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Get the Picture?

Muncy State Prison

May 6, 2024

Monday

2:20pm

I haven’t done anything today. Library in five minutes. Everything’s scheduled down to the minute here. Hopefully I’ll find something good  to read.

Book:

Women Doing Life: Gender Punishment, and the Struggle for Identity, by Lora Bex Lempert © 2016

P. 1-2

“One thor of all the incarcerated women in the world are in U.S. prisons. Although men constitute 93% of the U.S. prison population, the number of women under state and federal correctional authority is the fastest growing segment of the U.S. prison population. Between 1980 and 2010 the population of incarcerated women increased 646%. In 2011 more than 1,400,00 women were under the supervision of the criminal-processing system, that is, on probation or parole incarcerated, or subject to other forms of formal justice control. Race is significant in these incarcerations, as black non-Hispanic women are incarcerated at 2-3 times the rate of white women (129 vs. 51 per 100,000) and Latina women are incarcerated at 1.4 times the rate of white women (71 vs. 51 per 100,000), although reflecting their higher percentage in the U.S. population, more white than black or Hispanic women are incarcerated. Age is also significant: About 60% of both white and black imprisoned females are 39 or younger, as are 67% of Hispanic females.

Additionally, many incarcerated women were single heads of households and mothers of dependent children prior to imprisonment…”

P. 2

“The dramatic increase in female imprisonment, the 646% increase, have not been a response to more violent female criminality as media constructions would have us believe. Women’s share of violent crime as remained more or less stable since the 1980s. There are, however, more female arrests now than in the past.” 

P. 9

“Criminologists have convincingly demonstrated that maternal incarceration is more damaging to children than the incarceration of fathers. The children of incarcerated mothers feel their mothers’ absence more acutely, and they experience more disruption than the children of incarcerated fathers, putting them at risk for adverse outcomes. Children with imprisoned mothers suffer the shame and stigma of maternal incarceration; face particular challenges of family instability (e.g., moving to new home environments one or more times); undergo disrupted attachments, not only from a mother, but also from siblings, other family members, friends, schools, and communities; experience school failures; engage in antisocial, aggressive, and delinquent behaviors; and are two and a half times more likely to be incarcerated as adults than are children of incarcerated fathers.

Additionally, criminologists Vernetta Young and Rebecca Reviere and Jane Seigel have demonstrated that prisons do not meet the needs of women or the hundreds of thousands of children they leave behind…The Bureau of Justice Statistics reports that 59% of parents in state facilities and 45% in federal facilities have had no personal visits with their dependent children during the periods of their incarceration.

P. 10

“As Erin George, an incarcerated poet and mother, notes, such forfeiture of contact with children is a “soul-killing loss” borne by both life-sentenced mothers and their children.”

P. 11-12

“Most criminal-processing books are geared toward men, as are penal codes, sentencing guidelines, and correctional programs and opportunities. Officials at every level of the criminal-processing system are overwhelmingly male…The continuing focus on men has meant fewer carceral resources for increasing numbers of women, reliance on one-size-fits all gender-stereotyped programming, and inattention to gender-specific needs like substance abuse, HIV treatment, obstetrics and gynecology, child care, and psychological needs. In a system designed for violent men, it is a challenge to get adequate health care for women’s particular physical and mental needs…In their pre-incarceration lives, women experience higher rates of drug and alcohol abuse; report disproportionately more histories of rape, incest, and physical abuse; are diagnosed with higher rates of illness and mental health problems; and are the primary caretakers of dependent children. The Bureau of Justice Statistics provides evidence for these claims: 57% of women in state prisons have been victims of violence in their lifetimes, 47% have experienced physical abuse, and 39% have been victims of sexual abuse. Many have experienced multiple types of abuse. One-third of women in state prisons (33%) reported having been raped prior to their imprisonments.”

P. 13

“Most often, women’s offenses are crimes generated by poverty and ensuing strategies for survival.”

P. 14 “Mass imprisonment is silently absorbing women who have been abandoned by formal and informal safety nets, and, in the process, it is destroying and demoralizing communities.”

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Self-Worth AA, and Acceptance

Women’ s Center

Day 56 

August 29, 17

Tuesday


We’re going to Coudersport to do some running around, I have to get bloodwork and go to the Courthouse to file that paperwork on Tiger.

Of course Old James was in the Courthouse. He’s having trouble with his heat, poor guy. He’s a 72-year old guard who I used to live with before this nightmare. At least he’s still got a job. I feel bad I’m costing him money because my cats are there. I wish I could help somehow. He told me to take care of myself. I told him to do the same. 

6pm

AA stepwork now. No meeting again tonight. Third day in a row. I do like meetings I hate just reading out of the book. I hate not having cigarettes. I hate not seeing my therapist. Pray for patience and tolerance, she says, and stay away from the “fuck it’s.” 

Good advice. 

