My Story

• Author: Jana Bergman
• Published date: 01 May 2022
• Date: 01 May 2022
• DOI: http://doi.org/10.1177/10439862221095619

https://doi.org/10.1177/10439862221095619

Journal of Contemporary Criminal Justice

2022, Vol. 38(2) 162 –172

© The Author(s) 2022

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DOI: 10.1177/10439862221095619

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Essay

My Story

Jana Bergman

My name is Jana Bergman. I am currently 37 years old and am currently incarcerated

at Denver Women’s Correctional Facility located in Denver, Colorado. I was sen-

tenced out of Jefferson County to a period of 208 years. I have been asked to write my

story. After much prayer and thought, I am unsure of what exactly to say, or even

where to start. As I write this, I hope that it is understood as it is intended and that I

cover everything needed to fully grasp my journey up to this point.

For the first ten years of my life I grew up constantly moving not just between

homes, but to different states. My father was career military and we went with his job.

It was my father and mother, my older brother and myself. In my early childhood, my

brother always picked on me. Initially it was nothing extreme, just sibling stuff. As we

grew older, his abusive behaviors began coming out. I recall him playing a lot of

sports. He really took to football and I became his tackle dummy. Now a 175-pound

teenager, he was much more capable of actually hurting me. I was shy, sweet, and a

teacher’s pet with good grades. I wasn’t exactly popular either. As the abuse from my

brother continued, I began acting out. I’d steal my mother’s cigarettes and share them

with the “cool” kids to fit in and belong. Around this time, my brother began drinking

heavily and often and that only fueled the violence. He got into fights at school, hit my

mother, got into fist fights with my father, and hit me regularly. My father worked a lot

and was “not to be bothered” as per my mother. She would feed him information as she

deemed necessary about the goings-on in the home. He had no idea the severity of the

situation under his roof. I can recall having to strategically hang large decorative pic-

tures and move furniture to cover the holes created from my head, his fist, objects, or

my body. The extensive damage to the house was nothing that couldn’t be fixed. I, on

the other hand, didn’t come away unscathed. My 911 calls and attempts at telling my

father were half-hearted. Even at my own expense, I felt a need to protect him. I lost

sight of myself and my worth from 12-21 years old, and it only continued to get worse.

My mother began drinking with my brother. They both lost their licenses from DUIs

and she enabled him to turn a blind eye to the abuse. It was during this time that I

delved into the drug scene, using to escape my reality or at least numb it. Although

those were my initial intentions, I found a great deal more pain taking this path and

experienced things no young girl growing into womanhood should. I have been robbed

many times; I have been raped and taken advantage of numerous times; I have been in

so many unfortunate situations. That alone is a story.

1095619CCJXXX10.1177/10439862221095619Journal of Contemporary Criminal JusticeBergman

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