Pitchy Numbness.

The last two times I have sat down in front of my computer to write something, I've gone blank. I'm still blank, but the words will come. It's the chaos and I'm overwhelmed. All the "little things" and simple happenings all rolled up into one giant "something." I feel like I don't know what to do with myself, but I know what I don't want to do. I don't want to end my numbness by turning to the one thing that's always made me feel.

I like being by myself now. I like having my own space. I still feel hesitant to say my own place, because technically it's temporary; but, maybe I should. Maybe I should just go for it and say, hey.. this is my place. This is my little one-room apartment that I pay for by the week. If you don't like it, take a hike.

It's what I meet when I open the front doors of the place that I don't miss. The rushing of images past and memories buried. The ignorance, naivety, stupidity, hint of danger, and temptation. When I lived here in 2006, I was still an active drug addict. Cocaine was my bitch; or I was hers. Either way, we had a relationship. I have no desire whatsoever to go out with her again. That's not what this is about. It's the emotions that come along with remembering all of that crap. I was in Room 111. Take the stairs down two flights, take a left, go right at the hallway, and the door is on the left. At first, I thought, "wouldn't it be kind of neat if I lived in the same room again?" No. No, it wouldn't. Not with the way I am feeling right now. I can only imagine the multiplication of images in my head if I were actually in the same exact room. There was a slight hint of nostalgia to the idea; then it was gone. I did coke in that room. I lived in that room for 6 months. That room holds other unpleasant memories. It holds some great memories with my kids visiting, but the good crashes into the bad too roughly. There was a guy who lived on the second floor, almost just above Room 111. I didn't recognize him at first, but he turned out to be someone my family knew from Altamonte. From the hood. He sold crack. Not to me, I never smoked crack. Plenty of people here did, though. Mostly on the third floor, where I am now. Thankfully, I haven't seen any crackheads (that I'm aware of). He used to feed me downers (Xanax) all the time when I was on coke, so I could function for work. He eventually got thrown out of the hotel because his son was advertising to people they sold crack and what room they were in. Idiots. There was a lady from the third floor who used to talk to me out front while I smoked cigarettes all the time. She was a lot of fun to talk to and wanted to come to my room. It was all laughs and games until she whipped out a crack pipe and asked if I minded. Noooooooo, I don't mind. I mean, I do coke in my room, what's the dif, right? I'll never forget the smell. It was horrible. Like burning nasty candy. I have no idea how else to describe it. She never came to my room again and I distanced myself as much as I could after that. Every time I'd walk to the corner store there was this other lady sitting in the grass. She'd have a different story every night about why she needed money, as if she'd never remember she'd talked to me a few days before. Either her mom was in the hospital and she needed money for the bus; or she had just gotten out of the hospital and needed to get back to the other side of Orlando. I'd tell her every time I barely had money to take care of myself. The internet was always an issue that year. I worked online then, too. I've been a medical transcriptionist/medical documentation specialist for 10 years now. I had more issues with internet connection during that 6 months than I've had in my entire life. I was ALWAYS late for work, unable to work, or struggling to work. Always having to convince them to let me pay late because of their internet service interrupting my work. Of course, it wasn't only that interrupting my work, but it had a lot to do with it. They ended up giving me my very last 2 days here free because of their internet.

I don't do drugs anymore. That's one huge difference from when I lived here 8 years ago. I don't really see too much evidence that things have changed here, though. A little, maybe. I don't see crackheads; not obvious ones. I haven't seen any noticeable drug dealers, except the one that tried to get me to get in his car. I do smell occasional marijuana as I'm walking down the hall. I just roll my eyes, because I know that's one thing that is never going to stop here. I'd rather it be nothing, but I'd rather it be marijuana than any other drug. I am on the smoking floor because I have a cat. The smoking floor is also the pet floor. I understand, kind of, their logic; but on the other hand, I kind of think it's unfair, as well. But whatever. I'm not giving up my precious kitty. I feel like she's all I have left sometimes.

So far, I've had the crazy barking dog, who has quieted down considerably. Actually, I very rarely hear it anymore. The guy next door turned out to be bipolar, as well, and was taken away for a day. Since he's been back, I'm not sure if he just hasn't left his room, or if he takes the dog out a lot. It's kind of weird now that I think about it.

A couple of nights ago I went to walk to the store for a bottle of water. The inevitable was bound to happen. I'm heading through the parking lot toward the corner store and a car stops in front of the entrance, still a good 150 feet from where I am, with the passenger door open and he's yelling "excuse me!" Nope. I dart to the right and cross between two cars to the next section of the parking lot and make a left toward the store again. He just pulls forward and blocks me there, too. "Excuse me." Screw it. I approach the car and the conversation goes something like this:

Him: "What are you doing?"
Me: "I'm working, but I'm walking to the store real quick."
"You need a ride somewhere?"
"No."
"You work from your room??"
"Yeah."
(inaudible and unintelligible)
"What?"
(again... seriously, I'm not leaning into your car any more than I already am, so speak LOUDER.)
"I can't hear you."
"What you do?"
"Medical transcription."
"What room?"
"Really?"
"Okay. You got a friend?"
"Yeah, I got a friend."
"You need another friend?"
"I have enough friends."
"Alright then."

I walk away, he drives away. Seriously? I am not stupid. I know what you want. I know what you want to offer or sell to me. I know what you want for payment for your offer. That is not my life anymore and I'm glad that my tone of voice, facial expressions, and the way I answered your questions finally relayed that message to you. Get out of my face. I will not get in your car, I do not want what you have, and I do not need you in my life, nor will you be coming to my room. Again, I AM NOT STUPID. Do you know what is super sad about this scenario? If it had happened in 2006, it probably would have went completely differently, because that would have been an easy step to not only getting high, but getting my room paid for. Do you know what that tells me? I AM NOT WHO I ONCE WAS.

MY PAST: I DON'T LIVE THERE ANYMORE.

Last night, I had trouble with the internet. First time since I've been here. It's hard to believe I'm going on week 3 of being here already. My days are flying by. I don't feel like I'm living. I'm just surviving. Thankfully, it was a one night thing, and I think had more to do with a password switch (first of the month) than anything else. So far, so good.

More than anything, I look around me and just want to see more of my things. I'm in a battle of the dumbass right now and can't seem to get anything that's mine. I've only asked for a few things that are still at my ex-fiance's farm. My journals, my comforter, the Wii, my coffee mugs that have my children's pictures on them, something my grandma sent me for the kitchen... and preferably my keyboard, because music and writing are the only two things I can use passionately to express myself and I really need to play badly. I don't think that's too much to ask for right now. I can't afford to get a storage unit yet for everything else. I wish I could. Believe me, it would make my life so much easier if it was ALL out NOW. The responses I get: Blame for his financial issues, blame for his depression, blame for his loneliness, blame for his alcohol and drug usage, blame for his anger issues, saying he loves me and wishes things were different but..... There are no "but's". You did what you did. You wanted me to be responsible. Does anyone see me having a problem with that? Nope. He says he needs to be responsible now and learn how to be by himself. You've had 5 months so far and I see no progress. I don't know what to tell you, except for stop ignoring me when I ask for what belongs to me, stop waiting to answer until it's only convenient for you, and give. me. my. things. Move along, move along. For the love of God, move along. He tells me that because I've moved the date back on getting all my stuff I've prolonged his recovery time. Are you kidding me right now? Let me read that again. Yep. Yes, that's what it says. No sir. I've had to move the date back for two reasons. 1) You never answer me when I ask when I can pack my stuff and start getting it together. You never answer me when I ask when a good time would be to do anything at all, so what do you expect? 2) I'm being responsible for myself and have rent to pay, so I've had to postpone getting a storage unit for stuff I thought I would never have to move again, because you made a false promise to me 3 years ago. If anything, YOU have postponed MY recovery time. I'm not the one playing the blame game and treating someone else like a piece of invisible trash.

