"Checks" at the jail were actually easier. Guards would come by the cell do a quick glance in the small window and move on. Checks were to ensure you weren't harming yourself, suicidal or anything else deemed illegal I suppose. I was none of those things, but I never did get a "rule booklet" even after asking numerous times, so I never knew for sure. I was never one to "harm myself." I had no idea really what "cutting" was all about, although I heard it was awful. I found it alarming that if they could not come to terms with knowing that I was not a cutter or self-harming, how were they to know anything else about me. I was never asked about me anyway—my opinions, thoughts, feelings. Everything was already decided by some mysterious "file" they referred to, but I was never allowed to look at even though I asked often and even demanded after one too many times being threatened by what was supposedly in it.
One accusation was that I supposedly talked to the TV, but only if I was watching CNN, it not being the "preferred station"—FOX was the preferred station. Because I watched CNN—I was suspect. I never watched TV really. My ex-husband controlled the remote and it had been a while since I had watched after he had me arrested. If I did watch at the jail it was only some news because fights often broke out over TV watching. I didn't talk to the TV and I wasn't "suicidal," but like everything else, it was all ignored. Only after a couple women at the jail actually tried to take their own life did they leave me alone. One of them often accused me of "talking to the TV" and "hearing voices" it seemed to be a game with her. It was sad after she tried to take her own life. She told me that "Heroin was the ultimate." I was learning a lot more about substance abuse than I cared to, but it helped in warding off the constant smear campaign I was the target of. Hallucinations, "Jail talk" drug stories and prostitution were becoming very real because I was listening to women who were actually involved. They have a language all their own. Listening for any amount of time and you know who is and who isn't using, who is a prostitute and who knows what about what is going on—even though everyone is a potential snitch I was told.
At the jail, the door was usually not opened for checks and there was some kind of rhythm to the way it was done, the timing more precise. At the psychward it was often haphazard, the intervals often off—late, too early, delayed. It made it very uncomfortable to dress, have any sort of privacy and sleep with any kind of regular schedule—all on purpose, I came to see. Just a short time ago, when I was first forced there for a 3-day "evaluation" the checks were unobtrusive, lasted a short time when you first arrived and then ended.
I would imagine that patients having sex contributed to some of that. I met a guy when I was forced to have the first 3-day "evaluation" who wanted to make sure I knew how easy it was to have sex. He was quite a bit younger and I was flattered, but the thought of having sex at a psych ward was just as awful as having to stay there in the first place. I liked him, he was intelligent and funny, and I liked hearing his stories. After I saw him stare at the wall for an hour talking to himself, I sadly realized that he had something wrong, but at that time I was just there for an evaluation and didn't spend too much time thinking about the disorders that people were diagnosed with or whether in fact they wanted to be there, knew they needed to be or had to be there.
I had taken care of my ex-husband's Aunt for 20 years who was Manic-Depressive, so I had some experience. I knew I was not Schizophrenic and Bipolar and could not understand why they thought I was—what gave them that idea? At that point, I had yet to unravel the "diagnosis" that fit me because it made all the truths I knew delusional and dismissed—just what they all wanted. It fit the horrible smear campaign and cover-up that was put in place when we first married. I had watched his Aunt numerous times be so manic talking incessantly for days until she was put back on the medication she refused to take or slip into morse catatonic depressions that would last for weeks. I took it all in stride like everything else with her and her sisters. I learned early in my marriage not to ask too many questions. They would often just have their "spells." Usually around the holidays so we often didn't do much but stay close to home and wait on them. Over the years figuring out this was done on purpose. By this time I was writing in my journal all the time about what was going on—all the secrets I needed to be told and had no answers for, but were controlling me nonetheless.
