Changing Careers

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After being labeled I had no idea what I was going to do. I was an emotional wreck. But I got into College in the Fall of 2003 and began trying to put my life back together again. It took me years to earn my Associate Paralegal Degree because I was always on an emotional roller coaster. I finished my Degree but realized I was unable to work as a Paralegal. It was too traumatic for me to work in the legal field after everything that had happened to me and it was a position that required trust which, being labeled legally as Treva Throneberry, ruined. I continued in college until 2012 when I ran out of financial aid money. I was only 16 credits away from getting my Bachelor Degree. College kept me focused and helped me not kill myself (over the traumas of 2001 issues) so going all those years was not wasted time; just necessary. But I accumulated a lot of financial aid debt which I still have not managed to pay off. Looking back I didn’t really understand the ramifications of the debt I was accruing. And now, even though I go through repayment plans at times with low payments for a ‘certain amount of time’, they always end up demanding more money than I have after that ‘certain amount of time’ finishes, then I go back into default. It’s a vicious cycle. I’d do a ‘Go Fund Me’ if thought it was the right way to go… but I don’t. It’s my debt.

I began working Retail type jobs in 2004 while I was working towards my Paralegal Degree, etc and found that retail work was something I really enjoyed. It was good to have a job where I could help others find what they wanted. It felt good to be able to put a smile on someone else’s face. When I was working, I could forget about being falsely labeled and focus on helping customers, helping them feel happy with their purchases made me feel happy.

In 2015 I went on a Mission Trip to help a small Church with a Community Event and was involved in a car accident. I was a passenger in the backseat. The accident messed up my back and it’s never been the same. And now, I’m faced with finding a new career even though I am still trying to hold a job. The long hours of standing required in Retail Jobs I can no longer do because I experience extreme back pain when standing too long. It is excruciating at times. But I do what I can when I can. And now God has helped me to realize another career path.

I’ve always dreamed of writing books for a living. I was just not focused enough or able to reach for that goal until now. The car accident has been a catalyst in my changing career focus. Now, I’m currently following one of my life dreams and hope to publish my first book soon. I am excited that I’m going to finally live one of my dreams and hopefully financially I will be able to make a good living and pay off my debts.

Living my dream and meeting my goal in becoming the best Author, the best person that I can be is important to me. I won’t let a “label” that the world has put on me, stand in my way any longer. God wants everyone to use the talents that He’s blessed them with. I hope that I can use my talent to write and create, the talents that He has blessed me with, in a way that will be a blessing to Him and to others. He’s given me so much and is always helping me, loving me, healing me and guiding my path. I am grateful for His Light.

The Frustration of Legalities and Identity

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My life has never been simple even before the legal authorities decided to label me as ‘Treva Throneberry’ in 2001 (see my other blogs–Brianna Kenzie Living Outloud and Kinship).

In November of 1998 I was a teenager that realized that in order to get a job and take care of myself that I needed to have a birth record, and a social security number to do so. I was desperate and wanted nothing more than to take care of myself, to not have to depend on anyone. So, I went to an Agency and asked them if they could help me find my grandparents (my Memaw and Papaw). I could remember only a little bit about them because I’d not seen them since my mom died when I was a young child.

They were willing to help me and for that I will always be grateful even though all it lead to was dead ends.

I told them everything that I could recall about my life however it was my earliest memories they were most interested in.

One consistent memory I have is of a man named Bruce that carried me out of my room and down stairs to his car in the middle of the night. It was dark outside; the night lights in my room and hallway had been on. When he picked me up from my bed, he wrapped the blue blanket from my bed over me. I could barely see the nightlights as he carried me out of the house. I don’t know where I was, what town I lived in–I was young, maybe three, maybe four. I don’t know.

Bruce drove a beige Volkswagen Bug. He put me on the floor behind his drivers seat after he carried me out of my room. He was not a nice man. He eventually handed me over to my mom. I knew her. She’d visited me at the house where Bruce had taken me from. I’ve no idea why she hadn’t been the one that had been raising me.

Due to that memory, the people at the Agency that was helping me told me that I could be likely have been kidnapped. I didn’t think so but I’d asked them to help me and I chose to trust them.

