The Year of Death

It's been almost a year since my last post. Things have been a little dark around here. We survived, by God's grace, Lost Girls suicide attempt. Our relationship, however, did not. Remember, the broken are BROKEN and cannot be fixed without a driving inner force to do so. It's been nearly a year since I've laid eyes on her. She spent several days this spring in a mental health ward. I heard she may have a job. We leave her alone because her rejection is so harsh, so brutal, that we have no desire to stick our hand back into the mouth of that lion. 

 My therapist tells me that kids like Lost Girl and KK, often circle back around in their mid twenties, early thirties. This appears to be true for KK. Second daughter has dealt with her own emotional and physcial issues this year. She allowed us into her life again and we carefully walk on the glass and eggshells that surround her. 

 It would be enough for me to say that I've given up and that the years of 2020 and 2021 has left my scarred and bruised. True. It might also be more than enough for me to say that I'm tired of people's opinions, fragile emotions and cheap shots. Also true. I titled this post, The Year of Death, but maybe it's the year of hardening. The year of growing. The year of letting it go. 

My brother died. Writing these words... hard. He died in June and I'll probably write about him later. His death is a little too fresh, too hard. His death brought me full force back into the family circle, such as it is. THAT has been both glorious and satisfying in a very unhealthy way. 

My mother yet lives... 

 My friend, Mel, also died. She passed very unexpectedly in August, the week before her 55th birthday. I can't believe she's gone. 

 I suppose the best way to sum up how I feel about all the above would be: I fucking hate it.

 I hate that my girls went from trauma childhood to tragic adulthood with death around every.damn.corner.

 I hate that my brother died and no one could stop it. No one could stop the demons that haunted him. I hate all the things I have learned about him since his passing. Word to the wise, no one wants to hear all the crappy things their loved one did when they were alive. Seriously. 

 I hate that my friend died and that her service was weird and completely lacking in the one thing that made her who she was: Her FAITH. 

 I do not hate my mother. If you've been around, you know all about my Mommy Dearest. I'm no longer hurt by her, no longer manipulated and no longer willing to stand by and take her little jabs.

 I AM in therapy. I am strong and secure and healthy. 

 The Year of Death is about more than the physical death of those that I have loved. It's also about the death pleasing others (so they'll like me). Death to tamping down opinions. Death to being quiet in order to keep the peace.

 (I still really, really love peace though). 

 So, this is me, laying it down, pouring lighter fluid on it and BURNING it down.

A Life is a Precious Thing to Waste

 Yesterday was my youngest daughter's 18th birthday. This was a day we all looked forward to. She looked to it as the day she could finally walk away, do her own thing without anyone telling her no. For me personally, I was looking forward to not being legally responsible for her actions. The road to this day was paved with anger and sadness. 

If you've been reading this blog for the past few years, you know our little family of four became a family of six nine years ago. We adopted KK  and Lost Girl, not fully understanding what we were getting into. 

Mistakes were made. Our lack of knowledge and frankly our ridged parenting skills, paired with two emotionally damaged kids, equalled heartbreak for all.

Yet, we also grew in our understanding of mental illness, trauma and how to love the unlovable. We learned how to stand our ground, how to protect and how to let go. 

It's the letting go that is the hardest for me. I want to fix. I want to make people listen and change. I think I'm right even if I'm not. I want to pour all the love and goodness I can into little broken souls.

Life had other plans.

On Friday, December 12, Lost Girl tried to take her own life. She nearly succeeded. 

Today is day is day five of our hospital stay. With each passing day she grows stronger. Her mind is fixated on home and her friends, but not on her healing. She cannot understand why everyone believes she's a danger to herself. She's scared and hurting. 

And I cannot fix it.

From my helpless post, I encourage, I rub her back, I try to feed her body and soul. I hold her hand and love her the best I can. I plead with God to heal her, just like I begged him to spare her life, five days ago.

Lost Girl is facing demons that she has tried to outrun. She's blamed others for her troubles and lied and cheated her way through life. She's carried burdens her small form should have never lifted and now she's reached the crossroads.

