Changes

Hello All-

It has been far to long since I have posted anything. I created this blog as a mouth peice for my book: Trash or Treasure: The Power of Forgiveness. What I am lead to know is to actually use a blog for what it is supposed to be about. A forum to get out what I have to say.

For the past three months I have been scampering about trying to manifest a job that would support me in the beautiful city of angels. I spent hours everyday sending out resumes and talking to people on the phone. Securing an interview was never the problem, I acheived 23 of those in the first three months. The problem was no one wanted to seal the deal and actually give me a job. I think that this was juxt as much my problem as it was the employers. I had competing intentions. I was searching for a job because that is the way a good citizen lives their life out here. And God knows that I wanted to prove that I was a better than great citizen that deserved her place out here in society with all of you marvelous people.

I finally secured a job as an Optician at a high end optical shop in Manhatten Beach. Io be honest I didnt think the interview went that well. Mike called me at 8:30 on a Friday night and asked me when i could start. I started on Sunday. From the very beginning it just didn't feel right. Who I am now, didn't fit in. I had problems hard selling people and manipulating them into buying eyewear that they really didn't need or could find at a cheaper price. It only took me a few days to figure out this was not the job for me.I had made the decision to put my all into it. When he started handing me pamphlets for all the manufacturer's he carried and all I was to take all these items home, study them, bring them back so he could test me on them. I made it clear that he didnt pay me for my off time.

So, on the tenth day I walked in and told Mike that I was incredibly grateful for the opportunity of working with him. I was also clear that I was not the perfect fit. I was given my first paycheck, I walked out of the brightly lit store, got into my green car, drove my ass directly to the bank where I quickly deposited my check.

When I got home I created my own business that utilizes my own skills. Intuitive Cousneling by JoAnn. I am a trained Psychic, Medium and I talk to angels. So many friends have commented about not knowing I had these skills and I answer, I was laready enough of a freak. the prison girl, did I really want to be known as the prison girl who sees dead people?

My answer now is yes, befor a resounding no. I already had a big enough hill to climb. wouldn't you say?

Pricetag-what I sold myself for the attention of a man

The celebrating happened as soon as we got back to camp, the animal was hung and skinned, butchered right there in camp. The alcohol was passed around to adult and kid alike. I was fifteen and had as much tequila as the men. My Dad so happy in his celebration that he passed out where I was supposed to sleep and Roger was in the other bed so I was now out of a bed. Chris offered his tent and he would sleep outside the tent door. He had an extra sleeping bag so I took him up on his offer. Roger offered to make room for me in our camper, but I honestly thought the tent was a better option. I went into the tent and told Chris he could sleep inside the tent because it was really cold outside. I climbed into the sleeping bag with Chris in his beside me. It wasn’t long before we were talking about how sore we were from the day and he offered to give me a massage. I was nervous but it was just a massage and he was married he was just being kind. I knew I wouldn’t let it go too far because I had my lower stomach wrapped in two ace bandages to make it flat. I was not about to let him see that. I rolled over and he began to massage my back. After a minute he commented that it would be easier if I took off my shirt which I did, still worried that he would discover my ace bandage secret. After a few minutes, he stopped and laid down next to me, I was so relaxed and still flying high on all the tequila that I was glad when he finally kissed me. At least I was in control this time; I was making the choice to have sex with this man.
What a powerful feeling! I slipped out of my camopants, red shorts and teen undies. I prayed that he didn’t notice the ace bandages I didn’t have time to unravel. It didn’t matter his hand touched the coil restricting my middle asked me what it was. I told him it didn’t matter and on we went. What I learned from that night was how different the experience was when I made the choice to participate and not be forced into participating. I fell in love with him in my fifteen year old way, pretending that he was Patrick Swayze in dirty dancing and I was his Jennifer grey. I just knew he loved me because he had made love to me, soon enough though I realized this was not the case. On the drive home he behaved like He barely knew me, not touching or talking to me, my already broken heart broke a little bit more. I had daydreamed for a day and half that this knight would save me from my step brother, but this was not to be the case. In fact, I never spent a minute alone with Chris, even though he became an employee at my parent’s archery shop two years later.
The next morning I emerged from Chris’s tent and headed to the showers. It was early, no one else was up, I needed to wash his long shooting cum out of my hair and re wrap my middle for the day’s activities. As I emerged from the crude bathroom all cleaned up the ranch managers son a boy two years older than me was stoking the fire, gave me a strange look. I knew that he had heard what occurred between Chris and I the night before.

Time keeps on slippen...into the future

The Panel has reviewed all the information received from the public and relied on the following circumstances in concluding the prisoner “IS” suitable for parole.
Me: did you say is? Oh my God you did.
Uh huh, and would not pose an unreasonable risk of danger to society or a threat to public safety if released from prison. You can breathe. Go ahead and breath. Were you expecting a denial?
Me: I didn’t want to..I hoped for the best and expected the worst.
Do you need a Kleenex? Now what I’m going to talk about here is our justification for this grant. And I don’t ever want anyone to think that we don’t have a victim or victims. That this crime did occur. It occurred as stated and it was a horrible crime. I just - - because what we’re going to talk about from here on out is going to what you have done to earn a date to get out. But we never want to forget the fact that we have a victim here. And I want to make a note also, in the initial board report that Mr. Waddell read out of in talking about the victim who wrote the letter of forgiveness, he didn’t read the whole thing. And I am going to read the rest of the letter from the victim. She said: “when I wrote the letter I also wanted JoAnn to know that I don’t’ hold any animosity towards her for her actions. And even though I forgive her, forgave her, and continue to forgive her for her actions I understand that it does not negate her actions. It only opens the door for someone who could step through to change. I’m gratified that she did that, that she’s taken those steps. Whether you grant her parole or do not grant her parole is your decision.”

