this process could push out the stored water, giving rise to oceans and potentially, life. However, on dismissal contemplation, this theory seems implausible as a 'puffed up' planet wouldn't necessarily have an increased gravitational effect since the overall mass remains unchanged. If it were indeed correct, Mars would exhibit a gravitational force nearly identical to Earth's. However, these were the musings of a mind too saturated with free time. On further contemplation, one deduction remains intact in my ponderings - between Mars or Venus, I'd pick exploring Venus any day for a chance of discovering complex life, while Mars might at best might yield bacterial forms.

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Surprisingly, the prison sphere is brimming with smugglers, each with their eyes set on victory. The ingenuity of their contraband methods never ceased to amaze me, yet the jail authorities perennially managed to stay one step ahead, shutting down one method after another. Memories still linger of when bundles would be tossed over the fence. They were mesh-like laundry sacks, and with coats hangers fastened to the packages, we would throw these sacks over them. Craftily, we used these bags on our laundry lines to reel in the parcels before the patrolling guards spotted them. The moment the Warden pieced this together, we had to hand over all laundry bags. One of my comrades had gone so far as to pull a gardening exterior officer into the mix, who, due to his soon-to-be transition to an open prison, enjoyed enhanced privileges and the capacity to garden the front yard. To this day, it's amusing how far people would go for the sake of cell phones and narcotics. Even the prison officers weren't resistant to bribery, providing you had a pocket deep enough. Today, the game has evolved and drones play a critical part, making acquiring substances easier behind bars than on the streets. As a result, our penitentiaries are brimming with illicit items.

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Art and various undertakings indeed became my lifeline during my time in prison. Occupying your thoughts, I found, was the most effective way to navigate through incarceration. The circumstances of incarceration were horrifying in the times prior to televisions and even latrines. However, prisons, in my view, should not be excessively accommodating. During my incarceration, believe it or not, the food was far superior to what hospitals offer to the public - a clear indication of a flawed system. Earning privileges during incarceration can promote positive conduct and a safer environment. This is vital as it fosters orderliness, a concept that some prisoners depend on, while others require learning. As for my personal experiences, I've witnessed gruesome incidents, such as a brutal fight over a mere towel and a friend being assaulted with a pool cue by a newly transferred racist inmate. Life can be complicated with no two experiences exactly the same. Yet, if we can resonate on some common threads, perhaps we can pave a path to progress.

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It hit me like a splash of cold water when I was informed, I was being transferred to Runwell, which I mistakenly thought was a Category D facility. Reluctantly, I had to pack the life I had carefully created and my treasured belongings. On the plus side, I managed to settle a sizeable bill that had been plaguing me for a while. It was only upon arrival at Runwell that the reality dawned on me - I was no longer in custody, but in a Forensic Mental Health Unit – a place far from my desired destination.

 

At first, my journey within the Hullbridge ward at Runwell felt like I had descended into a personal hell. The constant shuttling in and out of rooms, coupled with the dictation of your every action, was a burdensome experience. This environment was seemingly designed to fuel hostility, and it was successful at that. Being a new face here meant being under constant suicide watch, an intrusion that stripped away any feeling of solitude, particularly during the quiet of the night. My mornings started with a large dose of medication aimed at sedation—a routine that minimized friction among the residents but left us feeling groggy and drowsy throughout the day. We were prevented from retreating to our bedrooms for rest, an agonizing form of punishment making us succumb to sleep wherever we could find a spot, be it a chair or under a ping-pong table. Despite the harsh conditions, there was a semblance of reward—a carrot at the end of the stick— if we complied with the stringent rules. Gradually, the grip of custody loosened. Initially, we were granted access to the yard and eventually, the highly coveted town leave where we had the chance to step beyond the hospital grounds under the watchful eyes of a hospital staff member.