The lady they shipped in to teach us the steps of AA is named Tina. Maybe I’ll ask her to be my sponsor. 

“Don’t self-sabotage”

“Lead by your actions”

“When you get out, you want to be the best person that you can be”

I haven’t talked to Chantilly much today. She sticks pretty much with Munchie now. Probably because I’m so gloomy. I need more sleep. I’m exhausted.

Tina has the weirdest hair. Pixie cut with a braided rat tail. Hm.

P. 417 Acceptance

“And acceptance is the answer to all my problems today. When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, or thing, or situation–some fact of my life–unacceptable to me, and I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment. Nothing, absolutely nothing, happens in God’s world by mistake. 

Unless I can accept life on life’ s terms, I cannot be happy, basically. 

I cannot be happy. 

Shakespeare said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”

Tina: Consequences teach us how to be who we intend to be: human beings of love and light.”

“You’re giving up on you. And you’re worth not giving up on.” 

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Motorcycle, Sporks, and Quacks

Muncy State Prison

May 5th, 2024

Sunday

8:38am

I dreamed about Dubya last night. That I was in love with him and trying to get back together with him. I still think of him every time I hear country music. 

*sigh*

In this book, “Women Who Love Men Who Kill,” these women say that they didn’t have a choice in loving those men, they were just sort of thunderstruck with love. That got my thinking about me and Motorcycle. No thunder strikes there. We love each other–I think–I mean, I know I love him, but…I have a hard time believing that he loves me sometimes. I mean, he says that he does, but it’s just recently that he said he “thought we would make it,” and he stayed in a loveless marriage for 12 years. I mean, should it really take three or four years to believe in a relationship? And the way he didn’t help me when I really needed him to. And the way he somehow saw getting my belongings as a financial opportunity…What the fuck is up with that? Last night he said he took those things of Facebook Marketplace, but that’s probably just because they didn’t sell. He said it was because he “didn’t want anything between us.”

Whatever.

They were for sale for three weeks.

In other news, Bambi wants me to ghostwrite a book about her life. I tol her we could get together at Day Room tonight. She also said she wants to expose pastors who are corrupt for various reasons, so I don’t know if that’s another book, or what. 

You know another thing about Motorcycle? When I asked him on the phone why he didn’t help me when I was psychotic and why he left me alone, his first response was, “Okay, then, you don’t trust me? Why don’t we just not do this anymore.” Like–he tried to break up with me! He’s always saying that he takes care of me and does what’s best for me, but in reality, when it counts, he doesn’t. He breaks up with me rather than take responsibility and face the music. I said, “Oh–THAT’S how you want to handle this??”  And then he changed his tuned and said he was sorry and it would never happen again. I just hate how, when this happens, I’m completely incapable of helping myself and I have to rely totally on other people for help.

It sucks.

It really sucks, because they never come through. 

2:24pm

Daisy was supposed to give me an ecig on Friday and she didn’t, so I 2-for-1’d one. I hate doing that. It’s just wasting a cigarette, and these things are expensive. I tried to take a nap, but it was too fucking loud in here. I called the boys and Motorcycle. The boys were playing a game and had a soccer game in Ridgeway at 1pm. Motorcycle was busy talking about himself, as usual.  It amazes me that he can fill up an entire 15-minute phone call and never ask how I’m doing. I say maybe five words the whole call. I think I’m getting sick of him. Maybe he is just a narcissist, like Gem says. She would know–she’s married to one. I didn’t go to lunch. Daisy gave me some oatmeal to eat, which I didn’t ask for. That was nice of her. I’d rather have the cigarette she said she’d give me. 

I’m gassy and it’s gross. And embarrassing. Ever farted in front of 50 people? Everyone looks around and tries to find the culprit like they’re in kindergarten— “Ew! Who farted??” 

Ugh.

 I’m so sick of being here I could scream. 

No news on the woman who hung herself two days ago. It’s like it’s old news already. Tonight’s dinner is “chef salad,” which consists of a piece of ham, iceberg lettuce, and a boiled egg. Oh, and once in a while, a teaspoon of shredded yellow cheese. Ever tried to eat lettuce with a spoon? Or spaghetti? It doesn’t work. I don’t know how people gain weight here. I’m losing weight, as per usual, which I’m not complaining about. Last time I got out, I managed to gain 30 pounds in three months. Hypothyroidism is a bitch. I can’t eat anything and not gain weight. Now Burgundy came into the room, apparently mad, and said, “When I tell you something, it’s a FACT.” Daisy said, “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” and Burgundy replied, “I don’t know either.”

What.

Ever.

She told the whole unit that I’m a racist, so obviously when she talks about people, it’s NOT always true. Now there’ s tension and silence in the room.

Fun. 

Whatever–back to my book, which references psychiatrist Dr. Money, who was widely discredited as a quack after he recommended that a boy with a botched circumcision be raised as a girl in the 1960s. He also made the boy and his twin sister perform make-believe sex acts in his office later in life. I read the book, called, “As Nature Made Him.”

