Victim or Survivor….

I have met many wonderful women in my search for peace. Many who you will find links to their blogs on this site; and many more that I have not yet linked to. (Only because I am lazy.)

And my wonderful new group that I share emails with everyday. Such a wonderful group of women who know the pain of loosing their child through adoption. These women choose to share their friendship with others and help others in pain and every day life.

Some of these women still do not know how they have helped me personally by telling their stories. I lurk on their blogs daily. Searching for ones who have updated with anticipation. Reading each word they write over and over again with amazing connection. I know these feelings of which they write. I see their pain, I feel their pain as it is so much like my own. And with each new day, each new blog entry, I find myself feeling… Not alone. I’m not alone any more! And that feels good.

It was with one of these women that I had an email communication with that led me to the path of Victim vs survivor. In hopes of bringing some peace into my life, she suggested that I stop looking at myself as a victim and realize that I am a survivor instead. Her letter was like a giant light bulb in my head. I was looking at myself as a victim. I had so much anger inside me that sometimes it felt as if the anger was all of me. I sometimes feel that if not for the anger and self pity, I would melt away into nothingness. The real question, the one I asked my friend was, how do I stop the anger and self pity from eating me alive? How do I transition from Victim to Survivor.

Her answer? Her answer was amazing to me. More amazing was that I could not see this answer on my own. I guess sometimes you truly can’t see the forest, for the trees.

What she said to me was this:

“For a start you stop giving it a negative label. Have some compassion for yourself; call it grief or loss. Call it psychic disturbance…. If you met another woman who had lost her children and was upset about it, would you tell her not to have her feelings?”

The answer is Of course Not! The pain that I feel, the pain that all my first mother friends feel, we can not turn off! We have to be allowed to feel this pain! We have to acknowledge it and be allowed to know that it is real. We can’t hide it any longer! We’ve hid this pain in the closets of our hearts for too long. Letting it eat away at our Souls, so that no one would see. NO MORE!

Hiding our pain only makes us more the Victim! It only makes the pain keep growing until it will eventually consume us. We have to bring it out of the closet and face it! Acknowledge it as real and learn to reach out to others for help in standing, when standing alone is too hard!

So what is the road to healing for us? My friend answered this question also: She said to being healed,

 “I believe it’s not something that can ever be resolved or healed, there is no true healing and no true closure from this kind of loss. I don’t look for that anymore, I don’t believe it exists and that helps me.”

This statement seems devastating when you look at it alone, but in truth, it can be very freeing. When you spend all your energy trying to stop the pain, when there is no real way of stopping it, you can end up in much more pain. Each day you ask when will I stop hurting so bad! You allow yourself to feel guilty for the pain itself and that heaps itself onto the pain. Each night finds you screaming in silence and darkness. But there is something freeing when you allow yourself to embrace the ache in your heart.

The emptiness is a part of you. You know that it is a part of your heart that makes you who you are now. And soon, even though you still have this aching in your heart, yes your very soul, you allow yourself to live also. By giving yourself permission to cry, you find that you also have room to live. You find ways to live with the loss that does not compromising your heart.

“You learn to share your story with others. Write your story, channel your pain in other activities. Reach out to others who also feel this pain. Ask questions, the seek out the answers! You are a survivor.

Each day when you get out of bed, you are a survivor! Living life, everyday makes you a survivor! Each time you reach out to someone else in pain and embrace them, You are a survivor!”

So for all my dear, dear friends that have experience and are still experience the terrible heart break of loosing your child. To all of you, who wake each morning knowing your child will wake to hug someone else as their parents and not you. I chalenge you today to embrace your loss! Give yourself permission to feel the loss. It is real! Stop hiding in the shadows! Search and seek out others who also know this grief! Share your story and allow other’s to share their story with you! Find ways to chanel your grief in constructive ways. Reach out with helping hand to others in ways that suit your special abitities! It may be crafts, or writing or volenteering to help people who need a helping hand.

This is not some magic cure! There is not a tent revival Minister that can slap you on the forehead, “You’re Healed!” But slowly, over time, when you give yourself permission to survive, you will begin to see that you are a survivor! You always have been!

(And for me, excepting my own challenge, I want you all to know, that I am here for you. Anytime you need someone to listen, just write to me. My heart is open to you. I don’t have answers to many questions, but I do have heart. I can be your friend. I can be here for you to express your grief. When we reach out to each other, we will find that it is also helping ourselves. Sometimes, all we can do is just listen. And that’s ok. Cause sometimes that’s all someone needs is for someone to listen. I am here for that! If you find that you need someone to listen to you, I will be here for you.)

For the love of Terry David

I have been putting this post off. I wasn’t sure why, after all I posted the hardest part. Making my story public about how I lost my girls was a giant step for me. I so feared that other’s wouldn’t understand my story. They just wouldn’t get it. I feared that people would say, “oh, she had to be wrong because CPS doesn’t do stuff like that.” Even after I found others who had similar things happen to them, I was still afraid of being judged wrongly. But I sucked it up and told my story. The whole unvarnished truth that was my horror story.

So why was I hesitant to post the story of my son? I decided that I would have to have the answer to that question before I could actually get past this hesitation. And so that’s what I’ve been doing, analyzing how I felt about telling my son’s story. Finally, it came to me. It was like the end. Just like the when I gave him up for adoption, telling the story for anyone who cares to see, it was like the end.

So knowing what was my cause for hesitation, I was able to work through it. So here is how this feels, writing this is like going back to that time and reliving it again. The last time I ever was a mother. That’s how it always felt. It was the end. Of course, it wasn’t really the end, I lived. (Although, at times I did not know how I lived, but I did.)

And telling this story doesn’t have to be the end here. I still have much to say. I still have much to work out in my life. So today, I will tell the world about Terry David, my baby son.

 Once I contacted the lawyer, from a phone book ad, I went to his office once. I am sure that I did that. It seems more like a dream. A lot of stuff I really don’t remember very clearly and yet other stuff, minor things, I remember perfectly. It is a jumbled up mess in my head.

I know that the lawyer gave me the name and phone no to a Obgyn and I started going to him for my medical needs. The ad in the phone book for the lawyer said the adoptive parents would pay for medical expenses and some living expenses. So I assumed, without asking that I had to go to this Dr and could not choose my own Dr. Although, as far as I remember, I never really had a complaint about the chosen Dr. He doesn’t stand out in my memory much except at the end.

