Letters to Julia - End

Dear Julia,

There must be a better way. Prison has been my saving grace, don’t get me wrong. I came here with a lot of guilt and shame, but here I have learned how to overcome my problems without drugs or alcohol or unhealthy relationships or men’s validation or any vice at all, really. My addiction to drugs and men brought me here. I don’t blame anyone else because it was me who made the terrible choices.

There’s still a problem though. It’s the victims. Not just Bill, but my children and the rest of my family. They have all suffered as a result of my actions and it wasn’t fair to them. Sure, it was my fault, but the fact that my punishment may have been deserved doesn’t help them. Isn’t that what it was all about? Justice for victims?

My long prison sentence created more victims and more work for the state, rather than helping the ones that already existed. I would do anything to make this right for them. My kids are well, thankfully, and I talk to them often. We are healing. I will do anything I can to help them get past this so they can be as healthy and happy as they should be. My mom and sister still seem lost without me and the kids involved in their daily lives. They are able to talk to some of the kids still, and that helps, but it’s still hard. If there was something I could do for my victim Bill, I’d do it. I’m working on a letter apologizing for what I did, and I hope it helps. He may feel good about me being in prison, but I doubt it. I wish there were better alternatives to reduce the impact of crime without creating more victims. I wish the years given to me made sense. I don’t understand why treatment or time off for good behavior aren’t options for me. I think I’d get the most use out of them. Why didn’t I get offered a plea deal or a chance at a suspended sentence which I have seen so many other people get? I heard that my DA was difficult, and that’s why, but that’s not a good enough reason. Other people with similar crimes get those options every day. It should be the same for all. We are mothers, and our kids are out there, and they still need us.

There’s got to be a better way.

Sincerely,

Crystal A.

Crystal A. is currently incarcerated at Oregon’s women’s prison, Coffee Creek Correctional Facility.

Letters to Julia - Fall

Dear Julia,

Now it’s time for me to tell you about my crime. The day it happened; I went to Bill’s house to collect my pay for the week. I hadn’t been around much because of the pressure Bill had been putting me under. I’d been staying at friends’ houses, getting high. I had been awake for about 6 days straight. My mind was spinning, and I was in a haze. Thoughts would jump around in my head, and I wasn’t feeling much either. I’d easily get distracted, but I did manage a few chores and I took a shower. Then I went to Bill and asked for my pay. He said he wouldn’t pay me and that he wanted me out of the house.

Not a single rational thought was in my head at that time, but I think, deep down, I felt entitled to my money and I was mad at Bill for trying to control me with it. Bill had never actually wanted to help me out. He wanted to use me. He saw a broken woman and seized the opportunity to get what he wanted out of me, but it didn’t work, and that was the real reason why Bill was kicking me out. He wasn’t getting what he wanted out of me. I was tired of men always trying to use me, even this guy, whom I had known since I was 12.

When it became clear that Bill wasn’t going to hand over the money, I started packing my belongings into two large shopping bags. We continued arguing, and as we argued, I would sometimes start talking about people and things that weren’t even there. Even Bill would later testify to that. When he threatened to call the cops, and started yelling out his back door, I tried squeezing past him to get out the back door and he fell. While he was lying on the ground, I went back and wrestled him for his wallet. I got hold of the wallet, took out the cash, and left the wallet on the counter before I went out the front door.

Looking back, I feel absolutely horrible for what I did. Thank goodness, Bill is okay. He was banged up, but overall, fine. He didn’t need to go to hospital, and from what I understand he is okay to this day. I hope someday to make amends with him. And honestly, I feel lucky. These types of crimes go wrong all the time. He was fragile, and I could have badly hurt him, or worse. When you’re high on meth, you don’t think about what you’re doing. You just do it. You don’t feel any pain or remorse. You have a false sense of confidence, and even feel justified for taking someone’s wallet over money owed to you. Sober Crystal, the real Crystal, would never have done something like that. But that’s what comes with choosing to use meth. You can’t control it, you can’t control yourself, and you will almost certainly commit crimes because of your addiction.

************************

After I turned myself in a week later, I went through a horrific comedown as I came off all the drugs. I wailed and screamed and cried in my cell, threatening suicide. The officer laughed at me. I punched the walls. I went crazy for seven days there and then went to the women’s jail unit and slept and cried for two months until my trial. I don’t think I was mentally ready for trial, but I just felt done and needed the whole process over as soon as possible.

I felt like my life was over. I didn’t know if there was any hope for me or for getting back to my children. I wished (in vain) that I could get sober and serve whatever time I needed to quickly and then make steps to get back to my children, however I could. The sentence I received for a conviction of Robbery in the First Degree was a mandatory minimum of 90 months. Day for day, no treatment, no ability to earn “good time” to get out early. I was going away for seven-and-a-half years.

My family was devastated, and my kids were in shock. I felt so bad for what I was doing to them. There was no way for me to make it up to them. They had lost their mother, their daughter, and their sister. It crushed them.

I wish I had known how much I meant to them. Maybe I would have made different choices. I’m not sure though because once addiction took hold of me there was no turning back. I wanted to change. I wanted my kids and my family back more than anything. But I just couldn’t stop myself from self-destruction, no matter how hard I tried.

