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 - 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.

Shaping a Future - Life After Prison - Dawn

On Sunday, October 29th, 2017, nine individuals told their stories in a performance titled: Shaping a Future: Life After Prison. The performance was the culmination of writing workshops sponsored by the Regional Arts and Culture Council.

The project was conceived of and organized by writing teacher, Carol Imani. The performance was held at the First Unitarian Church in downtown Portland and was directed by Chris Karczmar.

Each of the awe-inspiring participants read a monologue they wrote over the course of the workshops, they told stories of redemption, grit and determination centering around their reentry to society after time spent in prison.

The monologues were broadcast in a series of three shows by the Portland radio station KBOO. With kind permission of KBOO, we are sharing their broadcasts here. This show is part two of the series and features a monologue and interview with Dawn. Dawn's monologue begins at five minutes, 22 seconds.

To hear this program at the KBOO website, click here. The show was hosted by Amy Johnson and produced by KBOO for Prison Pipeline.