I had my son the day before my 20th birthday on October 14, 2008. That moment was so surreal for me. My baby was so beautiful and he was so peaceful (as long as no one bothered him lol). He was my glimpse of sunshine peeking through the clouds of a deadly storm. I had three weeks with him before my sentencing. I wanted to embrace those moments of joy so badly, I didn't sleep for three days. I'd stay awake and just stare at him sleeping. God... I didn't want to let him go.
When my son's father cheated, it wasn't with just one other girl. It was always two, three or maybe even more at a time. So before my baby was even a day old, one of the other kid's mother's and my former co worker had written under his picture on the hospital website that he was ugly and that he couldn't be his father's child. Another of his kid's mom kept calling and texting me, harassing, per usual. My situation in itself was so miserable only a jealous hate and evil could delight in that. Forget that my son's father shamed me endlessly. Forget that I was incarcerated my
entire pregnancy and now about to leave my newborn baby for prison. These women hated me and harassed me to no end all because they wanted a man they saw as "mine" regardless of how horribly he treated me. It had taken me until that day to realize that the girls calling and harassing would never end. In misery there are no boundaries, which is why I offered none of them the attention they were seeking. They were the very last of my concerns. None of them, not my son's father... no body mattered to me anymore. The only feeling I allowed myself was to fall in love with my son and absorb every minute I could with him.
I won't say the way my son's father treated me didn't hurt me. It did. Crushed my heart. But I HAD to go numb or I wouldn't have made it through my pregnancy. It stung, I cried but I had to find solace somewhere for the sake of my sanity and my son. I didn't expect him to act differently or be a better man. But I DID expect some type of respect. Besides the fact that he had MY car, I shouldn't have had to walk anywhere, shouldn't have had to ASK for money or rides and I shouldn't have had to deal with other women harassing me the entire time.
I didn't
take the case because I thought it was going to change anything between him and me. I didn't take it because I loved him or to prove anything either. They had
offered me the opportunity to make statements against other people too
in return for a deal but I couldn't do it. I had taken the case because I thought that that was
what I was supposed to do. I saw it as more of an obligation than a favor. I was disgusted by his complete disregard for me and I was hurt, yes. But turning my son's father in, or anyone else for that matter, had
never, not once even crossed my mind. I never thought about it, not
even once. And to this day, I don't know why.
I granted power of attorney over my son to my sister. My son's father was pissed I didn't leave my son with his mother (until he was released from jail for a probation violation) but he was too irresponsible, too selfish and too desperate for a dollar. He'd drop his kids off to any and everybody so he could run the streets. I at least wanted the peace of mind that my baby would be safe while I was away.
The first Tuesday that November, I was sentenced to two years in prison. My baby was three weeks old. I'll never forget trying to hug him and say goodbye handcuffed in that courtroom. Seeing his face gave me this overwhelming sense of peace but crushed my heart at the same time. That tore me apart. To this day, I've never felt a greater pain than I did the nights I cried for my baby... never. I cried for him every single night... every one. My sister would send me pictures of his chubby little face that I'd stare at endlessly and I'd call home just to listen to him breath, cry, whatever, it didn't matter I just wanted to hear him; to know he was there. My dreams of him were so real, I'd swear I could smell his hair. I hated being awake. I wanted to hold him so bad.
A couple of weeks after being in prison, I went to shower and realized the milk from my breasts had dried out. I cried silently in the shower but inside I was screaming, yelling, losing more of myself. The smell of my milk reminded me of my baby. In a way, it still made me feel close to him. That was all I had. I felt so empty and hurt. Physically, it pained me to be awake but I'd still pretend I was okay. My soul was broken and empty. I had to find God.
Friday, November 22, 2013
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Pregnant & On the Way To Prison
In February of 2008, I was feeling ill and went to the emergency room. They performed an ultra sound and there it was; a little baby the size of a jelly bean. Mixed emotions began to overwhelm me, excited about the life growing inside me but disappointed in myself for not being more responsible. My baby's father was in jail (yet again) and I was on my way there.
I called my sister. She and I didn't speak much but before all the mess, she had been my best friend. I cried and cried to her. "I don't want to have his baby," I told her. He was abusive, in and out of jail and had six other children that I knew of. He'd have his preferences of which kids he'd deal with based on his relationships with their mothers. I heard him tell his mom once, "I told ya'll if I don't fuck with them, you don't either!" Then it'd just be birthday and holiday appearances for them if he didn't. I felt SO bad for those babies and here I was bringing another one into the same situation and I myself was facing prison time.
I went to trial in April charged with Delivery and Manufacturing of a Controlled Substance but I wasn't a drug dealer and I knew it was clear the drugs weren't mine so I figured a jury would have no reason to convict me.
My lawyer was horrible. After jury selection and during breaks, he would talk to the prosecutor about their colleagues and what they planned to have for lunch that day, right in the courtroom, right in front of me. I felt so alone in that court room... defenseless.