It was hardest on my daughter. She had been planning to come home with me as soon as I got out of jail. She says she also “went crazy” having to let go of her former life, her family and her mom. Neither she nor my youngest son could stay with my mom and sister. DHS came and got them, removing my son by force while he screamed and cried and clawed toward my mom. Removing my son in that way was completely unnecessary. I know my family has its problems, but my kids were safe, loved, and fed three home-cooked meals a day. Sure, my mom lived in a perpetual state of denial, but there is counseling, therapy, and parenting classes that could overcome that. My children are still traumatized by that separation to this day. For months, we didn’t know where they were going to place Jacob. My first two children had their fathers, but both of Jacob’s parents were in prison. Thankfully, he eventually went to my grandfather. DHS would not allow me to be his legal parent anymore. He had to be adopted because of the length of my sentence.

That’s what happened to me. While I’ve been in prison, I’ve had time to think, and next time I’ll share those thoughts with you.

Sincerely,

Crystal A.

Crystal A. is currently incarcerated at Oregon’s women’s prison, Coffee Creek Correctional Facility.

Letters to Julia - Spiraling

Dear Julia,

A few months had passed, and Dickey started calling me again. I’d go running back to him with my bag of meth. We’d use together, then we’d get in a fight and he would kick me out, back on the streets again. I was homeless at that time, couch-hopping between friends’ houses who were also users. I went days without sleeping, too busy running from my problems to rest.

Once a week, I was allowed a supervised visit with my children. I showed up a couple of times, but further visits were canceled after I missed two. I showed up late once and fell asleep in my car the second time. Spun out on meth as I was, it was easy for me to lose track of time or even what day it was. After days awake, I would pass out cold for hours on end as soon as I sat down. Sometimes I fell asleep on the sidewalk or by the side of a road. Other times, I would be in a kind of meth-induced psychosis. I would hallucinate and talk so fast no one knew what I was saying. Some of the side effects were really weird, and I don’t know whether it was the sleep deprivation or the bath salts that my dealer cut the meth with to stretch it that caused them. My dealer also laced the meth with heroin to make it even more addictive. He was guaranteeing repeat sales by doing that. There’s no way to predict the effects of getting high on so many different chemicals. I looked like I had lost my mind.

As part of DHS requirements, I tried outpatient rehab, but I kept missing the appointments. It was obvious I needed more, so DHS signed me up for inpatient treatment as part of a plan to get my kids back. I never made it there. I only had a week before I left town for rehab, so with the time I had left I was going to use as much as I could. I was terrified. I didn’t know how to get through life sober. How would I cope with pain and disappointment? Would I ever feel happy again? Who would I be without the drugs? Those were the frightening thoughts I had. I wasn’t sure whether I could be fixed. I felt so hopeless.

By this time, I was living with an old family friend named Bill. He had been our landlord when I was a teenager, and my dad did some mechanic work for him. My mom had been in touch with him and asked him to rent me a room at his place because I was homeless. I took his offer. Before I signed up for rehab, I thought this might be my only shot at living in a sober environment and getting clean. I was doing it for my kids and, besides, I had no other options.

As soon as I moved in, Bill started coming onto me. I didn’t know how to take it at first. He made suggestive comments like I was “giving him something good to look at.” As time went on, his advances became more blatant. He wanted to have a sexual relationship with me. I told him no, many times. He claimed he couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t have sex with him since I was a drug addict and addicts want to feel good all the time, and sex was the best feeling in the world. It was awful and it embarrassed me tremendously to have all this coming from a man who was a friend of my dad’s. I realized Bill never had good intentions in helping me out. He just wanted to use me.

Bill and I made a deal that if I worked on his property and cooked and cleaned for him, he would give me $100 a week. I’d show up during the day but would eventually leave because I felt so uncomfortable. This place was supposed to be a clean environment to help me get sober, but I continued to use and refused to stay the night.

That wasn’t all that happened between me and Bill, but I’ll tell you about that next time.

Sincerely,

Crystal A.

Crystal A. is currently incarcerated at Oregon’s women’s prison, Coffee Creek Correctional Facility.

Letters to Julia - Losing everything

Dear Julia,

When I think about why I kept finding myself in these relationships, with these men, I can’t explain it. I never thought I would be with men like this, but it was almost like I was looking for my father in them. I thought I could fix Dickey. Then maybe, in some way, I would be fixing my dad and my childhood, and I would be okay. But I was not even close. Everything went from bad to worse. I got worse. My addiction got worse.

The last few months of our relationship were the most violent and argumentative. Dickey had been working at an auto wrecking yard and at first it was good to have him earning a paycheck. But his behavior completely changed when he started working at another shop with an old friend. He previously balanced the abuse with affection and compliments and small favors to keep me around, but now he was just angry all the time, and his mood swings were extreme. I really had no explanation for it and was at first confused. I would later learn that he had been using meth after he brought it home one night when I made a joke about the sex we could have if we ever did it together.

I did it too. In a way, I used meth as a way to reconnect with Dickey. I was grasping for anything to make our relationship last. But of course, it didn’t help.

