I mentioned before that the girlchild asked for therapy. One of the issues we are working on is social anxiety paired with a need for social activity. The therapist suggested getting involved in age-appropriate social activity groups. I know from experience that the normal routes to finding social peers won't work for someone as odd as she is. They certainly never worked for me. I never gelled with the other moms at playgroup and I didn't book club very well. I learned to go where the other weird people gather. For me it was the Open Mic scene, art and music festivals, and a knitting group. Knitters are weird, weird folk.
Her thing is gaming. Today she took public transportation downtown for the first time and will be going to the main library for a scheduled Gaming Unplugged (organized board games) activity listed on the library teen activities calendar. Her last text said she'd gotten downtown and was a little lost looking for her lunch destination, which is very close to the library. I think Sgt. is on the phone with her talking her through it as they've both gone radio silent in text. He works near downtown, takes the bus, and is very familiar with the area she's at. He is also in easy rescue distance.
(I was right. He talked her to her lunch destination. He's going to talk her to the library as well. The GPS on her phone isn't working for some reason.)
Another thing we are going to try as a family is Dungeons and Dragons. I've always been interested but was raised being told it was a path to Satanism, and though I didn't believe that, I still never got the chance to play. I found a local Meetup group that is having a beginner-friendly event at a gaming store on Saturday.
I've had the past couple of days off work because work is incredibly slow (yay tariffs! forced unpaid vacation!) so I've been spending my time developing my character and Sgt's character. To make it easy for Sarge I'm creating a character that is basically him in a parallel universe. He is a male human ranger. He is a member of the Watchers, which is a small private semi-military group paid for by local land owners. Their job is to roam the lands looking for and stopping poachers and highwaymen. He was raised as an only child by his father because his mother died in childbirth. This is significant because I have a strong distaste for both my mother in law and brother in law. I killed her off and he never got born. So take that!
My character is a halfling young woman who is a rogue. She left her little village on the eve of her wedding day and makes her way to a village on the border of the halfling homeland on a major road where people of all races travel. She gets a job as a bartender and learns how to cuss and drink like a sailor.
Her backstory is full of Benedict Cumberbatch references. Her name is Berthala Bramblecreek (one of our family games is mangling his name) but she is referred to as Bert. Her home village is Otter Creek (because Otterbatch memes) and the town where she settles is Bakerston at mile marker 221 and her establishment is The Bee. (Get it? 221B Baker St? Yeah. I'm a geek.)
Her bestie is a human male named Finnigan which is the Girlchild's character. He's a fighter and rather large. And he tends to throw her around a lot. And as she hasn't even started creating his character yet, we just know they meet when her drunk mouth gets her into a fight with another large male thing. They become traveling companions and eventually she becomes a con artist, but never takes anything from someone who needs it. Kind of Robin Hoodish.
I can't keep writing past where he saves her from a barfight without her input and she isn't here to input. So boo.
I'm fully expecting a text from the boss not to come in tomorrow. If so I'm going to ask if I should start looking for another job. I can't afford a job that repeated forces unpaid vacay days on me. I can't afford it either financially or mentally. I'm losing my mind today trying to occupy it with D&D and a couple of other stories I've been working on.
Maybe I'll keep writing Bert's story and edit it as necessary to fit Finnigan's narrative.
I'm going to be extremely disappointed if I end up having to go job hunting again. I'm ten days from what should have been my perm hire date. I'm sick of this trumpfuckery and really so, so tired of all the winning.
Thursday, August 9, 2018
Sunday, August 5, 2018
Bittersweet
Yesterday we went for quite a ramble. We drove Hwy 52 along the Ohio River, stopping at interesting places to take pictures to share in an ongoing Twitter thread. The kids call this live tweeting I think?
We stopped at the Meldahl dam just in time to watch a tugboat push four barges piled with coal through the lock. The river is high enough that the dam was open so we didn't get to see the lock in action. We stopped in Ripley, which was a major stop on the Underground Railroad, and nearby Shawnee State Park for some pretty shots of nature. We followed the winding river up into the Appalachain foothills to Plymouth where we ate amazing pizza at a funky little pie joint.
From there we caught Hwy 23 north to Chillicothe. We stopped at a rest stop hoping to get a good panoramic view of the rolling hills, but the tree line was in the way. Rude. There, Sgt. Hubby reminded me that this was the same Hwy 23 that runs down to Johnson City, Tennessee (said with Wagon Wheel inflection, of course), which reminded me that it's also the highway that continues to Asheville, where I was born. (And hence my affinity for the Appys,)
I am very proud to be from Asheville. Even though I didn't grow up there, I always told everyone I was from Asheville. Both my mom's mom and my dad's parents lived there so I spent summers and Christmases and Thanksgivings there. I moved back after high school to attend UNCA. It is a wonderfully funky, hippy-dippy, artsy-fartsy town and the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains are the most gorgeous backdrop.
When Sgt. went overseas, I moved back to the area with my sons, then 2 and newborn. I say the area because I didn't actually move back to Asheville. I moved to the tiny town where my paternal grandmother was born and raised. My family history goes back several generations in that town.
But my Granny was a ballsy lady. She left town when she graduated high school and moved to the DC area of Virginia to attend secretarial college while serving as domestic help for a cousin. That's where she met and married a Department of the Treasury accountant who went on to join the Secret Service. They moved back to the area -- and by that I mean actually Asheville -- upon retirement. I practically grew up in that house on Hillview Circle.
They sold that house and bought a house in Granny's little hometown when I was 13. I think Grandaddy knew he wouldn't outlive her and wanted her to be near family. He died a week or so before I graduated high school and I went to live with her while I was at UNCA, but I was still an Asheville girl.
Eventually I left North Carolina to follow my soldier and while I was pregnant with Nut 1 Granny died suddenly in her sleep. My parents inherited the house and a few months later -- when Nut 1 was a newborn, Daddy died after a long battle with liver disease. When Sgt. went overseas, that is the house I moved to with the boys.
My mom stuck around for awhile to "help" with the boys (she wasn't much help, actually) but we were too much for her and she moved to Tennessee to be near her mother and brother. And that's when things fell apart. The boys were taken into foster care about a year and a half into Sgt's 2-year tour. I fell into a deep depression. I did stupid things. I already told this story and I don't care to revisit.
I know that the unfolding of my life wasn't actually my fault and I really did the best I could parenting three non-neurotypical children, and I know that even if that weren't the case, I can't change history, but I can't seem to let go of the guilt and shame of having my children taken into custody, of being a failed parent, of losing my sons. (They aren't dead - they're living down south and failing at adulting. They just aren't a part of my life, mostly by their own choice,) I don't know how to do that.
So, realizing I was on Hwy 23 in my beloved Appys was bittersweet. Can I go home again? Can I ever unpack this? Will I ever be able to go back to Asheville without stirring up all that pain? I haven't been back since I left to move to Ft. Bumfuck, so I don't know. If I turned right to go south instead of north to circle back home, would I be okay with that?
We went north, of course. I found my panoramic view. I took more pretty pictures and posted them to my Twitter thread. I came home to a bottle of chilled dry white, put my feet up on the porch, and did some Saturday porch drankin' with Sgt.
I have a good little life here. And I think the Girlchild is going to be okay -- she's actually in therapy now by her own request. I also will be okay. But I don't know if I'll ever be able to really unpack that bitter from the sweet.
We stopped at the Meldahl dam just in time to watch a tugboat push four barges piled with coal through the lock. The river is high enough that the dam was open so we didn't get to see the lock in action. We stopped in Ripley, which was a major stop on the Underground Railroad, and nearby Shawnee State Park for some pretty shots of nature. We followed the winding river up into the Appalachain foothills to Plymouth where we ate amazing pizza at a funky little pie joint.