I wish you had NEVER texted me again and just left me alone after the first time we split up.

So, yes.. the numbness is coming. The chaos, the memories, the current situation; it's all balling up like a giant wad of gum I've stepped on and it's now stuck to the bottom of a shoe that I can't take off. The laces are knotted and my fingers are cramping from trying to untie them. My mind is like a tornado, yet blank. My ability to function feels like it's slowly dwindling.

Yet I can still write this blog.

How these words came out, I have no idea. I'm staring at paragraphs that I don't recall forming.

My numbness is pitchy, and a little off-beat; but, I will leave you with this very raw and un-edited piece of me:

What Have I Done? Guilty, Sentenced, and Ashamed.

I never saw it coming. Then again, when do we ever? That fateful moment that will permanently alter the course of our lives. That moment that is surrounded by the consequences of those fateful decisions you made to get you in the situation to begin with. Yet, there were lies I believed, things I didn't understand; I was so naive. It's actually so sad how naive I was, having had lived mostly a sheltered life outside of the home I mostly grew up in, despite the sexual abuse that went on there. Many people have offered up the suggestion that the reason my childhood was so sheltered and I wasn't allowed to spend the night at friend's houses, go to any type of camp, have birthday parties (expect 3 that I can remember; one, no one showed up; two, it was in my mom's bar, so definitely no one showed up; and three, my one and only slumber party I ever had in my childhood when I turned 10), or even go in the neighbors or friends houses, is because my grandmother wasn't necessarily trying to shelter me or protect me from the outside world, she was trying to keep what was happening on the inside world our family secret. That was the huge pink elephant in the room, only I've decided our elephant is purple with white polka dots. If you want to watch a video blog I did about that, you can see that at My Story, Part 1: Childhood sexual abuse, struggling, self-injury, and suicide. Hope.  This is about something else entirely. It does tie into and explain in more detail what is up with my video blog, My Paper Story, Part 2: Drug Addiction. Recovery., if you'd like to watch it first.

My life plus drug addiction was chaos directly ordered right from hell at the very beginning. Granted, as you see in the progression of my video blog, I didn't do drugs until I was 30 years old. Who does that, anyway?

I do.

I had been a single mom of 4 children for four years at that point.  It was hard and I was bipolar, but I didn't know the bipolar yet.  I thought I was just stressed out and overwhelmed. I was; both. But that's never an excuse to abuse substances to cope with it. Mine was a different kind of overwhelming and stress altogether. It was the kind that made me pick up heavy vacuum cleaners and throw them across the room. My oldest son, who was 11 at the time, said he had no idea I was that strong. I don't think I really was. I think it was early manifestation symptoms of undiagnosed mental health disorders, that would remain undiagnosed until I was 38. 

The year was 2004. It was later in the year. My sons were 4 and 11, and my daughters were 6 and 8. I honestly can't even remember how it began. A few phone calls, the invention of the internet and AOL quickly becoming the greatest "social network" at the time. Chat rooms were suddenly available and you could talk to your friends through instant messaging, which was pretty freaking awesome. We suddenly had access to things we never would have had access to before. Then, there was texting, of course. Easy contact with everyone.

That's me, second from the right. I was 30, but I certainly didn't look it. Most people thought I was in my 20s. This is when, during the times I didn't have my kids and they were with their dad, I began hanging out first with my aunt, who happens to be almost the same age as me, and a lot of friends that were into a lifestyle that I wasn't necessarily into; but that quickly changed.  I started smoking marijuana, not just with other people, but buying it for myself and taking it home. I would lay in a hot bubble bath and smoke while reading a book, then subsequently hop on AOL for games and chatting, and laugh my ass off at just about anything. I'd finally found what I thought was my harmless comic relief coping mechanism for the moods and changes going on in my mind that I had no control over, nor did I understand at all. All I knew was that I had been raising 4 children by myself for over four years at that point, and I felt like I just might go crazy.  Even though I was, and always will be, completely in love with my children, and a very good mommy, having close relationships with all of them, I was losing control; and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. Then, here this was. This plant that made me feel normal for lack of a better word. It didn't stop there, though. Within a month, I was handed my first line of cocaine by a friend. He was someone I thought I could trust at the time, and being the naive, trusting person I was, I figured since he'd done the drug and I hadn't, he knew what he was doing when he gave it to me. While my aunt was in her bathroom, because her apartment is usually where we all hung out, this mutual friend handed me a plate and a straw. I was scared to death. I said I'd never do drugs, let alone something more than marijuana. I don't know why I did it. Curiosity? Thinking that if marijuana made me feel better, cocaine would hide my pain even more? I had no way of knowing that the line I was given was not, in fact, a line; it was more like a rail.

I was snorting it just as my aunt came out of the bathroom and stopped dead in her tracks. All I remember hearing was, "Oh my god." and my immediate thought was, "I just killed myself." An argument ensued between the two of them. He thought I'd done coke before; she couldn't believe I'd just done that; I'd obviously been given too much; eventually her saying well you might as well do it now; etc. My first thought, quite honestly, was "I suddenly really need to poop." I didn't know yet that was one of the first reactions you get when you do coke, especially the first time. Oh, and your appetite completely vanishes. And you don't sleep, because you CAN'T. It's impossible. At least for most people. The picture above kind of makes me laugh because I didn't realize I was in it when it was being taken. I'm kind of glad I was though (far right, hand over my mouth) because it shows how skinny I became in such a short period of time, how hollow my eyes were getting with dilated pupils, and the redness and darkness had already started around the sockets. I want to say this picture was around December 2004. I was wiping beer off my upper lip, FYI. How the hell I remember that, I have no idea, but I do. I also had begun to drink very heavily while doing cocaine, because I found it physically impossible to do an upper without having some sort of a downer. I found out later I was actually speed-balling and could have easily killed myself multiple times by doing cocaine through the night and drink massive amounts of beer at the same time. You never know when to stop either of them. I also began to abuse Xanax as a downer about a year later. Major speed-balling.

That first night, after that rail of cocaine I should have never taken, I spent 4 hours sitting on that torn up couch you see in the above picture, leaned over with my forehead resting on the edge of a large cooking pot, throwing up. FOUR HOURS. What scared me the most wasn't that I was throwing up, it was the fact that I was unable to lift my head. I would tell my brain to do it, but my head would not lift. I had a curved bruise on my forehead for the good part of a week, and another friend at the time had to empty the pot 4 times for me before the night was done and I could finally get home and lay down. You'd think that would have been the end of that, wouldn't you? I'm about as bull-headed and stubborn as they come, and once I had cocaine, cocaine had me. Regardless of the probable overdose, the sickness, the stupidity, it had sunk it's talons in so deeply in one night, that I wanted more. What started out as a $20 habit, grew into a $250 every 2-3 days habit over the course of the next 2 years. It didn't help that I married another cocaine addict in March of 2005, which is really when this story heats up.

