God Don’t Like Ugly

Dear Rebecca,

I see you made the news again this week. This was the first time I saw a good picture of your mug shot. You did a really good job of making it the ugliest it could have been. But if you thought nobody would recognize you, you were wrong.  Now you just look fucked up. Which, didn’t help your case, in jail or in the courts.

It was with mixed emotions I listened to the news broadcast reporting the latest in your cases.  A part of me wanted to announce “Hey! I know her!” but decided against it when I heard that you have been sentenced to ten years for sexually assaulting those little girls.

I sat in jail with you this summer, sometimes beside you, sometimes across from you, sharing meals, sharing stories, laughter and tears.  I listened as you told your story, I stood there beside you while the others would yell and call you names.

I heard you tell us how your parents had come in and taken your mobile home and moved it, along with all of your possessions.  I felt bad when you said your family had turned their backs and refused any communication with you.  I heard you dream of moving to California as soon as you got out.  The hope of a new life, away from these awful allegations.

You said that you loved those little girls, as if they were your own.  You said that they were with you all the time, how you would bathe them, dress them, do their hair. You explained that the neighbor was mad at you, but you were fuzzy as to why.  You said that the allegations were her way of getting back at you and your boyfriend, although again you were vague as to what she was retaliating for.  You even went so far as to say, “If she truly believed the girls were being abused, why did she keep bringing them back to us?”

I understand that telling everyone that the sexual abuse/molestation charges had been dropped was for self-preservation.  I understand that the jail had no other choice but to pretend, even though the whole act was pretty transparent. I don’t fault you for that.  I get the whole downplaying the whole thing, I mean, what you were charged with, and have actually been convicted of, are pretty heinous. It would be hard for me to admit to myself let alone anyone else that I had not only allowed it to happen in my house, I had participated. The Alfred Plea, where you don’t plead guilty, but concede the prosecutors have enough evidence to convict you, doesn’t make you any less responsible for you, John and Billy did to those girls.

So now I’m at the Why? stage.  Why did you do it?  Why did you not only allow them to do those horrible things to those girls,  you helped, you participated.  How does a person get to a point where that behavior was ok?  What was so much worse than saying NO and stopping it? Whatever was going on between you, your boyfriend, and your neighbor, cost you 10 years of your life, which is way less than it cost those little girls.  What ever games you were playing weren’t games to those babies whose lives are damaged now, and scarred.

The next ten years ahead of you will not be easy. You have been labeled, and you now have a target on your back.  The courts, the jails, the prisons are not going to protect you for the next 10 years.  Maybe, maybe the torment, the hell, the ugliness that you will have to endure will somehow measure up the ugly, abuse, hell you inflicted on those girls.  I hope that you get some idea of how much you made those girls suffer, how much you hurt them, how much you took away from them, how much you destroyed.

Everyday, your way of offering comfort to those around you, and to get back at the ones tormenting you, was “God don’t Like Ugly”.  I believe that is true, but coming from you it’s ironic.  God don’t like ugly. Ugly doesn’t even begin to describe what you did to them.

Questions and Answers About Jail

I’ve been asked a few questions by family and friends since I’ve been out, about what it was like to be in jail.  I am sure there are a lot more people who have a lot more questions, but who don’t want to ask for any number of reasons.  I could write blog posts about each place, but they would seem so clinical, this way, it just gets it all out there.  If you have a question I don’t answer here, feel free to email me or ask in the comments.

What is jail like? In a word? Jail.  Each one is different.  There were some basics that were the same everywhere; lights out/television off at 10:30. Food sucked.  Minimal privacy (you swallow your pride quickly), and nobody looks good in orange. The universal truth is ‘We’re all in jail. Let’s get along to pass the time. I’ll respect you, you respect me.”  One of the things you learn early on, is that no matter how bad you think your particular situation sucks, there is always someone in jail who has it way worse than you.  Oh, and everyone is a jail house lawyer.

Did you have a cell to yourself? At times, yes.  I was in 4 different county jails.  (Never prison, just jail) and of the 4, two had cells, 2 didn’t.  When I got to a new cell, there was already a cellmate there, but they left like the next day.  Both times, I would have a cell to myself until the day before I left.  Some people had the same cellmate the entire time they were there. In fact, Casey and Kelly had been cellmates for 4 months, and their cell looked more like a college dorm room than a jail cell.