From there we caught Hwy 23 north to Chillicothe. We stopped at a rest stop hoping to get a good panoramic view of the rolling hills, but the tree line was in the way. Rude. There, Sgt. Hubby reminded me that this was the same Hwy 23 that runs down to Johnson City, Tennessee (said with Wagon Wheel inflection, of course), which reminded me that it's also the highway that continues to Asheville, where I was born. (And hence my affinity for the Appys,)
I am very proud to be from Asheville. Even though I didn't grow up there, I always told everyone I was from Asheville. Both my mom's mom and my dad's parents lived there so I spent summers and Christmases and Thanksgivings there. I moved back after high school to attend UNCA. It is a wonderfully funky, hippy-dippy, artsy-fartsy town and the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains are the most gorgeous backdrop.
When Sgt. went overseas, I moved back to the area with my sons, then 2 and newborn. I say the area because I didn't actually move back to Asheville. I moved to the tiny town where my paternal grandmother was born and raised. My family history goes back several generations in that town.
But my Granny was a ballsy lady. She left town when she graduated high school and moved to the DC area of Virginia to attend secretarial college while serving as domestic help for a cousin. That's where she met and married a Department of the Treasury accountant who went on to join the Secret Service. They moved back to the area -- and by that I mean actually Asheville -- upon retirement. I practically grew up in that house on Hillview Circle.
They sold that house and bought a house in Granny's little hometown when I was 13. I think Grandaddy knew he wouldn't outlive her and wanted her to be near family. He died a week or so before I graduated high school and I went to live with her while I was at UNCA, but I was still an Asheville girl.
Eventually I left North Carolina to follow my soldier and while I was pregnant with Nut 1 Granny died suddenly in her sleep. My parents inherited the house and a few months later -- when Nut 1 was a newborn, Daddy died after a long battle with liver disease. When Sgt. went overseas, that is the house I moved to with the boys.
My mom stuck around for awhile to "help" with the boys (she wasn't much help, actually) but we were too much for her and she moved to Tennessee to be near her mother and brother. And that's when things fell apart. The boys were taken into foster care about a year and a half into Sgt's 2-year tour. I fell into a deep depression. I did stupid things. I already told this story and I don't care to revisit.
I know that the unfolding of my life wasn't actually my fault and I really did the best I could parenting three non-neurotypical children, and I know that even if that weren't the case, I can't change history, but I can't seem to let go of the guilt and shame of having my children taken into custody, of being a failed parent, of losing my sons. (They aren't dead - they're living down south and failing at adulting. They just aren't a part of my life, mostly by their own choice,) I don't know how to do that.
So, realizing I was on Hwy 23 in my beloved Appys was bittersweet. Can I go home again? Can I ever unpack this? Will I ever be able to go back to Asheville without stirring up all that pain? I haven't been back since I left to move to Ft. Bumfuck, so I don't know. If I turned right to go south instead of north to circle back home, would I be okay with that?
We went north, of course. I found my panoramic view. I took more pretty pictures and posted them to my Twitter thread. I came home to a bottle of chilled dry white, put my feet up on the porch, and did some Saturday porch drankin' with Sgt.
I have a good little life here. And I think the Girlchild is going to be okay -- she's actually in therapy now by her own request. I also will be okay. But I don't know if I'll ever be able to really unpack that bitter from the sweet.
Thursday, August 2, 2018
Lots of New News
Well, one new thing, I got a new laptop so I can blog regularly again. But it has been quite a week of news. I got new sheets. They have sloths on them and I love them. I got a new duvet cover. (Previously I just had an extremely dingy duvet that has been well dogged.) My bedroom looks a million times more inviting. But the biggest new new is this past weekend.
The Girlchild, Sgt. Nutty, and I went on a weekend adventure and really had fun. Like, the Girlchild wasn't off in headphone/smartphone land tuning us out. She was actually interacting. And Sgt. N and I didn't quibble at all. We just laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed.
We drove the long way -- about four hours -- through eastern KY to Red River Gorge yelling COW! every time we say a cow and HAAAAAAAAY! (in our best southern accent) every time we saw bales of hay and HORSE! every time we saw a horse. We cracked jokes and made horrifyingly bad puns. We interacted like... like... a happy little family.
The Gorge puts the gorge in gorgeous. I'm originally from the NC mountains and the rolling Appalachians felt like home. It was a perfect day. Mid 70's in mid July with low humidity.
We chose a short hike -- mile and a half -- but I was verging on hangry so we stopped at the first possible food, which was Subway, where Girlchild licked my face and said I tasted like sadness. I think sometimes this child isn't right.
Our short hike started out through an enchanted forest and lead to a very steep downhill rock scramble and cliffs and climbs and amazing views where we could see those gorgeous mountains for miles and miles and miles. And then a slow uphill climb with two massive sets of stairs that killed both me and the Girl. Sgt acted like it was nothing and had no idea why we were losing our enthusiasm for the woods. (Protip - if you're going to do the Gray's Arch/Daniel Boone Cabin loop, start by going left so you go DOWN the stairs and slow inclines and scramble UP the rocks.)
The ride home was quiet. The short route -- interstate the whole way.
We were exhausted. But happy. All of us. So very happy.
Tuesday, June 19, 2018
Losing My Kids
This is a hard story to write, and a long one, but bare with me. My kids were put into foster care three times within about 4 years or so. I'm hoping they were young enough that it's just kind of a distant memory and didn't do them lasting harm. I know it was a nightmare that almost killed me.
The first time was in a dinky town in the NC mountains. Sgt, Hubby was 19 months into a Germany/Kosovo tour. When I tell people I didn't go to Germany I usually say it was because I had a toddler and a newborn and he would be spending most of his time in Kosovo and I did not want to try to single parent in a foreign country. That's a lie. I didn't even know he would be going to Kosovo. I didn't go to Germany because I wanted out of my marriage.
He was, at the time, a mean drunk, terribly verbally abusive, and a passive-aggressive gaslighter. His nightly habit was to come home -- usually late. Often he'd stay at work past business hours and knock back a few beers. It was his "me" time. Then once he got home he would complain about how the house wasn't clean enough. He'd refuse to eat the dinner I had made him, opting instead for a stack of ham sandwiches and knock back a few more -- average about a half case nightly. Then he'd pick a fight for no reason. Just poke at me. Poke and poke and poke until all resolve to stay calm and not let myself be provoked was worn down and I would LOSE MY SHIT on him. Then he'd call me a crazy, out of control bitch and calmly go to bed (happy now that he had succeeded in proving that *I* was the crazy one) while I would sit in the living room crying so hard it made me nauseous.
When he got orders for Germany, they fucked something up (big surprise the Army fucked something up, yeah?) and we did not receive concurrent travel orders. He had to go ahead without me and wait for housing to open up for us. So I took the boys -- the oldest just barely two and the baby only 6 weeks -- and went to my mom's in a tiny little town outside of Asheville, NC.
After about a month or so of not being constantly insulted and yelled at, I decided I kind of liked it that way and told him I wasn't following. I didn't tell him I wanted to leave altogether because I needed his paycheck to survive. I suggested he switch his status to unaccompanied to shorten to tour to two years instead of four and use that time to get his shit together.
During the 19 months between his departure and the boys' departure, life was pretty unstable. We moved several times. When I decided to stay in NC I moved out of my mom's house and into my own little apartment. I spent months doing nothing but caring for the boys and staring at walls. (This was the time period I laid in the bathtub staring down a bottle of percocet wanting so badly to swallow them all, but couldn't bring myself to it knowing there would be nobody to make breakfast for the boys in the morning.)
I knew something had to change. I went to the local social services office and got approved for childcare vouchers. I applied to the community college 45 minutes away in Asheville, did all the financial paperwork and got in-state tuition status so a Pell grant would fully fund my return to school, and registered for classes. Things were going well and I finally felt like maybe I was really a person.
