(Content warning: Rape, incarceration, addiction, drugs, law enforcement, suicide)

Dictacted 11.24.24 from Dane County Jail, Madison, WI

Dear Mom, 

Well, that last one was a doozy; I’m well aware of that. Quite public and raw and not something we would normally talk about (let’s face it) ever, much less post publicly on the internet. Why don’t we call that a family first? Well, this is part two. I have to get this out there in order for you to understand what the fundamental problem is, and why our communication, which had never faltered in our past, suddenly has. 

Let me tell you the important part though. I’m sure you’re dying to know how lady jail is. Don’t worry, you’re going to get an update. It’s not even all bad like it was when I was in solitary confinement. I’m happy here, well as happy as you can be in jail. Honestly, probably even a little happier. I’m where I need to be right now. 

That doesn’t mean I necessarily agree with, or accept, the charges resulting from the aftermath of being raped in my own apartment, the only place my bail conditions allowed me to be. It does mean that I’m in a place that’s safe both from someone attacking me in the apartment that used to feel like home, as well as safe from the addictions I was using to cope with my attacks. 

Because here’s the truth, Mom: my rapist turned that apartment into my living hell, a trauma dungeon, and I wasn’t going to be able to last much longer in there. 

Here, the doors are locked. The deputies come and go; as I told you last time, most of them are nice. Some of them aren’t, but that’s life. I have a routine in here that brings me peace. I’m the first one up when the lights turn on. I go about my day in a way that’s comfortable and normal and safe. Safe. Something I haven’t felt since October 7th. I feel safe in here. The walls and bars meant to keep me in are keeping the danger out. 

Being forced to confront what happened when I was attacked has revealed skeletons in my closet, which in turn have revealed closets of their own. I didn’t foresee that happening, nor did I plan on it. The truth is, that’s one of the healthiest things happening here. That’s one positive thing that came out of this, possibly the only. It’s forced me to address some things that I couldn’t even talk about in therapy. And now, here I am doing it on a blog – just as surprising to me as it must be to you. 

I’ve been talking with the Dane County Rape Crisis Center every day. It sounds like the Madison Police Department Special Victims Unit might be coming Monday or early next week. The Rape Crisis Center is sending an advocate to come help out with that process. Mom, you know this is going to get a lot harder before it gets easier. I’m sorry. 

I’m sober in here. Maybe it seems like a given, but if you know a thing or two about jails and prisons, it’s not. I’m sober here. I’m able to deal with this stuff because I’m sober. I need you to remember that. 

Otherwise, the only thing I’m bummed out about is they keep putting meatballs and Salisbury steak on the menu. I’ll survive, though. I ordered an inordinate amount of spicy refried beans, and the ladies haven’t completely kicked me out of the cell block (yet). 

Here’s the part that I wish we didn’t have to get to, Mom. I’m not supposed to be here. And I don’t mean in jail because I’ve sort of come to believe that maybe I am supposed to be in here. I know that being in here saved my life. 

Look, remember in July, what happened? I don’t know if I’d say that the police saved my life, but they sure spared it, and I think everyone involved in that situation truthfully deserves an award. Probably a lot of trauma therapy too, and for that, I hold a lot of regret. 

Well, November 14th was different because I don’t think they were doing it in any intentional way. I think my sexual assault brought on a weird set of circumstances that produced either divine intervention or the stupidest blind luck of my life. In any case, it kept me alive. 

Mom (and anyone else reading), here I am “coming out” as something for what seems like the 87th time in my life.  In case you hadn’t pieced it together, I found myself in a bit of a drug addiction hole in the past year. My name is Eli, and I am an addict. 

I was chasing away the alcohol demons, and I found that heavy stimulants did the trick. The way I figured it was, alcohol was going to kill me real fast, and I hoped the stimulants would at least give me a slight reprieve so I could figure things out. At least they made me feel optimistic, like I didn’t need to drink. Well, turns out that there are reasons they say that’s not a very good coping mechanism. 

So, Mom, if you don’t know what I’ve been using, you can look at my latest rap sheet. And once you know that, it won’t surprise you that when I took that walk up to that Metro Market on November 14th, I wasn’t going there to get alcohol. I was going there to pick up some heroin. 

Do you know I’ve never done heroin in my life? I only know what it looks like from my time in law enforcement. I didn’t know how much it cost, how much you need, or what a normal dose is. I know nothing about using it. I’ve never wanted to; opiates always made me sick and dizzy and nauseous, and frankly, the thought of dropping dead at any second seemed to be enough of a bummer to really take the joy out of any high you may achieve. So although I tried many things to cope, I always passed when offered heroin. But the 14th was different, and there I was, buying whatever amount of heroin $80 would get me. The vodka was an afterthought.

I wasn’t concerned about how much I would get, even though I would have no idea if I was shorted. Like I so often do, I was buying in bulk. I was not going to wake up from my first time on heroin. It was going into a single shot. I couldn’t stand spending day after day in an apartment where I felt no physical safety from a person who had raped and attacked me repeatedly and brutally. 

I allowed one person to take my entire sense of security away. Or at least that’s how I feel right now. The feeling that I’m somehow to blame for my rape, and for the mental anguish that followed, is what lead me to that point. I can’t shake the shameful feeling that I’m somehow to blame for that monster being able to drive me to such a place so easily. My life was nothing but a game of cat-and-mouse to them. There’s no other word for it, they were hunting me.  

That’s where my head was when I walked up to that grocery store on November 14th. It wasn’t on alcohol. It was on the pain of the past five weeks, and ending that turmoil. But this is getting long, so I’m going to end it there for tonight, and I’ll pick up on the next post to talk about what happened between that walk and my arrest. Thanks for reading, Mom. “Writing” these helps me feel closer to you.

Still me
-Eli