I knew walking down the aisle I was not supposed to be marrying this person. I had a few people voice their opinions to me. I did not listen, of course. I was in complete denial about my life. I didn't have a problem, I was not marrying him because it had anything to do with drugs, and I could control my life. I was just fine! I was so fine that one night I tried to snort coke through a cigarette and then proceeded to light a straw on fire when I put it in my mouth thinking it was the cigarette. I was so fine that when my husband knocked an entire plate of coke off the bed, I crawled around on my hands and knees and got all I could from the floor with my fingertips, carefully gathered remnants off the bedspread, even put one piece in my mouth thinking it was a small piece of uncrushed cocaine, when actuality it was a piece of cat litter, while multitasking by cursing him out and drinking a beer. I had turned into the one person I never, ever wanted to become.  Long nights turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. Months, amazingly turned into years. The most painful year was 2005 for me. I lost my job and home, and I signed primary residence of my children over to their father, because I knew that I was incapable of taking care of them the way they deserved to be taken care of at that moment. It ripped me apart. I hated it. I loved them so much, that I actually did what was best for them, which to some people turned out to be an opinionated selfish thing, with their assumptions that I did it so I could be free to party more. No. Not at all. I was beginning to see I needed help, and fast. I didn't want my kids going through anything else. They didn't deserve to suffer any more consequences for my life choices.

You would never guess it by this photograph, but I hadn't slept in at least 48 hours. The night before my wedding was spent speed-balling, almost to the point of not being able to breathe through my nose. Through some miracle, I was able to function normally and make it through my own wedding. The bottle of champagne in the limo helped a LOT. I actually had a wonderful wedding photographer, because the photoshopping done on this picture is actually quite remarkable, given that I had a very large scab on my bottom lip (you can still tell it's swollen, though) that was ferociously covered with make-up, but still visible to the naked eye if next to my face. My arms were also covered in scratches, but you can't see those, either. The fact that my wedding dress fit when I originally bought it, and you can tell here that I was getting down to skin and bones, really saddens me. It was a super gorgeous dress. I would have made a super gorgeous bride - under the right circumstances; with the right person.

I would spend my nights begging my husband to help me stop, but instead he would feed it to me when I'd get sick. Sick is usually the term us drug addicts use when we are going through a state of withdrawal, because you are sick. You are sick as hell and feel like you want to die. In his twisted way, MAYBE he thought he was helping me, but remember, he was an addict too, so any excuse to get more was good enough for him. I still continued to beg, he still continued to bring it. My money had run out. My income was the only source for a long time. I had graduated from college and my job was a good one. He was supposed to be going to some medical assistant school, but dropped out. He went through job after job. It never worked. So the money started coming in a different way.

It was October of 2005 when my children began living at their dad's more permanently. By November, my husband and I were living with my aunt (yes, the same one), and by December he was a full-time thief and burglar.  The insanity of drug addiction is something I could never describe to anyone who has never been an addict. An addict would already understand. Drugs own you until you finally decide to exert power over them with help of others and your higher power. I had shoved my higher power under a rug, yet I could still hear Him calling out my name. I ignored the calling, the whispers, the screams. I had no clue what my husband was doing - at first. He was robbing houses, bringing the merchandise back, and I was pawning it because he lacked a Florida ID.

Before I go any further, go ahead and say it. You are a complete idiot.

I know. Thank you.

Completely naive is what I was. Clueless. Brain dead. Zombified. Whatever you want to call it, that's what I was. I actually believed that he got the stuff from his parents the first couple of times it happened, but one day he said, "don't ask" when he brought back a whole bunch of jewelry; I didn't. I realized it on my own, so I didn't have to ask. He had stolen it. He came clean with me, told me not to worry, that he had been careful, used gloves, explained how he was doing it using MY MINIVAN, and that if he ever were to get caught, I wouldn't get in trouble for pawning anything, because he was the thief and would take the rap for the whole thing and say he tricked me into it all.  Guess what? I was so not street smart at the time, I actually believed him in my drug-induced addicted mind, and, you guessed it.. continued to pawn items. I could sit here and list the different types of things he stole and I pawned, but it would really serve no purpose other than to bring me to honest, true tears of remorse and regret, and bring out old feelings of anger that I'd rather just leave alone right now.  It's horrible to think about. I never once went with him to steal any of those items, yet I feel inside, to this very day, that I was with him every single time, because I was the one that sold them under false identification. False pretenses. For all I know, one of those rings could have been the only thing left someone had of their great-grandmother's. If people don't think I have thought about stuff like that and have gone through the guilt process, they are dead wrong. I could say "I'm sorry" until I am turquoise in the face, and it would never cover the amount of pain I indirectly caused people. I am deeply, deeply remorseful for what I did and I am very well aware, now, that it was wrong.

On the morning of January 23, 2006, my husband came home from robbing a house (I didn't even know he had left, which was often the case), and I got dressed and prepared myself to make our trip to one of many scattered pawn shops across the tri-county area. In retrospect, I can see how incredibly stupid I was in many, many ways. Little did I know they were already looking for me, and the last 3 times I had pawned items, they already knew who I was and were just collecting more evidence. Those pawnshop brokers are sneaky little bastards in more ways than one. (Sorry, I had to make a comical jab.) Even though I was the one with the driver's license, I was exhausted, so I hopped into the passenger side of minivan and he took the driver's seat. The next 5 minutes or so happened so quickly, nothing registered in my head at first. Nothing. I felt like an empty balloon with eyeballs just staring off into space, somewhat floating above my body as if this was just not happening. I was confused, everything was quiet in my head, even though I knew there was intense screaming around me. It was like in the movies, where they quiet the soundtrack and you see the person looking around at all the details without hearing a single thing, in slow motion. That was me. We had pulled out of the parking space, and when we got to the entrance of the apartment complex, one police car hit my minivan from behind, one hit it from the front, one hit it from the driver's side, and in less than 5 seconds there were 3 fully-loaded trigger-ready guns pointed directly at my face. This was all taken in, in that slow motion silence I was talking about. When it finally registered in my head what was happening, the first thing I remember hearing was the police officer with the gun to my right screaming, "Get out of the van now and put your hands up! Now!" It didn't make any sense. None of it. I was still processing.

I got out of the car at about the same exact time my husband did. He was automatically thrown face first into the pavement and cuffed. They were much more gentle with me. I don't know if it's because I'm a female or because I looked so bewildered and frightened that they took pity on me, but I calmly turned around so they could cuff me, and they gently sat me down on the curb. They questioned him first, for what seemed like an eternity. Then my questioning ensued. Do you want to give us a statement? Sure! Why not? After all, it's all going to be pinned on him, right? No, I don't know why you are arresting me! I think you do. Well, you are entitled to your opinion.

Please educate yourselves. You do the crime, you do the time. Don't believe anyone else, especially if they are an addict too, when they say you won't get in trouble for something because they will "take the rap." Also, look up the term "lawyer up" and do it immediately. My stupidity was escalating at a frightening rate just within that first hour, but I had no idea what I was doing. Once collapsing hard into reality and spilling my guts (no-no! big NO-NO!) I explained to them that I didn't know at first. He asked me, "but you should have known, right?" I later found out this was a sleazy trick question and can be used against you in a court of law, but it was done, said, and recorded. Nothing I could do about it. Needless to say, by the end of the day, my lawyer was super pissed with me.

The following evening, even though I didn't know it until 2 weeks later when I was released from jail, a story ran on the local news with my mugshot plastered all over television.