To the left is inpatient treatment and to the right is the road back to where she came from. The left holds the possibility of recovery and wellness. The right is another suicide attempt, with greater possibility of success.

And all I can do is sit back and let the doctors try to help her. 

In the next few days she will be medically stable enough to move to a treatment center. It's a walk she will physically makes alone. She's scared. She's angry. 

I'm hopeful.

I'm letting go. Not because I want to, but because I have to. I'll still be here, encouraging, cheering her on, but I guess I understand now that healing will com from within her with the help of professionals.

I'm letting go because I have to. I'm letting go because I love her.

Gin and Quarantine

Like so many other people in the world, I begin working from home tomorrow. Covid-19 is racing across the globe, shutting down entire countries as mankind attempts to slow down the spread. The quarantine has had an interesting affect on my community.

I walked to the store today, instead of driving. The sunny weather and 60 degree temperature wooed me onto the street. I passed families riding their bikes, dad's walking with their toddlers and runners keeping a swift pace. There were smiles and nods. Even the usually sullen teenager skateboarders seemed less moody.

Could it be that the forced close habituation of families has started to rebuild the decaying of relationships between generations? Is it boredom that drives them from their homes on this sunny day or is there something more?

I don't know the answer and it will be interesting to see how this plays out. Will mankind continue to be kind to each other or will we turn on our fellow man has times grow darker?

Time will tell.

For now, I'm thankful for the sense of community I see and the kindness of strangers to each other. I'm thankful that I do not fear the future, because I know God holds it in His hands. I'm thankful for sunny days, blooming flowers and good friends. I'm thankful for gin mixed with lime on peaceful spring evening.

What are you thankful for?

Will You Remember Me?

Spoken words, whispered, yelled or thought, fell into the dark clay that is the fabric of time in my life. Some of words blossomed while others lay in their dark graves, festering and broiling. The thorny words sprung up here and there, while the blossoms smiled towards the sun almost oblivious that weeds of bitterness and anger existed.

For nearly ten years, I've lived without contact from my parents. I raised my children, adopted two more, started a career. I lived a life void of family drama (on my side at least). After the many years of trying and failing, I came to the conclusion that a relationship with my mother was simply not to be. It took time, but eventually my father fell into line with my mother's wishes and that relationship was fracture as well. 

Ten years is a long time to be silent.

My father has Alzheimer. The VA moved him into memory care after he became violent during an emergency room visit. I was relieved to learn he was no longer living at home, being cared for by my 72-year-old mother, who has a heart condition, and my alcoholic, younger brother. The logical adult in me knew that he was no longer safe at home, nor were my mother and brother.

I wanted to see my dad, but also dreaded the thought. What if he didn't want to see me? What if he was violent? What if my mother was at the facility when I arrived and wouldn't let me see him. So many what ifs.

It took two weeks to build up the courage. I had plenty of time to chase down scenarios in my head during the 35 minute drive. My stomach quivered in nervousness, blood pressure higher, anxiety seizing my every thought. No one can race down a path of made up drama faster than I can.

I arrived to find the parking lot deserted. A cool breeze followed my steps to the front door. I willed myself to be calm. What will be, will be. Stepping inside I found the reception area dark and empty. I waited, hearing voices in a back room.

"Hello?" I called out.

An employee, wearing a blue collard polo shirt, greeted me and asked who I was there to see. I gulped and told her my father's name. I had suspected that my mother had neglected to put me on the visitation list or, more true to form, had informed the staff that I was not allowed to visit at all.

"He might be in his room, " she smiled and punched in the door code.

There was no list, no ID check, nothing. The heavy door opened and I explained that I hadn't been to the facility to visit before and I didn't know where my father's room was. I felt small, like a little girl whose been allowed into the teacher's break room and doesn't know what to do next. The employee smiled and led me into the residents dorm area.

We walked to my father's room. His picture stared at me from the wall. Sad. Lonely. Unsure. I quickly skimmed the paragraph about him, where he was born - they had mistakenly listed his state of birth as California, but he was born in Colorado. His military service: US Air Force. It informed everyone that he liked to keep to himself...surely not! Not my father! My, "life of the party" father? The man who always had an exaggerated story to share? The description went on to say that he would talk to anyone if they talked to him first.

