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 — who lives 10 hours away — figured out something was wrong when I didn’t answer my phone. He made call after call until he got through to someone: my ex-sister-in-law, who lives in town. She didn’t hesitate. She showed up and got me out.
That’s real love. That’s what family should be.
But not everyone gets that kind of rescue.
I’ve seen firsthand how our local judicial system treats people like trash. I’m calling it out for what it is: a good ol’ boy club full of corruption, negligence, and cruelty. And like I told Officer M that night: You messed with the wrong one.
Final Thoughts: I Won’t Shut Up About Injustice
I came home and scrubbed the filth of that place off me. But the feeling of being discarded, unheard, and powerless? That stays. And I’m using my voice to shine a light on it.
To anyone who thinks one night in jail isn’t a big deal: you clearly haven’t been there.
I finally laid down, rested, and when I woke up the next morning — something had changed. I wasn’t just angry. I was on a mission. A mission not just for me, but for anyone whose rights have been broken, ignored, or thrown aside like they don’t matter.
This fight isn’t just mine anymore. It’s for every woman left in a holding cell without help. For every person denied dignity. And I swear — I’m not staying silent.