I’ve been sharing Jane’s* story with you over the past few weeks. I’ve been asked why I’ve chosen to tell her story, and here is why…

To begin, Jane* was kind enough to tell me her story, and give me the consent to share it with you. This was extremely important to me. I wanted to give her the opportunity to share her story, in her words. Her honesty and insight humbles me.

Secondly, Jane’s* story is just one of the many tragic stories I have heard from female inmates over the years. Their stories are complex, and when listening to them, examine the circumstances that lead to their incarceration; you realize just how deep their pain runs.

All I ask of you is to continue to listen to Jane’s* story. Listen with an empathetic ear; open yourself to her experience and think of yourself, the choices you’ve made and the judgements others have made of you.

We continue with Jane’s* story…

At the end of July, the babies and I were in the process of moving into a little house across the street, next door to my friend James and his mom. DHS made another visit, with close to the same accusations as the first time, only this time they included sexual abuse, imagine that! Once again there were some things that needed to be fixed and she did tell me that if she had to come back —-even if the claims were false, she would have to remove my babies. She set me up with an agency by the name of CHUBS-but still no deprived child petition was filed. She never believed that I was an unfit mom or that I neglected my babies.

I don’t in anyway want to give you the impression that I don’t accept responsibility for my actions. I don’t deny for a second that there were problems and things wrong during those two DHS visits. I don’t want it to seem as if I feel that I was completely in the right. I know that there were things I needed to correct. However, I fully believe that even DHS agreed that those problems were not the result of neglect, but rather the result of someone who just plain didn’t know better. My babies were in no way abused or neglected.

I moved into that little house and I was working on getting my life together. On August 7th, my friend James and I took the kids out to the lake for the day. They loved the lake. When we got home that evening I got the news of a job possibility; and, I started the training the next day. I had a bad battery in my car so James and I went out of town to pick one up. We brought Isaiah and Makayla with us and left Christian at home with the neighbor. We got back from getting the battery at about 11:00 that night and put all the sleeping babies safely in their beds. We then went outside to the front porch. James decided that he would go and put gas in my car so that I had one less thing I would have to do in the morning. As he was pulling away from the driveway his mom (my neighbor) called me over to talk. It was midnight and the babies were sound asleep and I was only walking across the driveway —what could possibly happen? The windows were open and I was less than 35ft away. If they woke up crying I could hear them. I never imagined that anything could happen. I was so wrong. My house caught fire and despite desperate attempts we could not save my babies. I tried so hard to save them. I realized I could not get to them from the inside so I ran around back to their window begging them to come to me. Nobody would leave to call the fire department, so I reluctantly left to go to my neighbor’s house. It was only two houses down and when I got back the entire house was in flames.

There is nothing worse for a parent than seeing their children in distress, and being unable to help. As parents we make decisions every day that appear harmless and then (as in Jane’s* story) the worst case scenario happens.

Next week I’ll share the last part in Jane’s* story. I’d love to hear your thoughts. Feel free to post them here on the blog or email me directly anytime.

In a few weeks I’ll begin to share with you the stories of our volunteers. They will share with you why they have chosen to give their valuable time to help these ladies, what continues to motivate them, and how this experience has changed them. If you’re interested in volunteering, I’d love to hear from you. If you’re not sure, check out my blog over the coming weeks and hear what our amazing group of volunteers have to say.

I began sharing with you last week, Jane’s* story; and we’ll continue to share her journey over the next few weeks. I do ask that you keep in mind that this is her story, in her own words. Where appropriate we’ve changed names in the interests of confidentiality.

If you recall last week, Jane began by revealing what her family life was like growing up (if you missed part one, please go here: http://www.coachingkids.org/janes-story-part-1/), and she shared her desire for a “normal” family life.

Join me as we continue to listen to her story…

In February of 2003 I graduated from college with an associate’s degree. (My husband) had convinced me a couple of months prior, to follow him and his parents out to Oklahoma to start a new life. He moved in December of 2002, and I packed up the babies and followed him in February. I moved to Oklahoma leaving my entire family behind in Washington State. This is where my true nightmare began.

It was April 13th, 2003, the day before my 24th birthday. Makayla was 2 ½ years old. She wanted her daddy’s attention; he was brushing her off, as he always did. She turned around and looked across the street. She saw our neighbor getting out of his car. She smiled her big beautiful smile and waved as she shouted “Hi Sean, Hi”. That pissed my husband off so bad-seems he even got jealous when it came to his daughter. He started calling her names; names that would be inappropriate to call anyone, much less his two year old daughter. That was the last straw for me. He could say whatever he wanted to me, but he wasn’t going to talk to my babies like that. I told him that he needed to leave, to move in with his parents. We argued a lot that night, but eventually I got him to leave. With the strong support from a friend, I was able to keep him from coming back.

