Six

WARNING: swearing language and material that may cause triggers.

     "You're under arrest for the assault of your mother."

 

     This isn't something any innocent person would want to hear... but it replays in the back of my mind almost every single day. I think about it a lot, about my arrest. I don't mean to, but it's there, and it's nearly impossible to ignore thinking about it.

 

     I really hate everything that's happened. I hate that I let everything get to me so deeply. I hate that my mom ruined her relationship with me and tells others that she wishes I would "come home". Her house, as long as I'd lived in it, was far from home to me. Sad as I am to admit it, jail was more peaceful than living with her.

 

     The thing about being persecuted when you're a teenager is that no one believes the "child" side of the story. The cops only believe the "adults". It gets under my skin whenever I think about the possibility of so many other people my age going through the same thing I'm going through.

 

     When you're seventeen, court rooms are the scariest of places. Well, second scariest. The top scariest is jail. Anyways... court rooms are frightening. You can automatically feel the tension when you walk in, like puppies can feel the fear and pain when you take them to the vet for shots or something. And for me, it was unbearable.

 

     It seems like it only gets worse every time I take a step inside the courthouse. I don't know what I'm doing! I don't know how real court systems work, but I know they don't work like this. In real justice systems, where justice actually takes place, they don't arrest someone illegally. The District Attourney is supposed to build a case. The officer who actually handles the arrest is supposed to read the suspect their rights before interrogation. The court is supposed to appoint an attourney if the suspect cannot afford one. Well, guess what? None of this happened with my case.

 

     See, I was taken to the county annex having not been read my rights, and then asked yes or no questions about if I did what I was convicted for or not. I was interrupted when I stood up and respectfully asked, "Sir, may I - "

 

     The officer snapped at me when I attempted to ask. "No, you may not!" I still cry when I think about it sometimes, because... well, because it was just so wrong! It was so completely unfair and unreal and it was just wrong! I don't know a better way to put it. I wasn't acting crazy. I didn't resist arrest, even though I knew I didn't deserve to be treated the way I was. I had tried to tell my side of the story and no one had listened. When someone knows they're right - and I mean REALLY knows in their heart that they are right - having no one believe you when you do nothing but tell the truth can give you the absolute worst feeling in the world.

 

     I don't know if I've gone into full detail when telling someone about my experience in jail yet, but you're about to hear about it. Because someone should know what happened. I don't want this happening to another human being who doesn't deserve it. So here it goes:

 

     I don't remember much about the ride there. Just that it was bumpy and uncomfortable and that the cuffs were tighter than they needed to be. When we arrived, it was all stone walls and officers sitting on their asses, laughing and chatting and gossiping like mother-f*****g high school f*****g students. They made me remove my flip flops and my dogtag that Jay had given me the month before all this had happened. They made me give up the rubber band on my arm, in case I got any ideas about popping myself on the wrist. I resisted nothing. I listened and obeyed everything they instructed me.

 

     After that, one of the female guards took my fingerprints, mugshot, and asked me questions about depression, if alcohol or drug use was present in me, if my bra had wire. She then made me remove my bra and give it to her with the rest of my possessions. Then I was sent to the desk.

 

     The man at the desk made me fill out paperwork, which I don't care to remember much of. He asked me my marital status, who I wanted on the list of visitors, a bunch of other personal questions I also don't care to remember much of. He let me use one of their phones to try and call someone. So I did.

 

     The only person I could think to call was my dad. And, like most other times when I tried calling him, he didn't answer. I dind't even bother trying to call anyone else. I never wanted to talk to my mom again. I couldn't call Jay, because I'd told the man at the desk that I was single which, at the time, was pretty much right. I wasn't going to try reaching my aunt, because I didn't know what she would've said. So I hung up the phone and they locked me in a detox.

 

     You know that lump you get in your throat when you don't want to cry, but you know you're going to and you feel like your heart is so broken that it's about to burst? That doesn't even begin to describe what I was feeling when they locked me in that awful room by myself. I was in there for about four or five hours. Maybe longer, I don't even know. But it was cold, and the only thing I had on me that was mine were my pants. They'd taken my shirt and had given me this one that rubbed me raw. The skin on my chest and back was so torn up by the time I got out, it wasn't even funny...