Straight quack.

Now Burgundy apologized to Daisy and is explaining what she meant. At least it wasn’t me this time. 

Interestingly, in this book, the author finds that all of these women come from Catholic backgrounds. Many had alcoholic, abusive fathers. 

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Suicide, Zuko, and Chopper

Muncy State Prison

May 5th, 2024

1:35pm

According to inmate.com, the woman who attempted suicide yesterday is on life support. Very sad. Tragic, really. Daisy surmised that to the woman, death might be preferable to coming back here.

The last woman hung herself on 4/10/24. That’s two suicides in less than a month. The woman who asked me how long I’m here in the bathroom a while ago (with the 18-year min) apparently shot her girlfriend dead because she had threatened to shoot her dog. Then she stayed with the body for three days. God. Her name is Zuko. We’re often in the bathroom at the same time, for some reason. She calls us “bathroom buddies.”

Cute. 

I still don’t think she knows my name. 

This book, “Women Who Love Men Who Kill” by Sheila Isenberg isn’t written very well. She sensationalizes both the crimes committed and the women who love the men who have killed people. This book makes me think about Chopper, a man I went to high school with who allegedly shot and killed a Kane police officer. He was shot too, in the neck, and barely survived. There were two other teenagers in the car that night, and Chopper doesn’t remember the events, but I’ve always felt like the blame was pinned on him because everyone thought he was going to die. I slept with him once in the back of his mother’s car when I was 16. I ended up later working with his mother at the local veterinary clinic. She died of breast cancer years ago. Maybe I’ll look him up and write him sometime. Of course, he got a life sentence. 

6:09pm

I just got back from dinner, where a woman was talking about the lady who hung herself on J Unit yesterday. She’s on J Unit too, and she, like the last lady, was asking for help for three days and saying that she was suicidal before she hung herself. Mr. Reibsome, the Unit Manager, put her in a single cell in response to this, apparently. She said she wanted to go be with her baby that died. The woman also said that there’s going to be “people” here Monday, like inspectors or something, or investigators. When I asked her who they were, she repeated, “people.” Like–lady–we’re all in the same fucking boat. Why wouldn’t you want to share information if you knew something?!

7pm 

I talked to the boys-they were in the tub. They went to the Maple Festival today but couldn’t go into the bouncy house because it rained.

Called Motorcycle–he was excited because he got a new pair of jeans and some costume jewelry from Good Will. I told him another woman hung herself and he changed the subject to fishing.

Strange.

I messaged D. Owl, the reporter from Spotlight, PA, and told her that two women who have hung themselves here in the past two weeks. Same Unit, both asked for help, both were put in single cells by the Unit Mgr., Mr. Reibsome.

We’ll see if she responds.

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Cho-Mo’s, Witches, and Death

Women’s Center

August 28th, 2017

Monday

All my hair is falling out. Super annoying. I’m reading a book called “When the Bough Breaks: Forever After the Death of a Son or Daughter.” What about both? It’s by Judith R. Bernstein, Ph.D. She and her husband are both psychologists who lost their son at 25 to cancer. I wish my kids had lived long, healthy lives–even 25 seems very long compared to three and seven months.

I was supposed to go to Coudersport for bloodwork today, but the Big Boss didn’t put it on the schedule. Time for painting with Jenny–the same woman who does “church.” We’re watching Intervention.

1pm

Now I’m reading my book again. It’s pretty good. It says, “The bereaved parent has to come to terms with a world in which it is possible for children to die; a world of different hopes and dreams, a world of muted sunsets. The victim never sees life through the same lens again.”

Spot on.

I looked in the front of this book and saw the name of a local woman who lost a daughter to a suicide in jail. Horrific. She must have donated the book to the Center. I hope it helped her. I can’t imagine.

Judith Bernstein calls the “aftermath of the trauma of intense grief “a barren, inhospitable wasteland.” I like her. At least she is able to express herself without the uncontrollable rage that I experienced when writing my first book, “Kidowed.”

Then again, Ronald J. Knapp wrote in “Beyond Endurance” that, “It was discovered that all parents eventually develop a primary and fundamental need to talk about this tragic experience and about what they can remember about their child. They develop an intense desire or need to reveal their sadness, to release their anger, to allay their guilt, and to have others understand their reactions. This is not only how they remember; it is also how they confront the reality of what has happened to them.”

Judith Bernstein says, about conducting a study of 50 bereaved parents that, “I came away with profound admiration for the courage of ordinary people who never presumed to be courageous at all.”

Everybody’s bitchy now. Now there’s another new woman here. She looks to be in her 50’s and got in trouble for “boosting” electronics in Buffalo and a bad check in Potter County in 2004. I feel kind of bad for her. But not really because she only got 60 days. Some people have all the luck. Tori is passing around a note that says that she looks like a Cho-Mo version of Peter Griffin. Mean.