Were you in County Jail, or PRISON? I was in County jail. 4 of them to be exact.  But in every single one of them, there were girls waiting to go to prison.  I learned that prison, after the first 30 days, is considered easier than jail.  In prison, you can buy soda, and cigarettes, you can have your own television in your cell, you can work and get paid, you can go outside (in the yard)

Were you allowed to communicate with family other than writing? Oh sure, you can make phone calls all day long, but they are all collect calls.  That’s not entirely true.  You can buy ‘phone cards’ from the jail, or some places use phone systems that allows your family to buy phone time for you which means the calls are still expensive, but cheaper than collect.  Collect calls cost $9.99 for a 7 minute phone call.  I only made 2 phone calls, A) because they were super expensive, and B) I wanted minimal contact with ‘outside’ because it was easier that way.  Plus, there was visitation, some places had visitation every week, others it was every other week.  If anyone had showed up, I would have refused to see them. I didn’t want anyone to see me in jail. Nobody.

Did you make any ‘friends’ or at least alliances? You can’t be locked in the same room with other women and not make friends.  But we all knew we were just jail house friends.  That if we had seen each other out on the street, we wouldn’t be friends.  We used the saying “The buddy shit ends at the door”.  They were all important and meant a lot to me, while I was in jail.  They helped me get through it, but I don’t think we’ll be hosting any jail mate reunions or sending each other Christmas cards.  We all exchanged emails, and Facebook names, and Twitter handles.  I haven’t heard from any one of them.  There were some girls in there, who had been in for a while, or knew they were going to be there a while, and well, they were ‘gay for the stay’.  Everyone needs a little love and affection and attention now and then.

Was it as bad as I’m imagining? Probably not.  The first 48 hours are hell.  It’s like withdraw, cold turkey.  One minute you’re free to do/go where ever you want, to see and talk and call family and friends, and the next, you have very little freedom and the outside world is gone.  So you go through a 48 hour detox, adjusting to the reality of you’re in jail.  It takes a little longer to stop fighting to find a way to get out faster.  Once you just accept that you’re going to have to sit a minute, and wait it out, and ride through the system at the system’s pace, it gets easier.  I was never outside unless being transported to court or a new county.  I never looked outside any of the windows because it was easier to not think about outside.  I had to live in the moment.  I couldn’t think about what my family and friends were doing.  I couldn’t think about what I was missing (Father’s Day, my birthday, 4th of July).  That could all be faced and dealt with once I was out.  All I could think about was getting through each day.

What did you do to pass the time? There are limited options to kill time in jail.  One girl went to the doctor every single day (at $10 a pop) just to get out of the pod for a change.  There was a television in the day room and it was on from 8:00 AM to 10:30 PM.  Majority rules when deciding what to watch.  Or, in one jail, each cell got the remote for a day, and they were in charge of what to watch.  There were books to read, you could sleep, play cards, or write letters (if you had paper and pen).

What were you given when you were booked in?  The basics.  2 sets of orange tops/pants, 2 white tees (always 8 sizes too big), 3 pair of underwear (always brand new), 2 pair of socks, 1 pair of boxers, and a pair of shoes.  You were also given a mat (about 3 inches thick and hard as wood) and a mattress cover (sheet) and a blanket.  A toothbrush (3” long), the nastiest toothpaste ever, a bar of soap (hotel bar soap size) and a comb.  Some gave a bottle of baby shampoo, others didn’t.  We were given disposable razors on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, for about 2 hours.  They checked your name when you took it, and checked you off when you returned it.

What was the food like? I don’t really know because I ate so very little of it.  I learned early on that everyone wanted what I didn’t eat, so I could use it to trade for things.  I would trade my bread from every meal to Ashley who would in turn, give me a cup of coffee every day.  (jail coffee is instant, and decaf, and gross, but it’s coffee).  I could give Scoob my tray and she would find me some paper and a pen, or an envelope with a stamp.  For $5.00 worth of phone time to call her boyfriend, Nicole gave me half her peanut butter that she got for her night snack (she was diabetic).  I usually only ate 1 thing from every meal, and there may have been only 5 meals out of 23 days, that I ate the entire meal.