Then a series of unbelievable things happened. I got evicted from that apartment because the neighbor stole my ATM card and drained my account and bounced my rent and bailed on hers -- same landlord -- so he was already pissed off. Moved back in with mom.
On my way into school one morning I slipped on some ice and hurt my knee pretty badly. I could barely walk on it but I still kept going to class. Then the baby got sick. He was croupy and running a fever so I took him to the local clinic. He had pneumonia and RSV, which in younger babies is often fatal. At the same office visit the doc offered to x-ray my knee -- I'd cracked my patella.
Then the brakes went out on my truck. Sick baby. Broken knee. No transportation. Mom guilt tripping me about leaving the boys in daycare in the first place -- I mean if you're not going to stay home and raise your kids why even have them? I quit school.
The next several months were chaotic. My mom lost HER lease so we found another place to live. She decided she needed to live with me because I needed her help. (She wasn't much help, but she was fairly financially dependant on me.) Then the people renting the house she owned (inherited from my father's parents) moved out so we all moved there and she made me pay rent, while still mostly supporting her.
During this time she was in and out quite a bit. She'd take long trips to Tennessee to see her own ailing mother. And to get away from me. She told me I was a taker -- an emotional drain -- and she couldn't handle living with me. The movie Girl, Interrupted had recently made its big splash and she decided I had borderline personality disorder. My mom loves an armchair diagnosis.
It was while she was in Tennessee that a neighbor reported me to DSS because the toddler was playing outside by himself (we had a really nice yard and it was a lovely, safe neighborhood) and my car -- which was in the shop for clutch repair -- was gone. She thought I'd left the kids alone.
So the DSS lady shows up at my door and obviously I'm there because I answer the door, so the kids hadn't been left alone. She got all motherly on me and asked me how I was really doing. Like an idiot I told her. She used all of it against me and a few days later my kids were in custody.
They came for them just after I'd settled them down for bed. They brought cops. I screamed and cried and begged while the cops held me back. A pair of social workers carried my barely awake, crying, confused babies out to their waiting car.
It was a long summer. I really, really, REALLY wanted to die. Two things comprised my identity -- being a wife and being a mother. My marriage had failed so there was that gone. And now here was the state telling me my soul remaining reason for existing was a fail. I had no purpose, no identity. I had no job, no friends, no social support system. Because I was the only responsible adult 24/7 I had absolutely no life outside of parenting. I drove really fast without a seatbelt all summer hoping I'd crash and die. I fantasized about driving off of overpasses.
I got to visit the boys weekly. I met often with my court appointed lawyer and jumped through all of their hoops -- parenting classes, therapy, I eventually got a job a Subway just to say I had a job. I'd go to my court hearing every month and same result every time -- I am an unfit mother.
Sgt Hubby came home in August. The judge who'd been presiding over the case went against DSS recommendations and gave the kids back with the agreement that we seek help when we arrived at our next duty station. It still fucking gets me that *I* was the bad parent -- me, the victim of severe emotional abuse. They gave the kids back when the brave hero (abusive alcoholic) who'd come back to take control of the little lady who had obviously lost it.
So we go to next duty station. Fort Fucking Polk, Louisiana. I don't leave him as I'd planned because staying with him was the only way I could keep my kids. Nothing changes. He works long hours to avoid coming home. He either shuts me out or gets drunk and yells at me on a nightly basis. I find out I'm pregnant again and so sick that for a month all I can keep down is lime sherbet and Sprite. The nausea doesn't let up after the first trimester. (It didn't with the boys either. I threw up daily throughout all three pregnancies.)
Still though, I reach out for help. I have an appointment with psyche services before we are even out of temporary housing. I call the parish (Louisiana doesn't have counties and that's just weird) office for child development and try to get my oldest assessed because I know something isn't right. They say the waiting list is months long but they can put the two year old in an early intervention program that meets one morning a week. I take him when I am unsick enough to drive. The oldest is such a behavioral issue that after our first session, he isn't allowed to attend with his brother and I have to leave the baby there by himself.
It's a matter of weeks before DCWS (every state has their own acronym) gets a call -- FROM THE TEACHER AT THE EARLY INTERVENTION PROGRAM WHERE I WENT FOR HELP -- because the four year old had a black eye and a bloody nose (he used to run around with a blanket on his head pretending he was a monster and he ran into the door frame, and his nose used to bleed constantly because he'd pick it) and alleging that I had no demonstrable parenting skills because of the 4 year old's behavior.
We are instructed to take the boys in for a physical exam. I throw a fit because IT CONFLICTS WITH THE FOLLOW UP PSYCHE APPOINTMENT I'D BEEN WAITING MONTHS FOR. The doctor does not find any evidence to conclude physical abuse. Notes that the oldest has a history of nose bleeds already in his medical records. DCWS calls DSS in NC and gets THEIR side of the story.
The boys are taken from us at the hospital. Two MP's have to hold me back because I lunge across the desk at the social worker.
The DCWS lady tells the judge that I'd been told in NC to seek help and had failed to do so (the case was reported by the early intervention lady BECAUSE I ASKED FOR HELP and the lying DCWS bitch had access to the kids' medical records showing that we'd made an appointment with behavioral health before we'd even moved out of temporary housing and KNEW the physical exam conflicted with the follow up). THE FUCK PEOPLE???
We go to the adjudication hearing that's supposed to take place within 24 hours but takes a week because of system backlog. My lawyer recommends I don't take the stand in case I say something that contradicts something I say at a later hearing. (Which would be a thing if I planned on lying, which I didn't.) He knew there'd be a later hearing because, well, if the state wants your kids they'll keep them.
Our first real hearing was supposed to be 30 days but it was more like 3 months because of system backlog, again. Between the nausea from the pregnancy and the depression from having the boys gone, I was pretty much catatonic unless Sgt Hubby, during the times he was sober and caring, made me get out of the house to go for a drive or take a walk or have a picnic or something. Mostly I slept or stared at walls. We couldn't afford cable and didn't have a TV.
Again we jumped through the hoops. I went to therapy. For some reason HE wasn't required to go to therapy, just me. We went through three different parenting classes. We had weekly supervised visits with the kids. The oldest would have nothing to do with me. (He was angry that I'd abandoned him.) It was noted that I had a cold relationship with my son.
We got the kids back -- again against the recommendation of DCWS -- at the first real hearing because the judge said he didn't see that there was any more help that we could get. But we stayed under their supervision the entire four years we were there. We kept trying to get help through military psyche services. Both boys were diagnosed with garden variety ADHD and put on medication that set them on a daily cycle of zombie/monster -- zombie when it kicked in and monster when it wore off.
We had trouble with the school the entire time. Both boys had behavior issues and were repeatedly disciplined. The state of Lousisana as late as 2006 still condoned corporal punishment. I don't know if they still do or not. I begged to have the boys reassessed but all they would do was affirm a combination of ADHD and bad parenting.
In July of we got news that in September we were moving to Georgia. In the midst of outprocessing, the younger boy had a really bad day. He lost his flipflops (which he was told not to take off) in the car on the way to the outprocessing center. He wass not allowed to go with daddy into the outprocessing center because he had no shoes. I stayed in the car with him. He screamed and raged and kicked. He was not allowed to go with daddy into our next stop -- the bank -- because he was in the middle of a rage fit, causing further rage fit.
Daddy drops us off at home and goes back to work, leaving me with this raging monster -- 99th percentile for height and weight at 5 years old, (he is 6'6" now at 18 with size 18 feet), strong as an ox and wanting to fight.
