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.
