Author: Jessica Kenley

Jessica Lynne Kenley is an independent author, freelance writer, and news reporter based in Coudersport, Pennsylvania. Born in Buffalo, New York, in 1981, she has built a diverse professional background centered around writing, editing, and content creation, focusing heavily on social justice and human interest stories.

Categories
Life

abortions and loaves of bread

This is the first time I got to hold King and Superman together.

The years 2010-2012 are basically a slurry, foggy blur of memories because I was drinking so much. Dubya and I got divorced and he got everything–the house, the dogs, my car, and the toddler. It was like a bad country song, and I was the one left crying into my beer. 

Or my vodka, rather.

I went to rehab twice during this time, and stayed sober for the while after the second time. Prynot went back to prison for four months for a parole violation during this time, leaving me effectively homeless. Prynot was on parole for a burglary he had committed with his friends in his twenties. This was not his first parole violation. His first parole violation happened when he had a consensual sexual relationship with a 16-year old, resulting in his becoming a Registered Sex Offender in the state of New York.

I found out about this well after I already lived with him and thought I was in love with him. After Prynot went back to prison, I moved in with my sister Elizabeth and her husband Stryder, and their two (going on three) boys. I continued to see Prynot on and off when he got home from prison, and found out I was pregnant in early April of 2013. I cried–a lot–and settled on an abortion. I had abandoned the one living child I had, and had divided long ago to stick to cats, who I had much better luck with.

I went to my doctor, who confirmed that I was pregnant and told me that he didn’t perform abortions. He gave me the number to the nearest Planned Parenthood and told me I should do an ultrasound to make sure this wasn’t an ectopic pregnancy, since I’d had one before. 

The ultrasound showed that I was five weeks pregnant, and then the doctor turned to me and said, “It’s twins. I’m not kidding.”

I burst into tears.

I continued crying for about three weeks, and wrestled with myself over the thought of aborting twins. I’m a twin. I thought I was okay with one, but two? I couldn’t stomach it.

I talked with my seemingly happily married sister about her and Stryder adopting the twins, but in the end, I couldn’t stomach that either. Now that I lived with her, I saw that her marriage wasn’t all that happy either, and she drank a lot every day. 

I decided I would make it work, whatever that meant.

Lilly was now three years old, and I had visitation privileges with her a couple of times a week. I stopped drinking and taking Vicodin like it was candy. I moved in with my parents, who insisted that I get a job. I started working at the local Sheetz gas station. I also started puking uncontrollably several times per day–a condition known as hyperemesis gravidum. I could not gain weight to save my life. I was working overnights as a Shift Supervisor, and then had visitation with Tiger during some of the days. I was extremely sleep-deprived. Prynot would not change his lifestyle–namely using and selling drugs–so I broke up with him. My parents started transforming their garage into an apartment where my boys and I could live when they were born. When I was around five months pregnant and had gained barely any weight, my doctor told me to stop working. I was relieved and exhausted. I went into labor several times, and at 7 ½ months pregnant, six full weeks early, the doctors couldn’t stop it anymore. 

The boys were coming, whether we were ready or not.

On November 7, 2013, they were born via emergency C-section because I was in full-blown labor and they were both breech. The Coudersport hospital does not have a NICU, so they had wanted to fly us to Dubois, PA, but the weather was too bad. So, instead, two teams of doctors and surgeons came in two ambulances to Coudersport, and then drove the boys the two hours to Dubois. My doctor said that the OR had never been that crowded. He also told me when I woke up from general anesthesia that I had “bled from everywhere possible.” I lost a third of my blood volume in the surgery. I recovered for one day, then drove myself in the car I had bought from my sister to Dubois. I had no money and 50 staples across my belly.

The boys were born at about 3 ½ pounds apiece and 12 inches long.

They were about the size of a loaf of bread.

I had never seen such tiny humans. Enter Superman and King. They were jaundiced and needed to reach five pounds before they could be discharged.  We stayed for three weeks. There was a nonprofit that served the parents of NICU babies if they were poor, putting them up in a local hotel and paying for meals, but they turned out to be too Christian to help me, and I wasn’t Christian enough for them.

