My second Christmas in jail

Imagine going to sleep, waking up and finding out you killed somebody. 
That's exactly what happened to me. 
Three years ago, I was drunk and fell asleep at the wheel. I'm not trying to make excuses.
But I never ever would have done such a thing on purpose. And if there were 
some way I could go back and change it, I would. 
In fact, I've been sober ever since.
Now I'm paying for my crime by being incarcerated two weeks a year for the 
next 10 years.
This blog follows my journey afterward, trying to put my life back together in 
between spending a week in jail at Christmas and at Father's Day each year.

A slow cold drizzle was falling outside the Davidson County Jail for women when I was released a little more than 24 hours ago.
I borrowed one of the facility's coats to keep from getting soaking wet as I exited one building in the complex and entered another to hand over my laundry and receive my clothing and property, upon release.
A female deputy escorted me to the jail's facade, where my mom and two nieces were waiting just inside the door. Across the parking lot, my kids were waiting inside my parent's van.
My mom, Kathy, lit up when she saw me. She was all fixed up with her traditional blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick. I said, "Mom." She said, "Hi." Then, she embraced me and said, "I love you."
I said, "I love you, too."

...

Leaving is always the best part. I won't lie.
It's not a place anyone wants to be.
The food is bad. The sleep is horrible, and the deputies are in perpetually bad moods.
If that ain't enough to drive you crazy, then being deprived of mental health medications you need to survive, loneliness or isolation will get you.
And that's what happened to me for most of the week I spent during my second Christmas behind bars.
I retreated from everyone around me for 75 percent of the time I was there.
Without my medication for post-traumatic stress disorder, something I was diagnosed with after the wreck; my non-narcotic anxiety medication; and the medicine I was prescribed by a psychiatrist in August because I couldn't sleep after Perry died; I was absolutely miserable, most of the time.


...

I've heard the comment made, "Well, jail isn't supposed to be the Holiday Inn."
Well, no, it's not. I wholeheartedly agree. I'm there to serve my time.
But you see, there's a little thing called the Mental Health Act in the U.S., which requires jails to administer mental health medications to inmates while they are incarcerated.
The Davidson County Jail's psychiatrist took one look at a written note from my psychiatrist stating that 'if I did not stay on this list of medications continuously, I could decompensate and require emergency care' and simply ignored it.
That doctor only approved two of my prescribed medications, without knowing the first thing about my mental history, how long I had been taking the medicine that was being denied or any other information that would help him or her make that decision.
I met with the mental health department official at the jail who explained to me that the facility doesn't treat any inmate for sleep or anxiety, only for illnesses the facility's psychiatrist determines to be organic, with no possibility of change.
Also, in most every case, inmates who serve short periods of time, or "weekenders," do not get any mental health medications, whether they serve two or 45 days, according to the mental health official at the jail.
An inmate is an inmate, regardless of the length of the time they get to serve for their crime.
I believe the jail is following its own interpretation of the federal law. The policy does not seem fair to me, or that it would meet the spirit of the act.
Is the treatment being performed adequate according to federal statute?
That's the looming question.
And I intend to find out the answer.

...

In my case, I am a weekender, who is in jail a week every six months. You might say to yourself, "you can go a week without your medications. It won't kill you."
Maybe. Maybe not.
One of those medications is a blood pressure pill, but it is used for PTSD.
Can you imagine not giving a blood pressure pill to a heart patient for a week?
Forget about me for a minute.
There are women in that jail who are suffering everyday because some jackass can't pick up a pen and put his or her name on a piece of paper and prescribe what she needs to survive.
And since I am dually-diagnosed with mental health issues and addiction, I know that the majority of the women who are incarcerated for alcohol or drugs also take mental health meds.
I witnessed the number of women who were present at med-pass, when medications are disbursed at the jail.
If I didn't get my nighttime medications, I can't even imagine how many of the 900-some-odd women have to suffer at some level because a psychiatrist at the jail thought, 'Oh. She'll be alright without that one.'
Needless to say, I'm pissed that this is happening, not only to me but to a lot of women who are incarcerated.
You see, they are not bad people. They just made mistakes.
Addiction is a bitch. I knew her well.
It's just that I have a life plan now that helps me put the plug in the jug, drop to my knees on the floor and focus my eyes and heart on God.

...

And I have to say that even in that cold, concrete-walled up institution, I found God.
He was waiting to help me; all I had to do was ask.
Every night, when I would toss and turn for hours and cry about Perry, I would cry out to the Lord to help me get through it.
And every morning, I'd wake up and find that I got some sleep, although it wasn't as much as I was accustomed to getting.
I found God every day during our recovery meetings, where the women would sometimes pour out their hearts, saying they didn't know how to stay sober. Others would vow to stay away from old playmates and playgrounds.
Listening to them all, I lifted them up in prayer. Pragmatically, I knew they wouldn't all make it, but I still hoped.

...

And then the night before I left, I attended a church meeting that held me together until it was time to go home.
Raising my hands up, I surrendered to the Lord's will and praised his name.
I read the Word of God.
Finding myself enjoying it, I forgot where I was and just focused on the light of the world.
Something happened to me that night.
In my bunk later, I prayed God would make me a vessel for his will.
I prayed that He would let me know when to speak out and when to be humble.
In treatment three years ago, we played a card game with angel cards and my angel said I was a light worker, someone who helps other people through their work.
As a former journalist, that made sense to me.
So, today I am just waiting for my next assignment.
And I look forward to letting my light shine.
Amen.