Then one day, they asked me to go to the Red Cross with them so that they could take a blood sample from me. All I was told was that I matched the description of a little girl that had gone missing when she was four. I went with them and gave my blood for the DNA testing. My blood was to be compared to the missing child’s mother’s blood they said. I had a lot of questions but they said that they couldn’t answer me ‘right now’.

Shortly after giving my blood for the DNA testing, the FBI entered my life. As per standard procedure, they questioned me and took my fingerprints to see if they were on ‘file’ in their law enforcement database. They said this was what they did in every missing child investigation. I cooperated. They found no record of my fingerprints as a Juvenile or Adult. This was in 1998.

Somewhere towards the end of December of 1998 the Agency that was helping me originally finally told me the identity of who they thought I was likely to be. When they showed me a picture of the little four year old girl, I knew immediately that it was not me. AND I told them so. I also called the FBI Agent and told her that I had been shown a picture of the little missing girl and that I was not her. I knew what I looked like when I was little and that little girl was not me.

When the Agency and the FBI insisted that we wait until the DNA results came back, I called the contact name listed on the little girls case info on the missing child site. He was aware of what was going on with the Agency and the FBI and told me that he was just waiting to hear back about the DNA Results. He also asked me a ton of questions. I told him that I wasn’t the little girl and that I had also told the original Agency helping me and the FBI Agent that I wasn’t the missing little girl. He too insisted that we ‘sit tight’ until the DNA Results came back.

In early Spring of 1999, the FBI Agent asked me if I’d go to the State that the missing girl was from and meet her family. I refused to do that because I knew that I wasn’t the missing child they were looking for. The FBI Agent threatened to make me go anyways and I still adamantly refused. I was not forced to go.

In April of 1999, I called the FBI Agent and she informed me that the DNA Test Results had came back and that they had decided that I wasn’t the missing child they were looking for. I was so relieved! I was tired of being treated like a piece of gum under the FBI Agents shoe. This meant the FBI were out of my life. They’d been nice at first but then started treating me as if I were withholding information from them, many times they told me to “Just admit already that I’m the missing girl” so we could all move on”. I refused to lie.

In 2000 a lawyer was on board to help me with getting my legal paperwork settled. I needed a birth record and a social security number in order to be able to work and take care of myself. I wanted a future. I asked the FBI Agent for confirmation that I’d cooperated with them in the Missing Child Investigation and she refused saying that since I wasn’t the missing child that nothing in her case file was mine. I wasn’t asking for the missing child’s file. However, my DNA test and cooperation etc…was evidently in the missing child’s case file. The lawyer asked for it too and was refused as well.

So, having no choice, I took a Greyhound Bus to Montana, the State where the missing child was from, and asked them for a letter stating that I’d cooperated in the investigation and that the DNA Test Results said that I was not the missing girl. They wrote me a letter to confirm it all. I stayed in that state for two weeks. A local Sheriff Deputy allowed me to stay in his home. He was nice to me and answered a lot of my questions that I had concerning why they all thought I was this missing girl in the first place. It was good to have answers.

He also told me the name of the FBI Agent in that state that was in charge of the investigation. He recommended that I call him for more answers, so I did. The Agent there was nice to me and I can say that not all FBI Agents are jerks. He was professional and didn’t treat me like a piece of gum under his shoe. He had quite a few questions for me which I answered.

One question I had for the FBI Agent was that I ‘d always wondered why it took 5 months for the DNA Test Results to come back. He said that the DNA Test Results were in the high 90’s percentile that I could of been the missing child and that it took some time for them to decide to rule me out.

I also found out that it wasn’t that I resembled the missing little four year old girl from 1983 so much, but that I resembled her mother. Her mother had died sometime around 1995. I understood when I was told this— a teenager could resemble her mother a lot.

The missing little girl from 1983 was last seen on a family outing. A 13 year old child at the scene when the little girl went missing, later reported that she remembered seeing the little girl being carried in a blanket to a blue Volkswagen Bug by an Unknown man. Some children also reported seeing an Unknown man talking to the missing girl.

It was interesting to learn why everyone had thought that I was the missing child from 1983. I have natural brown hair, blue eyes and a small scar under my chin. I was told the missing child had brown hair, blue eyes and a scar under her chin too. So, our appearance similarities along with the vehicle type is what linked her and I (I was wrapped in a blue blanket and taken by a man in a beige Volkswagen bug and she had been wrapped in a blanket–and taken by a man in a Blue Volkswagen Bug). They were all only coincidences. I will never forget that missing child and am saddened that she is still missing. I always remember to pray for the missing child and her family.