In the middle of the trial, the prosecuting attorney moved to add the lesser charge of possession, which the judge allowed. I was oblivious to the fact that she could even do such a thing and knew right then that I would be going to prison. I was so pissed at my lawyer and felt so helpless. Sure enough, I was found guilty by jury of Possession of a Controlled Substance. The judge postponed my sentencing because of my pregnancy. I was to turn myself in the next day, remain in jail for the majority of my pregnancy, be released in October for the entire month to be able to deliver my child and then return to court in November for sentencing.
I broke down in the court house. They had to ask my son's father to take me outside because I was weeping so loudly it was disturbing the other courts. I cried to my son's father, wanting for him to go inside and say, "They were my drugs, take me" but instead he was just quiet. He dropped me off at home and left. I'm not sure where he went. I was so numb that day, I'm not even sure if I really cared.
I was taken to jail the next morning. I had told myself not to stress because I didn't want to hurt the baby. But while using the bathroom one day, I saw blood in my underwear. I asked for the nurse and was told there was nothing the nurse could do because she wasn't qualified to deal with pregnancies and that I'd have to go see my OBGYN. They took me to my appointments in the jail jumpsuit, shackled at my wrists and ankles with two officers to escort me. I waited in the lobby, people staring but I was so scared for my baby, I didn't care. I ended up learning I had cists that had burst which caused the bleeding but thankfully they had resolved on their own. My midwife explained to me that despite my situation, it was very important to try to not stress myself or the baby. I promised her and myself that I wouldn't.
The jail became overcrowded and a month later I was sent to finish the remainder of my time in a probation facility, similar to a halfway housing center. There, I was able to wear my own clothing and get passes to go to any appointments I had.
I would call my son's father to pick me up for my appointments and he'd tell me he couldn't and that he was busy. That was a hot summer, lots of flooding and 95* weather. I'd wal, big and pregnant, taking the bus to my appointments and more than once, I'd see him with another girl while the bus passed by.
I'd call him for money for bus fare and food and most of the time, he'd tell me he didn't have it. His friends and their girlfriends would bring it instead. One time, when he did bring money to the facility, I remember watching him leave with another girl, my co worker that had shared the paper around my work place. But I didn't have time to worry about him cheating or what he was doing in the streets. I didn't have time or the emotional capacity for my feelings to be hurt or to hate him. I was getting closer and closer to my due date and thus closer and closer to going to prison. I had to figure out what that would mean for my son.
I called my sister. She and I didn't speak much but before all the mess, she had been my best friend. I cried and cried to her. "I don't want to have his baby," I told her. He was abusive, in and out of jail and had six other children that I knew of. He'd have his preferences of which kids he'd deal with based on his relationships with their mothers. I heard him tell his mom once, "I told ya'll if I don't fuck with them, you don't either!" Then it'd just be birthday and holiday appearances for them if he didn't. I felt SO bad for those babies and here I was bringing another one into the same situation and I myself was facing prison time.
I went to trial in April charged with Delivery and Manufacturing of a Controlled Substance but I wasn't a drug dealer and I knew it was clear the drugs weren't mine so I figured a jury would have no reason to convict me.
My lawyer was horrible. After jury selection and during breaks, he would talk to the prosecutor about their colleagues and what they planned to have for lunch that day, right in the courtroom, right in front of me. I felt so alone in that court room... defenseless.
In the middle of the trial, the prosecuting attorney moved to add the lesser charge of possession, which the judge allowed. I was oblivious to the fact that she could even do such a thing and knew right then that I would be going to prison. I was so pissed at my lawyer and felt so helpless. Sure enough, I was found guilty by jury of Possession of a Controlled Substance. The judge postponed my sentencing because of my pregnancy. I was to turn myself in the next day, remain in jail for the majority of my pregnancy, be released in October for the entire month to be able to deliver my child and then return to court in November for sentencing.
I broke down in the court house. They had to ask my son's father to take me outside because I was weeping so loudly it was disturbing the other courts. I cried to my son's father, wanting for him to go inside and say, "They were my drugs, take me" but instead he was just quiet. He dropped me off at home and left. I'm not sure where he went. I was so numb that day, I'm not even sure if I really cared.
I was taken to jail the next morning. I had told myself not to stress because I didn't want to hurt the baby. But while using the bathroom one day, I saw blood in my underwear. I asked for the nurse and was told there was nothing the nurse could do because she wasn't qualified to deal with pregnancies and that I'd have to go see my OBGYN. They took me to my appointments in the jail jumpsuit, shackled at my wrists and ankles with two officers to escort me. I waited in the lobby, people staring but I was so scared for my baby, I didn't care. I ended up learning I had cists that had burst which caused the bleeding but thankfully they had resolved on their own. My midwife explained to me that despite my situation, it was very important to try to not stress myself or the baby. I promised her and myself that I wouldn't.
The jail became overcrowded and a month later I was sent to finish the remainder of my time in a probation facility, similar to a halfway housing center. There, I was able to wear my own clothing and get passes to go to any appointments I had.
I would call my son's father to pick me up for my appointments and he'd tell me he couldn't and that he was busy. That was a hot summer, lots of flooding and 95* weather. I'd wal, big and pregnant, taking the bus to my appointments and more than once, I'd see him with another girl while the bus passed by.