What is Commissary? If you have money on  your books, every week you can ‘go shopping’.  You can place a commissary order for shampoo and conditioner, candy, kool aid mix, instant coffee, paper, pens, envelopes with stamps, among other things.  It is ridiculously expensive, but a bite of chocolate, or even a cup of really crappy instant coffee is heaven.

How long were you in, and what’s it like to be home? I was brought in on June 15th at approximately 8:30 PM, after being pulled over.  I was released on July 8th at approximately 12:15 PM.  Roughly 23 days. When you’re inside you focus solely on being inside, and getting through the days.  I allowed ‘outside’ to occupy a small part of my head.  It was there, in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t focus on it.  I knew I was going to be bonded out 24 hours before I actually left.  So I had to spend 24 hours in jail, knowing I was just hours away from being free.  Those were some long ass hours.  But once I was out, (and the girls’ dad was there to pick me up, that man is a saint, and I probably should marry him again just to make up for all he did for me.) it was really overwhelming.  It was like waking up from a coma, where everything was familiar and yet somehow different.  The girls and I went grocery shopping and I walked the aisles, and thought, I don’t even know what I need to buy besides milk, eggs, and bread.  I don’t even know what to cook, or make for dinner.

In which I spill one of my deepest darkest secrets

You might want to pull up a seat, get comfortable.  Might be wise to put down your drink, or at least be aware of the spit-your-drink-all-over-your-computer-screen potential this blog post might have and take all necessary precautions.  To some of you who have been with me for a while this won’t come as a complete and total shock.  To you newbie readers, (and to everyone I work with who reads my blog) this is news to y’all.

I don’t even know where to begin to tell this story.

I spent the longest time blaming the problems in my life on other people. It was easy enough to believe that the girls’ dad was an asshole and that my life would be much better/easier if he would just pay his child support.  It was easy enough to convince myself that Brian wasn’t being nearly as supportive as I thought he should be. (the truth was he was being way more supportive than he needed to be).  My life was a complete and total mess because everyone else in my life had let me down or wasn’t holding up their end of the bargain.

The problem with blaming my shitty life on everyone else is that, that leaves it up to them to make it better.  My life was never going to get better, as long as I left the responsibility up to them.  In order to get my life on the right track I was going to have to own up to the mess I was in, take responsibility for my part of it (which was approximately 99.8% of it) and change it.

Last night, I finished cleaning up a major part of the mess that used to be my life.  For those of you who have been with me for a couple of years, you already know that I spent two weeks in jail in 2008. (insert screen spit guard here).  For those of you who are new here, that’s a link to the Chronicles. They aren’t quite done yet (I’m recreating them from when my blog ate my archives.) but you get the jist of it.

I want to say that those two weeks were enough to wake me up and make me take control of things and get it cleared up.  I can’t.  Sure it was a wake up call, but I still let things slide, and it caught up with me.  The final verdict was, 2 years probation in one county (which was completed and discharged in September of this year) and 14 days is jail in the other county.

Due to the fact that I’m a single parent and the girls’ dad lives half a state away, I was allowed to serve my time, 24 hours at a time, every other weekend.  So starting April 17^th, every other Saturday night at 6:00 PM, I would show up at the county jail, check in, be booked in and spend 24 hours in a holding cell.

Last night, at 5:30 I walked out of the county jail for the last time.  My 14 days have been served, and my probation has been discharged and for the first time in over two years, I have nothing hanging over my head.  For the first time since I moved to St. Louis, I am free.  My life is now, finally my life with nothing looming over me.  I have a fresh start.

I can’t begin to put into words how good it feels to finally step up and take responsibility for my life and know that I’ve worked hard to get to this place, but that’s just it. I have worked hard. I got to this place on my own.  My life, for the first time, is good. Really good. I’m beginning to realize dreams coming true.  I’m begging to see results from hard work.  Dare I say it? I’m beginning to be proud of who I am.  Proud of what I do.

I’ve been back to court and won a custody battle for the girls.  (Tate has gone on to become a cheerleader this year in school) I’ve managed to keep a roof over our heads and food on our table without child support for over two years now.  For the first time since our divorce, the girls’ dad and I seem to finally be on the same page and have found a way to be friends and I can’t begin to put into words what a relief that is.

