Tag: addiction

Knowing you’re going to jail is such a difficult feeling to describe. It was bizarre, not only because jail is a strange world, but more so because of its stark contrast to my day-to-day life. Plus, I was forced to be sober (being drunk would have made it easier.) I was an average housewife. Three teenage kids. Three-bedroom ranch house in Small Town, USA. A true “soccer mom”; therefore, this experience was a total contrast to what I knew. Just flat-out surreal.

The Ordeal Begins

It’s an uncomfortable feeling, to say the least, putting yourself into the “care” of indifferent abject strangers. Willingly going to live among people you don’t know, the whole place shrouded in concertina wire, metal detectors, and surveillance cameras, is anxiety-inducing, to say the least.

To relinquish everything that you own, and enter into uncertainty empty-handed–no ID, no purse, no keys, no phone, no books, photos, or notes, not even your own clothes (except for your underwear). Everything inside you screams UNSAFE! NO! RUN! Yet, you have no choice. I had no choice.

The strip search was humiliating. And I do mean strip, and then some.

“Clothes off.” “Arms up.” “Turn.” “Again.” “Turn.”  “Face me.”

“Spread yer legs. Squat. Lower. Bend over. Head down. Shake your head.”

“No clips or barrettes in your hair? Nothing?”

“Turn around. Spread yer legs.” Oh my God! You’ve got to be kidding me! “Squat. Lower. Bend over. Cough.”

Really? WTF?!

“Face me!” She barked and took out a small flash light and clicked it on, then approached me, leading with a gloved hand.

“Open yer mouth. Stick out yer tongue. Lemme see under yer tongue.” She felt the inside of my cheeks and checked up my nostrils. I smelled latex.

“Face the door, pull yer hair back, and lemme see inside yer ears.” Do people really hide stuff there? “Other side.”

“Now shower.” She nodded towards a shower head jutting from the wall, and handed me a meager pile–a small bar of soap (yeah, a bar of soap…no joke.) White socks, orange jumpsuit, a dingy towel, and a pair of black rubber flip-flops. The orange surprised me. I thought maybe that was only for the movies. I’ve not worn that “new orange” since. I never will again.

No doors where you want them

This was the beginning of not having doors where you want them, and having them where you don’t want them.  And this was the first point at which I realized how much I take privacy for granted. If you can go into any bathroom right now, and close a door behind you, you have no idea how comforting that is…until you can’t.

As I stood there, under streams of lukewarm water, I remember looking at my feet. Whose feet were they? They didn’t feel attached to me. The water trickled down an unfamiliar drain.

It is difficult to describe the feeling of walking through the hallway to my cell, half-dragging a thin cot and clutching a pillow under my arm–my only “possessions”. Knowing where I was going and for how long, but not what to expect or with whom. I can’t tell you the enormity of my dread, anxiety, and shame.

Run! Danger! Unsafe! – something in me cried

I passed by normally-clothed people working at desks, like nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Yet inside, I felt abject panic. I felt like I wanted to cling to them and beg. “Please don’t let them take me! Help me! I don’t belong here! Help!” I could feel my heart pounding, my breath quickening, my hands and feet feeling tingly, like I should run.

But I had to keep calm and walk. I had no choice. And those people kept right on working without even a glance.

When we got to my cell, they opened the door and I walked through it like I was walking into any other room. The heavy metal door clamped shut behind me, with finality, and without a word from anyone. There were no clanging keys, or metal rolling sounds like in the movies. You know, like when sliding doors roll open and shut. That’s what I expected.

But no, it was simply a heavy-sounding, metal door that closed and locked behind me. A door, indeed, without a knob, or handle, or any way to open it from inside. I would contemplate that one door a lot.

Home away from home

For the next several days, I would get to know my cell mates well, but at first there was nothing. No communication, no acknowledgement except some looks. It was so weird. But what do you say in this situation? “Hello, my name’s Lisa. Nice to meet you”? No, because it’s not nice to meet them. None of us want to be here, and we wouldn’t mix outside this place.

I shared a cell that was maybe twenty-four by eighteen feet, with five other women. It was too small for all six of us to live in, I’ll tell ya that! There weren’t enough beds, so I laid my cot on the floor near the door, following another inmate’s lead.

The rectangular room was arranged with beds anchored to one long wall; a “bathroom” area on the short wall–one open shower stall, a metal toilet, and a small metal sink, no mirror–all completely open. No doors and no curtains, nothing, just open. Towels hung on either side. The third long wall was blank except for a digital clock in the top center, and a television mounted close to the ceiling. And that one door, of course.

