Confessions of Detainee #20121113160

So my faithful reader and close friend Ms. Berry asked that I follow up my incarceration experience with a blog describing my stay.  I kicked the idea around for a bit, wondering how, exactly, I could encompass the magnitude of that sort of thing and put it into words that make sense and do it justice.  Then I realized that in itself is completely fucking impossible; this shit is gonna be as watered down as a drink in a downtown club.
  In order for me to give you even a semblance of an idea of what it was like, I'd have to throw a Thesaurus' worth of adjectives at you.  It's sad to say that prison is preferable to the County lockup, but that's as real as it gets. What is it like?  Loud, routine, dirty, lonely, bizarre, smelly, boring, demeaning, annoying, claustrophobic, scary, enlightening, and a hideous blow to my fashion senses (I realize now that dusty blue is just NOT in my color wheel). It's one of those things that all the adjectives in the world couldn't begin to describe- you wouldn't get it unless you've been there. You will never feel smaller and less significant than you do in jail.  You will also never have more violent thoughts anywhere but while locked in a cell.  Sometimes I even scared myself.  The smallest things can be a catalyst for crazy ideas, and your mind never stops running--if you don't have ADHD in the world, you will most certainly have it in lockup, which is like it's own solitary planet.  The regular outside world doesn't exist in real life inside the walls of a jail.  Finding yourself on the outside after being locked up makes you feel like an alien.  I'm getting ahead of myself...
To put it in simple terms, aside from losing a loved one, it's one of the most traumatic things a person can go through.  I should clarify that: what a normal person can go through.  There is a crazy group of people that seem to come to jail, and often, strictly to catch up with old friends.  They settle in and get all cozy and comfortable like they're right at home.  Seeing this makes me go crosseyed.
  In jail, you will almost always have a cell mate. Very rarely, you end up with one that you click with, and it makes your stay marginally easier.  Unfortunately, I was not so lucky.
"Carrie" was my cellie. She is 33, white, plain, and resembles a panic-stricken rodent. Seriously, the whole time I was there, I expected her to scurry to the far corner of our cell holding a piece of cheese.
We came in together, and though she looked as though she was short a few bars of soap, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and just assumed she was having a bad day. Fast forward a week, and she has yet to broach the shower situation.  Ok, I get it, communal shower, kinda weird, no privacy, etc...but after a week of no shower, none of that would make a damn difference to me, cuz I would be tearing my fuckin' skin off. Alas, she could not be moved. Then made it a point to tell me that it had been (ready for this?) THREE WEEKS BEFORE her arrest since her dirty ass had seen the inside of a shower.

....Go ahead and do the math, I'll wait.....

And I quote, "I came in dirty, I'm leavin' dirty."

Astoundingly, her story actually gets worse.

Any shred of basic human respect I may have had for her before I pieced together her reason for being there was obliterated once I did.

I'm gonna make a valiant attempt to put her case in a nutshell and curb the urge to punch through the nearest object imagining it's her rat face.

Shockingly, this..."woman" is the mother of 6, even though she doesn't look a day older than a 17-year-old Amish girl.  She is married to a much older Hispanic man, who was also incarcerated, but in the mens' division.  They are both being tried for two cases.  The first is Gross Child Neglect.  

Before I go into this, I just want to preface it with a few things.  Being a parent is tough.  It costs an obscene amount of money to raise a kid, so I can see how a family of 8 can be broke and poor.  There is no shame in being poor, so long as you show that you are making a true effort to take care of your kids.  Now with that being said, if you know that you have no means to raise kids, STOP GETTING PREGNANT. It's not fair to the children that don't ask to be born to live in complete squalor because your husband wants to turn you into a baby machine.

Ok, back to the point.  So Carrie and Señor BabyMaker are raising these poor kids in a house with no stove. Every house in America comes with a stove. Why don't they have a stove?  Because it was so massively infested with bugs that the landlord had it removed and refuses to replace it until the bitch learns how to clean her house.  Their entire place is a cockroach hotel.  There are 5 or 6 bags of garbage in the kitchen alone, dirty dishes that haven't been touched in a month, and laundry to the ceiling.  They have TWO BEDS. For 8 people.  I so wish that all of this was speculation and hearsay, but the dummy told me all of this herself! The woman has, from what I can tell, a 7th grade education (and that is being generous), and is completely and totally unfit to be anyone's mother.  I wouldn't give the bitch a sea monkey.  There is so much more, but I'll leave it here because, crazy enough, it gets even WORSE.

..This is the part that makes my blood boil, for obvious reasons if you've read most of my blog.

The second charge she is facing is Child Endangerment, for failing to protect her daughter. The little girl, who is 9 years old, is being sexually abused by her father. Frequently. The disgusting bitch knew all about the abuse, and never stopped him or did a damn thing to keep her baby from that horror. What's worse is the entire time I was there with her I listened to her whine about how much she missed her 'hubby' and hoped he was ok. (WHAAAT?!!?)  She wrote him a letter while we were stuck together and actually handed it to me to 'check out', because evidently she thought I was her fucking BFF.  In it she told him that she forgives him for all of it, as long as he "doesn't do it again".  Are. You. Fucking. Serious. 

I wanted to shank her with my flexible fucking pen.

I don't think, in any of the experiences I've had in my life, that I have ever felt so murderous.  My entire scope of vision was red, and I had to stop myself from spitting in her ugly face.  My time there could not go fast enough.

The only good thing to come from this experience was the fact that I joined the inmate prayer group.  

Now, I'm not someone who is very vocal about my spiritual beliefs-I just prefer to keep that part of me private.  One of the ladies there was particularly spiritual and positive, and being near her in group just made me feel better.  She helped me stay calm by sitting with me one on one and praying for strength and peace, never judging why I needed it. I credit her for getting me through that. Miss Rita, wherever you are...thanks :)

  You also come out a different person.  You're harder, more humble, and definitely more grateful for your blessings.  You appreciate things you never noticed before.  Fresh air, unbroken sleep, clean laundry, normal food...Oh the food...Kibble was more appetizing that what you're fed in jail. I lost 25 lbs involuntarily.

  Obviously it's not something I want to have to deal with again, but I know it's always a possibility looming in the background.  It breaks you down if you let it.  I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

Except for Carrie.