The last few days have been an unending tornado of phone calls, messages, texts sent and returned. I am dealing with not only lawyers, court reporters, therapists, receptionists and social workers from two different agencies. I am also dealing with 5 different agencies now: DHS itself, Ariel which is where I go for my one hour supervised visit with my girls a week, the court system, and what's called Day Reporting where I call every day and if they call my color for that day I get to go down and give an eye scan or UA (it's a real hoot peeing in front of someone you don't know), then last but not least The Colorado Department of Mental Health where they got to assess me two different times and then lay out and refer me to another therapist for a treatment plan they think I need.
I have a folder now of all the court case documents, DHS documents, business cards/appointment cards from every single person I have come in contact with since this whole thing started, it also has a calendar of when my own one hour visits are with my girls and the day before a reminder that I need to call them and confirm that appointment, or I don't get to see my girls. It also holds every single date/time/who I talked to/if I left a message/ if they left me a message/ if I talked to them what we talked about in detail. It's a full time job getting your kids back from the people that stole them. And did it legally.
The new thing I get to deal with is coming up this Friday for two hours. It's a mediation for a "treatment plan" that the DHS "worker" has conjured up. After many phone calls and explanations, because I don't like walking in blind to anything and I hate surprises, I found out that my lawyer and I sit in one room and the DHS "worker" and the county prosecutor sit in another while a mediator goes from one room to another seeing what in the 'treatment plan" I will agree to and what I will not. If we can come to an agreement we get to skip the three day jury trial and if I meet all the requirements set by the agreed "treatment plan" and meticulously stick to the plan, I get my kids back and get to share joint custody with their respective fathers. If we can't agree or they want me to do something outrageous then it's to trial we go, and I'm ready for both.
But, I will, of course, do this and I will jump through the hoops even if they are on fire, for my girls. But, I won't be a doormat either. I've gotten a crash course in family law and how DHS works and what my rights as a parent are.. So, DHS nor the county attorney are not dealing with a shell-shocked, teary mess they were when they took my kids and the emergency hearing done 72 hours later when I felt like I was lost in a mine field, where I had no idea what was going on or what my rights were. Well, guess what? NOT ANYMORE.
I watched, because of my naivete, I watched my youngest remanded to foster care; a stranger's house that got money for my daughter being in their house, and DHS, for every foster placement they do they get instant Federal money.
Well, guess what else, my daughter is not a paycheck nor is she a cash cow for foster parents, the state or DHS system. She is a little girl and every time I saw her; I saw the worry in her face, the confusion and they had to pry her arms from around me while she cried "mama mama no no I wanna go with mama." Which breaks me into a million pieces every time. I get to watch it again tomorrow. My daughter fall apart because she is being separated from her mama. Only this time, the good news in all of this, is she has been taken out of foster care and placed with her father for temporary custody until I get through jumping the hoops and then I will have my family and my girls back jointly.
I now know that the other person that is responsible for half of the little wonder that she is, is taking care of her and she is getting the love and care that she deserves and that she is used to. I know that man would take a bullet for our girl and, even though we have been told that I am not allowed to talk to her on the phone anymore, he sends me pictures and updates me on her. So, I rest a little easier knowing that she is in loving arms that know what a wonderful little spirit she is.
My other two girls' dad does the same thing and I get updates and get to hear about the testing for first grade my Maddie is doing and all the summer fun they are having. I get to hear them say, "I miss you mama, and I love you." without someone watching every move that we make.
I am putting those million pieces I've broken into back together and I am getting my fight back. I will fight for my girls and my family until we are back together as we should be.
Tomorrow I get to see my girls for our hour supervised visit. It's kind of ironic that I was on bed rest with Mariella, my oldest daughter, for 4 months and I had gestational diabetes. I followed my doctor's orders to the letter and was blessed with a beautiful healthy baby girl. The same thing happened with the other two; I had complications and because of my pelvic disorder went through 4 miscarriages, one I had to have surgery completely under because of my surgical and medical history. I worried and stressed about my pregnancies and the health of my girls. And only when I sought help for myself to help my body and mind with the trauma I had tried to ignore for 15 years that suddenly I was a pill popper and don't deserve my children in my care. Ironic really. Sad. Ironic. Evil and wrong.