 

     While I was in that little room, I'd climbed up on top of the wall to sit. I don't know why, but for some reason, it's easier for me to calm down when I'm in a higher place. This didn't last long, though. One of the rude-a*s guards came over the intercom and screamed at me to get down. So I did. And I prayed and prayed and prayed. I never stopped praying, not once in that horrible place.

 

     I remember at one point I got up and asked if they'd let me out to get a drink of water... they never answered. What I couldn't stand is that they pretended like they couldn't hear you, like you were invisible. To someone who doesn't deserve to be there, that place is hell. And it was.

 

     I don't know exactly for how long, but I fell asleep eventually. I woke up to a man yelling "ma'am" at me and nudging me with a nasty brown paper bag. I sat up, pulled my frozen arms from inside my shirt, and took a glance inside the bag.

 

     Honestly, I don't think I've ever seen such an unappealing "meal" in all my life. I didn't dare eat anything that was handed to me. I just drank the water so I wouldn't die. But the food, out of the question for me. It's not like I even had an appetite in the first place.

 

     If you have any form of obsessive-compulsive disorder, you know the pain of needing to know how long you've been somewhere, or at least what time it is. This is something you're forced to let go of in jail, because to the people who run the place, it doesn't matter if you know the time of day or what day it is at all. And why should it if you're locked up?

 

     What worried me was that I'd planned to meet Jay for lunch that Friday. I'd gotten arrested on Tuesday, and now I didn't know what day it was. I couldn't call him. I couldn't reach him at all. I was a sitting duck, and if I didn't get out by Friday to see him, he'd be one, too.

 

     The panic I felt was so overwhelming, I'm surprised that didn't kill me. I'd never been so upset and stressed out. I remember crying a lot more than I usually do, and praying. I remember that I got really, really sick.

 

     I didn't really have a fever, but it was almost the exact opposite. My body temperature was entirely too low, so my immune system was beginning to slow down. My eyes, oh my eyes... they were so infected. I remember the burning and how bad they were watering. My finger nails were disgusting. It looked as if I'd eaten nothing but dirt for God knows how long, even though it had only been two days of eating absolutely nothing. I needed to bathe and my hair was ratty and oily. What I'm describing to you would be any sane woman's nightmare. And, coming from living, breathing proof, let me tell you, it was.

 

     There were only about five other women, all about ten to twenty years older than me. Still young, but much more experienced than I was. Most of them had already been bonded out and were home. Now, it was just me and, thankfully, one of my friend's mothers.

 

     We waited. And waited. And waited. I finally broke down after a while and one of the officers let me use a desk phone. After the first ring, my dad answered. I won't go into detail, but I can tell you that he wasn't going to let me go back with my mom. I cried, but the tears weren't from sadness. They were full of relief.

 

     The wait to be on the damned list that they kept was unbearable. I'm guessing it was on the thin line of two and a half hours before they finally called my name. But when they did, oh! I couldn't have been more overjoyed. They handed me the bag that they'd shoved all my things into and sent me to the restroom to change.

 

     I threw that s****y-a*s shirt that they'd given me and fastened the hooks on my bra, swung it around and quickly wiggled into my own shirt. My chest and back were so torn up, it hurt to wear a bra, but after not having it for two days in front of a bunch of strange, disturbed, and insane men, I wasn't taking it back off. I slid my dogtag over my neck, grabbed the rubber band they had taken, popped it on my wrist, and stuffed the n****e-killer shirt into the bag.

 

     When I turned and looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. My skin was so much paler than usual. My hair was nearly black from being doused in its own oils, along with dirt and God knows what else. I looked like I'd lost an unhealthy amount of weight, which I probably had. My eyes, oh God... they were red. And I'm not talking bloodshot, oh no! I mean, they were RED. It looked like I'd been shot in the eye with a pellet gun or something. They were swollen and I could barely open them. They wouldn't open wide, and the light in them was completely gone. I didn't know who that was in the mirror. I was just glad that she was about to be gone.

 

     Walking out that door was like winning the lottery. A warm breeze washed over me. The good chills ran up and down my spine. And what's funny, and I still think God was written all over this... my shirt, on the back, in big letters... all it said was, "Have faith, y'all!". That's the last thing everyone in that horrible place saw of me. I think that's pretty amazing.