The husband of the couple who ran the organization came to interview me, and my heart sank when he asked me as an intake question how many fathers there were to my five children. 

They wouldn’t help me because there were three.

So I slept in the “Nesting Room,” meant to facilitate bonding for families about to be discharged, and when that wasn’t available, I slept on the couch in the waiting room. I was nursing every two hours, and I wasn’t about to leave the babies there with nobody.

Needless to say, I was exhausted.

And in an enormous amount of pain.

And hungry.

I had a Food Stamp card, but the hospital didn’t accept EBT as a method of payment, and even a salad was $10 in the cafeteria. So I walked to the nearest supermarket and bought food there. One night my mother bought me a small pizza.

Thanks for all your help, Mom.

Categories
Life

The big, scary, humiliating incident

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.

Categories
Life

Neither Here nor There: Musings from the Other Side (of the razor wire fence)

Jess Mug Shot

BLOG #1

Welp, I’m in Muncy State Prison now, which is as bad as it sounds, but just for fun, I’ll give you some highlights–there’s ants, we get four whole minutes to eat meals, and the hopper where we’re supposed to wash our clothes has no pipe to the wall, just a filthy mop bucket under it.

But that’s not the best part.

The best part is that in the bathroom, there are separate stalls, but only boob-level dividers between them, so it’s like this horrifying game where you try not to make eye contact with anybody while you pull your underwear up after having a diarrhea-shit from the freeze-dried coffee.

Yeah, that’s right.

Speaking of diarrhea, Daisy, my cellie, got some sugar-free candy here with this warning label: “Excessive consumption may have a laxative effect.”

So you’ll literally shit the bed if you eat too many.

In other Muncy news, the same dentist  who pulled two of my teeth at Cambridge Springs (Prison) called me “bud” and was glad to meet me.
We’ve met 10 times.

In celebrity news, Jessica Biel wrote “a kid’s book about periods.” Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Daisy is having hers, and described it as a “massacre,” and is, “bleeding all my blood out,” according to her. I, on the other hand, have 1,000 zits, so my face is having Daisy’s period, too.

Back to celebrity news, Campbell’s Chunky Soup honored Jason Kelce’s retirement by putting his beard on their cans, and Katy Perry showed  her entire butt at the Women of the Year Awards. 

Next: Katy Perry’s butt on Pepsi cans to honor National Women’s Month.

Then, Colin Firth’s wet shirt from Pride and Prejudice sold for $32,000, and Robert Irwin is a model now so instead of wrestling alligators like his Dad, he wrestles with his gag reflex. Maybe he should try Daisy’s laxative candies to stay thin…

In world news, fish in the Florida Keys are mysteriously spinning around in circles and then keeling over–my guess is that they heard about the earthquakes and the eclipse and so are committing mass suicide.

In Around the Block News, Daisy has just returned from the shower, where she nearly severed her ankle with the dull, one-bladed razors provided for us, and the neighbors are hurling insults at each other in the vein of, “You’re a colostomy bag!” and “You’re a pain in my peehole!”

Meanwhile, Dan, Daisy’s son, 7, recently pooped in the household litter box. He may or may not  identify as a furry.

Hey Jessica Biel! Do you have a book for that??

Categories
Life

Bipolar 1, tigers, and criminal charges

Justine kissing Ethan with all of her love.

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.

Categories
Uncategorized

Vodka and dead babies

Kaylee Marie Kenley smiles at her Mommy at 10 weeks old.

So, on November 24th, 2001, I married Bobo the Sperm Guy. Life got pretty bad. It turned out that we both had a pretty bad vodka problems at the time, made worse by the fact that he was a screamer when he got drunk.

And a thrower-of-furniture.

And a rapist, among other things.

He had Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder something fierce, and if everything in the entire apartment wasn’t just so, he would fly into a blind rage.

We stayed at our year-long lease in Scranton and then moved to Pittsburgh, where I planned to go to The Median School of Allied Health Careers and finally become a licensed veterinary technician, which I did.

We decided around November of 2003 to get a divorce. Then wonder of wonders, I found out I was pregnant immediately after finding out that I had passed the State Board Exam and would be licensed as a vet tech. 

