Abstract
My name is Jana Bergman. I am currently 37 years old and am currently incarcerated at Denver Women’s Correctional Facility located in Denver, Colorado. I was sentenced out of Jefferson County to a period of 208 years. I have been asked to write my story. After much prayer and thought, I am unsure of what exactly to say, or even where to start. As I write this, I hope that it is understood as it is intended and that I cover everything needed to fully grasp my journey up to this point.
For the first ten years of my life I grew up constantly moving not just between homes, but to different states. My father was career military and we went with his job. It was my father and mother, my older brother and myself. In my early childhood, my brother always picked on me. Initially it was nothing extreme, just sibling stuff. As we grew older, his abusive behaviors began coming out. I recall him playing a lot of sports. He really took to football and I became his tackle dummy. Now a 175-pound teenager, he was much more capable of actually hurting me. I was shy, sweet, and a teacher’s pet with good grades. I wasn’t exactly popular either. As the abuse from my brother continued, I began acting out. I’d steal my mother’s cigarettes and share them with the “cool” kids to fit in and belong. Around this time, my brother began drinking heavily and often and that only fueled the violence. He got into fights at school, hit my mother, got into fist fights with my father, and hit me regularly. My father worked a lot and was “not to be bothered” as per my mother. She would feed him information as she deemed necessary about the goings-on in the home. He had no idea the severity of the situation under his roof. I can recall having to strategically hang large decorative pictures and move furniture to cover the holes created from my head, his fist, objects, or my body. The extensive damage to the house was nothing that couldn’t be fixed. I, on the other hand, didn’t come away unscathed. My 911 calls and attempts at telling my father were half-hearted. Even at my own expense, I felt a need to protect him. I lost sight of myself and my worth from 12-21 years old, and it only continued to get worse. My mother began drinking with my brother. They both lost their licenses from DUIs and she enabled him to turn a blind eye to the abuse. It was during this time that I delved into the drug scene, using to escape my reality or at least numb it. Although those were my initial intentions, I found a great deal more pain taking this path and experienced things no young girl growing into womanhood should. I have been robbed many times; I have been raped and taken advantage of numerous times; I have been in so many unfortunate situations. That alone is a story.
For the most part, I became quite accustomed to being the dumping post. Being used and abused became the norm. As that’s going on, so is the home lie of my family. My brother had a lengthy pattern of violence on his criminal record. GF#1 pressed charges and left. GF#2 same-same, and possibly a restraining order as well. GF#3 wouldn’t give him sexual relations, so he shattered her car windshield and her face while intoxicated. Then, on New Year’s Eve of 2003, all the drinking my mother had been doing caught up with her, and while my brother was out partying, I found my mother dead in her bed. I had just been in a TC (ed: Therapeutic Community) program having had drug charges that required treatment. I only moved back home because a couple months earlier my mother begged me to return. Given the dynamic between all of us, I went reluctantly. Now looking back, I feel as though she knew somehow and needed me there. It was untreated cirrhosis of the liver and I’ve always felt guilty that I didn’t save her. I attempted suicide carrying that guilt.
My father and I attempted speaking again after her death. Although I stayed in their home before her passing, he and I rarely spoke and hadn’t for many, many years. I held anger towards him and he towards me. Now it felt as though both of our hearts had softened. We made attempts at mending our broken relationship. My father didn’t want my brother or myself living in his home now that my mother was gone, and I respected his wishes. He even helped me locate a Christian Transitional Living Program where I could stay. My brother went to their male program a few months later and attacked the director, beating him badly. He became homeless and intoxicated, and decided to show up at my father’s house late at night unannounced. My father asked him to leave because it was late and he was drunk. My brother continued to tell my father that he was coming in. They went back and forth for a bit before my brother brutally attacked my father so severely it rendered him unconscious in a pool of his own blood. He contacted me a couple days later and asked me to come over. Crying, he told me he was sorry he never believed me. They have not spoken since, nor do I think they ever will. My father pressed charges on my brother and he got one year in county jail. Three weeks after he was released, he attacked GF#4 almost killing her; he broke her jaw, and her orbital floor. He did horrible things to her and he began serving a 10-year sentence for that in 2005. While in prison he killed a man and received another 15 years on top of that. I’ve no understanding as to why he does what he does. I’ve never gotten an apology nor do I think I will. I’ve spent years helping him, making excuses for him, and feeling like if I love him more, he’ll get better and treat me better. After my brother attacked my father and went to jail, my father sold his home and moved to the East Coast near my aunts and uncles. I haven't seen him since. In less than a year, I lost my entire family - albeit a dysfunctional one. They were the only sense of stability I had. I relapsed and eventually took my previous drug charge and probation and revoked it, turning it into a prison sentence.
