Tag: jail

Categories
Life

Fuck My Life

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??!

Categories
Life

Those Were the Best Days of My Life…

4/3/24 

Wednesday

Motorcycle’s surgery is tomorrow. I got my radio today–yay! Except I can’t find NPR. 

Ugh. 

Oh well–music is better than no music. 

10am

I talked to Gem, so that was nice. Her friend’s dog died. I told her about the Puppy Program here in prison.

I have to go push Ms. Grumpy Crabass to insulin in the rain now. It’s supposed to snow for three days now. I have no e-cigs and am a little miserable. I got some bloodwork this morning, from the only good vein left on my body. Good to know there is one, at least.

I dreamed last night about shooting up. 

Ugh.

10:47am

I turned on the radio earlier and heard the old country song “Wild Angels.” Maybe that’s who’s looking out for me lately. I’ll take it. I prayed to God earlier today for the first time in a long time. 

Yesterday somebody in Med Line asked me and Daisy if we were sisters because we were laughing so much. She’s so funny.

Burgundy is still being a dick. She reminds me of Sassypants sometimes. Same passive-aggressive (or just plain aggressive) crappy attitude if you don’t do what she thinks you should be doing. Like cleaning the floor. I am not about to get down on my hands and knees and this hard, shitty floor where I don’t fucking live and hurt myself by rubbing a sanitary pad around the floor. 

Whatever.

And she called me a racist, so fuck her. I hope she leaves soon. I can’t wait until cigarettes Friday.

On the radio:

“My Daddy gave me a name

And then he walked away…

Father of mine…

Tell me where have you been

Father of mine

Tell me how do you sleep…

Now I’m a grown man

With a child of my own…

And he’ll never know

The pain I have known…

If You Lose, the Devil Gets Your Soul–a poem of song lyrics

Bloodshot eyes

Red blood, white snow

Made me lose my breath

The world is on fire

Cut me to the bone

Death, and other penalties

There ain’t no easy way out

I’ll pretend my ship’s not sinking

Shall we dance?

Who wants to fit in anyway?

Was it over?

Is it over now?

Hey–don’t write yourself off yet

Do your best 

Live right now

A man and his will to survive

Blind faith

Amazing grace

Rising up

Gotta have high, high hopes

We’ll make a legacy

Always had a vision

Momma said, “Don’t give up”

We wanted everything

I saw the rising sun

Sometimes your heart’s pounding

Out of your chest, sometimes it’s 

Just beating

You feel that fire

Your clear eyes ain’t even blinking

I’ll stand my ground

No I won’t back down

Must’ve been wild angels

I could swear I heard the sound of

Beating wings

1:40pm 

I wrote Motorcycle and included my impromptu poem. When I talked to Gem this morning, she told me that Paul is complaining all over Facebook about how depressed he is. I still can’t believe he never apologized to me or contacted me at all.

Whatever. 

4pm

I’ve heard both Dolly Parton and Whitney Houston sing “I Will Always Love You” today.

5pm

“Summer of ‘69” is on the radio. Yesterday this sometimes-funny CO, Monster, spoke this whole song like it was a story. It was really funny how matter-of-fact he was about it:

“Standing on your mother’s porch,

The way you held my hand,

I knew that it was now or never,

Those were the best days of my life…”

Categories
Life

Prison Interview #2 “Kimberly”

Age: 29 years

White

Female

Two children

From Lancaster County

History of trauma/abuse?

Childhood trauma, abusive boyfriends

History of addiction?

Yes, drinking at 13, pot. Meth at 15, then painkillers, heroin.

History of mental illness?

Not diagnosed with any, no meds

What happened?

“I was selling dope, and fucking the dope dealer. I met up with a CI (Confidential Informant) and got a PWID (Possession with Intent to Deliver).”

Sentence: 3.5-7 years incarceration 

Public defender/plea deal

“I would have done better with a paid lawyer and an open plea, because the judge seemed very understanding.”

Kept continuing court case, has two cases–got another charge for selling $20 worth of dope from Lehigh Valley

Was told she’d get 1-2 year concurrent sentence with original sentence–she did.

