What Happened To Kristen Archives

What Happened To Kristen Archives

Emily
August 18, 2015
Intervention , Mug Shots , Where Are They Now?

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In her 2008 episode of Intervention , Kristen Showe seemed to have two lives: One with her family in West Virginia, and another on the rough streets of Baltimore.
“I am addicted to shooting coke and heroin, snorting crack, smoking marijuana and pretty much anything I can get my hands on,” said Kristen, who was about 23 at the time. Her mother’s alcoholic husband introduced Kristen to drugs when she was a teen. Kristen’s episode, though, stood out: unlike some addicts on the show, it was apparent Kristen is truly a kind person.
In the end of the episode, Kristen agreed to get help at the New Directions for Women treatment facility in California. Two months later, in her video update, Kristen and her mom had an extremely joyful reunion.
“Our relationship is unbelievable right now,” Kristen said. “We communicate better. We talk and our conversations end with ‘I love you’ and not yelling and screaming at each other.”
Following a brief relapse just before she completed rehab, Kristen got sober again and moved back in with her mother while working as a waitress. In 2010, the network reported she was still sober and working toward a degree as a dental assistant.
(You can watch the full episode on A+E’s website .)
So, what’s happened to Kristen since Intervention ? It seems there has been a mix of good and bad…
According to her Facebook page, Kristen did indeed work as a dental assistant. She left that field when she had a son, who is now either three or four years old. Kristen appears to have custody of him.
Unfortunately, Kristen has also had a few run-ins with the law. According to the Journal-News of Martinsburg WV, she was arrested in June 2014 “on misdemeanor charges of obstructing an officer, battery on an officer[,] and four counts of possession of a controlled substance after allegedly biting a deputy and kicking him in the groin after being found in possession of marijuana and prescription pills.”
Maryland police records show Kristen was also arrested in March of this year for driving under the influence.
And, based on social media, it seems she is still struggling with some problems: After she posted a quote about letting go of the “remains of who we were,” her mom commented, “That’s the truth. When are you going to stop?”
Wishing Kristen health and happiness.

It's easy to get pretty jaded with the "Catfish," on Catfish (CLICK HERE to find out the original of the term) and even Nev and Max seem a little weary with them on Season 2, but last week's episode really pulled my heartstrings. Are Mike and Kristen still friends after…
Former 90 Day Fiance: Before the 90 Days star Geoffrey Paschel was back in court today as his motion for a new trial was heard. Actually, Geoffrey was in prison where he is currently serving 18 years for brutally beating his fiancée Kristen Wilson (now Chapman) in June of 2019,…
Heidi Klum's bodyguard Martin Kristen has been by her side for the last four years, and although their relationship seemed to be strictly business up until recently, Seal claims otherwise. In fact, he's alleging that Heidi and Martin Kristen were sleeping together long before he and Heidi had divorced! Or…
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by
kristen