At 21 years old, I entered the exact same prison I now currently sit in. Angry, alone, broken, and untrusting, I didn’t even have my basic hygiene items and no one to call, no one to help. I got into a lot of fights and eventually got sat down by the old timers that knew I just needed someone. I did a few years and got out to a half-way house in Littleton, Colorado. While there, I received mail from a guy I knew in High School who had been incarcerated on felony eluding charges. I figured he wasn’t that bad because he didn’t do drugs or drink, so that meant he was safe. He was the first man that I would call my boyfriend at age 25. Freshly out of prison and on birth control, we had sex one time and I became pregnant. Not what I planned at all. He promised me it all: A family, marriage, home, and children. I fell hook, line and sinker. I wanted to be sold dreams. My dream turned into a nightmare almost overnight. Once I knew I was definitely pregnant, he began hitting me, hitting the un-born baby in my belly. He rarely worked, monitored my phone, finances, friends, questioned my wardrobe, my whereabouts. He belittled me, threatened me with my freedom, knowing I was at the halfway house. Once I got out of there, it went from bad to worse. I couldn’t even go to Walmart alone. The abuse went from 0 to 60. He cheated on me with at least 25 women during our 4-year relationship. I finally got the nerve up to leave and get my daughter somewhere safe. I asked his brother (and now wife) to take her and adopt her. The last time I saw her she was 18 months old. She’ll be 10 years old in October.
After leaving my daughter’s dad, I met a man who was the polar opposite of my ex. He never hit me, cheated on me, or threatened me. He worked six days a week, answered all his phone calls in front of me, didn’t control my wardrobe, whereabouts, or finances. He was extremely sensitive and open, transparent if you will. We got a place and began plans to start our business together. Actually, it was his business, but I’d help him oversee it. I had my untouched Pell Grant to attend college at CCD for my Bachelor’s in Business Management while we worked on getting the demolition and excavation company going. He had mentioned having been an alcoholic, but he described himself as recovering. Until the day he wasn’t. I was blind-sighted and unprepared to watch the man I’d fallen madly in love with drink a handle of whisky every day. I, after many failed conversations and arguments, decided to move out temporarily until we could figure everything out. Not break-up, but separate to our mutual corners. Continuing on didn’t seem feasible. He constantly told me that if I left him, he’d kill himself. If I left, he’d make sure I regretted it and when he killed himself, I’d remember him then. I’ve been controlled and threatened my whole life. I honestly thought they were idle threats. In August of 2012, he died of a self-inflicted gun fatality. And I, for the first time in my life, had a full-on, complete mental breakdown. I heard voices. I’d see him walking down the street, smell him, and look around to see no one, nothing there. I wouldn’t accept that he died, and searched online for an article, news report, obituary. I lost my cars, my home, everything I owned, my sanity, and my sobriety. I had never injected drugs up to this point. I attempted suicide by injecting 90 ccs of raw egg into my blood stream because I read that it simulates a stroke in the body. I projectile vomited and passed out sick for weeks afterward, but I didn’t die. I shot up and OD’d only to be left in my pee-stained pants, robbed of my belongings, and left for dead. This sick pattern continued until I caught another drug offense, landing me in Arapahoe County Jail where I stayed for 13 months.
My initial offer from the DA was eighty days at the same half-way home I’d already successfully completed years ago. I knew the program and for the first time in my life didn’t want to just take the deal and go with whatever they decided for me. I needed help. I needed mental health help and feared going back out into the community after everything that I’d been through. My entire life has been one continuous stream of sadness, death, violence, and pain. I wanted to get help, so I asked for Arapahoe/Douglas Mental Health Court, a lengthy program that was extremely intensive and addressed everything. I went through the formalities of filling out the inch-thick application required to see if you are eligible, only to find out that my public defender never submitted it. I supposed he banked on my taking the DA’s offer.