I dumped the celebratory  bottle of vodka I had bought myself down the drain and told Bobo. We decided to stay together “for the baby’s sake.”

We did not stay together. 

I moved out when I was seven months pregnant because I could not imagine subjecting a child to our horrible relationship. I have started substitute teaching at the school I had graduated from, and would soon be working there full-time as a vet tech instructor. 

While my personal life was falling apart, my career was taking off. And I was going to have a baby! I loved my new crappy one-bedroom apartment, and I loved my life for once. I could do it, ex-husband’s-to-be be damned.

I knew I could do it. 

Until I couldn’t.

My son Ethan was born with a fatal skin condition called Junctional-Herlitz Epidermolysis Bullosa. Put simply, his skin would not stay on his body, and you can’t live without your skin. Put no-so-simply, there are protein fibers called anchoring fibrils that anchor the top layer of skin–the epidermis–to the underneath layer of skin–the dermis. People with JEB-H are missing these anchoring fibrils completely or have very few of them. This results in blisters and missing skin anywhere on the body that is subject to any mechanical friction. 

And mechanical friction can mean anything from rubbing to just picking up and holding. They call these babies “Butterfly Babies” because their skin is so fragile, it’s like butterfly wings.

They also call EB “The Worst Disease You’ve Never Heard Of,” because it’s so incredibly rare. But I am a carrier of the gene that causes EB, and so is Bobo. This means that with every pregnancy from the two of us, there is a 25% chance that the baby will have JEB-H. It should be noted that there are less severe subtypes of EB, such as Dystrophic and Simplex, that are more survivable than JEB-H, but nobody gets out of Junctional alive, and average lifespan is six months. 

Ethan lived seven.

I didn’t know how to exist after Ethan died. 

Like–how to breathe or function. He had taken up every second of my time with all of his various special needs, and I couldn’t figure out what to do with myself when he died. 

And I didn’t know this yet, but I had developed PTSD too, somewhere along the way, so I began having nightmares and flashbacks.

I got another job to fill up my time. I also joined an animal rights group called Voices for Animals and started fostering insane numbers of cats. 

I moved.

I quit my wonderful job at the school and went back into practice full-time.

I basically went bat-shit crazy.

I went back to college.

I moved again.

And then–in a supreme fit of agony/loneliness/lunacy,

three years after Ethan died, I got back together with Bobo the Sperm Guy.

Worst. 

Decision.

Ever.

Even though I was on birth control, inexplicably, we got pregnant.

Again.

My nice, sweet, Indian doctor who had delivered Ethan offered me an abortion. 

I thought long and hard about that, but after losing my only child to a horrific illness, I couldn’t give up a 75% chance at a perfectly normal, healthy baby.

There is no prenatal test for EB.

My daughter Kaylee is born.

She has JEB-H too.

I move back home with my parents to take care of her full time (Bobo and I had split at five months pregnant this time).

I spend my days changing bandages and hating myself.

Kaylee Marie Kenley dies at three months old.

* If you have any interest in knowing about the eternal torture of losing a child (or two, for that matter), I published a journal I wrote during the year that Kaylee lived and died on Amazon. It’s called Kidowed–I made up a name for people who have lost children because I was mad that there wasn’t one. Like widowed, but for kids.

Get it?

Categories
Life

Hello, world.

Welcome to my life. I am a mother, vet tech, writer, reporter, felon, life-partner, bereaved parent, animal lover, divorcee, lover of music, singer, lover of people, and connector of people–not in that order, and among other things.

We are here because we are connected to each other.

Our stories connect us.

This is my most real, raw, authentic story of my life so far.

I am sharing this with you from the depths of my soul.

Be careful with it.

Maybe someday I can hear your story too, and we can be more connected.

Thank you for your interest in my life.

I am more than willing to share what I have learned.

We all should share our stories courageously and freely.

My wish to the Universe is that I can become part of the beginning of a new, more learned, compassionate, healthy, whole, empathetic, wise, and cared-for generation.

This starts by the sharing and connection of our stories.

Here is mine.

Categories
Life

Welcome to the Shit Show

Friday, 9/20/24

4:37pm

I never wanted to be a writer. From the time that I was old enough to think, all I’d ever wanted was to be a veterinarian. I loved everything about animals, big and small, and I was fascinated by them and their various styles of communication. I also understood them better than I understood most people, who were a mean, spiteful, sorry lot, as far as I could tell.

