"Let Talk About Trauma and PTSD, It'll Be Fun" - Said No One Ever.

For the sake of simplifying this post when speaking of PTSD I'm specifically talking about C-PTSD or Complex Trauma Disorder

Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD) is a condition that results from chronic or long-term exposure to emotional trauma over which a victim has little or no control and from which there is little or no hope of escape, such as in cases of: domestic emotional, physical or sexual abuse.

I’m not even sure how to start on this topic. I don’t even know where to begin to talk about my trauma. I don’t know how to describe what it’s like to live with PTSD. I’ve been sitting on this topic for awhile now for a few reasons. I feel like it’s such an abstract concept. It’s just something I have to live with. It’s not an event or a fact that I can pin down and break apart and analyze for the general population. How do I explain to someone who doesn’t have my trauma what it’s like to carry that weight. How do I explain what having PTSD is like to someone who doesn’t have it? I don’t know how to write about this without sounding like I’m crazy. Writing about this also scares me because for the most part everyone who knows me thinks I have my shit together.

To be fair, for the most part I do.

I’ve been working through the creative process to get to the point of sitting down and writing. Here I am and I’m still struggling. I can’t begin to tell you about the tears I’ve shed just writing down my notes and thoughts on this topic. I feel embarrassed and ashamed. Which seems to be the common concept on my feelings surrounding foster care. Right now I also feel more publicly vulnerable than I’ve ever felt before. It’s also forcing me to relive some of the things I try hard to shut out and move past.

Trauma is weird to say the least. Sometimes you don’t even realize the shit you’re repressing. It’s buried so deep you don’t even know what you’re hiding from yourself. Until one day you’re driving down the freeway just like any other day on your way to work. Then all of a sudden the sound of your blinker clicking brings you back to that time when you were scared for your life. There is absolutely nothing you can do to stop the memory from flooding back to you.

I’m 11 years old again and it’s 3 in the morning and I’m dead asleep until I hear the creak of the stairs leading up to my bedroom. My heart starts to race and I immediately jump out of bed to lock the deadbolt on my bedroom door. There is a pounding on the door and it’s loud and angry and matches up perfectly with the sound of my blinker. My door handle is turning and the door is shaking as someone is trying to break in. His voice comes through the other side. Screaming at me to let him in. He’s calling me every dirty name under the rainbow and threatening to kill me if I don’t let him in. It’s one of my parents friends who was living with us at the time. I know he’s either high or drunk out of his mind and probably won’t even remember this in the morning. I go sit in my closet and close the door and fold myself up as small as possible and cry. Praying to God that the door holds and that he goes away and leaves me alone. The pounding and screaming go on for what feels like an hour and eventually he admits defeat and leaves. I’m thankful in that moment that I have a deadbolt on my door and that I’m safe and unharmed.

Then I’m back in my car and my blinker is off and I've pull into a random parking lot  and turned my car off. I’m hyperventilating and quietly sobbing. I try to compose myself enough to drive the rest of the way to work. Once I calm down enough, I fix my makeup and resume life as normal. Like it never happened. I walk into work and say good morning to everyone, pour my coffee, and turn on my computer. Calm and collected like it’s just another day.

PTSD is like a switch that once it’s turned on I can’t just turn it off. I have to ride the wave until it hits shore and it can happen at any moment.

I can be doing the same thing I do day in and day out. When I was around 15 I was hanging out my my adoptive brother while he was was playing this zombie game. I wasn’t much of a video game person but I enjoyed spending time with him so I’d sit in the basement for hours watching him play. I’m not sure what it was about this particular day but the sound of the guns going off and the temperature of the basement sent me straight back in time.

I was living at home with my parents and the house felt more hectic than normal. The air felt heavy and had the sickly sweet smell of cooked meth. My back and shoulders were tense like they would always get right before someone was about to yell at me or a fight was about to break out. I was standing in front of the fridge with the door open blanking staring in past the jugs of yellow liquid. I was questioning why this had to be my life. Did normal people keep jars of pee in their fridge? One of my parents friends came stomping up the stairs from the basement. His eyes looked wild and it felt like he was trying to see through me. His face was beat red and I could tell he was mad about something. He grabbed my arm and pulled me down to the basement and brought me over to a closet where my two cats were locked in. He was screaming incoherently in my ear and pulled a gun out. I was convinced I had done something to piss him off and I was going to die. I knew I should be scared but I was numb and auto pilot had kicked in. I open my mouth to ask what was going on but before I could get the words out he opened fire and shot my cats right before my eyes. I couldn’t process what happened. He let go of my arm like he was throwing my own dead weight at me. I turned around and walked up the stairs and out the back door of the house.