From that day on, we used meth every day. I was able to stop taking my pills and meth was cheaper. It didn’t take long to lose everything. I lost my job and, before Dickey had to pay a month’s rent, he left me. The kids and I moved in with my mom, my sister, and her boyfriend. They knew something was wrong immediately. I kept leaving at night and sometimes didn’t return for days. I stopped caring about anything. I lived in a daze. I was out to destroy myself, convinced I meant nothing to anyone. I knew my kids deserved better, but I had reached the peak of my addiction and I couldn’t go back to the way I was. I didn’t want to feel anything. I honestly didn’t really want to live anymore. Meth took me to new extremes where I didn’t have to face any of the reality of life, and I was completely gone. I was addicted to it almost immediately.

One day, I was missing my kids and went to pick them up from my mom’s house. My mom and my sister wouldn’t let me take them. We all got in a fight and the cops came. They asked if I was using meth and I admitted it. DHS came and told me I couldn’t have contact with my kids anymore. This is when I completely spiraled out of control. Instead of getting clean, I got worse. I was full of shame. I had loved my children so completely and unconditionally, how could I have lost them? I couldn’t accept reality or the pain I was in. I drowned myself in meth. My world was getting darker and darker, but I didn’t know what else to do.

Next time I write, I’ll tell you about how Dickey started to reel me back in, using my addiction.

Sincerely,

Crystal

Crystal A. is currently incarcerated at Oregon’s women’s prison, Coffee Creek Correctional Facility.

Letters to Julia - The New Man

Dear Julia,

For the next two years, I kept doing what I had before: pushing all men away until my loneliness overwhelmed me. Then, just like last time, I let the first man to come along into my life. I met Dickey at a friend’s house. He was always sitting on the couch with a beer in his hand. He didn’t work, but he was really good to talk to and showed me the attention that I always craved. He was kind to me and my kids and it wasn’t long before I let him move in.

At first, I thought he was amazing. He helped out with household chores and watching the kids while I worked, which saved me a lot on childcare. He drank on the job but, since he was still decent to my kids, I let it slide. He would cook full-course dinners. I though I had won the lottery and found a good man.

Dickey, of course, had issues too, and they were the kind I gravitated towards. He was an alcoholic. The wonderful things I originally loved about him slowly faded. He stopped showering me with compliments and started calling me names. I blamed the alcohol, not him. He’d still do chores but would be resentful about it later. He’d still watch the kids but got increasingly irritable at their “neediness.” He started to distance them from me, saying that I doted on them too much. I had been accused of spoiling my children before, and he convinced me that I needed to teach them to be more independent. He wouldn’t let me go to them when they called for me; instead, he would deal with what they needed himself. He made them rely on me less and less, giving me “alone time,” something I wasn’t used to. I thought he was caring for me, and that this is what it must be like having a father around.

The first time Dickey hit me; it came out of nowhere. He’d been drinking at his friend’s house all day, and I hadn’t said a word to him since he came home. I came around the corner from the kitchen and felt a hard punch directly to my jaw. Everything went white for a second, but I came to just as quickly, only to feel another punch in the same spot, then another, each almost knocking me out. I was completely shocked at first, thinking: “Why is he doing this?” Then, as a sense of urgency came over me, I flew to the phone and called the police. He ran away, and when the police showed up I denied everything. Later, I begged Dickey to come back, thinking I must have done something wrong to deserve it.

The hitting happened periodically. I don’t know why I tolerated it; except I would always seem to justify his actions by saying “it must be the alcohol.” I thought I must have done something to cause it.

He broke me down, and I became less of myself and more of what he wanted me to be: under his control. I started hitting back, trying to have some control in what was happening, but it changed nothing. He had control over my emotions and made me feel unworthy and of no value. Each time he knocked me around would make me hold onto him tighter since, if I were to lose him, I would never have anyone to love me again.

Sincerely,

Crystal

Crystal A. is currently incarcerated at Oregon’s women’s prison, Coffee Creek Correctional Facility.

LETTERS TO JULIA - THE WRONG MAN

Dear Julia,

About a year after my dad died, I went through my second divorce. I felt rejected, and like I was a complete failure. My dependence on the pills became worse. They became a daily necessity. When I took them, I instantly felt better.

Despite the hardships I was going through, I was still able to get up, go to work, and take care of my kids and household chores. In a way, I felt like supermom. I thought I could do everything required of me – so long as I had the pills. But the longer I put off dealing with my problems, the worse they became. My tolerance for the pills grew as well. I needed more and more as time went on. If I went even one day without them, I would be in immense pain and violently sick to my stomach. It was unbearable, unlike any pain I had experienced before. My need to get more pills was out of control. I felt this frantic urge to find more pills as soon as possible, thinking I might die if I didn’t.

Sometimes, I was unable to get out of bed. The very thing that had kept me going for so long was now debilitating to me. I started to feel inadequate because I couldn’t do what I needed to do for my children, even though my love for them was my reason for everything I did. I was scared that if someone found out what a horrible problem I had; I would lose my kids. Mothers aren’t supposed to be addicts. I was too ashamed to ask for help. Anyway, if I did go to treatment, where would they go? Who would take care of them? Would social services place them in foster care? Would I ever see them again? These were the thoughts I had. I couldn’t imagine putting my children through any of that. So, I kept going the only way I knew how. I was stuck, and I didn’t know how to get out of it.