His room was empty.

We continued down the hall, rounding a corner where a group of residents watched television. No one looked up as we passed. As we headed towards the dining area, I saw him. I knew him from the way he sat and the funny hat on his head. My father loved hats! His back was to us but I could see he was carefully holding a mug of cocoa. My guide announced our arrival in a voice that was too loud, too lively, too bright.

"Jerry, I've brought you some company."

I looked into the eyes of my father. Eyes that I had not seen in ten years. I looked longingly for recognition. He looked back at me without emotion. My face triggered no response.

"Do you know me?" I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

He shook his head, eyes blank, weary.

"My name is Ann." I waited, but there was no memory of me left in his mind. I took his hand and leaned down closer to his face.

"I'm your daughter...."

Instantly, his eyes widened and he said, "Really?" and he began to cry. I cried for the ten years that I lost. I cried because he didn't know me. I cried because he was not the man I remembered. I cried because I knew when I left that he wouldn't remember that I had been there.

He has lost most of his verbal skills and barely spoke above a whisper. I showed him a photo that I had brought for him of my children, his grandchildren. He appeared surprised to have four grandchildren. I pointed at each one, "This is John. This is Crystal. This is Kayleen and here is Allison." He asked how old they were, he asked what job they had. He laughed when I said that Allison is a pain in the ass because she's 16. He cried when he learned John is Pastor.

He tried to tell me things, but the words wouldn't form in his brain. My father became frustrated and rolled his eyes. I couldn't help but smile because I had seen that expression on his face before. It felt good to glimpse the man he had been, if  only for a moment. I hold that expression close in my heart, because now I know where I get my eye rolling tendencies.

We cried and wiped our tears. He held my hand, rubbed my back. My poor father, so lost, tried to put me into a place that was familiar, but couldn't find one. He told me he was married and I smiled and showed him a picture of my mother and him  from my wedding,

"Isn't mom pretty?" I said.

He shook his head, tears falling again.

The  next 45 minutes followed the same pattern. We rediscovered the photo I'd brought three or four times. Each time he chuckled at my joke about my smart-ass 16-year-old, then he cried to learn his grandson was a Pastor. He tried to tell me a story about the police who had come to his house last night and how he'd told someone to "get the hell out". We cried. We sat together, side by side, clinging to a memory that was already lost.

I told him I loved him and he cried as I choked back the hysteria that was threatening to escape. I kissed his face and repeated the words over and over. A small, frail attempt to erase the years of silence.

I held him, his bony shoulders poking through heavy, grey sweatshirt. I whispered that I loved him again and again. I kissed his cheek and wiped his tears. My father held me with the little strength that he had and told me he loved me too.

I promised I'd visit again soon and he shook his head. The visit had been hard for him. He was tired. With one last squeeze of his hand, I turned and walked blindly away. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten into the dining room and I seemed unable to locate an exit. None were clearly marked for good reason. At last I stumbled upon an employee in a blue polo and asked directions. She was kind and led me to the door, explaining the lock code, which I forgot instantly, and asked if I was okay.

Without breathing, I shook my head yes and walked into the reception area. It was dark and empty. I bolted for the front door. I didn't make it to my car before I started sobbing, gasping for breath, heart pounding, hopeless and sorrowful.


I remember as a little girl, standing on my father's feet as we danced around the living room. I remember the Christmas I received a shiny, blue track suite (they were all the rage in the 70's) and my father received a black dress suit, with a matching fedora. I still have the picture of us, standing side by side in front of the Christmas tree. I remember the years my father drove truck and the trips I got to take with him, sleeping in the sleeper cab that 18-wheeler's have. I recall trips to Montana and Wyoming to see family, his gigantic vegetable gardens and how he always smelled like spearmint gum, aftershave and beer.

I recall a time when the neighborhood bully was picking on one of my younger brothers. He'd pelted him with pine cones until he cried. I punched the bully square in the nose, bloodying it. My mother was horrified. My father was proud. So very proud of his little girl. He also made me apologize to the bully and his grandmother.

My father wasn't a good husband, he cheated, he lied, but he was a good father. I was his princess in a family of boys.