Tomorrow I get to see them, feel their arms around me, take in their unique sweet smell from their freshly washed hair, and hear their little voices tell me of their adventures and what's going on in their lives in person. I soak up all of this time playing and taking with them. But, I'm always reminded that I'm being watched and scrutinized every second of that visit. The worker assigned to us at Ariel sits in the room with us and on her laptop writes up a visit report of what happened during that visit: what snacks I brought, what was talked about, if the girls drank water, if they used the bathroom, what games we played, what crafts I brought for us to do, how the girls reacted, how I reacted. Everything is documented and then they give us the "ten minutes left girls" and the sad looks on all of our faces and we exchange knowing looks. The only one oblivious at the warning is Searlait, until she is pulled from me and she starts crying, and calling my name.I try to be strong and say soothing things to her giving her hugs, but she doesn't understand. She just wants her mama.
Then I get to return home to my house. Empty of my girls, the girls I love with every fiber of my being. My dogs greet me and are by my side the whole time, as is my cat. The dogs are right outside the door when I shower, they are right there when I dress...they know something is wrong and they patrol the house like it's a battlefield and I am to be protected. But they don't know that they can't protect me from this searing pain or the emptiness.
I have avoided going into their rooms as much as I can because the minute that door swings open I smell the girls that aren't there, and the empty darkness hits me that they are not there; I don't know when they will be. Their clothes hang up unworn, the toys left unplayed with, their beds made and washed and ready for when they return. All except their pillows. I go to them and pick them up when I am at my lowest and I smell them, and smell each girl's unique smell. But, the rooms are empty and I feel it. It's the heaviness seeps in, but it also keeps me fighting and keeps me going. Even when the pain brings me to me knees when I remember peering into their rooms while they slept hearing their hushed breathing and sweet, relaxed faces lost in some dream.
I feel some days that I am stuck in a soundproof box screaming, but no one hears me; they don't care, they have made their decisions about my children and sit there in their righteousness and indignant that they are right
That I am just some pill popper and they saved my poor children from me and my druggie ways. And they can lie and say whatever they want in their reports and I have to defend myself with proof and documents. Which, guess what? I have them. In spades. I was hoping a jury could actually see for themselves the outright lies that have been said by DHS workers, by so called "friends" who I trusted but then rolled out their forked tongues and spewed lie after lie (you know who you are and if I get my way and we depose you? You are going to be exposed as the filthy, backstabbing, wretched, lying sack that you are. I have documents to prove you and your deception and I am truly grateful I actually know what kind of person you really are and not what persona you pretend to be or that fits whatever bs you are trying to pull. I see you for what you are, and you and it is ugly. Everything about you is smoke and mirrors.)
I still may get my chance in court. To let people hear what can happen to a family when DHS seeps into every crevice of your life. And they get paid to do it. And they get paid for your children. It's big business I have learned and with the economy the way it is, it is about business and money in my case and that should scare many families, because this is real. I am not making it up. It is cold hard facts and I am so angry. SO angry. But, I have put that anger into energy to work on myself, to fight for my family back, and to show that this is wrong. So damaging. That is why I am sharing my story with the whole world to see. I am going to show the courts I am a great mother and these are my children. Mine. This is my family. Mine. And so I fight, I jump through the hoops and I gain more knowledge every day on how to fight this. The people who have rallied with and around me? You have no idea what you mean to me. How much you have touched me and given me the strength to keep going when I wanted to run as far and as fast away from the pain and anguish. Every one of you will not be forgotten and I will show you, as well, what you have meant to me
No parent should have to go through this. Just because I have to be treated for the rest of my life, and endure more surgeries, more tests, more doctors because of trauma that was done to my body doesn't make me broken. Doesn't make me a bad mother. Doesn't make me a bad person. I feel like I am being punished for finally getting help after 15 years of acting like I was fine, that it happened but I dusted myself off and I would be fine.