Flash Floods and Mud Slides

My scheduled date was for release on the 1st of November. I was up at 6am to shower, blow dry my hair, make sure my clothes were squared away. All my jewelry was off, nothing in my pockets except my id. One more trip to the potty, wash my hands, and put Vaseline on my lips. 8:50am the phone rings and I walk up to the cop shop knowing that my name is one of the first to be called. Tammy stayed overnight at a motel in Chowchilla. I grab my pass and race out the door, walking as fast as I can to make the gate before the yard opens. Thankfully, a copper was at the gate and I breezed right through. Life is going perfectly, and this is just a celebration of that. I get to spend this beautiful fall day with my best friend.
I get through the pre visitation search quickly and hurry into the visiting room. I locate Tammy standing up and headed in my direction as I check into the cop shop which is required before you can go to your family.
Tammy and I collide in a huge hug. Immediately I notice that something is wrong. Her face is not radiating the joy we feel at my going home; rather it is the face that precedes bad news. True enough she says, “Lets go outside”
No
We need to go outside
No, nothing good happens out there. (Going outside means that she needs to tell me something serious and that is the only place we can get a little privacy. It is were she told me that Grandma died, that I had lost my 9th circuit appeal, that both her boys needed surgery, that the woman who raised me had died, ect.) Great Grandma died right?
It may seem bad but this was a better alternative than something having gone wrong with my date.
Tammy started to cry and my worst fears were confirmed deep down in my chest.
I said, “I’m not going home am I?”

Time keeps on slippin...

There is a common misperception that prisoners have nothing but time on their hands, that they are handed everything for free. In fact when a convicted person is sentenced it is called being given time. The girls ask, How much time to you get? Then the comparison starts of who got screwed and who got lucky. On October 31, 1995, I found myself sitting in a dirty beige room. A wood enclosed Bench at the head of the room. Two more desks sat in front of the judge’s bench. Ten feet in front of that were two regular wood tables one to the left, the defendants table and one to the right the prosecutors table. Further to the right was the now empty jury’s box. The jury of my peers (the youngest being 49) is gone to sleep at home instead of the cozy box. To my left is another desk that is the bailiffs, from here he keeps a watchful eye on me and my family. A railing runs across the room behind me. Behind that the room is nothing but rows of chairs and a giant eagle hung up on the wall like the sentry of all that is good and holy. On this day the honorable judge Wayne Westover, dressed in his black robe was handing down my sentence.

God Who?

My faith has been built over this twelve year struggle. God knows everything right? Is in control of everything, therefore he knew I was going to be hurt and left, and that I was going to hurt and love, yet where was his compassionate loving hand through the first twenty plus years of my life? Would I , hell could I love a God who allowed my life to play out as it has thus far, believing that it is for the best? You see either God is in control of everything or he is not! He is not just in charge of the good things and all the bad things I did and was done to me are the work of people or the devil. God the god in the bible is the alpha, and the omega, the beginning and the end, either I was going to trust that he had all of this fucking shit under control and it was going to work out, or all the people myself included where full of shit and stupid for believing in God who picked and choose who he would help out!

God Who?

God skipped the first twenty or so years of my life. How can he of been present when My mother chose to kill herself. Where was he when I was being beaten to a bloody pulp. Where was he when Tom started touching me. Where was this all knowing all powerful lover and protector of my soul when tornado dad was beating me down physically, mentally, emotionally. Where was God when all the kids at school hated me choosing to spend their lunch hours chasing me around the play ground trying to jump me. Where was God when I heeded my dad’s yelled directive to get the fuck out because I had a boyfriend. The first I had brought home up to that time. Where was good when I made the decision to plan and carry out the attempted murder of an innocent woman I liked. Where was God in this deep pit I have found myself in. This tiny room with one window if you could call it that. About 6 inches wide and two feet in length. Covered in a dirty yellow grate that allowed a modicum of sun in, but to see out I had to put my eye up to the dirty grate peering through one of the holes that punctured the protective covering. How many hours I have sat on my bed a hard metal bunk with a slim 1 inch plastic mattress placed upon that. Covered in threadbare sheets and scratchy dark wool blankets. The grumbly toilet less than a foot from the edge of the bed; the sink and mirror a foot from that and the door a foot from that. I laugh to myself at all the old tv shows I saw where the prison paced back and forth as a way to manage there time, yet that is not a reality here. In one possible two if you take small steps you reach the other side. Able to touch one side of the room with your left hand and the other side of the room with your right. How did I end up here? What the fuck?