Jinx explains the pain, isolation, and lack of support she experiences as a trans person in prison while awaiting gender affirmation surgery.

Two years. In November 2024, I arrived at SCI-Mercer, VSU. The past two years have been filled with more pain than I thought I would ever be made to endure, even as I await gender affirmation surgery.

My name is Jinx, aka Corey Jones, #QQ6168. My pronoun preferences are she/her. However, I exist in an environment that shames me for working and living to be who I genuinely think, feel, and believe myself to be. Being on the VSU, a veteran services unit, individuals seem to go out of their way to show contempt toward me.

I’ve been in two other institutions where I was locked down, partly due to them being classification and quarantine facilities, while awaiting transfer to a home jail. Arriving at Mercer, I was nervous, scared, not sure what to expect. Not from a perspective of being an inmate—rather, what to expect from others while being a trans-feminine individual in a male institution, and a veteran to boot.

My experiences with staff haven’t been met with much or any support, as the various departments—psychology, administration, correctional officers—don’t know or understand what an individual like myself goes through. The unknown threat my presence poses to the entire facility because I want to be me.

Support is lacking when my pursuit of help is rebuffed with, “What do you think is going to happen?” Or “Do the best you can.” I’ve gone to them about the many rumors being spread about me while simply attempting to be social. In an environment that clearly despises me for seeking freedom in who I am.

Being trans in prison is hard. People come across as accepting but spread lies, which pushes people away. Those with whom a rapport was formed, those I could trust, sincere friendships, have been moved off the unit. Others don’t want to associate out of fear of being called names.

“You might ruin my macho reputation,” someone said to my face.

I know what isolation feels like, what it feels like to appear invisible. Every day, I struggle to try to find a positive reason to continue. It’s no longer about how much time I have to do, or when the minimum date is. I struggle with waking up and having to face another day, moment, second of the torture that comes from being different. Existing among a bunch of egotistical, entitled individuals who live just to put others down to lift themselves up.

Even as we are all in this same space and time.

If I could, as cliché as it sounds, I would take back the choices and decisions made that warranted my incarceration. If I could, I would work on my mental health so this situation would maybe not hurt so much. Which is nearly a daily impossibility.

As different as the institution, administration, corrections officers, and other inmates see me, under a broad stroke of a paintbrush that covers everyone remains the same. However, one size does not fit all. I am the one suffering for simply trying to live my true, authentic self. Painfully made to hate myself.

Being the only trans-feminine here, that I know of, because such information is held under tight secret security, I feel alone, unseen, unsupported, and certainly targeted. It’s hard to hide who I am, which makes me feel like a stigma that must be eradicated. The new kid, an unnatural something that does not belong.

Why must I be made to feel like I don’t belong? What hell must I face for the next 10-24 years?

Sadly, I don’t even know what I want anymore. It’s been eight months waiting on approval for gender affirmation surgery. Hope diminishes as time goes on.