·

Published September 7, 2011
· Updated September 11, 2013

On September 10, 2001, we got up early in our Tribeca apartment because it was the first day — only a half day, but still, the first day — of kindergarten for Avery.
I pretended to be as excited as she and John were, as she burbled on about finally being in “real school,” about her new shoes, about finally, the next day, staying in school to eat her lunch.
I, on the other hand, had spent the entire summer thinking I was dying of something. Not sure what, but sure something was drastically wrong with me, I haunted doctors. I went to my GP several times, who promised me, “You’re fine, and even if you’re not, whatever it is, we’ll fix it.” From there I saw a gastroenterologist, an endocrinologist and was about to see a neurologist when something eye-opening happened to me. I picked up Avery at summer camp one afternoon, and realized that all my symptoms- a pervasive stomach-ache, slight tremor in my hands, rapid heartbeat- disappeared as soon as I had her hand in mine. I went home, tore up the reminder for my appointment with the neurologist, and set myself to the task of learning to say goodbye to my little girl, to leave her at school like all other parents leave children at school. I was suffering from pre-separation anxiety, not a brain tumor.
That first half-day of school I felt like the world was coming to an end. Since she was a baby, Avery had gone to “preschool,” a sweet little Montessori morning activity with her best friends Cici and Annabelle, trying to become socialized, to let other people talk, to share, all difficult tasks for an adored only child both of whose parents turned instantly toward her the moment she opened her mouth. I knew that all-day real school would be even better for her. She had never looked back for me when I left her at preschool, only turning resolutely toward her real life, happily leaving me behind. I was the one with the problem.
John and I took her to school, or rather she took herself, that first half-day of kindergarten, bouncing down the sidewalk with Cici, who lived in the same building with us. They could not have been more excited. She was so adorable, so pure and priceless, that we took lots of photographs. Here she is outside the gate, wearing the special new outfit she had planned for days. Especially the beret.
And the red shoes, which made little clicky sounds on the sidewalk as she skipped along.
Into the school she went. I spent the morning trying to think of what I was going to do with my year, what every parent thinks of as the year from September to June. I had quit my teaching jobs the last year in order to write a book, and it was nearly finished, only waiting for museums to give permission to use their images. It would keep me busy.
The half-day ended and I went to pick her up in the little concrete schoolyard surrounded by the wrought-iron ornamental fence, a fixture in our neighborhood. It was a coveted school, that rare thing: a New York public school that was safe, supported by parents, cozy and successful. I was surrounded by other mothers, by fathers and nannies, waiting for the children. The sky was dark with heavy clouds, the air so humid it pressed against our faces like a wet washcloth, tiny drops of rain began to sprinkle onto our heads. Suddenly there was a CRACK , a shocking CRASH . We all jumped a mile high, then looked sheepishly at each other, laughing at our silly panic, as the heavens opened and the afternoon dissolved into a thunderstorm.
At last the doors opened: the big front door to the school where the older children came out, and the little red door onto the schoolyard where the little ones were shepherded out by their loving teachers. And there she was. “I LOVE Abby! She is the nicest teacher! And we colored, and we’re going to be studying chicks! And how they turn into chickens!” Avery’s words tumbled over each other as I picked her up, a feeling of deep relief showering me, lowering my blood pressure, making me sigh with happiness. Everything was going to be FINE . Why had I dreaded school so much? She had had a wonderful morning.
She was so earnest, so concerned about fitting in and doing the right things.
That night the clouds rolled out, the temperature dropped to a perfect September nip. The next morning, the first full day of school, dawned famously blue and perfect. I don’t have to describe it because it is its own category of day now, “a September 11 kind of day.” It was the second day, so no more fancy clothes. She put on a yellow t‑shirt and a little full skirt with appliqued pink and orange fluffy flowers on it. John didn’t come with us. Having his own life to attend to, he headed to work in Times Square and I headed down the three blocks between our apartment and the school, handed her her lunchbox (Hello Kitty), gave her a hug and kiss. “See you at 3 o’clock!” I said, and watched her cavorting in the schoolyard with the children who were already her friends. We were early. It was just after 8:30 a.m.
I caught up with a mother I recognized as having a little girl in kindergarten, and we walked together uptown, she pushing her little boy in a stroller. “Jen, are you at all nervous or upset at Tova’s going to school all day?” I asked, feeling foolish but as usual wanting to see if someone else shared my experience.
“ Are you kidding, with this little guy to entertain all day? I’m thrilled,” she said. We went on chatting.
“ What? What did you say?” I shouted.
“ I can’t hear you either,” she said, and as one person we looked up into the sky. As we stood there, on the corner of Duane and Greenwich, the school a block and a half away, a plane approached overhead.
“ Are planes allowed to fly that low in Manhattan?” I shouted.
“ No! And he’s headed straight ahead! How can he not see where he’s going?”
“ He still has time to turn!” I shouted, as I strained to see what was to the right of what we now refer to as “the North Tower” or “Building Number 1” but what in those days was known by us locals simply as “the World Trade Center.” We hardly thought about there being two buildings.
And then I experienced a trick of perception that I thought about only later. First, time slowed down as I watched the airplane simply park itself into the building, high above our heads. In my perception of that moment, there was no sound. Despite the enormous, overwhelming, ear-crushing explosion that was occurring before me, in my world, everything was silent. The airplane simply silently parked itself into the side of the building. And then there were flames.
“ The school!” Jen and I screamed together. As we looked toward the school, the several city blocks that separated it from the World Trade Center telescoped into nothingness. There was just the shower of flames, and directly below, our school.
We ran, she awkwardly pulling and pushing the stroller. “Oh my God, Oh my God,” we panted over and over. We reached the school; the schoolyard with its red door was empty, the gate locked. We went to the big kids’ front door. Parents were shouting and pushing. The president of the PTA , also on his first full day of school, blocked the entrance. “Now hold on, the fire department is coming. Everything will be taken care of. The safest place for your children is in this school building.”
“ Get the f***k out of my way, I need my daughter,” I said quietly, and he just as quietly stepped aside. We rushed inside, looking for our children in a building we weren’t very familiar with, had visited only a couple of times. “Where are the kindergarten rooms?” I asked some poor teacher who looked completely shell-shocked. “Avery is right in there,” she said immediately, although I didn’t recognize her. I went in. There were other parents there and a frantic rush to find our children.
Then a realization swept me. I was the adult. I was the parent. I was not with peers with whom I could share my fear. I was the one who had to look in control, calm and adult. It was the first and possibly only truly rational thought I ever had, during the events of September 11.
“ Hi, Avery, there’s been an accident outside and we’re going home. Where’s Cici? She can come with us,” and then there was Cici’s father John, so we grabbed the girls and their lunchboxes and headed downstairs to the exit. Once in the round brick rotunda that held the welcome desk, however, we felt wracked with indecision, so many parents and children, crowding the small space. “Should we leave? Or would it just be better to leave things normal?” we all wondered aloud in various ways. Then came a terrible sound, both deafening and eerily muffled by the round brick room in which we crowded. “What the hell…?” We all looked at each other with an indescribable combination of fear, dread, unknowing, and yet knowing. The second building had been hit, by what, we did not know.
“ We’re getting out of here,” I said and I carried Avery out. Instantly I realized I needed to walk a certain way, to hold her head against my shoulder a certain way so that she could not see whatever was happening behind the school, in those buildings four blocks away. We emerged into the perfect blue-sky day to find parents frantically shaking cellphones which no longer worked (I did not even have a cell phone in those days), parents crying, holding onto each other, parents vomiting into the curbs. I walked as quickly as I could toward home, three blocks away, uptown, away from the World Trade Center.
We arrived at home in silence, Avery somehow having divined not to ask questions. It was the first of the many moments after that day that she showed the sensitivity and maturity that have become the hallmarks of her personality.
We sat, Cici’s mother Kathleen and I, on the bench inside our apartment, holding the girls’ lunchboxes, then putting them down, then holding each other’s hands. There was nothing to say. The girls themselves ran off to play, a bit confused as to the shortened school day, but happy to be tog
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