Had I known he never submitted my application to the program, I would have made a lot of different decisions. But, we can’t change the past. Seven months into my incarceration, as I made plans to hopefully be accepted into the MH program, find employment and pick up the pieces of my life, I decided to start trying to get things going from where I was. I read the newspaper regularly and wrote down anything that pertained to my success. I came across an ad for a housekeeper and kept the information. Having been a personal care provider before at an adult foster care many years ago, and during my relationship with my daughter’s dad, I cared for a man in hospice, as well as jobs as a waitress. After talking to some other girls in my housing unit, I found out it would take a lot longer than I expected for a response on my application to the MH program. It was then that I decided to save money and bond myself out while waiting for approval. I also began calling and writing some of the many resources I’d found to get back on track. That’s when I called Jack, answering his ad for a housekeeper. I actually contacted him from county jail, figuring honesty was the best policy. I explained that I was inquiring about the job and he asked questions about my situation. I explained the basics without getting too far ahead of myself. I said I was waiting on a program, needed employment, and was working on getting bonded out. He asked me to call back the following Friday to talk more. I agreed, and that next week I got the sense that he just wanted someone to talk to. He spoke about the weather, his home, fishing. He told me about the housekeeper he had, and how she wasn’t working out because she had no time for him. Then he said she was always working and he didn’t like that she had two jobs. Then it was that she stayed out for days. I wondered why it mattered as long as she did her job. What was the problem? I thought I must not be getting the full story. I completely dismissed it and probably shouldn’t have. I only called once a week, usually on Fridays, and he was always drinking or had just come home from the bar. That was concerning for me. But I dismissed it as well. He said that he wanted someone to cook and clean. After many discussions, I found out he lived by himself and had lost his wife to sickness, had one other live-in relationship, but now resided alone. He never made any romantic insinuations so I thought we were friends. He did lie to me about his age, telling me he was 20 years younger than he actually was. It was nearing Christmas and I had a few hundred saved up for my bond. I called Jack as usual and this time he was very serious. “It’s almost Christmas. Aren’t you getting out?” He then agreed to contact the bondsman and put up the $1000 himself for my release, no strings attached. I had discussed just working it off and even the possibility of living with him - room and board in exchange for cooking and cleaning. He said we’d deal with it once I got out.
I bonded out of Arapahoe County Jail on December 24th, 2013, after sitting there for 13 months waiting for a program I was never put in for. I was reluctant to go to Jack’s home on Christmas Eve. Surely his entire family was there spending the holidays with him. How far from the truth that was. He rarely saw them. They never came by and lived in the area. Coming from dysfunction myself, I felt bad for him. My first night out was spend with a girl that I stayed with briefly after my boyfriend’s passing. She’s a blackout alcoholic and always has a train of men in her apartment at any given time. I continued to call Jack during this time and had a friend drive me over to his house to meet him. He gave me the tour and showed me where I’d stay if I moved in. Considering my options, I agreed, and eventually settled in. I stayed in my room figuring I was the housekeeper. To give him in his space in his home, I’d leave to look for paying employment since we had agreed to room and board, which consisted of food and hygiene items. No probation fees, no transportation, no UAs or help with any of my required costs surrounding my situation. I didn’t ask and he didn’t offer.
Jack started to grumble and complain that I didn’t appreciate him. While saying it, he’d rock his hips in a thrust. It got weird quick. He told me that the arrangement wasn’t working out. Here I thought I’d finally started picking up the pieces of my life and was getting on the right track and now this? I asked my MH clinician Vicki S. To talk to him so that he wouldn’t kick me out. She was on vacation in Canada with her family, and pleaded with Jack not to. I had no idea what I’d done wrong. I’d respected this man’s home, cooked, cleaned and searched for employment - why was he doing this? Every time I left for court or an appointment, I had to ride the bus from Arvada to Aurora. I’d come back and all the screen doors were locked so my keys were useless. He’d ignore my phone calls and I’d sit outside in the cold for hours waiting for him to answer or let me in. Homeless with nowhere else to go, his address my residence of record, I was confused, scared and still extremely broken. At times he’d answer extremely intoxicated and verbally attack me calling me a slut and a whore, telling me I must be giving it to someone else because I wasn’t giving it to him. He’d always ask me to drink with him and I constantly explained that I was on bond and wasn’t supposed to be. I’d awake one day to him standing in the doorway of my bedroom groping his genitals thought his pants, or he’d walk in the bathroom while I was showering and stand and stare as I struggled to cover myself, since the shower doors were glass and not frosted. Shame and fear set in. Feeling defeated, I began drinking with him. ‘You can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’, only made matters worse.