I could say that part of my refusal to take responsibility for my fucked up life had to do with my BPD.  My life was a trainwreck when I was not being treated, or treated properly, for BPD.  Once I found a good doctor and we started working on my medications only then did I step up to the plate and take control and responsibility for my own choices, actions, life.  Only then did I start to turn it around.

So, I stand here today, free.  To everyone else, that’s called Monday.  To me, it’s something new and exciting and full of promise and hope and potential.

Days of Truth, Day 3, Forgiveness

Day 3 of the 30 days is Something you need to forgive yourself for. Great jumping-elmo-on-a-pogo-stick how long do we have here people?

I can start off with the obvious… there is this, or shall we include this?  (sorry if the links in those posts don’t work, I’m still rebuilding my archives). Believe me I have a laundry list as long as War and Peace of things I ‘should’ forgive myself for.

That’s the thing about me, I can forgive a whole lot of people a whole lot of things, a whole lot of times, but when it comes to me? Yeah, not so easily, not so often, not so much..

It’s easy to say “I was a total card carrying member of the fucked up freak show because I have BPD”.  It was easy to blame all the shit going wrong in my life on my BPD because in doing that I didn’t have to take any sort of responsibility for anything I did in my life.

TOTAL FAIL.

I am not proud to admit that it took me entirely too long to finally get a clue and figure out that well, I am ultimately responsible for my own decisions and I am *not* my disease and I have to take responsibility for my life.

I am on medication now.  That helps.  It also eliminates my ‘excuse’.

But I still have to learn to forgive myself for my past.  I am not the perfect mother, I am not the perfect girlfriend. I was not the perfect wife (clearly).  But I can find a way to forgive myself.

Eventually.

Normal

Yes there is a custody battle looming large on the horizon.  It makes me sick. I could list chapter and verse about why the girls should stay with me.  I could write War and Peace about my relationship with Slug.  I could write The Godfather about Slug and his history.  I won’t.  Not here.  Because The Enemy reads this and The Enemy doesn’t need anything to report back.

But this isn’t about the custody battle.  This is about the comments that have been left here for me, about me.  While I appreciate the support and encouragement and the offer to round up some of the nastiest mud this side of the Mississippi (and that’s some nasty shit), I feel as if I am somehow deceiving you.

See, to be honest, the girls have not had a normal life.  Ever.  Our life with their father was traumatic for all of us. Their life since then has not been normal either.  Uncertainty, fear, upheaval, changes; it’s been a mess.  I am not proud, and I am not the only reason their life has been this way.

But I’m trying to be the reason it’s changing and becoming normal.  It’s been a battle, and apparently it will continue to be a battle.  See time in jail doesn’t make you the most eligible person for Parent of the Year.  It’s a pretty huge strike against you. There was an eviction in January too that is another strike against me.  The truth of the matter is simple.  On paper, I don’t look like a good parent.  On paper I wouldn’t grant me custody.  In real life, I’m a great mom who finally gets it. But really, is it going to be enough?

This summer while I had some time off (between jobs) I got to spend some time, a lot of time with the girls.  Once I found a job, and they started school, I still managed to be home until they got on the bus and shortly after they got home.  I even managed to have one day off a week.  It was then that I began to get a clue.  It mattered to them that I was there.  Their faces lit up when they saw me standing on the porch waiting for them to get home.

Then I realized it mattered to me too.  Their faces weren’t the only ones lighting up.  My heart beat a little faster, my step had more spring, and I found myself watching the clock on those days, to be sure to be waiting on the porch for them to come home.

The girls are on the honor roll at school, bring home A’s and B’s.  They both have perfect attendance; they both have been student of the week or month.  They are thriving here.  They have friends, real friends.  Tate has been to her first party, and is dying to attend her first dance. They are well known and well liked at school.  Everyone knows them, and everyone clamors to be around them. I have a hard time walking with them because of the thongs of kids swarming around them.  They are happy here.  They love it here.

They are normal.

They know that when they go to bed that night they will wake up in that bed the next morning. They know that when they get home, I’m not far behind them.  They know that on payday we will go out to eat.  And they know that if they don’t understand homework, I will sit with them and work it out together. They know that there will be no fights, no drama, or at least nothing more than the normal sisterhood squabble. They laugh, they play.  Their bedroom walls are covered with posters of The Jo Bros and Miley Cyrus, just like any other preteen in America.