The lawyer and I proceeded on towards getting my legal paperwork situation remedied. When the FBI refused to give him my fingerprint background information from 1998, he sent me to a guy who did fingerprint background checks. I was once again fingerprinted (in December of 2000). When the results came back in early 2001, the lawyer called and told me that he wouldn’t help me anymore. He told me to go get the background report from the guy and I’d understand why.

My fingerprints came back under the name of Treva Joyce Thronberry with an arrest date of September 1996 from Altoona, PA. I was baffled and the guy told me to go and talk to the FBI. He said they could sort it out.

If you recall—in November 1998 through April 1999 the FBI were investigating to see if I was the missing girl. They took my fingerprints in 1998 and ran it through the National Data base and didn’t find any record under my fingerprints in the Juvenile or Adult database.

I went to the FBI and spoke to an Agent on Duty. He remembered my case and said that they would have known in 1998 if there was an arrest record on me. He said that there was no arrest on record anywhere on me in 1998. He said that it was definitely a computer error. He did some checking and the Computerized Electronic Fingerprint System that was noted to have taken the fingerprints from the person arrested in 1996 was not in official use at that time in that County in Altoona, PA.

He said that obviously, the computer system had made a mistake and mixed up the person’s fingerprints that was arrested in 1996 with my fingerprints. He said that it would take some time for him to clear it up.

He also said that they knew that I wasn’t the person arrested in Altoona, PA in 1996 and that maybe the person there had been my mother. He said that maybe she hadn’t died when I was young like I had thought. He said that once he cleared up the fingerprint issue that he had some questions for her.

I had told a couple trusted individuals about the fingerprint report and my conversation with the FBI Agent. Evidently, one of them decided to not believe me and spoke with the local authorities. The next thing I knew, I was labeled as Treva Joyce Throneberry and arrested, basing the identity thing at that time on March 23rd, 2001 on the 1996 Altoona, PA arrest record of Stephanie Danielle Lewis. (See other two blogs Brianna Kenzie Living Out loud and Kinship). Lewis was accused of being Treva Joyce Throneberry in 1996. The computer glitch issue mixed her prints up with mine in the National Law Enforcement Database. Neither one of us are Treva Joyce Throneberry.

The FBI never cleared up the mix up with my fingerprints and when I wanted to call them as a witness in court the Judge refused to allow it saying the FBI had better use of their time elsewhere. I would also like to note that the FBI’s lack of action, allowed me to not only be labeled as someone I wasn’t but allowed me to be falsely prosecuted and convicted.

It’s hard to just move on and forget about the legal mess that happened to me in 2001. If the FBI had of simply fixed the computer error in 2001 then my being labeled falsely in 2001, my being arrested in 2001 and the abuse I’d endured while I was in jail in 2001 would have never happened.

I’d like to say I’m over it but I can hardly say that when I legally have to use Treva Throneberry’s identity and social security number to work. Yes, I did a legal name change in 2005 changing her name and my name to Brianna Kenzie but I’m still forced to legally use her date of birth, her social security number until the State says otherwise. If the State never says otherwise…worse case is, I get to retire from work in 17 years instead of 30 something years…

Treva Throneberry would have turned 50 on May 18th, 2019. I am only in my 30’s. I’ve been stripped of the legal right to use my own birthday. I still celebrate my birthday (December 22nd) with my friends and family but legally I am required to use Treva’s birthday on legal documents and etc. It’s still flat out frustrating and depressing at times, not because of the 16 to 18 year age gap between us, but simply because her birthday and birth year are not my own.

Why can’t I simply be allowed to be myself legally? I’m not Treva. I’m kin to Treva.

In The Silence of The Night..

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(Warning this blog may be hard to read).

