Crushed Not Cursed

Written By: S. Tuttle

A while back, I told you about the day everything shifted for me, when Granny went to prison. And honestly? I wish that had been the end of my experience with the justice system. But nope. Not even close. In my family, jail wasn’t some shocking twist. It was… Tuesday. It was as normal as birthdays or running out of milk.

If somebody didn’t come home, we didn’t freak out. We didn’t Life360 (it would’ve been nice).. We just pulled out the phonebook to look for jail numbers and started calling.

“Knox? Nope” “Whitley? Nope” “Maybe Laurel?” 

We had it down to a science. Really it’s these moments that are kind of morbidly funny to me now; but back then… that was heavy stuff for a kid.

To be transparent, I’ve spent more time in visitation rooms than at actual family reunions. I wish I was exaggerating, but it’s true. In fact, sometimes those were the reunions. People talk about going to for visits at their families house on breaks. I went to see mine through a thick piece of scratched-up glass. (ironically, I can sell you that glass now – the Lord’s funny in that way.. I guess He really does cause all things to work together for the good). Anyway, where was I – oh yeah, the “family table” for us it was a metal one bolted to the floor with a matching stainless steel stool. The aesthetic was truly unmatched… 

I remember one time we went to visit my cousin at the county jail; ahh good ole KCDC. We checked in, sat down, waited for his group to come out. And who walks up beside him?

My dad.

One of the few times I was actually shocked by anything happening in a visitation room. He heard I was in the building and talked a guard into letting him come say hi. Just a casual “what’s up, son?” moment… from behind glass.

And I’m sitting there like… bro.

I didn’t even know he was locked up again; maybe I could’ve assumed.. 

I remember thinking “this is your idea of quality time?” Cute huh?

Actually that was the only time in my life he’s gone out of his way to reach out to me. The only time. And he had to be wearing a jumpsuit to do it. The loneliness must have really sat in for him to want to see me. it’s crazy how some people show up more behind bars than they ever did on the outside.

I couldn’t tell you exactly how many years he’s been locked up, but I’d bet half my life. I’d venture to say probably more.

Then there was my mom. Bless her heart (for the southern people, yes that’s how I meant it) but truly, she could NOT stay out of jail if you tried to bribe her. One year she got arrested seven times for public intoxication. Seven. Like ma’am. Please. We’re running out of energy from pedaling to the jail so often.

Peddling? Yeah – we’d ride our little Mongoose bikes to the jail to use the kiosk in the lobby. We’d put money on her phone account so she could call home. Sometimes she’d cry. Sometimes she’d yell (because you know, it was our fault). Sometimes she’d just hang up. Honestly? Looking back… I weirdly treasure those moments. That money was well spent. 

That’s the thing about growing up in chaos you don’t realize it’s chaos until you’re older. 

Back then, it was just life.

Another time, I remember visiting my cousin in federal prison once. Man… that place made county look like a cakewalk. It was locked down like the Pentagon. They checked the trunk, the hood, under the car, waved mirrors everywhere. Then they patted us down like we’d been caught smuggling gold bars. I’m just standing there shoes off, arms out thinking, “How is this my Saturday?”

Looking back at all of it now? I’ll admit, it’s heavy. It’s weird. It’s sad. It’s traumatic. It’s the things you still dream about twenty years later. But when you’re a kid living it, you don’t have the language for “this is messed up.” 

You just survive it.

People hear these stories now and ask, “How did you turn out so different?”
And honestly… I don’t have a fancy answer.
God.
A little grit.
A whole lot of grace.
And maybe a few guardian angels who deserve an extra jewel.

And sure, I came out with scars. I still wake up in the middle of the night, sweat soaked, struggling to catch my breath. I still flinch when a cop car pulls behind me, even if I’m literally just driving to Walmart. 

But why? Because Trauma has a way of hanging around like it paid rent.

Still… somehow, here I am. Not behind glass like statistics say I should be. Not calling on a prepaid card bought from a kiosk. Just sharing my story on the other side of it. I look back with the hope that I can help someone else look forward.

And listen… Like everything else I’ve put out there. 

I’m not writing this for sympathy.

I’m writing this for healing. 
And, I’m writing this for you
I’m writing this for the kid who knew inmate numbers by heart.
For the adult who still gets tense when an unknown number pops up.
The person trying so hard to build a life that looks nothing like where they came from.

Let me say this loud and clear:

You are NOT too far gone.
You are NOT broken beyond repair.
You are NOT your parents’ mistakes.
You are NOT cursed.

You’re here.
You’re breathing.
You made it this far.

And if you made it this far?
I promise you, God’s not done. 

Not even close.

He specializes in rebuilding what hell tried to tear apart.
He turns generational curses into testimonies. (I’m living proof)
He takes the kid staring through glass and makes him the adult speaking hope into others.

So, if nobody ever told you this before:

You can start again.
You can rise again.
You can become what your family never had.

I live by this reminder:

God didn’t bring you through all that to leave you where He found you.

You’re still here for a reason.
And your story isn’t finished.