I took up “squatting rights” along the other short wall between the foot of the corner bed and that one door. There were two tables, and a couple of chairs anchored to the floor in the center of the room. A metal garbage can was also anchored to the floor in a corner.

The bed nearest me, in the corner, had child-like drawings hanging on its surrounding walls. Apparently, it had been occupied the longest. It appeared to be “home”, unfortunately, for some poor soul. I would come to learn it was the most coveted too, because of its two walls. But you had to be here longer than anyone else to earn it. No, thanks.

My First Night

I remember, when I first arrived, I sat on my cot leaning against the wall for a long time. I kept my head down so as not to make eye contact with anyone, but discreetly snuck peeks now and then. Three of the women were black, and three, including me, were white. I think I may have been the oldest, but not by much. The Jerry Springer Show was blaring from the television. I remember thinking wryly I might be able to get on an episode after this experience. (Not one of my aspirations in life.)

At one point, one of the white women went to the toilet. She sat there, less than half clothed because the jumpsuit is one piece, peeing as if it was no big deal! I could see her in my peripheral vision. That was the second time I realized how much I take my privacy for granted. How long could I go without peeing?

When nature calls – and she does, eventually

It didn’t take long to see how to handle defecation “au naturelle”. When someone had to go, she announced it, in whatever vulgar fashion she chose, and everyone else turned their back to her, or pretended to be distracted with something else–a sudden interest in the grout between the concrete blocks of the wall, for example. Or watching television with your back to the person. I usually rolled over and faced my wall, waiting for a flush, and then giving her a few minutes to dress completely.

The same thing happened with showers, although I don’t remember many showers being taken. I didn’t because I didn’t have any clean underwear. I brought them, but they disappeared, and I never saw them again. My daily anti-depressant disappeared too. I asked for both, begged for the latter, but no one seemed to care much that I was supposed to take it every day. I can’t image my morale being any lower than it already was, so I can’t say I noticed a huge downswing in mood. Luckily, I wasn’t there long enough for it to make a big difference, but lack of communication from the staff was frustrating and added to my sense of helplessness and vulnerability.

The first meal came soon after my arrival. The same two women who checked me in, wheeled it half-way through that one door on a cart, and distributed the trays. It appeared to be meat, grayish mashed potatoes, canned fruit, a small pile of lettuce with dressing, and white sandwich bread. I said I wasn’t hungry, but they left a tray anyway. There was very little conversation between the guards and the women.

Play nice in jail, it makes you friends

While my cellmates were eating, one of the black women asked if she could have my food. I nodded, and she came over and got it. That was the only conversation I had all evening.

Later, the television and lights automatically went out at eleven o’clock, and it was abruptly dark and silent. After a few minutes though, I heard whispers and hushed rustling. I saw a quick tiny flash of fire, and then the smell of cigarette smoke. I realized my cellmates were smoking close to the vent above the toilet. It didn’t last long–a few puffs each–then a flush of the toilet, and they all went to bed.

I lay there, eyes wide open, listening, thinking, and quietly crying. I contemplated that one door. A sliver of light streamed in underneath it. I spent many nights meditating on that thin beam of light.

I missed my comfortable bed, with multiple pillows and paisley comforter. With my husband at my side, beagle at the foot, and my children nearby. I didn’t sleep much during my time in jail–drifting in and out, tossing and turning on the flat mat atop a hard floor, with one thin pillow under my head. Unfamiliar noises. Loud snorers. The continuous thin beam of light beneath that one door.

Nights were the loneliest

These nights in jail were some of the loneliest I have ever felt in my life. This feeling was the lowest I’ve ever experienced up to now. I felt tiny, vulnerable, afraid, and profoundly ashamed. I can’t explain how lost I felt–adrift. Completely alone and lost in this world. I didn’t know who I was — who had I become? I thought a lot about what others must think of me too.

How ashamed my family must be of me. The first night, I realized how close the jail was to my kid’s school. They had visited this place in their social studies classes. I could just imagine their teachers telling them, “This is where you go when you don’t follow the laws.” And now their mother was there.

How must they feel about me? How should I feel about myself? I was disgusted and desperate. I felt isolated and worthless. I hated myself. This is what I deserved! I wished I would die–not painfully, mind you, just peacefully drift away into nothingness. Feel nothing. Simply slip away to naught. I understand suicide. I get it; it’s better than right here, right now.