I will prove to my daughters that their mother is needing care, but it's okay to teach out for help. It doesn't make you weak, it makes you strong. I will show them that I will fight for them and for our family until I am no longer. And that fight cones from the deepest, purest form of love and devotion that I have ever known until I met each of my children when they came out of my body.
Someday they will want to know more details. Someday the questions will come. Right now I have message for each of my daughters that in the future they can read:Here are the second blog posts hopefully in order as well. Love to you.
To my favorite Mariella - you are so very strong and independent. I see your tenacity and those crystal blue eyes of yours taking in the whole world around you, trying to make sense of it all, and figuring out your place in it. I miss you. I miss curling up with you on the couch after you sought my comforting arms after one of your nightmares. Your long slender fingers wrapped in mine. I see so much of me in you, possibly because you look like my twin, that's possibly part of it. But you, my dear girl are an entity in your own right. I will show you that I am the mother you deserve. That I am not those ugly things others have said I am. I am your mother and I will show all of my children, while I am far from perfect, I have a love and devotion that is unmatched by all others.
I have a folder now of all the court case documents, DHS documents, business cards/appointment cards from every single person I have come in contact with since this whole thing started, it also has a calendar of when my own one hour visits are with my girls and the day before a reminder that I need to call them and confirm that appointment, or I don't get to see my girls. It also holds every single date/time/who I talked to/if I left a message/ if they left me a message/ if I talked to them what we talked about in detail. It's a full time job getting your kids back from the people that stole them. And did it legally.
The new thing I get to deal with is coming up this Friday for two hours. It's a mediation for a "treatment plan" that the DHS "worker" has conjured up. After many phone calls and explanations, because I don't like walking in blind to anything and I hate surprises, I found out that my lawyer and I sit in one room and the DHS "worker" and the county prosecutor sit in another while a mediator goes from one room to another seeing what in the 'treatment plan" I will agree to and what I will not. If we can come to an agreement we get to skip the three day jury trial and if I meet all the requirements set by the agreed "treatment plan" and meticulously stick to the plan, I get my kids back and get to share joint custody with their respective fathers. If we can't agree or they want me to do something outrageous then it's to trial we go, and I'm ready for both.
But, I will, of course, do this and I will jump through the hoops even if they are on fire, for my girls. But, I won't be a doormat either. I've gotten a crash course in family law and how DHS works and what my rights as a parent are.. So, DHS nor the county attorney are not dealing with a shell-shocked, teary mess they were when they took my kids and the emergency hearing done 72 hours later when I felt like I was lost in a mine field, where I had no idea what was going on or what my rights were. Well, guess what? NOT ANYMORE.
I watched, because of my naivete, I watched my youngest remanded to foster care; a stranger's house that got money for my daughter being in their house, and DHS, for every foster placement they do they get instant Federal money.
Well, guess what else, my daughter is not a paycheck nor is she a cash cow for foster parents, the state or DHS system. She is a little girl and every time I saw her; I saw the worry in her face, the confusion and they had to pry her arms from around me while she cried "mama mama no no I wanna go with mama." Which breaks me into a million pieces every time. I get to watch it again tomorrow. My daughter fall apart because she is being separated from her mama. Only this time, the good news in all of this, is she has been taken out of foster care and placed with her father for temporary custody until I get through jumping the hoops and then I will have my family and my girls back jointly.
I now know that the other person that is responsible for half of the little wonder that she is, is taking care of her and she is getting the love and care that she deserves and that she is used to. I know that man would take a bullet for our girl and, even though we have been told that I am not allowed to talk to her on the phone anymore, he sends me pictures and updates me on her. So, I rest a little easier knowing that she is in loving arms that know what a wonderful little spirit she is.
My other two girls' dad does the same thing and I get updates and get to hear about the testing for first grade my Maddie is doing and all the summer fun they are having. I get to hear them say, "I miss you mama, and I love you." without someone watching every move that we make.
I am putting those million pieces I've broken into back together and I am getting my fight back. I will fight for my girls and my family until we are back together as we should be.
