3.4 Juvie Isn't For The Kids

    Juvie Isn't For the Kids

    I woke up to the sound of my father pounding on my door. I was justifiably confused as my father had not lived my mom and I since I was 10 years old. I glanced at the door and listened as he said I had an appointment I needed to get ready for. I was unsure of what appointment he was referring to, but obligingly hopped into the shower to get ready. Seconds after I had turned the water on, I heard a knock on the bathroom door and a sentence I would never forget: "Shane Sullivan, it's the Eau Claire Police. We're here to take you to Juvenile Detention." I scrambled out of the shower, confused and anxious, and threw on the first clothes I could find. Two officers met me outside of the bathroom door, handcuffed me, and walked me to the back of a police car in the cold January snow. I remember my 16 year old self looking up at the sky as the snowflakes danced in the air and wondered what in the world was happening to me.

    After we got to the detention facility. they placed me in a holding cell and removed my handcuffs. I laid on the cold, hard concrete slab, shivering as the snow continued to storm down outside. I kept wondering what I was doing in Juvie, why my father had told me I had an appointment, and wondering how long I would be stuck in the freezing cold cell. After a short while, I heard a knock on the door and saw a familiar face peek in: my supervision manager, Alexa. I had been on supervision, which is the minor's equivalent to probation, for the last several months. Alexa lead me out of the cell and sat me down at a small table. I look at her, puzzled, and asked her why I was in Juvie. I will never forget her cold as stone eyes as they looked at me as she chilly remarked, "You broke the conditions of your supervision. You'll be here for the next 72 hours."

    I sat, wondering what she meant, but I did not have much time to ponder. I was quickly lead from the holding cell into my personal cell. The cell was cold, small, damp, and as uninviting as I'm sure it was built to be. I sat on the small cot bed as a guard offered me a tray of what I assumed to be some sort of meat. I politely declined, as my appetite had left my body the second the police had knocked on my bathroom door not only 6 hours earlier. I must have laid there for hours, wondering how my life had took such a wicked turn within the previous months. I stared and counted the cracks in the weathered ceiling, listened to the screams and shouts from the cells next to me, and tried to picture myself anywhere else in the world.

    I was placed on supervision after I was deemed truant my junior year of high school. I was suffering greatly from anxiety and depression and most days of the week I could not find it within myself to leave my bed. I had not tried to be truant or disobedient, and had always turned in my school work online, but the county was not flexible. I had plans to enroll in online school for the next semester, but until then I was deemed a drop out by my supervisor. Then, on New Year's Eve, I had received an underage citation. As I laid there, I realized that is what must have broken the terms of my supervision. I thought to myself how ironic it was my first night of fun in months had now landed me in quite possibly the most miserable place I had ever known to exist.

    The night seemed to last an eternity. At some point, another guard had come in to offer me another questionable tray of food. At this point, I had not eaten for almost 24 hours, and begrudgingly accepted the collection of miscellaneous food. I walked back and forth around that cell for hours after eating, trying to distract myself from the reality that was my current situation. After my legs were sore and tired, I finally laid down in the dim light of the streetlights outside, which shone in through the window and was taunting me, reminding me of the freedom I did not currently have. As I drifted into a restless sleep, I promised myself I would never put myself into a situation like this again.