Numb

Those of you who know me know what's gone on in my life over the last few years. You know that I woke up one morning - the wife of a doctor, a stay-at-home mom of nine bio and adopted kids, comfortably middle class - only to go to bed that night the wife of a jailed, child molester - future uncertain - with five young special needs children to care for. What followed was a year of torture at the hands of a psychopathic social worker who wanted nothing more than to rip my family to shreds and scatter my children to the winds - sure that I was every bit as guilty as my husband, despite no proof that I'd ever done anything wrong. A year of being dragged repeatedly into a courtroom, forced to listen to this woman's lies and manipulated facts, humiliated and torn to pieces emotionally over and over again. A year of fighting with everything in me to keep my children from being stolen away from me and from each other, forever. A year of pain so deep, so wrenchingly soul-destroying, that survival was uncertain.

Following, came five more years of watching that same woman put my granddaughter, who had been raised for 2/3rd's of her young life as a sibling to her five youngest aunts and uncles before my husband's arrest, through a living hell as they
repeatedly attempted to "reunite" her with her drug addicted, violent and severely emotionally disturbed mother. Eventually and inevitably to have it culminate in my granddaughter's permanent removal and adoption by a family in another State - lost to our family forever.

Six years, altogether, of trying to pick up the pieces of what was left of my children and my family. Six years of trying to get an education and find work while raising five extremely high-needs kids, exhausting myself to the point of becoming so ill at one point that I was near death and took months to recover fully. Six years of food stamps and the embarrassment of begging for help from charitable organizations; having to stand by as strangers bought my children their school clothes and Christmas presents. Ever wonder if you're a prideful person? I never thought I was. If fact, I was sure that I was fairly humble - that is until the first time I had to pay for my children's milk and cereal with food stamps or stand in line for a hand-out at the local pantry. I was, indeed, a prideful person and that pride was pummeled out of me thoroughly during those six years.

I wish that I could say that this was the first time something really awful had happened in my lifetime. Interestingly, I seem to have some sort of inner magnet for this sort of thing. Yes, I said "interestingly", for if I step back and look at it all, it's sort of like staring at a horrible car wreck that I just can't seem to look away from. Since I was a small child, trouble has followed me like some dirty, smelly stray dog that just won't go away, no matter how much I futilely wave my arms and yell at it.

This may sound like whining. It really isn't meant to be. It's impossible, tho', to tell the truth about what's gone on over the last seven years of my life without sounding like I'm whining or feeling sorry for myself. Have I had moments of self-pity? Of course I have! Many have been the hours of lying in my bed at night, crying and calling out to God - sometimes in prayer, often in anger. The day to day needs of five children, all suffering not only the effects of the damage done to them before they came to me and the damage done by their adoptive father's abuse, but also the effects of what happened after my husband's arrest, kept me too busy to spend much time in 'self-pityville', however.

The past year and a half of our lives has followed the now-familiar pattern in many ways. I met and married a man who in every way seemed to be the perfect catch. He was the manager of a store, responsible and hard working, a self-proclaimed and apparently devoted Christian, who had no red-flags in his background whatsoever. He was loving and attentive and convinced me that he truly wanted a family, waxing on and on about how excited he was to have kids of his own. Cautious because of what had happened in the past, I carefully examined his statements, obtained a background check and talked to people who knew him. Relieved to find nothing amiss, I married him with high hopes that things would begin to turn around for all of us. At last, I thought, we'll have some security and a chance to heal.

Within two months of our marriage, I began to realize that things were not as they had seemed. Dan's behavior became increasingly odd and I caught him in some minor lies. His insistence and excitement about becoming a stepfather quickly began to wane as he realized just how much time and effort it was going to take to get five angry, hurt, and suspicious children to accept him. Concerned and confused, I began to delve further into his past and the stories he'd told me about it - eventually discovering that he was a bigamist and that most of what he'd told me about his private life was untrue - his public life one big facade that had everyone in town fooled. Horrifyingly, I found the kids and I in almost the same situation that my ex-husband had left us in - homeless, jobless and with no place to go.