One evening I drank with him and called it a night, while he continued on. I heard loud moaning coming from the living room and went to see what it was. Jack was naked in his recliner touching himself watching porn. I asked him to shut it off. It was inappropriate and I worked and lived there. He said, “Why? You ain’t giving me none.” I walked over and shut it off and when I hit power on the TV he sprang out of his recliner and began hitting me and calling me a whore and slut. I covered my face with my arms and retreated, running into the kitchen. He followed, then down the stairs to the walkout basement, he followed. I figured I’d stop him by saying I was calling 911. He kept coming. I picked up the wall phone and dialed and he kept coming. Once I had dialed, he grabbed the receiver and began hitting me with it. I went into the downstairs bathroom - the only room in the entire house with a lock on the door - and sat waiting. I don’t hear so well, and couldn’t tell if he was out there still, but figured I’d take my chance. I snuck back upstairs and saw him still at it in the living room, so I went to my room and blocked the door to slow him down while I packed some items. Then I heard a loud pounding on the front door. The cops. I went out and answered. They took me outside and as I explained they simply offered the civil assist to get my stuff. I couldn’t believe it; I was now homeless and had just been attacked. Had it been me, I’d be in cuffs. I obliged, and as were outside speaking, Jack tore up my room and went through all my belongings on the bed, drunk and still naked. The cops and I went in - porn still blaring. Jack now partially covered in his chair - and I packed my meager belongings and sat outside in the cold waiting for a ride.
Thus began my sad story all over again. I moved from house to house. Men would only move me in for one thing, and when they didn’t get, they’d kick me out. I relapsed during this time and fell into a pit of deep despair. I plotted my suicide and attempted executing it many times. Not wanting to use a gun or knife, I felt the only option was an overdose - making it look like an accident so as not to embarrass myself or hurt my Dad. After many living situations and poor decisions, I somehow ended up walking down a street after 10 pm with my dog Viking (a Jack Russell/terrier mix), and, with nowhere to go, I called Jack. He had a yard, and although not my first choice, he was my only choice and last resort. I was tired, broke, and it was late. He answered and told me to “get a cab and come home.” Home, I thought. Wow, what a word. It almost hurt to hear that. I slept upstairs in my room from before. That evening and the next day, I thanked Jack and explained to him that it was just temporary until I found somewhere else to go. He said I was like his family, more so than his real family, that I always had a home with him, and he begged me to stay. He apologized for everything, using the excuse that he had been drunk, and that things just got out of hand. He said he hadn’t been sure he’d ever see me again, and had worried about me. I felt like someone actually cared for me and wanted me around, and, as usual, I dismissed all the bad things, only focusing on what I wanted - no, needed - to hear. He sweetened the deal by offering to let me use his Crown Vic until we could find a car for me. He offered to purchase a vehicle for me to use for all of my legal obligations, my supervision and mental health appointments, and errands, until I eventually secured employment and could pay him back over a period of time. He let me move into the walk-out basement to “have more privacy” and my own bathroom. I continued to state that I was not available for a relationship and was not interested in him sexually. He said he understood, but still cared for me. Honestly, I cared for him too. As a caregiver, you naturally care for the people you provide care for. You even grow to love them. In my mind, he was like a dirty-old-man-Grandpa-type to me. A pseudo-family of two outcasts joined together with no one but each other. Jack had done time in the State and Federal prison system, so I figured we sort of understood each other. I thought we had an understanding. How very wrong I actually was. Having really no other option, I stayed.
