Long Blue Line: Based on a True Story (27 page)

Another three weeks went by, and I still had not heard anything from my Public Defender about getting me out of jail and into a rehab facility. At that point I had no desire to use drugs and, as dumb as I could be at times, there was no way that I would ever use them while pregnant. I never understood how a woman could even have the desire to use drugs knowing that she was pregnant. When I quit smoking, it sucked, but I wanted to because I was afraid of harming my baby. I wanted to be anywhere but in jail, but from other women’s stories of going to this particular facility, it honestly sounded like heaven. Having to wake up at 6:00 in the morning to do a meditation session for thirty days sounded totally miserable. A pillow and a regular bed, regular food, and something to drink besides a carton of milk, sounded like heaven. I was desperate to get out of jail. I began calling and nagging my Public Defender every day. She was usually busy, so I had to leave a message with her assistant.

Once a week on Thursday nights the jail offered an outreach meeting for inmates who had been sentenced to jail more than once. At first I thought it would be nothing but a bunch of nagging women talking about their problems. I already had enough of my own to deal with. However, I noticed that if I stayed busy the time went by a lot faster. While I was waiting for news from my Lawyer, I tried to stay as busy as possible. The restlessness and anxiety was just about killing me. I liked Janet, the leader of the group. She was older and an ex-addict with time spent in prison. At one point she had been in the very jail we were sitting in. She was able to recover and told us that part of her recovery was to help other people who were in similar situations. She was really laid back and let everyone have a chance to talk.

I told her about how I was trying to get out of the jail and into the rehab facility. I didn’t know what the holdup was and I told her I was getting nervous because I was almost six months pregnant. “Elizabeth, I’ll call SRR for you. I work for them part-time so I might be able to help you get over there.” I was so happy that I had someone who would actually help me. I was not used to other adults, especially community role models, giving me any kind of civilized treatment. I had a feeling that Janet would be back in the next day or so to help get me to the recovery center. I was wrong. She showed up about an hour later, ready to get me “the hell out of there.” She even said it in exactly those words.

An officer came to do a quick inspection of my cell and make sure that I had cleaned my area for the next inmate. I was completely surprised, and so was he, when the entire pod of at least thirty women began to clap loudly to display their excitement for me and that I was finally on the path to going home. The officer was thoroughly baffled. “Wow, Ms. Jeter, you’re a celebrity in here!” I just laughed. I didn’t know what else to do. I thanked all of them and hugged as many of them as I could on my way out and wished them good luck. I gave each person whom I had become close to a personal item because I knew that they would appreciate it more than I would. I had a stack of romance novels sent to me by Derrick and my mother and an entire laundry-sized bin full of snacks, soap, and pretty much everything on the commissary list. I could care less about taking any souvenirs with me from my 62 days in jail. I was ready to get out of that sad place, start over, become a better person and hopefully get back to being myself again - if that were possible.

For the last time, I walked down the blue taped line and waited in that same cold holding cell that I had been in two months earlier. It felt like I had been there for years. It was by far the longest two months of my life. A female officer opened the heavy, clanking door and asked me to walk across the walkway so I could change into my regular clothes and get my personal items back. I was so excited...until I opened the green mesh bag to discover a tiny, slutty nightgown. There was no way in hell I was putting this on and going to the recovery center to introduce myself! I told the officer about my dilemma and she laughed and told me not to worry about it. She went into the laundry area and returned with a white t-shirt and sweat pants. I could do this. So much better than what I had, I thought.

When I was finally dressed and ready to go, I went to the desk next to the exit area and signed for my small bag of jewelry and thirteen dollars. It must have been leftover money from my commissary fund. Gina was waiting for me just behind the door. The receptionist lady wished me luck and said I was free to leave. For the last time, I heard the door buzz to unlock, and I stepped out into the beautiful sunshine and let the rays soak into my face. The air smelled amazing. I felt as if I had just landed in some beautiful vacation destination.

One of the most valuable lessons that I have learned in life was one that I learned on that trip to jail. It was from a female inmate I had met and had initially disliked. The more I got to know her, the more I realized that she was just a quirky person with a funny sense of humor. I actually became friends with her. I was talking to her about halfway through my stay and telling her about how miserable and anxious I felt every day. “Humans were made to adapt to their environment. You'll be okay, just tough it out. It's only temporary. Time is the worst thing that can be taken from you, but it is also the one thing that will eventually reach its destination.” Her words helped me get through the time I spent in jail. Any time I was feeling sad or depressed, I heard her voice in my head. I was made to adapt to my environment, I would think to myself. Eventually my time would be served, and I knew I would get out of there. Time is one of the worst things that someone can take from you because our time to live is limited.

I was so excited to be outside, and I was so excited to know that I did not have to go back into that lonely jail. I even jumped up and down for a minute practically attacking Gina with a hug as I thanked her. She looked at me like I was crazy, but she knew where I was coming from. We walked toward the bus stop and sat down on the bench while waiting for our ride down the highway. I knew of the place we were going, but I had never actually been there. I had no idea what to expect except for the tidbits of information I had gotten from some of the other inmates who had previously been there. They were supposedly very strict and would kick a person out for breaking the smallest rule. If I got kicked out, I would have to go back to jail and start the entire sentence over again. I had every intention of listening to the counselors and cooperating to the best of my ability, but I was still afraid. I had developed the strong belief that everyone was out to get me, and no matter what I did, it would never be good enough. The system had made me feel like I was invalid. Nothing I would say mattered anymore because I was officially a felon. I was now entering into society as a convict. My dreams of becoming a nurse were entirely over.

