Graduation!

My middle child, my Oldest Son (as I usually refer to him online, though sometimes he's Squid) graduated from The Child Center on Friday, January 27, 2012!

Woooooo!



According to The Child Center's webpage:

Our mission is to provide individualized, diagnostic, therapeutic and educational services for the emotional and behavioral problems children exhibit in the home, school and community; provide integrated community based psychiatric and support services that are child centered, family driven and culturally competent; to advocate for preventative and educational services from community resources and to promote and/or develop other specialized services for children with serious mental, emotional and behavioral disorders and their families.

Older Son has been attending school there (in the Willow classroom) since November 29, 2010.

Most kids are expected to be there about nine months--- sometimes more, sometimes less. Older Son, however, was already having behavioral issues due to the abuse visited upon him by his sperm donor... and then, four months after starting classes there, he and Youngest were removed by DHS because of my mental issues, and things got worse before they became better.

I've been having memory issues lately, so I'm not certain exactly when he started seriously working to "stay in program" during the day, but it seemed to me that it was roughly a month ago. I believe, however, that he was supposed to demonstrate his ability to stay in program for 90 days before he would be allowed to graduate, so I suspect my memory of when he was last having difficulties with this are flawed.

I found out about his graduation just a few days before the actual event, and luckily was able to catch a ride to it from my mother-in-law. My sister-in-law, brother-in-law, and their daughter Krista joined us in the classroom, and we were invited to sit down amongst the other students. Youngest sat in the midst of everyone, near his big brother's desk.

Unfortunately, at that moment I started to have a panic attack, which became stronger as people tried to encourage me to sit in the midst of all of those present. I just shook my head and stood with my back to the door and concentrated on my son, trying to calm myself.

My Squid was decked out in a (too long) green graduation gown (his favorite color, as it is mine!) with a black graduation cap (sans tassel) on his head. He walked out carefully from the hallway to the front of the room, and perched on the tall stool that stood ready for him in front of the whiteboard, facing the rest of us.

His face was so solemn!

First he was given a gift from the class, which was hidden inside his desk. He was directed to it via "hot/cold" being shouted by everyone in the classroom (when I called out, "Ice cube!" it was met with laughter). It turned out to be a book (sorry, I can't recall the title!), a Beyblade, and a Lego kit which I didn't see clearly enough to identify.

At that point, Wendy had him come fetch a gift bag from her, to present to the staff members. It was a money tree (Pachira aquatica) for the classroom.

One of the boys asked, "If it grows dollar bills, can I have some?"

Wendy turned to him, smiling, and said, "If it grows dollar bills, you call me!" which was met with amused laughter from the knowing adults.

Then each student and staff member took turns reading letters they had each written to Older Son, in turn followed by his reading a letter which he had written to each of them. While the others wrote sundry things, Squid kept to a theme: every single letter he wrote, whether to an adult or a classmate, ended with, "Do your best." This brought renewed laughter whenever it was addressed to staff members!

It must be said that Older Son's Behavioral Support Specialist, Leah, was moved to tears and wasn't able to read her letter to him. I think she feels endings as strongly as do I. She gave him a hug, which I thought was very unusual (you hear stories of how teachers aren't allowed to hug students for fear of being accused of molestation), but which I totally understood. She came to me and hugged me, too, later, which also surprised me--- not Squid's foster mother, my sister-in-law Wendy, with whom Leah had dealt with so much more, but ME.

I guess it surprised me because I have never really felt that, since Older Son and Youngest were removed from my home, the people who directly worked with Squid actually wanted to include me, since they preferred to communicate with Wendy. Even during meetings, I felt I was being addressed as an afterthought.

I guess I'll never really know.

Afterward, the official graduation was done, with the presentation of his "diploma" by his teacher, Sarah. She then assigned him the task of passing out brownies for the graduation party, and suggested he choose someone to help pass out tissues for use as napkins.

Most of his classmates raised their hands, clamoring to be selected.

Instead, Squid looked at his baby brother--- the bane of his existence, if his behavior during our visits is to be believed!--- and said, "You want to help me?"