At first, it was alright. Jack gave me the money for my legal obligations and supervision fees, let me use the Crown Vic to get to my appointments, court dates, and seek employment. He occasionally would “have an episode,” as I called it, and flip on me, but he apologized quickly and reeled himself back in. We found a car, and looking back, I should have had him put my name on it. But, thinking I was covering my butt, I had him sign a contract I wrote on a notebook paper at the dealership, saying he could not threaten me, coerce me, or prevent me from using the vehicle at any time. We both signed, and he even brought that contract to my trial for my defense. I wasn’t aware of how bad things were, considering that all my life I’ve never really had a good gauge of that. I knew they could be much worse, and so I continued on in this sketchy situation. It all sort of began again, and now that he had given me all these gifts, I was right where he wanted me. He told me there were cameras all over the house, so I began changing my clothes in my closet with the lights out. He stood outside the bathroom door while I was in the shower. I recall once having left a pack of new shaving razors on my bed, so I threw my robe on without securing the tie and exited to grab them, and there he was. I shrieked and fumbled with my robe. He never had a reason for being where he was; he was just “conveniently” there. He told me he had people following me and I believed him. He kicked my dog Viking with his cowboy boots on, and if I touched his sides, he’d whimper. He said I loved my dog more than him. If I left Viking, Jack would intentionally let him out, and I’d have to search for him. Thankfully, nothing happened to him. Every single time Jack entered the room, Viking would growl. I finally decided I needed to let a friend take him for his own safety.
One evening I arrived home from getting a spray tan and went outside to smoke a cigarette before bed. Jack was extremely intoxicated in a lawn chair, smoking a cigar, and began telling me I was going to show him my behind. Somewhat confused, and realizing he was drunk, I sort of laughed it off. He went to grab me, and I ran. He picked up a steel pole and a broom and began whipping and swinging at my ankles. I was screaming at the top of my lungs. I went inside and locked myself in the bathroom, my only safe haven from him.
Another incident occurred on his birthday. A girl I was seeing and I bought him balloons, presents, and when we arrived at the house, he wouldn’t let us in. Finally, after almost an hour, he let us in and drunk attacked me, cutting his hand on a chunky ring I was wearing. I still stayed. He’d threaten me from the beginning about having men in his home, saying he had a “thirty-eight next to his bed with two bullets in it for me and any man I bring into his house.” I never really brought any male friends there. I had an on-again-off-again relationship with a man I met while taking care of his father who was in hospice. He was separated and hadn’t finalized his divorce. It was a messy situation to be in, and I’d visit him and then leave, since I knew how up and down drama-filled relationships can be. But Jack knew about him, and even called him and told him “to keep me,” like I was a piece of property or an animal. My male friend even offered to begin paying the monthly car payment to get Jack to have less control. During the down times, I had a relationship with a girl that was allowed in Jack’s home, and would stay days there as a buffer between me and Jack. He became extremely jealous of her and said she was no longer allowed over. He attempted to cut me off from everyone and keep me there, knowing I had nowhere else to go. I continued to rebel and act out in the only way I knew how - using to numb the pain and create my own reality.
I was committed to three different hospitals for psychiatric evaluations and had several failed attempts at suicide during the last months I spent there. I didn’t belong anywhere, no one wanted me, I had lost everything and everyone, including the will to go on. I made plans to obtain pills and heroin to take my life. I had a male acquaintance get a hotel room for me and the girl I was seeing. I ingested far too much of everything, and the man took advantage of the situation by taking the keys to the car Jack bought me, and leaving in it. He also left his gun there with one bullet in it, knowing I was on a downward spiral. It was as if he was willing me to take my life. I really don’t know what happened. I flipped out on my girl, left and ended up losing it in an apartment complex trying to locate the dude who took my car. I was razed by the police and taken to the hospital. Jack bonded me out. Shortly after, I had another mental health episode and was admitted to University Hospital. Shortly after that, I was taken to Lutheran Hospital by ambulance with police assist. I was losing grip with reality and struggling, to say the least. Because of the recent new charge, my bond in Arapahoe was revoked and a contempt of court bond was added making my new bond a quarter of a million dollars. I went to jail at my next court appearance at Arapahoe. I contacted Jack to let him know that it had gone on long enough, and to leave me there. The bond was too high and unconstitutional, and would eventually get lowered. Jack said he’d call his bondsman to check anyway, and I continued telling him to leave me. He didn’t want to leave me in there, saying he didn’t care about the money. His kids would just throw it all away when he died anyway, and he wanted me home. He posted my bail, and as I sat in booking waiting to be released, fear set in and I knew he’d use this as leverage. I asked the female officer if I had to leave, or if I could refuse. She informed me that once the bond paperwork was filed, it was mandatory that I leave, but if I felt unsafe, I could tell the courts, my bondsman, or probation officer, and have them help me figure it out. It was bittersweet. I was about to be free, but right back where I started - enslaved.