Husband And Wife Team Arrested For Winter Park Burglary <<<<<<<<<
No Facebook reposts or Tweets on that, thank God. The 2 shares that are shown are from my grandmother, who decided to take it upon herself to share it with the whole family via emails. THAT was fun. Also, this report shows the idiocracy of careless journalism at its finest. 1) It was not Winter Park, it was Winter Springs. There is at least a 20 mile difference between the two cities. 2) As I stated, I was never with him when anything was stolen. But thanks, baby daddy, for dragging my four children into the room when it came on the news and saying, "I just wanted you to see where your mom is."

The difference almost a year of hardcore drugs can make versus the picture above. Granted, the wedding photo was the beginning of my downfall and I'd already started to deteriorate, the puffy face and distant eyes in this picture tell my whole story. I was a disaster. I was completely void of feeling by the time I got to the jail - until I got into general population, and then all hell broke loose inside and I cried for 3 days straight, literally, without being able to stop.  All I could remember was talking to the police, like I shouldn't have, the police woman who drove me being very nice, even offering me one of her cigarettes and lighting it for me, because I smoked during that time; and I remember Z88.3, the local Christian radio station, playing in the police car and I was sitting in the backseat awkwardly with my hands cuffed behind me, singing songs to Jesus out loud with what felt like meaningless, emotionless tears streaming down my face. I knew I was going to jail, but I knew that I also had a possible advantage on my side that my husband didn't have - a grandfather that loved me and had the money to help me. The issue with that was he had already helped my mom, my sister, and my aunt so much, and I was the only one left who HADN'T gotten into trouble, that I wasn't sure he would.  I was the first in the family to graduate from high school, let alone college. I had led a picture perfect life (from the outside), with the first husband, four children, house; despite the divorce, I was still graduating from college, making something out of myself.

BOOM. Real life happened, yo. Like a tornado, hurricane, and earthquake combined into one perfect storm.

The call to my grandfather was one of the hardest calls I've ever had to make, besides the one to my children's father. Neither of them took too keen to the fact that I was in jail for, um, countless felonies.

It's all a matter of public record, and for those of you that are the curious type, I will save you the trouble of looking it up:

Arrest Date: 1/23/2006

Account Balance: ($0.00)

Charges:

• GRAND THEFT OVER $300.00
• DEALING STOLEN PROP ORGANIZE THEFT
• FRAUD/FALSE VERIF OF OWNERSHIP PAWN ITEMS OVER $300.
• DEAL IN STOLEN PROPERTY-ORGANIZED THEFT (OBTS#5901058490)
• GRAND TEHFT OVER $300 UNDER $20000 (OBTS#5901058490)
• FALSE OWNERSHIP INFO FOR PAWNED O/$300 (OBTS#5901058490)
• GRAND THEFT $300 UNDER $20000 (OBTS#5901058490)
• DEAL IN STOLEN PROPERTY ORGANIZED THEFT (OBTS#5901058490)
• FRAUD-FALSE OWNERSHIP INFO FOR PAWNED O/$300(OBTS#5901058490
• GRAND THEFT O/$300 (OBTS#5901058490)
• PAWNED ITEMS O/$300 (OBTS#5901058490)
• DEAL IN STOLEN PROPERTY ORGANIZED THEFT(OBTS#5901058490)
• GRAND THEFT O/$300 UNDER $20000(OBTS#5901058490)
• FRAUD-- PAWNED ITEMS O/$300 (OBTS#5901058490)
• FRAUD-PAWNED ITEMS OVER $300 (OBTS#5901058490)

I won't bother listing my husbands charges, as it would take up at least twice as much room.

A total of 15 felony counts were brought against me. My bond was set at $25,000. My court date was in May. I thought for sure I would rot in there, especially after the initial conversation with my grandfather, who called me every name in the Great Book of Heart Slashing Painful Names Under The Sun and lectured me on how I was the good one and how everyone had expected so much more from me. "Out of all the family, Barbara Frances, you? What were you thinking?"  Well, that's an easy question. 

I wasn't.

He did bond me out after 2 weeks and he did spend $80,000 to keep me out of prison. You read that correctly. I'm pretty sure I solely finished bankrupting my grandfather after everyone else took what they could get. I'll never be able to repay him, except to continue to show him that I'm not the person I was then and make something really amazing of my life. It's one of the reasons I blog and I advocate for mental health so much. I want to make a difference in the lives of others, in a way that is relatable to myself. He let me sit in jail for 2 weeks on purpose. It was horrible. As I said, I cried non-stop for 3 days, cried intermittently after that, but I survived. There weren't many people I could make collect calls to. My baby daddy/first husband ended up blocking my calls so I couldn't talk to my children. That killed me a little inside, because I wasn't sure at that point if I was getting out or not.  The only people that visited me were my sister and aunt one time, and my lawyer. I had a fantastic lawyer. He is our Central Florida family lawyer, considering he has literally represented us all now, including (unfortunately) my son a few years ago for something minor. The only reason he took my son's case for such a minimal amount of money is because of the time and money that's been invested into him by my family.  My baby daddy knew he was a good criminal defense attorney and was smart to take my son there, even if he did use a name-drop (me/my grandfather). 

After 2 weeks in jail, my grandfather told my attorney, Zack, to go ahead and let me out; he thought I'd learned my lesson. Zack relayed those exacted words to me and although I was grateful and crying, I couldn't help but mutter, "asshole."  It took a year of continuations and court proceedings to finally get sentenced. My husband was sentenced to 15 years in prison with a mandatory minimum of 85% of that time being served.  His release date will be in August of 2019, at this point, according to recent checking. He has pending charge that I hope keep him in prison that I will not mention here, but he did something, that I only found out about not even 4 years ago, to someone I love, and I never want to see him again. He is no husband of mine.

Zack got all but 1 of my felony charges dropped, and the rest turned into 2 misdemeanors. I was sentenced to 3 years probation, adjudication withheld, no restitution, and my court costs, fines, and first 18 months of probation were already paid. I served 2 years probation and qualified for early termination.

This, my friends, is not only the difference between wrong versus naive, but also the difference in having a public defender and having a top criminal defense attorney.  Nothing against public defenders, but honestly? Actually, I'm not even going to go there. I'll save that for another blog and one other, much smaller, incident.

I wish I could say I was immediately drug-free when I came out of jail, but considering I had to go right back into the same place I was living before I went to jail, that was virtually impossible for a drug addict. It would be 2 more years before I didn't touch cocaine again, but it was NEVER as bad as it had become. As a matter of fact, as funny as this is going to sound, the very first thing I did when I got out of jail was dye my hair and, after finally getting my van out of the impound, scraped all the stickers off the windows I had that readily identified my vehicle (giant silver musical notes across the back, colorful Grateful Dead bears, flowers, and fairies along the sides; I was one of those kind of minivan moms - the cool kind). I wanted to hide, or at least blend in. I felt like everyone who had been watching the news that night my mugshot aired would surely recognize me and point me out in public. Although I had turned my back for a couple of years, I did attend a church with close to 4,000 members, hundreds of which I literally new on a first name basis because I'd been there so many years, so there was no doubt in my mind that practically everyone knew what I had done. I wanted to change everything about me and my surrounding, my belongings, my vehicle, yet I knew I was still me and it really wouldn't change a thing. I would ultimately have to find a way to make peace with my actions, and make amends to those I had harmed. I'm thankful to say that, indeed, I have. 