I know that after he examined me he said he thought the due date that my first Dr had given me was close enough to keep. So My due date was valentines day. I thought about that and thought it was cool. I really wanted my baby to be born on Valentine’s Day. He’d be a true love child then. I thought. (Now, I hate valentine’s day. I do my best not to celebrate it. My DH always buys me something for that day, but I never buy him anything and I usually spend a lot of time hiding by myself to cry.)

I never received in living expense moneys. I didn’t ask about it, cause I really felt like if I did receive any money personally, it would be like selling my baby. But this meant I had to work full time for my whole pregnancy.

This was hard, because I was sick the whole time. The “morning” sickness never stopped. Even through my last month, I threw up everyday, sometimes several times a day. I wanted my baby to be healthy, I didn’t want to do anything to hurt him, so I ate what I could and found the only thing I could hold down was raw fruits and veggies. So that’s what I ate during my pregnancy. Nothing cooked, nothing processed, and absolutely no meat. I couldn’t stand it at all. Even the smell of meat cooking was too much. Which was bad since I worked in a restaurant.

I also cried. I cried all the time. I cried myself to sleep at night. If anyone said anything about my pregnancy, I cried. If I saw a mother with her children, I cried. If I saw a little lost dog on the street, I cried. It was the worst time of my life. People I worked with learned to pretend that I wasn’t as big as a house and were very careful what they said to me, or around me. But of course, you know there’s nothing like a pregnant woman to get strangers to ask personal questions of someone they didn’t know. The managers tried their best to assign me to jobs that would keep me from having direct contact with the costumers. (As I look back on that now, I realize that the people I worked with were really good to me. They really tried hard to help me and protect me. I don’t think I saw that then.)

So my due date was Feb. 14. I was scheduled to go in for birth by c-section on Feb. 15. The last time I went for a Dr’s appointment they did test to see if the baby was fully developed and determined that he was and the date of feb. 15th was confirmed.

On feb. 12, I went to work like any other day. I remember my back was bothering me occasionally while I was at work and my legs kept cramping. But I didn’t think much about it. I worked my shift and walked the three blocks from work to home. By the time I reached home, I was in serious pain. And I knew I was in labor. So this is it, I thought. I didn’t want my son to be born after valentine’s day and I guess he didn’t want to wait ether.

So he was born on feb. 12. I called my Dr and told him I was having labor pains. They were still not on a schedule, but since we already knew that the baby was ready and because I was having a c-section, the Dr said to go to the hospital and check in. He was there by the time I got checked in. They took me straight to the delivery room and gave me a spinal thing. (I’m sorry, I’ve tried every possible way I can think of and my spell checker refuses to give me the correct spelling of that word.) Anyway, I wanted to be awake for the birth of my son. It was the first time I was awake for birth.

When he was born, the nurse held him up for just a second for me to see. He wasn’t crying. But I was. Then she whisked him away to clean him and do the test or what ever they do. I started feeling that my lungs were collapsing. My chest hurt so bad that I felt like I was getting no air at all. I heard someone say something about hyperventilating and blood pressure and then someone leaned next to my ear and told me they were going to put something in my i.v. To help calm me. He said I may start to feel sleepy. That was ok, he said. I nodded my head, I thought I was dying. I couldn’t feel any air getting to my lungs. Then I felt a warmth in my arm that spread through my body and I ether went to sleep or passed out. It didn’t feel like falling asleep, it was like, I hear everything and feel all this pain and  think I’m dying and then suddenly I wake up in recovery.

When I woke up enough to sit up and take a drink of water, which was only a couple of hours, I was moved to a private room. But those couple of hours to me felt like an instant. Once I got to my room I told the nurse I wanted to see my son. But she said I needed to be more stable before they brought the baby in. Maybe that was the truth, I don’t know now. All I do know was I felt like I was ok physically and I wanted to see my son. I was aching so bad to hold him.

They didn’t mention bringing him to me until the next day. When the nurse asked me if I would like to see my son now I almost jumped out of bed. Yes! Yes!

But she didn’t come back with him. Instead the lawyer and another woman came in with the papers for me to sign. The lawyer didn’t say anything. This woman that I didn’t know started trying to act like she was my friend or something. She said it would be better for me to get this out of the way before I said good bye to the baby. And some other stuff. If we went over what the papers said, I don’t remember it. If I read any of it, I really don’t remember reading it. I just signed where she told me too. I was bawling like crazy. I could barely see. She reached out and patted my shoulder and I do remember flinching away from her. And then they were gone and there was another woman and the nurse with my son.

The nurse placed my son in my arms. I couldn’t stop crying. I sat up on the side of my bed so I could turn my back on the new woman who did not leave when the nurse left. I, to this day, do not have a clue who that woman was. I was crying so hard by then that my ears were stopped up. So when I turned my back on the woman, she came to that side of the bed and sat down right in front of me and started talking. I couldn’t hear her, I couldn’t say anything. I just hugged my baby to me and cried. I wanted to tell this woman to leave, I wanted to scream it. But I didn’t. I wanted to talk to my son. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him and I didn’t want to do this but I didn’t have a choice. I wanted to tell him that I would always always love him. But I didn’t want anyone else to hear. It was supposed to be a private moment for me and my son, but here was this woman who I didn’t know. I wanted also to tell him the name I chose for him. I didn’t tell anyone for many many years the name I gave to my son. The name he would never use, would never know. Terry David, my son, I still love you just as much as I did that day! The one and only day that I held you in my arms.

After that I was released from the hospital. Only a few hours after I held my son. One day after I had surgery and the Dr that I had went to during all this, wrote on my release papers that I should visit the county hospital on such and such date for a check up as he would not be able to see me again. I guess once they had my baby the adoptive parents felt no need to pay any future medical bills. I didn’t go to county, I didn’t go anywhere to be checked. I figured I couldn’t kill myself, but if I got a bad infection or something and died from it, then I’d be out of this pain.

Shortly after the birth of my son, the DA dropped the charges against my babies father. He never even went to court. Just like they had dropped the charges against me, they said it was due to lack of evidence. Of course there was lack of evidence! The charges against Terry’s father were totally trumped up by Cps to get my daughters away from me!

But as it happens in city jail. It took almost a week for them to release T.H. After the charges were dropped. We knew the day he was going to get out. Before that day came, I called my Dad and begged him to let me move to Tenn and stay with them for a while. I couldn’t stay there any more and I couldn’t be there when T.H. Got out of jail. He had encouraged me to sign the papers giving up my rights to parent my daughters and he was the one who first said I should hire a lawyer to put our baby up for adoption. I couldn’t face him ever again. So I left him and my life long home of Texas before he got out of jail. I moved to Tenn and began my new life. A life in which I wasn’t a mother. A life behind a mask of anger, depression and shame. I became a totally different person. I never again cried in front of anyone. I cried for my children only in the dark, alone.