Things went bad quickly. He had paid a great deal of money for my release, so now he owned me. He loosened the lug nuts to all four wheels on my car. Months prior, he’s given me written “sex contracts” (or ultimatums). “Jana will share her tanned cuddly body in a sexual manner with Jack Woods, or else there will be no more tanning, money for bond, etc., and if not, I will ask her to leave and never come back.” On the contract were notes he made about falsifying elder abuse charges against me. He also would say, “I’ll bury you under the jail they put you in.” He had bought and paid for me. One evening before court, I was typing up a motion on my laptop to ask for a bond re-education and refund of previously paid funds. I went upstairs and let him know I was headed to the library to print it out. He was drinking heavily and sitting on the tailgate of his truck with the garage door open. I got into my car and he ran up to the door, opened it, and poured his can of beer on me. “Going to get f***ed? Whore.” I said, “Nope, just going to the library to print out this motion for tomorrow.” I got out of the car, leaving it running with my purse on the front seat. I went inside to change my clothes and went back to the car. He was sitting on the tailgate, and I asked if he would like to come. He ignored me, so I left. The library was ten minutes away. Once there, I realized my purse with wallet, cell phone and bond papers were all gone. I drove back to the house. He was outside hiding against the side. I walked up and he said, “Why don’t you leave and not come back?” I snapped. Yep. Why don’t I? I went inside and found my purse in the kitchen. He’d stolen it out of the car earlier. I walked out and got in my car and left. Officially on-the-run for the first time in my life.
I drove to a friend’s and became intoxicated. I didn’t go to the court and stayed up for days, convinced people were following me because of my situation. I drove up to Blackhawk and went to my on-again off-again boyfriend’s house. I was paranoid that everyone was out to get me. I hadn’t eaten or slept in days. I barricaded myself in my lover’s apartment while he was at work, hearing voices. I left and drove down C-470 south semi-thinking I’d head to my buddies in Penrose. I threw my phone’s SD card out the window. I remember stopping in Gunnison, confused, asking for directions, but without a map or my phone. In my delirious state, I wasn’t going far. I got lost and ended up in Villa Grove, Colorado, at a potato cellar in the middle of a field, having taken a wrong turn. I blew a tire and pulled over, fell out, and woke around 9 am the next morning in a farming community with 22 residents. I couldn’t tell you how I got there. I snapped completely and was done. I couldn’t take it anymore. I briefly recall thinking someone was following me, and driving on a mountain that wound around, with huge Sequoia trees next to me. I remember thinking Sequoia trees were five miles tall - I had heard that somewhere - and if I drove off this cliff, I’d be sure to die. My blackout state didn’t end until I woke up on that ranch. I had no idea where I was. And, I am still shocked I didn’t die driving in a blackout. Did I observe lane changes? Stop at lights? How did I not kill someone or myself? I’ll never know. A couple took me in and fed me, cared for me. They were having marital problems and she was cheating on him. She used my needing to go to town to get money grams from my dad, or going to the laundromat, as an excuse to meet the man with whom she was having an affair. She became suspicious that I’d tell her husband, and I realized I had “worn out my welcome.” We had a couple of drunken nights that were inappropriate, and it was very clear that I was time to leave.
I felt extreme guilt about leaving Jack, and the prospect of what could happen if I didn’t return. I thought I was teaching him a lesson. He had told me to leave and not come back. Even so, it didn’t feel right. I called Jack and arranged to meet him in Fairplay with the rancher. During my blackout, I had poured diesel fuel in the gas tank, and the rancher’s buddy who owned a garage was going to fix it. We left and met Jack. Jack gave me a check for the car repairs and we arranged to contact each other. Jack and I ate Subway and he bought me three packs of cigarettes. On the way home, he apologized and said he didn’t want me to turn myself in until after Thanksgiving and Christmas. It was November 9th. We talked about packing my stuff up and having me take it to a friend’s while I was in jail. We talked about which jail I should go to so he could visit me more easily. I apologized for putting him through all the stress. We seemed okay.
