Skip to main content

Shattered in a Thousand Pieces – When the World Just Feels Too Heavy

 


 I feel like I’ve been zapped into a million tiny pieces, floating midair, like that scene in Willy Wonka where the kid is scattered before he ends up inside the TV. That’s me. Mentally shattered. Emotionally pulverized.

Everywhere I look, there’s pain. Injustice. Corruption. And people who either don’t see it—or worse—don’t care.

The prison system is eating people alive. Men and women are dying behind those walls. Getting beaten. Getting broken. Getting silenced. And yet, you won’t see it on the nightly news. You won’t hear about it in the paper. The stories get buried, twisted, or ignored altogether.

“Advocates” sit on the outside, preaching about policies and reform, acting like they know what really goes on. But unless you’ve sat in that visitation room, unless you’ve begged a warden for a call, unless you’ve gotten a call from someone who just witnessed a beating or a death, then you don’t know.

My husband is trying to survive hell every single day. And I can only watch from the outside—helpless, heartbroken, exhausted. I try to carry both our pain. But it’s getting too damn heavy.

On top of that, I’ve got people around me who smile to my face and then spit venom behind my back. Fake friends. Empty support. Conditional love. I’m tired of being strong for people who wouldn’t even show up if I broke down.

I’ve got court this Thursday. And instead of feeling brave or prepared, I just want to crawl under a rock and let the world keep spinning without me. I’m tired. So tired.

This world… it feels like the Twilight Zone. Like I’m walking through a movie set where everyone’s playing pretend—pretending that this is all okay. That it’s normal for prisons to be death camps. That hate is just another Tuesday. That broken people are just “the way things are.”

It’s not okay. None of this is okay.

And maybe this post won’t change anything. Maybe it won’t stop the deaths. Or undo the trauma. Or put my heart back together. But I had to let it out.

Because silence is a slow death, too.

To anyone else out there feeling this—like you’re screaming into a void and no one is listening—I hear you. I see you. And I’m with you.

Even shattered, we still matter.

Here is a recent news story, it's NOT the whole video, and he was beaten over a password the other inmates wanted, but the news and the advocate DID NOT report EVERYTHING that is happening! 

https://www.fox10phoenix.com/news/video-arizona-prison-attack-using-padlocks-has-reform-advocate-calling-changes?utm_campaign=trueanthem&utm_medium=trueanthem&utm_source=facebook&fbclid=IwY2xjawKYJT1leHRuA2FlbQIxMQBicmlkETFVY0Rwa3pBVTUyOVpLVGJJAR4RdFbK8Z8Fzrh_aeOY_Q91Bpk8Gs6SLJvrRo7RyK14zE1Q9zMyV51UomL_5w_aem_G-Y7Un8rMXzR4YkFFaNkVQ

I personally know of 2 other inmates this week that have been beaten with locks and the prisons have done NOTHING.

#PrisonStopsNothing #AdvocacyForInmates #AdvocacyForRyan #AdvocacyForKeola #AdvocacyForTheSilenced #FormerCorrectionalOfficer #IKnowTheInside #PrisonReformNow #StopTheAbuse #InvisibleVictims #TruthBehindBars #LovedOneLockedUp #PrisonWifeStrong #JusticeForTheIncarcerated #WeAreNotOkay

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Exposing the Deadly Reality at La Palma Correctional Facility: How Many More Have to Die?

For years, La Palma Correctional Facility in Eloy, Arizona, has been a hotspot for controversy, yet little has been done to address the rampant corruption, officer misconduct, and systemic failures that have turned it into a living hell for those incarcerated within its walls. Most recently, another inmate has died—one of many whose deaths could have been prevented if those in charge had taken real action instead of covering up their negligence. On January 2, 2025, I fought to have my husband moved out of La Palma due to the sheer volume of drugs flooding the yard, which were being brought in by correctional officers. I reported specific names to the Special Security Unit (SSU), thinking that doing the right thing would bring change. Instead, my concerns fell on deaf ears. Now, here we are, with more inmates losing their lives—many of these deaths are suspected overdoses, yet little to no investigation ever seems to result in actual change. A History of Negligence and Deaths This lates...
2 comments
Read more

Two Years for Corruption. Seven Years for Addiction.

  There’s something I can’t shake today. And honestly… it makes me sick. I just read about a correctional officer at the same prison my husband is sitting in right now —Lewis Prison Complex—who was caught smuggling heroin, fentanyl, and cell phones into the facility. Not using. Not struggling. Not trying to survive addiction. Smuggling. Trafficking. Profiting. Investigators didn’t just catch him once either. This wasn’t some “bad decision” moment. This was a full investigation—months long—with surveillance, evidence, and tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of drugs tied to it. Let me say that again… A man with a badge, authority, and access was bringing poison into a prison —into a place already filled with men fighting addiction, trauma, and survival every single day. Now here’s the part that I cannot wrap my head around… My husband is serving seven years for doing drugs. Seven years. For addiction. For a battle that started when he was a child—before he even had ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Four days.

That is what is left. Four days until I walk through prison gates; not as the correctional officer I once was, not as the prison wife who has spent years fighting this system from the outside, not as the advocate who knows policies, procedures, inmate numbers, classifications, grievances, disciplinary reports, and all the bureaucratic bullshit that comes with incarceration. In four days, I walk through those gates as an inmate. And I am fucking terrified. There. I said it. I am terrified. Six days ago, I wrote a blog called This Isn't Goodbye. It's the Chapter Before I Come Home. I wrote about faith. I wrote about trusting God. I wrote about believing that He would go with me. I wrote about trusting the Author even though I couldn't skip ahead and read the ending. Today? Today I cursed at that Author. Today I told God I fucking hate Him. Those exact words. Not a cleaned-up Christian version of anger. Not, “Lord, I'm struggling to understand Your plan.” Not, “Father, ple...
1 comment
Read more