Justice, refusing to be a victim

At 2 weeks, hands unknown to me removed me from a mentally ill mother and placed me in a foster home.  The same mother had two children bore before me, they two were taken from her arms, and all three of us separated to different homes.  When she would get sick, those hands would take us, separate us.  when she became well, those hands uprooted us once again, reunited us..and deemed that for now it was safe to be with Mom again. Most times we would be in different places with different families.  Sad as it sounds until about age 6, I really didn’t know the difference. That was my life.

After age 6 I did know the difference, and I have distinct memories of my brother and sister and I piling furniture in front of the doors when we knew mom was so sick they would be coming for us soon.  We piled the furniture up because the hands that took us away, also took us away from each other.  It could months even months, several homes, and years before we would see each other again.  None of us, not a one grieved for our mom, only each other.

Visitation was not allowed between siblings. Although they did force all of us to go to the building full of rocking people, screaming voices, and erratic behavior in the social room my mom was in at our visits. The caseworkers assigned to us, lied and told each of us that the other sibling was moving on with their life and did not want contact.

So at age 12 when I ran away and hitch hiked across the country, I really had no one that cared I was alive or dead.  Only a mother who drew on walls, hung strings of conspiracy from magazine pages, and memory after memory of abuse from men that came to me in the night at homes the state placed me in to keep me safe from my mother.

I was found in Florida and sent back to the west coast. On the plane the woman next me had wine.  I stole her bottle, put it in a satchel the airline stewardess gave me.  When I reached the end of the runway and saw the eyes of the caseworker I knew who lied to me over and over again.  The worker who placed me with those men.  The worker whose voice I could hear as the firemen tore down the barricade my brother and sister created to keep their hands away from us…that worker.  I took the satchel, jumped on top of her and began pounding her face.

When the arms tore me off her I ran as fast I could.  Only to get caught by the police outside of the airport. Months of juvenile detention and charges of assault later,  I sat in courtroom in a chair in front of a judge.  Across the room a caseworker.  The caseworker.  This caseworker was making recommendations I put in juvenile prison.  For the first time in my life I saw justice.  The judge told her she could not remain caseworker and in charge of my family anymore as she now was a victim.  For her to make recommendations as to what was best for me was now biased.

I left that courtroom that day and preceded to go to another 17 homes before the state finally emancipated me.  It was their opinions at age 15 I was ready to be on my own.  I was not opposed for I had learned the homes they put me in were worse than the sick confines of insanity. Justice or just us.

Fast forward a life time later I look at this incident in my life as one of 4 instances that are the foundation of my belief that there really is only Just us, not justice.  I will write about the other times in blogs to come.

But I affirm now even with the knowledge of the other instances, that even if the truth is only in just us, I will never stop fighting for justice. Because in the end even if the truth is not discovered. I know I did everything in my power to bring it out of the darkness.  The fact that I can speak and use my voice even it is goes unheard.  The justice is that I did not let it die in silence.

I am just.  I am not responsible for what was done to me.  I am accountable for who I am today.  Today I am the beautiful innocent human being that sat in that courtroom.  I am beautiful, I am just.  I have been heard.

 

Gratitude Attitude

In my ex's divorce,  he got the in-laws..she got a talking to.  That's what happens when a woman leaves a marriage of 12 years for some high school sweetheart  she reacquainted herself with on facebook while the husband is off serving his county in Iraq.

Yesterday I spent the afternoon with his ex's 89 year old grandmother.  Strange as it seems; it is not as Jerry Springerish as it sounds. His ex moved hundreds of miles away to the next big city and seldom comes back to this neck of the woods to the area she abanonded her family, her teenage kids..blah blah blah. 

Yes I admit it does seem a little focused on the ex, however the true story lies with the grandmother.  In this town she has two grandchildren, 5 great grandchildren and lives with her own son. Despite the many, many family ties in town, seldom does anyone go out and spend time with her.  The family does the occasional what I call "walking the old person", whereby they pick up the old aging person and transport them to some family event.

Having grown up in over 23 foster homes, and spent my life like a kid with her nose pressed in the window watching everyone else live their lives, this "family" abandonment leaves quite a bitter taste in my mouth.  People that were raised in a family do not appreciate that they have one.  In fact my inside view of the 23 homes unveiled to me that most people with families dread going to Holiday events because they "really don't care for uncle Bob".  Or maybe they had a hissy fit with a cousin..or the sister is living a life they don't approve of.  The gatherings are a gossip circle in disguise, where people get together and quietly discuss the drama and "secrets" that no one has the balls to talk about out loud.  Of course we have Facebook for this now, and yet still its not a here's what I think but small chasers that beg for people to beg for the gossip in tidbits.

So in this quiet gathering with the grandmother or as I call her my "outlaw", I felt deeply saddened.  This elderly woman approaching 90 is truly alone. Other than being "walked" on occasion, she spends her days and most nights alone in a big house.  She gardens quite beautifully and has fallen in love with her only life companion, a cat.

As we spoke, my saddened heart, craving a grandmother of my own, asked all the questions. What was her favorite meal to cook?  Does she have recipes she shares.  I felt even sadder, as I watched her and realized that her arthritis is so bad that she can hardly cut meat.  Her meals?  Whatever is left over from her son.  Her limited budget prevents her from buying food, and if she is unable to open something she goes without.