I'd call him for money for bus fare and food and most of the time, he'd tell me he didn't have it. His friends and their girlfriends would bring it instead. One time, when he did bring money to the facility, I remember watching him leave with another girl, my co worker that had shared the paper around my work place. But I didn't have time to worry about him cheating or what he was doing in the streets. I didn't have time or the emotional capacity for my feelings to be hurt or to hate him. I was getting closer and closer to my due date and thus closer and closer to going to prison. I had to figure out what that would mean for my son.
Monday, November 4, 2013
Shit Hit The Fan
September of 2007... shit hit the fan.
I was reading the newspaper, opened it up and saw my own face in the Kalamazoo's Most Wanted column. My heart dropped to my stomach. It was a Monday. I'll never forget. Ironically, I had just seen the detective from my case the Friday before at the courthouse and he stopped me to ask how I was doing. He knew where I lived, he had been to my house and my job. He could've easily picked me up if he wanted to.
I immediately thought of my family. What would they say? They had no idea what was going on. I barely spoke to them. Feelings of shame and fear overwhelmed me. That detective wanted me to know this wasn't a game and that they weren't playing around with me. I got the message loud and clear. I had an anxiety attack and broke down in my car. I could barely catch my breath.
I turned myself in the next morning and was released on a personal recognizance bond. I almost immediately lost my job. I worked in healthcare as a CNA. My son's father had been cheating with a co worker of mine and she took the paper around my work place. For whatever reason, it humored her. My supervisor expressed the concern that my coworkers and even family members of clients had seen the paper so they had to let me go.
I had a court appointed attorney who, of course, didn't seem very interested in my case or me. I'd tell my son's father I needed a lawyer and he'd say, "They're just going to give you probation. This happened last time. You straight. Look... if they try to send you to jail, I'mma step up and take it. But you gon be good."
"Last time" was when the girl he was with before me had taken a case for him. She received probation on a deferment program and retained a clean record upon completion of her probation. That's what he thought was going to happen to me too. But this wasn't that. Even I could see that. I had federal agents at my doorstep, or whoever's doorstep I happened to be at when they wanted to speak to me. They had a full investigation out on him AND every man he grew up with. Other lawyers and officers I didn't even know would pull me aside and let me know that this was serious and I was in way over my head. That didn't seem to phase my son's father. "Same shit" he'd say. Yeah, alright.
The officers, lawyers and even the DEA would get so frustrated with me and they'd all say, "You think he gives a shit about you?! He's going to let you go down for him and you think he's going to be there for you?!! He's saving his own ass, you better save yours." They all said it... but I never listened. Ironically, when I think of it now, those are the words that stand out the most.
They did offer me probation, though. But only in return for a statement. Though I had a state case, I still met with federal agents to discuss a "deal."
"Make a statement against your son's father in return for deferment." I said no... "Well, do you know 'such and such'? Get close, wear a wire, find out some information and testify in return for deferment." I declined again. They pulled the offer for probation deferment for non cooperation. I plead not guilty to the delivery and manufacturing charge and my case went to trial.......
I was reading the newspaper, opened it up and saw my own face in the Kalamazoo's Most Wanted column. My heart dropped to my stomach. It was a Monday. I'll never forget. Ironically, I had just seen the detective from my case the Friday before at the courthouse and he stopped me to ask how I was doing. He knew where I lived, he had been to my house and my job. He could've easily picked me up if he wanted to.
I immediately thought of my family. What would they say? They had no idea what was going on. I barely spoke to them. Feelings of shame and fear overwhelmed me. That detective wanted me to know this wasn't a game and that they weren't playing around with me. I got the message loud and clear. I had an anxiety attack and broke down in my car. I could barely catch my breath.
I turned myself in the next morning and was released on a personal recognizance bond. I almost immediately lost my job. I worked in healthcare as a CNA. My son's father had been cheating with a co worker of mine and she took the paper around my work place. For whatever reason, it humored her. My supervisor expressed the concern that my coworkers and even family members of clients had seen the paper so they had to let me go.
I had a court appointed attorney who, of course, didn't seem very interested in my case or me. I'd tell my son's father I needed a lawyer and he'd say, "They're just going to give you probation. This happened last time. You straight. Look... if they try to send you to jail, I'mma step up and take it. But you gon be good."
"Last time" was when the girl he was with before me had taken a case for him. She received probation on a deferment program and retained a clean record upon completion of her probation. That's what he thought was going to happen to me too. But this wasn't that. Even I could see that. I had federal agents at my doorstep, or whoever's doorstep I happened to be at when they wanted to speak to me. They had a full investigation out on him AND every man he grew up with. Other lawyers and officers I didn't even know would pull me aside and let me know that this was serious and I was in way over my head. That didn't seem to phase my son's father. "Same shit" he'd say. Yeah, alright.
The officers, lawyers and even the DEA would get so frustrated with me and they'd all say, "You think he gives a shit about you?! He's going to let you go down for him and you think he's going to be there for you?!! He's saving his own ass, you better save yours." They all said it... but I never listened. Ironically, when I think of it now, those are the words that stand out the most.