Gravity score: 3

Were you treated fairly by judicial system?

“Not necessarily fair. This was my first adult drug charge. It was 5 grams of fentanyl. I never was offered or did rehab. My codefendant got 3-6 years. Drug addicts are treated more harshly.”

What are your plans for the future?

“Go to my grandma’s house, try to stay sober, reconnect with my kids.”

Is prison rehabilitative?

“Not prison, but space between me and drugs is rehabilitative. I’d be dead if I wasn’t here, but long-term rehab would have been better.”

What do you do for fun?

“I don’t know. I like to restore furniture. I never really had any hobbies as an adult.”

Categories
Life

Burgundy, blessings, and bullshit

Jess...blessed??

4/2/2024

Tuesday

6:15pm

Burgundy is on one of her kicks again about everyone around her (me, probably) being so negative and then they just don’t understand why this keeps happening to them, as if she’s a fucking ray of goddamn sunshine.

The irony is palpable.

I want to point out that right now, in complaining and judging everyone around her, she is being the most negative one of all, and p.s.–YOU’RE BACK HERE TOO, MISS. After 13 years spent in this place! I just love her self-righteous bullshit. She gets this way every time Daisy and I start making jokes about this place to lighten the mood around here, caused by her. It’s like she hates that we’re friends and laughing together or whatever.

What a miserable bitch.

I am supposed to have an interview in a few minutes with one of her friends, who she calls a “kingpin.” I can’t help feeling like it’s a ploy. I guess we’ll see. 

6:45pm

The interviewee was on the phone. Can’t say I’m not relieved. I missed my phone call this morning because I was pushing  a wheelchair, and my evening one is at 7pm, which is probably when they’re going to call Med Line.

7:15pm

I got to talk to Motorcycle and he says that Tioga Publishing still wants me to write for them!! I am more than shocked. I mean, my editor told me that she believed in second chances, but not thirds…I never thought I would still have a job at this point. 

Of course, then again, Motorcycle was the one who told me that I wasn’t in trouble with the law this time…I don’t know. It’s very hard for me to believe. Which again begs the question—where am I going to live?? Motorcycle also told me that he talked to my friend Tabby and she is going to get on my Connect Network messages and send me money.

I am just floored.

What is going on? Good things happening to me? That never happens. Maybe people are finally starting to actually help me…maybe the tides are beginning to turn in my favor…I’m floored. I thought I would have to hang my head in shame and slink back to a different area and move and have an even harder time seeing my kids and, and…maybe I am blessed after all.

Huh.

Categories
Life

Torture, Chief Complaints, and Bipolar 1 with Psychotic Features

Photo by Anthony Tran

This time, Clarion Psych kept me for two weeks–the longest I had ever been away from my three children.

It was torture.

On my intake paperwork, for “Chief Complaint,” it said, “None of your fucking business,” because that’s what I told the psychiatrist when he asked me why I was there.

This is where I got my diagnosis of Bipolar I with Psychotic Features and began taking antipsychotic drugs for the first time in my life. I make the mistake of telling my diagnosis to my mother, who then took Superman and King to Dr. Religious, telling her that I was a “bipolar alcoholic.”

Dr. Religious recommended that the children should be removed from my home, and then my mother started the paperwork to sue me for custody.

Categories
Life

Police, Judges, and Fools

Life in Muncy State Prison

4/1/24

Monday

8am

April Fool’s and Lupus Awareness Day. It’s raining and cold outside. My mother messaged me on the kiosk that they told the boys that I have a disease that sometimes makes me  make bad decisions and I was fighting with the police again. At least they’re not telling them that I just chose drugs over them, which is what they told Tiger her whole life. Superman still seems distant and detached.

I don’t blame him.

Everybody has a pain threshold.

Daisy and I go to the Library at 2:30pm. She went and got bloodwork this morning. I wonder why I didn’t go. We went to the doctor on the same day. Maybe they’re waiting to get my records.

Who knows.

