Dear Diary, page 20
“My sweet Eva.”
“Mom, is that you?” I asked.
“Yes, baby.”
“Oh, my God. Is Michael with you?”
“He is. Myles too. We want you here with us, sweet girl.”
“How? How do I get to where you are?”
“Hang yourself.”
“I don’t want to hurt myself.”
“Hang yourself, sweet girl. I miss you.”
“Is there another way?”
“No. Hang yourself. Go on, do it,” she laughed. It was frightening. I covered my ears and rocked back and forth, hoping she’d disappear. “I miss you. Hang yourself.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. I need you. Please. Come with us.” She sobbed, and then her cries slowly faded away.
“Can’t there be another way?” I cried with her.
“No!” she yelled.
My eardrums vibrated, causing me to scream. I always tried to keep quiet, hoping the guards would forget about me. They were such perverts. Always inappropriate remarks or finding a way to cop a feel. Because of my scream, one decided to make a move. He must have sensed my break.
“What’s the problem, inmate?” He shined his flashlight into my dark cell.
I shielded the light with my hand.
“You need me to come in there?”
I shook my head.
“I think I need to come in there.” He fumbled with his keys, unlocked my cell, and helped himself to me.
“Please, don’t,” I begged and cried.
“Take off your sock and stuff it in your mouth,” he instructed. Because I was slow to react, he lightly choked me. “Don’t make me tell you again.”
“I will report you,” I threatened.
“You’re an inmate, and a crazy one at that. No one will believe you. Now turn around.” He pushed my shoulder, forcing me to turn. His sweat dripped on me, and he moaned. “You’re not so hard in the face like these other girls.”
He wasn’t the only one. It happened a lot when I first arrived. According to them, I was fresh meat, and sampling me was part of the initiation process. And then it was, “You’re pretty, so expect to get lucky often.”
Most of them didn’t have professional boundaries. It almost seemed as if they took the job just for the sex. I never reported their conduct. I never fought back. I just took it and used my socks to stifle any sound that came out of me. I would lie there while they’d grunt, smack my ass, and force me to call them daddy.
The guards came and went, but their behavior remained the same. Always rude. Always inappropriate. Even more shameful, I never got anything out of it. No contraband, money toward my commissary. I was just free to be violated and for free. I was convinced they came to work, got off, and then returned home to their wives like they were innocent, hardworking husbands.
I was glad to get away from the violation. I felt terrible for Mr. Porter, though. He was sad that it was my time. He wanted me to fight for myself, but there was no point. I deserved everything I had coming to me, which was why I didn’t appeal. Plus, what would life have been like on the outside? I’d be sleeping on a park bench or in an alley, riding the bus through the city, daydreaming. Would my aunt even want me back at her house? I had proved that I was capable of hurting my husband, so why wouldn’t I hurt her? It was just like Aunt Nora said years ago.
“Oh, they’re on,” Mr. Porter said when he heard the host.
“Welcome to Talk Radio. It’s May, better known as Mental Health Awareness Month. We are joined in the studio today by Mrs. Roberta Sanders. Mrs. Sanders is a mental health advocate and the coauthor of the upcoming book Dear Diary. She has also appeared on several TV and radio shows, promoting the importance of mental health awareness. As you may recall, her son, Myles Sanders, made national headlines when he was killed by his wife Eva Moss-Sanders some years back. Eva suffered from bipolar disorder with psychotic features but was found guilty of premeditated murder and sentenced to death. First, let me thank you for being here.”
“Thank you for allowing me to use your platform to bring awareness to the people,” Mrs. Sanders said.
“Mrs. Sanders, let me start by saying you are an amazing woman. It’s one thing to have suffered the loss of your son in such a tragic manner, but then you somehow found the strength to do what you are doing here today.”
“My son’s death is not in vain.”
“What gave you the courage to read the details of your son’s death and then agree to share it with the world?”
“Eva’s prison counselor reached out to me with the idea. He said he had spent a lot of time with her and felt as if she was a lost soul and that her story needed to be heard.”
“What was that like, Mrs. Sanders? Some man reaches out to you with an unorthodox idea?”
“At first, I was upset. I felt as if he was trying to make a mockery of the tragedy. It was actually my daughter, Sheila, who convinced me to move forward with it.”
“And what did she say?”
“She felt the same as Mr. Porter. That Eva was a lost soul.”
“How did you feel when the first half of the journal entries were shared with you?”