I thought about all of this during the bus ride. When the bus pulled up to our stop, we got off and headed into a small convenience store that was on the way to the recovery center. My eyes grew wide with excitement when I came face to face with soda and candy bars. Gina paid for my candy despite my protests. “Hurry up and drink your soda, hon, we are right around the corner from the building.” “Okay! Watch this!” I said as I began chugging my favorite bubbly pleasure. I was a champ at chugging drinks from my beer drinking party days. I almost finished the entire bottle and belched as we walked down the residential street. Gina again looked at me like I was crazy. I was feeling a bit crazy in my own little way. We approached a white house, and I was totally confused. “Where are we?” I asked. “This is the Recovery Center silly,” she replied. I hadn’t realized that it was in an actual house. I thought it might be more like a medical center. I knew the neighborhood that we were in because my mom had a friend who lived nearby. I hoped that she wouldn’t see me at any point during my stay. How embarrassing that would be.

I checked in and answered a hundred questions for the staff member behind the desk. “So, let me ask you, Elizabeth, have you ever used drugs before?” He wanted to know when and exactly how much I had used. “I didn’t use drugs until I was eighteen so that was last year. It started with cocaine, and after that I did meth pretty hard for a few months until I lost everything,” I answered. “Do you think that you have a problem with drugs now?” he asked. “Yes, because in my opinion, even using drugs on a single occasion is a problem. It should have never happened but it did.” I was ready to be honest and face the stupid choices I had made. Plus, I knew that if I lied it would just take even longer for me to get home. They would know and keep me past the thirty days to get me out of denial. I was sure they saw that on a regular basis. When I was in jail, there were plenty of women who would admit to using drugs but would never admit to being an addict or that it was a problem. I thought it was sad. The only way they could ever get better was if they first admitted to themselves the reality of substance abuse and their addiction.

The counselor allowed me to call Derrick because I didn’t have any clothes to wear. I told Derrick that I had made it to the rehab, and I asked him to bring over anything that he thought might still fit me. I only had a pair of yoga pants and maybe some sweats in my wardrobe at home that would actually fit. Derrick showed up about twenty minutes later but the counselors did not let me see him. I was bummed and being out of jail made it all the more difficult. The counselor walked back into the office dragging my huge duffel bag. They searched through it to make sure there wasn’t any contraband. The female counselor, who didn’t speak English very well, held up my pink nightgown and shook her head. She thinks I brought that slutty thing on purpose, I was thinking to myself. I tried to explain to her how it was with me, but I gave up when she wouldn’t stop interrupting me. I wouldn't care if she confiscated it as contraband; I didn’t want to ever see that thing again anyway. As the search continued, the counselor pulled out two outfits that I didn’t recognize. They had tags on them. I realized that they were cute maternity sweat outfits. I thought it was so sweet that Derrick cared so much that he actually thought of something like that for me. Derrick began to change when he discovered that I was pregnant and even more so when I was arrested. He was a totally different person. I couldn’t wait to get home to him, start over, and hopefully repair our lives.

The female counselor walked me over to the women’s house on the property. There were three houses that were part of the Recovery Center. The house for the females was the big white one. Millie introduced me to two girls who were about my age and looking bored on the living room couch. She then showed me to my room. The room was big, with four twin-sized beds, one in each corner. It was also right next to a bathroom, which was perfect for my midnight pee attacks. She said that I had a few minutes to put my things away and get settled before lunch would be ready.

It looked like only one other person was occupying my new room, and they must have been somewhere else in the building. After putting my clothes into the built-in dresser drawer that was attached to my bed, I fell back onto the mattress. I enjoyed every second that my head rested on that pillow. It was so amazing, and my pregnant body and hurting back were instantly feeling better. I could finally relax and breathe. I would rather have been home, of course, but I was not about to make one complaint. I had a pillow and a real mattress! The toilet wasn’t attached to the same sink that I used to brush my teeth! I was elated. The girl I had met on the couch poked her head into my room and announced that it was time for lunch. I followed her into the building next to the house and, once again, was in heaven as the smell of grilled cheese sandwiches danced up my nostrils.

I sat down to eat with a huge cup of apple juice. I had missed juice and other drinks. Cartons of milk and soap-scented water had gotten old very fast. I couldn’t fully grasp the fact that I was really out of jail. I was afraid that I was going to wake up to the grumpy officer announcing breakfast on the loudspeaker. That would have ruined me. The first night that I slept in my new bed I was surprised that I actually didn't sleep very well. I must have gotten used to the flat hospital bed mattress that the jail had.

The Recovery Center was very big on routine. Every morning they would wake us up at 6:00, and before we got dressed for the day, we would meditate for thirty minutes. One of us would have to read out of the official book of Alcoholics Anonymous and discuss whatever else the counselor on duty decided we should talk about. After getting dressed in a hurry, we would go back to the kitchen to eat breakfast. Immediately after breakfast we had our first class. The class lasted until it was time for lunch. After lunch, they would give us an hour of free time to do whatever we wanted. In my case, it was just sitting there and being lazy because the pregnancy had me so exhausted. After our hour of free time, the counselors decided on an activity for all of us to participate in. I think the point of this was to show the importance of teamwork and how important it was to pull your own weight. It taught us about accountability, and the activities were used as an example to show us how the actions of one person can have a big impact on the rest of the team. They didn't have to teach it to me, though, because I already knew it, understood it, and completely agreed with it. I wasn't dumb. I was a smart person, and I had really great grades when I was in college.

Then I started wondering how I, an intelligent person, could have made such stupid and reckless mistakes. I explained this to my counselor during our private sessions, twice a week. She continued to stress the importance of self-forgiveness. For someone who didn't understand what I actually went through on a personal level, it’s a lot easier said than done. I didn't want to forgive myself. I felt like forgiving myself would make what had happened to my daughter okay. That would never be something that was okay with me. I had no plans of forgiving myself.