Photos: Inside life of drug-addicted female inmates of Campbell County Jail | Hindustan Times
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Photos: Inside life of drug-addicted female inmates of Campbell County Jail

Updated On May 23, 2018 12:09 PM IST

There were rarely more than ten women at a time barely a decade ago in Tennessee’s Campbell County Jail. Fuelled by America’s opioid crisis, that figure today routinely crosses sixty. There’s no counselling or chance of work for these women, and topping it all off is a lack of money at this rural jail which means no resources for the treatment of addicted inmates. The women try to stay clean once they are out but the reality of a crumbling life outside draws them back into the downward spiral of addiction and incarceration.

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Jessica Morgan, high on methamphetamines and the opioid pain medication Opana, sits in a holding cell after being booked for drug possession at the Tennessee‘s Campbell County Jail. More than a decade ago, there were rarely more than 10 women inmates here compared to around 60 routinely now –an example of how the opioid epidemic is fuelling the fastest-growing correctional population in America: Women. (David Goldman / AP) expand-icon View Photos in a new improved layout
Updated on May 23, 2018 12:09 PM IST

Jessica Morgan, high on methamphetamines and the opioid pain medication Opana, sits in a holding cell after being booked for drug possession at the Tennessee‘s Campbell County Jail. More than a decade ago, there were rarely more than 10 women inmates here compared to around 60 routinely now –an example of how the opioid epidemic is fuelling the fastest-growing correctional population in America: Women. (David Goldman / AP)

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Inmate Krystle Sweat blows a kiss to her son Robby, 10, during a video conference as he visits her at the jail. There are no face-to-face visits other than exceptional circumstances. Robby hasn’t hugged or even touched his mother since Christmas Day 2015, just before Sweat wound up back behind bars. In 2015, Campbell County had the third-highest amount of opioids prescribed per person in the nation. (David Goldman / AP) expand-icon View Photos in a new improved layout
Updated on May 23, 2018 12:09 PM IST

Inmate Krystle Sweat blows a kiss to her son Robby, 10, during a video conference as he visits her at the jail. There are no face-to-face visits other than exceptional circumstances. Robby hasn’t hugged or even touched his mother since Christmas Day 2015, just before Sweat wound up back behind bars. In 2015, Campbell County had the third-highest amount of opioids prescribed per person in the nation. (David Goldman / AP)

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Mary Sammons, 41, foreground, is comforted by cellmate Blanche Ball, 30, days after Sammons learned that her 20-year-old son was murdered in Kentucky. Sammons, who was arrested on drug-related charges, suspects her son’s murder was drug-related. “I always pictured my kids burying me, not me having to bury my children. Young kids are losing their life over bad dope.” (David Goldman / AP) expand-icon View Photos in a new improved layout
Updated on May 23, 2018 12:09 PM IST

Mary Sammons, 41, foreground, is comforted by cellmate Blanche Ball, 30, days after Sammons learned that her 20-year-old son was murdered in Kentucky. Sammons, who was arrested on drug-related charges, suspects her son’s murder was drug-related. “I always pictured my kids burying me, not me having to bury my children. Young kids are losing their life over bad dope.” (David Goldman / AP)

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Samantha Marlow brushes her teeth in a distorted metal mirror in her cell. Some women are in for theft; others for drug possession. There’s no treatment available in the jail, no counselling or chance to work, no other courses other than a high school equivalency diploma program. Lt. Mallory Campbell, assistant jail administrator, would like to offer more, but there isn’t money for programs or staff. (David Goldman / AP) expand-icon View Photos in a new improved layout
Updated on May 23, 2018 12:09 PM IST

Samantha Marlow brushes her teeth in a distorted metal mirror in her cell. Some women are in for theft; others for drug possession. There’s no treatment available in the jail, no counselling or chance to work, no other courses other than a high school equivalency diploma program. Lt. Mallory Campbell, assistant jail administrator, would like to offer more, but there isn’t money for programs or staff. (David Goldman / AP)

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Michelle Leopard, 38, estimates she’s been in and out of this jail 30 or 40 times for aggravated burglary, theft of property, trespassing, probation violations and more. Every time she’s released, she hopes to stay clean, but the reality of life on the outside quickly crushes those plans. For most women here, jail is a temporary pause from the only way of life they’ve ever really known. (David Goldman / AP) expand-icon View Photos in a new improved layout
Updated on May 23, 2018 12:09 PM IST

Michelle Leopard, 38, estimates she’s been in and out of this jail 30 or 40 times for aggravated burglary, theft of property, trespassing, probation violations and more. Every time she’s released, she hopes to stay clean, but the reality of life on the outside quickly crushes those plans. For most women here, jail is a temporary pause from the only way of life they’ve ever really known. (David Goldman / AP)

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Anesha Bell, 24, said, “I’ve wanted to quit but I always wanted someone to care about me enough for me to want to quit. My mother was never there. My dad was never there. I just didn’t care. I’ve always wanted to die. And this time I have my boyfriend and that’s why I feel like whenever I get out of this place this time I feel like there’s hope for me.” (David Goldman / AP) expand-icon View Photos in a new improved layout
Updated on May 23, 2018 12:09 PM IST

Anesha Bell, 24, said, “I’ve wanted to quit but I always wanted someone to care about me enough for me to want to quit. My mother was never there. My dad was never there. I just didn’t care. I’ve always wanted to die. And this time I have my boyfriend and that’s why I feel like whenever I get out of this place this time I feel like there’s hope for me.” (David Goldman / AP)

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Crystal French, 38, is photographed in her cell. “I got to know the real me again instead of the addicted to drugs person. I had a lot of anger issues before. I’m working on them still. I’d like to be a productive citizen, not an OD statistic, end up dying on drugs. I am a good person. I know I am. But I want to see that person again.” (David Goldman / AP) expand-icon View Photos in a new improved layout
Updated on May 23, 2018 12:09 PM IST

Crystal French, 38, is photographed in her cell. “I got to know the real me again instead of the addicted to drugs person. I had a lot of anger issues before. I’m working on them still. I’d like to be a productive citizen, not an OD statistic, end up dying on drugs. I am a good person. I know I am. But I want to see that person again.” (David Goldman / AP)

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Sammons, 41, holds a picture of her son, Micah, 20, who was murdered on March 23. On the inside, they bond, while relationships with those on the outside crumble. Children wind up in state care or are turned over to relatives. Grandparents become parents, yet again. And with each day that passes, the women dream of mending broken ties and changing their ways. (David Goldman / AP) expand-icon View Photos in a new improved layout
Updated on May 23, 2018 12:09 PM IST

Sammons, 41, holds a picture of her son, Micah, 20, who was murdered on March 23. On the inside, they bond, while relationships with those on the outside crumble. Children wind up in state care or are turned over to relatives. Grandparents become parents, yet again. And with each day that passes, the women dream of mending broken ties and changing their ways. (David Goldman / AP)

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