Youngest slowly nodded, his eyes wide. (Trust me. Even though I couldn't see his eyes, I know they were wide. His eyes are always wide, just like his brother's have been for most of his life!)

It was the sweetest demonstration of brotherly love I've seen in so long!

After everyone ate, the kids all went outside to play together for the last time while we adults gathered all of Squid's belongings to leave the school forever.

It was a bittersweet moment in a joyous day.

I wasn't sure we would ever reach that day. But though the road was so much harder than we thought it would be when this journey began, I can definitely say it was worth it.

Secrets....

Tonight I learned from my parents (my Dear Old Dad and beloved stepMom) that DHS is looking for permanent homes for my two sons.

I cannot reconcile this with the fact that DHS does NOT consider me to be an abusive parent, proof being that I am allowed to visit my sons four times a week, for at least two hours at a time (vs. the one hour per week that most families get when DHS removes their children), and that I am allowed to take my sons anywhere I choose, as long as I have them home by the end of our visits.

I am trying to tell myself that it is only a "just in case" measure, the seeking of permanent homes....

... but honestly, I feel like DHS has already thrown in the towel where I am concerned...

... and I am devastated.

I have already been feeling like people are keeping secrets from me.

This only confirms that feeling.

sMom tells me that I probably need my medication increased. She's probably right.

Perhaps then this won't hurt so much....

FOR THE HOARD!! o.O

My beautiful children, my one reason for living, were taken from me by the Department of Human Services on March 25, 2011, because I am a hoarder.

I. Am. A. Hoarder.

That is getting easier for me to say now, but it took me over a full twenty-four hours before I came to that realization. I'd had both of my sisters, my niece, and my former stepmother graciously come over to help me start cleaning house, but it was the second night without my sons (my daughter was out of town on a camping trip) when it finally hit me.

You see, all my life I've been called a PACKRAT. And to me, there was a world of difference between being a packrat and being a hoarder.

Packrats collect things, lots of things, but they're not necessarily hoarders... at least in my mind! My mother was a packrat. So was her mother. So is my father's mother, as I came to realize a year ago when I went to help organize her house.

All of the hoarders I've ever heard of have boxes to the ceilings in every room, with little mouse trails winding their way through from room to room. I told myself, yeah, I have a lot of stuff, and probably too much, but at least I'm not a hoarder! I told myself, I just need time to sort through everything and get rid of some of it. But I'm not a hoarder.

But what I didn't see was that things were not getting cleaned up underneath all of the stuff. Things were breaking under the weight of everything on top of them. Mice were starting to come in--- my Schnoodle Lucy was going crazy because she could hear them, but she couldn't get to those dastardly mice!

When I got to the bottom of my kitchen sinks and found two inches of black goo--- that was when it hit me. That was when I understood why the DHS workers insisted that my house was not a safe place in which my children could live and thrive.

I was a real-life hoarder. I don't know why I couldn't see it before.

And I was horrified by that realization.

I have done some research since then, because I wanted to know why I didn't see the forest for the trees, so to speak. If my house was that bad, why couldn't I see it? I was a recovering germ-o-phobe, thanks to the Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder I've had, albeit undiagnosed, since I was ten, after my father and former stepmother were awarded custody of my biological sister and me.

OCD.

Aha!

That's the kicker, right there. I needed to do more research on my OCD, not just on hoarding.

It seems that while not all hoarders have OCD, and not all OCD-afflicted persons are hoarders, the two often do go hand in hand.

The funny part is that DHS had me take a psychiatric evaluation a little more than a year ago... and the evaluation completely missed detecting my OCD, even though I have never made any real effort to hide it besides the Herculean efforts I put forth in seventh grade, when it was brought to my attention (by a fellow student) that I was behaving strangely. I have no problem admitting I have OCD.

Recently, I have had several people ask me how I know I have it, if it was never diagnosed by a psychiatrist.