My bones hurt I guess I’ll read my, “The True American” book.

1pm

I wrote the Prison Journalism Project and a reporter from Spotlight PA on the kiosk. I also wrote the judge in my case:

To the Honorable Judge Sadist Miller,

I have reached the decision by the court that my pro se civil complaint in Modification of Custody, case number 221 of 2015, has been rescheduled. 

However, I am currently incarcerated at SCI-Muncy due to new charges stemming from a psychotic episode brought on my Bipolar I Disorder with Psychotic Features, which I have been diagnosed with.

On 2/27/24, I was found walking on the side of Route 49 by police in inappropriate dress for the cold weather, according to the police report. I was not doing anything illegal, and I have no memory of this event.

I was taken to UPMC Cole Hospital forcibly by the police and subsequently released, although I was still delusional and psychotic.

The same exact event the repeated itself, resulting in two charges of Disorderly Conduct and two charges of Resisting Arrest.

I was dragged, beaten, and tased by the police, as evidenced by the marks on my body and in their own report.

I still fail to see where they had probable cause to arrest me, as at no time was I doing anything illegal. At no time was CRISIS or an ambulance called to help me, even though the police noted in their report that they could plainly see that I was suffering from a mental health crisis.

After the second event, I was again taken to UPMC Cole, where I was sedated and I was then taken to Clarion Psychiatric Hospital of my own free will and accord under a 201 Order.

Before these events, I did not (and still do not) have any technical violations, and I was in full compliance with my State Parole Conditions. I was working part-time with Tioga Publishing and living in transitional housing. I never missed a visitation visit with my children.

However, State Parole Officer Matthew Gibson forced me to stop seeing my trauma therapist of nearly 10 years, Sandy, and instead made me see a new therapist an hour away in Wellsboro at Crossroads. I was continuing to see my psychiatrist, Dr. B., every month and was in compliance with my psychiatric medication regimen.

This abrupt change in therapists and only being afforded one hour per week with my children is what precipitated my psychotic episode, as it has before. The current custody order causes undue hardship and immense suffering for both me and my children. 

Unfortunately, for me, this suffering manifests itself in psychoses that I cannot predict or control. My original charge, Aggravated Assault of an Officer was also due to a psychotic episode in which I attempted suicide and fought with the police when they tried to arrest me.

In this most recent case, I fail to see why and how the police could legally arrest me at all, as walking on the side of the road is not illegal under any circumstances. 

That said, I would like to request a continuance in my custody case, as I have been retained pending the disposition of these new charges.

Respectfully submitted, 

Jessica Kenley

I sent the rough draft of that letter along with another letter to Motorcycle. Almost time for library.

3:30pm

I got three books at the library. I would have been able to get four, but Ms. Grumpy Crabass got three out in my name and must not have returned on.

Ugh.

Then we got back and Daisy’s e-cigarette went missing. Jesus Christ. Isn’t it enough that we’re in prison? Does Burgundy have to steal from us too?? God, I hope she leaves soon, like she says she’s going to.

Categories
Life

Easter, Racism, and Kingpins

3/31/24

Easter Sunday

10am

I talked to the boys–Henry now has an ear infection, and is still coughing terrible. They got their Easter baskets though, so they’re happy. They don’t have any electricity, for reasons unknown. I also called Motorcycle–he’s tired because he can’t take any of his supplements in preparation for surgery. His surgery for his sinuses is April 4th. I hope it goes okay. I’m sad I won’t be there to take care of him. 

I’m worried about these new charges, Daisy got really bad news about her new charges. Burgundy, however, seems to think she’s going home soon.

Who the hell knows.

I’m reading, “The True American” by Anand Giridharadas. I wish my radio would come. I wish a lot of things. Like that I didn’t have to be here for another fucking holiday. 

11am

OMG. 

The freaking CO is sleeping at the desk with her head back and her mouth open. Everyone’s making jokes about throwing things into her open mouth from the top tier. 