They did offer me probation, though. But only in return for a statement. Though I had a state case, I still met with federal agents to discuss a "deal."
"Make a statement against your son's father in return for deferment." I said no... "Well, do you know 'such and such'? Get close, wear a wire, find out some information and testify in return for deferment." I declined again. They pulled the offer for probation deferment for non cooperation. I plead not guilty to the delivery and manufacturing charge and my case went to trial.......
Sunday, August 18, 2013
When Detectives Came Knocking...
Flashback to when my case began. March 1, 2007.
I was 18 years old. I had called off from work that day to stay home with the baby my son's father had with another woman. He had been living with her when he met me the year before. Later, I'd learn he was still living with her at that time. My son's father had called me one time and said he was making a drug sale. I asked him where the baby was and he said he had left him at home by himself. When he went back to the house, the baby was crying hysterically. That child wasn't even four months old. From then on, anytime he'd ask, I'd babysit.
A few days before that, he had beat me up. The baby's mother and him had gotten into an argument over me, I assume, because in between punching me in my face and kicking me, he'd yell, "You ungrateful bitches!!... You know she flushed my shit?!" From that, I knew he'd move his drugs somewhere else.
When the detectives knocked at my door, they told me they were there to discuss my friend's sister, a minor who had run away from home. When we found where she was, I was the one who went to pick her up. The detectives asked to come inside so we could speak privately and I let them.
As soon as I sat down, they informed me they were also investigating a Silent Observer tip that I was running a meth lab from my home. One of them said he could already tell that wasn't true but wanted to know if there were any other drugs in the house. My heart dropped to my stomach. I knew my son's father had moved his drugs and it was very likely he had moved them into my apartment. The detectives asked to search my apartment. I said no and asked them to leave. The other one said, "We can do this the easy way and you let us take a look around or we'll leave and come right back to kick your door down, call CPS to take that baby and take you to jail."
I asked them to leave at least three or four times and they refused. I was so afraid I began to cry. I didn't know what to do. My son's father was calling my phone back to back. He knew they were there. I was afraid to answer but the detectives knew it was him calling. I ended up answering once and he told me to tell them to get out. I did again but they still wouldn't go. They asked me to agree to a "walk through" where they wouldn't touch anything, just walk through the house and leave. I just wanted them to go. I said yes and they immediately began opening up cabinets and searching drawers.
The detectives found money, a scale, ripped baggies in the garbage can and close to 4.5 oz of crack cocaine. They put it all in a grocery bag and told me not to tell anyone they were there but that if they found my finger prints on any of those things, I would be going to jail. Before they left, they asked me to call my son's father and say "Why'd you leave drugs in my house?" so they could record it for evidence that the drugs were his. I refused. They asked me if I was afraid of him. At that point I was crying so hard I couldn't speak anymore. I shook my head no and they left saying they'd be in touch soon.
Over the next few months, they introduced me to the DEA and attempted to federally indict me on a conspiracy charge in connection with another investigation they had going on with a drug dealer who was affiliated with my son's father. I worked at Target at that time and the detective would come while I was at work and just stand there watching me. They followed me several times, trying to get me to make a statement against my son's father. I refused every time. They threatened me with federal indictments. It scared the hell out of me but for whatever reason, I never even thought to cooperate. At that time, I saw law enforcement as my enemy. They had turned my life into a living hell. Popping up at my job, calling my phone all hours of the day, pounding on the windows of my apartment to get me to answer the door. That went on for almost two months, then I rarely ever heard from the DEA or those detectives.
I was 18 years old. I had called off from work that day to stay home with the baby my son's father had with another woman. He had been living with her when he met me the year before. Later, I'd learn he was still living with her at that time. My son's father had called me one time and said he was making a drug sale. I asked him where the baby was and he said he had left him at home by himself. When he went back to the house, the baby was crying hysterically. That child wasn't even four months old. From then on, anytime he'd ask, I'd babysit.
A few days before that, he had beat me up. The baby's mother and him had gotten into an argument over me, I assume, because in between punching me in my face and kicking me, he'd yell, "You ungrateful bitches!!... You know she flushed my shit?!" From that, I knew he'd move his drugs somewhere else.
When the detectives knocked at my door, they told me they were there to discuss my friend's sister, a minor who had run away from home. When we found where she was, I was the one who went to pick her up. The detectives asked to come inside so we could speak privately and I let them.
As soon as I sat down, they informed me they were also investigating a Silent Observer tip that I was running a meth lab from my home. One of them said he could already tell that wasn't true but wanted to know if there were any other drugs in the house. My heart dropped to my stomach. I knew my son's father had moved his drugs and it was very likely he had moved them into my apartment. The detectives asked to search my apartment. I said no and asked them to leave. The other one said, "We can do this the easy way and you let us take a look around or we'll leave and come right back to kick your door down, call CPS to take that baby and take you to jail."
I asked them to leave at least three or four times and they refused. I was so afraid I began to cry. I didn't know what to do. My son's father was calling my phone back to back. He knew they were there. I was afraid to answer but the detectives knew it was him calling. I ended up answering once and he told me to tell them to get out. I did again but they still wouldn't go. They asked me to agree to a "walk through" where they wouldn't touch anything, just walk through the house and leave. I just wanted them to go. I said yes and they immediately began opening up cabinets and searching drawers.