Back in, oh, I think it was 1989, I had a friend (who shall remain nameless here for his own privacy's sake) who was a psych major at the U of O. I decided to ask him one day about the symptoms I used to have from the age of ten to about thirteen, when a classmate asked me why I always blew on the tips of my fingers whenever I touched something.

Here are the things I used to do, the "rules" I had to follow when I wasn't with my mother, just to make it clear:

* I couldn't breathe through my mouth. Anywhere. My nose hairs would filter out the germs that were present anywhere else. If I had a cold which prevented my breathing through my nose, then a tissue would suffice as a filter.

* I couldn't touch silverware or cups with my lips. I would scrape food off my fork or spoon with my teeth--- it drove my dad NUTS. My biological sister remembers me putting my finger to a glass and putting my lips to my finger to drink, pouring the liquid over my finger into my mouth. I can remember pouring the liquid from the glass directly into my mouth, with obvious space between the glass and my lips.

* I couldn't touch any doorknobs with my bare hands. I had to use a tissue or my sleeve to open doors. Same with faucets. And I couldn't sit on any toilet seat--- I would stand and hang my bottom over the toilet to go. This was complicated by the fact that I also couldn't bear to have my clothes touch the toilet in any way.

* ANYTHING I touched which did not belong to me had germs on it... and to avoid being "contaminated" by them, I had to blow the germs off my fingertips as soon as possible. This was the behavior observed by my classmate, which brought to my attention that I wasn't behaving normally. I feigned ignorance of my doing such odd things, and started fighting to overcome the rules to look more "normal."

Today:

I still can't sit on a naked toilet seat, turn off faucets or open restroom doors with my bare hands if it's a public restroom or at some people's houses--- I'm okay with my own bathroom, or with bathrooms at houses where I feel "safe." I'm a wreck when I go to a rest area on a highway and there is neither soap nor paper towels, although I can manage if I have a bottle of sanitizer with me... and I try to remember to carry my own seat covers, just in case there aren't any, because I don't want to leave someone else short of toilet paper just because of my own... problems.

I have a mug which is my "favorite," from which I drink my coffee every morning, stirred with the slotted silver spoon which was my maternal grandmother's, and the spoon stays in my mug while I drink. I'm a little anxious tonight because I've misplaced that spoon, so I'm having to make do with my "second-favorite" spoon, which has a daffodil on the tip. I can still drink from other glasses or mugs... I just feel better when it's that mug and that spoon.

I don't like wearing my hair down, loose. I love the way it looks, and even the way it feels... until I have to function. Then it needs to be bound--- either in a bun (my usual hairstyle) or in a braid of some sort. I can tolerate a ponytail for a while--- I just can't stand the feel of my hair in my face for very long, except for my bangs, which are a must!

I can't eat food off bones with my teeth. I've been this way ALL my life. I have to pick the meat off the bones with my fingers or with silverware, my dad's preferred method of my eating it. I used to pick all of the toppings off my pizza, and then eat the bare crust, but I've managed to overcome that as well.

When I get really anxious, I find myself blinking or making a little noise in my throat excessively... sometimes both. I also shred my fingernails by picking at them. My soon-to-be-ex-husband always knew when I was greatly upset because of the state of my nails.

I tend to examine dishes if something catches my eye. If I think it's dirty, I'll rewash it right there. Usually this doesn't happen, though, because I will wash and rewash a dish until I can't find anything else on it before I put it on the dish rack to dry. (During the past two months, before DHS became aware of my situation, I was washing the same dishes we ate off before I cooked, so they were clean... but I was washing them in the bathroom sink because I couldn't use the kitchen sinks, they were so full of dirty dishes.)

I don't like to go barefoot except on wooden floors or out-of-doors. I love walking barefoot on the beach. But inside my house, it's all either carpet or linoleum... and I hate it. In a pinch I'll go barefoot, but it really bugs me.

And it really, really bugs me to throw things out. I'm really big on recycling, and I've managed to cut down our garbage immensely by recycling things instead of throwing them out. But I'm hanging on to too much stuff because I'm afraid that I'll need it later, or because it's connected to a good memory... thus, the hoarding.