That night we drank heavily in the garage and I kept asking why he wouldn’t answer the phone. Someone would surely come by if he continued ignoring calls. We drank until he fell out of his chair, and gave me money to go “get whatever I needed.” He gave me the car keys and I took him to his room to help him to bed. I left. I went and tried to see my girl since I’d likely be in jail soon. I stayed gone until rush hour, not thinking I should be driving as a wanted woman. I came home and made breakfast and began organizing my belongings. While I was gone, Jack had let a “friend” of mine take whatever she wanted. I had very little left. We hung out and talked about what to do next. He continued not answering the house phone. I began getting stressed and we left to go have me get a tan - one last hurrah before we closed the account. We came back and we drank together at the kitchen table. I kept asking about him not answering the house phone. He got upset and frustrated and unplugged the kitchen phone and put it in the car. I laughed, thinking ok, that made it go away. We couldn’t agree on my stuff and he recanted letting me take it to my friends. I should have known better - I knew the reason he’d been incredibly reasonable and agreed to whatever I wanted, was just to get me back home. I went downstairs and began grabbing arm loads of stuff, and shoved it in the car haphazardly. Jack had agreed to let me take my stuff to my friend’s, and I planned on making him stick to that agreement. During my tantrum, he consoled me, talked to me, and convinced me to sit with him upstairs and discuss everything. I had been back in Jack’s home almost 24 hours, and if he’d wanted to call 99, the bondsman, or anyone, and tell them I was there, he’d had a full day to do so, yet he hadn’t. He continued pouring drinks and we even smoked marijuana together. He promised me that he’d visit me in county jail, and that I should turn myself into the “Tajmah Hall” as he called Jefferson County Jail. He wanted me to stay until the holidays were over - he was repeating our conversation from the ride home. We began discussing dinner, and I said we should take my stuff to my friend’s and pick something up on the way home. He became visibly upset seeing that I wouldn’t let it go. He stood up, came over to me, and with both hands, grabbed the front of my shirt, pulling it down and exposing my breasts. He said, “YOU ARE NOT LEAVING UNTIL YOU GIVE ME WHAT I PAID FOR.” I grabbed both of his forearms and twisted, pushing him back into the fridge, and headed for the door at the top of the stairs. While I attempted to leave, we struggled at the rope of the stairs. As I tried to go out, he grabbed my hair, wrapped his hand around it, and yanked. We both went down the stairs - as if in slow motion. I fell on top of him at the bottom, and in pure survival mode, emptied his pockets, since I knew he always carried a knife. I thought if I took his keys, it would slow him down from pursuing me. I freed myself from him and ran into the basement bedroom. He got up and kept coming after me. I screamed at him to “leave me alone” and “stop coming.” I heard him go into the bathroom. Scared he’d come after me again, and afraid of the guns in the house, I piled items in front of the bathroom door before making an escape. I found my coat and fled out the back, disoriented and running on pure survival mode. I walked aimlessly away from Jack’s, continuing to look around for him, certain he’d get his gun and shoot me as promised.
I walked up to an officer a few blocks away and asked which way the bus ran. I was taken into custody and given Ativan. I don’t recall the first three days of jail. Both Jack and I sustained injuries during the altercation. He had kept coming at me, and I recall telling him to stop and leave me alone numerous times. Jack’s first statement to the detectives, when asked what I would say happened that night, was, “She’d probably say I sexually assaulted her.” It was never brought to light in my trial, and I was repeatedly told that I was not the victim. I again was the dumping post, to be used and abused and mistreated any way people saw fit.
I don’t want this to happen to other women. I wrote this and cried my eyes out - feeling ashamed, embarrassed, and oddly enough, extreme pity for the main character of this story. The worst part is, it’s about me, and seeing my entire life written out has left me feeling raw, emotionally exhausted, and heavy. Now the healing can truly begin. I’ve begun addressing it in counseling, and will continue to be open to any help concerning it. I am currently in the appeals process and greatly need any assistance surrounding that. The wonderful women at the Blue Bench have made me feel like I’m not alone. Someone finally “gets it,” and for that, I am extremely grateful.