A week later on Easter, I took the babies out to his parent’s house to see them and their daddy. We were going to fix the kids pizza and do some talking. I wanted to do the “right thing”, “the grown-up thing”. I was going to try. We did some talking and he admitted he had an anger problem and that he would work on it. I just wanted us to be a happy family. He said he wanted that too, and I believed him. I thought there was hope for us. Maybe I just wanted to believe it. I put a frozen pizza in the oven and I accidently burnt the outside. He freaked out. We started arguing real bad and he ended up saying some horrible things. He told me to get my kids and leave and to never come back. He said that he was doing just fine without us, and never wanted to see us again. I was trying to round all the babies up and get them outside to the car and his parents kept trying to stop me. They kept saying their son was just mad and upset, that he didn’t mean it. I continued to try to get everything, telling the babies to get in the car. By this time, my husband was trying to stop the babies and telling me he was sorry. I was getting panicked. I thought he was going to keep them from me. I finally managed to get everyone in the car and we left.

That next week is when my husband really started playing his games and giving his threats. He came by to get his stuff, but he also took our kitchen table his grandma gave to us. He took Christian’s high chair his parents gave to me at my shower. He took the rocking chair that I rocked the baby to sleep in every night, because after all, he is the one who spotted it on sale. He didn’t stop there, since the utilities were in his name, he was able to have them shut-off. My long distance and electric were shut-off only 9 days after we separated. I wasn’t able to get either one of them turned on at that same address, with the same last name. He wouldn’t fix my long distance because he didn’t want me to be able to contact my family who was all long distance. I finally convinced him to fix the electric, after I begged him not to do that to his babies. It was only April and still cold. They could get sick.

April 26th only 16 days after he left, I went to a pay phone and called my mom. She told me that my husband had called the previous day telling her that in the 2 weeks that he had been gone, I turned into a horrible mom. He even said he was concerned about sexual abuse, “after all”, he said, “Jane* was abused, what would stop her from abusing them?” My mom was worried that he would try calling authorities and making up stories. He was great at making up convincing stories. I told her that she was being paranoid, that even though he was acting ugly, he knew what a good mom I was and that he would never make up stories stating otherwise. Three days later on April 29th, his mom came by for a surprise visit to see the kids. She tried to convince me to take him back, I held my ground. She left at about 9:45 that morning and that afternoon at about 1:00 pm a DHS worker came by with an officer. There had been an emergency report claiming that I had physically abused my children. They had reports that Makayla had a hand print across her face and that Isaiah had a black eye. The report also claimed that in the 16 days after he moved out, the babies were malnourished and underweight and that my house was nasty. The officer looked over my babies and said that there were absolutely no marks consistent with the claims and that it was a false report. The DHS worker stated that they were all “plump” so they were definitely not underweight ….another false report. Now she did say that my house was messy…but far from nasty. She gave me a few things to correct and then left. She came back at 4:00 pm and everything was done. She said that she had felt that I was overwhelmed with 3 babies and going through a separation. She knew my babies were not abused and they were not neglected. She filed her report with the DA stating that there was no deprived child petition.

Over the next couple of months, the babies and I didn’t see or hear much of my husband or his parents. I had acquired a protective order against my husband sometime in early May for some threats he had made. He used that as an excuse not to have to “deal” with his kids. I only brought them over there a few times, and when I did, I would make him visit the babies while they sat in the car with the doors open. Some may say that was wrong, but after the Easter incident, I was scared to death that if I let them out of their car seats he would find a way to take my babies into his house and keep them from me. I was scared to death of him taking my babies. There was a time in June or July when he came by out of the blue wanting a week-long visit with the older two, Isaiah and Makayla. He didn’t want Christian because he didn’t have time to take care of a baby. Everything in me screamed not to let them go. I didn’t want to, but when the babies saw their daddy they were so excited, despite how he treated them or how much he brushed them off. They loved their daddy so much. How was I going to tell them they couldn’t go “Bye-Bye” with Daddy? I couldn’t, so they went. He was 4 hours late bringing them back before I contacted the police, who informed me there was nothing they could do. I found his house and banged on his door screaming until finally after what felt like a lifetime he opened the door and I grabbed by babies. That was the last time he had a visit.

We’re only part of the way through Jane’s* story, and you’ll see a few themes keep reappearing:

• Jane’s* attempts to do right by her children and create a “normal” family life; and,
• The unfounded accusations that seem to be resolved in her favor.

Keep an eye out for the third part of Jane’s* story, next week.

If you have a moment, I’d love to hear from you. Feel free to share your thoughts by posting your comments here, or emailing me privately.