This is me now. Healthy. Drug free. Clean. Clear-minded. I struggle with post-traumatic stress disorder because of events that happened during the years from 2004-2008, when I struggled in the pits of cocaine hell, but I'm healing.  Because of my conviction, I cannot go back to school to finish any healthcare-related degree until my felony is 15 years old. I have a degree in medical transcription and medication documentation specialist, which I graduated with in 2004 just before all of this started, with plans to go further and eventually acquire my Bachelor's degree. I can no longer get financial aid, so if I do go back to school, I will have to be able to pay for it. Therefore, my hopes of returning to school and pursuing further dreams looks bleak most times. I'm the type of person who never loses hope, however. 

You might be wondering why I decided to write about this. For one, it's a matter of public record anyway, so anyone who decided for whatever reason to look into my past would find it without even having to do a formal background check. It needed to be told from my personal experience standpoint. Two, I simply needed to tell it. Part of who I am becoming is total transparency. It took me a long time to learn to be honest with myself, and then with other people. I want to be able to do that with anything and everything. I have a voice and my stories need to be told. It took years for me to realize that. Not just for myself, but for others. Whether as a teaching tool or just to let someone know that they are not the only person to make the crazy mistakes they have made in their life.  If you are going to read my ramblings, you are going to be reading a whole lot of everything. The good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful, and everything in between.

Also, there are lessons to be learned here:

1. Don't do drugs. Ever.
2. Stay single if you aren't 100% sure someone is good for you.
3. Don't do the crime if you don't plan on doing the time.
4. Don't believe stupid lies. 
5. Always lawyer up, never talk to the police without a lawyer present. About anything. Ever.
6. Don't go back into the same environment you came out of if you can help it, if it was unhealthy.
7. Realize that you are important and you will make mistakes. Just make sure they aren't the kind you will have to pay for, for the rest of your life. And if they are, you are still okay. You will just have a journey that is a little bit rougher.
8. There are consequences to every action. Every action has a reaction.
9. Life isn't all roses and lollipops and can be quite unfair sometimes.
10. Addiction is a real thing, a horrible disease, and yes, it can happen to you.
11. No one else can take the rap for your wrongdoings. You are responsible for you.
12. If you aren't street smart, get smart; just without being on the streets.
13. A felony criminal record affects your life in a LOT of ways, way after your time is served.
14. Again, common sense goes a long way; and it's a whole lot easier to hear when you AREN'T DOING DRUGS.

My Mother.

*Disclaimer: I have my mother's permission to write everything in this article.

This is definitely one of the most beautiful women I have ever known. Today is her birthday. I have the privilege of calling her mommy. Yes, I'm 40 years old and I call my mother "mommy." Sometimes it's mom, but the older I get, the more it's mommy. Backwards, I know; but our relationship has grown backwards, so it fits.  It's similar to The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. You know, the movie where he is born as an old man and instead of aging, he just gets younger and younger, only to die as an infant? Granted, neither myself or my mother are getting younger, but we are bonding more as we get older, and the more years that pass, the more I get to know my mom; the more I love my mom. It hasn't always been that way, and I'm here to tell you why I'm proud to call my mom "mommy" today.

I was born in 1974. Her first baby girl. She really wanted a baby, but my father (who I have never met, as he chose not to be in my life after the fact) would not have a baby with her unless they were married.  So, they married, and approximately 10-1/2 months later I was born. I have no hate toward my father, as most people know, but why he even bothered is something I will never understand unless I get the opportunity to sit down with him face-to-face one day and have all my questions answered.  I doubt the existence of that day, but stranger things have happened. I am okay with it, either way, and I am thankful, regardless, because obviously I would not exist if things had gone differently.

My mommy loved me. Always has, always will. But there were times growing up when I didn't believe that. See, I wasn't raised by my mom for much of my life. I have very little recollection of my own life before the age of 8 years old.  I have a vague memory of being 4 years old and having my then-step-sisters (there were lots of them) each grab one of my limbs, and swing me back and forth, letting go just in time to where I would land on the bed in my half-sister's dad's bedroom.  I remember when I was 6 years old and we were supposed to have a birthday party for me, one of two birthday parties I can recall ever in my life growing up, and before everyone was to come over for the party, one of my step-sisters broke a bone and we had to take her to the hospital. We left a note on the door explaining to everyone where we had gone and why, and that we would be back, but by the time we got back, almost everyone couldn't come anymore. My childhood best friend, Shelley, who lived down the street, was getting her hair blown dry by her mom when I knocked on the door. She couldn't come. There was only one single girl, who I can't even remember the name of now, who ended up being able to come over.  All I can say is that my mom's intentions were good and we made the most of it. I also remember us living in an apartment complex that possibly had the word "Tiffany" in it and the dumpster being on fire one night, and us going to the pool in the middle of the night. I'm not really sure how old I was when that transpired.

I can't honestly say I remember the exact age I was when I went to live with my grandmother. Seven? My mom would know better than I would. I do know I was already living with my grandmother when I was 8, because of specific events related to that age. I can also tell you that even though I'm incapable of recalling the exact moment when I did leave my mom's care, I felt completely abandoned and unloved.

I grew up loving my mom so much, while at the same time never wanting to end up anything like her.  As far as I was concerned, she was a psychotic drug addict who chose a lifestyle that I didn't understand, at the time, over her children. I wanted to know why my mom didn't love me. I almost lost my mom when I was 6, because she decided to drive while drinking. She ended up hitting the cement barrier on the middle of a highway, breaking her nose and completely shattering her heel as her leg went through the floor of the car. If that is incorrect in any way, I will allow my mom to correct it.

Thankfully, it was one of many times that God would spare her life, just as He did my own later on in my adult life. It didn't stop her from living a dangerous lifestyle, though, as it just doesn't for some of us in the world of addiction. I envy those who learn quickly or from their first "serious mistake." Others, like my mom, and eventually myself, have to go all the way to the bottom and slam into the cold, hard ground in order to completely wake up.

I lived with my grandmother and my step-grandfather until I was 13 years old. The years I remember, from the age of 8 to the age of 13, consist of barely seeing my mom.  Again, I'm not sure how old I was [it could have been before 8, I don't know], I remember my mom sneaking my sister and I from my grandma's house in the middle of the night and driving us to Louisiana. I was born and raised in Houston, Texas, by the way. We went to her then (and ironically all these years later, now) boyfriend's house.  The only crisp memory I have from that trip, besides being woken up and wondering where we were going, is that I caught a butterfly. I loved butterflies. I was running around where Kevin lived, chasing the butterflies, and was so happy when I caught one. What I didn't realize at the exact moment that I caught it, I had killed it. I was devastated. Seriously, I was crushed over the fact that I had just killed a butterfly. I was so ashamed and sad that I went and sat behind Kevin's recliner, holding the butterfly in my hands. I don't know how long I sat there or when I finally came out, I just remember being sad about the butterfly. I don't even remember going back to my grandma's.

Through the rest of the years, I remember seeing my mom a few times a year after that. It may have been more than what I recall, but I mainly remember birthdays and Christmas.  I would anxiously wait by the window, waiting, and she would come and spend some time inside, bring gifts, and I would cry every time she would leave.  However, each year, even though the longing for my mom did not go away, the crying became less and less.  Instead, I was angry along with the sad.  She had this whole life that didn't include me and I didn't understand why.  I didn't understand what drug addiction was.  At that age, my opinion was that if you really wanted to stop using drugs, you could just stop. Just stop, already! I would find out later in life, that is so NOT the case at all.

