Love, Justine

4/4/24

Thursday

10am

I talked to my mother. Apparently Paul wasn’t the one who called the police. He did call her though, to find out what was going on with me. My mother says the people feeding me information are wrong. She asked Paul not to contact Stryder, and he said that he wouldn’t. My mother says that Stryder loves drama.

Of course he does.

She says I had visitation with the boys on the day I got arrested the second time, and talked to the CYS worker, none of which I remember. I hope I didn’t say anything crazy to the boys.

Fuck. 

This is scary. It’s scary because it’s not like I can stop doing something (like drugs) or start doing something (like meds or therapy) and the crazy will stop. 

I wrote my mother:

Mom, 

I just talked to you. I’m wondering many things. Things like why did you call the police on me instead of CRISIS or an ambulance? Why didn’t you come get me and take me to the hospital? Especially if you were worried about my safety?

The police hate me. 

You know the police hate me.

My hand is still swollen, why wrist is damaged, and I have road rash marks on me still from where they dragged me to the car by the handcuffs. This is after beating on me and tasing me twice. 

Police lead to jail, prison, or death. 

That’s it.

They aren’t going to help me. Why do you not seem to know this?

All you’ve ever done is use my mental illness against me to make my life even worse than it already is. Why don’t you ever help me? I cannot control this, and it’s getting more scary as I age. It’s not like I can stop doing something (like drugs) or start doing something (like meds or therapy) and the crazy will stop. Please stop acting like it’s some sort of behavior problem I can control if I try hard enough. Stop punishing me for it. You’ve been punishing me for over 40 years. 

When does it stop?

I’m doing the best I can. I go to all of my appointments. I see a psychiatrist monthly and a therapist weekly. I take my medication. I don’t use drugs. I work. What more do you want from me? Stop using my mental illness against me. Stop calling the police on me. I don’t know what else to say to you. 

If you cared about me at all, or if you were “on my side,” you would do this.

–Justine

Paul, 

I don’t know what to say to you. I talked to my mother today and she says she’s the one who called the police. I’m trying to piece this story together, because I don’t remember any of it. I want to know why nobody called CRISIS or an ambulance? Why don’t people help me instead of calling the police? The police came and tased me, dragged me, and beat me up. 

Next time, they’ll probably just shoot me. 

This is scary. It’s scary because it’s not like I can just stop doing something (like drugs) or start doing something (like meds or therapy) and the crazy will stop. I had a visit with my boys on Wednesday that I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything until the 29th, when I came to in Clarion Psych.

I want to know what happened. I’m going to have to explain this to a judge and the Parole Board.

Please write back by letter or kiosk (connectnetwork.com) and let me know if I can call you.

–Justine

8:23pm

I talked to Superman. King was sleeping at 7pm. I hope he’s okay. Burgundy finally told me that she thought I was “prejudiced” because I was talking about interviewing more “people of color.” She doesn’t seem to understand that that’s the term people use when they’re NOT racist.

*sigh*

I’m sure she told everyone on the Block too. It’s no wonder people hate me. I apologized for her perception of me and said I wasn’t meaning to come off that way. Things seem okay now.

She reminds me more and more of Sassypants, who told me I act like I think I’m better than everyone else. Like–why am I responsible for your perceptions? Can people really blame me for being miserable? I hear “Fix your face,” all day long. I tend to think to myself, “Of course I’m miserable!! Why the fuck are you so fucking HAPPY?! We’re in GODDAMN PRISON STUPID!!”

Burgundy says I need to find a positive reason for being here. I said I can’t . She says I could have gotten hit by a car or burned down my house if I wasn’t here. This reminds me of the “it could be worse” people when Ethan and Kaylee died. I remember writing in my journal something like, “Is it supposed to make me feel better to imagine somebody who has it WORSE than me??! How does THAT work?”

Fuck my life. 

At least I have a radio and Pink is singing to me. 

There’s my fucking gratitude. 

Are you happy now??

Can you leave me the fuck alone now??!