Abruptly I’m back in my new home walking up the stairs to my bedroom. I lay down in bed in complete numbness. I don’t tell my adoptive mom what I just remembered for weeks. Until it’s to the point of eating me alive.

I can nail down my triggers for what will make my anxiety flare up. I have tons of skills to cope with anxiety too. PTSD episodes are like something from a whole other world. I have no idea what will cause a flash back and I haven’t a single clue how to bring myself out of it once I’m in the depths of reliving it.

I’ve come to accept that it’s just the way my life it going to be living with trauma. Its creeps up out of nowhere and slams into me so hard I have no way to prevent it from completely taking over. How do I work through the shit that I can’t even remember happening? Before that day in my car I never even knew that night happened. Before that day in the basement with my brother I always thought my cats ran away or one of the randoms that lived with us stole them.

Sometimes I question if these memories that come flooding back are even real. How is it possible to completely block out memories like that? Is there just so much bad shit that I only remember the worst of it? Or is it possible that there is worse shit that I’m not remembering at all?  How can I recover and process through things I don’t remember happening to me until I’m in a full blown panic.

Dylan has come home to find me curled up in a ball in our bedroom closet crying. We joke about it now because looking back on it, it seems silly. I couldn’t even tell you what set me off that time. I honestly don’t remember. Sometimes the memories come back and before I can come back to my senses they are gone again.

I can’t help but wonder what the heck is wrong with me? I’m always the biggest advocate for everyone to seek out the help they need. I just can’t help but treat my trauma and PTSD like this individual war that I have to fight by myself. It’s not really something I talk about and I can’t even believe I’m sharing any of this with internet right now.

I don’t want anyone to treat me any different or look at me different. I don’t want people to feel like they have to walk on eggshells around me. I don’t want to be looked at like I’m crazy.

I’m hoping that by sharing my experience I can help other people see that you really aren’t crazy. You can have PTSD and trauma and still be a normal person.

I’m hoping that professionals will look at this and realize that kids who’ve lived through trauma need to be treated for PTSD. It shouldn’t be dismissed so quickly as depression and acting out.

If you have a loved one dealing with PTSD just be there for them. Be patient and be willing to listen. Sometimes a hand to hold is enough.

If you are struggling with any kind of trauma just know you’re not alone.

It’s okay to break down and have moments of weakness. We just need to remind ourselves that we are survivors and we can move past it.

To read more about PTSD in alumni of foster care visit the links below:

http://www.fosterfocusmag.com/articles/post-traumatic-stress-disorder-not-just-soldiers-problem

http://www.thecrimson.com/article/2005/4/11/study-finds-foster-kids-suffer-ptsd/

Until next time

-PronouncedLeah

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Chosen Family

Have you ever stopped to take a second and think about why people do the things they do? Why do they dress a certain way? Why do they listen to the music they listen to? Why do they act the way they do? Why do people naturally gravitate towards people who are similar to them?

I know it sounds like a pretty obscure and philosophical question but in my opinion the answer is quite simple.

The reason people do anything is to fit in.

Everyone wants to feel like they belong. We all have an uncontrollable need to conform and merge with a group that makes us feel welcomed, comfortable, and connected. No one wants to be the odd one out. Unfortunately, fitting in isn’t always something we can control. 

Growing up while being a foster kid makes it incredibly difficult to find “your people” and fit in. I personally can attest to this. We all know how cruel kids can be. Scratch that… People in general can be cruel even if you’re a “regular” person. Whatever that means. Anyways, throw in being a second class citizen in today’s society and you might as well have a target painted on your back.

All my life I felt like I grew up with a giant neon sign plastered on my forehead that flashed “FOSTER KID” over and over. No matter how hard I tried to fit in it always seemed like I was different and didn’t quite blend in as well as I would have liked. Walking down the hallways in school it was almost as if I carried a stench on me. Hanging heavy like a cloud of noxious gas that surrounded me, acting as a warning sign to the other kids – this kid is nothing but trouble. I’ve mentioned in previous blog posts that foster care was the single most isolating thing that I’ve ever experienced. I’ll stand by that for the rest of my life. Being a foster kid didn’t allow for me to “click” with other kids. I didn’t get to have sleep overs with the other girls in my class – unless their parents would agree to undergoing a background check through the county. Believe me, not a lot of parents jumped at that. Shocking. I didn’t get to go on family vacations. I didn’t have a family and none of my numerous foster families took us on vacations. Christmas break was more just a week of sitting in the foster parent of that month’s house and feeling my heart ache for my real family while I watched their biological kids open their gifts. Those are just a couple example but I could go on forever. Just the act of existing in foster care in itself is an act of being a social outcast. Missing out on all that normalcy was heartbreaking.