The story varied through the years as to how my mom came to "give me and my sister up." I was told that she just decided to sign us over one day. I was also told that she was deceived and thought she was signing over a car, only to find out she had signed over her children. I was told a lot of things. The type of things you just don't talk to the actual children about when they are still young and impressionable.  God knows the truth and I no longer care what the actual truth is on that exact matter, and that's ALL that matters.  In my heart, because I'm a parent now and had to make a similar, very, very difficult decision, I believe that my mother did what she thought was best for me and my sister at the time; not because she didn't love us or wanted to spend her life doing what she wanted to do.

Mommy, I'm sorry for ever thinking you didn't love me.

I was the angriest when my mom ended up moving from Texas to North Carolina, and then eventually Florida, where I now reside. By moving, she truly abandoned me in my eyes. I cannot tell the story of the day she left right now. Even though I was 12, it is still one of the most vivid, freshest memories I have of my mother. The tears, the terror, the pain, and the fear.  She didn't fully understand what she was leaving, but my sister and I did.  Watching her drive away as my sister and I stood in the driveway crying was exactly like what it must look like to see your very last hope for survival leaving your life forever.  She was leaving us to a life she really didn't know we were living; but she would find out once she was already living in North Carolina.

For reasons I will not go into in this blog, my sister and I were taken away from my grandmother (whom I love dearly, as well, let me please add), when I was 13 years old. We were both sent to my sister's dad, because I had no other relatives to be sent to other than my mother, that would take me, and it would be a process for my mom to get me at that point. I lived with my former step-dad for a year.  During that time, my mom and I wrote letters back and forth, and talked to each other on the phone.  It seemed like she was doing better in life, she was with my second step-dad -the man I will always call my step-dad, or "Gene"ric dad (his name is Gene)- and she wanted me to live with her in Florida once they got settled.  After a long process of home inspections and all the other stuff she had to do, I moved to Florida during the beginning of my freshman year of high school, 1988, and I've been here ever since. I lived with my mom again, from the age of 14 until I was 18 years old.

Things were great the first year, with the exception of the fact that my sister had to remain in Texas for 4 more years. I later found out she felt like I abandoned her, and that will always sting my soul, as I spent most of my life taking care of her and trying to protect her as much as I could. I hope, as an adult, she knows that in her heart now. My mom and I got along great.  It was a little awkward at first.  We were literally trying to get to know each other.  I wanted her to love me so bad and felt like I had to be perfect in order for that to happen.  I was raised feeling like I needed to be perfect and it took a lot of "unlearning" to change that.  If I was hungry or thirsty, I would ask permission to get something, and she'd quickly tell me I didn't have to ask for anything. I could just take it. I learned how to have more friends. I had sleepovers and slumber parties, got to go places - all things I was very rarely allowed to do before that, having been overprotected and sheltered my whole pre-teenage life.  I was extremely naive and trusted way too easily, even after what I'd already been through.

I was 15 years old the first time I walked in and found my mom talking to herself. That's when things very slowly began to go downhill in her life, again, and subsequently, mine to an extent. I say to an extent because around the age of 16, I learned very quickly how to tune certain things out of my life and become somewhat numb to my surroundings. It was the only coping mechanism I had left, and at that time I swore I would never resort to using drugs or alcohol in my life. Remember, I never wanted to be my mother.  I knew she was using drugs again. I knew she was smoking pot, because I witnessed it. I wasn't aware yet that she was abusing prescription drugs, and that was the reason she talked to herself, didn't make any sense a lot of the time, and her behavior was so outlandish and bizarre sometimes. I literally thought she was just going crazy. I was clueless.

I won't say those 4 years of living with her was hell, because it wasn't. It wasn't fun, and a lot of it sucked, but it wasn't purely disastrous. During the times when she was "normal" it was fine.

When I was 18, I moved out of the house. I was pregnant. My soon-to-be first husband and I got our own place. After I left, my sister moved to Florida to live with my mom, and for me, so much is a complete and total mystery and/or blur from that moment until the moment when things started to change for the better. My mom would flake on me and not babysit my son when I needed to work; or I just couldn't get a hold of her. She started using other drugs; cocaine, crack, and heroin, though I'm not sure in what order.  I would visit and hear her pretend sneeze in the bathroom so she could snort a line, and find the bloody tissues in the garbage. When I'd ask her about the bruises on the insides of her arms, she'd tell me she had her blood drawn that day for yet another illness that she supposedly had. She came to my baby shower for my second child with a black eye. She didn't see my second child until my daughter was 2 months old. After that, I rarely saw my mom again for several years. I wasn't really a part of her life and she wasn't really a part of my life, and my growing family; and I didn't want her to be.  I went back to being angry.  I didn't even care if she loved me or not anymore, on the surface. The inside of me was screaming, but I could no longer hear it.

It wasn't until after the birth of my fourth and final child in 2000 that I began to reach out to my mom again. I had started to miss her, and of course deep down I still loved her very much. I was getting divorced, soon to be a single mother of four children, and I really needed a mom.. again.  It was no use. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't fix her. I couldn't get her out of the lifestyle she was in, and I still had yet to experience any of it on my own. It wasn't until the end of 2004 through the middle of 2008 that I understood what true drug addiction was for myself, and ultimately understood my mom.

Yes, I became my mother. In every sense of the word, from how much alike we look to the severity of our addiction, to the decision we both made to put our children in a safer place; I was the epitome of my mother. My addiction was to cocaine and heavy pain killers, no crack or heroin; but, it really makes no difference. Addiction is addiction, and it can be strong no matter how much, or how little, you are addicted to.

My mom and "Gene"ric dad eventually moved back to North Carolina in an attempt to get away from everything that had practically, and ultimately did, destroy them here in Florida. I don't remember what year. I was some time in the late 1990s. The reason I remember that is because one of the times I went to visit my mom, I was almost 9 months pregnant with my third child (yes, I drove from Florida to North Carolina while almost ready to pop; I had my reasons) and when I got there, my sister and I were laughing so hard, and my daughter was sitting on my bladder, and I had to stop in the middle of the sidewalk that lead up to my mom's apartment because I had to pee. Stopping didn't help. I still pee'd on myself. The worst part was walking in and finding out my mom had company.

Awkward!

See, even in the midst of everything, there were still those moments that my mom and I connected. Most of all, we have always been able to laugh together, because we have the same wit, sense of humor, and, in my humble opinion, freaking awesome personality. Oh, and we laugh the same. Extremely loud and totally obnoxious. Like, the next city over can hear us.

After North Carolina, they moved back to Florida, but it was 2-1/2 hours from where I live now; the general area I've been in since moving to Florida in 1988. Her addictions became worse and worse, but she was in complete denial.  Our addictions coincided in 2006, when I went to Bradenton for Christmas with my kids. We didn't do any drugs together, but we were almost in the same physical condition. I still feel much shame when I say that I barely remember anything about that Christmas, except for the fact that I was sick and not mentally there for my children.  No one will ever understand the pain I feel when I look at pictures or sit and think about it too much, of the times with my kids that I missed during my drug addiction, the time and consequences that it has cost me after my drug addiction.. except, ironically, my own mother. She understands.

Our communications became rare again. Our relationship was very off and on. Then I found out that her and my "Gene"ric dad were splitting up for good. I want to say that was in 2010, but I'm not completely sure. All I know is it was very hard for me and my sister.  We cried.  But he is still part of us and we love him, and we always will, regardless of his own character defects. We all have them. My mom had moved back to Texas, where she remains and I think is the best place for her, even though I miss her more than words can say.