I struggle sometimes to find the words to describe the women I have had the privilege to work with. I am moved by their stories and the place of honesty from which they tell them; and while I can’t change the legislation that placed them in prison, I can listen with an empathetic ear, and share their stories to those who are open to hearing them.

I want to share with you Jane’s* story. She was kind enough to not only share her story, but allow me to tell it in her own words.

This week I am honored to bring you Part 1 of Jane’s* journey.

My name is Jane*. I am 33 years old. I moved away from my home in Washington State to Oklahoma in February 2003. I’ve been incarcerated for the past 9 years, and I have 25 more years to go until I come up for parole. I was convicted of felony child neglect in August of 2003.

…My case is a little different than most. With my case there aren’t a lot of facts or evidence. It seems to be mainly opinions. It’s hard to fight against opinions because whose opinion am I following? One may say that my actions were not that of neglect, while someone else may say they were. How do you fight a case against someone’s opinion?

I have a story to tell, a story that can change the lives and hearts of many. I would like to share with you that story and allow you to decide for yourself what there is that can be done.

At the time I was charged, the main problem I had was a complete nonexistence of healthy emotional and mental boundaries. I was extremely co-dependant with severely low self-esteem. I lived in a world of being the victim. My needs were constant approval, recognition and validation from others. I would like to take you to the beginning of my story so that you can better understand where I had come from, and what had led me to end up in that place in my life.

I was 3 years old when my parents got divorced. Somehow my dad got full custody of me and my little brother. I didn’t see, or hear from my birth mom again until I was almost 16 years old. It was also when I was 3 years old when my dad first started touching me inappropriately. After the divorce, I became a mommy to my baby brother and a wife to my dad. By the time I turned 7 years old, my dad had remarried and divorced two more times. His third marriage was his final one, and I thought that maybe this time he would stop treating me as his wife, but it didn’t stop-it only became more frequent until eventually it was happening every day of my life —literally. One day, when I was about 12 years old, he had noticed that there was a couple of months break in my monthly cycle. He gave me a pregnancy test. I was pregnant and he was the father. He took me to some clinic and told them that I had been out running around and got myself pregnant. He said I didn’t want the baby. I had no choice but to agree. At 12 years old, I had an abortion. That night I went straight to my room. I wouldn’t eat dinner and I wouldn’t talk to anybody. He came in and had sex with me again that night only this time he used protection. That night hurt worse than any other night.

The abuse finally ended when I was 15. I accidently told the lady who had acted as my mother for the past 8 years while having an argument. Shortly after that he went to jail. She coupled up with a man who was extremely sadistic. He ended up sending me away to live with my birth mom, who I hadn’t seen since I was 3. At 16, I moved to a new state, a new family and a new school. This is the point in my life when I discovered the numbing effects of alcohol and weed. I loved how they made me feel; or rather I should say how they helped me to “not feel”. I guess you can say that I kind of went wild. I started being promiscuous. I skipped school and I partied. Only a year after I was re-united with my mom, she kicked me out. I guess that she just couldn’t handle me—that seemed to be a common theme throughout my life.

I was 19 when I met the man who would later become my husband. Finally someone wanted to love me and protect me. He wanted to keep me safe from my past, at least that’s what he told me and I believed him because I needed to. I did find out very quickly that he was really not a very nice person, however I said yes when he proposed to me. I truly believed in my heart that no one else would ever want me enough to marry me. I didn’t want to miss my chance. I didn’t want to die alone. On September 10^th, 1999, I married a man I knew for a fact to be very abusive; mentally, emotionally and times physically. September 27^th, 17 days later, I gave birth to my first baby. This was the best moment in my life. I loved my son so much already. Over the next 5 years, the abuse continued and worsened. I had two more babies, they were my entire world. I really believe that it was because of that, that they had also become the main source of my husband’s anger and hatred towards me. He always claimed that I spent too much time with them, that I “babied” them too much. He felt like I was selfish because I spoiled them.

Even though we were still together, our marriage was over way before it began. I had tried unsuccessfully many times to pack up my babies and leave him. I always came back. I really had nowhere to go and I knew that I could never survive without him. Plus I would always end up feeling bad and sorry for him. He had had a hard life and everyone always told him how bad he was and would turn their back on him. I had promised to never do that. Knowing these things, kept me a prisoner in a highly poisonous marriage.

There is one common thread in many of the journey’s I’ve listened to over the years. So many women were in a “prison” before they were incarcerated. They were a prisoner in their home, conflicted by loyalty, family and responsibility. By staying in their “prisons” they were attempting to create the family life they desired, but the pieces just wouldn’t fit.

Join me next week as Jane* continues to share her story and the opinions that shaped her future.