A few years after the divorce, we moved into a one-bedroom apartment for a few months while I was between jobs. Down the hall lived a guy who would always meet me in the hallway whenever he heard me and the kids coming. He would offer to help me carry things and made chit-chat. Something about him made me uncomfortable. He seemed stalkerish, always listening for me to leave or come home. He was big and intimidating. He started asking me out. Even though I would say no and try to blow him off, he never got the hint. I finally agreed to go out with him when my mom and sister suggested I should start dating again. I guess he convinced them to talk to me about it. I thought maybe I was being too hard on him. Besides, I was feeling lonely anyway. I started to date him and, about a month later, I became pregnant.

Once I was pregnant, things changed. He seemed to drop the act, because suddenly he was a different man. Here’s what I found out about my partner: I learned he was a former meth user and had just done 18 months in prison. He drank beer every day. Most of the people in the apartment complex were afraid of him because he had threatened them and intimidated them at one time or another. He was known to be violent and a bully. I probably should have found this out sooner, or at least trusted my gut instinct in the first place. Instead, I chose to numb myself so I could have somebody.

I quickly realized I had made a mistake letting this guy into my life. One day he started acting erratically and as though he was feeling suspicious about something. I don’t know what it was. All I wanted to do was take a nap, but he kept pacing around and acting strangely. As soon as I lay down with my daughter, he came bursting into my apartment, yelling, and hitting things, with his brother right behind him.

I flew out of bed and sent my daughter into my son’s bedroom with instructions to them both to stay put. I started arguing with the men to get out of my apartment, telling them I would call the cops if they didn’t leave. They kept yelling and threatening me, and I just kept yelling that I was going to call the cops. After I repeated it several times, they left. I grabbed the kids and a few bags of things and left. I only went back one time to pack the rest of our stuff. That was after I had filed for a restraining order to protect me and our child. I guess he got mad because I wasn’t giving him attention.

For months, he stalked me. He finally left me alone when a judge threatened to put him back in prison. He went back anyway in the end for killing a man. He’s due to get out the same year as me. I had started a rumor that my unborn child wasn’t his, but D.H.S. established paternity with him when I came to prison. Now he wants to have a relationship with our son. To be honest, that terrifies me.

Sincerely,

Crystal

Crystal A. is currently incarcerated at Oregon’s women’s prison, Coffee Creek Correctional Facility.

Letters to Julia - A Mother and a Daughter

Dear Julia,

Last time, I told you about my mom and dad, and my childhood. Well, that all came to an end when I was 16. I left home and started living on my own. I worked almost full time, so I was able to take care of myself and finish high school. Life was good for a bit. I married my long-term boyfriend when I was 19. I had my first child when I was 20. My husband was a good guy, but he drank – a lot. The emotional and mental abuse eventually became too much for me, so I left him when I was 21.

I was also drinking and having fun (mostly on the weekend), sometimes smoking marijuana, especially now that I was single. I dated a little. I was always attracted to alcoholics. I married my second husband a few years later and had my second child.

During this time, my dad and I reconciled. He quit drinking after I left home. I told him I would have nothing to do with him unless he did so and that he was one step away from losing my mom and sister if he didn’t. It was a struggle for him, but when a doctor diagnosed him with social anxiety and helped him get on medication, he succeeded.

I had some good years with my dad after this. I began to trust him again. My family started to heal. We had good holidays and Sunday night dinners, together, as a family. For the first time in a long time, my dad was there for me. He saw me through some hard times and showed me how to pick up the pieces when I failed and continue on. He encouraged me to go to college and watched my kids so I could do homework. He showed me that it was possible to stand on my own two feet. My father was present at the birth of my first two born children and showed up for every sickness and hospitalization and school production they had. I was able to forgive my father, and I finally got to see the man he was meant to be.

Then he died.

My dad had been struggling to stay sober the last few years of his life. He had become addicted to prescription pain medication and had been to rehab a few times. He died of a heart aneurysm, but I often wonder if the pills made it explode. I tried to revive him that day for 15 minutes until the paramedics arrived, but they determined he had gone instantly.

Around this time, I had also started used pain pills, mostly because they were there. I told myself it was just for recreational use, but pain pills don’t work that way. When dad died, I used them as a means of escaping reality and the pain. Just like him. My family did not have good coping skills and I really had no idea how to deal with this. So, I did the only thing I knew.

I had had problems with depression since I was a teenager, but now the depression deepened, and the anti-depressants didn’t seem to help. I never took them correctly, though. I would take them for a couple weeks and then forget. The pain pills, on the other hand, worked instantly. Right away, I would feel no emotional pain and could easily forget about my circumstances. Although I had forgiven my father while he was still alive, I still had internal damage from the domestic violence, and growing up with an alcoholic, that had not been addressed. I was about to find out that avoiding dealing with my problems would not work forever.

Sincerely,

Crystal

Crystal A. is currently incarcerated at Oregon’s women’s prison, Coffee Creek Correctional Facility.

