Life in a Bunker

         My name is Saylor Bennett. The date is June 22nd, 1985. I am writing this letter from Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary. I have been in this jail since it opened, I was only 15 years old when I first got arrested. I still remember most of what happened that day. 

         The day I got arrested I remember running from home. My parents abused me both physically and mentally, my dad used to sexually abuse me and threaten me if I ever told anyone, and my mom used to hit me and at one time try to kill me. I never was taught how to act or behave, I always thought that kind of stuff was just normal. My mom and dad used to hide me when people came over because they were ashamed of me and embarrassed by how I looked. My dad used to sell me to random men for drugs and alcohol.

         Whenever I turned 10 my parents started to get worse and I was getting worse too. My heart felt as though it was giving out almost every day, my lungs felt tightened as I struggled to breathe, and worst of all my body felt as though somebody poked needles all over my body. It got hard to move, and I always felt stuck in my own head, it got harder and harder to want to live and be able to handle this horrible pain for any longer. I was just starting to grow and notice the damage my own parents had been causing me. My own parents never loved me the way I needed, the way I wanted them to, the way I longed for them to, not even the way they were supposed to.

          The simple fact that some people had parents that were there for them, and that wanted them, loved them, and even wanted them to be alive, crushed me every day and burned my heart. I always just wanted love, and someone that would slightly care for me at least, but I never got the chance to be loved. Many parents don’t realize how bad it hurts to not be loved and to not be cared about. My parents never took the time to understand me or to get to know me, they just wanted to hurt me and tear me down. I had to start learning how to take care of myself and not count on other people to be there for me.

         When I turned 14 I got pregnant with my dad’s child. Nobody knew and nobody cared, I was hidden in the attic for basically my whole life, so I couldn’t get a pregnancy test or anything. When I had the baby my mom lost it, she called me a mistake, whore, and everything else. I realized I had to do something quick so this baby could have a better life than me. My mom tried to take the baby, but I wouldn’t let her, I couldn’t give up on me, on her, on us.

         When I turned 15 I escaped, I had finally made it out. I thought I was finally free until my mom found me. She found me before I could get safe, I felt as though I had failed my mission as a parent already. When my mom found me I was about 3 hours from the house, in a lonely, and quiet city. She grabbed me by my sweatshirt and told me she was taking my baby and running away to find someone to take care of it because she thought I was not mature enough to handle the stress of taking care of a child.

         I told myself that I would never give up on us, and I wanted to give my baby the chances I never got to experience. I truly wanted to prove that I could provide my child with everything I never got, but desperately wanted and needed. As I began to attempt to explain to my mom why I should be able to keep the baby, my mom grabbed the baby and ran. I  ran until I caught up to them, but my mom had called the cops on me and had told them I was trying to kidnap her baby. The cops arrested me and charged me guilty of kidnapping, I was charged with a life-long sentence. But I was innocent.

         So here I am now, I have been here for almost 50 years. I have always just wanted to be free, and to experience a life without chains and not be within four tightly consumed walls. I never fully understood how my parents could just fake everything and pretend everything was fine and amazing on the exterior because I was the only person to get to see the harsh reality and the intimidating interior. Last week I got to make a phone call and I decided to call my mom, just to check on my baby, but she never answered, when I ask the guards to go and find her and make sure she is okay and alive they just laughed and walked away. I had to swallow the hard fact that I would never be able to see my baby ever again, no hugs, no kisses, no snuggles, and no love.

          Every day I blame myself for not running away sooner, but then I realize the harsh reality that I was probably safer here than what was once my own home. I cry at least once a day thinking about the fact nobody loves me, but I have gotten more and more used to it. A few months ago I attempted to kill myself but I realized that wouldn’t help me escape from the pain, nothing will, so it’s better to just keep going. Sometimes I like to play little games in my head thinking about how my baby is doing, some are dangerous, vicious, and sadly more realistic, but others are more happy and warm feeling, and even know I know they aren’t realistic and likely I still like to imagine and hope. Every night I pray that my baby is doing okay and is breathing, that is all I ever wanted for myself so I hope the same for my baby.