My ex went snowmobiling all winter long and especially around the holidays, but skiing for me was out of the question—I was, in fact, learning to be a "wife" wasn't I? Going to the doctor was a regular occurrence likened to communion with the Priests at church by my inlaws. Gods that needed to be visited often to lead a decent life—you could not see the doctor enough. We went to church often and when we didn't the guilt was heaped on. The Aunt seeing her psychiatrist was also done pretty often, but this was usually one of those "secrets" that was not talked about. It took me years to finally name the illness that caused the "spells" and the Lithium that brought her out of them, but like everything else shrouded in that old-school tradition that if you asked too many questions you were the one that had the problem. Everyone knew that I came from a "divorced family" so I had no business thinking I knew anything about family or how to be married. My mother-in-law was also a Nurse's Aide, which she likened to being a doctor herself as did many in the family who often defended her whenever she made any sort of pronouncement—the final word on things.
What I told Doctors at the psych ward did in fact happen, I was not "delusional" and I didn't make any of it up. I thought unlike with my inlaws that this was the place to finally tell my story—to talk. Isn't that what group therapy is about? I would come to see that wasn't what was going on. I should have remembered the last time this happened. The last time I was forced to "see someone" when we had our first official fight about finances, shortly after we were married, which involved my inlaws and just about everyone else. I found out later the couple of times I went and was told there was "nothing wrong with me" had been turned into a horrible lie that I had had a "psychotic break." I didn't know this until recently when this started and the Psychiatrist I first spoke to told me I had had a psychotic break at the start of the marriage. Stunned, I said that I never did. I went a couple of times due to a fight about finances and was coerced into "talking to someone"—realizing now it was all part of setting me up initially to allege that I was mentally ill the entire marriage, which was a horrible lie. All part of the overall scheme to exploit me, get revenge and leave me with nothing.
If I was to be a good patient and "cooperate" which was tantamount to being released then I was to accept my diagnosis and work on my "behaviors" these were preventing me from dealing with reality. Refusing to do this was the reason I insisted on my story, which was according to these psychiatrists all a delusional story that I made up going back a long, long time. See, it's right here pointing to the papers, your ex-husband, friends, and family say the same. I sat dumbfounded, first off I have no "friends and family" to speak of—who are they talking about I thought? I hadn't seen any "friends and family" since I had gotten married 20 years ago. Second, why does my ex-husband get to make allegations about my mental health—have you ever asked about his? Did you even ask about his drinking, which was legendary? I had to laugh when I thought of all the stories, but knew I better not. Things were getting more and more sinister. Did you know that in fact I was the "designated driver" for over 20 years and never drank or that drinking wasn't really my thing? Did you ask about his violent felony as a young man? But these questions didn't come right away. I was still reeling with why they thought I was mentally ill and why it was people I hadn't seen in over 20 years, many that were in fact very abusive were saying that I was the one that needed "treatment" and they could in fact "all get-together and declare me incompetent."
"I was sexually assaulted," I said.
I also froze while it was happening and had a seizure.
There was no delusion.
There was no psychosis.
That is what happened to me!
My marriage was one of domestic abuse. I had come to know and learn a name for the worst of it—coercive control. The economic abuse stripped me of any agency and the coercive control kept it all in place. A twisted labyrinth of lies, deception, and violence. My ex-husband was determined to leave me as he viciously threatened "homeless and destitute"—he did just that. The courts followed the horrible plan throughout the entire brutal divorce and all the arrests that coincided with making me appear as he often accused me of—"something wrong with you." It started out benign enough, teasing that I was crazy but I knew how much he loved me. "You know I love you" became his sort of mantra. I know now a sort of brainwashing—mind control. It was never true. He never loved me. How could you plot for 20 years to leave someone with nothing, but tell them repeatedly how much you loved them? How could you plan it all with another family member? A family member who had molested you as a child. How could you plan it and include a group of people? How could you plan to have your wife sexually assaulted? How could you have sex with a person for 20 years you planned to leave with nothing—isn't that rape? The questions kept piling up as more and more people refused to answer about the smallest of things.
You know how artists are? he would say teasingly. As the years went by, the tone he used and how he said it became more sinister—icier, said between clenched teeth. "I'll finally get my revenge," he contemptuously said.