Letters to Julia - Raising Crystal

Dear Julia, 

I guess the place to start with telling you my story is with my childhood. Specifically, my parents and how they raised me.

My mom and dad had me when they were 14 and 17 years old. Their parents didn’t approve, obviously, and there was talk of adoption. They left their dysfunctional homes and childhoods behind to raise me. 

My mom became a waitress and my dad worked on cars in our backyard. Life was a constant struggle for us. We were poor. We went without sometimes, but always managed to make ends meet. I often felt inadequate compared to kids my age. I didn’t have nice clothes or lots of toys. When I asked my father about it, he dismissed it as unimportant. He told me what mattered was what I had inside. 

I had to go without a lot of my father’s time and attention. He was emotionally unavailable. I think my father was dealing with a lot of his own issues of feeling inadequate and having low self-worth. I always sensed he had a lot of pain buried deep within him.  

It was also clear to me at an early age that my dad had a serious problem. He would go out most afternoons and stay out all night. Sometimes he would come home, throwing things and acting violently. I don’t remember him drinking much in front of me, but he was an alcoholic and sometimes his moods were impossible to predict. 

My mom was very loving and kind. She did her best to take care of both of us. Most of her energy was spent working, taking care of household chores, or dealing with my dad. I became very self-reliant at an early age. I often felt forgotten. My parents loved me, but they seemed to forget that I needed attention, stability, and security. We moved around a lot because of our financial instability, and there always seemed to be problems that needed attention more than me. I could tell my parents had problems I couldn’t really understand. They tried to shield me, but that doesn’t work. Children see everything. 

As my father’s alcoholism grew worse, I strived to be a “good girl” and tried to make sure I never made mistakes. I got good grades and hardly ever got in trouble. I became a people-pleaser and would do my best to make my dad happy. But the results were fleeting. I would get my father’s attention and acceptance for a short time but then he would go out, get drunk, and return home angry or sad.  

When I became a teenager, I stopped trying to please him, and started getting angry at him, especially when he started hitting my mom. I started smoking, drinking, and hanging out with older boys. I got really good at hiding my rebellious behavior because when I did get caught, I got punished, and sometimes hit as well. 

As you can imagine, this couldn’t go on. Something had to change. Next time I write, I’ll tell you about how I left home at 16.

Sincerely, 

Crystal 

Crystal A. is currently incarcerated at Oregon’s women’s prison, Coffee Creek Correctional Facility.

Letters to Julia - The Beginning

Dear Julia,

It’s not easy telling you my story. It feels like I’m opening the doors of judgement again. It didn’t go so well for me the last time when I was judged for the crime I committed. This story goes beyond that. But my story isn’t about me, it’s a cause. I used to look down on women like me who were addicted to drugs and got themselves locked up. I honestly never thought it’d happen to me.

But here I am, in Coffee Creek, with hundreds of women. After four years, I have realized that they are just like me: moms, wives, daughters, and sisters with loved ones who desperately miss them and need them home. It’s really, really hard on those families. The state must be forking out millions just to house us. I just can’t help but wonder – is there a better way? We all have very similar stories: the wrong man, the bad choices, the hard circumstances, and drugs. We were not necessarily bad people. Lost, confused, broken, but not bad.

I think we need to tell our stories. I believe it’s part of our responsibility to the public; a way to give back to the community. I hope someone benefits from my story. The biggest reward I could get is that it stopped another woman from making the same wrong choices I made. But I wish that my story can continue to educate and inform those may not know any better and help them understand that we are all just people, and together I pray we find a better way.

Sincerely,

Crystal.

Crystal A. is currently incarcerated at Oregon’s women’s prison, Coffee Creek Correctional Facility.

The Good Teacher - Zuleyma's Story

Zuleyma was known as a “good teacher” to her students and colleagues during the years she taught K-12. But her career in education came to an abrupt halt when she was arrested for selling drugs. An abusive partner had gradually come to have more and more control over Zuleyma, pressuring her to do whatever it took to keep her partner happy. That included selling drugs and becoming cut off from family and friends. In this video, Zuleyma explains what happened next.

Interview and videography by Greta Smith.

The Good Teacher - Chapter 4: Making a Positive Life

By Zuleyma Figueroa

READ CHAPTER 1: ROLE MODELS AND SUCCESS; CHAPTER 2: CONTROL AND ABUSE; CHAPTER 3: LOST AND HEALING

Upon my release, I started to contact Portland State University and advocate for support to get in the counseling program. I really wanted to get back into school but wasn’t successful in getting responses, so I started looking for jobs in the trades.

I was released from Coffee Creek on May 20, 2016 and did not have a place to go. I ended up living in a halfway house until my parole officer would approve the housing situation with my family. I started to look for work and got temporary jobs as a labor worker. I also completed the Oregon Tradeswomen program. I bounced around from one construction site to another for about a year and now I have a permanent position. This is a physically demanding job and I always do my best and appreciate the opportunity. I support these trade programs unconditionally because women are very capable of doing these type of jobs in our industries in Oregon.

More importantly, I see the world differently and want to share this experience with others and try to tell my story to help others feel supported when facing drugs and violence in their lives. I feel it is my responsibility to help reduce domestic violence and help people facing mental illness and addiction in the community. I also want to be an advocate for those considering suicide.

