It sounds cliche' when people tell you they've found God in prison, but you have to in order to survive that hell. I saw so much evil in there, so many demons... literally. The COs (correctional officers) tell you upon entering not to tell anyone what you're in for or how much time you have. "Keep your mouth closed and don't make any friends."
I watched a young woman get her face cut open with a pencil for breaking up with her girlfriend. She was in so much shock she just kept walking, blood dripping from her face into the white snow. They sat her in a chair and she was unresponsive, staring into space, shivering. She returned with her face stitched together from her ear to her lip a few days later, her girlfriend unremorseful, emotionless. Several other girls would begin to have hallucinations and delusions. One attempted to commit suicide by stabbing herself with a pen, another shaved her hair off and attempted to rape her cellmate and another woke screaming and shouting hysterically at 3 am that some spirit or demon had taken over her body. They were all detained and taken into isolation. All of these women came into prison seemingly "normal". No mental diagnoses, usually non violent offenses like larceny or embezzlement. The women who had been there longer would bet on who'd "make it" or not and they were usually right. It would always be the girls who tried to "fit in," searching for attention or friendship.
Being in prison was exhausting and depressing. It was by the grace of God that I survived it myself because internally, I was exhausted and broken. I didn't want to move or talk. Everyday was a struggle to just live, breath, walk, talk and pretend like I was "okay." I was depressed, but I didn't want to turn out like those other girls so I'd kiss my baby's picture and pull myself up from that bunk everyday.
My son's father had just gotten out of jail when I went to prison. He wrote me a couple times and sent me a few dollars here and there. He'd say, "You don't need no money like that, you good, you'll be going to boot camp soon." So I'd use the money he sent me to buy cigarettes and trade them for things I needed but didn't have enough money for, like soap, deodorant, paper, and envelopes to write home. And if I made good, I could order a few snacks. But soon after I was there, smoking became banned in the prisons. Since I didn't smoke myself, I still had cigarettes I saved to sell when I needed more personal items. But I started hearing that some of the other women knew I had them and were plotting against me so I gave them away to protect myself.
I signed up for boot camp and in February of 2009, I was picked up from the prison and transported to the camp. Upon the 90 day completion, I'd be going home. My father wrote me every week I was there. No one was there for me more than he was and I know I broke his heart when I went back to my son's father.
I came home on parole and house arrest that May. I was paroled to my mother's house but my son's father convinced me to come back to him. I got all my papers transferred and less than a week before I was to move back with him, my ex-coworker was calling my phone again at the apartment that he supposedly got for me with a second girl inside. My best friend went and saw both women there. The mother of his child before mine would call my parole officer constantly, so much that he told me he had to unplug his office phone, trying to get him to violate me and send me back to prison. And she'd be outside keying his car and putting sugar in the tank, her and maybe one of the others. I couldn't believe I had come back to him for the same bullshit. And then to have my son there too, I at least expected a little more discretion and respect on the home front, AT LEAST... but I was only fooling myself.
The beating continued not long after because I'd tell him I wasn't going to put up with his shit anymore. That as soon as I got off house arrest, I was out of there. He became way more careless with the beatings though, dragging me down flights of stairs in front of our neighbors. He even beat me while they were trying to pull him off of me. Thankfully, he never hit me in front of my baby, but once, when he tried to hug me, my son began to cry and pushed his father away from me. After that, he sat me down and begged me not to leave. He told me he needed me and that he knew his "time was running short." He had had a few run ins with federal agents and he knew they were building a case on him and were preparing an indictment. He said he could feel it... I could too.
