My mom is currently sitting in a Claremore motel room. She’s shoeless. No extra clothes. A broken neck.
She’s screaming into her phone and out of my speaker.
It’s the eighth call in 10 hours. Most of them throughout the night. Four-minute voicemails of her screaming and sobbing. I later listened to all the voicemails. All had same the message. Just the order of the retellings were changed up a bit. Uncontrollable rage in each. In each one she mentioned she wasn’t drunk or high.
I awoke to her calling again at 7 AM.
Nothing like the sound of your mom uncontrollably crying and screaming first thing in the morning.
On Wednesday evening she said she had been assaulted by her friend, who apparently had taken a break from trafficking drugs out of her house to rough up my mom while she wore a neck brace. My mom couldn’t call the police because of warrants for violating her probation.
After a few minutes of listening to what I’d already heard on a couple of the voicemails throughout the night, I tried to interject and ask to speak and she kept talking. Changing voices for each person in a performance of the newest chapter in her tragic life.
“What the fuck do you think I can do?” I yelled it. Loud. It was like a roar. It caught me off guard. It came out of me without a thought. The dogs scrambled out of the bedroom.
She hung up on me.
******
I haven’t written about her in a year. It’s time to pick up where we left off.
When I wrote about my mom being homeless I mentioned she had a black eye when she got her ID. It came from her boyfriend’s fist. He had disappeared for a bit, got jumped and then came limping back to her.
I was upset they had been seeing each other again.
He had abused her multiple times. I knew it was enough times that the apartment manager got tired of the reds and blues lighting up the complex, so they evicted them.
While driving her back from a Rogers County court appearance, I brought him up and told her I was proud of her for staying away from him.
She claimed she had been doing a good job. But it was summer in downtown Tulsa, which means if you’re homeless and have a cellphone, you’re likely going to pay a visit to the library for the outlets and AC. She said she tried not to speak to him when he approached her.
I reminded her how important it was for her to move forward in life and that she had to keep steering clear of him. Then she started to get defensive.
He needs someone who loves him. He only gets bad when he drinks.
The standard bullshit lines. I was over it. I wanted to get my point across.
“You realize you keep going back to him you’re choosing him over your life and kids?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he is going to kill you. It’s going to happen soon.”
“No it won’t.”
“You go back to him and he hurts you, do not call me because I can’t come save you every time he beats you.”
“I love him, and he loves me.”
“You pick him over me and you’re choosing a death sentence and you’ll never see us again. You’ll be ash in a jar.”
“Don’t you dare give me an ultimatum. You know I can’t handle that.” She was yelling at me now.
“Need to figure it out because if not you’ll be dead.”
We didn’t talk the final 10 minutes of the ride until I dropped her off. I told her I loved her and she started crying and closed the car door.
******
Nine hours later she called me.
I couldn’t understand a thing she was trying to say. She was out of breath.
Then the call dropped.
I tried calling her. Straight to voicemail.
She called again.
“I can’t breathe. He tried to kill me.” Her voice was barely audible. Lots of coughing. Gasping.
“You have to stay awake and call 911.”
“Timmy help.”
“Hang up and call 911.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“Are you safe? Is here near you. Hang up and call 911.”
“No he’s gone. I tried five times. Come get me.” Her voice raspy. She’s still out of breath. “I’m in the street.”
“Where?”
“Near my camp. The park.” This meant she was at or near Springdale Park near Admiral and N. Lewis. It was 20 minutes away from me. I was also drunk and sitting on my couch.
“I can’t come get you.”
“Timmy help.”
“Hang up and call 911.”
Then it went quiet except her labored breathing.
“I hear sirens.” The line went dead.
An hour later my mom’s daughter called me from St. John’s saying mom wanted me there. I declined. I asked her to pass along the message that I told her I wouldn’t be there when he beat her again.
I asked to speak with someone on the hospital staff.
He had strangled my mom. He had nearly killed her. The police wanted her to come see them on Monday.
