It's been a while since I've written here, and I feel bad about that. I've had a million things on my mind to put in a diary, but life gets in the way so often, doesn't it?
I'm an artist. It's what I do, and I feel fortunate I'm able to draw, and occasionally paint. The way I became an artist is different than most, so I thought I might let you in on how I fell into it. Back in 2004 I fell on some hard times. I trusted the wrong people and ended up in jail because of it. Sentenced to 3 years for shoplifting, though I had nothing to do with it. They used my car, so I own that for the rest of my life. Convicted felon. It's still difficult to accept my perfect life went down the road it did.
I got a suspended sentence- probation- but that's a racket. It's all about money, and that's something I didn't have. So in all my wisdom I stopped going. Probation violation. They just had to catch me doing something stupid. Of course, they eventually did.
I bounced around, homeless, and did the best I could. In 2006 I met Frank, and he took me in, sort of. I found out he was running from the law, dodging arrest for a theft. At the time I didn't realize the trouble I was getting myself into. I had a roof over my head, and I wasn't starving. That was enough for me.
So much happened, but it finally ended when Frank broke my arm in two places. I used a wooden spoon to keep my arm strait, wrapped in drywall mesh, with a twine sling. There was a raid in the small town we were in, and they got me- Frank didn't have a warrant after all. I was so grateful to be going to jail- that's how bad living with Frank had become. I knew if I stayed he'd eventually kill me. I learned later he shot his ex-wife in the arm and chest. Somehow she survived and he finally got prison time. 18 years. Good.
The cop had to take me to the hospital, though he didn't believe my arm was actually broken. I had fingerprint bruises around my neck, on my arms, and a concussion. I didn't know there were 2 breaks until the doctor told me- the ulna was busted, plus a break in my wrist. I'm right-handed, so it was a bit of trouble getting used to a cast from my hand to my shoulder. I found I was able to use a pencil, so I began drawing.
Since my probation was revoked I had plenty of time to learn. I became the jailhouse artist, paid in cigarettes and candy. Not a bad gig, actually. Sometimes people would add money to my account. I made trustee, cutting my time in half, and each night we ate in the deputy's cafeteria. Real food! Thanksgiving day, 2008, I found a lump in my breast. I put in a medical request, and two weeks later was seen by a gruff doctor. Not pleasant. He pushed on my breasts then promptly left the room, not saying a word. When he returned he sat me down, and asked how much time I had left. At that point it was 5-6 months. He said not to tell anyone, but he would talk to the jail personnel to get me released. In all honesty, I didn't want to leave. I realize that sounds crazy, but I'd learned to enjoy where I was, and what I did. If I was released, where would I go?
Sitting in the dayroom, drawing a woman's father from a photo, I was called to the deputy's desk. "Get your stuff, you're released" was all she said. My heart fell. Everyone cheered. It's always good to see people released, but I wasn't ready to go. I gave most of my things away to my bunkie (also a trustee) and the rest I carried in a plastic bag. I was arrested in the summer, so all I had was a t-shirt and shorts. I started a 30 mile walk, when a man saw me and turned around. He knew I'd just been released, and he took me the entire way to a motel where I had friends. They immediately called Frank.
Since I had no place to go- even the battered women's shelters were full- I went back with Frank. We lived in the "Hard Times" bus. That's what was on the front, and I felt the irony. I stayed 3 months before escaping. As I said- he would have killed me. The man is truly a sociopath. He hides it well, but I saw it, and it was real. He often said he could feed me to the alligators and no one would know. That's the truth- I wasn't allowed to talk to anyone. My family wouldn't miss me. I had no one.
I had no one local, but I had friends online. I was able to contact a few people, from New York to Germany- and we developed a plan. A girl in South Carolina was going to get me a bus ticket to New York, where a truck driver friend had an apartment. It was often empty, so he said I could stay there. No transportation but a bike, but that was good enough for me. I took what little I could and bolted. He’d always found me before, and would come get me. There was no discussion, he just TOOK me. I was his property. I’d found my self-esteem again in jail, so I was able to actually get away from him for good.
Fortunately, I found a place locally, and decided not to go to New York. The day after I left a tornado hit that town, and there was a lot of damage. I volunteered to get kid’s socks and underwear for the people whose homes were destroyed. I managed to talk to people again, finding my voice after being silenced for so long. For the first time in years I was free and legal- a wonderful feeling. No longer walking on eggshells, or looking over my shoulder. All was right in my world.
I’m an artist because a sociopath broke my arm. I’m a lucky girl.
Note: I have no idea how to move images to the left. These are a few of my drawings. Hope you enjoy them.
Susan’s Magnolia Johnny Cash Folsom Prison Dr, Frank N. Furter Woody’s Woodie Pepper Hummingbird