“When a child dies, the very ground on which we depend for stability heaves and quakes and the rightness and orderliness of our existence are destroyed. The loss of a child is shattering, unique among losses.”

One of the parents, Pauline, that was interviewed after losing a child wrote, “…I was angry at all of them [family], for something. I felt that they needed me, and I was annoyed that they needed me. I didn’t have anything to give; I was vacant; I was empty. I wasn’t sure that I was going to live.

8:30pm

I forgot to make my 12:40pm phone call, so I called my parent’s house and my mother answered. 

I said, “Any news?”

“No.”

“Are the boys in bed?”

“Yes.”

“What did they do today?”

“They were happy to stay home all day and they picked berries and played good and didn’t fight at all.”

“Um, okay…Bye.”

“Bye.”

Fucking Witch from Hell. She could at least try. God. 

The new lady seems to like it here. Of course, anything’s better than jail. They forget that after a while and then the bitching starts. I didn’t get to go to the meeting tonight, which sucks. There’s so many people here now that they have to pick and choose who can go because their stupid van only seats seven. Chantilly is making door signs. She’s very artsy. I forgot to give Tiger the bracelet I made her. I hope Dubya lets her come every week, but I know he won’t, so I’m filing a Modification of Custody motion tomorrow when I go get my bloodwork.

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Motorcycle, Minivans, and Man–You Don’t Even Want to Know

May 3, 2024

Muncy State Prison

11:29am

Friday

We just heard over the radio that CPR has been started on someone on J Unit. Jesus Christ. I hope it’s not another suicide. The Unit is silent, waiting to hear what happens. There’s tension in the air. Some people, like me, are eyes-wide, looking around, and others just shake their heads and put them down, as if to say, “Another one bites the dust.” Burgundy says it’s always J Unit. There are rows  of single cells, like S Unit, with automatic doors that are usually closed, only to be opened by an officer in the bubble by pressing a button on J Unit.

11:40am

Ambulance en route. It’s harder to hang yourself on an open Unit, like this one, BB. The walls between the pods only go up to chest level, so if you’re on the top tier and have a top bunk, you have a bird’s eye view of the entire Unit. People on this Unit are mad that lunch is going to be late, because they may not get to “shop” at Commissary. Someone is dying, and they’re made about coffee and e-cigarettes. It’s sad and infuriating that suicides are commonplace here.

11:52am

Ambulance en route (to the Unit?).

Book: “Women Who Love Men Who Kill: 35 True Stories of Prison Passion” by Sheila  Isenberg © 2021

P. 7 “Today, prison phone calls a $1.2 billion industry under the control of two large corporations, Securus and GlobalTel. They claim to reduce the cost os inmate calls up to 90 percent, including local, long distance, and international…Securus and GlobalTel are very profitable. They and some individual states earn huge profits on calls; many states pay legal kickbacks. For example, in 2018, Connecticut state prisoners paid $13.2 million for phone calls, of which Securus returned nearly 60 percent to the state. In 2010, the state of Hawaii profited by  $3.3 million from prisoner phone calls…But today, even our carceral society that penalizes so many, often unfairly, gives us the online revolution a place behind prison walls. The internet allows prisoners to stay in touch with families, and wives and girlfriends. According to experts, this cuts down on recidivism because of the prisoner’s ability to maintain a connection with the outside world.”

P.8

“First, there is JPay, ‘aiming to become the Apple of the U.S. penal system…’ Founded in 2006, JPay’s app can be downloaded on Apple’s App Store or on Google Play. It partners with institutions on all levels–federal, state, and county–in thirty-five states. A million and a half ‘offenders [prisoners],’ parolees, and probationers’ use it for money transfers, emails, and video visitation.”

p.8

“Since 2009, federal prison inmates have been able to send and receive emails through a system used by the U.S. Federal Bureau of Prisons: TRULINCS (Trust Fund Limited Inmate Computer System). TRULINCS is operated by CORRLINK, a privately owned company that is a subsidiary of Advanced Technologies Group.”

12:15pm 

Count is clear.

12:40pm

Lunch.

1:15pm 

It was Sharon M. who hung herself. No one knows if she’s dead or alive. 

I didn’t go to lunch and called Motorcycle instead. He got my letter and said that he was upset that I think he doesn’t believe I’ll be faithful. He said he believes me. And that, “I love you very much, Jess.”

Sweet.

He also told me that he’s never said that he would “bend his knee” for anyone before, ever. I meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen…he was married once, but whatever. I’ll take it. I love him very much too. I wrote him a letter:

5/3/24

Motorcycle, 

I talked to you earlier today. You were so sweet. I love it when you’re all romantic with me. I mess spending time with you too, and crawling into your lap when I need a break from work. And cooking and eating together. Everything, really. I miss normal things. Shopping and driving around together. Just spending time together. I miss everything. I hate this. I hate being away from you, and not knowing what’s going to happen. I hate not knowing where I’m going live when this is all over.