Blessed with the help of a local church, the county women's shelter and the kindness of others, the kids and I started all over again. A further blessing came in the form of Dennis, my former boyfriend, who came to our rescue when I called him, frantic, in the middle of the night and traveled to stay with us and help out, first for a few days - then for a few months - his steady presence helping to calm the kids and his paycheck putting food on the table when there was none. In the process, Dennis and I realizing that we still cared deeply about one another, deciding to try again in our own relationship and in an effort to build a family together.

Since finding out about my "husband's" life of lies, we've managed to start anew and things are actually better right now than they have been in all of the past seven years. I've found myself able to begin to relax just a bit and allow myself to reflect and heal for the first time since that horrible day, seven and a half years ago, when the police came knocking at my door and my life as I had known it died a sudden and violent death.

In the process of beginning to heal, there have been revelations. Knowing who I was before and seeing who I am now, I realize that the Lori who lived before no longer exists. I wish I could say that the new Lori is an improvement. She is stronger, more self-assured, this is true. She is also harder and much less the loving and gentle woman she once was. What troubles me the most is the numbness. Looking back, I can remember a woman who loved deeply and fully, who felt true pain for the suffering of others, who knew the soul-flying joy of happiness. This Lori, this survivor, can feel most emotions only on a surface level. This Lori can look at the suffering of others and turn away with little more than a "gee, that's sad" and go on as though nothing happened. This Lori struggles to feel the joy she felt at the excitement of her children when they meet and surpass some valley in their lives. This Lori has to search within herself to feel the love she once felt for her friends and relatives. This Lori is insular, wrapped in so may layers of scars and self-protection that most of life's joys bounce off, unable to penetrate. This Lori is numb.

Will the old Lori ever emerge again? Is she hidden somewhere deep inside, waiting until it's safe to crawl out? Or is she gone, never to be seen again? Can she be recaptured, or is she dead, replaced by this new, stronger - yes - but harder, Lori? Is she hiding inside a shell of self-imposed protection or, if broken, will the shell prove to be void and hollow inside?

To be honest, I'm afraid to find out.

Apple seed musings

I actually found this on the web one day. There was no author listed. The original author had some great ideas, but lacked the writing ability to bring them to fruition. So, I've decided to 'tweak' it a bit. Call it a colaboration between the unknown author and I.

One day I stopped to think about growing apples. I was munching a delicious, juicy apple and took a big bite. As a result, I felt an apple seed on my tongue. I spat it into my hand, with the intention of throwing it away. Instead, I looked at the apple seed— really looked. It was a very dark brown, almost black. Its shape reminded me of a candle flame— a little, dark brown candle flame….


I realized that I was holding an apple tree in the palm of my hand. A tiny seed with the potential to become a beautiful tree—a tree that could produce thousands of apples in its lifetime. Thousands of apples, each containing several seeds, each capable of growing a new tree which could again produce thousands of apples. Why, then, was the world not filled with apple trees?

It’s a rule of nature that only a few of these seeds grow. Most never do or are destroyed early on in their growth.

It came to my mind that it’s quite often the same with people’s dreams. Wonderful ideas come to our minds but they die too soon—we don’t tend to the little saplings, we don’t protect them as we should. Then, one day, we wonder what happened to our dreams—why did they never come true?

I put the apple seed on the table and bent to see the light reflected from this tiny wonder of nature. I wondered how many times an apple grower had to try to get a seed to germinate? How much work did it require?

Maybe it was much the same as our dreams. The seeds of your dreams don’t automatically grow. It can take time and multiple attempts; like a hundred job applications before you get that great job. You might send a manuscript out two hundreds times before it’s accepted. You might meet dozens of people before you find a true friend.

Even so, if you keep sowing the seeds of your dreams sooner or later you will succeed. Afterward, others might comment on how lucky you are to have been successful when, in fact, you probably failed more often than you want to remember. But you were good at failing—you learned, you adapted, and then with your new knowledge you tried again. And again. And again. Finally, one day, success was yours.

I picked up the apple seed once more but, instead of throwing it away, I took an empty flower pot, poured some potting soil into it and planted the tiny, flame shaped miracle. Maybe, with a little love, one day it would grow into a proud tree. I’d never know if I didn’t try.

Memorize this...