Earlier, it was my phone time at 9:45am, and all of the phones were full, so I said, “Phone check,” which is what we’re supposed to do. Then, the fucking bitch CO starts freaking out: “IF IT’S NOT YOUR FUCKING PHONE TIME, GETOFFTHEFUCKINGPHONE!!!” 

Everyone on the phone turns to look at me. 

Great.

Thank you, CO.

Now I’m going to get punched in the face for wanting to call my kids on Easter Sunday.

Thanks a lot.

I fucking hate this place.

5:30pm 

Things just get worse. Burgundy called me a racist tonight. I’m reading this book, “The True American,” about this racist guy who shoots three people he thinks are Arabic after 9/11, and so Daisy and I are subsequently discussing racism. I’m telling her we have neo-Nazi rallies in my county, and how awful they are, and Burgundy pipes up with her unsolicited response, snapping, “Oh, I’m sure you go to those!” I, taken aback, say that the only reason I would be caught dead at one of those would be to cover it for the newspaper. 

I ask Daisy afterwards if she was calling me a racist. She thinks so too. And earlier Burgundy was telling me how “people are talking” about the phone thing, and how it wasn’t my time yet. Um, yes it was, I say. It was 9:45am. I wouldn’t have said anything if it wasn’t, duh. She dismissed me with, “I don’t know, cuz I wasn’t there,” obviously siding with “the people talking.”

What an asshole.

I fucking hate this place.

And she seems to be friends with everybody! How is that when she’s such a jerk?? Oh, yeah–because they’re all taking her pills.

Fuck.

7pm

Burgundy invited me to the bathroom to interview a “kingpin.” I said no. The bathroom is where people get hurt. 

No thank you.

I’ll pass.

Categories
Life

Prison blog #2–“Frankie”

Life in Muncy State Prison

Interview

“Frankie”

Age: 36 years

Female

White

2 children

From Fayette County

History of trauma/abuse?

Yes, physical, emotional, sexual abuse as a child, domestic violence as an adult

History of addiction?

Yes, started getting high at 7 years old, drinking and smoking weed. Went to foster care from 11-16 years old, then moved in with Dad, started using again. Trauma led to addiction. Five children in family–state came and took to foster care because of truancy–

“I wouldn’t go to school. I was embarrassed of my upbringing and family situation.”

History of mental illness?

Yes, Muncy State Prison diagnosed with Unspecified Bipolar, PTSD, anxiety disorder–no psych meds.

Has never been on psych meds unless in jail.

Frankie does not believe she’s bipolar–drug use precludes bipolar symptoms. When she is clean, she does not have psych symptoms.

How much time have you spent incarcerated in your lifetime?

6-7 years

This time?

5/8/24 will be 3 years

What happened?

Ate a pressed Xanax baar, doesn’t remember events. Got in car, crashed the car, went in other lane, hit a stopped car with an elderly couple in it. Fell asleep at the wheel, 64mph impact, 76-year old woman died on impact, 77-year old man life-flighted. 

Frankie walked off the scene of the crash, hid, switched clothes. Found a garage with a car in it, took keys, stole car. Ended up at home, got drugs, stuffed drugs (in vagina and rectum), called police.

Sentenced to 15-30 years in prison.

Originally offered a 10-20 year sentence, judge election year–then offered 15-30 years.

How were you treated?

“The judicial system is unfair. When it comes to my victim and his family, it’s fair. I’ve never been mistreated by police. I’ve always had a paid good attorney. I’ve been given ample opportunities to get my shit together.”

What are your plans for the future?

“Initially, all I thought about was Cambridge Springs [Correctional Institution], but it’s best for me to stay here. I want to help my brother build houses. The Maintenance Program here is teaching me a lot. I want to do plumbing, welding, HVAC, etc. And I want to do the Puppy Program. My kids have been adopted by friends. My Dad was my best friend, and he passed away six months after I came to jail. I have a friend who is a very good support to me.”

Are you worried about using drugs in the future?

“No. I don’t think I’m going to go home and relapse. My hands killed somebody. I have a lot of remorse. I’m never going to be able to enjoy getting high again.”

What do you do for fun?