Ugh.

Anyway, I love you very much too, and I can’t imagine my life without you. 

In other news, another woman here hung herself today. It’s so sad that it’s so normal here that no one really cares. People are just mad that we’re locked down, or they can’t go to Commissary or whatever. 

Terrible.

My worst fear is dying in prison. I haven’t gotten any letters or correspondence from Paul, so I stopped writing him. I give up. If he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, that’s fine. I can’t do anything about it anyway. I talked to Gem this morning. Nothing new with her except for the rumor about the DA and the Judge being under investigation. I sent the letter today to the Public Defender asking him why there was a conflict with the last case and not this one. I also sent a letter to Tabby. She writes huge long messages on the kiosk and I can only write her back a line or two. My mother told me the Maple Festival is this weekend and she’s taking the kids. Stryder has messaged me a few times with jealous bullshit about me choosing you over him. This after he didn’t speak to me for five months. Whatever. I didn’t respond. I can do without his drama just fine. 

Anyway, I love you very, very much and I miss you like crazy.

Love Always, 

Justine

5:47pm 

I have one piece of yellow paper left for writing letters. I’m going to call the boys at 6:30pm. I keep wondering if I should write Tiger. I don’t see why I would. She won’t care anyway, but I think about her a lot. 

Bambi, the Vietnamese lady next door, wants me to ghost write the story of her life for her. Daisy got colored pencils today on Commissary, so she’s happily coloring.

Burgundy asked the young Black lady next door yesterday what her charges were, her name is Momo, and she said that someone put some drug in her drink and she went nuts and stabbed her young daughter. Her daughter survived, but she’s not allowed to have any contact with her. She said she called her mom, where her kids live, and her daughter (the victim) insisted on talking to her She said, “I still love you, Mommy!”

So sad.

She got 6-16 years for felony child endangerment. She’s been down four years so far. I wonder if she’ll get paroled. I would think not. 

In other news, I got a yoga packet from some Activities person I wrote. Daisy says we’ll start tomorrow. I didn’t eat lunch today because it was fish. Dinner was spaghetti, so I ate it. Burgundy is working on an 1,000 piece puzzle. No thank you. I guess I’ll read. Library Monday, thank God.

6:33pm

Lockdown again. I was in the middle of my phone call with King. Jesus God. There’s no telling how long this will take. “Secure your Unit” over the radio. Henry sprained his ankle during soccer. Hopefully I’ll get to talk to Superman tonight. 

Who knows what happened this time.

6:40pm

“Compound is clear” over radio.

6:43pm

“Keep compound secure”

Showers and phone calls only. I’m not going to call Superman for two minutes. Inmate.com says that they found contraband in a shower. Daisy and I were talking about dating Black men, and I recounted a story about the first Black man I dated, when I was 19. He had the whitest name ever–Robert–and he sold a magazine where I worked as a bookstore clerk. He would buy me Boone’s Farm drinks and I would get drunk at his apartment, where there was black shag carpet and an entirely glass coffee table. When I broke up with him, he couldn’t believe it. He looked at me, aghast, and said incredulously, “But I licked your asshole!”

I had no idea that asshole lickery had bonded us for life.

Silly me. 

When Daisy dated her first Black man, they went to see the Exorcist in the theater, and to hear her tell it, the theater was so cold that her nipples were hard, so she tried to cuddle up to this guy, but she couldn’t get too close because his breath was so bad. “He had a turd in his cheek!!” she shrieked, and then fell over on her bed laughing. “NEVER AGAIN,” she said. She saw him later at a party and he said, “What happened to you?” She was like, “What happened to YOU, man?? Like, why would your breath smell that bad?!

Next, my first husband apparently thought I wasn’t very good at blow jobs, because he bought some DVD when I was 20 to teach me the ABCs of giving head. It featured real couples and also featured the least sexy sex I had ever seen. Some of those couples had to be 60 years old, with mom-bods and beer guts galore. “Oh, that’s hot,” I thought, and proceeded to never give him a blow job again. 

Daisy then told me about some porn she saw where a woman had a ton of sex toys up her vagina. She was like, “She had the Mary Poppins of pussies! Like–just when you thought she was done, there comes another one!”

Then she asked her boyfriend, Wizard, to look up Urban Sex Positions for entertainment while she was incarcerated, and he came back with “the minivan.” Sooo….you’ve heard of “the shocker,” right? Two in the pink and one in the stink? Okay, so this one is two in the front and FIVE in the back, like a freakin’ minivan. “What, so you just punch them in the butthole?” I asked, mouth agape. She shrugged and said nonchalantly, “Some people like being fisted.”

Ew.

Then we got into a conversation about men on meth who want to fuck for six hours straight with their “al dente” dicks and do butt stuff, but never get off.

Boy, do I NOT miss those days.

*sigh* 

Good times.

