Love, Justine

Friday

3/22/2024

9:45am

Of course, as soon as I called Motorcycle, they started calling Commissary, so I had to get off the phone again.

Tyrant.

Jesus Criminy,

This CO is a total asshole and won’t let people get on the phone even though we’ve been without a phone for two whole days.

Jerk.

Only people with a phone time, and I didn’t do a second signup because I was irritated and tired.

Ugh.

Even though I got the Abilify shot at the beginning of the month, they started giving me the Abilify pill anyway.

Whatever.

I may as well enjoy the increased mood stability before they take away the rest of my psych meds. I wonder if there’s such a thing as Abilify poisoning.

Got commissary. It’s the only bright spot in this life, except for contact with the outside. I wrote my boys. Gem wrote me a short note on the kiosk and told me my lawyer’s phone number, if he’s still even my lawyer. I guess I have to call him and find out. I’m going to read about Nostradamus and the end of the world.

Seems appropriate.

Daisy went to lunch and didn’t have her ID, so they sent her back to the unit. So now she didn’t eat breakfast or lunch and has no commissary. I said to the lady next to me, “She doesn’t know where her ID is. So they can just starve her??”

“Yup,” said the lady.

They keep calling me for wheelchair pushing today, even though it’s my day off. Luckily, I haven’t had to go yet, because someone else has volunteered or I’ve been in the bathroom, but damn. There are OTHER people who are pushers for today.

Fuck.

I get paid $0.20/hour AND I get no days off??

Burgundy turns out to be kind of a jerk. She continuously tells us lies with a completely straight face, then laughs at us when we believe her. I’m starting to think she’s a sociopathic dickhead.

Daisy still seems pretty cool. She has told me a lot about herself and let me interview her, which was cool. I haven’t had freeze-dried Maxwell House coffee since December, and it’s fucking up my stomach. That’s fun when you’re trying to interview someone with your stomach making fart noises the whole time.

Jesus Christ.

I finally plucked my eyebrows (with a string) and was able to put mascara on, which made me feel marginally more human. At least I got real toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, and deodorant from commissary, which super suck to live without.

I keep writing the boys these generic letters: Hi. I miss you. I love you. It snowed here.

Bye.

Ugh.

I really hope they don’t disown me like Tiger did. That would also super suck. I really don’t know how to explain this to them. How do you tell a 10-year old (or two) that sometimes your brain goes crazy and tries to kill you? It’s hard enough to tell the adults in my life! I had to throw away the notebook I had at Clarion Psych, so “The Big Scary Humiliating Incident” hasn’t been discussed here yet.

I’ll give you the basics (as told to me by Motorcycle), because I have no memory of these events, as is what usually happens with my psychotic episodes:

I saw my boys sometime before the end of February and became very depressed and distraught afterward. Motorcycle said that I didn’t snap out of it like I normally do. I have custody court coming up 3/11/24.

At some point after this, my depression turns into mania, and I stop sleeping and eating and become delusional. I am convinced that right now is the End of Times and that I have to go get my boys so that we can be together for the End of the Earth so that they aren’t scared. I try to convince Motorcycle that he needs to take me to my parent’s house. He refuses, citing that he won’t be the reason that I go back to jail. I start walking to my parent’s house in bare feet and a sundress in 30 degree weather. This is February 27th, 2024. Someone calls the police on me for trespassing. I fight with the police when they try to arrest me. I am taken to the ER by the police in handcuffs, which I am screaming about. The hospital sedates me and subsequently discharges me the next day to Motorcycle, who asks the hospital why they are discharging me, as I am clearly not normal. The reply is, “Well, she’s just delusional.” I go to Motorcycle’s house. He leaves me alone. I leave the door wide open, and start walking to go get my children, as it is still the end of times (obviously).

At some point before I leave, I drink some wine. This is now February 28th. Motorcycle comes back to an empty house and calls Gem and Paul, who also don’t know where I am. Paul calls the police and reports me missing. The state cops come this time, tase me twice, and charge me with the second set of Disorderly Conduct/Resisting Arrest charges. 

Nobody calls CRISIS or an ambulance. This time I am voluntarily discharged to Clarion Psych, where I stay for two weeks to recover and get well. I come to (out of my blackout) at Clarion Hospital, get my meds adjusted, and am discharged to my parole officer, Mr. G., who arrests me for having new charges on parole. He gives me no technical violations, but says, “We can’t have you getting hit by a car,” as the reason for the arrest.