All this pain from alcohol -why do we do this to ourselves?

Breakfast came early, and in the same fashion as lunch and dinner, all served daily by two of several female employees. All the meals were similar–room temperature, bland, and not very nutritious. Like bad school lunches, without the ketchup. Tasteless scrambled eggs, mysterious meat-like products, white bread, cheese-products, dry lunch meat sandwiches, slightly wilting iceberg lettuce, canned vegetables and fruits, milk or juice, weak instant coffee and tea or something like cool-aid in foam cups.

Time crept by. Oh my God, the boredom was excruciating! This is what stands out the most from my first full day.  There was absolutely nothing to do but sit or lay and watch TV. There were a few books to read from the “library”, which was more like a closet with several donated copies of the Bible, the Alcoholics Anonymous book, and supporting materials. Inmates were allowed to take one a week. I had several books with me when I arrived, but they were confiscated upon admission.

So, when the boredom overtook fear some time during the first day, I asked if I could use the only chair not bolted to the floor. No one said “no”, but no one really said “yes”, either. I tentatively helped myself, and went about establishing an hourly exercise routine.

One, two . . . ten . . . repeat. Why not? Nothing else to do.

Ten step-ups onto the chair, then ten sit-ups, then ten push-ups, then sitting leg stretches on my cot while counting to one hundred. I alternated this with a variation of Sun Salutation that I remembered from the few yoga classes I’d taken–Mountain Pose, Chair Pose, Downward Facing Dog, Warrior, Tree Pose, and Corpse. I did this routine every hour, much to the chagrin, of my cellmates, I might add.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Not again!”

“How can you do that crazy shit?”

“Goddammit! You’re getting’ on my nerves.”

“Are you serious, bitch?”

At first, I was intimidated and thought I should stop. But I’d come to realize I was safe – enough – and I had a teeny tiny space here too, so I should realistically be able to do what I wanted as long as I didn’t interfere with anyone else. I wasn’t in the way of the television, and I didn’t make any noise, so what could it hurt? Josey, the woman I shared my food with, took up for me too, which was encouraging.

“Leave her alone, lazy thang! She ain’t hurtin’ no body.”

After initial cold reception of the first day, things got a bit less tense. Someone asked my name, and we went from there. I soon learned all their names and their stories.

Two were awaiting trial. One was like me and was serving brief time for a DUI violation. Another was in on a minor marijuana charge. And two were “staying off” debt that they owed in court fees which they’d neglected to pay.

Pay your court costs!

Apparently, if you owe money to the court and don’t pay it, they can lock you up, and you do the time instead of paying the money. Every day in jail deducts from your debt.

I couldn’t imagine why someone would choose to go to jail as opposed to paying money, but I soon learned that these two had been in and out of jail many times before. I suspect they used their funds for drugs, alcohol, and the like, and had no one in their lives who would continue loaning them money.  

Both these women spent hours on the phone calling people–anyone –asking for money: old boyfriends, childhood friends, cousins, parents, grandparents, neighbors. They cursed at people and screamed. They cried, slammed down the phone, and threw tantrums, then called the same person back, begging for forgiveness; and money. Eventually giving up or running out of phone time, they would go back to TV or bed. Neither got anywhere while I was there. I never asked how long they would need to stay to pay off their entire balances.

Of the two who were awaiting trial, one was for multiple shoplifting charges and one was for murder. That sort of freaked me out! I’ve never known anyone who has killed another person, let alone slept in the same room with them.

A criminal mind?

She was a young white girl, with a three-year-old daughter, which explained the pictures that hung by her bed. I felt more sorry for this poor girl than my other cellmates. And she was not stable.

She would get violently angry at times–hitting things and cursing at nothing, then she would collapse into a sobbing crumpled mess of curse words, nonsense, prayers and tears. I wanted to help her, to soothe her like I would my own daughters, but I didn’t. Not once did I even try to console her. I wasn’t myself there. And she had been in this small room for over a year. I can’t imagine what that would have been like. They all said long stays in county jails like this one are worse than “real prison”, especially if your time is indefinite. I believe it. And I guess a lot of her emotional instability stemmed from boredom, frustration, and stir-craziness. I don’t remember her name, but it started with an “s”, so I’m naming her Shelby.

You be the judge.

