I’ve had a lot of things in my vagina. You know, tampons, penises, Monistat, speculums. It wasn’t until I reached twenty-two that I deemed it appropriate to insert drugs up in there. Before you jump to conclusions, I was not a drug mule. I was simply a desperate woman in a desperate situation—and enabled by my mother.
Ten years ago, I did something terribly stupid. I drove after having a few drinks and was pulled over and charged with Operating While Intoxicated. Not my proudest moment, but mine nonetheless. I spent the remainder of the night in jail, which wasn’t too bad considering there wasn’t much of it left, and I had a buzz. In the morning, I felt like I hit rock bottom. Here I was, on a Saturday morning, standing in an eight-by-twelve cell, a steel toilet to my right, and a wire bunk to my left. I hated myself. Not only because of where I was, but because I should have known better. I was working as a counselor in a prison. Classy, right?
One more thing you should know about me: I am extremely claustrophobic. I don’t shut my bedroom door at night and I have just now gotten to the point where I can ride an elevator. I don’t find one thing funny or inviting about enclosed spaces. In fact, number two on my Top Five Fear list is being buried alive. Number three is getting abducted and stuffed in a trunk. So, when you plead guilty to OWI, you must serve your time. My time was forty-eight hours—in an eight-by-twelve cell. I was panic-stricken.
I tried everything to get out of it. Hey, when it comes to my emotional stability, I have no shame. Please understand I don’t think I was too “good” to go to jail, or that I didn’t think I deserved it. I know I did and I’m lucky with the way things turned out. No one got hurt and I could have been hit with a much harsher sentence. In all actuality, I got off easy. But I was twenty-two and freaked out. So, I made some phone calls and got some leniency. The remaining forty hours (I received time served) was broken down into two segments, meaning I could pop into jail, do some hours, leave, and come back as scheduled until it was all done. I was thrilled, but still anxious. The thought of surviving one hour in an enclosed space where I have no control in opening the door sends me into a tizzy.
And that’s what I did on the night of my arrest. I went into a tizzy. I just needed the guard to leave the door ajar. I promised I wouldn’t abscond. I just needed the comfort of knowing the door was open. But, alas, I am not a princess and my request was not honored; however, they were very understanding and gentle, talking me down and attempting to calm me. They even offered me a roommate. I was crying maniacally as I was escorted to cell Twenty-Nine. Kind of like the way a child does when they’re ripped from the arms of their mommy and shuffled off into daycare. As I gasped for breath, I could hear a sister inmate of mine comforting me through the little square window of her steel door, “Hey, it’ll be alright. Why don’t ya come room with me, sweetie?”
Awww. I thought. This woman, who is sort of in the same situation as me, is donating herself to me. Maybe she wants to show me the ropes and be sort of like a clink mentor … or maybe she’s thinking more along the lines of making me her bitch? And so, the nice guard lady offered me up to my gracious neighbor. I passed. Maybe things would have been different had we stayed in the days where there were actually bars on the cells instead of heavy, opaque doors. I mean, it’s sort of like playing Let’s Make a Deal. Who knew what I’d come up with if I picked her door. I might be met with a meek, petite woman who was serving time for violating a restraining order on her abusive husband. I mean, maybe she was just torn about going back to him or he was threatening her and so she just called him and voila, here she is in the slammer. On the other hand, the guard’s key could unlock that door and I’d see some beefy, heavily tattooed and pierced chick with blonde spiky hair and meth scabs, biding her time in jail until there was room for her to be housed where those of her kind really belong: maximum security prison. That’s where people who are involved in child prostitution rings go, you know. I am not a gambler, especially in situations such as these.