I recently read a media article where a female inmate was assaulted and the person responsible for sexually assaulting her was a Corrections Officer who worked in a County jail. I am so proud of that woman who stood so bravely against this guy. She was lucky that she was able to get proper help right away and that the evidence wasn’t destroyed. If I could say one thing to her, it would be, thank you for speaking out. And to the ones that helped her? Thank you for not allowing the perpetrator to get away with it. Reading that article has given me the courage to write this blog. I hope that it will encourage others to find their voice and break the silence of abuse, to also inspire others to stand up for those of the most vulnerable who can’t stand up for themselves. Too many times inmates are assaulted and if they dare to speak out many of them are silenced by threats and cover ups.

Not all Jail Guards are predators however, there are some Jail Guards who are predators. They are set up in the right environment, working with some of the most vulnerable in society. Those who are incarcerated have no voice and because they are accused of crimes or convicted of crimes, they are considered as ‘less’. Meaning that if they complain about being raped or that they are any other type of crime victim, they become the villain simply because they have an “alleged past” or a “past”. Instead of holding the person or persons responsible for perpetrating the crimes against the inmate, the inmate is held accountable and said to be lying.

In 2001 I was arrested and put in a County jail. (see my previous two blogs–Brianna Kenzie Living Out Loud and Kinship). I was there for over 250 days while I awaited trial. Due to all the media articles that were written about my “alleged identity” on top of the fact that I was arrested for alleged crimes, I was made vulnerable to predators who worked in that County jail. I want to reiterated here that I am not saying that all jail guards are predators. I am saying that some of the jail guards are predators. Unfortunately, there were a good many predators who worked in the jail where I was incarcerated. Due to all the media’s bias concerning the way they portrayed me in the media (that used primarily conjecture and speculation), I was made vulnerable to abuse by the predators who worked in the jail.

When I was first arrested, I was put in a cell with other inmates. But when the Jail Guards began to taunt me in front of the other inmates, I eventually had to be put on administrative segregation for my own protection. The taunting started when I had to ask the jail guards for tampons one day on the Pod speaker. ( A Pod is a place where multiple rolls of inmate cells are located). I remember the first taunt. When I asked for tampons the Jail Guard spoke back to me on the speaker, saying, “Are you sure you’re old enough for tampons?” The other inmates who heard the guard on the speaker laughed and from that day forth they began to taunt me as well. As the taunting grew worse by the Jail guards, the inmates followed suit. Eventually the inmate’s taunting turned to outright physical bullying me and I had to request to be segregated from them for my own protection. I could no longer be outside of my cell when they had time out of their cells to hang out in the Pod day area.

I was incarcerated in a cell by myself for most of my stay in the County Jail. By most I mean, all of it except for maybe a week of my time there. The jail guards taunting set me up to be bullied by inmates, and ultimately set me up to be sexually assaulted by the Predator Jail Guards.

At first when I was incarcerated in the County Jail and segregated, I watched everything going on in the Pod from my cell. (I was lucky if I even got one hour out of my cell once a week during my entire stay in that jail). I learned from watching the interaction between the Jail Guards and inmates as to who the Predator Jail Guards were.

Many inmates would cooperate willingly with the Predator Guards in exchange for money to be put on their books or for ‘extra’ privileges like extra time out of their cells, extra phone call times, extra food… they would ‘willingly’ perform oral sex and etc on or ‘with’ the Predator Jail Guards. These inmates were manipulated and sexually assaulted. As an inmate you have no ‘rights’, you cannot consent to sex nor can you say no when Predator Jail Guards come calling despite it being illegal for them to ask or demand sex.

Some inmates refused the Predator jail guards demands. Some were lucky and were left alone. However, the ones who didn’t have strong family or community ties… they were forced to sexually perform anyway. They were sexually assaulted. I can still remember their cries and screams of rage. However, most of them endured the assaults in silence…I can still remember the slap of skin on skin echoing though out the Pod as Predators took their turns..mostly on the all night shifts.

I wasn’t targeted right away by the Predators. They bid their time and when they decided they could safely get away with assaulting me, the abuse began.

At first it began with two Predator Jail Guards. It was in the dead of night when they first entered the Pod. They did their usual ‘walk thru’ on the tiers looking in each inmate cell as they passed. On any given night, it was like they were going “eeny, mini, miny, moe…” as they decided which cell they would enter. I’m sure I wasn’t the only inmate counting their steps…holding my breath. But this particular night, their footsteps paused at my cell. One was a Sargent and the other a regular guard. They stood whispering for a long while, talking about the media and how no one would believe me if I told on them. The Sargent was leading the conversation. The other one, he talked about wanting to run his fingers through my hair, he thought I was ‘pretty’ and ‘loved’ the way my hair hung over my back as I slept. He said I looked so young and innocent. The Sargent wanted to see if I was as soft as I looked, thought it’d feel good to run his hands over my body… I lay on my bunk in my cell too terrified to move. I forced my breathing to stay even as they talked so that they would think I was still asleep. All they did was talk about what they wanted to do to me that night and for several nights after, each time bringing in another Predator Jail guard.