Daisy says that in her county jail, Somerset (not Fayette, it turns out I was wrong), five people have hung themselves in the past five years, and four of them died.

They also make the inmates paint over the black mold before inspections by the state and there are no counselors. Inmates have been known to eat dentures, shoes, and pens, or stick razors up their rectums in order to get a trip to the hospital and get out of the jail for a while. The woman here who hung herself earlier today apparently “did it wrong,” according to the blue shirts in the kitchen, because she lived. Now she has to come back here.

Dear God.

Also, in Somerset County jail, they don’t let ambulances or the coroner into the building, so nobody actually is pronounced dead until they’re in the alley. This way, I’m assuming, they don’t have to count the death as in the prison. How nice of them. I’m sure this skews the statistics of suicides in the Somerset County Jail in their favor.

8:50pm

The women here are discussing how much they get paid. Most of them will get around $30/month. Some of them work six hours per day in the kitchen or doing maintenance for this amount. And that’s IF they don’t get 25% taken out for fines. None of them seem to know or care that this is legal slavery.

There is a Sergeant walking by who is training a new CO with very tight pants on. While they walked by our cell, he told her, “When you leave this place, leave it here. Don’t take it home with you.”

Must be nice.

“We’re going down, down in an earlier round,

And sugar, we’re goin’ down swingin’

I’ll be your number one with the bullet, 

A loaded gun complex

Cock it and pull it.”

“I’ll tell you what you want to hear

Keep my sunglasses on while I shed a tear

It’s never the right time…

I’m unstoppable…

I’m a Porsche with no brakes…”

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Racists, Stalkers, and the Fucking System

Muncy State Prison

May 5, 2024

Thursday

8:30am

I have that stupid, repetitive class today. I got four messages today. Tabby said she talked to Motorcycle for four hours (!!) the other day, and called him “a lovely man.”

Wow. 

Stryder messaged me to tell me he wasn’t going to send any money because it’s Motorcycle’s “responsibility.” So much for being friends. I asked him weeks ago to send money. No word from Paul. Stryder got my letter, so Paul must have, too. 

Radio silence.

Gem sent a message too. Two of the messages were from Stryder. No word on Burgundy leaving. I can’t wait for commissary tomorrow. It’s so nice outside today. Maybe I’ll write my boys a letter. On the news, police are arresting UCLA protesters, and Florida banned abortions after six weeks.

Ridiculous.

Spongy moth caterpillars are out. Everybody keeps them gypsy moths, but apparently they’re not. Oh, I just heard that they are the same thing, they just changed the name because the word “gypsy” is racist. 

11am

Group over, homework done. I can’t really believe I’ve only been here since March. It feels like WAY longer. I told Gem I would call her at 2:15pm. I’m tired. Now they’re saying maybe lockdown tomorrow, which would mean no commissary. 

Ugh. 

I really hope not. 

So, Daisy thinks that Tabby is a stalker. She says that Tabby’s going to turn my skin into a dress and wear it. She thinks she’s Buffalo Bill. I think she’s just a nice older lady who lives alone in the woods with her cats. I’d be more inclined to believe she’s stalking Motorcycle.

Daisy says I need to watch “Almost Famous.” There are people here imitating cartoon characters. Someone sounds exactly like Blue from Blue’s Clues. It’s funny.

3:40pm

Fuck. I got the Public Defender from Potter County. Fuck. He is absolutely useless. And best friends with the DA and the judge. That’s just great. Plus that added a charge of walking too close to the roadway. That’s just fucking great. I can’t believe this. That wasn’t on the original paperwork. I hate this fucking rigged system. Now, at least for the second set of charges, they can say I was doing something illegal.

FUCK. 

4:49pm 

Now the CO just announced that if you spray the industrial strength cleaner here on your clothes, the bugs won’t get on you. Now everybody is spraying this poisonous crap all over themselves. Why are humans so stupid?

I really wish anybody had the money to pay for a lawyer for me. Well, I know some people I know do, I just wish they WOULD.

8pm

I was in the bathroom and Raja came up to me and asked me how court was out of the blue. I told her I don’t have court until June. She asked me what my charges are and so I told her. She scoffed and said I’d be out of here in six months. She even said the words, “Good for you, girl.”

Wow.

Every time I get really down, somebody inevitably says that or something similar to that to me. I wish I had that kind of faith in the system. Six months would be September. Middle of September. I wonder if that’s what’s going to happen. 

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Life Uncategorized

Mr. Big, Sex, and Addictions

Potter County Women’s Center

Day 53

August 26, 2017

Saturday

I don’t have any winter clothes. Hm. I’ll have to go to the Community Closet (and put in a request for that). Now we need request slips to take a shit, it seems. We’re off to Wellsboro for that crappy meeting. Only two or three people besides us ever show up, so it’s ridiculously boring. There’s always supposed to be a speaker, but they never show up. 