Okay, I think you get the point. But will the new psychiatrist? I'm still wondering how the first one missed this oh-so-important mental illness.

There. I've actually said it. I have a mental illness.

Oddly, I never thought of OCD as a mental illness... but it is.

I'm tapping my finger on my keyboard while I ponder this... yet another sign of the OCD. *lol*

My family and friends are getting very good at congratulating me for throwing out something I don't need. I have a large pile of plastic bags at the back of my house, waiting for the dumpster which DHS mentioned... but which they still haven't produced, saying that the psych eval is more important. I say, bring on the psych eval! I want to get this done, and get my house cleaned up so that I can have my kids come home again! The boys are staying with my in-laws, and my daughter with my friends next door, but even though I get to visit with them often, it's not nearly enough.

At this point, if it were legal, I would burn down my house with everything I own in it, if it meant that DHS would then let my children come home.

My youngest son, age 4, called me tonight, but I missed his call because my phone is misbehaving. He left a message on my voicemail:

"Hey! *long pause here* I want to come back. Okay? Bye!"

I think that says it all, right there.

Dear Mom....

Today would have been your 61st birthday.

Wow.

In just 18 days, you'll have been gone for two whole years. I still can't believe it's been that long.

Over the past few days, I've wondered if you weren't here, looking over my shoulder or something, because of odd scents I don't remember being in my house. Is it because of your birthday, or because of the upcoming anniversary of your leaving us?

I still talk to you, but now it's directed to the little urn which holds some of your ashes. In fact, I dusted it off, and now it sits--- YOU sit--- on the upper corner of my keyboard while I type. I'm wearing your Australia sweatshirt--- the one Peter brought you from Werribee--- and will be frying up oysters for my supper tonight.

I wonder what would have been different had you not developed ALS? Would you still have been working? Would you have been able to help me through the terrible things that Scott was doing to your grandchildren? Or would it have been just That. Much. Worse?

I wish that I had listened to you, instead of defending him. He didn't deserve it, and I know that now. It should have been a big clue to me when he told me he didn't want to go to your memorial service--- I mean, what kind of husband says that to his grieving wife?!?

I really don't know how anything would be different if you were alive today, except that I would have more of your hugs when I needed them most. But I don't know if I'd have appreciated them any better than I'd appreciate them now.

I miss you so much, Mommy.

Where have I been??

Just found this neat little map-thing, where I can post where I've been in the United States. Here ya go:


visited 8 regions (16.00%)
Get your own visited map Create your own visited map of The United States

I would have been to Colorado and Florida by this time, but we had to cancel the Bahaman cruise my best friends were taking my kids and me on last August. We'll try again next summer, unless something changes between now and then.

Back to your regularly scheduled lives.....

One year....

It's been a whole year since Scott, my husband of nearly 10 years (come December) was ordered to move out of our house to protect our children from him.

It's been a long, long year.

We've come a long way, baby! And I am not going back now!

Yes, it's been difficult.

Yes, I've had my hands full of a son who has been diagnosed with both RAD (Reactive Attachment Disorder) and severe ADHD and his younger brother who idolizes him and mimics him whenever possible.

Yes, their older sister has been just about as big a handful, especially when she hamstrings herself by badmouthing me to her friends and their parents. (I'm still snickering over that!)

Yes, it's difficult financially when our support was cut by nearly 2/3rds in February.

Yes, it's made even harder by the fact that now Older Son, because he's acted out sexually toward younger kids, including his brother, cannot be unsupervised at all around any children, including his brother... and that due to this happening, we've discovered that Scott did much, much more sexual abuse to Older Son (and probably Younger Son as well) than either has previously admitted to (Scott NEVER has... but now the detectives are back on the case!). My poor boys!

By Golly! We're going to get through this, and the first year of healing is finished! *punches the air with a fist*

Lawn swift? Excuse me, it's LANSWYFTE!

My landlady is upset about something. I can't imagine why she would go so berserk over my lawn otherwise!