It was all planned, he told me repeatedly in that icy, barely audible way that was laced with venom about how it would all go. That I would never get a Judge, lawyer or anyone else to help me. He had it all laid out before 5 to 6 police officers stormed in the door and violently dragged me into the night forever changing my life. Forced me into this ungodly nightmare and destroyed everything I had worked 20 years on. Viciously taking my precious dog and ending the only real family I had at that point. At that point, I had been so isolated my dog meant everything to me. I pleaded numerous times at the jail and psych ward about him, but just like everything else he was dismissed as inconsequential. Dogs didn't matter, didn't have feelings and tormenting you about them was not considered abusive, animal cruelty or connected to domestic violence. "Nothing was mine," I was repeatedly told—not even my beloved dog.
Once I was charged with resisting arrest and had to stay 3 months for treatment on top of the 4 months I already did in jail. I was told most of the people admitted had some kind of Schizophrenia or Schizoaffective Disorder, along with Bipolar. It seemed the new designer illness—everyone had it along with most things they said being delusional or at the very least suspicious. Some were, in fact, delusional seeing things, suspicious, but I wasn't. Each time I even tried to talk the insinuation was that I had no clue what I was talking about. I was increasingly becoming inhibited by the very condescending way I was talked to implying I didn't know about my own life. After a while, they just flat out ignored me whenever I talked about the truth—about my life.
Having time alone in the bathroom was hard to come by. Suspicions were that you were always doing something you weren't supposed to—going to the bathroom one of them. Asking if you had a bowel movement was part of the "therapy" as most seemed to be on a similar drug cocktail that caused constipation, so even going to the bathroom was seen as suspicious or spending too long "in there." There were often lines and asking for the key was a big ordeal. Entailed more waiting and following around a TA until they had time for your concerns, which was not too often.
I looked in the mirror it was like looking at a stranger—shocked. I hadn't seen myself in a while and there were noticeable changes. I peered closer unable to fully accept that my hair was white. Maybe it was the grey of the mirror, toothpaste spattered and smeared making it hard to see. The walls started to close in and I felt dizzy, it smelled of dirty towels and one too many showers. I looked away from the grime on the sink to center myself, took a deep breath and looked again. My hair was white—a lot white. My face haggard and drawn. I looked really tired. I had lost a lot of weight by this time unable to eat much. The food was awful. Better at the jail, but still pretty bad. It seemed better the last time I was here, but I was told a lot had changed. Different floors for patients, remodeling, staff changes. I hadn't been outside much recently and thought me being tired was due to that. Going outside was another ordeal that didn't happen too often. At the jail, we went out regularly.
How can my hair be so white? How can this be happening? I wanted to ask someone if my hair really looked that white, but I knew I had to keep it together, any "behaviors" simple things like just asking questions could get that look that you could be "restrained." Horror stories were common. After watching my first "takedown" I always made sure to be very careful—it was horrible to watch. Horrible to know the patient in question hadn't really been doing much of anything that I could see before it happened. "She kept touching me," the TA said. That was enough to bring a swarm of staff that surrounded the patient in question and put them on the ground—awful to watch. Jarring, which was why most times you were escorted away, threatened that having "behaviors" from watching could also get you sedated and taken down. Again, just asking questions could elicit this response. Asking too many questions was seen as being confused or unable to grasp the reality you needed to understand and was, therefore, a "behavior."
After being at the psych ward for a while, I had finally been granted permission to use the phone—it took a while. Communication at the jail was routinely denied. Another means to keep me appearing like I was "incompetent." I was accused of starting a fight—uncooperative. I never started a fight and wrote numerous grievances at the jail about fights that weren't my fault, threats about my dog, and allegations that were just all lies. The ongoing denial of my being able to use the phone contributed to my inability to inquire about my storage unit, dog and apartment. The lies about my life, divorce and who I was were constant. In the same way, court dates were continually moved, the fact my debit card to post the $100 bail had been stolen before I had been jailed and nothing was being done for me was ongoing. Without commissary, I could not make phone calls. Phone books were denied and sending out mail was a constant hassle, from not receiving envelopes, to not being able to get addresses. It all worked together to keep me continually without means to defend myself. The pattern emerging that became even more clear after I was lied to about the psych ward.
