Lies of a Real Housewife (21 page)

who agreed to do the transporting.

The women incarcerated with me tried all they could to offer com-

fort. They washed and ironed my clothes for me and styled my hair to a c
ute pin up do. Although I was pretty on the outside, my insides were ugly. I totally ceased all communication with anyone and everyone. I didn’t even want their comfort to be honest. They didn’t know me, and I didn’t want their hands on me. In my mind, I was really tripping HARD… And at times, I was

known to have violent outbursts.

I felt remorse, guilt and shame all at the same time. I just didn’t want

to be bothered, and was having a hard time coping with reality. Practically on the verge of losing my o
wn damn mind, I didn’t know who to trust. I was

giving everybody the side-eye.

Having flashbacks became a normal occurrence, and I was reverting

to my former self.  I was back to being that angry, hateful young girl I was before meeting Phaedra Parks. It
was an ugly, dark demon I thought I had buried for good. I didn’t want that spirit to rise back up. So I fought it. I accepted their gestures of kindness, but it didn’t really matter to me. I had absolutely no reaction at all. I didn’t have a clue as to what was going on. Nothing and I mean nothing, seemed real to me. I was in a total state of devastation and shock. This was the worse heartache I had ever experienced. I didn’t call back home and didn’t speak to the guards at the prison. I didn’t speak to any of the women locked up with me. The minute they all saw my face, they knew. The

grim-reaper forewarned them. He had been by my doorsteps.

The funny thing was that a week earlier, I was standing in the chow-

line when three of my dorm mates, or should
I say ‘fellow slaves’ passed by me causing quite a commotion. In the middle of the other two, was a girl barely able to walk. Her name was Angela. Yes, she had the exact first name as mine. Angela was crying hysterically. So being the compassionate person

that I am, I immediately offered my assistance. I asked, “What’s wrong?”

She held her head up with all of her strength, looked me dead in my

eyes and said, “My mother just died.” Exactly one week prior to the death of my mother. I remembered thinking, G
od I couldn’t imagine how she was feeling. What would I do if I were in her position? I thought to myself that this was just another sign from above. Seven days later, the reality of my fel-

low slave became mine.

Every word and every thought that came to mind made me think

of the one person I had always depended on, my mother. Here one day, she was gone the next. It now seemed just that quick. Not only was I thinking of
losing my mother, but now, what about my children? What would happen to them? Who would care for them? What about my baby, Emani? What about

the promise I made to myself?

After I had been molested, I pledged that I would never allow the

horrible experience to happen to any of my children. My mind was running a thousand miles-a-minute. My thoughts were never letting up, not once. There was no single moment of peace. I couldn’t even begin to think straight. Nothing at all was making sense t
o me. I found myself now questioning God. Was there even a God? A God so merciful that he would allow one person to go through so much pain...? What was the purpose of our existence? Were we

just born to die...?

When the Gwinnett County sheriff arrived to pick me up, it took me

a long while to make it past all the barbed wires. With every step, it seemed like I was pat-down and searched. I was scanned with metal detectors as I passed through metal doors. Malnourished, dehydrated, I was left deprived of
the ability to accurately think. I was moving slowly because I was feeling

so weak.

It had been seven days since the day my mother left this earth, and I hadn’t eaten one single crumb. I barely had enough strength to lift my feet from the ground. Gwinnett County officials handcuffed me, and I was placed in the back seat of their patrol car. Finally I would be going back to Atlanta, Georgia. Never in my wildest dreams had I ever imagined that I would be

returning to attend my mother’s funeral.

The trip was long, and heart wrenching. When I stepped over into

the back seat of the police ca
r it seemed as if I had crossed over into another realm. The atmosphere was different. The air was so heavy. The Gwinnett county officers there to transport me looked like the enemy. They wore bulletproof vests, carried side-arms, Tasers, mace, and handcuffs, along with hog-ties. A shotgun was strategically placed on the front seat. This was done all for me, just in case I wanted to get stupid. I was too weak and couldn’t

think clearly.