I’ll be honest for a minute here… Going through years of being a social reject and missing out on normal kid and teenage things eventually made me a little jaded. Even now after lots of therapy and trying to make up for lost time I can’t help but feel a little salty. However, one of the most therapeutic things I have experience as a survivor of foster care is connecting with my alumni family. The first time I was in a room surrounded by other people who grew up how I grew up I went home and cried – that’s a pretty big deal! I’m not typically an emotional person. Now that I think about it that’s probably a side effect of foster care. After I let it sink in I had an epiphany. That day was the first time I had ever truly experience normalcy. Not the normalcy that society has always told us is the norm. My own very real and true normalcy. Normalcy for me has never been the princess tea party with family and friends. My normalcy was my parents being so strung out and high that they forgot me at the grocery store for over an hour. Normalcy for me was never growing up with the same friends since we were kids. My normalcy was 15 different schools over the course of 8 years. After I met other alumni of foster care it felt like something in me finally clicked into place and healed. I have spent so much time and energy trying to fit into a mold of normal that I could never squeeze into. All this time the normal I needed was the normal I grew up with. Just knowing that I really wasn’t alone and that there is a solid group of people out there who have the same dark and sick sense of humor that I do because of the circumstances we grew up in. Believe me, foster kid jokes are enough to make most people cringe.

After meeting this group of foster alumni I realized I wanted more. Connecting with people who have had a similar past, after living for so long feeling isolated, was one of the most validating and moving things I’ve ever experienced. For once I felt like I didn’t need to fit into societies box of what normal is. Having an alumni network is an opportunity to create our own definition of normalcy. When you’re with a group of people who deeply and truly understand you with all the ugly of your past… THAT feels normal.

Sometime has passed now since that initial meeting and aside from the normalcy and connected-ness there have been other lasting side effect. Connecting with this family of alumni has been the most overwhelming wave of support I have ever received. There has been more than one occasion where I have been going through a tough time or needed some advice and one of my alumni brothers and sisters has called me to be there for me. I don’t think I can emphasize how deep my gratitude goes for my foster alumni. This past year I have leaned on my network for job leads, references, emotional support, socializing, and inspiration. Meeting other alumni has been like meeting family I didn’t even know that I had but that I desperately needed. The more alum I meet the more I want to reach out to and connect.

A big reason I keep writing and sharing my story is because of my foster alumni. I share my stories because they make me feel like it needs to be heard. I’ve been able to see the way my stories have touched and moved others and it motivates me to keep posting. Being a part of a network of foster alumni has inspired me heavily in many of the things I do.

I’d like to highlight and name some of my foster alumni that have greatly touch my life they also happen to be the other co-founders and board members of Foster Alum Minnesota.

First I’d like to mention Joanne. 

She has inspired me to handle shit like a boss. Over the time I’ve gotten to know her I’ve watched her juggle working, volunteering, advocating, and being a mom. Might I add she does it all with such grace.

Next is Rashad. 

He has inspired me to stand up for myself and speak what’s on my mind. This man holds nothing back and sometimes I’m taken back by it but I also listen in awe. He has taught me to speak up because people will listen and they do want my input.

Then there is Jessica. 

Jess has inspired me to practice self-care and how to say no. I am constantly amazed by how easily she can prioritize her life and business. She is always making sure she is carving out good quality time to spend with her son and taking time out of a never stopping work to recharge her battery. She inspires me to slow down and make sure I’m okay before I agree to more.

Next up is Hank. 

Hank has inspired me to keep going, always. Honestly, I don’t think this man every stops. He is the king of getting back up. I’m definitely the type of person to dwell if things aren't going my way. He has shown me true perseverance and in my opinion the energizer bunny needs to be his personal mascot.

Lastly, all my other alumni. 

Please know if you’re reading this that you inspire me. Every day that you exist you inspire me. Life has given you the short end of the stick yet here you are. There are countless times that you could have given up and let it be the end but you pushed on. I’m inspired by your strength, resilience, and determination.

Alumni family (and friends) – I will leave you with this. I encourage you to reach out and join an alumni network and experience firsthand the profound connections, support, and inspiration your alumni family has to offer.

If you’re in Minnesota, I encourage you to click the link below and join Foster Alum Minnesota.

FOSTER ALUM MN

JOIN! BECOME A MEMBER! IT'S FREE!

Until Next Time

-          - PronouncedLeah

Identity Crisis & Birth Certificates

I’ve been recently dwelling hard on an issue that I always seem to come back to time and time again. Sometimes the questions swimming around in my head won’t stop and the just lead me to ask more questions. What actually makes us real and exist? Have you ever really thought about it before? I swear I’m not stoned! I just can’t stop thinking about it.