It took me until I was 36 years old to actually have a mommy. But I can honestly tell you that it was well worth the wait. It was worth all the pain, the tears, the experiences, the letting go, the anger, the confusion, the desperation, and the praying.

My mom checked herself into a rehab in Houston, TX, and it saved her life. She completely detoxed off all the prescription drugs she was on, and then put on only the few she needed for depression and anxiety. No more what seemed like hundreds of prescriptions for pain killers that she was finally ready to admit that she didn't need. This picture was taken in 2011. It was the first picture that I saw of my mom since she had gone to rehab.

I will never be able to describe what I felt when I saw this picture. I cried. And I cried and cried and cried, and I sat there with my mouth hanging open. Then I prayed and thanked God, and I cried some more. My mother was beautiful again. This picture will always hold an unimaginable amount of significance for me, because it marks the day I consider having found my mommy. When I talked to her on the phone, it was the first normal conversation I could remember having... ever.  I don't think I realized I HADN'T had a normal conversation with my mother until we talked after she came out of rehabilitation. She didn't talk over me. She didn't repeat the same thing 300 times in one conversation. I didn't have to put the phone down for an hour, only to come back and find that she was still talking. I could talk about me, my children, my life, and she was listening and responding. I had a mommy!

I've had a mommy ever since. I am so incredibly proud of my mother that I could write it every single day and it would only gain in meaning and never, ever lose an ounce of truth. My mom is a gorgeous, wonderful, compassionate, talented, intelligent human being who has overcome obstacles that many could never even comprehend. She is a voice that needs to be heard. She is a face that needs to be seen. She is a story that needs to be told. My mom went back to school and got a degree in medical billing and coding; an ally to my profession of medical transcription. Just another similarity between us. She has held a steady job ever since she finished school and is an asset to her company.  She has a life that she has always deserved to have and is someone that I can talk to about ANYTHING. She is always there for me, and I will always be there for her.

If anything could describe the kind of relationship we have now, it would be this picture. We are happy. She is mommy, I am daughter. We laugh at everything when we are together and have fun no matter what the circumstances; although I kind of look like I'm about to burst into tears or have an aneurysm in this picture, because I'm laughing so hard. It has taken time, but as I've said before, anything worth it takes time and effort.  Our relationship is worth it.  I forgive my mother for not being there when I needed her as I grew up.  I forgive her for the choices she made.  We all mistakes. Some of us make really big ones. I love her for who she is and I'm proud to call her mommy.

Dear mommy,

I know we have had it rough.  I know you never intended to make me feel like I was abandoned, just as I never intended on making my own children feel that way during my own years of mistakes.  I know you didn't just give me away, but you put me somewhere you thought I would be safe.  You did the best with what you had at the time, and didn't really have much guidance in order to do better than that. I want you to know that that's okay.  I forgive you and I am forever thankful that, no matter how old either of us were, you made the decision to put yourself somewhere in order to get the help you needed.  You made a great decision and you are living proof that a tiger can change it's stripes if it's determined enough to do so. Thank you for having me, and thank you for being my mommy. I love you. Happy birthday.

Always,

Barbara

Little Girl Sixteen.

She may be 16 years old, but she'll always be my little girl. She will always be my little girl, even though she doesn't want to be my anything right now. Some people tell me it is a phase, that it is just the way teenage girls are. I'm sorry, but I will have to politely and completely disagree with you on this one. My 16-year-old daughter actually despises me. She doesn't just treat me like I'm one of those dumb moms and she is like, "oh my god, mom, I know everything and you know nothing." She doesn't treat me like anything. I don't exist. I almost quite literally do not exist.

My Karah [kerr-uh; noun]; nickname: Kara-Bearah:  Skinny, pretty, blunt, sensitive, tall, creative, health food junkie, dancer, soccer player, writer. She was born in October of 1997. She's been loud ever since she came out of my womb. She lets you know what she wants when she wants it, and she is not afraid to say anything - at least not to a stranger. AND I MEAN ANYTHING. When it comes to personal and intimate feelings deep down, she has more of a difficult time sharing those feelings and thoughts with the people she loves.

She definitely does NOT get her height from me.

Her strange eating habits began when she was just 9 months old. She grabbed a red onion off my plate while we were eating at Outback Steakhouse and promptly took a huge bite.  I cringed, half covering my face, fully anticipating the tears and screaming to start. Instead, she chewed it up, swallowed it, and took another rather large bite; then reached for another one. Thus, came her first word from whence she grabbed the onion: SALAD. Salad? Like, really? Most kids say mama, dada.... ball. Nope, her first word... salad. She will eat anything healthy, for the most part, and shun the things that are not. The foods that she does eat, she is incredibly picky about. It is always either too hot, too cold, too thick, too runny, the wrong color, or it just doesn't taste right. When she was in the 2nd grade, she began insisting I not put Swiss Cake Rolls in her lunch box for dessert, because according to her teacher, they would make her fat because of sugar. I had a hard time with that one - and with that teacher.

This will always be one of my favorite pictures of Karah. I took this picture during a Fall Festival and it was once featured in the International Library of Photography under the title "The Sad Scarecrow" by Barbara Hammontree.

She has many likes and dislikes, as do we all. Her likes include onions, ballet, soccer, hot sauce (on everything), singing, going to the movies, chicken, swimming, fruit punch, salad, drawing, painting, writing, running, zebras, pandas, coffee, and now, driving.  Her dislikes include alfredo sauce, sitting in the back of a minivan, having to wait (for anything), cheese, most things that contain sugar, getting dirty, pants, thick oatmeal, people touching her things, root beer, seeing other people cry, and hearing or seeing anyone vomit.. ever.  It really freaks her out.

She has improved quite extensively over the years, but Karah has been well-known to speak whatever comes to mind, without thinking about what she is saying AT ALL. 

The story of the unfortunate man and woman at the college book store:

I was waiting in the Financial Aid line at Seminole State College Bookstore, which can be incredibly long if you wait to go and get your books until the last minute.  I had my aunt and the kids with me. Karah was probably around 3 years old at the time. I had told the kids repeatedly to stop doing this, stop doing that, come sit down, please stop getting so close to that guy's butt, sit down or I'm going to throw you down, please don't put your gum up your nose, stop telling your brother he is stupid, etc.  There was a rather large black woman standing in line behind us.  I saw Karah eyeing her from time to time and was silently praying that she was not thinking anything sinister.  I was ready to pop her mouth at a given moments notice.  Apparently, my attention span was shot at that point and my reflexes just weren't quick enough.  She was pretty slick at how this all transpired, I really didn't even see it coming, quite honestly. I was sitting on the ground at this point, when my pretty, blue-eyed, sweet and innocent-looking little doll face from Mars walked up to me, looked me straight in the eye, and loudly enough for the entire book store to hear her said, "Mommy, is that Big Momma?"

Have you ever wanted to die?  I mean really wanted to die?  Like as in prayed for a giant black hole to just open up and swallow you face first right then and there?  I apologized profusely with what I can only imagine was a complete look of horror on my face.  Thankfully, the woman understood how children are sometimes (ha! she thinks) and just smiled it off.  It doesn't end there.

No more than 5 minutes later, the man in front of us in line bends down and says to Karah, "If you can sit down here in line and be really good for your mommy, I'll give you this dollar bill when you reach the front of the line."  Karah's response:  "Your breath really stinks."