The DVIS shelter was at capacity. There was nothing more the hospital could do, so they were going to release her. I pleaded that she needed to be under mental observation for the time being. She had just been nearly killed, after all.
Having recently written about people trying to end homelessness it triggered something in my brain. I asked the person if there was any way my mom could be admitted to someplace run by the Mental Health Association. The woman told me she’d make some calls and get back to me.
Soon my mom was headed to OMA’s Crisis Care Center, where she would be safe and under observation. I think I may have mentioned this place to the hospital worker. I remember her saying that was my best bet.
I wish I can remember the person’s name who supervised my mom during her stay at the crisis care center. I believe it started with an A. I wrote it down then lost the paper.
Anyway, that employee called me multiple times throughout my mom’s stay and updated me on how my mom was doing. I provided as much info as I could in terms of her mental health history and recent domestic violence situations.
At one point, I think she’s a case manager maybe, and I really do feel bad I have forgot her name... anyway, she and I had a conversation that brought me a lot of comfort. It was like a mini counseling session for me.
Also it turns out she still had a copy of my Tulsa People article sitting on her desk months after it had been published. She gave my mom a copy, who read it then for the first time.
(If anyone reads this and can ID the above employee, I’d like to thank her for her help that night.)
******
Things went smoothly for a couple of months, or as smoothly as it can for a homeless woman in Tulsa.
Her name was on waiting lists for apartment interviews through the rapid re-housing program. Then came a call for an interview for a downtown section 8 apartment. I suggested she go on her own to the meeting. An hour later she called me crying saying she had been denied because she had an eviction on her record.
All that momentum was gone.
She sounded defeated. She has not had much contact with anyone affiliated with those programs since.
******
It was the dog days of summer. Early evening in August when she called me from the 11th and Garnett Quiktrip. Anytime my mom calls from a QT it means “Safe Space” situation.
She told me her on-and-off again boyfriend had just tried to kill her again. He had busted out the motel window and told her to call the police or he’d kill her.
She somehow got away and ran to QT. She couldn’t call the police. Warrants and all.
The motel manager heard the window shatter and called TPD.
They’d finally arrested him.
******
Shortly after being booked into David L. Moss, he was transferred to Rogers County, where he sat in jail for months for violations of his probation. My mom checked the jail roster daily. She stayed on top of his OSCN page.
Having been in the system for years now, she undoubtedly knows how things work.
As summer turned to fall, she started talking about how he was going to get out of jail without any further repercussions. She kept warning me that he was going to get out and finish the job. I reminded her that he’d have to be in her presence again and the best way for that to not happen is for her to not be in contact with him.
Suddenly the Tulsa County charges vanished from his OSCN page. My mom, furious, contacted the DA’s office repeatedly before talking to someone. She was told she had failed to file a protective order against him and they couldn’t reach her, so they had to no way to pursue charges.
She gave them my contact info and address and said she’d be willing to do anything to make sure he paid for what he did.
In December he was released from Rogers County jail. Not transferred back to Tulsa County. Released.
My mom was terrified and angry. She contacted the DA’s office again. An arrest warrant was soon issued.
I asked her from time to time if she’d heard from him or seen him. She said she hadn’t.
At this point she had moved to Claremore, where she started bouncing around places.
I would occasionally drive around downtown and north Tulsa looking for him.
******
In January, I was doing a ride-along with TPD for a Tulsa People article. I’d spent the afternoon observing the officer interacting with all sorts of homeless people. He showed me his database of homeless individuals he’d made contact with in the last year.
I finally asked if my mom was on his list. She was. He described her perfectly. Said she was nice, smart, but some anger issues. He said she liked to dress like she wasn’t homeless. Always wearing big sunglasses.
The reason for the database is because homeless tend to congregate with the same folks and in the same areas. If PD ever needs to make contact with one of those individuals, they can start with the last place they saw them.
It felt good knowing someone else out there was watching over her.
I then discussed with the officer about how I felt a lot of people had dropped the ball in terms of punishing the person who had nearly killed my mom multiple times. I explained how he was back out on the streets, and I was concerned if it wasn’t my mom it would be another woman who would soon be dead.