Her story is that her boyfriend (and I use that term loosely), put her up to stealing a valuable doll collection from his grandmother for drug money. Shelby got the collection into a vehicle late one night, but the grandmother wasn’t giving it up without a fight. While pursuing Shelby on foot in her driveway, she wouldn’t let go of the vehicle and was dragged to death. Shelby was charged with murder, and the boyfriend disappeared.

My attorney came to visit me and asked a lot of questions about her. He said it was a big case and was interested in her display of remorse. I told him what I knew, which wasn’t really much. Living in a small town, I imagine murder cases weren’t very common, and it must be the talk of town among local attorneys. I still think about Shelby and wonder what happened. I didn’t follow her story after my stay; I just wanted to put this experience behind me and forget I ever knew these people.

Cat fight

One night she and another woman got into a fight–I mean a real fight — exchanging blows! I’d never seen two women fight before, so this was quite an experience. Shelby was often at odds with others, and on this day in particular, there had been a lot of tension between her and Juanita. It started as heated banter during the daytime, and erupted into a knock-down-drag-out right after the lights went down.

Juanita said Shelby attacked her. I did hear Shelby get out of bed, then immediately heard cursing, and screaming. I crawled under Shelby’s bed frame and tucked myself as far back into the corner as I could. (Glad I’m small.)  Josey had run to the door and was banging on it for help. The others were calling out.

“What the fuck!?”

 “Get on ‘er OG! ” (my cell mates called Juanita “Old Girl”, or OG for short)

“Nuh-uh, you all!”

The lights came on, and from my hiding place I looked directly into Shelby’s face, pinned against the floor by Juanita’s arm. Juanita had easily straddled her–stomach down. Shelby was struggling to turn her head back so she could bite Juanita. Even though Juanita was much bigger and heavier, Shelby was bucking and writhing trying to get leverage.

I’ll never forget the look on Shelby’s face.

She looked ready to explode! Her face was flushed red, eyes wide and wild, with drool and blood seeping from her mouth onto the floor. Juanita seemed in control, sitting on top of her yelling obscenities. Screaming for them to stop, I sat holding my ears. Don’t know why. I wanted to close my eyes but couldn’t make myself do it. Why doesn’t someone come and help?

It seemed a long time before that one door burst open, but finally four people poured into the small cell all at once, yelling and adding to the commotion. One man brandished a stun gun, yelling threats. He pulled Juanita off Shelby, while one of the women clamped cuffs onto her wrists. The other man yanked Shelby up off the floor and held her by the shoulders, with some difficulty, I might add, especially for such a small woman, while the other woman struggled to get her cuffed.

“You better cuff that bitch! That bitch is crazy! You’re a crazy little cunt!” Juanita’s eyes were big and intently focused on Shelby, shooting invisible daggers, as she spat out the words, and the staff tried to manhandle Shelby.

She reminded me of a wild animal!

Shelby was livid! Hysterically screaming and trying to get away, she lunged forward and shook her shoulders vigorously from side to side. She was totally out of control and seemed beside herself with rage, like she was about to explode. More rage than I’ve ever seen on another human’s face.

“I will kill you you motherfucker! I’ll kill you!”

“That’s enough, come on now, let’s go.” said one of the ladies, quite calmly; I don’t think this was their first rodeo.

Shelby was led–more like dragged, really–from the cell still screaming. Her obscenities trailed off the further away they got, and I felt relief. In the meantime, Juanita, who was fairly calm now, considering what had just occurred, was uncuffed. She paced around the small room, explaining what happened with plenty of cursing. I was pretty confident her story was accurate. The guards got all our statements, made some notes in a file, then left us alone.

Truce.

By the next morning, Shelby had not returned. Then, after breakfast, Juanita was taken away for a brief time. Then she and Shelby returned together, and they seemed perfectly fine. They reminded me of my kids after a fight. There was not another incident between them for the remainder of my stay, and in fact, much like children who’ve just made up, they seemed closer than before. That night, in striking contrast to the horrific ordeal of the night before, a most unexpected and touching phenomenon occurred.

The lights went out. A cigarette was smoked and flushed down the toilet, then silence ensued. After some time a beautifully clear and melodious voice began to sing from the corner of the room nearest me. It was Shelby. At first it was soft, then her pure and surprisingly lovely voice strengthened with every familiar word.

Precious and few moments.

“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now I’m found. Was blind, but now I see.” Silence. “’Twas grace that taught, my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved. How precious did that grace appear, the hour I first believed.” Pause.