The detectives found money, a scale, ripped baggies in the garbage can and close to 4.5 oz of crack cocaine. They put it all in a grocery bag and told me not to tell anyone they were there but that if they found my finger prints on any of those things, I would be going to jail. Before they left, they asked me to call my son's father and say "Why'd you leave drugs in my house?" so they could record it for evidence that the drugs were his. I refused. They asked me if I was afraid of him. At that point I was crying so hard I couldn't speak anymore. I shook my head no and they left saying they'd be in touch soon.
Over the next few months, they introduced me to the DEA and attempted to federally indict me on a conspiracy charge in connection with another investigation they had going on with a drug dealer who was affiliated with my son's father. I worked at Target at that time and the detective would come while I was at work and just stand there watching me. They followed me several times, trying to get me to make a statement against my son's father. I refused every time. They threatened me with federal indictments. It scared the hell out of me but for whatever reason, I never even thought to cooperate. At that time, I saw law enforcement as my enemy. They had turned my life into a living hell. Popping up at my job, calling my phone all hours of the day, pounding on the windows of my apartment to get me to answer the door. That went on for almost two months, then I rarely ever heard from the DEA or those detectives.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
"... I didn't want to stay, I felt OBLIGATED to."
It wasn't ALL bad, ALL the time. There were times that we laughed, yes. But I think the moment I learned I was pregnant was when I realized that that was not the life I wanted. Even though we barely talked, I remember calling my sister, breaking down and confessing that I didn't want to have a baby by him. Even in the blindness of love and infatuation, something about knowing you'll be responsible for another life allows you to see things so much more clear.
At that time I knew of six other children of his before mine. Six children by six different women. Of those children, he'd pick and choose which ones he wanted to deal with. I even heard him telling his mother one time, "If I don't fuck with them, you don't fuck with them either!" (Yep, in regard to his own children.) To me, that meant I'd have to be a slave to that relationship in order for him to be a father. That's not what I wanted for my baby - a sometimey, whenever-I-feel-like-it father. But I had already been charged with Delivery and Manufacturing of a narcotic, had lost my job because of it and was fighting the case, now pregnant. I didn't even know if I myself could be there for my baby.
After I had my son, I was sentenced to prison, signed up for boot camp while there, completed the program and was able to come home early. Now after that, I honestly can't remember any good times with my son's father. No laughing, not even a desire to be there. The beatings became worse. He dragged me down flights of stairs, beating me in front of neighbors. I, myself, became angry all the time. I couldn't believe I had gone to prison and come home to the same bullshit: him putting his hands on me, women knocking on my door, calling my phone, calling my parole officer to get me sent back to prison. And we had a baby now. But I realized that that was it; that was what life would be like as long as I stayed.
Thankfully, my son never saw his father hit me. He did beat me in another room while my baby was in the house. I called my friends to come get my son because I wanted to kill him. I really did. To this day, I have never been more angry. But I saw it hurt him more when he came towards me and my baby pushed him away and began crying. My baby was afraid and he could sense his father was hurting me. My heart broke. I didn't want my son growing up feeling like he had to protect me from his own father. And at not even a year old, that's what he was doing.
I sat my son's father down to talk and told him I had to leave; that I couldn't do it anymore. I was miserable and I wanted better for my son. His voice cracked when he told me he needed me to stay. He was being investigated by the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency) and felt his time was running short. Although I didn't want to stay, I felt obligated to. WHY was I so weak?! He had so much control over me. I think more than he himself even knew.
He would spend nights away from home with another female. I found out about her, she knew about me and while she'd try to argue, I'd try to get her to get him to leave me for her. I'm not sure if she thought I was being sarcastic. I remember telling her she could have him. I felt bad for her because I knew she didn't know what she was getting herself into but I wanted out. Every night I prayed. I WEPT, begging God to get me out of that relationship, no matter what it took. I was too weak to leave on my own. Whatever that hold was over me, I couldn't break it.
He was federally indicted soon after. I had only been home for 6 months. I'm unsure where I or my son would be now if he hadn't. Not saying I wished it on him. His own actions got him there and I would never wish something like that on anyone. But I do believe what happened was necessary for me to be able to make a better life for myself and my son.
At that time I knew of six other children of his before mine. Six children by six different women. Of those children, he'd pick and choose which ones he wanted to deal with. I even heard him telling his mother one time, "If I don't fuck with them, you don't fuck with them either!" (Yep, in regard to his own children.) To me, that meant I'd have to be a slave to that relationship in order for him to be a father. That's not what I wanted for my baby - a sometimey, whenever-I-feel-like-it father. But I had already been charged with Delivery and Manufacturing of a narcotic, had lost my job because of it and was fighting the case, now pregnant. I didn't even know if I myself could be there for my baby.