Is it our family and friends who know us? Surely that is pretty concrete evidence that we are here. Could it be the energy you take up and put back out into the world? Arguably that would make someone real. Or, is it a slew of legal documents that legally tells us who we are, where we are from, and who we come from? I suppose if you don’t have a birth certificate, social security number, or an ID then you never were or never will be.

Part of the reason I tear myself apart with these questions is because on some level I’m always struggling with my identity. Not in the way that all these desperate 20 somethings are just “trying to find themselves”. It’s a lot more complicated than that. It’s not a questions that can be answered by life experiences or partying or going to school. At least not for me. I always want it put down in permanent writing. If you commit something to paper then it makes it real. So many things in my life were so wishy-washy that I only trust what has been recorded. In my mind paper = permanence.  

I set myself up for failure with that mindset but let's be honest - I’m stubborn as hell and have no intention of changing. However, this has caused me to struggle more with who I am.

Incase you're unaware - let me give you a little nugget of information. When you’re adopted in the state of Minnesota they change your birth certificate. The person who you were born as and born to be is gone once the state has declared your adoption as final. Your history is then stripped away. Who your parents were and where you came from is completely erased. Unless you have a copy or have requested one before the adoption - your original birth certificate is gone forever. Your biological parents names are then replaced with your adoptive parents and the state deems your new birth certificate the only one that is valid.

When this was brought to my attention before my adoption when I was 13 I almost called off the whole thing. We were there at the courthouse and I overheard someone say something about a new birth certificate and I flipped my shit. I was already taken away from my family time and time again. I’d already switched schools time and time again. I’d already given up so much. I’d given up family, friends, security, my education, my pride. NOW you want me to give up my history and my identity?

My adoptive mom knew me well enough to know how sensitive I would feel about it and made sure to request multiple copies of my original birth certificate. Bless her heart! Basically it was the only piece of reasoning I listened to. Otherwise, I’m sure I would have thrown out the entire adoption all together. Like I said, I'm stubborn.  

I’m still appalled by the entire concept. When you get married you don’t change your entire identity. You get a marriage license. Sure, you might be changing your name but your maiden name is still a form of identification. Sure, you’re joining another family but your family isn’t going away forever - it’s an addition not a trade. Even dead people have the respect and dignity to have an official record of the who, when, where, and how.

I always try to say how grateful I am that I was adopted but ever since my birth certificate, my real life real world birth parents, and my origins were stripped from me it’s left a hole. I know I’m one for the dramatics but this is an honest to God issue that I will never stop talking about. My argument is that there should be an entirely separate document for adoption. I see no reason why the state wouldn’t want to issue adoption certificates. I doubt it’s anymore work that what they are already doing.

I believe that if a separate document was created it would help foster and adoptive alumni sort through their issues of identity. It would help with medical records and being able to look into what you could potentially be passing on in your genes. For people like me it would be a real life road map of the journey life has taken you through,  being able to lay it all out and make sense of it all. Nothing would be more therapeutic than to feel like one whole person instead of the 15 different people I have become divided into.

If an adoption certificate was created there would be concrete real evidence that you are the person you used to be but you’re also the person you’re becoming and you’re also all of that at once.

Until Next Time

-ProunouncedLeah

Where Did You Come From?

 

Ever since I was a kid and now as an adult I have always toyed with the idea of trying to put together a family tree. As a product of the child welfare system I feel like in some way it’d be almost therapeutic to see it all laid out in a neat and organized fashion. I hate to admit it but something in my brain and my heart says that if I can somehow commit it to paper maybe it’ll make more sense to me and maybe it’ll be easier to explain to other people.

When I was a kid in school there was a project at some point to actually make a family tree, to research your heritage and create a display. I’m partially proud and partially ashamed that I somehow maneuvered my way out of the project. I stayed home sick for a week to avoid the project and refused to do the project all together. Avoiding school and homework was not out of the ordinary for me so I’m sure my anxiety and stress over the assignment went completely unnoticed. But I was anxious and stressed. The idea of trying to put it on paper and present it to the class made me sick to my stomach and I had a nervous rash all over my body.

