Bio - 29 in My Bio

Ida, a 60-year-old from Germany, was my longest cellmate. We shared a cell for a month. I didn’t know it at the time because she wouldn’t tell me, but she was in for burglary and theft. I found this out after I got home and did some online investigating out of curiosity.

Other than some interesting conversations, Ida and I weren’t very compatible. She was up at 7:00 every single morning, which felt like the middle of the night for me. At least she tried to be quiet while I was sleeping, though she couldn’t always help it. Sometimes, you just have to cough, sneeze, or flush the toilet, which was louder than Niagara Falls.

One thing that drove me as crazy as her constant chatter (I’m the type that only likes listening to people I really care about) was her endless pacing back and forth. Sometimes I didn’t mind, but other times it made me feel smothered, even though I’d rather see a cellmate than hear them. When both people are on their bunks, you can’t see each other. But with her pacing for hours at a time, it felt like I had even less space and privacy. The only time she was on her bunk was when she was asleep or when I was on the toilet, but I wasn’t about to sit on that cold metal can all day just to keep her still!

Ida really stressed me out a couple of times. If I didn’t block the air vent enough, cold air would blow onto my upper bunk. After fighting with her about this numerous times, I finally threatened to break her hand if she moved the cardboard I’d placed to block the vent. We agreed we didn’t have to like each other, but we did have to respect each other, especially when it came to sleep. So, we kept trying to be quiet when the other was asleep, though she wouldn’t talk to me for a few days. I understood she was upset, but holding a grudge seemed silly.

In the end, Ida came to realize I was serious, as she put it. Another older woman, Julia, was sharing a cell with a loud-mouthed girl named Maria, who was 30 and in for drugs. We agreed to switch, so Julia would go in with Ida, and I’d go in with Maria. But I quickly wondered if I’d made a mistake. As I lay there, wishing Maria’s non-stop talking would just shut up, I wondered how Ida was doing with Julia, who was in for writing phony prescriptions.

The next day, while Maria was in court, a DO asked if I’d go in with Julia because she and Ida weren’t getting along. Instead, I suggested we just switch back, and we did.

When I returned to the cell with Ida, she told me that Julia snored like crazy, which drove her nuts even when she was awake—much like barking drives me crazy. After giving Julia her bunk and moving to the top, Ida realized I wasn’t kidding about the cold draft up there.

Ida and I stayed together until a few people rearranged the whole pod for reasons I can’t begin to fathom, and I ended up with 44-year-old Marilyn, who was in on drug and prostitution charges.

Marilyn was one of those good girls gone bad but was very nice and easy to get along with. Unlike most inmates, she had loving, caring parents. She’d just hooked up with the wrong guy one day, and he led her down a bad path. He got her into drugs, and she eventually started hooking to support her habit.

She was a great cellmate—polite and considerate. We laughed at each other’s jokes, and she slept a lot, so I often felt like I was alone. Unfortunately, Marilyn and I were only together for ten days before she was released.

Then came 29-year-old Nancy, who was almost as crazy as Melinda, though smarter. She wasn’t a bad singer, and she had a great body—nothing but skin, bone, and muscle—but her face looked mean. She was in for drugs and assaulting a cop, which she loved to brag about, as much as she loved playing with herself while I was on my bunk. She wanted to play with me too, but I declined. I just wasn’t attracted to her. Nancy was so moody she made even my sister, one of the moodiest people I knew, seem calm. Her moods would swing rapidly—one minute we’d be having an intelligent conversation, the next she’d be crying, then laughing, then furious. Eventually, it all came to a head.

It started with her bleeding at the wrong time of the month. She was convinced she was having a miscarriage, even though her pregnancy test had been negative. I tried to comfort her, reminding her that stress could make women irregular. But she snapped at me over and over, until I’d had enough.

“Don’t take your frustrations out on me!” I yelled.

Then she started bashing me, calling me lazy for being a homemaker and accusing me of using Tom, who worked hard. She even claimed she recognized him from a time he supposedly picked her up in Mesa, thinking she was a hooker, when all she wanted was a ride (Tom and I laughed about this during our next visit) because we both knew it was bullshit.

“Tom has the lowest appetite of any man I’ve ever known,” I told her. “And even if he didn’t, why would he go all the way to Mesa for a piece of ass? And isn’t it nice how Tom gets to relax on his days off without having to do cleaning or laundry? That’s because Miss Lazy here does it for him. So don’t be telling me stuff you know nothing about!”

That’s when she threatened to yank me off my bunk and “show me the true meaning of the words shut up.” My first instinct was to fight, but I knew she wasn’t worth getting in trouble for and losing my visitation and commissary rights. So I kept my temper in check, knowing I’d probably lose the fight anyway.