After I had my son, I was sentenced to prison, signed up for boot camp while there, completed the program and was able to come home early. Now after that, I honestly can't remember any good times with my son's father. No laughing, not even a desire to be there. The beatings became worse. He dragged me down flights of stairs, beating me in front of neighbors. I, myself, became angry all the time. I couldn't believe I had gone to prison and come home to the same bullshit: him putting his hands on me, women knocking on my door, calling my phone, calling my parole officer to get me sent back to prison. And we had a baby now. But I realized that that was it; that was what life would be like as long as I stayed.
Thankfully, my son never saw his father hit me. He did beat me in another room while my baby was in the house. I called my friends to come get my son because I wanted to kill him. I really did. To this day, I have never been more angry. But I saw it hurt him more when he came towards me and my baby pushed him away and began crying. My baby was afraid and he could sense his father was hurting me. My heart broke. I didn't want my son growing up feeling like he had to protect me from his own father. And at not even a year old, that's what he was doing.
I sat my son's father down to talk and told him I had to leave; that I couldn't do it anymore. I was miserable and I wanted better for my son. His voice cracked when he told me he needed me to stay. He was being investigated by the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency) and felt his time was running short. Although I didn't want to stay, I felt obligated to. WHY was I so weak?! He had so much control over me. I think more than he himself even knew.
He would spend nights away from home with another female. I found out about her, she knew about me and while she'd try to argue, I'd try to get her to get him to leave me for her. I'm not sure if she thought I was being sarcastic. I remember telling her she could have him. I felt bad for her because I knew she didn't know what she was getting herself into but I wanted out. Every night I prayed. I WEPT, begging God to get me out of that relationship, no matter what it took. I was too weak to leave on my own. Whatever that hold was over me, I couldn't break it.
He was federally indicted soon after. I had only been home for 6 months. I'm unsure where I or my son would be now if he hadn't. Not saying I wished it on him. His own actions got him there and I would never wish something like that on anyone. But I do believe what happened was necessary for me to be able to make a better life for myself and my son.
Monday, July 29, 2013
"That Man Did Everything But Kill Me"
“That man did everything but kill me.” I use that sentence a
lot in an attempt to describe the extent of abuse I experienced with my son’s
father without having to relive it in detail. Most people hear that and say,
"He put his hands on you?" I reply, "Yes" and that's as far
as the conversation goes. But when
I say that man did everything but kill me, I mean that very literally. I was
abused financially, emotionally, sexually and physically.
He’d take all of my money. I never got to keep my paycheck, only enough to pay the
bills. I’d have to ask him for
some of my money back if I wanted to buy something for myself. I found out he took money from a few of
the women he dealt with. That was
how he “took care” of me…with MY own money and maybe even some of the other
women’s too.
It was no secret that he cheated on me. He slept with many other women. But still, when I’d refuse to have sex
with him, he’d take it from me. He
raped me quite a few times.
Sometimes, I’d just lie there, and other times, he’d grab me by my hair
and say, “Act like you want it, bitch!” and I would to keep him from getting
angry with me.
I detailed the first time he put his hands on me in my last
blog. I can't recall how many times he hit me after that. Whenever he was
angry, that's what he did. He didn't even have to be angry with me. Sometimes,
I think I just served as the punching bag.
One night, I remember, he had gotten into an argument with another woman he was
involved with. He came to my apartment beating on the door. As soon as I opened
it he pushed me to the floor and immediately began punching me, kicking me. He
even spit on me. He kept yelling, "You ungrateful bitches!!!... I take
care of both of you bitches!!!” He dragged me outside by my hair. I started
screaming and yelling, and he kicked me so hard it took the breath from me.
"Shut the fuck up! You gon send me to jail bitch?! HUH?! You gon send me
to jail?!" I was supposed to protect him, even when he hurt me. But it was nighttime and I could see
the light from my neighbors’ windows as they were peeking out their blinds.
By the time the police came, we were back in the house and I
remember still being afraid of him even though they were there. He ended up having a warrant and they
took him away. I denied the
assault but I knew the officers could tell by my disheveled appearance and
teary eyes that I was lying. I
spoke very few words to hide the blood I could taste on my lip. My son’s father stared at me the entire
time, reminding me he’d bond out by morning… that he’d be back. Somehow it became my fault he was sent
to jail and in doing so, I had committed the ultimate act of betrayal according
to him.
A supervisor at work, who also happened to be a friend of my
family, called me in the office the next day. He lived in the building next to
me. He had heard the screaming and eventually learned they were mine. I didn't
deny it, how could I? I showed him my bruised legs and busted lip. He gave me
the "leave him" speech I'd hear countless times over the next four
years.
He even beat me in front of his daughter once. She cried and yelled at him to stop but
he didn’t. I felt so ashamed and
my heart hurt for her. No child
should have to see things like that.
Why didn't I leave though? I honestly don't know. Fear
played a major part. I went to the YWCA a couple times and sat outside thinking
about entering their program for battered women. But our city was so small, the
thought that he'd still know where I was kept me from going inside.