I eventually learned my sweet dog was "adopted out" the SPCA casually said, along with all my personal belongings "auctioned off" in storage and my apartment gone—my things just dumped on the porch, this was just too much to take. I thought maybe this was why my hair was white. I had been dealing with so much shock lately I knew it was affecting me physically. I had been so fit before all this started. I thought of how good my running had become. I was running 6-7 miles per week. I was never a runner but looked forward to my usual runs at the Gym. I was even running outside now. I had worked out since I was in my early 20's at various Gyms. I started following Jane Fonda when she launched her fitness videos all those years ago—it had been that long. Having and building a career was just that much easier when you were in shape and fit, but now I was out of breath often and always, always so tired from dealing with so much of what was happening.
My hair can't be turning white, I thought. I kept looking closer to see that maybe I had been imagining it like all the other "delusions" I was accused of having each time I questioned the narrative I was being told about my life and who I was. It was difficult to reconcile. It was only a short time ago I had brown hair with a very little grey for someone in her early 50's just entering midlife. Even just the last few months my hair was fine at the Jail. I had a small mirror there over the sink. You couldn't see into it very well. It was one of those sort of fake mirrors where it is not a mirror but some kind of metal reflector, but you could look well enough to take a cursory glimpse. My hair had been holding up. I wasn't able to color it the 4 months I was there, but it wasn't that bad. I was worried if it all grew out that I would be all grey, but I really didn't have much. Maybe it was Menopause, I thought.
"You'll be in Menopause too!" he viciously sneered. My ex's words started a throbbing in my head now fully understanding what he meant. He had become increasingly vicious leading up to having me arrested. I didn't know it at the time, but he had planned all of this and me being in menopause was another sure-fire way to make it a living hell for me. Once I was then forced to the Psych ward, things got increasingly worse, which was hard to imagine anything being worse than Jail. Menopause on top of the shock made it hard to concentrate. By this time I had another seizure. I just passed out one day waiting in line for lunch. They told me I fell to the floor in a soft sort of way, just slowly going down as if just quietly slipping away. Exactly how I had been feeling as if my life was just being slowly dismantled and everyone around me acting as if this was all completely normal. It was all just dismissed. My vitals taken, asked if I wanted some water, free to eat off to a side room instead of the main dining hall. No mention of the seizure I had after being sexually assaulted recently. I was continually told in spite of my insistence it did, in fact, happen that my being assaulted was a delusion. The same one I had when I was forced here the first time for an "evaluation." Probably part of the reason I'm back again. Insisting on it being the truth was part of my "mental illness."
"I'm sure you want to be out of there as soon as possible," she said. Yes, I said, my voice quivering and pleading, something I was doing a lot of these days. Well, she said, we are going to make that happen! Get you out of jail and then you will only have 6 months probation. That would be so great, I said, relieved that someone was finally hearing me—knew I was innocent. It had been so long, lately, everyone I spoke to dismissed me and acted as if I wasn't speaking English then would lie about what was going on, but like everything else what she said and what this new lawyer did were totally different. She had no intention of working to get me released and instead I was to do another 3 months in a Psych ward for "treatment." I was told when escorted back downstairs to the jail on the papers she handed me as she left. By this time I had already been in jail for 4 months. I kept asking why this didn't count towards anything, plus the fact I never resisted arrest.