I provided his name, a description, last known whereabouts and said I hoped the person would be arrested soon or there would be dead women.
COINCIDENTALLY, within a few days the person was arrested and back in David L. Moss. I honestly don’t think my discussion in the squad car made that happen. It was only a matter of time before that piece of shit was back in jail. I’m thankful there are no dead bodies before it happened.
In January, my mom received mail from the DA’s office, so I opened it. It was a subpoena for her to testify against him in court.
This created a contentious conversation because my mom said she believed he did not need prison time. She wanted him to get mental help. He had already previously spent a year in jail for skipping his abuse classes and counseling sessions. A point I made repeatedly to her.
In my opinion he was past the point of help. It was time for him to spend many years in prison for his laundry list of violent crimes.
It was her decision to make, but I told her I’d be by her side when she went to court.
Soon there was growing concern that she’d have to testify in front of him. She said the DA’s office told her she could be forced to take the stand if it went to trial.
My mom was ready to back out.
Four days before her scheduled appearance, she was driving a rust bucket of a car when she was hit head on by a semi.
To avoid rear ending stopped cars in his lane, the semi driver swerved to his left into oncoming traffic.
My mom awoke in the ambulance. Covered in blood. Restrained. The last thing she remembered was the semi coming at her.
They said it was a miracle she was still alive.
As she laid in her hospital the next day, she asked me why she had lived. She didn’t see much point in it, but she was thankful. She cried.
For the first time in years, I heard my mom say she was grateful to be alive. After many calls of her contemplating suicide, this close call with death briefly changed her.
Due to previous spinal/neck injuries and surgeries, she could not undergo another operation. She would have to let it heal on its own over six months.
The car looked like it had fought a giant can opener and lost. I still have no clue how she survived.
She started talking like she had an opening to dodge her subpoena. I told her absolutely not and that I’d take her in a wheelchair or hospital bed if forced too.
St. John’s released her a day after her accident.
A few days later I drove to Claremore to pick her up and then escort her to the Tulsa County Courthouse’s Victim Witness Center. This is the place the victims of crime go to await their moment to testify against an alleged criminal. Lots of scared faces. Some crying. Some affirmation from strangers. Some nods of “this shit sucks. Sorry we’re both here.”
My mom was told that in nearly all similar cases, once the assistant DA announces the witness is on the premises and waiting to testify, the offender will speed up the proceedings by declining the option to go to trial. According to the DA’s office, the last thing a criminal wants to do is see the victim on the stand testifying against them.
The assistant DA briefed my mom privately before the judge took the bench.
An hour later he returned with news that the offender had declined his right to trial.
The assistant DA thanked my mom for the strength to finally testify.
“I can’t believe it took this many times, but we got him,” he said to my mom.
“How many times?” I spoke up. I had never asked this question before.
“He had been charged eight times in Rogers County.”
I was stunned. I felt sick.
If the police and courts had got involved eight times, how many times had she been abused by him? She later told me more than 20 times. That was a conservative estimate. I had no clue.
I asked the assistant DA why the criminal had failed to be sent to prison before the ninth time?
“The victim has to show up to testify. If they don’t show up the charges are often downgraded or dropped.” He said he didn’t understand why Rogers County handled things the way they did throughout the process. (I’ve felt the same way numerous times.)
My mom couldn’t show up to a court where she was wanted, so she wouldn’t testify.
She was terrified to call the police because she was sure they’d arrest her too.
As part of her willingness to testify in Tulsa County, the DA’s office said they would not arrest her and that he’d let the other know counties she assisted in a criminal case.
She was lonely. She was in love. She wanted to help someone.
So why did she go back to him that June day he nearly strangled her to death?
He offered her dinner, cigarettes and vodka.
He drank most the vodka, she said.
In February, he was sentenced to seven years in prison, where he will serve 75 percent of the time. He was sentenced the same day his dad was sent to prison for murdering someone in Claremore.
Leaving the courthouse that morning, I was extremely proud of my mom.