I reveled in the time of asking questions and learning and sharing and realizing what a cruel world it really is.  My challenge to you??

Don't walk the old person. Spend time with your grandmother or grandfather.  Realize they "wont" be there forever.  You are their legacy.  In a few generations without your knowledge and passing the info along..the whole reason they existed...which is to create you and prove their life had something worth passing along=== will die with them.

Take the time to spend with your brother or sister, or cousin and have an attitude of gratitude.  Because you have it doesn't mean you have it if you don't have an attitude of gratitude and enjoy them. 

I am thankful for the process of natural selection and there are exes that abandon their family.  Turns out the ex learned the grass isn't greener on the other side.  She has learned the life she had will never be as good, and I take a small amount of pleasure in knowing I found the end of the rainbow, she ignored.  There are many like me that are so thankful for all they have and will greatly enjoy their discarded family and love them as the neglectful never could.

amputee, hot or not...art or porn

  Turning Random thoughts into a readable paragraph a talent. Coming up with a snappy title that one clicks on scrolling through a newsfeed...good marketing. Combining two concepts into a thought invoking moment a canvas...to be unveiled

Many women are stunning beautiful and make it to the cover of magazines. There are hoards of women that are average that's inner beauty and personality that time spent with them creates

 
 
 that glow that attracts.  There a women whose appearance changes once they open their mouths. 

If she would just not speak...arm piece kind of gals.

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 There are women who profess their character through wearing a burka or tattooes. We are innovated with selfies.  Women who are large, robust...loud and proud


. But what happens to women who by freak accident or by a courgeous choice to remove the limitations of injury loose part of who they are.

I think these women are just as beautiful, have just as much to be proud of and should not be ashamed. 

The other day...two women in a store dressed to the nines in the frozen section.  In walks a below the knee amputee wearing shorts

 with her prosthetic leg  exposed.  Says the first to the second lady..."She should really cover that up, no one wants to see that."   Replies the second to the first.."Yes, it is creeping me out."

 At what point does a person have to hide who they are.

 What distinguish between beauty and ugliness. I believe in courageous beauty.  At what point does nudity become porn.  Selfies become a plea for attention. At what point does one cover up?
   If the body to the left is attached to the leg above, is it any less beautiful?   why should one cover it up..hide it, instead of being proud.
Says the beautiful courageous amputee to the two debutantes in the store..."Your ugliness is all the way to the bone...someone should thow heavy fleece blankets over you.  Shove your attitudes where your brains are.  Up your ass.

 

Hot or not, art or porn...you decide.

 

Brain rest

Taking the time to rest my brain. Made huge steps towards living a more sane and organized life in and outside of my head. 

It's okay to step back close my eyes even for 30 minutes. Stopping the spinning brain and spinning a web of. Relief. Precious unconsciousness brought by choice instead of inducement from some chemical, natural or otherwise. I'd have to call today

a success.

Slut, liar, many faces revealed

Today I threw my hands up and decided to do something about my life. On the whole it is amazing. I have a man who loves me. A beautiful mansion.  I have the ideal set for 40 something year old me with young kids.  I am the every other weekend mom.  (a tough topic, we will tackle another time).  But there are many things I am lacking in and am filling my thought life and activities with not so healthy things that leave me suffering with paranoid delusions, grandiose thinking, bouts of depression and laziness. I find lies floating out of my mouth without even thinking. I do things in the quiet moments that do not reinforce a fuzzy feeling about me or my character in general.

I want to change that.

But the only way to change is to set small goals evaluate what is wrong and take steps to behave differently. #1 When I am blogging and evaluating the bad I will write in blue. I will write in black when I am coming up with a plan to change the behaviors that are not ones I desire to continue.

Reality.  I talk the talk. I make big plans and I don't follow through. I can overcome any challenges. I have survived my life and its beginnings. Abandonment, rape, incest, neglect, and instability, (to name a few). But yet although I am not a homeless, drug adduct, I have hidden internal scars, with a thought life I most assuredly certain I could be committed for.

I have made changes based on that upbringing that have included prostitution, drug and alcohol abuse, and abandoning my own kids. I also have made changes in the course of bad choices that have reunited me with kiddos, developed employable skills and stayed out of the welfare line.

To see me face to face, you would never believe I am a former stripper, slut, home wrecker, user, liar.  I also have fallen the other way and have had my home wrecked by someone just like me, cheated on and been used myself.  It was the turning of the tables that changed my soul.

I truly believe I could be classified as mentally ill, given my life choices, events and internal thought life; which includes suicide, murder and all the deadly sins.  Reality.  I know everyone contemplates if even briefly the thoughts I am willing to put in writing. But when I really look at myself.  I never have a plan.  Brief thoughts, flashes.  Still they are there. Wish they weren't. As I write this I do feel scared that this could be used against me and take away all that I have worked to overcome.  But I am beyond that and ready to surrender.  I believe mental illness is overcomable without medication when you have the cognizance to recognize your thinking stands correction.

So today I walk with a plan to reorganize. I know I am not alone.  My journey may not be a pretty one.  But I am walking it today.  join me if you dare.

Signed the slut, whore, thought police.