Memory is a fickle thing. It can change and morph, memories becoming entirely different with time and distance. When I was young I had a phenomenal memory. "Photographic" is what my teachers called it. All I knew was that it was easy for me to memorize my notes and that I could summon up the faces of everyone I'd ever met with ease. Subsequently, school was easy for me - the academic part anyway. The social part, well, that was a bit more perplexing.

A serious blow to the side of my head in a near-fatal car accident during my mid-twenties put a sudden end to that phenomenal memory. (Patience, patience, I'll tell you more about that in a future chapter!) In the aftermath, the memories of my childhood and early adult years are ridden with holes and empty spaces where once rich and detailed reminiscence once dwelled. Consequently, I'll muddle along as best I can in the retelling of these adventures, trying to keep the details straight and attempt to keep from confusing you, my readers, in the process.

One person I remember very well was my best-friend, Robin. Robin was a blond-haired sweetheart who I looked up to, desperately wanted to be like and very much envied. I loved her with that fierce, protective love reserved for the 'best' of best-friends. I missed her desperately when we were apart and fought with her when we were together too much. We were fairy princesses, intrepid explorers, avid Barbie-doll players and pollywog farmers together. Our imaginations led us into worlds we inhabited for short periods of time, only to return to the more mundane and drab existence of reality.

Robin and I spent many a night cuddled up together under a tent of blankets, planning our futures together. (Of course we were going to marry and live beside one another in matching houses one day. It was fate!). In those pre-homophobic days of the '60's (well, no, homophobia was alive and well, it was the openness about homosexuality in general that was absent), Robin and I held hands nearly everywhere we went. Meeting new challenges, fearful situations and exciting experiences with hands firmly grasped, each of us knowing always that the other was there beside us.

Robin was my nearly constant companion from the age of 2 until her parents divorced and she moved away at the age of 12, my first truly tragic loss in life. Though we tried to maintain our friendship by telephone, letter and occasional visits, slowly, mercilessly the years and distance built walls between us until our friendship was nothing more than a beloved memory held close in my heart. I still think of her sometimes and wish her well, praying for her happiness, and appreciate the role she played in my life.

Toddlerhood is a trial...

I was born a poor, Black child... Okay, forgive me, please! My pun-ny sense of humor just couldn't resist stealing that line from Steve Martin, cheesy as it is! The truth is that I was born a lower-middle class, White kid in a small town in Wyoming.

One of my first memories is of standing in my crib. I believe I was about 18 months old and I was supposed to be napping.My mother lay resting on the couch in the living room. She seemed to need to rest a lot back then. What I didn't know then and wouldn't learn until I was nearly an adult, was that Mom was already struggling with the Leukemia that would threaten and nearly take her life in those young years. I could see Mom through the doorway of my bedroom, her face turned into the fabric, her sides evenly rising and lowering. I remember trying very hard not to wake her as I struggled to free myself from the confines of my wooden-slatted toddler prison. Even at that age I knew better than to raise my mother's Irish temper.

Mom had apparently removed a couple of curlers from her hair and left them on the top of the dresser beside my crib. They were the old-fashioned type of curlers that so many women in the 1960's ran around with in their hair, often all day long. I remember being fascinated by this bristly, twisted-wire and plastic contraption.

Wanting desperately to reach this possible toy, I managed to lift myself onto the edge of the crib side, one leg hanging halfway over. Grunting quietly, I grasped the edge of the dresser and pulled myself forward, reaching out with one chubby toddler hand for the 'forbidden fruit'. (I am nothing if not determined. Remember that, it'll be a main element in a lot of things that happen in my future.)

Just as my fingers brushed against the stiff plastic bristles, a breeze blew in the open window behind the dresser. The two curlers began to roll. Startled, I jerked my hand away from this newly-terrifying 'creature' which had suddenly come to life. I quickly dropped back down into my crib.

Heart pounding, I lay down, closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep. Even at that young age, I remember thinking that if I just went to sleep the resulting nothingness of unconsciousness would make the scary 'living' curlers, that I had apparently brought to life with my naughtiness, disappear. If only the results of all our life's trespasses and 'monsters' were so easy to banish!