For the first time in their entire life, they are normal, and happy and safe.  And it does my heart good to see them finally having the life kids should have.

I can create the persona I want to project here on my blog. I can be the girl who has her shit together.  I can be a warm loving witty strong courageous woman trying to raise two daughters in the face of adversity and despite their father’s desire to prevent me from doing just that.  But the truth is, I don’t always have my shit together.  On paper and according to Slug’s cunt of a lawyer, I am an unfit unworthy mother who doesn’t deserve her children.  As if he’s really a better parent.  Of course, he can be charming and loving and caring and concerned.  For about 6 months.

But I’m not going to wage the battle here.  I’ll find the grace to keep my head up, and I’ll stock pile the mud to sling, should the need arise.  Just know that the person behind the blog isn’t all that the person on the web wishes she was.  I will admit to my faults and my shortcomings.

After all, I am normal too.

Jail Chronicles, Chapter Fourteen

Released.

I barely allow myself to believe it.  I know I still have to go back to G-pod, and pack my things.  They will be calling my name to bunk and junk.  I am not the only one going home that day, and I tell myself I can wait it out, and let everyone go first.

Once back in the pod, there is much celebration and I Told You So’s at the news I have been released.  I head straight to my cell and pack up everything I own.  A box full of papers, and the property I was issued.  It seems as if everyone else is leaving first. I finally beg Peggy “Please, I want to go home”

She calls my name and says the magical phrase, which is really silly, she knows I’m standing at the door packed.  I grab my things, walk up front and wait among the others as my papers are processed.  I am given my clothes and allowed to change into them.  I hand over my oranges, glad to be rid of them.  My clothes are loose on me now, and wrinkled and no longer appropriate, but there is not a trace of orange on them.

I am handed my paperwork, my purse, and escorted out to the lobby.  I am within feet of freedom.  Just beyond the double set of doors.  I stop on my way out to buy a soda and I walk out the door into the sunshine. 

I sit on the curb, drinking my soda, enjoying the sunshine, the caffeine and the freedom. I turn on my phone, and ignore all the messages.  I have just three phone calls I want to make. I dial his number. I don’t know if he’s at work, if he’s home, if he can come get me, or even if he’ll answer the phone, but I call, if for no other reason than to hear his voice.

I call Batman. 

Batman: Hey
Me: What are you doing?
Batman: I’m getting ready to leave..
Me: Where are you going?
Batman: Home.
Me: Would you come get me and take me home too?
Batman: Where are you?
Me: Free.
Batman: I’m on my way.

I am free, and going home.

.

 

Jail Chronicles, Chapter Thirteen

You don’t sleep well in jail, and when you do sleep you don’t dream much. You certainly don’t dream of home.  But last night my mind had done nothing but run over a never ending list of things I needed to do once I got out of here.

It is Wednesday, May 21.  Today is my arraignment.  I will stand before the judge today, have my charges read to me, and ask for a bail reduction. Or maybe to be released on my own recognizance.  I don’t even dare to hope.

They call the girls for morning court.  My name is not on the list.  What if my name isn’t on the afternoon list either?  What if the judge says no?  I can’t even begin to think that going home today might actually happen.  And yet, in the back of my mind is the thought, the hope, I will talk to Batman today, I will call my girls, I will sleep in my own bed.  But I never allow any of those thoughts to take hold.  If I have learned nothing else while I’ve been here I have learned that nothing is certain, and nothing is guaranteed.

Lunch comes and there is no way I can eat.  I pace the upper tier, and worry.  I don’t dare even pack so much as a piece of paper, afraid that any outward sign I think I’m going home will jinx it and I’ll be stuck here forever.

A CO comes to the pod door, calls my name. Inside I am frozen with fear, outwardly I walk to the door as if it’s no big deal.  He hands me a stack of papers.  I look at them and realize the girls’ dad has filed a motion for custody.  I had always half expected it, but to see it here in black and white is a gut punch I’m not sure I can handle.  I blow it off as casually as I can, telling myself there is nothing I can do today. Tomorrow I can think about it. Today is all I can do.

The CO comes for the afternoon court transfer, and I am on this list.  I line up with all the others, and wait as we are all cuffed and shackled to walk from one building to the other.  For a minute, I am outside again, shackled to other inmates, but still, outside. This time there is sun, but I can’t allow myself to enjoy it.  I can only be in the minute, and I can  only focus on getting to court and in front of the judge.