Then one night, as they made their rounds, I heard the snip of the door lock and my cell door opened. I kept my back to the door. I pretended to be asleep as the Predator Jail Guards entered my cell. There were two that first night, the third kept walking fast up and down the tiers, keeping some sort of vigil while his cohorts were in my cell. All they did that night was whisper and lightly run their hands over my body. Then they left my cell and went to one of their usual victims who cooperated with them, to get their jollys.

At first all they did when they visited me at night in my cell was just touch me lightly. But eventually, as the visits increased, they began to run their hands over my body and sexually stimulate me. They would masturbate in my cell, taking turns touching me. I didn’t know what to do. I was too terrified to let them know that I was awake. I was too afraid to utter a sound, so every night while they touched me, while they put their mouths on me, and my body betrayed me by responding… I forced my breathing to be calm and kept my eye’s lightly closed as if I were asleep. I had no idea that I was making matters escalate by pretending to be asleep.

The Predator jail guards began to be excited that they could do anything to me and that I wouldn’t wake up. The fact that I was young and vulnerable, the fact that I not only was young but looked young, made me even more of a target. They began to play games and often referred to me as the “teenybopper” though I was incarcerated as an adult. “Lets go see what the teenybopper is doing” was a familiar line I heard several of them repeat often in their conversations when they headed to my cell.

Eventually, I decided that I was going to tell the one Jail guard that I trusted. He was a man that I never saw abuse or taunt any inmate and he’d always treated all the inmates with respect. He always was fair and never once did I see him abuse anyone. He mostly worked during the morning and evening shifts. The Predator Guards didn’t abuse inmates when he was around.

Then one night he changed his work schedule and worked the night shift. I had not had the opportunity to talk to him yet. I wish I had of, because if I had of, he may have not been enticed to do what he did.. In the quiet of the night, the Sargent that started the whole abuse with me and incited other Predator’s to abuse me, came into the Pod and this night, the one Jail Guard that I trusted, was with him. I thought, Yes! He will make the abuse stop! As I lay in my cell, pretending to be asleep, the two entered my cell. The Sargent said “Watch, you can do anything to her and she won’t wake up” and then he began to sexually abuse me by touching me with his mouth, and poking and prodding me with his fingers in my privates… and before I realized what was to happen, the one guard I’d trusted, said “hot damn!” and undid his belt, unzipped his zipper, and rammed his penis into my anus. I was shocked and gasped, saying please don’t… as he grabbed my hip as he rocked me back and forth…

What the two Predators wasn’t expecting was what happened next. See, I’d been moved to a new Pod, a Pod where a lot of newly incarcerated inmates were, one’s who weren’t quite aware of what the Predators regularly did in the jail… The inmates began to yell, “You better wake your ass up, Throneberry!” and “Don’t let them stick their ‘thangs’ in you!” and etc… The Predators started shouting at them to “shut the hell up”, the one that had raped me, zipped up fast and then they got out of my cell as fast as he could. You see, along the Pod day area runs a long mirrored window and when an inmate looks out their cell they can see all the cells on the tiers mirrored on that window. The lights were low and dim and yet they all saw clearly what was happening in my cell. (Each cell has a vertical long wall-slit window and a window slit in the door).

I learned something that night, I learned that if you shouted enough that it could make the Predators leave your cell. So, I found my voice that night and I owe it to the inmates in that Pod. I began to yell go away when the Predators tried to visit my cell at night. I no longer would pretend to be asleep. For a few nights this kept the jail guard Predators out of my cell. However, eventually, they’d come in my cell anyways, and I would be held down and be sexually assaulted by the Predators, trying to “teach” me a lesson.