On Monday night, July 12th, I received the following e-mail from her:

Jo,
I was at Anthony's yesterday and saw that the yard has not been cleaned up. It looks filthy and, despite notice from the City almost two months ago, it does not look as if you have made any effort. You have lived in that house for several years now, and must know part of renting a house is maintaining the yard, so I can see no reason you have not acquired a lawn mower by now. If you do not want to maintain a yard you may be happier in an apartment.
Please correct the problem, including mowing what is left of the yard, inside and outside the fencing, in the front and back and side yards; remove all depris and remove all blackberries on the property within one week, and keep it maintained. If you want fire wood for heat it needs to be stacked neatly in a pile away from the house. If you don't want it please ask Anthony to remove it from the property. He can sell it with the other wood he has from the trees. You mentioned in a previous email that you would have to use a sissors to cut the grass. I don't care if you decide to use a sissors, there is no excuse for letting it get in the condition it is in. If you do not correct the problem by July 20th you need to find living arrangements elsewhere, and have 30 days to do so, with prorated rent due for August by August 1st.
As to the person you informed me you had moved in, you do not have permission to add additional people to the rental agreement. You said she was there to help you but it looks like things are deteriorating instead of getting better. Please ask her to find other arrangements. If you were working, and needed day care so you can go to work, I might consider allowing you to add another person in the future. I have not heard that that is the circumstances now and see no reason to add to my liabilities. When I rented that house to you I charged a rental amount below market and have never raised the rent. In exchange I expected you to take good care of it. If I cannot depend on you to do so I will be hiring a rental management company to oversee the property and the rent will be increased to cover my expenses.
Please notify me as soon as the yard is cleaned, if you intend to stay, and I will have someone stop by to make sure it is satisfactory.
Thank you,
Suzanne


Um... I'm guessing she didn't talk to Anthony when she was here. She certainly didn't speak to me, or she'd have known that I was actually working on the backyard on the previous Friday, but ran out of weedeater line before I could finish the back or tackle the front. And if she even took time to think about it, she'd have realized that she'd have been fined by the city had it not been done earlier!

At any rate, I sent out an S.O.S. to my family, and Josh and Rich came to the rescue.

Tuesday afternoon, Josh rode up on his bicycle, and while he worked on mowing the front lawn with my reel mower (which needed adjusting badly, although I'd no idea how to do it), I worked on cutting and pulling out the blackberries around the house. Josh finally gave up on the mowing, after going over the same section repeatedly with no visible results.

This morning Rich dropped off both Josh and a lawnmower, with the promise of returning to pick him up later. Josh mowed the front yard, the front ditch, and tackled about 1/3 of the back before the hidden chunks of wood stopped him.

At one point while he was mowing the patch of grass under the cherry tree, he stopped and looked at me, where I was pulling weeds.

"Now I know it wasn't your mower that was the problem--- it was the grass," he informed me.

"Seriously?" I asked, surprised. I mean, he was using a gas-powered mower this time!

"Yep. I've gone over this section several times with this mower. The grass just doesn't want to be cut. I think this grass has been genetically engineered to resist cutting!"

Why doesn't this surprise me?

At any rate, we spent the day ripping up weeds, cutting grass, and moving wood from one part of the backyard to another so that Josh could continue mowing.

Tonight my visiting teacher came by, and I told her what was happening with the landlady's having sent that e-mail. She told me she'd try to find out who was my home teacher, and send him over to help.

Less than an hour later, a red pickup pulled into my driveway, and a man stepped out and knocked on my back door. He (I'm guessing) is my home teacher--- Jeff something-or-other.

I filled him in on the situation, and showed him what needed to be done, and he told me he's got a troop of Boy Scouts who do this sort of thing as fundraisers, so they have chainsaws, a hydraulic splitter, and lots of helping hands... and now they are scheduled to come over Thursday night at 5:30pm to get this show on the road.

Don't nobody badmouth the LDS church--- they have done more for me and my kids than my husband's family has done in the eleven months he's been out of the house!