It was barely 15 minutes in court as my life was once again systemically being destroyed and the time it took for these people to do it was negligent. So good at it, in fact, you barely have time to think about what they are telling you once your hurried from the stairwell, which is the place where you get your 5 minutes with a public defender or assigned lawyer that seems completely uninterested in your case and basically spends the 5 minutes telling you they can't do anything or remains quiet insinuating you just can't seem to understand, which was what I was often told. Looking back now, it all is so cruel, so unjust, so shocking, which is what it left me most of the time. They were never interested in my innocense, from the time this nightmare started everyone had an agenda. It was all starting to make sense, but it would take me a while to put it all together. By then they had already done such damage to my life I thought it was just about over, which in many ways I would learn it would be.
When I left the jail my hair had greyed, but nothing like this. I hadn't colored it in the 4 months since I had been arrested for resisting arrest. I never resisted, but it didn't matter. Nothing remotely resembling the truth figured into what was going on lately. I could still feel the pains in my chest like ghosts hovering around after they already scared you. The pain hurt for a week after I was arrested. Yanked into the police car so hard, my chest felt like it had a large lead weight in the middle of it for a week. I was grateful it stopped hurting so much and went away.
I stood looking at the mirror again closer this time to inspect what had become of my hair. I could feel the hot pain of tears welling up, the fear that I looked so bad no one was ever going to give me a professional job. Why was I even needing a professional job at this point? I was all set to retire, have fun, enjoy my new freelance business—fewer hours, making my own schedule—no commute. Fun, yes, it was going to be easier—all the years of hard work finally paying off. Remembering how hard it is to interview flashed before me, to have everything in order, to have everything just so to get a good job. A job that paid decently, had good benefits and was something I could do, something I liked—a decent office.
I was still trying to come to terms with my business being destroyed, all my computer equipment, art, photography was in the storage unit—all of it gone! My hair had also been falling out, but I kept trying to reassure myself this was like when there was a gas leak in my previous apartment and my hair was falling out in gobs, but then stopped once the leak was fixed. I was being threatened there too. I often didn't have heat, by this time stalking by people involved was relentless. I had moved constantly to try to find a safe place, but each place was the same. Problems with heat, noise harassment, and neighbor complaints. A smear campaign that I was told would be "relentless."
I frantically looked for the little brush I got when first arriving at the psych ward, it barely brushed my thick hair, but it was all I was able to get. I combed it through a few times and looked and looked. It was definitely white, there was so much white and there was so much hair in the brush I started to panic. What was causing my hair loss this time? I knew so much of this was becoming bizarre like that movie "The Game," only I hadn't been awful to all the people involved in fact I hadn't seen all of them my entire marriage. So much seemed to go along as some kind of revenge. My hair one of them. My grandmother had been a beautician and after having only finished 7th-grade attending beauty school was a big accomplishment back then. I remember when she owned her own salon—her own business. It was all so exciting. I was often allowed to help her. Having a "career" like Gram was wonderful and important and I loved being with her.
My hair was one of those things that was constantly fussed over, but I was never told it was pretty or even just nice. I often endured "hairdos" by my mother who seemed intent on making me look like an old lady. She often would practice on me. My grandmother didn't say much about my mother also being a "hairdresser" there were times her and my mother would often toss me back and forth between the two of them like they were one person—ying and yang of my life. My mother wasn't a hairdresser. She stayed at home. We didn't call welfare mothers "stay at home mothers," but it's basically what she was. Poor people didn't chose to stay at home, like my middle-class classmates mother's whose husbands went to work and they stayed home. Her and my grandmother could be polar opposites and yet at times combined they were formidable—I had to agree they both did hair. I had no interest really and oftentimes hated my "hair done" by my mother.