Everyone around me is so sure I’ll go home, I am still just too afraid to hope, let alone believe.

And then, they call my name. I am led through a door, to stand before the judge.  He asks my name, mumbles something about my charges and some other things to the gentlemen standing beside me and we’re done.  I had to stop and ask the judge, “Your Honor, what just happened?” 

“You have been OR’d, you are being released”

I am going home.

Jail Chronicles, Chapter Twelve

Tuesdays are transport days.  The Federals all hope it’s their day to go.  Even if it only to a courthouse, and on to another jail, or even prison, it means outside, if only for a minute.  We have two that are sure they are on the list to leave. 

I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now why it is jails choose the middle of the night, or early early morning to transport people.  Whatever the reason it is almost always 4:30 AM, and this day was no different. 

The pod knew we could be losing two of our own this morning.  We all slept lightly, waiting to hear ‘bunk and junk’.  Their excitement to be leaving meant their departure was loud and heard by everyone. 

I watched them leave, saying a silent prayer for them, “Let them find friendly faces wherever they end up tonight. Let there be a bunk for them, and cellies who are nice enough. Let them find friendly faces.”

I guess I should have been more specific.  At 6:00 that night, the two who had left that morning were returned to us.  They had in fact met friendly faces where they had ended up that night. They would try again in the morning.

Jamie would tell us that apparently all this sitting around, sleeping all hours of the day, and eating a shit ton of junk food bought from commissary, had caught up to her.  Her clothes that she was wearing when she came in four months ago, no longer fit her.  They had to find some left behind sweat pants. 

Just another day in jail.

Jail Chronicles, Chapter 9

I want to go home. 30 miles from home right now, and it might as well be China. I want a shower, a warm private shower. I want to sleep in a bed with sheets and a pillow or two. No lights, no slamming doors, no popping locks, no crazy drunks, no ringing phones. I want to brush my teeth, shave my legs. I want to see the sun, hug my kids, and drink real coffee. I want my freedom.

Due to the clearing house, booking was busy all damn night. I’m not sure I slept, but I know for sure I didn’t dream.

Breakfast my first morning in Lincoln County is biscuits & gravy, normal one of my favorites. I’m not sure exactly what this stuff is, but b’s&g’s it ain’t. I can’t eat. I want to go home, I want real food. I drank the milk before it got warm. I know I’m losing at weight. At 5′ 7″ 115 lbs, I have precious little to lose. I don’t care.

After breakfast, a shower, and another strip search. No avoiding the shower this time. No point in it. My booking picture has been taken, who am I going to impress in here? The strip search doesn’t even faze me, I don’t care. I have no dignity left. At least the people here are familiar. I’m not proud to say I’ve been here a time or two before. Never over night and never in the back in general population, but still. Here. This shower is hot, and alone, and behind a locked door. The last small bit of privacy I’ll enjoy for who knows how long. I enjoy the hot water, and the soap feels/smells good. Washes the jail funk off of me, in preparation for more. I know that once I’m done here, my fashionable orange ensemble is waiting for me.

My bra is taken, along with my underware. They don’t allow any color other than white, and they don’t allow underwires. I’ll remember that next time. Only white underneath any time I have to go to court. Just in case. *sigh* why does there have to be a ‘just in case’?

I’m given my property tote and taken back to G-pod. There is no sneaking in under the cover of night. I will have to walk in this time in full view of everyone there. I feel like fresh meat. I walk up the stairs to my assigned cell. I’m last one in (already three girls assigned to this cell) so I am left with the very top bunk. Which is all of 12 inches from the ceiling. Even as thin as I am, I’m not sleeping up there. I’ve got all day to figure out the alternative. For now, set my stuff down and don’t wake the natives. No point in pissing off the roomies 5 minutes after walking in.

The rules are different here. The remote, stays in the pod, we have control. The cells are not locked down at night. We are free to roam 24 hours. I look around, take in all in, watch and learn.

My cellies (I learn the lingo quick) wake for lunch and Sarah explains we can get a ‘boat’ for my mattress and I can sleep on the floor. Floor beats ceiling any day of the week.