“That’s a tough question. I felt a lot of ways. I pride myself on being a Christian woman, but I was having a hard time forgiving her. Sometimes I felt like she deserved the death penalty. But as I continued reading what she’d written, I began to see the lost soul.”
“What made you decide to move forward with a publishing deal?”
“Eva suffered in silence for the most part, and I can understand why. Once the most intimate things about you are exposed, it’s hard to find people who understand. Honestly, if Eva had approached me about her disorder, I am not sure I would’ve understood. This is why I am doing this, so another family does not have to suffer the same tragedy as mine. Or even suffer as her family did. Her aunt is heartbroken. She and Eva’s uncle did the very best they could. We keep in touch. One of the things she beats herself up about is not taking the time to be educated on the subject. Many people don’t. There are support groups for the families as well. All I can say is my son’s death will not be in vain.”
“Eva will face lethal injection today. Do you wish she had appealed?”
“Of course I do. She feels this is what she deserves.”
“When is the book scheduled to be released?”
“The final entries will be turned over to me sometime this week, and I will go in and write in my thoughts and feelings. After that, a release date will be set from there.”
“As I said before, Mrs. Sanders, you are a courageous woman. Let’s take a question from a caller. Caller, what’s your question?”
That was it. Mr. Porter clicked off the interview.
“I never got the chance to thank you for showing me Michael’s obituary. He seemed so real in my head.”
“No need to thank me, young lady. I’m just glad you are getting the word out,” he said before standing to leave.
I had enough time to update the final entry and hand it over. I decided to close the diary with a message to every person who has battled and will battle their sanity.
Fighters: Mental health illnesses do not make for an easy journey. One day we’re on top of the world, and the next day we feel as if we are fighting against the strongest current. No matter how well we swim, or how hard we try to make it to shore, the current is just too strong. We tire out and begin to drown. Just before we take our last breath, we’re rescued, only to venture out into the current again.
Sane people do not understand how hearing “you’re crazy” or “you have some loose screws” destroys our world and any hope we have to survive it. Having that stigma placed upon us, remembering to take medication, getting shots, attending therapy, and trying to “behave” in public is a lot. Then every judging eye watching our every move and ostracizing us only causes more pressure.
Professionals say, “In order to get better, you have to follow the treatment plan.”
We do and it’s still an everyday struggle, even when we follow it perfectly. Still, trust your team. Be willing. Process is possible.
I want you all to know that, while this road is not clear of speed bumps or sinkholes, you should continue to utilize every tool and resource available. Depending on where you live, many options won’t be available and assessment and treatment waiting lists are long, but hold on and take advantage of what is there, and do it without shame.
I encourage each of you to learn, learn, and learn some more. Learn how to control the illness instead of it controlling you. Learn about the WRAP plan, which stands for wellness, recovery, action, and plan.
Then teach your loved ones how to cope and support you. There are several online resources available and family support groups. They have to be willing.
Ultimately, it’s up to you to take charge of your mental health, even without the support of your loved ones. You are your best advocate. Again, I encourage you all to do it without shame. It’s okay to speak up and demand to be heard. If your meds aren’t working, demand action. If your appetite or sleep patterns are off, speak up. If you’re hearing voices, say something, especially if they’ve gotten aggressive and violent. What you hear is a trick. They are not real. Do not act out anything they are requesting of you.
Be mindful of changes to your body. Sometimes the medication regime takes some adjusting. Think of it as trying on shoes until you find that perfect pair. Some medications come with uncomfortable side effects. Say something.
Please listen to me so you don’t have to learn the hard way like I did. It’s okay to admit something isn’t right. It’s okay to accept help. It wasn’t until it was too late that I started to take my diagnosis seriously. I had to kill my husband before I took charge of my life. I had to hurt my loved ones, his loved ones, and taxpayers before I realized I should have cancelled out all the naysayers and done what I had to do. I should have spoken up no matter how many times it took.
Hopefully, state legislators and judicial and prison boards will look at my case and take more proactive measures to push for better training for police officers, prison guards, and anyone in the community willing to learn how to effectively engage with the mental health population. Correctional officers need it desperately. There are a high percentage of inmates who are mentally ill. Effective training is critical. The system overall needs to change.
It took a while, but I admit that I committed an awful crime and can’t blame anyone but myself. I take responsibility for it all. And therefore, I deserve my fate. My outcome does not have to be your outcome.
To my husband, Myles Sanders, I am sorry.
So long. The guards are here.
Niko Michelle, Dear Diary