The man I knew as my father is gone. Alzheimer's has taken his memories, his speech and his understanding of the world. Eventually, it will take his life.

I regret that I let ten years go by without a word. I regret that I wasn't a bigger person and I didn't fight harder for my relationship with my father. In the end, no one wins.

It would be so easy to sink down into the sorrow of what is lost. I can feel the cold, angry, thorny thoughts try to push into my mind. It would be so simple to let the weeds of accusation and misplaced pride take over my life. So easy.

I've learned that bitterness can have no place in my life. I cannot let it swallow me. I have to give this and all my regrets over to God. It's how I find peace and how I will find the strength to see my dad again.

I love you dad.

Hello...It's Been Awhile

 I am the oldest and only daughter of my parents. I have three brothers, ranging in age from 57 to 45. The eldest is a half-brother and we have never been close. The middle brother is nearest to me in age,  was at one time my close companion and he has always been my parents favorite child. The youngest has become a friend, despite the opinions of others.

I have not spoken to my mother in over ten years.

Let me rephrase that, I had not spoken to her in over ten years....before last Sunday at 3:30 pm in the afternoon.

It is said that, time heals all wounds. For me, I would say this is true. I no longer harbor any ill will towards a mother who could not and does not, love me. I have come to understand that her lack of affection for me has less to do with me and so much more to do with her.

Over the years I have wondered if she ever thinks of me. If she ever wanted to see me or speak to me. I gave up the fantasy that we would one day lay our differences down and accept the other for who they are. Still, I have never been able to push her too far from my mind. Even after ten years of silence.

My youngest brother told me that she and my middle brother wanted to talk. I found this odd, considering the last words spoken, so many years ago, made it tragically clear how they felt about me.

Liar
Opportunist
Bitch

I waited a full 24 hours to phone my mother. Youngest brother urged me to call her, but not middle brother. Middle brother is drunk by 9:00 am and surly. "No, don't waste your time on him...call her," he urged.

So I did. From the house phone, not the cell phone.

"Hello?"

Her voice was old, so much older than I remembered. Logically, I knew she would sound different, but it was still shocking to hear her voice...the voice of an old woman.

"Hi...it's Ann..."

There was a moment of silence. I wondered if her mind immediately knew who "Ann" was. I held my breath, what would she say? I could almost hear the wheels turning in her mind.

And then her voice changed. It morphed to the familiar voice of my mother -

"Ann WHO!?" she demanded. Disdain and anger throbbed across the phone lines.

I took a deep breath, wondering what to say. Wasn't she the one who wanted to talk? Wasn't she the one who reached out? It was then that I realized I had been played.

"Youngest brother said you wanted to talk, is this true?"

"NO!" she snarled.

"Am I disturbing you?" I honestly have no idea why I said this. Of course you are disturbing her you moron! She doesn't WANT to speak with you. She never did!

"YES!" she spat.

"I'm sorry to have bothered  you," I said, emotionless.

I pushed the end button and stood there. Afternoon sunshine filtered through the family room blinds. The dog chased one of the cats. Silence draped over me.

I felt ... nothing.

Certainly, as the evening hours grew, I felt a nudge of disappointment. My feelings are not worn so near the surface these days. These last few years have toughened me and taught me that my expectations of others are seldom correct. I've learned to simply let it go.

I can't make you love me....if you don't

In the days since my brief phone call with my mother I've learned a thing or two about myself. The purest and best is that I AM NOT MY MOTHER. I am not bitter and angry. I have forgiven and will continue to forgive. I've laid the pain of her rejection in the grave and buried it deep in the love of my children, husband and friends.

I feel sad for her. Sad for the choices she has made and continues to make.

My mother is 72 years old and not in good health. There may come a day, although I doubt it strongly, that she'll want to talk. If she does. I know what to say.

"Hi....it's Ann"

Public Service Announcement

Little girl ran away the night of All Hallows Eve. She was distraught over having her phone taken away for failing a class at school. It wasn't something she was surprised at. The rule had been in place since September. Gentle reminders did not help. Printed class grades did not spur her into action.

