Love, Justine

Wednesday

3/20/2024

8am

The phones are down. I have a phone call at 9:45am, of course. They only gave me eight Mobic (anti-inflammatory pill), and I don’t know how to get it refilled.

Ugh.

They’re acting like it’s a prn (as needed), and it’s definitely not. I have to take that every day. I’ll ask the nurse if they ever decide to call meds.

I asked.

The prison nurse said it’s a prn and that I have to put in a Sick Call paper. 

That’s great.

Like–I have lupus every day, not eight times per month.

Assholes.

I have some Psych appointment at 1:15pm.

Fun times.

Of course, on the way back from  meds, Daisy told me a story about someone she was related to who had lupus, but died at 35 years old. 

Gangrene.

Lovely.

How did I know that was coming?

12pm

They gave us like five seconds to eat in the Chow Hall. 

Ridiculous.

I’m going to go check the kiosk.

No messages.

2pm I went to my Psych appointment, and the Nurse Practitioner told me that they don’t have the Abilify injection and I can’t stay on Wellbutrin. 

Cool.

I’m now reading a book called, “Conversations with Nostradamus.” In it, I found a request slip to the Superintendent here from an inmate that asks why she is on two different antibiotics, and then asks: “Are y’all trying to make me sick? … It seems like you’re milking me for every little penny that I have. This facility receives what, about $1,700 a day for me being here? Three meals that average around $0.19 each? I don’t understand. My charges were dropped before coming here, then PA picked up my case before I got to this point. After that, I was oversentenced, when I should have went [sic] home in December.”

Sounds about right.

The request slip is dated 2/11/24.

I checked the kiosk and Motorcycle and Gem finally got my letters. They both sent nice messages.

Thursday

3/21/24

10:30am

So, I went to the therapist today and she made me cry.

Ugh.

Asking me questions about my kids and shit.

Then, of course, she followed up with asking me if I wanted to kill myself, probably because she made me cry.

In other news, I guess my aunt put some money on my books, because my mother is blocked from doing it. She messaged me on the kiosk and so did Motorcycle and Gem. Gem mostly talks about how unfair it is that I am here, and Motorcycle mostly talks about how much he misses me.

What a sweetheart.

Currently, Burgundy and Daisy are both doing Burgundy’s homework. I guess Burgundy recruited Daisy against her will. I don’t think I like Burgundy very much. She’s always talking about how she’s such a good person and God this and blessings that…it’s very tiring. Then, of course, she has to point out that  most everyone else in the world is not a good person, according to her.

Spare me. 

4pm

So I went to that therapist this morning, then to get my Driver’s License renewed, then parole. The parole lady basically coerced me into waiving my parole hearing, and then made me sign a paper saying that I wasn’t coerced. At first I said no, and then she put down her pen, stared at me for an uncomfortably long time, then listed all of the reasons I should waive it.

Sounds like the DOC.

She already had the waiver paperwork filled out before I got there. 

Fuck my life.

Then she gave me paperwork with my charges:

2/27/24

Resisting arrest/other law enforcement (M2)

Disorderly conduct engaging in fighting (M3)

Resisting arrest/other law enforcement (M2)

Disorderly conduct hazardous (M3)

Also, the phones are working on every other unit, but not this one.

7pm

Motorcycle messaged me. He’s worried I’m not okay because I sent him a short message. I’m fine, I just keep writing short messages because the kiosks seem to be a favorite hangout for some very nosy people. It’s very uncomfortable to write personal messages with strangers all around me. 

The ladies next door are talking about how one of them mailed a grey hair home to show how prison ages a person.

If they only knew how true that is.

******************************************************************

After Kaylee died, I found myself penniless and stuck living with my parents in the armpit of Pennsylvania (also known as “God’s Country”), Potter County.

I was suddenly childless, and for the first time since I was 15, jobless. I had a useless Vet Tech degree and license, and now, nothing to do with my life. I was also floundering in a sea of grief after burying two babies, struggling with undiagnosed PTSD, and depressed out of my mind. I got a meaningless job as a bartender to match my meaningless life.

This is where I met nice, sweet Dubya. He had a John Cusack in “Say Anything” air about him, and kind of looked like him too. I met him in a bar, of course. I could imagine him holding a radio above his head outside my bedroom window, and we went on seven dates in seven days.

I fell so fast and so hard for him that I nearly cracked my head wide open.

You shoulda heard the thud.

I was desperate for any excuse to get out of my parent’s house, so we moved in together pretty quickly. As  my mother would accuse me later– “You were happy.” 

And I was as happy as I could be at the time, I guess. Dubya was always good to me, and when he asked me to marry him, I said yes.

Then Tiger was born three days after Christmas 2009. My life should have been perfect. Tiger was as healthy as a baby could be, and I was married to the nicest, sweetest man I had ever met up until that point in my life.

However, I couldn’t find a job, and my vodka problem had come back with a vengeance, along with its sister, a Vicodin problem. I was still struggling mightily with PTSD symptoms, and it turns out I am also bipolar and didn’t know it, and so wasn’t treated for it. Things got really bad when Tiger was about five weeks old and my sister Elizabeth (who lived with us at the time) and I decided to go out to the bar that was located basically in our front yard.

We went.

I got blackout drunk after not drinking for 10 months and started screaming at the rain.

When I came to several hours later, I was still sobbing and repeating, “I can’t do this anymore,” over and over again, through gritted teeth.

It was around 3am, and my poor husband (and Elizabeth) didn’t quite know what to do with me. I was sitting outside in the freezing cold at the end of January and refused to come inside. 

They called my mother.

She came, and they took me to the hospital, which referred me to a psychiatric facility. This was my introduction to Bipolar I Disorder with Psychotic Features, which wouldn’t be diagnosed formally until 2015, long after the effects of it had ruined my life.