I haven’t been to jail in years. I’m 43 now — grown, grounded, and far from the wild girl I used to be. The longest I’d ever been locked up was one week, almost 18 years ago. Back then, I was strung out, coming down from Xanax and dope. I was in a toxic relationship and so fed up with the constant fighting that, in a moment of chaos, I turned myself in. Yeah, I know — brilliant move, right? Guess who bailed me out once I sobered up? Yep, the same boyfriend I thought I was “teaching a lesson.” Fast forward to October of last year, and I found myself back in a jail cell. Only this time, I saw things I can’t unsee — and I refuse to stay quiet about it. The Reality of County Jail: Cold, Concrete, and No Compassion When I got booked in, it was just me. The officer doing intake was the only one who treated me with an ounce of decency — I wish I had gotten his name. Soon, three more women were brought in. There were three concrete slabs to sleep on. I gave up mine when a fourth woman came in. Then things got scary. One of the girls started having seizures. We begged the guards to let her call home for her medicine. They didn’t care. They wouldn’t let any of us make a single phone call — not until 10 p.m. And tell me, who’s awake at 10 p.m. to answer? Not a bondsman. Not a family member with your medication. As more women got thrown into that holding cell, they ended up on the floor. No space, no help, no human dignity. The System Is Broken, and I’m Not Staying Silent I’m lucky. My ride-or-die — […]