Justice Notes: Trauma
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
We tend to think of PTSD as something reserved for war, disaster, or tragic accidents. But incarceration carries its own kind of lasting wound. One that begins long before you ever see the inside of a prison and lingers long after you leave. From the public exposure and the sudden collapse of your world, to the quiet battles fought in the middle of the night, prison trauma is both invisible and relentless. This week’s essay looks at what that trauma feels like, why it’s so often misunderstood, and what it means to carry it into the rest of your life.
TRAUMA: The lasting scars of incarceration
We think of PTSD as a syndrome arising mainly from war, loss of life, accidents, and other catastrophes. But the trauma of incarceration is no less real and no less challenging to overcome. Reentering the community successfully requires that this be acknowledged and addressed.
The trauma of incarceration begins with that first this can’t be happening moment. For some, it’s the sudden arrival of FBI agents knocking at the door at six a.m. For others, it’s an unexpected revelation—like mine—the day my fraudulent activity was exposed in a brief meeting with my closest business associates, later recounted in my July post, The Revelation. From that instant, the impact radiates outward—public notice, media coverage, liens placed on assets, and the abrupt cancellation of credit. The shattering necessity of explaining to one’s family the abrupt transformation of their lives and the drastic lifestyle changes that will follow. It is the trauma of watching disbelief settle into their faces, of knowing that nothing in their world will be the same again, and that you are the cause.
Even before the surreal experience of arriving in prison, there is the lengthy and drawn-out process of dealing with the Department of Justice, negotiating a plea agreement that few outside the system truly understand, and enduring a sentencing hearing that leaves every defendant feeling like they’ve stepped into the Twilight Zone.
Inmates rarely communicate the actual visceral experience of incarceration, the emotional cellar you fall into once you’re inside. For the most part, inmates keep their anguish private, even as prison life grinds you down day after day. Even in the relative leniency of a federal prison camp, it’s a wearing existence of grueling regimens and protocols. You must adjust to a muddled community of felons, including drug dealers and gang members who have been relocated from higher-security facilities. You learn to navigate a hierarchy of predators and prey, where emotional vulnerability is dangerous.
Arrival is marked by disbelief, by anguished farewells, and by the sound of the door closing behind you. You’re issued a uniform—a swaddling cloak—and plunged into a strange ecology where survival requires constant vigilance. There are no true mornings, only dreaded wakings; no restorative sleep, only uneasy dreams that always find their breath. Over time, yearning gives way to cruel memory, and the sad delirium of counting days.
Release is often met with, at best, indifference and, at worst, outright hostility. A message that your freedom is undeserved and temporary. Many returning citizens fight against this unwelcomeness and push themselves forward despite the obstacles. Some succeed, at least in appearance, but for many, the anxiety surfaces at night, in recurring nightmares and sudden jolts of fear.
Trauma after prison is a legacy, much like that of returning veterans, except that it is rarely understood and even less often met with empathy. For those who have lived it, it is both a scar and a shadow, an indelible reminder of what was lost, and of how far one still has to go to reclaim their place in the world.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
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