It is my personal opinion that the school or teacher or whoever should never have assigned this kind of project to begin with. There is no way you can know every single kids home situation. I believe that even if they weren’t a foster kid like me this kind of assignment would bring up feelings of shame and embarrassment. Maybe someone has a single mom, or they live with their grandparents, or one of their parents passed away. You never know what those kids go home to and how they feel about it. Not to mention, kids can be nasty and mean to begin with. Why would someone want to give kids more ammunition and reasons to bully and tease someone who is more than likely already an under dog. I was made fun of and ridiculed for being a foster kid already – there is no way you could have forced me to put it on blast. The weight of being ashamed of where I came from and the jumbled mess of my family is hard enough to process as an adult – how the hell was I supposed to create some content out of my family tree that was worthy of a passing grade as a kid? I know I wasn’t alone in this feeling either. There were kids with divorced parents and step parents and they didn’t want to put it out there to the entire class room that their parents split up. I just don’t think it is an appropriate school project- period.

As an adult now I have revisited the issue a few times. I don’t know if it’s because it feels like unfinished business or what but I keep coming back to it every couple of years. I’ve made a few failed attempts and I’ve now realized there IS NO WAY to make a family tree for me that is tidy, organized, and has a flow. I can hardly get past my parents and siblings before it turns into a giant mess. I have biological parents, step parents, and adoptive parents. I have 4 half siblings and 2 of them I don’t even know their names or anything about them- I don’t even know if they know I exist. I have a step brother I’ve only met a handful of times who I doubt cares for or remembers who I am to him. I have an adoptive brother who isn’t blood related to me at all and he has a biological family out there somewhere too.
 

Logically I know I don’t owe anyone an explanation when it comes to my family. That doesn’t make it any easier though. I’m an open book and I’m sure sometimes I over share. Anyone who knows me knows about my family, and foster care, and blahblahblah. However, it is still challenging. My husband obviously knows everything and anything there is to know about my family but even for him it’s hard to keep track. It’s never simple. I can never just say “Oh one time my mom and I_______.” It’s always followed up with a question of which mom. I’m forever grateful of where I landed and I know my family was already messy before foster care and adoption.

If I could do it over I think I would go back and talk to my teacher who gave out the assignment. I wish I would have spoken up and tried to articulate why the project was so damaging and hurtful and why I was refusing to do it. Because I never spoke up I know that the year after and the year after and the year after that the same project will keep getting assigned. The shame that I held onto so tightly other kids will be holding onto and the teacher will have no idea. For the time being I’m in the clear to share what I want and to with hold what I’d rather not share. Until Dylan and I have kids. I dread the day they might get this assignment in school. I want to talk to our kids about my past and family on my terms – not some schools. I’d never lie to our kids about where I came from. But I want questions to come up organically instead of attempting to lay it all out on the table for someone else when I can barely explain it myself.

All in all my family tree isn’t really much of a tree at all. It’s more like a weird and messy game of connect four. I’m constantly trying to work past my shame and embarrassment that comes with my family baggage. I’m at a good point in my life where I’m willing to openly share where I came from and who makes up family. Although, I know that’s not the case for a lot of people.
 

If it’s within your power and your school or your child’s school is assigning family tree/ancestry/ heritage projects please speak up. Even if your family dynamic is what society has deemed “normal” – speak up for someone else. You have no idea what kind of pain you might be saving someone from.

 

Until Next Time

- PronouncedLeah

Stick Around Long Enough to Find Out

There was a point in my life when I literally wore my heart on my sleeve for the world to see. The pain and hurt I was carrying with me from the misfortunes of my life were expressed as vivid and angry red cuts along the lengths of my arms. Now that I have distance and perspective since that time in my life I can very clearly see that it was an intense need to be in control, a severe lack of healthy coping mechanisms and a desperate cry for help. I'm much older now and in a much better place but I'm left with the scars and the reminder that comes with them from the dark place I once was in.

I know I'm not alone in the feeling of liking to have a sense of control. I remember growing up feeling like I didn't have control over anything. Everyone around me was making decisions about my life for me without my input. I developed habits and routines to control what I could. Some things were harmless such as dying my hair whenever I got the itch. Others, not so much. I was roughly around the age of 9 when I started self harming. I don't remember what triggered it or why I even started. What I do remember is the panic that seemed to constantly surround my life. The only thing that seemed to make it all slow down and not hurt as much for awhile was cutting. The not so funny thing about cutting was it made me feel like I was in control. When everything else was out of my hands - this was my way to take back the power. The thing that no one talks about self harm is that it's addicting. It gives you a rush of adrenaline with a numb calming effect afterwards. For me it seemed like it started to spiral out of control. Almost like a drug addiction, I would self harm for the high it gave me. Eventually it was the cutting that started to control me. It's sad how ironic that feels putting it so plainly. The rush it gave me wasn't the only thing to keep my habit strong for years. Just like any other addict - you turn to your drug of choice for other reasons then before you know it you're in too deep.