The Predator Jail guards moved me from Pod to Pod frequently in order to keep assaulting me on the nights they worked. They’d strike when I’d fall asleep and enter my cell quickly to get a good hold on me. There were many nights that I sang all night in order to stay awake and keep the Predators out of my cell. I sang any song I could recall, and I somewhat regressed from being under so much duress to childhood songs.

One of their favorite places was to take me to the Booking area and put me in the cell they called the ‘Drunk Tank’. On one particular night, after they’d came into my cell and assaulted me, I began to sing-song about the rape(s) I’d been forced to endure. This one night, someone that wasn’t a Predator heard me singing. I was later moved to a holding cell in Booking. It was the wee hours of morning. I was too exhausted to stay awake any longer and I fell asleep.

I awoke to a male and female Booking jail guard laughing and talking to a Custody Officer (one that escorted inmates to and from court hearings). I sat up and watched them out the window. The male guard was holding his hands making a round, large circle saying, “By the time we all got thru with her, I bet her ass hole was this big.” The Custody Officer laughed and said “She’s awake now”. They all looked at me. I yelled at them to “shut up” because…I didn’t know what else to do or say. They just laughed. The female guard said that she stuck her finger up my ass too.

A little while later, I was tossed clean clothes and told to get dressed. I complied. Then I was loaded up in a transport van and taken to the local hospital. Evidently, whoever had heard me sing-songing about being raped… made sure I was taken to the hospital.

The two guards driving me to the Hospital were the same “Predators” that had been bragging about raping and sticking their finger in me. Once we got to the hospital, the nurses told me they were sorry “it” happened to me. I snapped at them to leave me alone and they left my hospital room offended. What they didn’t know was that the Predators were standing by their sides as they took my blood pressure and temperature. I didn’t mean to snap at the nurses. I’d tell them I’m sorry if I could.

The male guard who had bragged about how big my “ass hole” must be, stepped out of the room to make a call on his cell phone. I heard him say a name, and tell him “You better get down here because she’s accusing all of us of rape”.

I was examined by the medical doctor who made the jail guards stay out of the room. She had to keep the door open though. I told her that I’d been raped repeatedly ever since I was put in that jail and that the two guards who had brought me to the hospital were bragging about it when I woke up. I told her that I didn’t know if the two guards with me had really raped me or if they were just trying to say they did it to be a part ‘the good ole boys club’ so to speak. I told her I’d been raped by more than one guard and that I had kept my eyes shut because it only made them be more sadistic when I made eye contact with them. I told her that I didn’t remember who they all were that had come in my cell that night and raped me.

It’d been done so much, one day faded into the next, one night became the same as another night. One predator the same as the other.

The doctor found “recent tearing” in my anus and what she thought was possibly seminal fluid on my thigh when she did the rape kit exam.

After my examination, two Detectives from the County Sheriff’s Office showed up. The younger one of the two was the ‘friend’ of the male guard, the one the male guard had made the phone call to. The older Detective was the one who lead the ‘interview’.

I tearfully told them I had been raped and that it had been happening repeatedly since I’d been incarcerated in the jail and that I wasn’t the only one that was being raped, that other inmates were also being raped. I hoped the guy conducting the interview would help me.

But after I finished talking, he took out a small tape recorder from his bag, clicked it on, stated who all was in the room. Then he read me my Miranda Rights. I knew then for sure that he wasn’t interested in the truth. I was a victim of a crime so there was no reason for him to read me my Miranda Rights. He said that if I refused to talk at that point that the evidence from the rape kit would not be taken to the State Crime Lab. I could barely say anything at that point. I knew there was no hope in stopping what was happening to me and to others in that jail. I felt violated all over again.

The Detectives let the male guard Predator, that had driven me to the hospital take the rape kit that had been collected by the doctor, to the Crime Lab because he said he could do it on his way home, that he was off work after he got me back to the jail. The Detectives let him save them the time.

Later the same day, the Detective that conducted the interview at the hospital came to the jail and told me “If you ever accuse any jail guard again of rape I will make sure that you are prosecuted”. He had backed me against the wall and got close in my face when he told me this. It was pure intimidation: the reading me my rights and the threat of prosecution.

Did that Detective realize he was covering up a horde of crimes? Or was he genuinely “looking out” for ‘the good ole boy club’ thinking I’d falsely accused them? Either way, his actions were wrong.

