I was in Jail

How Addiction Affects Families

Rainy, cold Saturday morning. My alarm is going off, 6 am. As instructed, I get dressed as simple as I can, no watch, no accessories. I am going to a women’s jail.

Four months ago, I was asked by a fellow who participated in one of my speaking engagements if I would like to volunteer and speak in a women’s jail. Finally, I received the security clearance along with a strict list of instructions on what to wear (or not to wear) and what not to bring.

I carefully follow the instructions “No smartwatch, no phone, no coffee….  Don’t wear the color royal blue, as it is the color of the inmates’ scrubs.” Ironically it is my favorite color. I put on a bright pink shirt to bring some happiness to the closed cells.

I was assigned to be picked up by Amanda (fake name). She is punctual. At 6:45 am, we are on our way to Century Regional Detention Center (Lynwood Jail). I enter the car, and the anticipation is thumping.

It is pouring, and my feelings are gushing out. I have never been in jail (not even for a visit). I have a million buzzing questions to ask Amanda, but I stay quiet, hoping the rain will wash away the fear from the unknown.

My kids asked me last night if I am afraid. I am not scared, I am curious. I am intrigued to see what it is like from the inside. I question myself how I can be in service.  We drive in the rain, and every mile closer, I feel more and more intimidated. What if they will laugh at me? How can I be any help to them? What if…?

Driving, I stay quiet, sipping from my tea in a paper to-go-cup.  I cannot bring anything with me, except for my ID, and my experience.  We keep driving, as the sun rising only behind the clouds. Amanda is calmly answering all my questions as if she is reading my mind:

“There will be about a hundred women,” she tells me.

“They are excited to listen to women who come to speak to them.”

 “There is a little locker to put your cellphone inside.”

I am thirsty to hear every little word from Amanda, collecting more details in my mind.

We arrive at the facility. The rain is getting stronger, mimicking my racing thoughts. 

“This is a jail, not prison,” Amanda explains.  “The women in jail are in trial, waiting for their verdict. From here, they can go to prison, serve community service, or get released on probation. Some are here a few days, and some as long as four or five years.”

“They committed different crimes, from stealing, to prostitution, to drug dealing or even murder.”

Here I come!

Features picture: Lucy Nicholson/Reuters

We arrive at the detention center and go through another clearance process with the officers behind the tall, secured, thick glass booth. I get a guest card, which I need to clip on my pink shirt. Amanda and I enter the jail, accompanied by the inmates’ facilitator. Heavy bulletproof high doors, buzzing from one corridor to another. Clear. Buzz. The door unlocks. We move from one section to another. Clear. Buzz. The door unlocks. 

The sanitation smell is dense, reminding me of hospital basements. The bright fluorescent lights are sharpening my senses. We go deeper.

Finally, we arrive at the module. A big two floors hall. Iron stairs lead to the second floor. Small cells all around on each floor. On the main floor, in between the cell doors. Metal bunkbeds, three beds in each, are placed in the communal area outside cells, due to overcrowding jail. I count, eleven bunkbeds.  There are two plastic chairs on each side of the beds. Twenty-two chairs. Amanda says something, but I cannot hear her words, my brain is absorbing everything around me. There is nothing between the inmates and me. No fence, no gates, no doors. I feel raw, bare, naked. I am in the middle of a big cell in women’s jail.  

The inmates are busy.  They are all wearing royal blue scrubs, white T-shirts underneath, and black plastic shoes, which actually look like a remake of crocks. Two of the women are wearing light blue scrubs. “They are pregnant,” the facilitator explains. I am standing next to the table, which is designated for the speaker, but my senses are almost exploding. The women have all dressed alike, but when I look at their tiny, narrow, metal bed, I see each one’s uniqueness.  I notice how each woman had different items right next to her pillow. Just a few to tell me who she is. A few books, tiny bottles of lotions, or a brush. Some of the women are making their beds, some are standing in line to sign attendance, some are receiving their meds, some are talking to the facilitator, and some are already seated. One woman is plucking another inmate’s eyebrows. Quiet, efficient movement.

A tough female sheriff comes and instructs them in a loud voice, almost yelling, that now it is time for the speaker (aka me). Within a few seconds, they all sit in the center of the hall.

Eyes are on me.

A hundred inmates are staring at me. I am intimidated.

I have talked, presented, and lectured for two decades now.  I held seven-hours seminars in-front of scholars and Ph.D. professors. I spoke in hundreds of engagements.  But today I feel timid.  I browse the room, slowly. White women, African- American women, Latina women, short women, older women. Face tattoos, arm tattoos, no tattoos. The stories, the shame, the anger, the fear. I look at each one of women and sense the drama and the chaos, which brought them to the closed, locked brick walls. I closed my eyes and ask my Universe (call it God, call it Higher Power, ocean, nature, or anything you wish) to guide my words.

“Guide my words,” I plead to the Universe.

And the stories flow — experience, strength, and hope. I talk about life, disappointment, and courage. About the effects of someone else’s using or drinking in our lives and how it makes us question ourselves. I talk about losing the ability to trust our choices. The codependence which is created by the terrible disease called addiction. Addiction to people.

 I pause.

One of the women is crying. She is sobbing. She is in pain. She and I don’t share the same life, but we share the same pain. I was in the same pain, too, for years. 

Twenty women hold fabric dolls. As I speak, they rock them, hug them tighter, and cradle them closer to their heart. The facilitator explained earlier that some of them are in a special parenting program. Here, in jail, they feel compassion and nurturing, maybe for the first time in their lives. Feelings that were hidden and forbidden for years.

 “How many of you are moms?” I ask. Most of the women raise their hands, and I can feel the sadness in their hearts, I can see the shame and guilt in their eyes.

I am a mother too.  

An oxymoron between crime and hope. Here, where freedom is taken, they can start the journey of freedom of self.

These women stole, hurt, injured, hit, dealt drugs, used, and abused. These women offended, traumatized, and endangered.

These women want to change. Maybe even only today, when they hear that there is hope. Living in anger, shame, and victimhood is not the solution to our misery.

These women gave me hope today, to be who I am, to keep sharing my love with others, to feel the compassion to others, beyond my limitations.

Getting up from bed today wasn’t easy; it was getting out of my way and give to other women, whom maybe some will consider ‘do not deserve it.’ Nevertheless, by being in service to others, we always, always give to ourselves.

We get our belongings back and leave the facility. The rain has stopped, and the sun is shining.

If you would like to share your experience, strength, and hope of dealing with someone else’s addiction, and want to volunteer your time, please contact me.