I do everything I can think of. I try to sit him in a timeout. Nope. I send him to his room for a nap. He throws furniture. (I'm telling you, this was a STRONG child). My very last resort is to spank him. I've run out of options. I get daddy's belt because I'm afraid I will miss or hit too hard or somehow lose control of my hands. I try to hold him down to get a good swat at his butt but he twists just so the belt hits his neck and leaves a big fucking welt.
I call our caseworker immediately to report what happened. I'm in tears. He comes over and assesses things. Helps me calm the kid down and tells me it's gonna be okay. (Not all social workers are evil.)
Of course his teacher reports the mark and the same lying bitch that took them the first time gets the case. Our caseworker begs her not to take them. Tries to explain the situation. She's not having it.
Even though it was just the one who had the mark and the physical exam concluded no evidence of any other physical abuse, all three kids are removed. I don't fight this time. I know there's no point. I double over, sobbing, aching, empty as hell, sick to my stomach.
We get in the car and drive so far we end up miles into Texas. We drive until after midnight. We find an open Dairy Queen, get ice cream cones, and head back home.
It's another week until our 24 hour hearing. I spend the entire week crying and don't get out of bed. This time I don't follow the advice of THE SAME DAMN COURT APPOINTED LAWYER and insist I take the stand. We leave court with the kids. The judge -- the same judge as before -- was an old southern boy who knew about being taken behind the woodshed and he believed my story.
So we move to Georgia. To the big city. I mean, they have a Target and ethnic food and an actual downtown and multiple grocery stores that aren't WalMart. Both boys are noted as behavioral problems within the first days of starting their new school. The school psychologist, who hasn't actually met the child, thinks my 2nd grader fits the profile for Autism.
We immediately seek out civilian psyche services. The psychiatrist arranges comprehensive testing. We find out just weeks before his 9th birthday that he is way up on the spectrum. Eventually all three kids end up with a diagnosis. The oldest, Autism. The other two severe ADHD and Intermittent Explosive Disorder. (The 5 year old who threw that fit ended up breaking my knee during another violent tantrum when he was 15.)
DFAS (more acronyms) is involved on and off for most of the next 8 years.
I found out later that ASD families are almost always involved with child services at some point and having undiagnosed kids put in custody isn't uncommon. If your family doesn't look right -- if your kids don't act right -- something must be wrong, and if you don't have that doctor's note, you MUST be what's wrong.
So, I know what it feels like to be separated from my kids. I know what it feels like to be separated from my kids while I am doing everything I can to advocate for them and give them the best life possible. Which is what these parents seeking asylum are doing -- they're coming here to find safety and give their kids a shot at life.
I got to see my kids. I knew they were safe. I knew I would get them back. I still wanted to die. It was often a hard fight not to give in. I can only imagine how much worse it is for these parents having their kids ripped away at the border, not knowing where they are, or if they're safe, or if they will ever even see them again. And my heart is breaking for them.
I know this was a long, hard read. Thank you for sticking with it. And fight like hell to stop this atrocity. Families belong together.
The first time was in a dinky town in the NC mountains. Sgt, Hubby was 19 months into a Germany/Kosovo tour. When I tell people I didn't go to Germany I usually say it was because I had a toddler and a newborn and he would be spending most of his time in Kosovo and I did not want to try to single parent in a foreign country. That's a lie. I didn't even know he would be going to Kosovo. I didn't go to Germany because I wanted out of my marriage.
He was, at the time, a mean drunk, terribly verbally abusive, and a passive-aggressive gaslighter. His nightly habit was to come home -- usually late. Often he'd stay at work past business hours and knock back a few beers. It was his "me" time. Then once he got home he would complain about how the house wasn't clean enough. He'd refuse to eat the dinner I had made him, opting instead for a stack of ham sandwiches and knock back a few more -- average about a half case nightly. Then he'd pick a fight for no reason. Just poke at me. Poke and poke and poke until all resolve to stay calm and not let myself be provoked was worn down and I would LOSE MY SHIT on him. Then he'd call me a crazy, out of control bitch and calmly go to bed (happy now that he had succeeded in proving that *I* was the crazy one) while I would sit in the living room crying so hard it made me nauseous.
When he got orders for Germany, they fucked something up (big surprise the Army fucked something up, yeah?) and we did not receive concurrent travel orders. He had to go ahead without me and wait for housing to open up for us. So I took the boys -- the oldest just barely two and the baby only 6 weeks -- and went to my mom's in a tiny little town outside of Asheville, NC.
After about a month or so of not being constantly insulted and yelled at, I decided I kind of liked it that way and told him I wasn't following. I didn't tell him I wanted to leave altogether because I needed his paycheck to survive. I suggested he switch his status to unaccompanied to shorten to tour to two years instead of four and use that time to get his shit together.
During the 19 months between his departure and the boys' departure, life was pretty unstable. We moved several times. When I decided to stay in NC I moved out of my mom's house and into my own little apartment. I spent months doing nothing but caring for the boys and staring at walls. (This was the time period I laid in the bathtub staring down a bottle of percocet wanting so badly to swallow them all, but couldn't bring myself to it knowing there would be nobody to make breakfast for the boys in the morning.)
I knew something had to change. I went to the local social services office and got approved for childcare vouchers. I applied to the community college 45 minutes away in Asheville, did all the financial paperwork and got in-state tuition status so a Pell grant would fully fund my return to school, and registered for classes. Things were going well and I finally felt like maybe I was really a person.
Then a series of unbelievable things happened. I got evicted from that apartment because the neighbor stole my ATM card and drained my account and bounced my rent and bailed on hers -- same landlord -- so he was already pissed off. Moved back in with mom.
On my way into school one morning I slipped on some ice and hurt my knee pretty badly. I could barely walk on it but I still kept going to class. Then the baby got sick. He was croupy and running a fever so I took him to the local clinic. He had pneumonia and RSV, which in younger babies is often fatal. At the same office visit the doc offered to x-ray my knee -- I'd cracked my patella.
Then the brakes went out on my truck. Sick baby. Broken knee. No transportation. Mom guilt tripping me about leaving the boys in daycare in the first place -- I mean if you're not going to stay home and raise your kids why even have them? I quit school.
The next several months were chaotic. My mom lost HER lease so we found another place to live. She decided she needed to live with me because I needed her help. (She wasn't much help, but she was fairly financially dependant on me.) Then the people renting the house she owned (inherited from my father's parents) moved out so we all moved there and she made me pay rent, while still mostly supporting her.
During this time she was in and out quite a bit. She'd take long trips to Tennessee to see her own ailing mother. And to get away from me. She told me I was a taker -- an emotional drain -- and she couldn't handle living with me. The movie Girl, Interrupted had recently made its big splash and she decided I had borderline personality disorder. My mom loves an armchair diagnosis.
It was while she was in Tennessee that a neighbor reported me to DSS because the toddler was playing outside by himself (we had a really nice yard and it was a lovely, safe neighborhood) and my car -- which was in the shop for clutch repair -- was gone. She thought I'd left the kids alone.
So the DSS lady shows up at my door and obviously I'm there because I answer the door, so the kids hadn't been left alone. She got all motherly on me and asked me how I was really doing. Like an idiot I told her. She used all of it against me and a few days later my kids were in custody.
They came for them just after I'd settled them down for bed. They brought cops. I screamed and cried and begged while the cops held me back. A pair of social workers carried my barely awake, crying, confused babies out to their waiting car.
It was a long summer. I really, really, REALLY wanted to die. Two things comprised my identity -- being a wife and being a mother. My marriage had failed so there was that gone. And now here was the state telling me my soul remaining reason for existing was a fail. I had no purpose, no identity. I had no job, no friends, no social support system. Because I was the only responsible adult 24/7 I had absolutely no life outside of parenting. I drove really fast without a seatbelt all summer hoping I'd crash and die. I fantasized about driving off of overpasses.