I paid dearly for reporting that rape. I was put in the medical unit for almost two weeks and as any inmate in that jail could tell you, the abuse was ten times worse in the medical unit than it was when the Predators did it to you in the cells in the Pods. The nurse in charge of the medical unit, one of main Nurses, was all too willing to let it happen. She was just as sadistic as the Predator guards…

I reported the rape and it was covered up. I told my attorney and was told to just let it go because no one would believe me, that it wasn’t why they were representing me. It’s no wonder I eventually chose to represent myself. I felt I had no choice…no one was on my side.

At one point I became pregnant, I was rail thin, so the baby bump was obvious. I was probably about 3 months pregnant by the time I realized it. I had morning sickness and traded my most of my food for salt packets to keep the nausea at bay… one of the Predators saw me looking at my baby bump in the mirror above the sink on the toilet one morning. He took me to the medical unit. The older nurse, who was always nice (and too old to get what was happening in front of her nose), took my blood. I asked her why and she said it was the most accurate way to do a pregnancy test. I was then escorted back to my cell. Later that evening the Predators made sure I lost my baby bump. Their violence brutally killed the child growing within me. My baby never had a chance to survive, to be born, to grow up. I don’t know which Predator Jail Guard was the father. But I won’t ever forget that baby. To them it was just a wad of tissues…But I believe that upon conception, that the ‘fetus’ is a live growing baby. That baby would be around 17 years old now had it of been allowed to live.

I only bring up the baby because the violence it suffered was worse than all the abuse I’d been subjected to. When the violence happened and I was left alone, I bled large blood clots and never received medical attention when I ‘miscarried’ on the floor of my jail cell.

I have peace in my heart knowing that he or she is with my Heavenly Father in Heaven and one day I will get to hug my child.

But how many other women have been put though what I’ve been through? There were many of them victimized when I was incarcerated. How many have lost babies because of Predators that work in that jail? When does it stop? I know I’m not the only victim so I always pray for the one’s being victimized now. Will you pray?

It took me years to get out of that jail emotionally. I was only in there for about 258 days. But the nightmares still come sometimes and the emotional trauma has taken years to heal. I think it’s still a process for me. And while on one hand I have God’s love and the love and support of my family, I sometimes still feel like I did all those times I was locked in a jail cell in that jail…vulnerable and alone.

Thankfully, I am never alone. Jesus, my Heavenly Father’s Son, said He’d never leave or forsake me (Bible quote). I have this comfort in my heart and that is how I am able to keep living each day. Somehow, the pain has lessened over time and though I will never forget what happened to me in that jail 19 years ago, I am no longer bound by the abuse. I am free to move on with my life and to enjoy it to the fullest.

My life is far from perfect and life always has it’s struggles but no matter what comes my way, I know that I’m going to be okay. What happened to me in that jail nearly caused me to take my own life many times, but when God came into my life, I realized I could survive. Then He helped me learn to live my life again.

If you are reading this and you are a victim of sexual assault please know that you can count on God to help you. Please don’t be silenced by the abuse, don’t be afraid to seek help.

I share this in hopes that it will encourage others to speak out if they are victims of crimes. I also hope to encourage those that help abuse victims to keep doing so. We all need a support system we can count on.

(I am the Author of this blog and retain sole right to this and my other blogs. No part of this blog content or any other blog content on my blog site is to be used or printed without my consent).


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In 2008 God brought an awesome person into my life. She is always there for me and I am so grateful to have such an incredible person as my best friend and sister. We have navigated the past 11 years together and her family has truly become mine. I love them all and it feels as if they’ve always been my family. They know all the stuff about 2001 and yet none of it clouds our family relationship.

We always find fun things to do and for that I’m grateful. We all need those people in our lives that love and support us. God knew that I needed a friend in 2008 and He knew that as our friendship grew that we would become Sisters and that her family would call me one of their own. God made sure that I had a family that loves me. I love them very much and am so grateful, so thankful that God put them all in my life. You don’t have to be related by blood to be family.

(I mean no disrespect towards my DNA family; I just don’t have the family relationship with them like I do with Sarah and her family).

(No content of this blog is to be publicized in any other way. The content of this blog is mine as the Author).


