Basketcase: The Memoir

By Stoney Valentine

Love has a funny way of making us feel invigorated and depressed at the same time. I didn't want to do many of the things I went through, but they proceeded, reeking havoc on my shattered persona. I witnessed a first-hand account of darkness in its ugliest form and fell under its spell, succumbing to an evil I never thought possible. Who was that person? How could I be so naive when everything I did was calculated?

Readers interested in how addiction and mental health can put you in the most undesirable conditions, I share my life through the beginning, and the events leading to my incarceration, living inside the system during a global pandemic. Basketcase: The Memoir takes you inside my mind and what led me to make the choices that would later haunt me. But those choices didn't kill me. I survived to show how, even through the roughest life filled with bad decisions, you can find the right path.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350904451

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Copyright © 2023 Stoney E. Valentine.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations.

Request for permissions at [e-mail].

Portions of this book are works of nonfiction. Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect those involved in the case. These are my memories, from my perspective, and I have tried to represent events as faithfully as possible. In Part II, I discuss mental health. This book does not replace the advice of a medical professional. Consult these professionals for any treatment needs.

Paperback: ISBN 9798350904444

eBook: ISBN 9798350904451

First edition, 2023.

For those who stayed by me through it all.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Part I: An Experience to Remember

One // Life History

Two // First Day In

Three // The Pain Within

Four // Moving Out

Five // Dark Beginnings

Six // When’s Court?

Seven // The Light Switch

Eight // Flying High

Nine // An Unexpected Plot

Ten // COVID-19: Entering the Finale

Part II: Mental Health

Eleven // Life in the Numbers

Twelve // The Situation We Face

Thirteen // Food For Future

Fourteen // Moving Forward

Afterword

Notes

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I awoke to the sound of breaking glass. As I lay in bed, the house shook with each new shatter. Who is that? I thought to myself. I began to suspect the cats were in another one of their daily scuffles or up to no good in the kitchen cabinets, but that couldn’t have rung true. Aku, a big fluffy black cat who loved jumping onto countertops, never wandered through the kitchen unless there was food cooking, and Ranger was too young to reach them.

My heart fluttered fast when realization kicked in. The only possibility for the commotion was that I was not alone. Someone, or maybe even more from all the commotion, was infiltrating the place I called home, causing complete paralysis. The level of violation was unfathomable. I quickly pondered whether Grace, my girlfriend in the adjacent room, fell under the same spell.

I remembered my 9mm M&P Shield resided inside the nightstand drawer next to me, quickly breaking free of my fear-induced shackles. Grace’s room had a shotgun in the closet, so I hoped she knew how to arm herself as well. Before I could get out of bed, make a move for the gun, or formulate a plan, a loud shout from the infiltrator sounded throughout the house shortly after the last shatter. The voice came from an outside speaker or megaphone.

Stoney Valentine and Gracie Phillips! Come down with your hands where we can see them. Slowly. Do not make us come up, or it will get ugly.

The entire world collapsed around me. My emotions threatened to crush me, flooding in all at once. This has to be a vivid nightmare. It just has to be. What the hell is happening? I can’t be in trouble, right? I barely did anything and stopped entirely … I knew the answers, but I chose not to answer them quite yet. I’d really discover what was going on soon enough, and it seemed way easier to deny my current state of reality than to accept it.

I opened my door and proceeded to the top of the stairs, each step becoming increasingly heavier on the creaking floorboards beneath me the closer I went, knowing they were waiting below, listening. The hallway was dark and small, but the journey felt long-winded, as though I was stuck in time without any idea what was going to happen upon passing the threshold. With my heart practically leaping out of my chest, I placed my hands on my head like I’d seen in so many TV shows. Grace’s door remained closed, and I wondered how she was dealing if she heard me leave my room. I guess it didn’t really matter much. The police were there to take us away. They had us.

As I sprang into view of the stairwell, a flashlight washed over my left side. Four officers dressed in forest green tactical gear pointed different variants of AR-15 rifles directly at me, ready for any false movements. Another carried a RIOT shield to provide extra cover.

Turn around! Walk down slowly! Hands! Show me your hands! they collectively barked.

I complied, although I felt the force more with my back turned. The biggest fear I faced was being shot for doing the wrong thing. I had already been in a position where guns were drawn on me, but I will save that for later. This instance was a bit different.

Grabbing onto the handrail with my right hand, I stepped down each stair slowly and steadily, careful not to do anything rash. They were the hunters, and I was their prey, descending into their trap. At least that trap wouldn’t end with me being killed and eaten. Three stairs from the bottom, two SWAT grabbed each of my arms while I was patted down, then slapped me with handcuffs foreign to the normal style regular officers carried. They donned no chain, looking like a sleeping mask with holes where the wrists settled.

I soaked in the view next to me. The living room looked as if it had been hit by a tornado. A couch, the tables, and the Christmas tree were toppled over. Glass shards and ornaments were littered across the carpet. I should have been upset, but the combination of sheer shock and tiredness held strong. Hell, I just fell asleep a couple hours prior, plus I figured that a level head was needed with eight armed officers roaming about the house maintaining tight custody.

Whoever cuffed me led me through the shrapnel field to the L-shaped couch on the far wall. As I sat on its edge, I observed ten or so people enter the front door, focused on tasks around my home. Grace followed my lead and silently joined me in the room, another captor placing her on the far side of me by the busted-open window. Her eyes scanned me wearily.

The wind blowing through chilled my core, jarring my bones and sending shivers. I looked at her again, this time with a puzzled expression, silently trying to ask if I missed something, but she just smiled at me. Though genuine and meeting her eyes, deep sadness filled them. I sent a replica back. Although I had no clue about the reason behind the raid, sharing the same messed-up scenario with her helped.