There is one thing that I’ve only just figured out, which became clear to me once I started writing this blog. That is that during all that time, I have blamed myself first because I didn’t fight for my kids. I knew that I was lied to and not told anything about my rights but I didn’t think any of that mattered in the end because I signed those papers. Now, I know that I was in no emotional position to make any life decisions during any of that time. I was such an emotional wreck that I couldn’t even make simple everyday decisions. I was as close to a total break down as anyone could be without standing naked in the street screaming. I remember one time I was in a store to buy milk and stood in front of the cooler and started crying because there were too many different types of milk and I didn’t know which one to buy. This was the woman who signed the papers that took my precious babies out of my life. Looking back on that time, remembering all of it, it’s like I can see myself, but it’s like not me. It was this woman who was living in my body. She was so lost. It was like being in a totally dark room, with no windows or doors and trying to find your way out. So lost and trapped. How could anyone have looked at that woman and not known how messed up she was? How could anyone have not known that she shouldn’t have been allowed to make any life decisions?

Fish on the beach

I may be less… Around for a short while. My sister is coming soon for a visit. So I have things to do… That being said, I do have a few things I want to… Get off my chest before I go off to my home work.

I have to try to figure out where I am standing. I feel like a fish on the beach. Flipping and Flopping around without any direction.

I did finally sit my husband down and talked to him about what I’ve been doing with all my spare time lately. We talked for the first time in depth about my children. Oh, he did know that I had three children and that I lost them to adoption. But I never opened myself up to him about the details. I never before gave him an opportunity to ask questions. So, finally, he knows it all. Everything. And he still loves me. The sky didn’t fall in on my head. God, Himself, didn’t smite me down for talking out loud about my feelings. My heart didn’t stop beating as I thought it might. It is done. One person down… So many many more to go… Will I talk about this part of me to anyone else in my family? I’m not sure about that.

It’s one of the things that I’m flipping around about. What does my family know about my children? I’m not really sure. What they do know was what ever my step mother had told them years ago at the time it happened. I never told them anything. It is that taboo subject that no one talks about. (this is nothing new.. I know.. It is this way for many many women who are first mothers) But if I’m going to do this.. Search for my now adult, children… Shouldn’t the people in my life know how they came to be someone else’s children? Or should I live on a need to know way of life?

The Search… Ok, there is another flipping, flopping topic for me… And this one is a very hot topic! So I am almost finished reading “The girls who went Away.” Which, while the book is very helpful in helping me be aware that my problems in life are not because I am some weird crazy person, it also has left me very very undecided.

Ann Fessler, in this book said that there are basically two types of people who search for their children. Active and passive. So far, I have become the later. I have registered on several search sites and I check them periodically to see if anyone new… My children… Have registered with any of them. My husband told me that he thought it would be a good thing for me to try to find them….. To become an active searcher… But should I?

I know, from Ann Fessler, that many adoptee’s have the same sense of fear when it comes to searching for their First parents as the first parents do themselves. So what if one or all of my children really want to find me, but they are afraid to look. Maybe they are afraid that I don’t want to be found… What if they don’t know about the registries on the Internet? So I should be more active in my search for them.

However, I also know that there are some adoptees who do not wish to be found… Ok, so it’s a small number of them.. But what if my kids fall in that category? Do I have a right to search for them and enter their lives suddenly without any warning?! Just to satisfy my own need to know? And oh I do need to know! I need to know who they are now. I need to know if they are ok. I need to know if they had a good life. I need to know if they want to know me… And there I go… Isn’t that my own selfish needs rearing it’s ugly little head? What right do I have pushing my self on them now?

They are already adults now. They had their childhood without me there. What did I do to prepare them for this time in their lives? From their point of view, what I did was abandon them.

Yes, Yes, I know all the truths. I know the truth is I was emotionally unequipped to make any kind of life decisions at that time. I know that I was well prepped to be vulnerable to the coarsen, but there is a bottom line that I have to accept. I, and I alone, signed those papers. I truly believe that at that time, I was not mentally capable of making any type of decision but I could have, should have, asked for help. I should have known that I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to face all that alone. I could have asked my parents, or even my sister. Maybe I wasn’t even able to see that I needed help. Maybe I was so messed up, that I didn’t even realize how messed up I was.

But my kids don’t know any of that. All they know is that I signed the papers that severed my rights as their mother. I signed them.

Even my oldest daughter, who was 5 years old at the time I signed those evil papers, what does she know? What does she remember? What was she told? When I reunioned with her when she was a teenager, she didn’t ask me anything about that time. Was that because she was still too young to ask the questions, or was it that she thought she already had the answers?

As far as I know she only expressed desire to find me, because she thought her favorite grandmother, my step mother, was dying. So was I just a vessel to get to see her grand parents? Does she feel that way still? If she does, than I have no right seeking her out and forcing her to stand or flee. Do I?

My favorite quote, that I have used way too much in life:

“My rights end, where someone else’s begins.”

 If I strive to live my life by that philosophy, then where to my rights  to know end? What rights do my kids want? I don’t know where their rights begin, because I don’t know what they really want. And I don’t know how I will ever know without risking trampling on their rights. Flip Flop.

Who are all these People?

Who are are all these people I see;

Standing in the rain.

See there, the one who smiles;

Every so softly…

Something in her eyes…

There is one who tries so hard;

To comfort those in pain.

Gentle voice, soft words

Hugs to be given freely.

Standing there, is one,

Who is crying out in terror.

The fear that can not be hid.

Then the laughter,

From the one in front.

Do what it takes;

My friend, to hear laughter,

From those around you.

And over there, see the red?

The one who’s anger,

Screams for attention.

One hiding from the world,

No one to see..

Who are all these people, I see?

Standing in the crowd.

Loving, and hating?

Pain and happiness,

All in this one crowd.

Screams of terror,

Smiles of comfort

Who will show themselves today?

All these people, I do not know.

Looking at me;

From the mirror.

When Satan goes to court…..

Warning! Some of this post is very graphic! And very sickning!

Just as I thought it would, my pregnancy with my third and last child was not the fu fu skip through the daisies time, as my first two pregnancies were. It was so hard. I was sick with morning sickness, or stress or both the whole time. I worked anywhere from 45 to 50 hours a week. And I tried, really tried hard, not to get attached to the growing life inside me. (This was an impossible task, but I tried so hard.) And that was for the most part, all I did.

