Tuesday, June 8, 2010

But What Did I Do?! Really? What??

As my hands were quickly jerked behind my back and cuffed together it felt like a mix between a dream and a role in a movie. I had no doubt in my mind that Ashton Kutcher or some other goofy character would pop out from behind a bush(even though I’m clearly not a celebrity) and ‘Punk’ me. Instead the contents of my purse were dumped out onto a table while I was shoved into the back of a van where the seats were made of wooden boards, one on each side of the van facing each other. I began crying out, ‘What is going on, what did I do, someone PLEASE tell me what is happening to me’ because in my mind, I truly, without a doubt, had no idea what was going on. (Unfortunately that's what every criminal says, even if they ARE guilty of a crime) That was until I saw my Prescription bottle on the small table outside of the van. With approximately 6 officers, all wearing latex gloves, counting the pills, and writing down the inscription on each pill, the doors were slammed and the van started to move. With my friends still inside the club, and no phone, coat, pillow, blanket, or even the state of mind to say a prayer, I lost complete consciousness.

I woke up being escorted to a Police Precinct in Manhattan, and just stepping foot in the place gives you the creeps. I was fingerprinted and got the prettiest mugshot ever taken. I looked like a mix between Don King and Courtney Love. I wish I could get my hands on it. It’s a real ‘beaut’. They walked me down the hall to a cell, gave me a ratty old blanket and locked the door. I remember still being in and out of consciousness until I finally fell asleep.

Around 8:00am the next morning, they came to get me to take me to a holding cell at the Courthouse right in the middle of Manhattan. It’s a couple of blocks from SOHO, so you are smack dab in the middle of the city. The officers helped me out of the same van I had been put in the night before, (rolling around like a pinball because there no seats, only wooden boards) and I asked again, ‘What did I do, and why am I here’. I had drunk so much that I blacked out and don’t remember doing anything wrong. One of the officers, said, ‘Did you happen to sell any pills’. I said ‘Of course not, that’s disgusting who does that; I’m not a drug dealer’. ‘He said did you take any pills yesterday while you were drinking?’ I replied with a yes, and then he said I apparently wanted to die young. After that, I at least had a clue of what must’ve happened, but still couldn’t put the pieces together. I’ve never sold or gave anyone a pill in my life. I always thought pills were skanky. But, for the past month, I had been taking a Percocet here or there, by self-medicating to ease my migraines and my depression all at the same time. It had made me forget all of my pain I had experienced and took away the horrible disturbing memories, and if I had a drink with one, I had no sadness at all. Those made me feel better, even though it was only temporary. And afterward, I felt a million times worse. Not to mention too guilty to go to the Lord for the forgiveness and help he would have so easily given to me.

As we were walking to the Courthouse holding cell, the officers asked me questions like what I did for a living, a bit of small talk, then led me to be ‘inspected’. Before I was led to my cell, I had to go get checked out by a female guard. I threw up because my nerves were a wreck, mixed with the amount of alcohol I had consumed the previous day. She proceeded to say, ‘I don’t have time for this you crackhead b&%^$. She screamed at me for having wire in my bra, and proceeded to tell the officers waiting in the other room to get the crackhead b&%v$ out of her face, she was ready for the next one.

The officers then mentioned that I’d only be in the holding cell for about an hour, and I’d get to go home. Um, WRONG. WRONG WRONG WRONG. More like 14 hours. The cell was about as big as the kitchen on the TV show ‘Full House’. Sorry but that’s the only reference I can think of because when it comes to measurements, you’re asking the wrong chick. There were 3 of these icky plastic green mats. One toilet, with a sink on the top. I don't even think it had a door. When I walked in there were 5 other women inside. Head down, still confused as can be, with my short leopard print strapless dress on, chunky heels, we all know what they thought I was in for. I don’t think I even have to say it. One of the girls was a lil fashionista who I still keep in touch with today. She had worked at a Fashion magazine and someone accused her of stealing. One lady didn’t pay her cab fare. Another was in for driving without a license, one for cussing out a police officer, and the one with no teeth, a crackhead. Throughout the day, many more women trickled in the holding cell, and at one time, there were so many of us, there was not even a place to sit. Much less lie down. The one lady I still think about and continue to pray for was a prostitute. She was so beautiful, and said that as soon as the judge let her go, she had to find a client, or she would be beaten when she got home. We continued to talk and I tried to tell her about other paths she could take. But she was adamant that she wasn’t smart enough for any of those things. I mean it from the bottom of my heart that I think about her every single day.

See, in this holding cell, we were all waiting to be arraigned, to be seen in front of the judge. At that time, he would let us go with a fine, give you probation, or send you to jail, to await trial, or drop all charges. Listening to all these women talk, and tell their stories was fascinating. Calling my mother from the payphone located inside the cell, not so much. No matter what I’ve put her through, she’s always been the person who was there. Never did she love me any less, nor did she pass judgment on me. She’s the most beautiful Christian I’ve ever known. And if I could be half the person she is, I’d be beyond blessed. The minute I called her, she prayed with me, and I immediately felt the peace of God surrounding me in the cell. No matter what I had done, even though I DID know better, He was there with me, and His Holy Spirit comforting me all the way. I felt like the Prodigal. Even sitting there in that cell. I even started to laugh a little. The prostitutes started to roll in like an army. And they were laughing the entire time. Some of them had been locked up 30 to 50 times. There isn’t much of a punishment for them for some reason. But once I talked to them, asked how they got where they are, I could write a book about each and every one. I could see sweet hearts and souls in some of them, and wanted to rescue them. God doesn’t love them any less than he loves the Pastor of your church. God is nothing like the self-righteous idiots who hold up a signs protesting gays. (I will never understand why people do that? What purpose does it serve?) But as far as all the secrets He knows about you that no one else does. He really knows. (Like, know knows.) And He loves you just the same. It’s that unending love, undying love that’ so very very hard to understand. I’m praying today to learn to understand it. I’m hoping it will help me to act the way Jesus wants me to. And not the way I want to. I’ve got a long way to go, but I’m trying.
I can’t wait to tell you the rest of the story, and how God has restored my life to its fullest. And I blessed to be able to do so. XOXO

Love Love, and more Love,