As the day wears on more girls come out of their cells to the day room. The atmosphere is much like a college dorm. Hanging out in each other’s cells, listening to the radio, playing scrabble or spades, braiding each other’s hair, writing letters, watching television.

Home sweet home.

Jail Chronicles, Chapter 7

I should mention that I had received word the night before that the girls were being picked up by their father. It was not the ideal scenario, but it was the best anyone could come up with not knowing how long I would be here. I could rest a little easier knowing they were with him and safe and with family.

6:00 AM The locks on the cell door pop, sounding once again like gunfire. If that sound isn’t enough to wake you up, then the bright overhead shining right into your eyes light they turn on surely will.

Or maybe not, because even though I am now wide awake I seem to be the only one in the pod who is wide awake and moving. There is no sign of anyone else in there with me. Nobody is leaving their cell, nobody is moving that I can see. I am not about to leave my cell, because I am unsure of the rules of jail, both written and unwritten. I don’t want to step on toes or cross a line. I just want to stay out of the way and out of trouble. The good news? I can see the TV in the dayroom from my cell. Oh joy, a Chuck Norris infomercial. I don’t care how dripping with awesomeness Chuck Norris is, fact is, that morning he wasn’t springing me from jail so he was of no use to me. But at least he was entertaining and kept my mind from focusing on things I was helpless to change. Such as freedom.

There is a window in my cell, I can see the street below. This early in the morning there is precious little traffic, and it’s raining. I don’t care. I do my best to ignore it. What’s the point of thinking about freedom when it’s just out of reach?

Breakfast trays are brought at 7:00. Finally there are signs of life in the other cells. Everyone comes down to eat. Scrambled eggs, made from powder, still a watery mess, and just barely warm. Under cooked cream of wheat, warm milk, and orange drink (not juice). They trade this for that eating what others don’t want. My entire breakfast is up for grabs. I’m not going to eat it. They jump on it like vultures on prey.

The girls in my pod have a life here. They know each other. They belong. I don’t. I mean I’m now a member of the clan, but I’m not a member of the group. I am not yet one of them. I’m polite enough to stay out of trouble, but I’m not out to make friends. I’m not going to be here long enough to make friends.

By 9:00 they are back in bed asleep. When you are stuck in a room with the same people day after day, and nothing changes from day to day, the best way to make the time go by faster is to sleep. There is nothing to keep your mind occupied so why not sleep the days away? The CO’s keep the TV remote, so today we’re stuck watching VH1. While everyone else is asleep, I am wide awake. I lay on my bunk and read “The Warren Co Detention Facility rules and regulations. Guidelines to make your stay here pleasant and easy.” *blink blink* What is pleasant and easy about any of this? It’s jail.

Lunch rolls in at noon. Today it’s a pod favorite, nachos. I eat the chips and the cookie. It’s the first thing I’ve had to eat in 24 hours, since I shared the pizza with the CO’s downstairs just yesterday. It already seems half a lifetime ago. The girls talk to me, mainly out of curiosity. Because I am leaving soon either by transfer or by bail, they don’t waste a whole lot of their time on me. No point in getting to know me, I won’t be here long enough to care about.

I get a message that Brian has been trying to reach me by phone and I am supposed to call him. Except that I can’t. I can only make collect calls from the phone in the pod, and I only know his cell phone number which can’t accept collect calls. He’s so close and yet so far away. I have no way of reaching him. And yet, I know he’s trying to reach me.

A short time later I’m told to Bunk-n-Junk which means pack your shit, you’re leaving. Sweeter words have never been said to me. Bunk n junk. I’m getting out of here. Brian just tried to get in contact with me, and now I’m being told I’m leaving. He’s come to save me. I’m going home!!!

I’m escorted back downstairs, back to booking. I try to see into the visitors room to see if he’s there waiting for me. I don’t see him. In booking it’s a crazy nuthouse what with people going to court, being transported in, transported out. There are people everywhere. I find Brandon, one of the officers from yesterday who was very nice to me.

ME: Brandon, what’s going on?
FEMALE CO: Ms Batman, over here. Get dressed.
ME: Brandon, where am I going?
FEMALE CO: Ms Batman? Now. We don’t have all day.
ME: Brandon?
BRANDON: You’re going to Lincoln County.

And just like that, all hope is gone. I am *not* going home.