There were a couple of note worthy life events that did happen during my pregnancy. First being that shortly after I signed relinquish papers, the charges against me were dropped. That had never been discussed between myself and the social worker. I never expected the charges to be dropped. I didn’t know what would happen, I didn’t really care. The reason on the papers I was given? 

Insufficient Evidence. !!

 I actually had to go to court for that. When given the summons to appear, it did not say that the charges were being dropped. It just said it was an order to appear… So I was surprised when the DA stood up and babbled something about the state wishing to drop the charge. And that was over. Another part of my life with my daughters was gone. I know that doesn’t make much sense but each little thing that was resolved, seem to be pushing me more toward loosing that self that had two daughters. It was if life itself was taking away all evidence that I ever had any children.

The second life event was my Dad retired and as they had been planing for years, he and R moved from Texas to Tenn. Even though I knew that had been the plan all along, it was just further truth to me that I was truly alone. I had no family left close to me.

A major event that happened during the early part of my pregnancy was J’s case came up. I was summoned as a witness for the prosecution but at the last minute J’s lawyer made a plea bargain with the D.A. And the hearing turned into a sentencing hearing. I don’t remember what they actually called the charge that J plead guilty to, but what it boiled down to was ten counts of inappropriate touching of a minor. I was no longer needed as a witness but was invited to sit and watch the proceedings. The first thing I wondered was where did they get the number 10? Did J count the times he went into our daughter’s room while I was working and violate that poor baby?!

The second thing that struck me was how much like the T.V. Court shows it really was like. I didn’t think real court would be anything like T.V. Court. Even though, the D.A and J’s lawyer had struck a deal and J was told that if he pleaded guilty to the lesser charges he would get a certain sentence, the judge still had the right to over rule the deal that was made. Hence the sentencing hearing.

First the judge informed J of his rights and asked if he understood his rights and asked if he had decided on his own to change his plea from not guilty to guilty without any coarsen. Bla Bla…. Lots of legal terms. Then the defense attorney and the D.A both made opening statements. Who knew what they said… It was all full of words that I didn’t have a clue of the meaning. Then the defense called the one and only witness. J.

The judge reminded J that he had been previously sworn in and he was required by law to tell the truth. (I swear, it was just like T.V. Court with the same words.)

It was so hard for me to sit there in silence and listen to the lies that came out of that man’s mouth, under oath, about what he had and (had not) done to our daughter. First, J’s lawyer established with some well asked questions that J was mentally ill. Apparently he had been evaluated while in jail and was found to be Severe psychotic / something something personality disorder. I don’t remember but it was several different mental illnesses that they said he had.

Then believe it or not, his lawyer brought up ten different dates. I swear, where did they come up with this stuff?! Anyway, he asked J if he had “inappropriately touched one, R.A.C. On these ten dates. J said yes. His lawyer asked him if he knew why he did this. J sat right there and said, no no, I don’t know. It’s like it wasn’t me… But I never did anything more than touch her and I was really only playing with her, but she misunderstood so I stopped.

I felt dizzy thinking about that statement. (of course these aren’t the exact words, I can’t remember the exact words but the meaning behind them was the same.) He said she misunderstood his intentions so he stopped?! Ten separate times!!!???? (still wondering at this time how they decided it was exactly ten times?) But the point was he did it again and again! And everyone there knew he was lying! Everyone knew he didn’t stop at touching! I remember imagining myself jumping up and screaming Liar! Liar! But I sat there, in tears and churning upset stomach and dizzy and watched the lies.

Then the D.A. Got to question J. OMG, he had a chart! It was a large pencil drawing of a baby without any clothes on. I couldn’t believe this. At this time I was so glad that this was only a sentencing hearing and that I wouldn’t have to be subject to being a witness for the court. The D.A asked J by pointing with a pointer at different parts of the pencil baby, “On the said dates, did you touch R here? Here?”  Supposedly it was established through this point and tell display that J had touched R on or around her nipples. !Liar Liar!, screams the crazy woman as they drag her from the court room. Was what I could see the headlines to be.

Then the judge sentenced J to ten years in prison. I guess that is where, or why the ten different accounts of “touching”. A year for each account. I talked to the D.A. after and he told me that J would probably get out on parole in 5 years. Five lousy years for destroying the life of a four year old! I don’t know when he got out. I put as much distance emotionally and physically as possible between myself and him during the next few years. I don’t have a clue what happened to him, or where he might be now. But I still have night mares about him occasionally. Still after 18 years.

How to tear apart a family….

The day came to sign the papers. Someone from CPS picked me up, so I wouldn’t have to take the city bus. They were OH, so helpful.

I was told I would get to see Little R and L that day to say good bye. I was told that I should try hard not to cry in front of them. Not to let them know I was sad and to tell them that I couldn’t take care of them, so I was going to let some nice people take them and love them and they would have a new family to love. This was supposed to make it easier on them to adapt to their new family.

I was also promised that everything in their power would be done to make sure the girls were not separated. That they were sure that they could find them a great adoptive family that would accept both girls. This was a very important issue to me. They only had each other left now, they had to be allowed to stay together. Oh yes, promises were made!

 (I had no idea for years how they lied right then and there to my face. I didn’t know that the girls had already been separated in foster care, even though they did get to visit each other. Nor did I know that both sets of foster parents had already been told they could adopt each of my girls very soon! Nor did I know, that while it was suggested that the girls be allowed to have contact after adoption, it was not required and L’s new parents would severe her contact from her older sister shortly after the adoptions were finalized. I had no idea of any of this until I heard it from R’s adopted mother years later, when R was a teenager.)

I was taken into this room at the offices. I can’t remember much about it, except it was all one color. I can’t remember the color, but I remember it was all one color, the carpet, and the walls, same color. So strange. It contained a couple of straight back chairs and off to the side was some toys laying on the floor. Maybe the toys were blocks or something like that, I’m not sure.

I sat there in that room by myself for what seemed to be hours. I don’t really know how long it was. When the door opened, A woman entered with my girls on each side of her. Ruby hesitated for a second, as though she might not be sure it was me, then pulled her hand away from the woman and ran to my waiting arms. She started crying and so did I.

L was still standing in the doorway holding on to the woman’s hand. R looked back at her and said,” Look, Tishie, Mommy.”

I had to go get L. She came to me when I went to her and put out my arms. She hugged me and then she with drew and sat on the floor playing with the toys there. R and I sat on the floor with her. R sitting almost on top of me. But L was not the same little girl she had been when I last saw her.