 

Walking away from Art at Hullbridge was a choice I made, after having been promised exclusive usage of a room, which then came with additional conditions, I didn’t find palatable. Succumbing to this urge to relinquish was a characteristic manifestation of my confined circumstance. At that juncture of my existence, the will to battle for my desires diminished considerably. My known reality seemed to plummet into the abyss, with only my family demonstrating concern. Everyone else distanced themselves, aimlessly pretending I had disappeared. Yes, I committed misdeeds, but the question that haunted me was - were these the actions of a mentally unstable person? In truth, my placement was appropriate, yet it felt imbalanced that I was required to serve out my entire prison sentence prior to being moved to this facility. Alas, the winding paths of my life haven't exactly been linear. 

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Unforgettable events were commonplace at Hullbridge, but notably etched in my memory is the Christmas when Trevor Bailey decimated the festive tree over a slice of chilly toast. Had Trevor embraced daybreak, the toast situation might've been different, or so they say, but based on the hearsay, he's remained bundled up since then and often demonstrated violent tendencies. Such frequent incidents kept everyone, including myself, constantly on tenterhooks, scanning each moment to evade the potential subsequent outburst. Quarrels emerged over matters as trivial as television preferences. Progress through the system was reserved for those with calm demeanors, and although it required a few gruelling months for me to depart that ward, I too fell into the tranquil category. 

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Upon my transfer to Plashet in Runwell, the environment was notably more lenient and casual. Gone were the rigid schedules, replaced by the liberty to do as one pleases, such as taking a nap midday. The unrestricted movement outside the wards was also a welcome change. However, financial constraints did cast a shadow on this relative peace. Being transferred from prison, my financial support was restricted to thrice-weekly Samaritans allowances of £2.50, which barely covered for my tobacco expenses. In contrast, the other patients, who weren't penal transfers, were on full benefits. Had I been directed to Runwell during my court proceeding, I too would have experienced the financial ease of full benefits and been spared the significant burden of a substantial criminal record. It seems I perpetually find myself at the raw end of life's deal.

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My dear friend, MC Token, provided a reliable source of comfort, whether we were leisurely strolling the grounds, aiming to pass the time, or tossing stones at the windows of the shut-down wards, just for the thrill of it. There was a fair share of adrenaline and amusement, but the foreboding shadow of imminent doom was always lurking somewhere nearby. When you truly hit rock bottom, life loses its appeal, and I began to experience this creeping despair in the form of an unshakeable need to sleep for the most part of the day. Sleep was my escape route, as it allowed time to sprint forward, getting me incrementally closer to my ultimate goal – freedom. Realistically, I was only sleeping to evade the grim reality of my present.

 

Harman, my final destination, was a brief stop on my journey. It was a refreshing change with its relaxed ambiance, open garden, and the freedom it offered to its residents. The pleasures of ordering takeaways whenever, the calm, and tranquillity that permeated the environment seemed in many ways, the essential attributes of a hospital. When victory in my appeal signified the end of my four- and half-year isolation, it struck me, I had endured the equivalent of a nine-year sentence. My future was unclear, yet I had secured a place in an art and design course at Harlow College, to be pursued part-time over two years. Starting anew, with my family as my only support and not a single friend to call my own, it was a struggle to reconfirm to society's norms. The impact of years of institutionalization made it hard to interact like an average person, and when people detected my uniqueness, I was often shunned. For over a decade, the only friendships I formed were with fellow patients from my period of confinement. 

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Marsian Dreams by Michael Ezare Barrett

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Imagine the red sands beneath your feet, 

A realm where Earth and Mars could meet. 

Red hills and valleys, a wild frontier,

Whispers of winds that you can barely hear.

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Beneath the crimson sky so vast, 

We carve our path, our die is cast.

 

• Dreams of Martian colonies so grand,

• Living on this distant land.

• From barren plains to fertile fields,

• As Mars her bounty slowly yields.

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Stars above like ancient guides, 

In Martian domes, where hope resides. 

A place where dreams have newfound worth, 

Turning red planet into a second Earth.