Thankfully I was adopted and my mom was the first person to really work with my through my issues. I'd done therapy for what seemed like my entire life but it never seemed to help. Until I found the right therapist. Then having the right therapist lead to me other things that helped me recover. We concentrated on working on healthy coping skills, putting together lists and action plans, and she referred me to other resources (DBT Therapy) that ultimately made me quit the blade for life. If I would have had these coping skills and opportunities earlier maybe it could have saved me from a lot of gauze and antiseptic wash. Part of it was being receptive to getting better. You could have spewed coping skills and solutions at me all day. Listening is a totally different story.

Often times when you're young it feels like no one listens to you. In my old poetry I frequently described the feeling as being in a room full of people and screaming but it felt like no sound was coming out. Everyone knows the saying of actions speak louder than words. No one heard what I was trying to say so I had to act. If you would have asked me while I was in the worst throes of it I would have completely denied it being a cry for help. Being taken from my family and shuffled around from placement to placement, not only was ripping me apart mentally it was forcing my hand to physically tear myself apart. My outsides were starting to match my insides. I wish someone would have noticed sooner that I was struggling. I wish someone would have realized what was happening and tried to help me before it got as bad as it did. It wasn't until a few suicide attempts later and after being adopted that someone finally heard me. If it wasn't for my adoptive mom I honestly don't think I would be alive today. I remember the very last time I cut myself. It was deeper and worse than any other time before. My mom tried to convince me to go in to the hospital because I needed stitches. The grief and worry she wore on her face like a mask still haunts my memories to this day. I remember thinking that if I was gone my mom would be more sad than she was in that moment. I never self harmed again after that. When I was still self harming though my mom never made me feel ashamed. She never put me down because of it. She simply listened, wrapped my arms in bandages, and let me know how deeply she cared about me. If there is one piece of advice I could give parents who's children are harming - it would be to listen. REALLY LISTEN. Actions speak louder than words.

I've provided a link down below and a link to more info about DBT. Please, if you're struggling - seek help! People honestly do care about you! If you would have told me when I was suicidal and self harming that some day I would have made it to 22 and be happy and married, I would have laughed in your face.
It does get better. I promise.
 You just have to stick around long enough to find out.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Call 1-800-273-8255

Until Next Time

- PronouncedLeah

I Miss You, I Miss You Not

Every once in awhile there is a picture that pops up in my social media feeds. I'm not typically the type of person that is into mantras and cliche phrases but something about this particular message resonates with me. The picture reads "Just so we're all clear, it's okay to miss people you no longer want in your life." I'm always grateful for the reminder. I've made some hard decisions to cut people out of my life. Although it has been necessary for my own well being it's still hard to get over the emptiness it leaves you with. 

It's been a little over 3 years since the last time I spoke to my parents. The last conversation I had with them I explained that I had given them dozens of chances and they clearly weren't changing their ways. I didn't cry when I had this talk with them.The defense mechanism in my brain took over and I spoke on auto pilot. My voice was even, monotone, and expressionless. I delivered my message as matter-of-fact even though my heart was breaking. I explained that after today I was cutting them off completely. I listed all the things they would be missing out on because once again they decided to choose drugs over me and I wasn't going to stick around to watch it happen.

Cutting them off meant they would no longer be attending my wedding coming up in a year. When Dylan and I have children in the future my parents will never see them. They will never have our address and their number will remain blocked in my phone. I told them all of this and tried to get them to understand that this was the final conversation we would be having.
Of course they cried and pleaded with me but my mind was made up. My mind had to be made up for the sake of my new life and family. I needed to do what was best for my future and I saw them playing no part in it. 

I desperately needed to move forward with my life and leave them in the past where I should have left them long ago. It wasn't worth waiting on their promises to get better. They'd been shoving those falsities down my throat my entire life. I couldn't withstand anymore manipulation and deceit. Lies have always made my stomach turn even if they weren't my own. 

A main reason for cutting them out was protecting my new life. I couldn't possibly bring my new family into this disaster. My adoptive mom, Kate, had protected me and welcomed me into her life with open arms. The least I could do was protect her from the insanity that was meant to be left in my past. My husband to be, Dylan, didn't need this kind of drama and hostility weighing him down. It wasn't his mess but mine. Then there were my in-laws, they knew a little of the past life I had but I couldn't allow them to come face to face with the reality of my origins. 

Despite all of my reasons to cut ties and walk away it has remained a difficult decision to uphold. Everyday I am battling with myself internally because I miss them so much. Almost daily I go back and forth with the debate of just calling them to talk one last time. Weekly I'm debating if maybe I should just write them a letter. I wouldn't need to put a return address on it. Just say what I need to say and be done with it.