I was born as one of a set of identical twins to a teenage mother who neither knew she was having twins nor wanted us to be born at all. I was the second of the pair, born after a midwife peered into my mother’s vagina and proclaimed, “There’s another one in there!” after she birthed my sister, Elizabeth. 

And so it began. 

My miserable childhood, which begat my miserable adulthood. As I write this, I am sitting on a metal rack that serves as a “bed,” located in Bravo-Bravo Unit of SCI-Muncy, a state prison in Pennsylvania for women (and several transgender men, I should add). I am 43 years old, and like I said, I never wanted to be a writer.

After I escaped from my horrific childhood, complete with an abusive, aloof mother, and a sexually abusive step-brother, I moved in with a best friend, Maybe, when I was 16. I had a job at the local veterinary office working for a large, Jewish tyrant, Dr. Ronster, who didn’t seem to like animals at all, as far as I could tell.

I had a car of my own, so I was doing as well as I could for myself. I went to high school during the day and worked at night. Wash, rinse, repeat, until I went off to college at the Indiana University of Pennsylvania for Biology/Pre-vet. 

I was on my way. 

Until I wasn’t. 

Somewhere along the way, I had realized that most veterinarians’ lives were spent performing spays, neuters, and giving vaccines, which seemed about as boring as dirt to me. This plus the fact that I couldn’t seem to pass Chemistry II or pay the rent for my one-bedroom apartment off campus, while majoring in “Beer and Boys,” as my mother said with a snort. I couldn’t figure out why she cared at all, because it’s not like she had offered me one red cent to help pay for it.

In any case, it was around this time that I met Bobo the Sperm Guy (I’m sorry [not sorry], but this is the only way to accurately represent the role that this man played in my life). I was 19, and had decided that I wanted to get out of stupid old Indiana, PA, and go pursue a veterinary technician education and license, since vet techs get to have all the fun anyway in the veterinary world.

Bobo just happened to be my ticket out. We had decided that we were in love–he was unhappily engaged to another woman at the ripe old age of 26, which he conveniently left out of all conversations with me, so we hit the road for greener pastures in the way of Scranton, PA, where there was a vet tech school.

This was not well planned.

When we got there, we rented a beautiful little Victorian apartment, and both got jobs–me at a pet store and he at a plastics factory. We brought along my two cats, Bruiser and Jewel, and about 70 snakes and other various reptiles. (Did I mention that Bobo was a bit of a reptile enthusiast? Crazytown.) 

I immediately went to the local college to apply.

Then–disaster.

I had no money to pay for this college, and had just assumed that I would get financial aid. The nice financial aid lady patiently asked me if I was a veteran? No. Over 24 years of age? No. Married? No. Well, how about a Parent Plus Loan? 

This is where your parents cosign a college loan for you…I called my mother. I can still hear her screeching about how she, who worked her whole life, wasn’t about to pay for my education after I dropped out of a perfectly good college where I had financial aid based on her and my father’s income!! 

Long story short, we got married.

After knowing each other for only four months. This was not my proudest moment, made worse by the fact that all my mother could say to me, mere moments before walking down the aisle, was, “You don’t have to do this, you know.” I didn’t say what I wanted to say, which was that if I wanted to go to college, YES I DID.

And who cares anyway? 

I was a whole grownup, after all. I was 20, and since when had she ever cared about me anyway? 

Never, as far as I could tell. 

Funny how she wouldn’t cosign that college loan, but she paid for the wedding she didn’t want me to have.

Huh.

I feel like this is a good place to stop and insert a journal entry or two from when I first got to SCI-Muncy:

3/18/24

Monday

4pm

Welp, they moved me from the SA Unit to BB, which is an open unit. I have two cellies, Burgundy and Daisy. Burgundy talks about God a lot and how things happen for a reason. She says I look really sad. 

I am really sad. 

Daisy doesn’t say much of anything. We were volun-told to go take trash out (low men on the totem pole), and when we passed F Unit, the woman leading us said, “That’s where they store the minors.”