“I chop it up with this bitch right here (points to cellie, Kimberly). I have a few boyfriends. They keep it interesting. I don’t really know what I do for fun on the outside.”

Anything else you want people to know about you?

“My late Aunt said about me that I have the ability to see beauty in anybody. I look for the good parts in the majority of people. I find the light and focus on that.”

Categories
Life

Regret, resistance, and rape

I braced my feet at the bottom of the staircase in front of me and sat against the back of the door. The cops started screaming at me to open the door and bashing on it. The twins started shrieking in terror, and I started screaming back at the cops that what they were doing was illegal.

They didn’t stop.

Pretty soon, my father, why they had apparently called, showed up. He, too, started telling me to open the door.

The cops had no warrant.

I knew in my bones that this was illegal and wrong. They can’t just come into your house and take your kids for no reason.

This is America.

The bashing and screaming went on for about 20 minutes, but seemed much, much longer. Both of the boys had scooted over on my lap, so every time they pounded on the door, they were basically pounding on all of us.

I started screaming, “You’re hurting us!!!” because screaming that this was illegal was no deterrent for these people with guns and a battering ram that were terrorizing me and my children.

This finally stopped the pounding.

Their solution to this was to have my father climb a ladder to the upstairs bedroom, come down the stairs, and unlock the door for the police.

They all blasted in, at least six deep, and ripped my screaming children out of my arms. I would remember the feeling–the terror/horror–years later. It’s a feeling I would never forget–to see the looks in their eyes–all three of us sobbing and in immense pain. 

The trauma of it all.

That stays with you for eternity.

Then they tackled me, cuffed and shackled me. One of the cops feebly suggested, “Don’t hurt her…” while they wrestled me to the ground and nearly broke my arms twisting them around my back with my knees and face on the floor.

My father took the boys and left.

I had screamed so much that I was hoarse for two weeks. My vocal chords never recovered from that night.

I used to be a beautiful singer.

Never again.

The cops shoved me in a truck and took me to the hospital for a drug test. I was so dehydrated that I couldn’t urinate.

So they held me down and forcibly catheterized me.

It was like being raped.

Of course I tested positive for that one Percocet and the tiny amount of weed I had smoked, but negative for alcohol, which is what the cops were banking on.

I heard Copperhead exclaim loudly to the ER doctor, “Well, if she’s not drunk, she’s CRAZY!” as if that were a diagnosis.

It was.

They then started the paperwork to 302 me (commit me against my will) to a psychiatric hospital.

Off to Clarion Psych I went.

Again.

Categories
Life

Wishes to the Universe…

Christmas sledding with King and Tiger

Friday

3/29/24

Mom, 

I got your letter today. Thanks for writing. I can’t believe I’m in here again either. I told everyone around me what to look for and what to do if I started acting bizarre, not eating and sleeping, etc. and one of them did what I asked them to do, which was to call CRISIS and get me to a psych hospital. They always call the police instead, and this happens.

I heard Paul called you and the police. We aren’t speaking anymore, after 30 years of being friends. I just cannot believe that people think that the police are the answer to mental health crises. 

They’re not.

I heard they tased me this time. One of these times they’re just going to shoot me and get it overwith. I, of course, don’t remember any of it. 

Anyway, thanks for the money. I think I’m staying here for the duration, because they’ve already given me programs to do. The only thing I’ve gotten from the parole board is that they’re detaining me pending the disposition of my charges.

My lawyer is JT again, although I’m waiting for his number to be approved on my phone list, so I haven’t talked to him yet. That’s really all the news I have about my case. I have no idea what they’re going to do with the charges.

I’m glad the boys are doing well. I hope they’re feeling better. I’m glad they went to the dance and had fun.

Stryder messaged me on the kiosk and told me me I need to give my life to Christ.

That’s helpful.

I guess you told Elizabeth and Elizabeth told Stryder that I am in prison again. Glad I can be entertainment for you all.

Thanks for the wishes to the Universe.

Maybe someday people around me will stop making wishes for me and actually help me instead.

–Justine