I just hope they know I still love them. For as fucked up and unhealthy as they are I still love them and miss them so much. I try to remember that for my own well being I can't have contact with them but I still struggle with the back and forth in my mind. I have moments when I'm close to cracking but then I receive a nasty reminder for why I need to stay away. 

They still attempt to contact me. It's been a long time since I blocked their number. However, I still receive voicemail's and Facebook messages. I've even gone as far as changing phone numbers. I'm on my 3rd number but to no avail. Someone keeps giving out my number to them. It doesn't matter anyway at this point because I know what they will say. Every message I receive follows the same pattern.

My mom will start in with the begging and pleading. Each message goes a little something like this... 

"This is your mom Leah, your real mom. Please call me and daddy back. Please if you are hearing this message just call us back. We miss you so much. "

That immediately flows into the guilt trip and heavy manipulation. 

"This is your REAL mom Leah, the one who gave BIRTH to you. Does that not mean anything to you? We weren't always the best parents but we always did the best we could. Is this how you repay us? By ignoring us? We won't be around forever. Someday we will be gone and you'll regret this."

Every voicemail, every time is concluded in anger and blame.

"Leah, what the hell is wrong with you?! If your grand parents were alive to see how you're acting, they would be ashamed. You can tell your brother and sister that too. Shame on all of yous. I didn't raise yous to behave like this. What the hell has gotten into you? I sure as hell didn't teach you to act like this. This is your mom Leah. CALL ME BACK."

For any "normal" person that alone would be enough reason to say "good riddance". I wish that was what I thought. I wish I could be a normal person with a normal relationship with normal parents. Instead I sit hear and torture myself and feel like shit about my decision to protect myself. Anytime I get one of these messages I start in with a game of 20 questions in my head. 

If my parents pass away will I regret never calling them back?
Is it going to eat away at me for the rest of my life if I don't say my good byes?
Will I attend their funerals if they do pass away?
What will other family think or say if I do?
What if I don't?
Am I morbid for dwelling so heavily on these questions?
Maybe this was the wrong decision all along?

The aching I feel in my chest for them is almost too much to bare and I wish I could just go back to the way things used to be even if they weren't good to begin with. Maybe a shitting relationship is better than no relationship at all. Someday's it feels like the wrong decision. 

Without the support system I have in place I surely would have caved and been stuck in the down ward spiral I tried so hard to escape. Dylan is always there to listen to the messages with me and combat the negativity I take from it. My adoptive mom Kate has always kept her arms and ears open when I need to hash it out again and again. Ultimately I know the ball is in my court. Sometimes the sense of control over the situation is the only thing keeping me from driving to their house and throwing my self at their feet for forgiveness.
When I've had enough and I don't want to play the game of keep away any longer the message appears in my feed. Always at the times when I seem to need the reminder most. 

It's okay to still love my parents and not have a relationship with them. It's okay to still yearn for a connection to them but  to keep the ties of communication cut. It's okay to still want to hear their voices but not let them hear mine. 

And just so I'm clear, it's okay to miss my parents and no longer want them in my life.

Until Next Time

- PronouncedLeah

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Black Suits and Dream Catchers

I’d like to take you back to the first time I was taken from my biological family. I’ll never forget that day and the trauma that it’s left with me.

My personal experience with foster care was terrible. Nothing in my life has ever made me feel as isolated and despondent as the time I spent in the system. I was ripped away from my family numerous times unaware of what had happened and why. I felt as if I had done something wrong and I was being punished. I was placed in new homes and forced to conform to the lives of people I’d never met before. I was forced to carry on in school and pretend nothing had changed because I was ashamed to tell anyone. Everyone around me was making decisions about my life because “they knew what was best for me”. Every time I spoke up I was silenced. 
Foster care was meant to save me from my supposedly dangerous and negligent home. In reality foster care stole away my dignity, confidence, and certainty in where I belonged. 

I was around 7 years old and was spending the night at my friend’s house. It was early on Sunday morning and my friend and I were watching cartoons in our pajamas while we rubbed the sleep out of our eyes. Our hair was wild from a good night’s sleep and blankets and pillows were piled around us on the living room floor. Her mom was in the kitchen humming and cooking scrambled eggs. 
I remember smelling toast and orange juice in the air. At one point the house phone rang and my friend’s mom answered and immediately went in another room and closed the door. 
Her face looked solemn and her shoulders hung as she came back after the call was done. Then breakfast was done and I didn’t think to ask what was wrong. 
I scarfed down my food and the question that was in my mind was gone. Not long after we were done eating there was someone at the door. Three loud and quick raps on the door followed soon after by 2 rings of the door bell. At the time I couldn’t quite put it together and wasn’t sure why but my stomach sank and my mouth instantly felt dry. 