I never had to tell him I wanted to leave. I think he knew I was miserable and he’d say,
"If you ever leave me, I'll kill you." To prove it to me he would pin me down underneath him and
force a pillow over my face. He'd hold it there until I couldn't breath. The
scariest feeling I've ever had in my life was gasping for air, desperately
trying to catch a breath. My throat would burn. I'd be in panic because I
couldn't catch any air. He'd stand over me and laugh. That scared the shit out me. To the point where he could just pick up a pillow and I’d
begin to cry hysterically and beg him not to do it. But that never stopped him. I never realized until telling my current boyfriend this
story a few weeks ago that he could’ve killed me. He could’ve held that pillow over my face a second too long
and that would’ve been it.
I used to pray to God that He’d take me from that situation
because even though I wanted to leave, I didn’t know HOW. I couldn’t figure out how to break
myself away.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Monday, July 22, 2013
Felonious Insecurities...
I've been to prison...
At the age of 16, I ran away from home and became involved in a highly abusive relationship with a local drug dealer. He did everything to me except kill me but I was still so consumed in him. I was 18 when detectives came knocking on my door and found drugs in my home. I refused to make a statement against him and ended up taking the case myself. That was a VERY ugly time in my life. I wish I could put on a pair of ruby red slippers, click my heels three times and pretend it never happened. But as I said before, that entire experience is a very large part of who I am and who I am becoming.
That will forever be a stigma on my life. Despite my felony, I am going to finish my degree and transform the lives of many youth. This part of my story is my testimony but my fear of acceptance and how other people will judge me has held me back A LOT. Many times, I've allowed society's preconceived notions of a felon deter me from wanting more but I can no longer allow other peoples' opinions to determine my life. I have developed a strong sense of responsibility in fulfilling my purpose and completing my story so that I can share it with others and use it for outreach.
I remember the first time my son's father put his hands on me. He threw me to the ground, stood over me and punched me like I was another man. He'd stop, curse me out and then knock me down again.. punch me more. I can't even remember why he was upset that night but I know he bust my lip, twice. And my entire mouth was swollen. I was 17. No one had ever put their hands on me before. I went to school the next day pleading with my counselor to help me. I told her what happened and she referred me to the dean. I sat in tears in front of her, explaining I had no where else to go and that I was in a dangerous situation. She sat there not even looking at me. And as she looked out the window I heard her mumble about how she could see her daughter running in late for class. That was her concern, not me. And then she turned me away.
Let me say that I accept responsibility for the decisions I made, but I can't help to imagine if she would have at least heard me out, how different my life could've been.
I think about that specific situation all the time. I've met so many young kids stuck in the streets that want to change but don't know how, don't know how to utilize the right resources or even what their resources are. Or they're afraid to reach out for help in fear of being misunderstood and/or turned away. I don't want to be just another face behind a desk. I want them to look at me and know that they have a choice to change and that my heart is invested in helping them through it.
People always ask me why I go to school or how I plan to work in my field with a felony. But this is not MY plan, this is God's plan for me. The laws and opinions of man change all the time but His word and His promises have always remained the same. And when necessary, those things will align to fulfill my calling, not the other way around. My faith has brought me a very long way. Knowing who I am meant to be propels me; to work harder...be better. I made a huge mistake but it won't define my life in a negative way.
That's not to say I don't become discouraged. I do. I have so much, at times, it's depressed me. I still struggle in confessing that I have a felony. It still shames me. In confidence, I try to explain to people that because of my faith, the laws of man don't apply to me and because they can't understand that, they try to get me to seek other options. That's hard to hear... that doubt. Especially when it comes from loved ones, so I choose not to associate myself with very many people. I can count on a single hand the number of people that truly believe in me and still have fingers left over. That has held me back too, kept me stuck in a position of fear, limiting me from being greater than what I really am.
This is my biggest struggle, my biggest insecurity and ironically it will define my greatness.
"A lot of people will tell you you can't because they don't think they can. They put their fears on you. Always believe that you're great, even before anyone else believes it." - Shawn Carter
At the age of 16, I ran away from home and became involved in a highly abusive relationship with a local drug dealer. He did everything to me except kill me but I was still so consumed in him. I was 18 when detectives came knocking on my door and found drugs in my home. I refused to make a statement against him and ended up taking the case myself. That was a VERY ugly time in my life. I wish I could put on a pair of ruby red slippers, click my heels three times and pretend it never happened. But as I said before, that entire experience is a very large part of who I am and who I am becoming.
That will forever be a stigma on my life. Despite my felony, I am going to finish my degree and transform the lives of many youth. This part of my story is my testimony but my fear of acceptance and how other people will judge me has held me back A LOT. Many times, I've allowed society's preconceived notions of a felon deter me from wanting more but I can no longer allow other peoples' opinions to determine my life. I have developed a strong sense of responsibility in fulfilling my purpose and completing my story so that I can share it with others and use it for outreach.
I remember the first time my son's father put his hands on me. He threw me to the ground, stood over me and punched me like I was another man. He'd stop, curse me out and then knock me down again.. punch me more. I can't even remember why he was upset that night but I know he bust my lip, twice. And my entire mouth was swollen. I was 17. No one had ever put their hands on me before. I went to school the next day pleading with my counselor to help me. I told her what happened and she referred me to the dean. I sat in tears in front of her, explaining I had no where else to go and that I was in a dangerous situation. She sat there not even looking at me. And as she looked out the window I heard her mumble about how she could see her daughter running in late for class. That was her concern, not me. And then she turned me away.