I’m sitting in the front, so I’m in charge of the radio. Mr. Big has been having fun making all kinds of new rules lately, which makes me like him even less. It also makes it harder not to get written up, which sucks. I can’t get in trouble here because I still have the threat of state prison hanging over my head. 

I sent an application and resume to the closest vet clinic, which is 20 minutes away. That’s probably a bit much to hope for, so I’m applying for jobs in Coudersport too. Stupid jobs like “Sandwich Artist” at Subway. I’d like to waitress or bartend so I can make tips. This morning our bathroom wasn’t working, so I took a shower in the staff bathroom (with permission), shut the door and everything, and got walked in on my staff anyway while I was half-naked!

Hope she enjoyed the show.

At least it wasn’t Mr. Big. That would’ve been horrifying.

I don’t really know how I feel about eight more months here. Of course I don’t want to, but I’m trying to be grateful that I’m not in state prison. That sounds awful. Mr. Big seems to like me, he had me run a group yesterday. I decided to make it about God/Higher Power(s)–it went well and even lasted a whole hour, which I was surprised about. It was hard for me to change my address to here, but I did it.

Everybody is singing, “Hold on, hold on to me, cuz I’m a little unsteady…a little unsteady…” I miss singing. Just blasting music (especially in a car) and singing at the top of my lungs. It’s therapeutic. Always makes me feel better anyway. None of the music on the radio seems good to me anymore. 

Does that mean I’m old?

1:25pm
The meeting was good. There was a baby there that I got to hold. Reminds me of my sons when they were little. When Tiger was little like that, everything was a blur. I was drinking then. A lot.

My Superman said to me once, “Mommy, I know who my Daddy is.” I, terrified that somehow Prynot had weasled his way into their lives, alarmingly replied, “Who?!” Superman calmly replied, “You are.” That made my heart just melt. I love those kids so much it hurts. Taylor Swift is singing, “Shake it Off.” I feel like I have a million things I can’t shake off. My health problems right now, my extended stay here, the constant ache in my heart for my kids, and so many other things. 

I really, REALLY hope this publisher wants to publish my book Kidowed. Right now it’s only available through Smashwords.com as a free download. Maybe I’ll put it back on Amazon for free too. Chantilly and I have been walking more, which is good for me. I can’t get under 150lbs though. My doctor told me I should be happy with that after five children, but the BMI chart on the wall taunts me, saying I’m 15lbs overweight. I feel like it’s more like 25lbs. I weighed 117lbs after the twins, but when they (my parents and Dubya) teamed up and took all three of my kids away from me, all I could do was eat. And I started drinking again. Couldn’t find a reason not to. Then later I started doing drugs too. I just let the overwhelming depression consume me. I’m still having a lot of trouble with anger, acceptance, and gratitude. 

And oh, the Pain.

The oppressive, enveloping pain.

On the board at the meeting, it said, “What is Happiness?” I don’t know anymore. I’m really unhappy that I’m not in remission from lupus anymore. That explains the constant pain lately. My hips and knees have been screaming at me despite the daily Meloxicam. It’s been humid and raining a lot. Fourteen miles till Westfield–where I used to get my Vicodin. My friend John Wayne (deceased) used to ride along with me, then he would take me out to eat. He loved the store Ackley’s , and he would lovingly stare at all of the guns, even though he wasn’t allowed to buy one because he shot and killed a man in a bar fight once. He was quite a character. I miss him. I wonder if I hadn’t met him during my using years if I would have cared more about his health (he was 350lbs), gotten him out more, and maybe he would have lived longer. Of course he drank a 30-pack per day. 

I have a lot of guilt about our relationship. I used to manipulate him out of his pain meds all of the time (he didn’t take them), using them as payment for cleaning his house or taking him somewhere. Of course he manipulated me too, knowing I would do almost anything to get them. He used to know a couple women who would give him blow jobs for Tylenol 3’s. I never went that far, but he sure tried. 

What a relationship.

Two addicts in the grips of a downhill spiral. I was still with Dubya at the time. What a mother I was to Lilly. 

Enough of that. 

Guilt city. In Westfield now. The song, “Slow Hands” is on, which reminds me of how much I miss sex. It’s not as bad as it was last time I was in here. Of course that time I was sort of withdrawing from Luke. He was like an addiction in himself. I was addicted to everything about him–he oozed sex appeal, thought I was sexy as Hell, and what a freakin’ body! Sexy, sexy. I wonder if I’ll ever have sex like that again. We literally couldn’t get enough of each other–we would have sex for hours, and it always just worked–it never felt forced or uncomfortable. 

Amazing.

And I lost 20 freakin’ pounds over that winter with him. Even more amazing. But the fact remains that I was just a fling and his heart belongs to another woman. 

Ah, well.

Of course I keep having sex dreams about Mr. Big, but that’s just because he’s he only man I see all day. It’s weird, waking up all turned on, and then having to look him in the face all day.