I got to visit the boys weekly. I met often with my court appointed lawyer and jumped through all of their hoops -- parenting classes, therapy, I eventually got a job a Subway just to say I had a job. I'd go to my court hearing every month and same result every time -- I am an unfit mother.
Sgt Hubby came home in August. The judge who'd been presiding over the case went against DSS recommendations and gave the kids back with the agreement that we seek help when we arrived at our next duty station. It still fucking gets me that *I* was the bad parent -- me, the victim of severe emotional abuse. They gave the kids back when the brave hero (abusive alcoholic) who'd come back to take control of the little lady who had obviously lost it.
So we go to next duty station. Fort Fucking Polk, Louisiana. I don't leave him as I'd planned because staying with him was the only way I could keep my kids. Nothing changes. He works long hours to avoid coming home. He either shuts me out or gets drunk and yells at me on a nightly basis. I find out I'm pregnant again and so sick that for a month all I can keep down is lime sherbet and Sprite. The nausea doesn't let up after the first trimester. (It didn't with the boys either. I threw up daily throughout all three pregnancies.)
Still though, I reach out for help. I have an appointment with psyche services before we are even out of temporary housing. I call the parish (Louisiana doesn't have counties and that's just weird) office for child development and try to get my oldest assessed because I know something isn't right. They say the waiting list is months long but they can put the two year old in an early intervention program that meets one morning a week. I take him when I am unsick enough to drive. The oldest is such a behavioral issue that after our first session, he isn't allowed to attend with his brother and I have to leave the baby there by himself.
It's a matter of weeks before DCWS (every state has their own acronym) gets a call -- FROM THE TEACHER AT THE EARLY INTERVENTION PROGRAM WHERE I WENT FOR HELP -- because the four year old had a black eye and a bloody nose (he used to run around with a blanket on his head pretending he was a monster and he ran into the door frame, and his nose used to bleed constantly because he'd pick it) and alleging that I had no demonstrable parenting skills because of the 4 year old's behavior.
We are instructed to take the boys in for a physical exam. I throw a fit because IT CONFLICTS WITH THE FOLLOW UP PSYCHE APPOINTMENT I'D BEEN WAITING MONTHS FOR. The doctor does not find any evidence to conclude physical abuse. Notes that the oldest has a history of nose bleeds already in his medical records. DCWS calls DSS in NC and gets THEIR side of the story.
The boys are taken from us at the hospital. Two MP's have to hold me back because I lunge across the desk at the social worker.
The DCWS lady tells the judge that I'd been told in NC to seek help and had failed to do so (the case was reported by the early intervention lady BECAUSE I ASKED FOR HELP and the lying DCWS bitch had access to the kids' medical records showing that we'd made an appointment with behavioral health before we'd even moved out of temporary housing and KNEW the physical exam conflicted with the follow up). THE FUCK PEOPLE???
We go to the adjudication hearing that's supposed to take place within 24 hours but takes a week because of system backlog. My lawyer recommends I don't take the stand in case I say something that contradicts something I say at a later hearing. (Which would be a thing if I planned on lying, which I didn't.) He knew there'd be a later hearing because, well, if the state wants your kids they'll keep them.
Our first real hearing was supposed to be 30 days but it was more like 3 months because of system backlog, again. Between the nausea from the pregnancy and the depression from having the boys gone, I was pretty much catatonic unless Sgt Hubby, during the times he was sober and caring, made me get out of the house to go for a drive or take a walk or have a picnic or something. Mostly I slept or stared at walls. We couldn't afford cable and didn't have a TV.
Again we jumped through the hoops. I went to therapy. For some reason HE wasn't required to go to therapy, just me. We went through three different parenting classes. We had weekly supervised visits with the kids. The oldest would have nothing to do with me. (He was angry that I'd abandoned him.) It was noted that I had a cold relationship with my son.
We got the kids back -- again against the recommendation of DCWS -- at the first real hearing because the judge said he didn't see that there was any more help that we could get. But we stayed under their supervision the entire four years we were there. We kept trying to get help through military psyche services. Both boys were diagnosed with garden variety ADHD and put on medication that set them on a daily cycle of zombie/monster -- zombie when it kicked in and monster when it wore off.
We had trouble with the school the entire time. Both boys had behavior issues and were repeatedly disciplined. The state of Lousisana as late as 2006 still condoned corporal punishment. I don't know if they still do or not. I begged to have the boys reassessed but all they would do was affirm a combination of ADHD and bad parenting.
In July of we got news that in September we were moving to Georgia. In the midst of outprocessing, the younger boy had a really bad day. He lost his flipflops (which he was told not to take off) in the car on the way to the outprocessing center. He wass not allowed to go with daddy into the outprocessing center because he had no shoes. I stayed in the car with him. He screamed and raged and kicked. He was not allowed to go with daddy into our next stop -- the bank -- because he was in the middle of a rage fit, causing further rage fit.
Daddy drops us off at home and goes back to work, leaving me with this raging monster -- 99th percentile for height and weight at 5 years old, (he is 6'6" now at 18 with size 18 feet), strong as an ox and wanting to fight.
I do everything I can think of. I try to sit him in a timeout. Nope. I send him to his room for a nap. He throws furniture. (I'm telling you, this was a STRONG child). My very last resort is to spank him. I've run out of options. I get daddy's belt because I'm afraid I will miss or hit too hard or somehow lose control of my hands. I try to hold him down to get a good swat at his butt but he twists just so the belt hits his neck and leaves a big fucking welt.
I call our caseworker immediately to report what happened. I'm in tears. He comes over and assesses things. Helps me calm the kid down and tells me it's gonna be okay. (Not all social workers are evil.)
Of course his teacher reports the mark and the same lying bitch that took them the first time gets the case. Our caseworker begs her not to take them. Tries to explain the situation. She's not having it.
Even though it was just the one who had the mark and the physical exam concluded no evidence of any other physical abuse, all three kids are removed. I don't fight this time. I know there's no point. I double over, sobbing, aching, empty as hell, sick to my stomach.
We get in the car and drive so far we end up miles into Texas. We drive until after midnight. We find an open Dairy Queen, get ice cream cones, and head back home.
It's another week until our 24 hour hearing. I spend the entire week crying and don't get out of bed. This time I don't follow the advice of THE SAME DAMN COURT APPOINTED LAWYER and insist I take the stand. We leave court with the kids. The judge -- the same judge as before -- was an old southern boy who knew about being taken behind the woodshed and he believed my story.
So we move to Georgia. To the big city. I mean, they have a Target and ethnic food and an actual downtown and multiple grocery stores that aren't WalMart. Both boys are noted as behavioral problems within the first days of starting their new school. The school psychologist, who hasn't actually met the child, thinks my 2nd grader fits the profile for Autism.
We immediately seek out civilian psyche services. The psychiatrist arranges comprehensive testing. We find out just weeks before his 9th birthday that he is way up on the spectrum. Eventually all three kids end up with a diagnosis. The oldest, Autism. The other two severe ADHD and Intermittent Explosive Disorder. (The 5 year old who threw that fit ended up breaking my knee during another violent tantrum when he was 15.)
DFAS (more acronyms) is involved on and off for most of the next 8 years.
I found out later that ASD families are almost always involved with child services at some point and having undiagnosed kids put in custody isn't uncommon. If your family doesn't look right -- if your kids don't act right -- something must be wrong, and if you don't have that doctor's note, you MUST be what's wrong.
So, I know what it feels like to be separated from my kids. I know what it feels like to be separated from my kids while I am doing everything I can to advocate for them and give them the best life possible. Which is what these parents seeking asylum are doing -- they're coming here to find safety and give their kids a shot at life.