Let me say that I accept responsibility for the decisions I made, but I can't help to imagine if she would have at least heard me out, how different my life could've been.
I think about that specific situation all the time. I've met so many young kids stuck in the streets that want to change but don't know how, don't know how to utilize the right resources or even what their resources are. Or they're afraid to reach out for help in fear of being misunderstood and/or turned away. I don't want to be just another face behind a desk. I want them to look at me and know that they have a choice to change and that my heart is invested in helping them through it.
People always ask me why I go to school or how I plan to work in my field with a felony. But this is not MY plan, this is God's plan for me. The laws and opinions of man change all the time but His word and His promises have always remained the same. And when necessary, those things will align to fulfill my calling, not the other way around. My faith has brought me a very long way. Knowing who I am meant to be propels me; to work harder...be better. I made a huge mistake but it won't define my life in a negative way.
That's not to say I don't become discouraged. I do. I have so much, at times, it's depressed me. I still struggle in confessing that I have a felony. It still shames me. In confidence, I try to explain to people that because of my faith, the laws of man don't apply to me and because they can't understand that, they try to get me to seek other options. That's hard to hear... that doubt. Especially when it comes from loved ones, so I choose not to associate myself with very many people. I can count on a single hand the number of people that truly believe in me and still have fingers left over. That has held me back too, kept me stuck in a position of fear, limiting me from being greater than what I really am.
This is my biggest struggle, my biggest insecurity and ironically it will define my greatness.
"A lot of people will tell you you can't because they don't think they can. They put their fears on you. Always believe that you're great, even before anyone else believes it." - Shawn Carter
Sunday, July 21, 2013
It's Time...
"If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it." - Anais Nin
It has been on my heart to write for a long time. The very few people that I have shared my story with know my dream of writing a book (or books). My friends have always told me that I have a way with words, a way with story telling that engages people. If you've followed me on Twitter, you know I tell stories all the time. I love it.
My heart is in sharing my story, offering my life as encouragement, inspiration or just to give someone a reason to smile. But there's a large part of my past that I am deeply ashamed of. Things that I've done that I'd like to forget about but I can't, because that part of my life has shaped SO much of who I am today, what I believe, how I think and who I am becoming. And I know that part of my life will be used to touch so many other young people. That part IS my story. So I've been forced to face it. But when I finally built up the courage to start a blog, my writing was so empty because I was afraid. Afraid to get too personal and to share who I really am, afraid what other people would think of me... so I stopped. I felt like I wasn't ready, like I hadn't redeemed myself enough from my shameful past to share it. The plan was to be graduated from school, having already started working in youth outreach so I could say, "this is who I used to be, but look where I am now" and I'm not there yet. But God has really been encouraging me to rejoice in my struggle.. that THESE are my glory days... these are the moments where I will find the most passion. So here it is.
I am still anxious, still nervous but my sense of responsibility to fulfill my purpose has become greater than my fears. I will get very personal, so much so that it may make me uncomfortable. My faith is a huge part of my life but I will be the first person to tell you that I am far from righteousness. I am no longer ashamed of who I am. I may detail my struggles with my past, spirituality, and relationships and I am VERY emotional and can be very dramatic at times but I love to laugh and joke as well. I'm not perfect, none of us are and I offer to share with you my journey of growth through my thoughts, opinions and life experiences.
LOVE
It has been on my heart to write for a long time. The very few people that I have shared my story with know my dream of writing a book (or books). My friends have always told me that I have a way with words, a way with story telling that engages people. If you've followed me on Twitter, you know I tell stories all the time. I love it.
My heart is in sharing my story, offering my life as encouragement, inspiration or just to give someone a reason to smile. But there's a large part of my past that I am deeply ashamed of. Things that I've done that I'd like to forget about but I can't, because that part of my life has shaped SO much of who I am today, what I believe, how I think and who I am becoming. And I know that part of my life will be used to touch so many other young people. That part IS my story. So I've been forced to face it. But when I finally built up the courage to start a blog, my writing was so empty because I was afraid. Afraid to get too personal and to share who I really am, afraid what other people would think of me... so I stopped. I felt like I wasn't ready, like I hadn't redeemed myself enough from my shameful past to share it. The plan was to be graduated from school, having already started working in youth outreach so I could say, "this is who I used to be, but look where I am now" and I'm not there yet. But God has really been encouraging me to rejoice in my struggle.. that THESE are my glory days... these are the moments where I will find the most passion. So here it is.
I am still anxious, still nervous but my sense of responsibility to fulfill my purpose has become greater than my fears. I will get very personal, so much so that it may make me uncomfortable. My faith is a huge part of my life but I will be the first person to tell you that I am far from righteousness. I am no longer ashamed of who I am. I may detail my struggles with my past, spirituality, and relationships and I am VERY emotional and can be very dramatic at times but I love to laugh and joke as well. I'm not perfect, none of us are and I offer to share with you my journey of growth through my thoughts, opinions and life experiences.
LOVE
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