 I couldn’t believe the change in her in such a short time. She wasn’t the happy, laughing baby any more. She didn’t even talk to R. And she had always jibbered at R before. I picked her up and sat her in my lap. She didn’t try to get down, but she didn’t acknowledge that she was even aware of my presence, or R’s presence. She didn’t smile, she didn’t cry, she had almost no emotion expression at all.

 So I talked to her and R and tried to pretend that she could understand. I told them first and for most that I loved them both more than they could ever know and that I would always always love them. R says, “we love you, mommy.” Tears again. Then Ruby said “go home now?” My heart was breaking. I had trouble just continuing any sort of communication, much less telling my precious babies the they would never come home with me again.

I’m not sure how I told them. I know I didn’t tell them that I wanted to give them to a new family as the social worker suggested I do. I know I did tell them that it was breaking my heart to let them go, even though I was told not to tell them that. And I told them that I would always love them and always miss them and would always always be somewhere that they could find me. I told them that one day when they were old enough to decide for themselves and if they wanted to they could find me and I’d love them still. That was of course, the last thing I was allowed to say before a social worker burst in to the room and said it was time to go. That created a scene that I will forever remember. R grabbed me around the neck and began screaming. Not using any words, just straight out hysterical screaming! That seem to startle L out of her non emotion state and she grabbed me and started crying.

So there it was, I was bawling, L was bawling, R was screaming bloody murder and the social worker lady was flapping her arms around like some big clumsy flightless bird trying to take flight, yelling for help. And help she got. Several people came in and ruthlessly pulled my baby girls away from me. They took the girls out kicking and screaming while a couple of them stood in front of me with stern looks. How could any human see this scene and not be touched by it at all? I ask you? But none of it seemed to have an effect on these people at all.

After I had calmed down to quiet tears, they took me to another room to sign the papers. They told me again the same things about how I was saving them from being moved around from home to home. How, by signing these papers, I was doing the ultimate deed of Love. How I should be proud of having such unselfish love for my children to think of them first….

(When I first started exploring other, first mother’s blogs and discovered that the words they used on me were the same that were used on many many unwed pregnant girls I was shocked! I guess that kind of coercion works in many different situations.)

The only thing that I could think of for the days, weeks to follow, was at least there was nothing else I could loose. I had lost the most important people in my life. My daughters and no one could ever hurt me more than that. And yes, even though the pain was always, always horrible, I did, at that time buy into the “I did what was best for my babies” theory.

There were times, many times that I wished for death. I wasn’t sure how I could be still alive and hurt that bad any way. I even thought about taking my own life. What stopped me? I had made a promise to my girls that I would be waiting for them always. I couldn’t break that promise. So I would just say it again, at least no one could ever hurt me again because there was nothing left. That was what I thought, until I found yet one more thing I had to loose.

________________________________________________

During all this, I had been very physically sick. I chalked this sickness up to the stress and depression. Because I had been eating very little during the last month or more and because when I did eat, I usually threw it up, I had lost a lot of weight. And I was already a small person before all this.

 I remember in August. around R’s birthday which was terrible for me I suddenly relized that I couldn’t remember the last time I had had a period. But at first, I didn’t think about it more than a minute or two, because one time I had heard, or saw on t.v. that if you loose weight down to a point you would stop having periods.

but evenually, I had to go to a dr. Yes, it was confirmed in late August that I was pregnant. After another appointment, (I couldn’t remember when my last period was) so I had to be tested to determine my due date, which was said by the dr to be Feb 14. This pregnancy I knew would not be a happy one, like the two before. I couldn’t think of anything worse at this time than to be pregnant. I was sure that CPS would be knocking on my door the day I brought my baby home to take it away. When I told T and Mrs. H about it, they agreed that CPs would never let me keep the baby and the best thing I could do would be to hire a lawyer and do a private adoption.

All I could think of was I couldn’t live through having another child taken away from me. I decided the only way to defend myself against these people was to do as Mrs. H suggested. I asked her to find a lawyer for me. She picked a name out of the phone book and my hell continued. ……..

A Time to die, and die again…..

This will be the hardest post for me yet. It's all been leading to this…

If I can get through this…. Maybe just maybe …. I don't know… I'm not sure what I hope to accomplish by writing all this down, any more. I first thought that it would help me heal… I'm not sure that healing is possible any more. Then, as I posted each time, I thought, maybe someone else will stumble on this and be helped by it…. Do I really think that I can help anyone? And a new thought has crept it's way into my brain. What if, somehow, someday, one of my daughters were to stumble on to this site… I have no idea what they were told about me…. Even though I have reunited once with R years ago. I didn't know that it was "reunion" then. I never heard of that term before. I just knew that I got to see my daughter. I got to talk to her. I got to hug her and tell her I loved her and then it was all gone. Maybe she was too young at the time? Maybe she was told things… I wanted to tell her my story then, but I didn't know how to tell her. She didn't ask me anything. I always thought I should wait for her to ask… But this is another subject, for another post… Now I am stalling. I know this… I am not sure why I need to write all of this, nor why I am doing it so publicly. I just know that I need to do this and so…..

For reasons that will reveal themselves later.. Time line is kind of important. So I have been diligently counting on my fingers, adding and subtracting each event in relation to the age of Little R or L. The time line is only accountable to me by the relationship to their ages. Somehow, I thought the time was much longer that everything had happened. I always thought in my mind that everything happened over a long period of time, but in following the time line so carefully, I've discovered that it all happened rather quickly. In some ways, it seems that all of this happened last year or last month. In other ways it seemed it happened a life time ago, in someone else's life. But the time from when I took my two little girls and ran away from their abusive father to the time I lost my girls seems to have been years. But it wasn't. I am surprised, it didn't take long at all for my life to be totally destroyed.

So, Little R was still four years old, L was almost two when they came home to live with me again. We hadn't been separated very long at all. And I had called them every day and visited them on my days off. But it seemed as though we had been apart for a life time. Not just to me, to them also. They clinged to me and would not let me out of their site. Following me to the bathroom, where they stood in the doorway watching me intently so I wouldn't slip out the tiny 4 inch window. The three of us shared a bedroom and I had to lay in bed with them until they were both sound asleep. But I didn't mind… I had suffered separation anxiety just as they had. (I had taken a leave of absence from work so that I could stay off work as long as I needed.)