Now THAT’S sad.

The U.S. doesn’t discriminate. They’ll warehouse anybody. 

I found a book here called, “Lies My Teacher Told Me” by James W. Loewen. It’s about American history. Seems appropriate, because it’s Women’s History Month.

So, Burgundy thought it would be funny to tell us–with a completely straight face–that the lady next door, Frankie, “Sometimes snaps out,” and starts throwing things because she thinks people are looking at her! Then she tells us that we have to tell her that we know. It’s like the most awkward initiation ever. 

Of course it wasn’t true.

Gotta love being the newbie in prison. Now they’re talking about “dick-docking” and “shrimping,” which are basically two of the most disgusting things I’ve ever heard of. Of course, they might just be making it up to get a reaction out of me and Daisy.

Who knows. 

Who cares.

Good night.

3/19/24

Tuesday

7:32am

Lockdown. I assume they’re searching, because Burgundy is frantically stuffing things in her bra. I haven’t even peed this morning. Or eaten. Or taken meds.

This sucks.

And I was supposed to have a phone call at 9:45am. Sheezus. There’s an old guy CO skulking around gangster-like and imitating Dobby from Harry Potter.

Very strange. 

Now he’s having an argument with the next cube over about whether or not Black or White people cook fried chicken better. Then, abruptly, the CO said, “I gotta go. I have CO shit to do,” and left. At least the CO’s aren’t complete assholes on this Unit, like on SA.

Burgundy gave me some coffee and an e-cigarette. That’s a relief. I guess I’ll read. Nobody knows the reason for the lockdown. They just brought the kitchen workers back on the Unit. I guess no breakfast for us today.

Or meds.

7:58am

Count time again.

8:22am Gave us meds on the Unit. Not looking good for a phone call. Burgundy is cleaning her slides with a toothbrush. 

Hm.

No Search yet. Weirdly, Maintenance is here.

10:15am

Still lockdown. No phone call. Ugh. Maybe I’ll write Motorcycle a letter. I think I have two envelopes left. What’s the next thing I’m going to miss out on? Kiosk at 12:15pm. 

Motorcycle, 

Well, I would have been able to call you this morning, except we’ve been on lockdown since 7:30am. No one knows why. I thought they were going to search, but they haven’t yet. It’s after 10am. 

Thankfully, I got moved to B Unit yesterday, and my new cellie Burgundy hooked me up with coffee and an e-cigarette. These pods hold four people, but we only have three in ours, and there’s one whole side that’s empty. There were a lot of empty cells on on S Unit too. I’ve never seen this prison so empty. 

Burgundy gave me this notepad too, so I can write, which helps.

Burgundy is very Christian. She’s always talking about how blessed she is and how everything happens for a reason. My other cellie, Daisy, has seven kids and doesn’t say much of anything. We played Scrabble last night and I won every game.

I’m dying to hear your voice and know how you are. I miss you very much. I’m reading a memoir about a woman who was born in prison called, “Prison Baby.” It’s pretty good, but I’m still very bored. 

I wonder if this population would be open to interviews. The only thing that makes me nervous   is that they all seem pretty chummy with the CO’s over here. I don’t want someone to tell a CO and get in  more trouble, although it’s not technically against the rules. 

All I know is that they make up their own rules in prison. 

At Cambridge Springs, everybody hated the CO’s and called them “the cops,” so I knew no one would have any reason to tell them.

Here the CO’s joke and laugh with the inmates (on this Unit, anyway), and know their first names; People always told me that General Population was way different than Blues, but I’ve never gotten out of Blues before this. Just got classified, then shipped out. 

You know, like cargo.

Like we were things, and not human beings. 

“This one goes in this box and that one goes in that box and whatever and whatever.

We weren’t people anymore.

Whatever.

I knew that from the jump.

Maybe they were punishing these other people, but I had been there, done that, and gotten the fucking T-shirt to prove it.

Anyway, they already gave me two programs that I have to complete while I’m here, so I don’t think I’m going anyplace.

Please message or write me if you have any news. I love you very much and I miss you like crazy.

Gem told me that she got into a fight with Paul. I haven’t contacted him except to tell him to give you my stuff.

Love,

Justine