After a week at Clarion, I am furious with Paul and Motorcycle for never calling CRISIS and for not having me hospitalized sooner, as I was clearly blackout psychotic. At one point, Motorcycle and I had a conversation about how God speaks through me and that I have special powers. He said he, “Almost laughed,” instead of helping me. I told him I could never trust him again. He apologized profusely. I haven’t spoken to Paul since, except to tell him to give my things to Motorcycle and Gem.

When I called my parents to tell them I was going to be arrested, they told me that they already knew, but hadn’t told me because they “didn’t want me to worry.”

This is my “support system,” which seems to be full of crappy people who refuse to help me.

I have now been to jail because of Elizabeth, Stryder, my parents, Paul, Gem, and to round it out, Motorcycle, who I never thought in a million years would betray me.

All of them did.

And these are people who have been given explicit instructions by me as to what to do when I start talking and acting crazy. And NONE of it involves calling the fucking police. Motorcycle says he now knows what to do and it won’t happen again.

Fuck.

What do I have to do to get these people to listen to me??!

4pm

I just looked at the Call-Out, and I’m on for Parole again on Monday. Hopefully they’ll cancel it, since I saw them on Thursday.

The two women next door and Burgundy are talking about how funny it is to encourage people to kill themselves. And Burgundy is SUCH a good person and “no one can steal my joy” and all of that other nonsense.

Fuck.

Why is it always the worst people who are convinced that they are the best people??

#jailculture

And they always seem to be sooooooooooo religious, too. They hold God in front of them like a shield while talking shit about all of the “bad” people around them. Judgy Wudgy was a bear…

Did I mention how much I hate this place?

Oh, and Motorcycle can’t find the five newspapers that I am missing a paycheck for. They were in my briefcase, and now they’re gone.

There goes $400.

Fuck.

I guess I should be grateful for the fact that I didn’t smash my whole laptop, like the last time I was psychotic three years ago. Dropped it on a sidewalk in the rain and left it there.

Ugh.

Burgundy looked at her monthly statement, and at the end of January, there were almost 1,000 inmates here at Muncy. She also told a story about how she wanted SSI, so she made up a story and called 911 and told them that the voices in her head were telling her to kill everyone in her mother’s house, including a child. After an ambulance came and took her to the hospital, she changed her  mind and said she went home, but somehow, in the midst of this, got approved for SSI. She now says that she has a giant check waiting for her in Harrisburg. I don’t believe a word of it.

She reminds me of Zi in Cambridge Springs Prison, who knew she was going to be a famous millionaire in the next five years. She also thought that she wasn’t delusional. Now Burgundy is talking about how the government is going to microchip all of us.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm….okay.

I feel like this is another one of her stories to demonstrate how stupid the White bitches are.

Some lady in Med Line just asked me if I shined my boots. I said, “No, I’m just new.” Then we got in trouble for talking in Med Line. I said, “Oh, sorry,” to which the CO snapped, “Don’t be sorry. Be QUIET!” Everyone here prides themselves in being mean, it seems. I feel like that’s all that prison is–standing in lines and getting yelled at. 

Or doing both at the same time.

This older lady, Roadrunner, walked up to me the other day and said, “Hi hon! I wish you were my roommate!” And now she races to walk with me and Daisy to sit with us at meals. No, at Med Line tonight, Burgundy announced when Roadrunner walked by, “OH! There’s your BUDDY!!” 

I am literally beginning to hate this woman.

This is like the biggest Mean Girl’s Club ever. I fucking hate this place. I’m exhausted. Like–this is way worse than Cambridge Springs. Not the food, not the CO’s, but the inmates! I get the feeling Burgundy goes around and talks shit about me every chance she gets. Like–what the fuck did I ever do to you, bitch??! This is not good. This is not good at all.

Oh, God, what did I ever do to deserve this??

Burgundy also sells Gabapentin and offered me some, but I think it was just to get me in trouble.

I have a chronic stomachache from being here and being stressed all of the time. I’ve never seen Burgundy take Gabapentin, and it seems weird that she would offer them to a new person. Of course, then she asks me for my Mobic. If she was in so much pain, why wouldn’t she just take her own Gabapentin?

When I walked into the bathroom earlier, Burgundy was in there talking quietly to someone, and then they both shut up and left when they saw me.

God Almighty.