Soon after R and L had come home, T's mother told us that the apartment next door to her was open for rent. (She lived in one side of a duplex) This seemed like a great hand of fate for us. We moved into that apartment so that when I did get ready to go back to work, T's mother could baby sit the girls. This move also seemed to help the girls. I would sit on the porch with T's mom and the girls would play close to me. Each day they were able to get a tiny bit further away from me as long as I didn't get up from my seat. (Of course, Little R's movements dictated what L would do. She followed her big sister's cue.) As Little R became a little braver, so did L. Very soon, the girls were playing in the yard while I stayed on the porch.

As the girls became braver, T and I became closer. Eventually, the girls were ok with me sitting in a chair close to their bed until they fell asleep and I moved into T's bed with him. I know that seems out of place, but I really don't remember when I became romantically involved with T. It is something that happened and I'm not sure when or how it came to be.

As time passed and the girls, at least little R, became more confident, I slowly began preparing them for my return to work. At first, I went into the house while T's mom stayed outside with the girls while they played. Then I would go to the store, assuring them I'd be back quickly and they'd be safe with Mrs. H. It was a gradual process that seemed to take a lot longer than it really did. But eventually, I was able to return to work for a few hours a day. I was still only working a very few hours a day when Hell came to my life. Oh sure, I thought I had already been through hell and that I was making a come back… But I was wrong… Oh so wrong…

It was summer time.  It was hot, I remember that so clearly. The day was dry and oh so hot. (by my time line calculations it must have been June.) I was sitting on the porch watching Little R teach her baby sister how to build a doll house out of dirt and sticks. Toys were scattered all over the yard, but they were playing with dirt and sticks and their favorite baby dolls of course. Little R with her imagination had decided the dolls needed a pool and had instructed L on how to dig it out. I was laughing at them both because R was trying to teach L to dig in only one spot to make the "pool" deep enough, but L would babble something in baby talk and then proceed to fill the freshly dug hole with the loose dirt that R had taken out. Amazingly enough, Little R was being Oh so patient with her little sister. "no no, tishie, this way" She would say and show her again and again. I don't know what L was saying but her hand movements and expressions seem to be saying, "Oh, yeah, I get it now" And then she'd throw more dirt in the hole. ( I have often remembered that time, recalling it over and over so that I will never forget it. My girls playing together….)

That's when a car pulled up in front of the house. I immediately stood up and was off the porch and in front of the girls. I had an immediate sense of dread. For one thing, this was a really nice car. It was so out of place in this neighborhood. But there was something else, that I couldn't put my finger on. I just knew that my stomach was churning with a deep fear and protectiveness for my girls.

Two women got out of that car. I remember the car was dark. Black? Maybe it was a dark blue, but it was dark. Another darkness to my life. The two women identified themselves as CPS social workers. For a second, only a second, I thought they were finally going to help me get Little R into some sort of council. But they started rapid firing questions at me. I didn't know what was going on. They asked me how often I left the girls alone with T. "Never." which I had not. Not because I didn't trust him, but because I didn't want to leave Little R alone with any man after what she had been through. I didn't think it would be good for her at that time. "Who, then, baby sat while I was working" I pointed to Mrs. H, T's mom and said "she does, but I'm never gone more than three or four hours at a time." 

"Why didn't I have Ruby in therapy?" was their next line of questions. And I told them that I was trying to get her some help but they were not helping me… And there were more questions, most of them made no sense at all. Then they took Little R into the house and talked to her alone. Then one of the women made a phone call and they stood around staring at us all while we waited for what I didn't know. T was at work when all this started. But he arrived home, just as a police car pulled up in front of our house. They asked him if he was T.H. And he said yes and they proceeded to search him and put cuffs on him and put him in the police car. Without even saying why!

Then in front of me, in the house, they took Little R and L and the police and the social women proceeded to take off all the girls clothing. I was hysterical by this time, trying to get them to leave my babies alone. The girls were terrified. They were in tears begging for me to make them stop. The amazing thing was, that while both the girls were… Dirty, from playing in the dirt, there was a bruise or a scratch on them. They didn't even have the normal scratches or bumps that children get from normal child's play. Nothing!

After the girls were dressed again, one of the social workers took them to another room and the other social worker told me that there had been a report that T was abusing the girls. I told them they were crazy. That I never let him be by himself with my girls and I would know if he ever tried to hurt them, which he hadn't. That seemed to be a confession to them. They told me to talk to the girls and make it ok for them to go with them. To make it easier on them because they were going to take them temporarily while the investigation was ongoing and I needed to make the girls not afraid.

I hugged my girls and told them I loved them so much  and never forget I loved them and I would be with them again soon. Then they took my babies and drove away with them. Then they arrested me! The charge? Failure to report Child abuse! I was in jail for three days! Three days before they allowed me to call my Dad. He bonded me out on the same day I called him.

I went home, to my empty apartment. The truth is, I would have went to my dad's that time, but he lived in another county and the judge wouldn't give me permission to stay with Dad before my case came up. It didn't really mater to me, though. I just went home and went to bed and didn't get up… I was so sick, with depression and fear… I don't remember how long I stayed in bed. I didn't eat… Except when Mrs. H would bring over something and force me to eat a few bites or feed me water, which I would have to run to the bathroom and throw up most of the time. How long did that go on? I can't remember. I know eventually rent time came and I had no money so I moved in with Mrs. H, T's mother. He was still in jail, on child abuse charges, waiting for a court date because we had no money to get him out.

I did go back to working, full time now, there was no reason for me not to work full time. I walked several miles to the jail downtown once a week to visit T. And I waited. There was nothing else I could do. "They" had all the power, as far as I could see and I had no resources. Time stopped. I did what I had to do. I worked, I helped Mrs. H with the housework. I ate food when she forced me too. I was sick all the time. And so tired. I wanted nothing more than to just lay down and die. But I was so sure that "they" would see what a terrible mistake they had made and return my girls to me any day now. So I waited.

________________________________________________

I called "my social worker" constantly. Badgering her about "the investigation" and when I could have my girls back. Or at least when I could see them. Couldn't I even see my babies?! The answers were always pretty much the same. It would not be good for the girls to visit me at this time, it would only confuse them when we had to be separated again. The "investigation" was on going and they had no information to give me at this time. I heard that statement so many times it was burned into my brain like a cattle brand.

The other thing that they said over and over, was there was a high possibility that I would never again get my girls back and they could be stuck in foster care for their entire child hood. They were preparing  me so to speak. I know that now. Then I was just terrified. I had seen the movies with the poor kids that were thrown from one bad foster care home to another. Or the kids that lived in Children's homes under horrible conditions. Not my girls! All I could do was pray that God would keep my girls out of that horrible life.

