The following is a personal essay from Harold Cunningham, who was a lead plaintiff in a class action lawsuit that revealed the Bureau of Prisons’ illegal practice of confining mentally ill people in solitary confinement and denying them treatment. A postscript, based on an interview with Cunningham, follows. —Mitch Ryals
As a young man suffering from mental illness, growing up surrounded by violence in D.C. only fed my mental illness.
When kids my age cried about seeing a make-believe monster under their bed, I had to cry in silence so as to not awaken the real monster inside my head. How does a child explain something like this to his parents? At 8 years old, most kids were running for a football pass or on a fast break looking to score a bucket. I was running from the fear of a disease that was taking over me. I could not escape. I wanted to die.
I started to live for the thrill of death. I got into trouble and put myself in life-and-death situations. I used PCP and other drugs by the age of 10. I never thought I would live to be 15. I told my mother if I die, it would be by the hands of the police. That was the first time I saw her cry. The second time was when she came to visit me in Washington Hospital Center after I was shot seven times by the police. I was 23, trying to commit suicide by cop. The last time I saw my mother cry was after the judge sentenced me to life without the possibility of parole.
Neither the court, nor the media mentioned that I suffered from mental illness as a child, that I had an IQ of 68, and that I had been committed to a mental health hospital, St. Elizabeths. I was 16 and had attempted to kill myself.
Why wasn’t this information mentioned during my trial? Why didn’t the media mention it in the articles written about me and my crime? I can only guess that my mental illness didn’t fit into the narrative of my crime: that I was a monster who needed to be locked away.
Days after I was sentenced to spend the rest of my life in prison, I was taken into federal custody and placed into long-term solitary confinement because I had attempted to stab a witness during my trial.
Even though the Bureau of Prisons’ policies state that people with serious mental illnesses should not be assigned to the ADX-Florence Control Unit, I was hidden away in one of America’s most dangerous units. Those policies reflect the BOP’s recognition that extended confinement in isolation poses substantial risk to a prisoner’s mental health and can be particularly harmful for men who had mental health problems before their incarceration.
In 1998, a year and a half after my initial trial, I was taken back to court for the stabbing charge. All charges were dismissed after evidence of my mental illness was presented, but instead of sending me to a mental health facility for treatment, I was thrown back into solitary confinement.
I spent the next 17 years in solitary confinement, abused and tortured, while I was denied mental health treatment as my mental condition worsened over time.
I had over 100 assaults and stabbings of officers. My motto was, “kill me or fear me.” I wanted to die. And I tried. But no matter how hard I tried, for some reason, God had other plans for me.
Starting in 2010, the Washington Lawyer’s Committee for Civil Rights and Urban Affairs received letters from prisoners housed in the same ADX Control Unit describing what was going on. Soon after that, in 2012, 17 mentally ill prisoners held in solitary confinement filed a civil class action lawsuit that highlighted the denial of mental health treatment, abuse, and torture.
We moaned and screamed. Some men banged on the walls of their cells with their fists, and sometimes with their heads until the walls were bloody red. Some mutilated their bodies with razors, shards of glass, sharpened chicken bones, writing utensils, or whatever else they could get their hands on.
Officers assaulted us. We were handcuffed and shackled to our beds for weeks and not fed. We suffered. A number of us swallowed razor blades, nail clippers, and other dangerous objects. Others covered their bodies with feces and spread it all over the walls to make it a health hazard for themselves and others.
Some carried on conversations with voices in their heads—oblivious to reality and the danger that such behavior might pose to their mental health. Some wrote letters as best they could or filed administrative remedies begging for help, for treatment, only to be denied.
Many took their cells hostage and forced teams of officers in riot gear to use gas and physical force. Suicide attempts were common. Many were successful. There was no mental health treatment.
My name is Harold Cunningham, and I was the lead plaintiff in the class action case against the BOP. I was one of the 17 mentally ill people held in the most dangerous maximum-security control unit in the country. We were mentally and physically abused and tortured for years.
I had no fear of dying, but now that I have received mental health treatment, I’m thankful that my attempts to end my life were unsuccessful. Nine of my fellow prisoners committed suicide. I knew them all. Their scars were deeper than eyes can see. May they all rest in peace.
Peace within is something I have long prayed for, and I am learning that it comes with accepting the truth. Now, after 25 years, the truth is coming to light in my criminal case. For 19 years, the court and prosecutors have withheld critical expert testimony from two psychologists who testified during my 1999 competency hearing and who said I was incompetent to stand trial. I had no control over my actions when I snapped and stabbed a marshal and a witness in the middle of the courtroom in full view of the jury.
All charges from the courtroom assault were dismissed March 2, 1999, after the competency hearing. That was the first time my mental illness was ever brought into court.
Through treatment, I have learned that I have a lot to live for. I want my story to help others, and I hope to start a nonprofit that will focus on providing a voice for the mentally ill in prison and on the outside. The organization will provide a platform to turn their stories and artwork into books and short films. Writing has become therapeutic to me. I have received over 100 certificates and left behind the 100 assaults. I speak to other prisoners about what I have lived through. I have tried taking my GED test seven times, but have failed. I will keep trying until I pass.
Postscript: Cunningham is currently held in the D.C. Jail’s Central Treatment Facility, where he is awaiting a court’s decision on several motions related to his case.
During his time in CTF, Cunningham says he has tried to call attention to what he says is inadequate mental health treatment for people held in the jail.
He recalls one particularly acute example where a woman was booked into jail after the psychiatrist left for the weekend. He says the woman was screaming in her cell and refused to eat because she claimed she was allergic to the food. It appeared to Cunningham that the woman was in the midst of a mental health crisis that was going unaddressed. By Sunday, he says, she had defecated on herself, and jail officials then moved her into solitary confinement.
Cunningham says he has tried to step in and fill the dearth of mental health care with what he calls “mental health safe zones.” He facilitates informal group sessions with fellow jail residents about past traumas and talks about the importance of seeking treatment, to the extent that it’s available. He talks with them about traumatic brain injuries and the influences that the carceral environment can have on a person.
“Don’t start thinking that the way we’re living is normal,” he tells those who gather for his sessions. “The way lots of people are living is not normal—with drugs and guns and stuff.”
He also shares his story with the group in the hopes of getting others to open up. One man spoke about being the survivor of childhood sexual abuse, Cunningham says.
“Getting these guys to open up about mental illness is what I’m trying to do,” he says. “I’m showing them the power we have among ourselves.”
Another problem facing people who attend his sessions is a distrust of the doctors who are available and the stigma around mental health, especially for Black men. “It’s not talked about enough,” he says.
“These young guys open up to me. They say, ‘I don’t want to live,’” Cunningham says. “They’re not getting no mental health treatment, and a lot of them don’t trust these psychologists.”
Cunningham says he wants to start a nonprofit focused on improving mental health treatment in jails and prisons. He’s also currently working on a skit about the illegal use of restraint chairs—another form of abuse that he has personally experienced.
Click here to listen to Cunningham talk about his experience with restraint chairs, in a recording on Prison Radio, a project of the nonprofit Redwood Justice Fund. He’s also spoken about other issues.
This column is produced in collaboration with More Than Our Crimes, a nonprofit dedicated to raising the voices of people locked in federal prisons across the country.