She had stood up and faced her demons.
She finally had a major victory under her belt.
For the first time in a long time, she was a winner in my books.
I said as much and she replied as she started crying, “there are no winners today. He’s never going to change. Prison might make him worse.”
My heart sank, but my smile stayed.
“Everything will be OK. This is a sign of good things to come for you.”
******
I planned on sharing this story a couple months back. I sat down and started writing it and then my mom started texting me. I could instantly tell it was going to be one of those days when the texts would be lighting up my screen for hours. On this day there were more than 70 in less than two hours.
After many years of long conversations about how she had been wronged by everyone she turned her anger toward me and unleashed a fury of texts that were among the meanest things anyone has ever said to me. Coming from her it was like she was repeatedly stabbing me in the heart.
I was heartbroken.
If she could say those things off the top of her head, how long had she been thinking them? Had she been using me? It wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities. She had 50 years of gaslight training from her mother, the queen of manipulation and verbal abuse.
I wasn’t good enough to share her story. She wanted someone with a big name to tell her story. I didn’t have her interests in mind. I didn’t really want to help her.
I was a piece of shit that didn’t care about her, she said.
I started questioning if she was pushing me away to create a distance that would make suicide easier for her. It was a common topic of conversation.
As the attacks kept coming and grew in intensity, I finally told her to stop and that she had broke my heart. I was crying in a public place.
The next day she apologized for her actions. She claimed she didn’t know what she said and that she didn’t mean any of it. She had deleted the messages. She was just really stressed.
A week later I drove to Claremore to pick her up and bring her to Tulsa for one of her many checkups. Nobody else in the family would do it.
******
For most this year, my mom has been staying at an old friend’s house. She recently talked that person into allowing my mom’s daughter and her husband to move in with them since they too are now homeless.
My mom didn’t mention this to me for a while because she said she knew what I’d say.
I said it.
I warned my mom anyway that nothing good would come from her being nice to her daughter.
******
After my mom hung up on me this morning, I took the dogs for a walk/jog. I maybe pushed all of us a little too hard. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to erase her from my memory.
I tried to think about other things, but I knew it was only a matter of time before she called again.
As I pushed the dogs past mile two, my phone rang. I clicked accept.
The screaming and crying blasted directly in my ears. I quickly turned down the volume on my headphones.
I walked the dogs home and put her on speaker.
She kept repeating that she’s sorry for being a victim of molest, rape and abuse. She’s sorry she got evicted. She’s sorry she’s an embarrassment to the family. She’s sorry she’s a victim of a lifetime of emotional and physical abuse.
She’s sorry she’s homeless and alone with a broken neck.
She says she has a place to go to in Oklahoma City.
I tried to speak, but she screamed and cut me off. Telling me she needed to talk.
I tried to tell her she’d been talking nonstop for hours and she cut me off again.
Then she started on me not doing enough for her.
This time I hung up on her.
She has since called me seven more times.
******
I now find myself where I was a little over a year ago.
I feel helpless.
I don’t have any answers or suggestions for her but to keep surviving and that I love her.
I wish I could help her more, but I can’t.
My heart is broke for her.
The reality is it will likely only get worse before it gets better. And it can’t get much worse.
I tell myself I don’t want to talk to her anymore. Maybe it’s time I pull the eject cord. So many others have. It’s not doing me any good to just serve as sounding board for her anger. It’s apparently not doing anything good for her either since it tends to come in waves.
******
Who am I if I turn my back on her? Who am I to her now?
I don’t know if I can help my mom anymore.
I don’t know if I can talk to her again.
I don’t want to give up on her.
I want to believe things will get better. One way or another.
******
I’ll continue to be a voice for those like her. I’ll continue to bring awareness to programs that help those dealing with homelessness and/or mental health issues. I will continue to put a spotlight on those who work with the homeless.
There comes a time (many times actually) when a person in a similar situation to mine stands at the crossroads of continuing to support a person or go the other direction.
My heart and my brain are telling me to go two different ways.