Tomorrow I get to see my girls for our hour supervised visit. It's kind of ironic that I was on bed rest with Mariella, my oldest daughter, for 4 months and I had gestational diabetes. I followed my doctor's orders to the letter and was blessed with a beautiful healthy baby girl. The same thing happened with the other two; I had complications and because of my pelvic disorder went through 4 miscarriages, one I had to have surgery completely under because of my surgical and medical history. I worried and stressed about my pregnancies and the health of my girls. And only when I sought help for myself to help my body and mind with the trauma I had tried to ignore for 15 years that suddenly I was a pill popper and don't deserve my children in my care. Ironic really. Sad. Ironic. Evil and wrong.
Tomorrow I get to see them, feel their arms around me, take in their unique sweet smell from their freshly washed hair, and hear their little voices tell me of their adventures and what's going on in their lives in person. I soak up all of this time playing and taking with them. But, I'm always reminded that I'm being watched and scrutinized every second of that visit. The worker assigned to us at Ariel sits in the room with us and on her laptop writes up a visit report of what happened during that visit: what snacks I brought, what was talked about, if the girls drank water, if they used the bathroom, what games we played, what crafts I brought for us to do, how the girls reacted, how I reacted. Everything is documented and then they give us the "ten minutes left girls" and the sad looks on all of our faces and we exchange knowing looks. The only one oblivious at the warning is Searlait, until she is pulled from me and she starts crying, and calling my name.I try to be strong and say soothing things to her giving her hugs, but she doesn't understand. She just wants her mama.
Then I get to return home to my house. Empty of my girls, the girls I love with every fiber of my being. My dogs greet me and are by my side the whole time, as is my cat. The dogs are right outside the door when I shower, they are right there when I dress...they know something is wrong and they patrol the house like it's a battlefield and I am to be protected. But they don't know that they can't protect me from this searing pain or the emptiness.
I have avoided going into their rooms as much as I can because the minute that door swings open I smell the girls that aren't there, and the empty darkness hits me that they are not there; I don't know when they will be. Their clothes hang up unworn, the toys left unplayed with, their beds made and washed and ready for when they return. All except their pillows. I go to them and pick them up when I am at my lowest and I smell them, and smell each girl's unique smell. But, the rooms are empty and I feel it. It's the heaviness seeps in, but it also keeps me fighting and keeps me going. Even when the pain brings me to me knees when I remember peering into their rooms while they slept hearing their hushed breathing and sweet, relaxed faces lost in some dream.
I feel some days that I am stuck in a soundproof box screaming, but no one hears me; they don't care, they have made their decisions about my children and sit there in their righteousness and indignant that they are right
That I am just some pill popper and they saved my poor children from me and my druggie ways. And they can lie and say whatever they want in their reports and I have to defend myself with proof and documents. Which, guess what? I have them. In spades. I was hoping a jury could actually see for themselves the outright lies that have been said by DHS workers, by so called "friends" who I trusted but then rolled out their forked tongues and spewed lie after lie (you know who you are and if I get my way and we depose you? You are going to be exposed as the filthy, backstabbing, wretched, lying sack that you are. I have documents to prove you and your deception and I am truly grateful I actually know what kind of person you really are and not what persona you pretend to be or that fits whatever bs you are trying to pull. I see you for what you are, and you and it is ugly. Everything about you is smoke and mirrors.)
I still may get my chance in court. To let people hear what can happen to a family when DHS seeps into every crevice of your life. And they get paid to do it. And they get paid for your children. It's big business I have learned and with the economy the way it is, it is about business and money in my case and that should scare many families, because this is real. I am not making it up. It is cold hard facts and I am so angry. SO angry. But, I have put that anger into energy to work on myself, to fight for my family back, and to show that this is wrong. So damaging. That is why I am sharing my story with the whole world to see. I am going to show the courts I am a great mother and these are my children. Mine. This is my family. Mine. And so I fight, I jump through the hoops and I gain more knowledge every day on how to fight this. The people who have rallied with and around me? You have no idea what you mean to me. How much you have touched me and given me the strength to keep going when I wanted to run as far and as fast away from the pain and anguish. Every one of you will not be forgotten and I will show you, as well, what you have meant to me
No parent should have to go through this. Just because I have to be treated for the rest of my life, and endure more surgeries, more tests, more doctors because of trauma that was done to my body doesn't make me broken. Doesn't make me a bad mother. Doesn't make me a bad person. I feel like I am being punished for finally getting help after 15 years of acting like I was fine, that it happened but I dusted myself off and I would be fine.