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Life Uncategorized

Roasting, Rehab, and Recidivism

Muncy State Prison

April 24th, 2024

11:43am

Had class today. Same shit I did at Cambridge and every rehab I’ve ever been to. Wheelchair pushing today. It’s 83 degrees outside.

Fun.

12:33pm

I’m back from lunch. Sweating like a pig. Have to push again at 1pm, 3:20pm, dinner, and one more insulin. 

Fun.

They say they have the air conditioning on in here, but it feels like the same temperature inside and outside. Gem messaged me. Wanted to know if I heard from Paul. 

Nope.

I sent him a letter saying I wouldn’t send him any more letters. I saw AJ and Dawn are back here too.

Sad.

May 1st, 2024

Wednesday

11:30am

Another month of my life gone. I have to call my lawyer at some point and see if he’s still my lawyer. It’s 1000 degrees outside. All people are talking about is the raging gypsy (spongy?) moth infestation outside. The caterpillars are hanging from all of the trees, getting on all the railings, etc. 

It’s gross.

 I didn’t call anyone this morning. I have trouble getting out of bed when there’s no coffee. Well, I have coffee, but not sugar or creamer. 

Yuck. 

2:02pm 

Called the lawyer–he did not get the paperwork yet. 

Fuck.

In better news, Tabby friended me on the kiosk and sent me $50. Thank Heavens for good friends. 

4pm

Monthly statement–there are 1043 people here.

7pm

I got to talk to King, Superman, and Motorcycle. That was nice. Motorcycle was having dinner with Kammy. I’m jealous, of course. Not of her, but of their freedom. 

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Life Uncategorized

Strippers, Poop, and Pronking

Muncy State Prison

BLOG #3

Neither Here Nor There: Musings from the Other Side (of the Razor Wire Fence)

Motorcycle says it’s funnier when I blog about things that happen around the Block instead of celebrity or world news, so here is an entire blog dedicated to Around the Block News.

Enjoy.

Daisy’s been freaking out because she was “reckless and careless” with her commissary shopping, and to ask for a new order sheet is to ask for a tongue lashing from the CO. It is frowned upon to do this, for reasons unknown. She explained her transgression to the CO, which sounded more like she might have gotten drunk and plowed her car into a small family than made some minor mistakes on a bubble sheet. He made fun of her and gave her a new sheet, but not before admonishing her to snack before shopping.

Thanks, Mom.

Next, whites go in the laundry. I said I needed to put my washcloth in because it has mascara on it, and Daisy deadpanned, “Well, that’s what happens when you’re a streetwalker.”

That was one time.

In some relevant and fun news, we recently found out that Daisy’s stripper name is Mandy Sudsberry, while Burgundy’s is Gypsy Hewitt. 

Mine is Barney Holland.

Apparently, I’m a man stripper.

I’m reading this book “Fuzz” by Mary Roach, which is so far a lot about animals mauling people. One elephant did a headstand on a person and killed them. It was a circus elephant, obviously.

Then, various pictures of cat poo to identify the species–bobcat, mountain lion, etc. Daisy, noting the different poops, said that Roadrunner’s ponytail is strikingly similar to bobcat poop. Roadrunner is an inmate here that begs everyone for e-cigarettes, myself included. She speeds around from person to person, like a bag lady on crack.

In her real life, she’s an alcoholic.

Next–there’s a good-looking CO here that Burgundy has aptly named Captain Dick ‘em Down, so that’s fun when he walks by for count. I’m waiting for her to get the vapors and fall into his arms one of these times.

There is an older Asian lady next door, Bambi, who doesn’t understand common English euphemisms. Her pod was trying to explain “carpet munching” and “scissoring” to her, and she exclaimed, “Listen, I don’t want to know about smelling carpets and scissors and forks and things! I don’t understand it!”

Fun fact: “Stotting” and “pronking” are both names for when a deer or an antelope springs into the air and then lands on all four feet at once. Nobody seems to know WHY they do this, but I think it’s because another deer or antelope sneaks up to them and yells “HEY!!” at the top of their lungs.

In other news, Daisy was telling me earlier that in her county jail–referred to as Fayette’nam–like here, there is no garbage can in the bathrooms, so if someone got a surprise period, it was commonplace to simply flush their underwear down the toilet.

I mean, I don’t blame them.

The state issued underwear here are huge granny panties that say “BIG HOUSE” on them.

Who wouldn’t flush them down the toilet?

And for the grand finale, a White girl in the next cube trying to impress a Black girl:

WG: “I used to run around and keep my pistol on my hip!”

BG: “You’re telling me this like I care.”

“Wait! It was downtown Harrisburg and all the clubs be poppin’!

BG: “Harrisburg–BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO…..”

(Black girl dies of boredom. White girl keeps talking.)

Meanwhile, the CO downstairs is clapping his hands together and yelling, “Hercules! Hercules!”

Where AM I?

Whatever. 

I’m going to practice pronking.