Next, she demanded I give her everything from my journal that mentioned her name, but I refused. I also learned never to tell anyone in jail I was keeping a journal. People guilty of certain crimes, or those who had something to hide, could get pretty paranoid.

I asked Chavez, the DO on duty that evening, to pull me from the cell, and she did. I traded Nancy’s erratic moods for taunts through the vent, but it was the lesser of two evils. I had to deal with Myra, Mindy, and Peaches shouting at me through the vents unless I had my radio on. Peaches was just a follower, going along with Myra and Mindy, both child molesters. Those two were particularly paranoid about being written about, for obvious reasons—they were the scum of the earth and knew it. Nancy had yelled out their dirty deeds while we were cellmates, and because I was with her, they thought I was involved. Personally, I didn’t care what anyone was in for, as long as they respected me. But these were the kinds of people you just wanted to strangle. I’d rather have been in a cell with a mass murderer than with child molesters!

After about a week of screaming at me, and realizing ignoring them wasn’t going to work, I started airing out Myra and Mindy’s dirty laundry, telling the whole pod what they were in for and then some. Sure enough, Myra broke down and begged me to stop, promising to stop screaming at me in return. I decided that if she kept her mouth shut, so would I.

By early March, I had been alone for almost two weeks when 46-year-old Teresa came to join me. Though chubby and shorter than me, the Hispanic woman had pretty eyes with thick, dark lashes that didn’t need mascara.

Teresa was there because her stepdaughter had accused her of molestation. We got along well, but after just a few days together, she moved to a larger cell, which she preferred. Some people felt claustrophobic in the smaller cells.

After Teresa left, Silvia, a 21-year-old in for theft, moved in with me. While she was sweet, she wouldn’t stop talking. It seemed most inmates were talkaholics, but at least she admitted it upfront. I guess some people felt like there was nothing else to do in jail but chat.

After a week and a half, Nancy left the dorm, much to everyone’s delight, and I asked to move into the cell she had left, which was my favorite in the pod. It was the smallest, darkest cell, more out of the way than the others, and it was also warmer in there.

Unfortunately, Silvia broke out in a rash and had to be put in a cell by herself in case it was contagious. She was also on restriction. At first, the DO wanted to move me next door, but I protested, letting her know how much I hated the bigger cells. So she moved me in with 39-year-old Charlotte instead.

The second the door closed behind me, I knew I’d made a mistake. Although Charlotte slept most of the four hours I was with her and didn’t say or do anything threatening, she grossed me out. When she did wake up, she coughed up spit all over the place. It was disgusting.

I told the DO I was so desperate to get out of that cell that I would take the bigger cell after all, with Teresa and Nancy. I knew I could move back out in a day or two, and I did. Charlotte left, and I moved back to my favorite cell, which would be my final move.

Only Teresa and Nancy were in the big cell during my brief stay, and I was shocked at how much Teresa had changed. She adapted to jail life remarkably fast. She had been tearful and quiet, but now she chatted happily. It turned out she was also an ungrateful, selfish user, despite everything I had given her and helping her adjust to life inside.

Nancy was one of the nicest, quietest cellmates I’d ever had. She was a good listener too. I don’t remember her exact age—maybe mid-thirties. She had been a security guard at the courthouse before her arrest. While she wouldn’t discuss her charges, I later learned they were child-related, just as I suspected. Most people in Ad-Seg were in for child-related charges, often with high-profile cases.

In my favorite cell, where I’d spend the rest of my time, 18-year-old Jamie, in for drug charges, arrived to spoil my peace after a few days. She was more Melinda-like than any other cellmate I’d had—she wouldn’t shut up, couldn’t sit still, and seemed delusional. Like Melinda, Jamie was convinced demons were pinning her down and telling her to do all kinds of evil things.

After I’d had enough of it, I decided it was my turn to bully someone out of a cell as I’d been bullied before. But before I had the chance, Jamie did me the favor of asking to move to a bigger cell. I took advantage of this and convinced a DO, who didn’t know her as well as they knew me, to move her. I told Jamie to sprinkle water on her eyes to make it look like she’d been crying over feeling claustrophobic.

My second-to-last cellmate was Tiffany, a 26-year-old in on drug charges. She and I were both night owls and compatible as cellmates, but she too wanted to move to a bigger cell, so she did.

My final cellmate was Misha. Misha was my age and in for manufacturing. She arrived in M Dorm with two others, and I lucked out by getting her. Misha was nice, quiet, and sane. One of the other women was a major beggar, and another, who limped around on a cane, was incredibly loud and bald. We called her Baldilocks.

Misha was the perfect cellmate because all she did was sleep. When she was awake, she was quiet and mostly kept to herself on her bunk. We were together until the day I left.