The Good Teacher - Chapter 3: Lost and Healing

By Zuleyma Figueroa

READ CHAPTER 1: ROLE MODELS AND SUCCESS; CHAPTER 2: CONTROL AND ABUSE

For the first two years, I was angry and bitter and refused to accept that this had become my life. I especially resented the fact that I had become a felon and was sent to prison for something I felt I wasn’t at fault for. My world stopped and I lived in shame and embarrassment from my name being in the news on local channels as a drug dealing teacher gone bad. In addition, my friends disappeared and did not want to be around someone who was in prison.

I lost my house and material possessions. My family members helped me with everything they could, but some of them lived in Canada and it was difficult for them to keep in contact with me. Eventually I felt so lonely and lost and didn’t know how to begin confronting my situation. I was scared and trying to figure out how to survive in prison. My friends disappearing was a hard lesson because I thought people would care about me, but life showed me that people will fail you when you face difficult situations.

I arrived at Coffee Creek Correctional Facility for women in June 2012. I went through intake where women are separated and classified. The ones with less severe crimes and a release date of four years or less go to the minimum-security side. The ones with more severe crimes and life sentences go to the medium-security side. After spending a month on intake, I was finally sent to minimum where I was given a bunk with a thin, crappy mattress, a pillow, one blanket, one thin bar of soap, a small cheap bottle of shampoo, a small toothbrush, and some baking soda that I was supposed to use for toothpaste. The space in the bunk areas are very restricted. About three feet away from each other. You need to have money on your account to buy canteen, which are approved items of food and hygiene products.

I started to work for the canteen warehouse at the Salem headquarters. I learned how to operate a forklift and to unload pallets of canteen items for all the prisons in the state of Oregon, men and women. I did inventory of items, and entered information of popular items sold in prison such as shoes, clothing, makeup, food, and drinks. I worked Monday through Friday from 6:30 AM to 3:30 PM and was paid $72 a month, which was the top pay in the prison. I did this for one year.

In the afternoon, I would help women prepare for their GED test and felt very grateful that these women are now getting a basic education to better their future. My contributions were very worthwhile because I knew they were going back to their children and would be able to get better jobs to support them.

I worked on myself as well and got into a few coping skill classes to help with my codependency issues. I also managed to get some therapy regarding the psychological abuse that I had experienced in my relationship. In addition, I found running to be very therapeutic and got very good at it. It also helped me release a great deal of stress and worries. I took every class I could to better myself so that I would have an opportunity to work upon my release outside. 

I never wanted to know anything about my ex partner.  I had finally felt free from her control and free of being scared. One morning I woke up and said to myself, “What was I thinking? I lost everything and I am in prison.” This actually made me work harder to become a better person. In fact, I took trainings for certifications like CPR, food handlers, hazmat, forklift, facility maintenance training. In addition, I was part of physical activities such as the 5K marathon and creating physical circuits to help other women find healing through physical fitness. I meditated about my life in prayer and gratefulness, becoming more humble and appreciative of the world.

After a year of working for canteen, I applied to physical plant where women are trained for trades such as electrician, welding, carpentry, landscaping, and painting. I was part of the electrician’s crew and work in this for the remaining time at Coffee Creek. I met so many women in bad circumstances that sent them to prison, like domestic abuse, being homeless, and mental illness that had caused addictions to drugs or alcohol. Many of the women genuinely had remorse for their crimes.

Zuleyma’s story continues in an upcoming post - Chapter 4: Making a Positive Life

The Good Teacher - Chapter 2: Control and Abuse

By Zuleyma Figueroa

READ CHAPTER 1: ROLE MODELS AND SUCCESS

Suddenly, in June 2010, I was caught selling drugs and went to jail. I lost my teaching and administrative license. After serving three months in jail, I got a lawyer and managed to get out. I was devastated. I still had my house and decided to rent out a couple of rooms for income. I got a job and began to work in a Mexican store. Not planning to continue my relationship with my partner.  

Suddenly, one Friday morning, she turned up at my front door asking me to let her in my life again. I said no and I asked her to leave.  She left, but she began stalking me and sending people to my house to spy on me and what I was doing. Then she showed up again and this time she got into my house and put a gun to my head. She told me that if I said anything, or called the police, that she would make me or one of my sisters disappear in an instant. I was terrified! I had been kidnapped in my own house. And the threat was real because her brothers are sicarios, contracted hitmen. These guys would make you disappear and no one would ever find out where you were or what happened to you. I was so scared for my life and the life of my sisters. 

This woman took over my house and my possessions. She used my name to do a lot of different things. Including opening up an automotive shop where her brothers were acting as mechanics. My life was a living hell. I became her maid and I would never talk to her in a way that would make her mad or upset. I told my sisters to not visit me or contact me because I didn’t want them around me or these dangerous people. I wanted to commit suicide several times. I didn’t have a phone because her phone was the main contact for everything.  

When the shop was opened, it was with money that I did not know where it came from but I am sure it was drug money. She ordered me to be in the front office to run the business because I spoke English. I never knew what she was doing in the shop, but I assume it was bad things because of what she was doing to me. I was a scared woman with nowhere to run to and nowhere to turn. If I said anything, I knew that I would end up in a grave. I slept in a room by myself while she slept in a separate room with her guns, vigilant of anything I did. She put up cameras in the back and front of my house. 