I got to see my kids. I knew they were safe. I knew I would get them back. I still wanted to die. It was often a hard fight not to give in. I can only imagine how much worse it is for these parents having their kids ripped away at the border, not knowing where they are, or if they're safe, or if they will ever even see them again. And my heart is breaking for them.
I know this was a long, hard read. Thank you for sticking with it. And fight like hell to stop this atrocity. Families belong together.
Tuesday, March 20, 2018
Checking In
Hey Y'all
I know it's been forever since I posted -- almost a month. And I have so many thoughts rolling around in my head that I would like to write about. I am working on getting a laptop. I think my priority should, however, be telling the landlord about the dog and paying the pet deposit because the hot water heater is broken so we can't shower and I don't want to chance the maintenance guy tattling about the dog.
(We do have a Y membership and we ARE getting bathed, just so you know, if you were worried.)
I have this new job that is keeping me far too busy at work to blog. I am loving this new job. I doubt I will ever get fired for talking shit about my boss in my blog because I really, really like her. And no, I'm not cheesing because she doesn't know about my blog. (And I would like to keep it that way, but just in case, nice non-word-murdering-lady, I will never talk shit about you in my blog because I've no need to!)
I don't think I've ever worked anywhere before that didn't have a toxic work environment. There's always been competition, personal drama, general stress, sniping, back stabbing, under-bus-throwing, snarky criticism, that one person everyone trashes behind their back -- there's none of that here. We have a pretty high level of cultural and political diversity but it doesn't seem to cause tension. There's one dude who is a staunch Trump supporter who tries to bait me but I don't let him. Otherwise, nobody discusses politics because that's just not work appropriate chatter.
We all seem to share family as a priority, and the ability to leave work at work. On one particularly busy day when it would have benefitted work production had I skipped or shortened lunch, my boss told me that I should go ahead and take my full hour since that lunch hour is the only time I get to spend with Grumpy during the week. Family comes first. This business isn't life or death and it's all gonna get done eventually.
How often do you find a boss like that?
Yesterday officially marked my first month. I'm counting down the next five until I am officially on the company payroll and off the agency payroll. I'm pretty sure this is going to be my big girl job.
Also, I am really enjoying aqua fitness classes and am thinking about becoming an instructor because how awsome would it be to be a professional mermaid?
Yeah, so aqua aerobics tonight. I'm off the company clock but on the company computer and it is time for me to run away home.
Have a good night!
Maybe I will check in like this after work more often.
I know it's been forever since I posted -- almost a month. And I have so many thoughts rolling around in my head that I would like to write about. I am working on getting a laptop. I think my priority should, however, be telling the landlord about the dog and paying the pet deposit because the hot water heater is broken so we can't shower and I don't want to chance the maintenance guy tattling about the dog.
(We do have a Y membership and we ARE getting bathed, just so you know, if you were worried.)
I have this new job that is keeping me far too busy at work to blog. I am loving this new job. I doubt I will ever get fired for talking shit about my boss in my blog because I really, really like her. And no, I'm not cheesing because she doesn't know about my blog. (And I would like to keep it that way, but just in case, nice non-word-murdering-lady, I will never talk shit about you in my blog because I've no need to!)
I don't think I've ever worked anywhere before that didn't have a toxic work environment. There's always been competition, personal drama, general stress, sniping, back stabbing, under-bus-throwing, snarky criticism, that one person everyone trashes behind their back -- there's none of that here. We have a pretty high level of cultural and political diversity but it doesn't seem to cause tension. There's one dude who is a staunch Trump supporter who tries to bait me but I don't let him. Otherwise, nobody discusses politics because that's just not work appropriate chatter.
We all seem to share family as a priority, and the ability to leave work at work. On one particularly busy day when it would have benefitted work production had I skipped or shortened lunch, my boss told me that I should go ahead and take my full hour since that lunch hour is the only time I get to spend with Grumpy during the week. Family comes first. This business isn't life or death and it's all gonna get done eventually.
How often do you find a boss like that?
Yesterday officially marked my first month. I'm counting down the next five until I am officially on the company payroll and off the agency payroll. I'm pretty sure this is going to be my big girl job.
Also, I am really enjoying aqua fitness classes and am thinking about becoming an instructor because how awsome would it be to be a professional mermaid?
Yeah, so aqua aerobics tonight. I'm off the company clock but on the company computer and it is time for me to run away home.
Have a good night!
Maybe I will check in like this after work more often.
Sunday, February 25, 2018
Some Thoughts On Parkland
I'd had a lovely Valentine's lunch with Grumpy. We were in our favorite Kroger, having picked up prescriptions and wine, and standing in line to get a burrito for the girl child when I saw the footage on the cafe television. Another school shooting. That's all I could think. Another school shooting. They're happening so often that I'm getting numb to them.
Grumpy and I discussed it on our way home. We share the same ideas on the public sale of military grade weaponry. He, as a retired member of the military, and I, as a mother and all-round rational human being, think they have no place in civilian society. But that isn't what I want to write about.
I told him that I couldn't spend too much of my energy grieving for these families. If I threw myself into the whole cycle of grief every time there's a mass shooting on the news, I said, I'd never be able to come up for air. I can't be an effective part of the solution if I don't practice good self-care.
Then, while my pastor was talking about the shooting last weekend in church, and conducting a ritual that she initially created as a way to commemorate victims of another school shooting a few years back, she remarked that she'd had to draw upon this ritual too many times. The ritual involves placing rocks -- one for each victim -- in a bowl of salty water that represents tears. She said that her collection of rocks was piling up too high. It was impactful, but as congregants formed a line to walk to the podium and participate, my mind kind of drifted off in other directions -- the new job starting the next day, the origami cranes strung on delicate threads and draped in front of the windows where they softly danced in the draft, what I would eat for lunch after church, what I would pack for lunch for work the next day, and really, how was work the next day going to go?
A few weeks ago, Live From Here (the show formerly known as Prairie Home Companion) featured a reading by novelist George Saunders of an excerpt from his book, Lincoln In The Bardo. In this excerpt, President Lincoln sat in the crypt of his son, newly dead from typhoid, processing his grief and thinking at the same time about the memorials being held for the fallen Union soldiers. He talked about those in the crowd -- himself included -- who harbored a secret happiness that they, themselves, had not had to experience the same loss. And now he was no longer in that group. He had now suffered the loss of a child.
I am one of the parents that secretly harbors the happiness that I am not among those that have suffered the loss of a child. I have the privilege of allowing my mind to drift during a memorial service because I am not in the grip of violent grief. The chances of my daughter's school being the next mass shooting news story are slim to none. But then again, before [I will not dignify him with a name] opened fire, so was Douglas High in Parkland, Fl -- rated one of the safest places to live.
_____________________
I started writing this piece last week but got cut off before I could finish because the library closed. So much has happened this week that has tweaked the perspective I held a week ago. Last week I was writing with the belief that school shootings are just part of the new dystopian reality we live in and there is nothing to be done but sit back and watch and try to keep your own soul intact.
Boy was I wrong. Shit. Is. Going. Down.
I am in awe of the sheer badassery of the Parkland survivors. The voices of these children are leading a revolution that we complacent adults had come to believe impossible. Watching and listening these kids, I know in my heart I am looking at the future of political leadership, and the future of political leadership looks good. The kids are going to be all right. Emma Gonzales is my new hero.
My daughter shared something she wrote with me this week that puts her also on my shortlist of heroes. I share it here with her permission:
_____________________
Grumpy and I discussed it on our way home. We share the same ideas on the public sale of military grade weaponry. He, as a retired member of the military, and I, as a mother and all-round rational human being, think they have no place in civilian society. But that isn't what I want to write about.
I told him that I couldn't spend too much of my energy grieving for these families. If I threw myself into the whole cycle of grief every time there's a mass shooting on the news, I said, I'd never be able to come up for air. I can't be an effective part of the solution if I don't practice good self-care.
