Jail Chronicles, Chapter 10

DAY FOUR: FRIDAY

I never dreamed I’d be in jail overnight, let alone for four days/nights. There is a part of me that holds out hope I’ll get a miracle today. It’s Friday, surely nobody out there will let me spend a weekend in jail. It’s like I am mentally drawing lines in the sand. Unfortunately, they keep crossing them, and I spend another day, another night, in a place I never thought I’d be.

The realist in me knows nobody is doing anything to get me out. And really, why should they? God isn’t listening to my prayers, why should anyone I know do a damn thing for me? I’m not worth it. Look where I am. I am now a common criminal. And let’s face it. I am a criminal. Still I pray, “Lord, I want to go home.”

Nobody hears me.

DAY FIVE: SATURDAY

My first weekend and while the days are all basically the same (eat-sleep-watch TV-read-play cards) weekends still ‘feel’ different.

I have gone from fear, to acceptance, to just done. I no longer care what is on TV. I can’t focus enough to read a book.

Nobody outside is doing anything so I’ve got to save myself, limited as I am. I have started sending notes to the Public Defender’s (known inside as the Public Pretender) Office, asking questions. I have already filled out the application for representation.

Here, the men occupy Pods A-F, leaving only G-Pod for the women. They do not segregate city, county, state, fed, misdemeanor from felony. This is home for some, for other’s it’s a lay over on their way to bigger places (read prison). Never once have I heard the words “I miss my family” or “I want to go home” come out of their mouths.

Today I prayed “Let me go home. I can do nothing for these girls in here. I can do so much more for them outside.” Pretty stupid prayer actually. But I’m ready to go home and I want to go home today.

Weekends are spent trying to sleep it away. Even though we have not seen the sun since we got in here, we are all glad the windows are painted. Seeing the sunshine would make time too hard. I notice it is no longer ‘they’ and ‘me’, it is now ‘we’. I have already accepted I am one of them. No matter how desperately I want to go home I have already assimilated to life on the inside and become ‘one of them’.

I cry every morning. Panic attacks at the thought of my life ‘out there’. Falling apart and every day in here I am helpless to stop it. I am here by my own hands. I didn’t double check dates. I missed court dates and here I sit. I am not allowed my medication while I am here, so on top of everything else I am fighting the mood swings and trying to keep it all together.

I am bargaining with god now. “If I admit that I screwed up, can I go home? If I promise to read my Bible and pray every day, can I go home? If I promise to bring the girls up in the church? If we go every. Single. Week?

I begin to realize that the only way to get through the days, such as they are, is to just be in the moment. Thinking about my girls, or about Batman, is more than I can stand. Speaking of Batman, I’m not even sure he’ll be there for me when I get out. I don’t know if he’ll even talk to me. I have no idea what I have or haven’t lost. Do I have a job still? A boyfriend? A home? My girls? A life?

One of the favorite topics of conversation is what we miss most. What is the first thing we’re going to do when we get out. I want real coffee, with cream and sugar. Instant decaf is a joke. A fountain soda. Most want a smoke. We don’t play this game long. Some of the girls in here are months and even years away from any of that. Besides, what exactly is the point in dreaming of things you can’t have?

I’ve made it through my first Friday and Saturday in jail. Just a few more nights and I will have survived a week. I am not proud of this. I would have never believed it possible.

Tomorrow is Sunday. Visitation Day.