"Good sleep is hard to come by in prison. Most of us sleep in narrow bunk beds that your body has to learn. Until our bodies learn their new sleeping spaces, we tend to fall out. We learn quickly. The beds, bolted to the floor, are made out of metal (angle irori? steel?). A plastic mattress, when new a good foot shorter than the bed, 2 to 3 feet shorter when old, slumps on the metal frame. Virginia Enterprises for the Blind construct the mattresses and it is one of my sardonic poor taste witticisms to comment that this is why the mattresses are only half full.

We also have a plastic pillow that is extraordinarily fragile and very difficult to replace. Good pillows are hot commodities.

The Department of Corrections provides us with clean sheets and blankets every week. Linen exchange is usually a day of mattress beating. People haul their mattresses off their bunks and do everything they can to fluff them, plump them, puff them into a lump-free, comfortable cushion.

While this works temporarily, it shrinks the mattresses into postage stamps. I rarely beat mine (only when all the stuffing has shifted to one place in the imitation of a concrete bean bag) as I seem able to adapt my body to the lumps and bumps and when necessary I work out the kinks and knots in my back with yoga. I am however unable to sleep on a short mattress. I like to stretch out.

Then there is the light. The neverending light. I wear bandannas over my eyes to black it out, although by some unkind trick of the brain, even though my eyes are closed and completely covered with layers of cloth, the light still appears on the inside of my head. I don't know if there is a name for this phenomenon, but when it happens, I have to switch the light off inside my head by opening my eyes to the darkness under my bandanna to prove to my brain there is no light on my eyeballs. My brain is not easily convinced.

And then there is the noise. One myth about prison that isn't a myth is the noise. It is very loud. Moreover, no matter how quiet it has been or is, just before lock down-- bedtime--whether it is 9:15 or 11 p.m., a huge roar breaks out. Since I am an early riser, I go to bed early, which works against me because when the roar comes, it startles awake anybody not on medication. I have tried to stay up until the passing of roar time but exhaustion usually overwhelms me.

Exhaustion can defeat the most resilient of us. It alters perception and mood. When I get tired, I feel weak, discouraged and lonely. Everything seems dark and gloomy. I feel like a neglected houseplant that desperately needs water all slumped over and limp. A good night's sleep or a decent nap, and I perk right up, ready to jump into the foray and do battle again.

But like manna there can be no reserves. Everyday must have its rest. I can't use last week's great nap to offset today's fatigue and I can't store up rest over the weekend for next Thursday. We live one day at a time and so our need for rest is apportioned.

Some people in prison sleep their time away. Over the years I too have had periods when I shut down and disappeared into my own dreamland. It still tempts me.

Prison reality, the reality of our crimes, the reality of ourselves, the consequences which our families have to cope with our uncertain futures are difficult to face day after day. It is easier to ignore everything by sleeping through it. It is much more challenging to be fully awake to the stings and barbs and vicissitudes of each day's reality and then also pursue a good night's rest. Yet, it is impossible to look tomorrow in the eye without it." (Elizabeth Haysom, Fluvanna Review, February 3, 2005)

Elizabeth Haysom is presently incarcerated at the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women in Troy, Virginia. This column is one of a series, published under the general heading 'Glimpses from Inside.'