Then someone else started humming along with her singing “Through many dangers, toils and snares, We have already come. Twas grace hath brought us safe thus far, and grace will lead us home.” Pause. “When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun…”

Voices added, and I, too, began humming in the dark. “We’ll have no less days to sing God’s praise, than when we first begun.” By the end we were all either singing or humming–my words were sung through tears, and I suspect everyone else’s were too. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now I’m found, was blind, but now I see.” Silence.

I’ll never forget that moment. Are we beasts or saints? This night, we were acapella angels – all of us; for we are all human. And in the dark, we were all equal. Skin color, age, life experiences didn’t separate us. We were six human experiences melded into one beautiful song. Perhaps at this particular moment, we were also at peace.

“Concession stand” for incarcerated adults.

The second evening I was introduced to the commissary. If inmates have money in their “jail account”, they can purchase items like soft drinks, snacks, stationary, and pre-paid phone cards. I didn’t have any cash or an account, so I did without. Since the diet was bad enough, I wouldn’t have wanted any junk food, but I would have appreciated paper to write on. However, the problem would have been a writing utensil; standard utensils weren’t allowed, because, theoretically, they could be used as weapons.

Clever Shelby had figured a way around this. The commissary did offer really short pencils. They were maybe three inches long, and sharpened to a dull point on one end, flat on the other. No metal or eraser.  It would have been impossible to write much comfortably with one, so Shelby would buy two and put them together. She removed the sticky label from shampoo bottles to use as “tape” to hold them together. She went through a lot of shampoo and conditioner! Luckily the bottles were travel-sized, which was perfect for the little pencils, and the employees didn’t seem to notice or care that she requested so many. If the “tape” required more “glue” to keep the pencils attached, she used a little soap. And she “sharpened” the pencil points using the edge of the vent cover. She loaned me one, and while it wasn’t ideal, it did work.

The commissary also sold crayons, which is what she used on her daughter’s drawings. It was almost Christmas, and she was busy creating the only “gifts” she could for her child. And I was to be released on Christmas Eve. Thank God.

Released, finally.

I didn’t know for sure when I was going to be released, and the staff at this place acted as if we didn’t have a right to know anything about our situation. Aside from the anti-depressant issue, this was my biggest concern with the staff. I knew the day I was supposed to be released, but not when or how or who would pick me up, or any other details. When I asked, they said they would check on it, but they never did. I kept asking to no avail.

“We’re looking into it.” – all I ever got. Then late in the day, they came and told me to “Come on.”

At one point, when my attorney came to visit, I implored him not to let me stay in there any longer than I had to. He assured me that he had nothing to do with it, and that that detail was administrative and out of his control. But he would check with my husband to make sure I was home safe and sound by Christmas Eve. I was, but the days leading up to it were very stressful. I contemplated that one door a lot on that last day, willing it to open. When are they coming? Why don’t they come? With every meal, I asked. Why won’t they just ease my mind? Maybe it was the power of the element of control they felt they were exerting over me, I don’t know.

A part of me wanted to be sassy and give them a piece of my mind, as we made our way to the front of the building, but I was too insecure with my potential freedom and didn’t want to jeopardize it. I changed into the clothes I’d worn several days prior, but without an audience this time. (Who cares what you take out?) And I was released with hardly a word. But no one was there to take me home, because no one in my family was told when I would be able to leave. (To be honest, I wasn’t even sure my husband would have come to pick me up anyway.)

What now?

I walked the five miles home because I had no phone, no money, and no nothing. But it was fine; I was never so happy to be able to move about freely in my life! This experience was truly one of the most difficult in my life. I wonder sometimes if that was because I had lived such a sheltered life, or because it took me into my shameful and lonely self with only my own negative thoughts for comfort.

On my way home, I do remember making a greater realization, and not for the first time, but perhaps this time, it would strengthen my future resolve. I ruminated about what took me into jail to begin with, and how I was going to salvage the rest of my life.

Jail was not my prison. My prison was alcohol. I created it, and lived in it, and kept myself there; thus I would have to get myself out of it, somehow. And even while I sincerely vowed that to myself, little did I know how long alcohol would continue to ensnare me.

It would entangle me for another seven years–through divorce, another arrest, virtual homelessness, and abject hopelessness. This was a mere four-day skirmish in my battle with alcoholism and the war with myself. It was far from over.