I will prove to my daughters that their mother is needing care, but it's okay to teach out for help. It doesn't make you weak, it makes you strong. I will show them that I will fight for them and for our family until I am no longer. And that fight cones from the deepest, purest form of love and devotion that I have ever known until I met each of my children when they came out of my body.
Someday they will want to know more details. Someday the questions will come. Right now I have message for each of my daughters that in the future they can read:Here are the second blog posts hopefully in order as well. Love to you.
To my favorite Mariella - you are so very strong and independent. I see your tenacity and those crystal blue eyes of yours taking in the whole world around you, trying to make sense of it all, and figuring out your place in it. I miss you. I miss curling up with you on the couch after you sought my comforting arms after one of your nightmares. Your long slender fingers wrapped in mine. I see so much of me in you, possibly because you look like my twin, that's possibly part of it. But you, my dear girl are an entity in your own right. I will show you that I am the mother you deserve. That I am not those ugly things others have said I am. I am your mother and I will show all of my children, while I am far from perfect, I have a love and devotion that is unmatched by all others.
To my favorite Maddie - You, always the smiling one, the one who is constantly aiming to please everyone. I see through that smile though, my love, and I see a fire behind those eyes. Those eyes that are the only physical attribute that remotely could be pointed out to determine you are indeed my kid. You are so willing to sacrifice yourself for others. But, I see that determination behind those big green eyes of yours. I miss you. I miss you telling me silly secrets in my ear. I miss your giggles. I miss you wrapping your arms around my neck and whispering that you love me. I know you are hurting. I know you want to know when you can come home because you asked during one our hour visits. Your big sister said it best, her crystal blue eyes unflinching and set right at the worker who was supervising us and unflinchingly said, "When all this crap is over." That, of course, didn't make it into the report. I love you my sweet Maddie, and I am working as hard as I can to make this crap be over.
To my favorite Searlait - I had to go into your room the other day and I lifted your pillow to take in the smell of you, and all at once the emotions came; the anger, the fear, the soul crushing pain of what has happened and the missing you and your sisters so badly it feels like I can't breathe and the pain is so acute I swear I would have physical marks. It was so hard that it brought me to my knees. I miss you. I miss you falling asleep next to me and watching your sweet face so at peace, the little curls starting to form at your neck. I miss you waking up and bouncing to me, arms stretched for me to pick you up, and you grabbing both sides of my face with your hands, kissing me and saying, "morning mama" or " I love you". I miss the way your big hugs feel around my neck and how you clap your hands and laugh when you get excited. I was told that I am not allowed to talk to you on the phone anymore because that would be too confusing. But, I have to call bullshit on DHS again because you were happy to talk to me and then you would go play. Just another blow to a family, and to a mother and daughter that DHS doesn't know, they just think they are right when they are so full of it.
Girls, I miss you all so much it physically hurts. But, I will see our family back together so we can once again have our dance parties in the living room. I will see you at our visit and savor every moment we are together. And please know that I am thinking if you every second of every day, and each move or decision I make is to see us reunited forever.
I leave all you readers out there this quote from a book that has gotten me through the hardest of times: "In some sense it was, in another this was impossible. But it is later now, and I live in a world where the two truths coexist; where both hell and hope lie in the palm of my hand." - 'Lucky', by Alice Sebold.
If I may make one last quick request, please if you are a myalgia mommy, or a friend/sister/mother of one, or a reader you can leave comments. Everyone here is here for support and everyone has a voice and we welcome you to comment, even if it is one word of encouragement, it means something. So please do comment and share this blogging community with anyone you know. We welcome everyone. Much love to you all.
Deanna
Will you let me know when computer time is over.
ReplyDeleteI cant set my own parental controls!
Got Kafka?