Maybe a month went by, maybe less and I guess they decided I was ready. The social work came to my house one day and said she needed to "talk" to me. This all seems so fussy now. The memory has a dream like quality to it. I can't remember the whole conversation but the jest of it was, this woman said that Little R had told them about the "abuse" and I would never be allowed to have my girls back again. They would, of course, seek the court to severe my parental rights, but the court system was so over clogged and full that this might take years. Meanwhile my girls would have to live in a children's home or foster care if it could be found for them. And they were getting older and by the time the courts caught up to them, they'd be too old to be able to find an adoptable home for them. They would probably have to be separated, and no one wants that.. And they'd live in group homes or foster homes until they turned 18. Never being able to have a stable home life again… The one sentence I remember the woman saying verbatim, was… "If you are selfish, you will cause them to have that life, but you can be sure, no mater what you will never get your girls back."

I remember the pain. OH the pain. My chest really hurt. I felt sure my heart would stop beating. The pain was physical. I also got sick and had to run to the bathroom at one point to throw up.

Sign relinquish papers, giving up my rights to parent my girls and they would find them a home together where they would be loved and taken care of. That's what was told to me that day. I asked about their father, would his rights be terminated? They couldn't possibly ever let him see them after what he did. No No, his rights had already been terminated by the courts. It didn't occur to me to ask how that was done so quickly when she had just said the courts were backed up by years. When I couldn't talk any more because I was crying too hard, when I couldn't catch my breath and my chest hurt so bad that I was doubled over, the woman put her hand on my shoulder, I think her touch burned my skin, and told me to think about it. And she left. She could have stabbed me in the heart and walked away smiling, it would have been the same.

____________________________________________

Mrs. H was dead set against my signing the papers. Not because she thought I should or could fight for my children. She agreed with the social worker in that once the government gets involved, you pretty much can't fight them. She didn't want me to sign the papers until T went to court, because she figured they would use that as an admission of guilt.

So I went to visit T on that Sunday. I told him everything that had happened. I told him my fears. He pretty much said the same thing as his mother about the girls. I couldn't fight them. They were the government, they would lie, cheat and do what ever it took to win and I would loose. I also told T what the lady had said about Little R's age. She was almost five years old, almost too old to be adoptable. I didn't want her to be shuffled from one place to another, each place being worse than before…. T told me to sign the papers. He didn't care if they used it against him. He didn't want me to have to worry about Little R that way.

And thus the decision was made…. I decided to give my children a chance to have a good life. I decided to make a deal with the devil and give him my very heart, in exchange, my daughters would have a "good" life. It was over that day… The days that followed were just paperwork of sorts. They meant nothing… The day my heart died was on the day I decided. I didn't know then that I still had a little more to live for. I didn't know then that I still had more to loose. I didn't know that there could be more pain…. But there was…..more pain to come…..

The woman in the picture window…..

(When someone new learns that my husband, B, is my second husband, most people hold to the "don't ask, don't tell" philosophy. Being divorced and remarried is not that uncommon today. But occasionally, I will run across someone who just thinks they have to know more. "So why did you and your first husband divorce?" They ask. I respond, "because I was married to Satan."

That gives them the general idea of what might have happened and gets them to drop the subject. One thing  curious people don't want to hear about is someone else's pain.)

As I write these accounts of my own past, I find myself wondering who this person was. I remember all these things happening to me. I remember the choices I made. I know that was me, but it doesn't feel like it was me. It's as if I was looking at this young woman's life through a picture window and watching it all happen. Watching it all unfold. Of course, I, the now me, knows how it will turn out. I know what that young woman will do next and what will happen because of the choices she will make. I stand outside that window watching and screaming at her to do it differently. Why? Why does she keep doing the same things every time I see these events? Why couldn't she see what was going to happen?! I can look back on it all now and see clearly how the choices I made were my downfall. But I don't remember why I made those choices. I don't remember for instance, what was going through my head when I had my Dad bring my girls to me, instead of going to Dad's house to live there.

At first.. Remember, I thought it wasn't safe for me to be there. But when J was arrested and held without bond… At that time I had no real tie (romantically) to T. Except that I thought he was my savior. My rescuer from the dark. My job… Was pathetic at best. And the apartment we lived in was …. Geez… It was small and falling down. It was cheep. So why did I choose to not go live with my Dad and at least have a safe haven for me and my girls until I could figure out what to do with my life. I don't have a clue! As I said, I feel disconnected from the person I was then. I don't understand her at all. I don't understand the choices that she kept making over and over that always turned out to be wrong! And yet, she kept doing it over and over until she lost everything! EVERYTHING!

The choice that I am speaking of is to slowly cut myself off from the people who could have helped me. My family. I know, I had good reason to perhaps be mistrusting of some of my family, with my past. But I should have been able to see past that. I should have seen how my family would have helped me if I had just let them. If not my Dad, then my sister … Someone… Anyone… Would have been better than … The strangers that I chose to put my faith and my life into their hands…

But I can't change that woman's mind. I stand here looking into the window of her soul and I can't make her see what she did wrong. I can only watch it unfold… Knowing how it will turn out… Knowing that she had not suffered the worst yet, but surely will because I know how it ends.. I know the loss that I suffered for her choices! I can't change it, and I have nothing left to save by learning from those mistakes. Everything was lost. I now can see the mistakes. I can now say I learned from them, but to what avail? What good does knowledge do when there is nothing left to save?

looking into my past pt 6: Hiding from Satan

Starting from where I last left off. I had just had my second child. Another perfectly beautiful baby girl. We, J, little R, L and I were living with my dad and step mother. And once again, I thought I had the perfect life. J was not abusing me in any way. Even though we were living in Dad's Mobile home, which was behind his house in the back yard. Completely separated from the house, it offered us some privacy. Because we had this privacy and J was not taking advantage of it by hitting me, I thought finally he had decided to keep his promises. It never occurred to me that J knew we were still close enough that we didn't really have "that much" privacy and he also knew that if my Dad ever caught him hitting me, he'd be in for major trouble. I went around singing my "tra la la" song of the "perfect life" I was surely the happiest mother in the world. My children were the best babies in the world. R was from the beginning, so smart and so easy to teach new things to. She practically taught herself. "tra la la"

Eventually we moved away from my parents. We first moved into a house that belonged to J's boss. He was security there and the house was next door to the plant. So we lived there, rent free, as a bonus of his work. And so he would be readily available any time. Although he was never called into work on his time off, so I think his boss only let us live in the house because I was my Dad's daughter. Dad was very well liked by the owner of the metal company that he and now J worked for. But nepotism only goes so far. And so one day J came home from work early and said he'd been fired. I never did know why he got fired from that job. I didn't ask, because the fighting had already started again and I was afraid. Again.