Eventually, the DEA showed up to the shop to perform a search and I was arrested. Again she seemed to have escaped justice. I was charged with possession and delivery of drugs and although the DEA knew I wasn’t their suspect, I was the only one they had in their custody. I was interrogated and told them several times I didn’t know anything. It didn’t matter and I was convicted of charges that sent me to prison for four years. 

Zuleyma’s story continues in an upcoming post - Chapter 3: Lost and Healing

The Good Teacher - Chapter 1: Role Models and Success

By Zuleyma Figueroa

“Good teacher.”  This is how my students and their parents would describe me in the schools that I have worked in. I was a teacher for over 15 years in bilingual programs, K-12. I have always had a passion to teach and serve the children and youth in our community. Indeed, I was happy. I had a house, a nice car, wonderful teaching job, friends, family, and most of all I made my mother proud for having put my degree from higher education to work. My mother was my hero and my older brothers were great role models in my life. Even as I came out, revealing I was gay, I had a great deal of support from my parents and family.

It was winter 2007 when I met a woman that I fell in love with. We were happy and things were going well for a couple of years. Then I started to notice that my income from work was not enough to cover the life of luxury that my partner wanted. She began to invite people into our life and into our house, and suddenly there was a world that I never asked for. Reluctantly, I began to get involved in this lifestyle in a desperate attempt to keep my partner happy. Eventually I would succumb to her manipulation and eventually found out that she was heavily involved in a family drug dealing business. In retrospect, I now see how love can be so blind.

Gradually, I began to start selling drugs for money to keep my partner happy.  I also started to have fear as she began controlling me by yelling and hitting me. She had also drilled in my mind, because of my standing, that I would never have consequences behind my actions. She also promised me that she would always have my back and the police would never suspect me. I believed her and did whatever she wanted. I ignored the realization that I was contributing to a drug problem in my community and was destroying people’s lives, including my own.

I also did not realize the degree of psychological manipulation that was being inflicted upon me and all the strategies and tactics in which she was controlling my life. She gave me constant reassurance that everything was going fine. Certainly, domestic violence can take many forms and it was not fully apparent to me at that time. I was completely brainwashed.  After all, money did not seem to be much of a problem as she traveled back and forth to her family, buying expensive cars and have parties every weekend. Doing drugs was not the addiction, but selling drugs and getting money were. I lost my identity and I started to be very codependent of my partner. I stopped living my life and started living her life instead. I stopped seeing my family and friends too. The world that surrounded me belonged only to her.

Zuleyma’s story continues in an upcoming post - Chapter 2: Control and Abuse

790 Days - Part Eleven - The end of a cycle

Isabelle S.
20559660

I’m coming almost full-circle to completing a year of my life, blogged monthly within these posts. And within this context, I’m starting a new year, too. I’m starting again with school, and I’m starting again with new possibility. This is where I was back in 2013, when I first moved to Oregon - an incoming freshman going into a private liberal arts school, waiting to see what an education could or would bring, only with more desperation on the line.

I’ll be coming in with a year of school under my belt, so I’m no longer a freshman. But the point remains the same. I don’t believe many people reach the opportunity in their lives to simply press ‘redo’; to go back to the very same place in which they were before some seemingly fatal life decisions were made, and to get the choice to act again. And this seems to be where I find myself now.

It could also be that I misunderstand the situation, and perhaps this is what it’s like to fully step into your life again - perhaps many women come to this crossroads, where they come face-to-face with the same situation where they would have acted differently years ago. And that’s the thing about incarceration, when it’s done as it’s meant to be - people just come out different. We come into the same lives we used to inhabit, but now we wear a different skin. And that’s why sometimes, there’s no better adjective to describe this whole thing than simply being weird. It’s dichotomous. You - me - I’m split in two. I experience life through multiple filters, depending on which history of mine I’m tuning into. And very specifically, it’s split in half by my time at Coffee Creek.

So, as I start this new year, in the wonderful position I have, I get to see it through this lens. I get to see it as the culmination of the work I’ve done in prison, and as the second chance I believe every human being deserves. It’s only when we put ourselves back where we first started that we are able to see just how much we’ve grown.

And how beautiful an opportunity that is.

And, if I can say so at this point, thank you for reading any part of my story that you have. Hopefully it grants a little bit of insight into the fragmented nature of change, and of our justice system. I know my life has shifted tremendously from it, and I only look forward to seeing how this develops.

I’ll see you on the other side, my friend.

The writer underwent two years at Coffee Creek Correctional Facility in Oregon, convicted for charges directly related to an active drug addiction.

Freda's Story Part Two

After her conviction and sentencing under Measure 11, Freda Ceaser served her time at Coffee Creek Correctional Facility. There, she experienced the pain of separation from her family, including the death of her father while she was still incarcerated. Having spent time in prison, Freda now believes strongly in a more restorative approach to justice that she thinks will be more effective in addressing the root causes of crime and preventing re-offending.

This is part two of a two-part series with Freda. Watch part one.