It was a very dark gloomy day. The skies opened up resulting in a

l
ight drizzle. The rain from the sky appeared like tears and made the somber atmosphere even sadder. A reality I didn’t want to face awaited my return. I hadn’t thought about my other family members. All I could think about was

my children, and having to s
tare death in the eyes from close up.

Remember all those times before when I told you I wasn’t afraid? Well, that day I was scared to stare death so close in the eye. I would rather it had taken me and not my dear mother. Fear had its grip on me this time
, and I couldn’t shake it. I kept trying to hold on to whatever hope or life I had left. I didn’t want to see death.

Death was cold! It ALWAYS showed up uninvited, and at the wrong

time. It never comes in a peaceful manner. Death always leaves you with a feeling of emptiness. Nothing seemed worse than death. It was the one thing I knew you couldn’t bounce back from.

During the whole ride back, I couldn’t help but think of my mother. I thought of every word that she had ever spoken to me. Everything she tr
ied to teach me. Every time she yelled at me for not listening when I should’ve. All the walks through hell that I had made her take. She had tried endlessly to help me wake up and smell the coffee. Slowly but surely, it finally dawned on me what the angel meant. It was time for me to wake up. She was telling

me to wake up mentally and spiritually, not physically.

In my dream, my mother was leaving me with her last words. She

was giving me her key tips for survival. She came back to me in a spiritual realm and no one could tell me it wasn’t real. I know because I experienced it.

You can’t tell me I was so depressed that somewhere in my mind I believed. Oh no! I was not crazy. Save that. I knew exactly what was going on.

Arriving at Gwinnett County Jail was one of the worst things that

could have ever happened to me. I would like to give you this straight. I stepped out of the back of the patrol car. A six-foot tall woman, wearing a size twelve boots, and tan jumpsuit. ‘State Prisoner’ was emblazoned across the back of my jumpsuit in big bold black letters. I must have appeared threatening. The female guards were acting as if they were very much intimidated by my presence. For all they knew, I could have been a mass murderer.  That was exactly how I was treated. It was like I had killed a whole lot of people. I was slung up against the wall like an old mat. Then I was patted down for

any weapons.

“Do you have any bobby pins in your hair?” A female guard sternly

asked.

“Yes.” I responded. “But, I need these for my mother’s funeral in

the morning.”

The bobby-pins in my hair were purchased from the inmates’ store

list in prison. I guess the word ‘but’ was considered my refus
al to take out the bobby-pins. Although she never asked me to take them out, she just asked if I had any in my head.

Before I knew it, I was slammed on the floor, and the knees of three

officers were in my back. I was firmly pinned between the officers and the concrete floor. I tried to understand why this was happening to me? Why the

female guard yelled for back up?

When she dug her fingernails into my arm, I snatched my arm away

from her and that was considered an assault. I didn’t even consciously re
alize that I snatched my arm away from her. I was snatching my arm away from the pain her nails caused when they dug into my flesh.

They hog-tied me and left me face down in a pool of my own urine. I stayed in this position in a holding cell for the remai
nder of the night. The next morning I was untied, given a clean uniform, and told to clean up myself

before the chief arrived.

When the chief came in, he asked me what happened. So I told him

my version. He chose not to believe my story. I told him that I didn’t even have the strength to fight. The only thing I wanted to do was to tell my mother

goodbye. I was pleading my case to him.

The chief instructed the officers to place me in the back
of the car

so that we could head out. I tried fixing my hair back together after the guard had ripped out all of the bobby pins. I fixed my uniform, tucked my shirt in, and folded the bottom of my pants. I was visibly dehydrated and weak, but

just wanted to get this behind me.

Two mean-faced, redneck officers placed me in the back of their

vehicle, and we headed toward the expressway. I had no idea where my moth-