So, of course, we had to move. This time we moved to another city. Putting 20 miles or so between us and my Dad. That doesn't seem like much, but I still did not drive, so yes it was far, really far for me. I guess L was close to or about a year old when J decided that I would have to go back to work. Considering my skills, none and my education, none, I couldn't get a decent paying job. And nether could J. So we both worked at the same fast food place, on different shifts so that we never needed to hire a babysitter. I hated leaving my sweet babies to go to work each day; but I thought at least I didn't have to leave them with strangers. How wrong can one person be in a lifetime?!

This life went on for the next year. I had my head stuck somewhere in the sand of at least my children have both parents and are not hurt like I am being hurt syndrome. Until one day, my own little four year old daughter, little R jerked my head out of that sand. The conversation she and I had as I remember it:

Little R: "Mommie, I don't like daddy to tickle me."

Me: Daddy tickles you? Why don't you like it? Where does he tickle you?

Little R: "Down there, it hurts."

I went ballistic! I couldn't believe what my daughter was standing there telling me! How could I have been so blind?! I started crying, Little R tried to comfort me. This tiny little four year old was hurting so bad, was trying to comfort her mother. No NO! This is wrong. And I told her that. I told her she didn't have to take care of me, I was going to take care of her and Daddy would never ever hurt her again. I grabbed her up and took her to her's and L's bedroom. Then I put her down and went back to the livingroom. Then I started randomly picking up stuff and shoving it under my arms to leave with. It took me a while to calm down enough to realize I had to have a plan. I didn't have a plan. I didn't know how to make a plan. I picked up the phone over and over again but couldn't figure out who to call.

I was so crazed that I couldn't figure out anything. For some reason the only person's phone number I could remember was a friend from work. I had told him a little about J and how he treated me, because I had to tell someone and he was the only one I thought was far enough from the situation to be objective. He had told me many times that if I ever needed his help to call. So I did. I told him I had to leave. I had to take my girls and hide. I couldn't go anywhere that J might look and I had to do it NOW! He was there in ten minutes. I took a few clothes for the girls and maybe two changes of clothes for myself. That was all I took. I was too afraid that J might come home early and catch me.

After I got to T's mother's house, where T was living at the time. I called the police and reported everything. After many hard examinations and interrogations of my little four year old daughter and myself. And a week of we are still formulating a report mam. There was finally a warrant took out on J. But they couldn't find him. He had stopped going to work the next day after my disappearance and it was found that he had moved, leaving most of our belongings at the house that we had been renting.

I did manage to calm down enough to call my dad some time during the first week. But I told him it was too dangerous for me to go there because I was sure J would look there. J had promised me many times that if I ever tried to leave him, he would kill me in such a way that no one would ever be able to prove it was him. He often told me ways he could do just that, proving to me he had given this much thought. I believed him. I was terrified. When the police couldn't find him, my fear increased. For a while, I sent the girls to live with my Dad. I hoped that soon J would be found and arrested and I could bring them back home.

I got a new job at another restaurant. And T and I rented a garage apartment right next door to my new job. I was so afraid of being alone. It was, at the time, very innocent. T was there to protect me. He even walked with me, the 10-15 steps to work and back each day. But he was also, there, for me. He listened to me when I had to talk, he held me when I cried for hours. He was there, when no one else had been. He listened to me. He didn't try to tell me what I should do, or should have done, or did wrong. He just listen and right then, that is what I needed.

Weeks turned into a month and the police had still not found J. I called them frequently to see if they had and I got the feeling that they weren't even really looking. There are so many people out there, mam… A needle in a hay stack….. If he gets stopped for a traffic violation, then we'll have him…..could be anywhere…. Bla Bla.

Meanwhile, I was trying to get someone to help me get counseling for Little R. She was only four years old after all. And I surely didn't know how to help her through this pain or to even help her understand why she was in pain. But I worked at a minimum wage job. I couldn't afford to go to a private child psychologist. I had to have help. What I got from the welfare department and Social Services or what ever they were, was the Big Run Around.

OH, you need to go to this office. You need to fill out these papers… Oh, no you are in the wrong place, you need to go…..You'll have to go through this agency… There's a waiting list…. Bla bla bla…. I was at my wits end trying to find just one person who could even tell me where to go for help.

As time went by, I started to think that maybe J had left town completely. I told the police they should check his mother's home, maybe he went there. They said they checked and he wasn't there. I don't know what "we've checked" meant. Did they send someone out to the house, which was in another state. Or did they call his mother on the phone and ask, "is your son, J there?" J's mother responding, "why no, of course not… Oh sure I will turn him  in to the police if he comes here…. Sure….."

Ether way, I started to think that J would not come after me after almost three months had past. So I told T that he didn't have to walk me to work, next door, any more. One week later, I was right outside the big picture glass windows of work when J popped out of the bushes behind me, and knocked me to the ground. While he was choking me with one hand pressed firmly down on my throat, he began beating me in the face with his other fist.

How long did this continue before several men from inside the restaurant  and T from our apartment,  ran to my rescue, I don't know.. A minute, maybe only seconds… But for me it was forever. Everything was going black. I was struggling to be free, struggling to pull his hand from my throat. Struggling to breath.

It took 4 men to pull him off of me. And J was not a large man. In fact, he was rather small for a man. But he was so enraged that it took all four of those men to not only pull him off of me, but to hold him down until the police arrived, 45 minutes after someone had dialed 911 when J first jumped out of the bushes. The woman that called 911 was my manager. She knew the whole story. She knew that there was a warrant for J and she knew that I had an order of protection against him. And she told the police all this on the phone. 45 minutes! I would have been dead by that time!

The other strange thing about the polices late arrival was they brought someone from Child protective Serves with them. They knew that my girls had been staying with their grandparents for their safety until J was caught. Why did they wait, in an emergency situation for someone from Cps to arrive to come with them? I never thought about that then. Only later, when it was all over. Did they already have a plan even back then? I still don't know. All I knew for sure at that time was I was alive and J had been caught and was taken to jail.

Amazingly enough, and much to the judge's credit, J was determined to be a flight risk and no bail was set. My babies came home! I finally felt they and I were safe. A lot worse for the wear but happy none the less; I brought Little R and L home to stay……….

Blogging Birthmothers

    

Blogging Birthmothers Previous | List | Next | Random