We continued sitting in silence, leaning forward to protect ourselves from the cold because we weren’t wearing a whole lot coming from bed. When another group of people arrived, I instantly recognized them. There were four in total, wearing those infamous navy-blue windbreakers stamped with three yellow letters: FBI. The totality sank in at that moment, draining my face of color. This was no longer a figment of my imagination or a nightmare. This was real life, and we were in deep, deep trouble.

They wanted to question us. Two female agents took Grace into the garage, and the other two agents decided the upstairs bathroom would be the best place for me. At a mere fifty square feet, it felt insanely cramped. They let me know I wasn’t in custody and was free to leave, although I couldn’t walk around my own home or leave the property. I really didn’t understand what he told me or asked me, and I decided I could talk my way through things rather than remain silent. I should have listened to everything I saw on those cop shows. I decided to lie to protect myself over the four hours of questioning. Their personnel searched everything, and even when evidence was presented against me or Grace, I denied it, said I didn’t know, or said we used it for fantasy blogs. The latter was true in my mind to many extents.

Eventually the agents’ attacks stopped, and they sent me to the kitchen while they finalized things outside. One of those SWAT guys watched over me, apologizing for destroying my house. The JTTF (Joint Terrorism Task Force) had strict protocols to follow to remain safe and diffuse high-risk situations. I understood, but the whole thing was pretty traumatic. The government had been investigating us for six months and knew about all the guns we owned. Again, I remained in the dark, dumbfounded.

Ranger walked over broken glass, so I had one of the JTTF agents put him in our downstairs bathroom close by. He began meowing so much that I thought that was the entire mood of everything. I wanted him safe from injury but didn’t want him locked in a cage. Ranger symbolized Grace, who was probably in jail by now, scared and alone. I needed to focus on my situation, though, shaking the negative images of her from my mind. We both needed to.

A few minutes later, a guy in his late thirties entered the room with the two agents from interrogation in tow. He wore a black suit and tie and had a clean-shaven face and piercing brown eyes. There was a wire in his ear, maybe one of those com-link things in spy movies. His expression remained blank. I assumed he worked for the CIA, but I had no way of telling. The agents stared me down briefly, with looks of determination in their eyes. I felt they were about to share some new evidence or let me know what was happening. Maybe they want to ask me how I’m doing?

Well, Stoney, remember when I said that lying was not going to help you much? he said, pulling out the paper with the things I didn’t understand earlier. You just didn’t seem to get that part right. I’m afraid I must place you under arrest for making false statements to federal agents, he said, motioning the U.S. marshal to grab me and lead me outside.

The day had no capacity to get worse. Being arrested was the pinnacle of my fears, and that was my reality now. I was going to jail. On my way, as I looked out my window, I thought about everyone I loved and cared for—what they would think of me. I fully deflated. Family, friends, and life as I knew it … gone. I was totally and utterly alone. And my twenty-third birthday was the next day. Happy birthday to me.

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History had a way of repeating itself. Born by my mother and deadbeat father, whom I never really knew, I observed a plethora of unhealthy habits, subconsciously storing them for later. I was left in the dark about my origin story, so I have always regarded my biological father as nothing more than a sperm donor. My parents both thought it best to keep me from the past and move forward, though they left me with the option to ask. I decided to leave it alone.

As a young child, my mom sent me over to his house on the weekends when she worked, needing a babysitter. Every time I went, it prompted strong fears and panic within me, remembering what type of fate stood beyond that door. The house was small and reeked of weed and cigarettes. Deadbeat usually had people over to sell his stash and smoke, but this wasn’t the worst part.

At bedtime, he forced me into a room and locked it shut. I laid on the bed crying out for my mom and generally crying because I hated it there. My mom usually tucked me in and read me stories if she had the time. He clearly didn’t want me there, leaving me in my sorrow for hours until I would fall asleep with tired eyes.

But visits over to Deadbeat’s hellhole didn’t last much longer because my mother, Stephanie, found Reese, whom I would later call father. They met while working at his father’s bakery and catering business. We ended up moving into a two-bedroom townhouse for a year before moving into our first house—at a cost. Where the space was more suitable for an upcoming family to build themselves, the neighborhood failed as a safe environment.

People would use our backyard as a shortcut to the alleyway. Or our neighbors would smoke out their homes to get rid of bug infestations, and then our house would take the fall. I dealt with the cockroaches crawling around the basement and in the kitchen by pretending they weren’t there, something hard to do when you’re three or four years old. The economically poor city was another problem, lacking businesses for jobs, causing many to stay hustling in the streets.

I attended a predominantly black preschool called a Family Center, which was fun and engaging. My teacher, Mr. Shaun, helped shape my learning to be that way by placing me on the T-ball team. I enjoyed playing sports, and having an engaging teacher or coach helped make the experience much more exciting. My parents were supportive at first, encouraging me to keep playing each year.

The Family Center didn’t have any other classes besides preschool, so I attended a Catholic school for kindergarten. Though it was close by and better than the surrounding public options, my mom pushed religion on me because a religious mother and grandmother raised her. She made me attend these nightly CCD classes and have my first Communion. I disliked the whole thing. I snuck in toys like yo-yos or Gameboys. I just didn’t see any reason to engage in being told to live a certain way or get anything valuable from doing religious services. I did, however, bite the bullet for my family until I got older.

Catholic school gave me the creeps. I honestly thought the place was haunted with its old, creaky wooden staircases paired with the cold atmosphere and unnervingly high ceilings. My fears were diminished by the curriculum, as I learned I loved art. We used to create finger paintings—we made paintings of turkeys for Thanksgiving, painted ornaments for Christmas, and dyed eggs for Easter. I loved the holidays, even if I didn’t like being religious. It brought people together.

And