She skipped class to meet up with her boyfriend. She stopped taking her meds. Little girl lied.

When confronted with these simple truths, and again, off her meds, she ran. Little girl strung together tales of woe, of abuse, and hysterics. Her friend's mother bought every tear. Friend's mom was moved to action. She accused and refused to send our girl home. She told me, "your house isn't the best place for Little Girl."

The problem, of course, was there has never been any abuse, not now or in the past. The therapist, the social worker, the police knew the truth.

Little Girl is home. The police handcuffed her and took her to the station. We picked her up and it was heartbreaking. Once the cuffs were unlocked she ran straight into my arms, crying and saying she was sorry.

Our journey to help little girl heal, continues.

As we once again shake off the despair that has become our life, I'd like to address all of the bleeding heart parents out there.

If a child shows up at your door, hysterical with a tale of abuse, call the police. If there is abuse, let the professionals do their job. For you see, your uneducated assumptions only make a bad situation worse.

Friend's Mom doesn't know us. She doesn't know my daughter's past, or the meds she takes. This woman took our lives into her own hands and tried to undo years of work.

In short, if you want to help, then make a call and keep your nose out of other people's business.

When You Finally Learn

If you've been a long time reader of this blog, you know that we adopted two girls just over five years ago. You may also have noticed that I took down many of those blog posts when things got bad. Really bad.

For us, adoption has been a disaster. The girls loath us. Many professionals say that abused kids, such as ours, return to their adopted families in their mid to late twenties. They somehow put together that you were not the cause of all their troubles.

I have no idea if this is true.

What I know to be true is that the human mind is a mystery.

People will treat you however they like...without repercussion.

Broken people are unable to self heal.

And the big one, it's not "if" they will attempt suicide or self-harm, it's "when".

Along this dark and narrow road, I've learned that I'm not the awesome mom I thought I was. I really and truly use to believe that if you mixed all the right ingredients you'd end up with cake. This is not always the case and it's been a rather difficult lesson for me to learn.

Don't get me wrong. I'm okay. I'm just perplexed that my life's work (and if you are a Momma Bear with every pore oozing empathy, meal plans and a schedule, you know what I mean,) has failed.

Failed miserably.

In full self-preservation mode, I've blocked and cut off contact with those who judge a little too harshly. Don't get me wrong...I was a card carrying member of that club for years. Hell, I RAN the club....

Funny how those kinds of things come back to bite you in the butt...

So now, instead of wondering, "Where is that girls' mother!!" I AM that mother. I'm the mom of the troubled girl. The girl who dresses provocatively, the one makin' out with her boyfriend at school, on the street, at a friends' house. I'm the mom of the girl who is struggling in school, who sees a therapist and a psychiatrist. Who goes to Equine therapy. Who takes meds so she can get through the day.

I am that mom and in case you've wondered why THAT mom doesn't clean up her daughter's act, let me tell you:

She can't.

All the begging, crying, screaming, threatening, pouting treatment in the world will not fix her kid. No amount of love or humor or anger, will produce a product that is mentally well.

Some things are just too big to fix.

Understanding all of this is not a bad place to be, not really. Some days are harder than others. Some days I wish I were anywhere but here. Some days she talks to me and I find my little heart hoping it's a good sign, that she actually doesn't hate me, while my brain reminds me that it's just for today, not for tomorrow. Tomorrow will be silence, served with a glare that screams, "screw you!"

My girls are broken. Anxiety filled, abused, battered and confused. They have a snowballs chance in hell of a "normal" life. There is little that I can do, but to redirect, to be positive and honestly, to drink a healthy amount of wine.

If you are finding yourself at the edge, and I know you've been there once or twice, remember a few things:

God, is enough. He can fix what needs fixing without your help.
Do not be so hard on yourself, cut yourself a little slack.
Take time to NOT think about the problem. It'll be there when you get back.
For goodness sake, drink a glass of wine.
Exercise

I won't say sleep, because unless Google has figured out a way to turn off our brains at night, you most likely are not sleeping well. I've decide that a full night's sleep is a fantasy and that's okay too.

I am finally learning that I cannot fix what is broken...And it's okay.