My grandmother and I had a similar style and she didn't mind when I didn't like something, but my mother would rage for hours if I didn't like the styles she forced on me. It was the 70's after all and beehives weren't in. Over the years, I came to see humiliating me was fun for her—she was the winner. Her and my grandmother were often at war—arguments were regular. It would take me years to understand. My mother and I were often like sisters rather than mother and daughter. I hated competing with her over my grandmother, but that's how my mother made it seem. I knew my grandmother loved us both, but something was always wrong. I often just gave in scared to death. Mostly because my mothers temper was frightening to deal with. Thinking of my grandmother now, I know she must be turning over in her grave as they say. She was often the target of all of them also. We were related in a couple of ways and my half-siblings came from a large family that was often at war with my grandmother. She mostly ignored them. "Living well is the best revenge," she would say whenever it got to me. Basically, ignore them, she said and mostly I did. "Go live your life, get an education, and have fun." I forgave over and over until horribly realizing recently it was a mistake to do that for so long.
If it got too bad she argued with my mother who often sided with them. I never really knew why—lines were drawn a long time ago. My grandmother kept the violence from getting out of hand and was very supportive of me. I never would have even been locked up the first time if she had been still alive. She often talked of how vicious they all were, but I was young and had no idea how her words would come to haunt me as the violence escalated and the secrets came to light—finally being revealed. I loved her dearly and once she passed they all had a green light to be even worse than they already had been. I was now alone and unbeknownst to me, my ex-husband had aligned himself with my half family right from the start.
First grade was the start of what was to become a regular occurrence. I loved ballet, had been taking it regularly. I wanted to be a Ballerina. I had a recital one day and my mother playing "hairdresser" forced me to wear curlers to school. It was awful. There was that impregnated silence when you walk into a room and just know what is going on with you is so wrong, but no one says a word and you can't do anything about it. My childhood had been spent that way. This was the first of many times. I slowly sat down, not really even wanting to go in. The others were either going to attack me or just never speak to me again—they sat angry, dumbfounded waiting to be told what to do and how to handle whatever weird event was taking place. I waited for the teacher, but she said nothing. The silence seemed to go on endlessly. My classmate, bless his heart took one look at me after a while and said, "it will be okay," he was a big guy, friendly in a quiet way. I was so relieved I almost cried his reassurance balm to my little soul. Someone had finally understood my difficult life, but it was shortlived. I didn't stay long we moved shortly after 1st grade.
My hair withstood numerous awful cuts, colors, styles. I look back today and see the times it was done on purpose; the uneven cuts, ugly hairdos, the jealousy, the awful fighting—all part of the violence. As a kid and young woman, I just took it in stride—I forgave. Oftentimes guilted into feeling sorry for the very people that should have been more concerned with me as a child and young adult, rather than expecting me to constantly fill the role of the adult in the relationship, in their lives. No one was really interested in being an adult. Only today at midlife, forced into this horrible place, put there deliberately by a group of people who told me that a "group of people can get together and declare a person incompetent," can I come to terms with such hatred between women, between family and between so-called "friends" and also from a spouse you have no real idea that can harbor such hate towards you. Friends that were never friends of mine. I was always isolated—they were all his friends. Conveniently, the psych ward "doctors" telling me how all "my friends and family" agree about my delusions of being assaulted, abused—beaten as a child. Another part of their "diagnosis" script—I had no friends for years once we married. I had not seen anyone in 20 years so I could not imagine all these so-called "friends and family" saying anything—why were they even in my business, I thought? Being a "good wife" old fashioned meant that I wasn't out with girlfriends, something my inlaws reminded me of often. Learning to be a good wife was more important than going out with your girlfriends.
I often took my mother-in-law to the hairdresser—I never went really. I cut my own hair for years. I was told often that we just didn't have the money. Her sister wore a wig having lost all her hair when young—one reason everyone gave for her having "spells." Part of what happened to her when her husband died tragically young. Taking care of her wigs was part of her care and I was often sent to look for her wigs around the house when she was in the nursing home. I didn't mind. I was usually easy-going and often tried to please these strong women in my life. I know now they mirrored the relationship with my mother and grandmother. Difficult, demanding, strong women I had loved, but lurking beneath the surface was a violence that would take me a long time to name. Violence that would come to almost kill me. I looked in the mirror again and told myself having white hair was ok. I wasn't one to fuss over my looks and this was just another "hairdo."—I was determined to get through this.
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