Freda's Story Part One

Since it was introduced in 1995, Measure 11 has become perhaps the best known of Oregon’s mandatory minimum sentencing laws. Crafted amid a climate of fear about violent crime, Measure 11 was backed by voters including Freda Ceaser. What Freda didn’t expect was that she herself would end up being sentenced under the law.

In this video, Freda discusses how her youth and an addiction problem led her to involvement in property crime. She - and many others who voted for Measure 11 - understood that it would be taking on those who were committing acts of violence. Yet, without having done this herself, she still ended up being convicted under Measure 11.

This is part one of a two-part video series with Freda. Watch part two.

Payton's Story

Payton describes how prison re-traumatized her, triggered memories of an abusive behavioral modification program that she survived as a teenager, and crushed her soul. Her experiences in prison and the lack of trust and resentment that prison fostered in her has made life back in the community a struggle. She believes that there is not enough education for young people about how the criminal system functions and the grave consequences that can result from seemingly small actions.

790 Days - Part Ten - The growing edge

Isabelle S.
20559660

As this is my second to last blog post, I’ve been thinking a lot about how this last year in blog-writing has passed. I’ve thought about the changes in myself, in what I’ve written about, and in my perception of my own space in society. And although I haven’t reached any conclusions by any means, I have realized that this has been one hell of an extraordinary adventure. I’ve had all sorts of means come test my boundaries, and although troublesome at the time, they really blossomed into opportunities to get to know myself.

I was reading an issue of Harper’s the other day, and in their miscellaneous readings section they had published a short letter-to-the-editor written by Oscar Wilde in the late nineteenth century. And, even more apropos, it was his direct commentary on England’s prison system at the time, from his experience serving two years incarceration for “sexual indecency” - or what we might now know of as homosexuality.

I realize there will always be injustice in the world, which seems a sad, but also liberating truth to bear. Although I imagine conditions must have been harsher at the time, Wilde’s commentary was so strikingly similar to what I saw, and my own identification with incarceration that it left both a feeling of vindication, and a little residue of hollowness.

As long as systems remain what they are - which is to say, human pieces of machinery - there will be people subjugated by them. I don’t know if this is what matters so much as it is learning how to live through them, and despite them. I’m no idealist about systems change. but I do think we can become more aware of the world we live in, because, the way I see it, each one of us has had a part in shaping it, most likely unconsciously.

I’ve lived with enough guilt in my life to know better, by now. I’ve done some pretty harmful things, and I’ve been hurt in some pretty brutal ways. But neither of those matters so much to me anymore. I’ve had to make my amends where possible, and I’ve had to take accountability in order to be able to make that last claim. But regardless, in looking back at each statement I’ve made, and each subject I’ve thought important, what I see is my own future in the making.

And that is the most liberating truth I could ask for.

The writer underwent two years at Coffee Creek Correctional Facility in Oregon, convicted for charges directly related to an active drug addiction.

790 Days - Part Nine - What kept me going

Isabelle S.
20559660

There is a nearly miraculous power behind decisions. I’ve heard somewhere that, on average, a human being makes about 35,000 decisions in a day - this counting every infinitesimally small, almost unconscious choice we might make, between choosing to reach for another piece of toast, or choosing how we feel about how our significant other responds to us.

Decisions are powerful.

And I really learned of their power behind bars. Prison is a place, almost the trademark place, where one might think of a person as deprived of choice. And that’s pretty accurate, in one very evident light. In another, the most crucial decisions in my life have been made in this space, where I was most physically restricted.

I think most of us are familiar with the idea of traumatic life events (potentially) leading to spiritual realizations, or major life shifts. Unfortunately, they can also come with depression, uncertainty, ostracization, loss of property, relationships, and personal identity, and many other effects besides.

What separates one person from another in a place like prison very quickly comes down to one thing: the power of decision. Those who are considered successful within its walls come to this place by hard work, that much is evident. It isn’t easy to live every day when you’re in prison, for anyone, I think. No matter how much you get used to it, there remains a part of you acutely aware of all the things you’re missing: your niece’s graduation and your daughter’s first birthday; the cool feel of roughened bark under your hand; the smell of coffee in the morning, when you’re lounging around the table with nothing yet to do. You really know what you don’t have, when you don’t have it. Cliché, but true.

And the power of decision is what kept me going. I realized, if I wanted to move forward, the only part of my life I could develop any grasp of was my own relationship to what was happening around me. I had to learn to separate myself from the consequences, and keep going. I had to decide to be happy, because what I didn’t have wasn’t going to come to me anytime soon.

So, I decided to notice the small stuff. The trees I was privileged to see from the window four bunks down and two bunks north of me became some of my best friends in the two years I spent in Coffee Creek. (As a side note, I was housed in the minimum-security facility. Within the medium facility, in its halls and its cells, there are no windows.) I would look to those trees when I needed support, or reassurance, and it meant the world to me to know there was something I could count on just being there.

Life is funny in this way; you never know where it’s going to take you. But you can be certain of how you choose to handle it - that much, I believe, is firmly within your grasp.

The writer underwent two years at Coffee Creek Correctional Facility in Oregon, convicted for charges directly related to an active drug addiction.