Being kids we ran to the big front window to look outside. A black car was parked out along the curb of the front of the house in the cul-de-sac. My mom’s truck was pulling in behind the foreign car. 
My friend’s mom went down the stairs and opened the front door and let in a manin a black suit. Everything felt like it was going in slow motion the second he stepped into the house. 
I remember focusing on how shiny his shoes were. I don’t think I’d ever seen a man in dress shoes before. He came up the stairs with my friend’s mom and my mom followed soon after. 
I was brought over to the kitchen table and sat down with the man and my mom. My friend and her mom disappeared somewhere else into the house. My moms face was streaming with tears and her body was shaking with shame and sobs. 
I reached out my hand to hold hers. Her body shook more violently with tears. 
The man was talking at me but I didn’t hear a word he said, all I could think was what did I do that was so terrible and was making my mom cry so hard? 
All I could think was that he was from the school and I was in trouble for missing to many days. I couldn’t possibly think of anything else I could have done wrong. For the most part I kept my head down and stayed out of trouble.


My friend and her mom came back in the kitchen and my over night bag was all packed up. My friend handed it to me and hugged me tight. My friend’s mom’s face was stained with tears and she 
bent down to hug me and I felt her tears on my cheek. It burned on my face when she pulled away and kissed my forehead good bye. The man in the black suit took my bag from my hand and exchanged words with my friend’s mom. 
Everyone was standing and walking towards the front door. My mom was squeezing my hand so tight it almost hurt but I kept silently praying she wouldn’t let go. I could swear it was the only thing that kept me from sinking into the floor. My mom held my hand all the way to the black car while the man in the black suit escorted from behind. 
My mind was swimming with questions. Why am I going in the black car?What did I do wrong? Why is my mom crying? Who is the man in the black suit? I thought I wasn’t supposed to trust strangers? Certainly I’m not supposed to trust this strange man? Did something bad happen to my dad? Why isn’t he here too? Are my parents trying to get rid of me?  I really must have done something bad. 

My mom pulled me into the tightest hug and chanted I love you over and over in my ear. All I could do was repeat those three words back. I prayed in my mind that my mom understood the weight of how much I truly did love her. She pulled away as the man in the black suit said it was time to go. My own tears felt hot on my face this time as they rolled down in a steady stream. I crawled in the back seat and my mom buckled me in. She squeezed me one last time and kissed my forehead and said good bye. The man in the black suit got in the front seat and started the car. As the car left the cul-de-sac I felt the weight of the world come crushing down on me. My head was pounding and my chest was tight as I gasped for air between sobs. I knew that where ever this car was going, when I got out, I was never going to be the same person again.


As I was getting my breathing back to normal and wiping my face of my tears I noticed the car starting to slow down.We pulled into a drive way the lead to a large tan house. The yard was perfectly kept and the drive way looked as if it had been swept. I remember thinking the neighborhood felt quiet and deserted. It felt as lonely as I did. During the drive I had promised myself that I wouldn’t let “them” see me cry again and I would never show any weakness again.The man in the black suit came around and opened my door. I took his hand and followed him to the door. His hand had none of the warmth that I felt in my moms. It only made me feel more isolated and empty. My head was still throbbing but my feet carried me forward like they had a mind of their own. An older woman with dyed black hair, blue eyeliner, and over sized dream catcher earrings answered the door of the tan house. The man in the black suit said good bye and we parted ways. I never saw him again. Unfortunately the way my life was about to turn there were plenty of other men and women in black suits with black cars. 

The woman with the dream catcher earrings led me inside to the house and showed me “my room”. The please and thank you that came from my mouth didn’t feel like my words. The body that carried me through the door of the tan house couldn’t have been my body. I was acting on auto pilot and complied with the directions I was pointed. The woman with the dream catchers left me alone and left the door open behind her. She spewed niceties at me along the lines of she would let me get settled and she would be upstairs if I needed anything. The stairs creaked as she went up stairs. I was finally alone and all I  wanted was to scream or hit something. Instead, I sat on the end of the bed and stared blankly into space letting the numb feeling in my chest wash over me completely. The bed beneath me felt hard as a rock as I lay down. I curled into a ball trying to be as small as possible. Hoping that if I made myself small enough maybe I could disappear.  Words from earlier came flooding back to me as my head started to clear. Two words rang over and over in a loop as I closed my eyes and started to drift to sleep. 
Foster care. 

Everyone's experience with foster care is different. My personal experience has left me with a life time of trauma and PTSD to try to heal from.

This story is just one instance of the traumatic events of being taken from my family.
I hope to share with you the other stories. For me this wasn't a one time event but the beginning
of my life being turned upside down over and over again.


Until next time

-PronouncedLeah

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