Then, while my pastor was talking about the shooting last weekend in church, and conducting a ritual that she initially created as a way to commemorate victims of another school shooting a few years back, she remarked that she'd had to draw upon this ritual too many times. The ritual involves placing rocks -- one for each victim -- in a bowl of salty water that represents tears. She said that her collection of rocks was piling up too high. It was impactful, but as congregants formed a line to walk to the podium and participate, my mind kind of drifted off in other directions -- the new job starting the next day, the origami cranes strung on delicate threads and draped in front of the windows where they softly danced in the draft, what I would eat for lunch after church, what I would pack for lunch for work the next day, and really, how was work the next day going to go?
A few weeks ago, Live From Here (the show formerly known as Prairie Home Companion) featured a reading by novelist George Saunders of an excerpt from his book, Lincoln In The Bardo. In this excerpt, President Lincoln sat in the crypt of his son, newly dead from typhoid, processing his grief and thinking at the same time about the memorials being held for the fallen Union soldiers. He talked about those in the crowd -- himself included -- who harbored a secret happiness that they, themselves, had not had to experience the same loss. And now he was no longer in that group. He had now suffered the loss of a child.
I am one of the parents that secretly harbors the happiness that I am not among those that have suffered the loss of a child. I have the privilege of allowing my mind to drift during a memorial service because I am not in the grip of violent grief. The chances of my daughter's school being the next mass shooting news story are slim to none. But then again, before [I will not dignify him with a name] opened fire, so was Douglas High in Parkland, Fl -- rated one of the safest places to live.
_____________________
I started writing this piece last week but got cut off before I could finish because the library closed. So much has happened this week that has tweaked the perspective I held a week ago. Last week I was writing with the belief that school shootings are just part of the new dystopian reality we live in and there is nothing to be done but sit back and watch and try to keep your own soul intact.
Boy was I wrong. Shit. Is. Going. Down.
I am in awe of the sheer badassery of the Parkland survivors. The voices of these children are leading a revolution that we complacent adults had come to believe impossible. Watching and listening these kids, I know in my heart I am looking at the future of political leadership, and the future of political leadership looks good. The kids are going to be all right. Emma Gonzales is my new hero.
My daughter shared something she wrote with me this week that puts her also on my shortlist of heroes. I share it here with her permission:
_____________________
I stand here on this ground in a mix of pride, anger, and disgust.
Anger is what gave me the ability to stand here in jeans and a T-shirt.
Pride is what gave me the chance to stand up for myself and fight.
And disgust. Disgust is why I’m here.
I stand for those who cannot stand for themselves.
The gays. The trans. The people of color. The women and the men and everything in between who fought for our rights and died for us. You wave that flag like it is your birthright and whine about immigrants in our great country yet do not acknowledge the people who have died in our claim of this land.
I shouldn't have to hear stories of women being terrified of walking home alone at night. I shouldn't see women on the street tense and clutching their keys in her hand like it's a weapon when I'm out with my dad.
I should not have to see one gender so terrified to be alone at night because of the other gender.
‘Not all men’ is a ridiculous statement. If not all men, why are you making it about all men? You claim to support women yet still say she was asking for it when a woman is raped. When she's killed. When she dies because her body couldn't handle a baby and nobody would let her have an abortion.
‘Straight pride’ is also ridiculous. You whine and complain about ‘the gays’ having an entire month to themselves but refuse to acknowledge that Life is just a ‘straight pride’ in and of itself. You do not have to be scared of holding your partner's hand in public. You do not have to be scared of your basic human rights being ripped away from you over something so trivial as what gender you like.
I like to imagine people in different categories.
First you have the entitled, the straight white people who cry about their rights ‘being taken away’ when they have to hide their bigotry about other people's rights.
Then there's the helpfuls, the straight white people who do everything in their power to help the minorities in every way they can. I would like to personally categorize my own mother into this particular trope as she is the woman who made feminism such a staple in my life I never realized it wasn't as massively supported as I thought it was until I was fourteen.
Then there's the people of color, the ones who try to stand for themselves and get shot down, often quite literally. I don't like reading about a black man who was gunned down by police for being ‘hostile’ when all he wanted was help with a flat tire.
The LGBTQ+ community as a whole. I have only seen one website that wasn't specifically about gay people that was so accepting of the LGBT to the point of where- after hours and hours and hours looking through posts on that site I was never, ever, able to find a single homophobic or transphobic post. I bring to you: Tumblr. I am astonished by how welcoming that website is and how quick they are to educate and correct someone's bigotry. It makes me proud to be one of the many who use that site.
The massacre of the Florida Shooting has affected students everywhere and while I may not be around to participate in the National School Walkout on March 24th, I will do everything in my power to support it and spread the word. 17 people, maybe even more, lost their lives that day. Students, kids, just like me, died because of one group’s ignorance and refusal to restrict gun laws. Your ignorance and bigotry means nothing to me, you fascist bastards. I will make you learn. I will make you pay.
I refuse to be walked on. I refuse to be a toy. I refuse to stand by and watch as you take away my rights and use others like me like they’re nothing but puppets. I refuse to let you destroy me and all those around me for your own gain. I will not set myself on fire to keep you warm.
I will stand for my mother. My father. My brothers and my friends and their friends too. I will stand for those who cannot do so themselves and if you dare challenge my pride, you may come at me with all you wish.
For I am a woman, and women are fiercer than men could ever hope to be.
_______________________
Like I said, the kids are going to be alright.
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
Just Very Quickly
I had my job interview on Monday at the small industrial company. I was pleased with the general office vibe -- laid back and drama free. I sat down with the GM and the office manager. We seemed to have good chemistry. They outlined the general workings of the company and laid out in fine detail the tasks that would be expected of me -- lots of information management, data entry, basic office stuff, and a heavy emphasis on customer service. My resume is almost tailor made to match that list of tasks.
On my part, I think I charmed them -- at least I made them laugh a few times. I tried to communicate that I am an extroverted mega-nerd with a major girl-boner for Excel. Putting information into neat little ordered boxes makes me far happier than it should. I am detail oriented, work well both independently and with a team, take instruction and correction well, am not a control freak, am a problem solver, and that I have received praise from previous employers on my conflict avoidance skills. I stressed that my favorite part of administrative work, hands down, is customer service. (Hub is reading this over my shoulder and questions the not a control freak bit -- but work me and home me are two entirely different people.)
Upon leaving, the office manager told me that my agency had highly recommended me and that she could see why.
Tuesday morning I got a call from my agency that the company would love to have me come be a member of their team.
Screw that other federal agency and their tentative offer for higher pay. They don't know me from Adam. They don't care who I am or that I'm quirky and people-oriented. This place cares that I came highly recommended from an agency that I have been working with for the past year and a half, and they would LOVE to have me come be on their team because they LIKE me! ME! I was chosen for a position for MY personal skill set and winning personality.
So, I avoid downtown rush hour traffic, I'm not stuck in a cubicle, shuffling paper and devoid of human contact, and I am specifically wanted for exactly who I am. This is totally worth taking a $1.86/hour cut in pay. And it is still considerably more than I was making at Great Big Corporate.
I start tomorrow. I already have my first-day outfit picked out.
(BTW -- heard from my old manager at GBC. It has turned into a complete shit show and everyone there that I like, including my manager, is looking for other work. Screw that place.)
Another kind of plus is that the library is on my route home from this job so I can pop in and update more often, unless, you know, I can stealth blog at work. Expect to be hearing from me more often. I have major mom-of-teen shit I need to unload.