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Back in 2001 when I was legally labeled as Treva Throneberry, I honestly had no idea who she was or who her family was. (For more information read my blog post Brianna Kenzie Living Out Loud). The only pictures that I was shown of her were black and white ones from her high school yearbooks. The media mostly put my picture from 1998 on their articles. The above picture of me from 1997 was taken sometime early Spring of 1997. I was a young teen in 1997, I hadn’t even started high school yet. The photo of Treva Throneberry was from 1991 when she was 22. I wanted to post the one from 1997 because it shows me at a happy time in my life. The one of Treva from 1991 is one of two pictures that I have of her from when she was an adult. A few months after her dad died in October of 2018, one of Treva’s sisters sent me some of Treva’s family photos. The two of her taken as an adult were mixed into the bundle of photos. It took almost 19 years for me to find any photos of Treva as an adult!

I’m still not sure how Treva and I are exactly related but I do know that we are family thanks to the DNA Test that was done in 2001. As I explained in my previous blog (Brianna Kenzie Living Out Loud) one of the Throneberry males in Treva’s family is my biological father. One of them must have known my mother. I’ve no way of knowing. I know that it’s said that Treva accused her dad of rape and then later recanted her story. I want to say that after talking to Carl Throneberry a couple of times before he passed away and in talking to a couple of Treva’s siblings, I do not believe that Carl Throneberry raped Treva. Treva’s siblings all stand by their father and I believe them. The last time I spoke with Carl was a couple of years before he passed away. He had dementia and I believe that is why he thought I was Treva. He kept wanting to know when I was going to let him see his ‘grandbaby’. I had mailed him some photos of me and I believe that he thought I was the ‘grandbaby’ when he looked at the photos that I sent him but on the phone he thought I was Treva. And just to say out loud here, I have never had the opportunity to give birth to a baby.

I wanted to honor the memory of Treva Throneberry by writing this blog. There is no physical proof of her being alive after the 1991 photo and it saddens me that no one is looking for her. I can understand how the mix up happened in 2001 when photos of her as a teenager were compared to me. What people didn’t take into account was that she would have been 32 years old in 2001 and she would have looked older than those photos of her from when she was a teenager in the 1980’s. I was still a teenager in 2001 so comparing photos of a teenager in 2001 to a teenager from the 1980’s was a bit extreme to say the least. It is not uncommon for close family members to resemble each other at certain ages.

The photo arrangement of Treva is one that I compiled and put in a collage. I don’t know who the guy is in the photo with Treva in 1991. His image is blurred for his privacy. As you can see, Treva aged and matured like any other teenager and by the time she was 22 she appeared to be an adult not a teenager.

The photo collage of myself is one that I’ve included to show some of how I’ve changed from 1997 to 2019. I’ve used photos that were not publicized in the media articles in 2001 and I put another recent photo of myself in the middle of the collage.

Treva Throneberry was not the villain the media made her out to be. There is no record of her filing false police reports other than the one she filed against her father (the one she recanted). The alleged aliases associated with her name are–alleged. The Texas alleged alias, Emily Kara Williams had brown hair, brown eyes and was 5 ft 5 in tall in 1994/1995. The Pennsylvania alleged alias,Stephanie Danielle Lewis had brown hair, blue eyes and was 5 ft 6 in tall in September of 1996. Emily and Stephanie were alleged to be the same person by one of Treva’s foster parents from 1986 who said that both of them were Treva. Another alleged alias from Oregon from the early 1990’s was Keli Traci Smitt , an adult , born in 1974. There were multiple police reports made by police officers who said that Keli was 5 ft 2 in, some said 5 ft 3 in, some said 5 ft 4 in tall. I’d like for you to recall my previous blog—Treva was 5 ft 7 in tall in 1987. NONE of these alleged aliases were Treva. (By the way, they were not me either).

2001 was a very difficult year for me and it has taken me years to be able to process it all and come to peace with it. I can’t change what happened in 2001 but I can and have put it behind me. For a long time I felt that all of this was a shadow looming over me and the trauma of it all almost cost me my life. I walked through some dark years where I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep going. I am thankful to God that He has helped me heal emotionally and to move forward from that point. I am strong now because of His love for me. I can truly say that it is nice to know about Treva, her family and the kinship that I share with them.

(All content including photos of me and of Treva are mine and are not to be publicized outside of this blog. All content belongs to me as the Author).