On my part, I think I charmed them -- at least I made them laugh a few times. I tried to communicate that I am an extroverted mega-nerd with a major girl-boner for Excel. Putting information into neat little ordered boxes makes me far happier than it should. I am detail oriented, work well both independently and with a team, take instruction and correction well, am not a control freak, am a problem solver, and that I have received praise from previous employers on my conflict avoidance skills. I stressed that my favorite part of administrative work, hands down, is customer service. (Hub is reading this over my shoulder and questions the not a control freak bit -- but work me and home me are two entirely different people.)
Upon leaving, the office manager told me that my agency had highly recommended me and that she could see why.
Tuesday morning I got a call from my agency that the company would love to have me come be a member of their team.
Screw that other federal agency and their tentative offer for higher pay. They don't know me from Adam. They don't care who I am or that I'm quirky and people-oriented. This place cares that I came highly recommended from an agency that I have been working with for the past year and a half, and they would LOVE to have me come be on their team because they LIKE me! ME! I was chosen for a position for MY personal skill set and winning personality.
So, I avoid downtown rush hour traffic, I'm not stuck in a cubicle, shuffling paper and devoid of human contact, and I am specifically wanted for exactly who I am. This is totally worth taking a $1.86/hour cut in pay. And it is still considerably more than I was making at Great Big Corporate.
I start tomorrow. I already have my first-day outfit picked out.
(BTW -- heard from my old manager at GBC. It has turned into a complete shit show and everyone there that I like, including my manager, is looking for other work. Screw that place.)
Another kind of plus is that the library is on my route home from this job so I can pop in and update more often, unless, you know, I can stealth blog at work. Expect to be hearing from me more often. I have major mom-of-teen shit I need to unload.
Friday, February 9, 2018
Big Stuff
And you thought the last post was a long time coming...
Quick catch up. My surgery was delayed by two weeks because the doctor's office waited until the week before surgery to get approval from my insurance and Tricare just doesn't move that fast. Ever. So I wasn't in the hospital over Christmas. We still had a super low-key holiday. We went for a drive in the snow and made soup. New Years Eve I was asleep way before the ball dropped and the next day we went for a drive and made soup. I went under the knife on January 5th. I woke up in pain but dilaudid is a lovely drug. I made friends with one of the nursing assistants who schooled my daughter on tauntauns after I made note of feeling as though I'd been sliced open in same fashion. (Seriously -- incision from breast bone to belly button requiring 35 staples resulting in a scar that looks absurdly like a zipper.)
I spent my recuperation binging various series via streaming services. (Not blogging, as previously suggested, as the girl child managed to break the laptop.) I did Grimm (falls in line with my obsession with all things Thile). I did Preacher. Well, I did season 1 because that is free on hulu. Season 2 is only on Amazon and even with Prime they want $25 for the season and that's not gonna happen. Hunted around a bit for the next binge-worthy series. Tried out a few. The Night Manager has too much realistic political violence. I just can't right now. I was told that I would love Portlandia but I couldn't even get through episode one. I guess I just don't do sketch stuff? SNL has even lost my attention lately. I tried that biopic series about Zelda Fitzgerald but the put-on Southern Belle accents were intolerable and I couldn't finish the first episode. I landed on Nurse Jackie. I find her combination of being deeply flawed whilst having a passion to do good comfortingly familiar. Last night I fell asleep watching that and my wine glass toppled from my lap and spilled all over the bed. I have no idea why I was holding my wine glass on my lap.
The whole wine thing probably would not have gone down thusly had my husband not taken a new position at his job. This new position has a most ridiculous schedule -- he works from 4:30 in the afternoon to 1:00 in the morning so I'm left to binge in the evenings all by my lonesome. This lifestyle will eventually turn me into a potato.
Recuperating has been harder than I thought it would be so I'm just now resuming the job hunt, which is where I hit a bit of a dilemma. I have a job interview on Monday at a small family-owned company. It is an office assistant position with a heavy customer service emphasis. I'm a people person and customer service is definitely my forte. It is located near to my house so no interstates involved in my commute and also pays considerably more than did the contracting position with corporate overlords.
I've also had a tentative offer from the same federal agency that employs my spouse (although without the ridiculous schedule -- I'd simply not be able to function that way). The fed job pays more and isn't through a temp agency so it's more secure, but it would likely be mind-numbingly boring -- just shuffling the same papers on constant repeat without much human interaction. I'm afraid it would permanently mar my soul. Also, it would require I drive through downtown interstate traffic twice a day during rush hour, which frightens me to my core.
So what do? Take the job that I think I would find more rewarding even though it pays less and comes with little to no job security or take the money and security and risk damage to my eternal soul? I just don't know. Maybe it wouldn't be a numbing as I think it will be. It would at the least get me into the federal system and make it easier to get a job I actually want. (I have my eye on an administrative position at the VA.)
Adulting is hard.
Quick catch up. My surgery was delayed by two weeks because the doctor's office waited until the week before surgery to get approval from my insurance and Tricare just doesn't move that fast. Ever. So I wasn't in the hospital over Christmas. We still had a super low-key holiday. We went for a drive in the snow and made soup. New Years Eve I was asleep way before the ball dropped and the next day we went for a drive and made soup. I went under the knife on January 5th. I woke up in pain but dilaudid is a lovely drug. I made friends with one of the nursing assistants who schooled my daughter on tauntauns after I made note of feeling as though I'd been sliced open in same fashion. (Seriously -- incision from breast bone to belly button requiring 35 staples resulting in a scar that looks absurdly like a zipper.)
I spent my recuperation binging various series via streaming services. (Not blogging, as previously suggested, as the girl child managed to break the laptop.) I did Grimm (falls in line with my obsession with all things Thile). I did Preacher. Well, I did season 1 because that is free on hulu. Season 2 is only on Amazon and even with Prime they want $25 for the season and that's not gonna happen. Hunted around a bit for the next binge-worthy series. Tried out a few. The Night Manager has too much realistic political violence. I just can't right now. I was told that I would love Portlandia but I couldn't even get through episode one. I guess I just don't do sketch stuff? SNL has even lost my attention lately. I tried that biopic series about Zelda Fitzgerald but the put-on Southern Belle accents were intolerable and I couldn't finish the first episode. I landed on Nurse Jackie. I find her combination of being deeply flawed whilst having a passion to do good comfortingly familiar. Last night I fell asleep watching that and my wine glass toppled from my lap and spilled all over the bed. I have no idea why I was holding my wine glass on my lap.
The whole wine thing probably would not have gone down thusly had my husband not taken a new position at his job. This new position has a most ridiculous schedule -- he works from 4:30 in the afternoon to 1:00 in the morning so I'm left to binge in the evenings all by my lonesome. This lifestyle will eventually turn me into a potato.
Recuperating has been harder than I thought it would be so I'm just now resuming the job hunt, which is where I hit a bit of a dilemma. I have a job interview on Monday at a small family-owned company. It is an office assistant position with a heavy customer service emphasis. I'm a people person and customer service is definitely my forte. It is located near to my house so no interstates involved in my commute and also pays considerably more than did the contracting position with corporate overlords.
I've also had a tentative offer from the same federal agency that employs my spouse (although without the ridiculous schedule -- I'd simply not be able to function that way). The fed job pays more and isn't through a temp agency so it's more secure, but it would likely be mind-numbingly boring -- just shuffling the same papers on constant repeat without much human interaction. I'm afraid it would permanently mar my soul. Also, it would require I drive through downtown interstate traffic twice a day during rush hour, which frightens me to my core.
So what do? Take the job that I think I would find more rewarding even though it pays less and comes with little to no job security or take the money and security and risk damage to my eternal soul? I just don't know. Maybe it wouldn't be a numbing as I think it will be. It would at the least get me into the federal system and make it easier to get a job I actually want. (I have my eye on an administrative position at the VA.)
Adulting is hard.
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