More apologizing from me. I mean, what else could I really do at that point? I obviously had a child that completely missed the bus when God was handing out the filters that go between your brain and your mouth. Not that I can really say I have much of one myself, so perhaps she just got it honestly.

She has definitely toned down over the years.  She very seldom makes remarks anymore that us, as adults, know are rude and can have consequences.  At least not in front of me, anyway.  She has learned that even though she does not mean anything harmful by some of the things she says, they can still affect other people.  She really hadn't made any remarks at all in the couple of years after that until she randomly pointed out and declared that a woman in Wal-Mart was a "funny little midget".  Thus began the lesson that was politically incorrect; they aren't midgets, they are little people, without the funny.

She still has her own little attitude, and witty, even sometimes rather snappy remarks, but none so blunt as the ones I've shared.

She used be in ballet and tap classes, mainly when she was 6 to 7 years old, and then ballet again for a brief time when she was around 14.  Her first Tap Recital was "Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini", hence the yellow tap dance costume with silver sequins and fancy yellow fringe hanging around her cute little waist as a "skirt."  She even had yellow ribbons tying her tap shoes.  At the end of her dance she was the last one to go off the stage and she stopped right in the middle of the stage, jumped up, and landed facing the audience with her feet apart and arms out to her sides, shaking her hands - jazz hands!  The audience cheered and clapped, as did I;  but, I did so with my mouth hanging open and heat beginning to travel up my face as I turned red as a beet.  You see, I didn't realize until after the program that she was actually told to do that;  I thought she just decided to take it upon herself to have her moment of glory in the spotlight. Her 15 seconds of glorious fame. It was a wonderful 15 seconds, regardless of whether she was told to do it or not.  I would have been proud either way.  After the kids went to live with their father, she drifted from dance.  She played mainly soccer and did some cross-country running, but returned to ballet, as previously mentioned, for a short time when she was 14, before deciding to quit due to having to choose what she wanted to do the most, as well as the fact that a tumor was found along her knee and had to be removed, making it difficult for certain extensions in dance.  I also think she was frustrated that she was behind the other students in terms of technique, and toward the end of her dancing, I may have been part of the reason she gave it up all together, because I am a former dancer; and Karah had always wanted to be like me.

She ran in cross-country for a while. It was great for her and she would come in with great times; those long, beautiful and strong legs of hers seemed to just glide past other runners. She was proficient in the long jump, as well. I was always impressed with her skill in whatever she chose to do.

It was when she became serious about soccer, which she still plays, that her light really began to shine through. When she was 9 years old, she kicked 13 goals that season.  I think my proudest moment was when she used the top of her head to block the ball.  Her team name: Shooting Stars.

She now plays with Orlando City Soccer and, despite surgery on her knee to remove the tumor and subsequent rehabs, she is an amazing soccer player whose skills develop more and more each year. Unfortunately, I don't know much about the past year, because I haven't really been invited to her games. The games I did get invited to, in the beginning of the season, I was unable to get to. Then the invitations just stopped coming.. and so did she.

One of the things that defines this child, especially with all we have been through -together, and her as an individual- is her love for Jesus.  She is a God-loving girl who can be incredibly sweet and will reach out to anyone.  She is very sensitive and compassionate, and her boldness has turned into a wonderful thing as she is not at all afraid to speak to people of the Lord.  She loves children and has a tender heart.  I believe a damaged and broken heart still in need of much healing, but tender, just the same.

Many of our belongings were either vandalized or lost in a flood in 2006, when our lives fell completely apart and the first time I became homeless.  Among those items was Karah's CD player/Boombox.  When I told her this, this was her reply:  "It's okay mommy.  You don't have to buy me another one.  I am just glad that you are alive."

Those words are something I will never forget and are similar to many she would say through the years; "It's okay if you can't get me anything for Christmas, mommy. I only need you."

That was my Karah. My shadow. My "mini-me" that I miss so much. 

Our family began to fall apart in 2005 as a consequence of letting someone into my life that never should have been allowed there; and eventually my own mistakes and actions, and following consequences of those actions. If you've read any of my previous articles, you will know that I was a hardcore drug user from the very end of 2004, and stopped using hardcore drugs in 2008; way too late to salvage anything left of my life. I had never believed that addiction was a disease until I succumbed to it. It is; the rest of that story will have to be a completely different article. It wasn't just the drugs, it was the lifestyle that came along with being with someone who was even more addicted than I was, and was willing to do anything to feed that addiction; including getting me in trouble with the law. I take responsibility for my own actions, but I was unfortunately incredibly naive and just downright stupid in some areas, that when I fully came to the realization of what was happening, it was way past any chance of fixing it. We had been happy by ourselves; they may not remember all our good times, but I was an awesome single mom from 2000 to the beginning of 2005. The kids went to live with their father toward the end-ish of 2005.  I didn't find out about Karah's experiences until 2011; after she suddenly stopped coming to visit me on the weekends in December of 2010.

I can pin-point the day, the exact conversation that took place, that I know for a fact started it all. It was a simple miscommunication.  Her father and step-mother both always made it a point to call me a liar, which I had been. Have you ever met an honest person who is still in denial and in active addiction? I haven't, and I've come across a lot of them. The honesty comes with time, learning, growing, and finally learning to love yourself. It's a process of healing and making amends. This particular event, however, I was not lying about. I had written her dad an email about something, he miscommunicated my words to her, she called me and told me that she wasn't going to come over again until I stopped lying, I asked her what she was talking about, she told me, I asked her if he had shown her the email so she could see what I said with her own eyes because what he told her was NOT accurate, she said no, I told her she should ask him if she could read it, she repeated that she was not coming over until I stopped lying, and I told her as nicely as possible, "That's fine. I haven't lied to you about anything, it is your choice to not come over anymore and your choice if you don't want to read what I said yourself. I can take comfort in what I know to be true and come away from this with a clean conscience. This is not my fault."

And I meant every single word.

Apparently, so did she. Never having tried to see the truth, never giving me a chance that I believe I fairly and fully deserved, she never spent the night again. 

She at least continued to talk to me, but our relationship was never the same. After finding out how much Karah really was struggling, it was a downward spiral of hospitalizations, suicide attempts, and self-mutilation, which I got blamed for, as well. After all, I have been a self-harmer for years, albeit secretly [so I thought], so it would be natural to assume it was my fault that she became one. Not just that, but she actually told her therapist, and her father, and thereafter practically everyone else, it seems, that I taught her how to cut, which is in no way true, even in the slightest.  I very clearly recall a conversation with her, before she stopped coming to visit, when she first noticed my cuts, when I was still at the peak of self-injury and normally hiding them very well. She asked me why? I have always tried to be transparent with my children [after coming out of much denial] and at that moment, felt it was important to do so then. I told her that in many cases, as with myself, it was a physical release for emotional pain. Something that we could see, that would somehow make sense out of all the pain we felt inside that was invisible. I told her it was the wrong thing to do, but that it was the best, honest explanation I could give her. If she decided to utilize that as her own coping mechanism a couple of years later in life, I will not take responsibility for that, because I "taught her" to do nothing of the sort. She asked a question, I answered it. She has since been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, like myself, which far better explains her last few years of behaviors and tendencies, but the stigma attached to bipolar disorder is still too great for her to get past, and if asked, she would never admit it; and she hates taking her medication, but from what I understand, at least she does not hide it anymore.

Still, even through all of that, we tried to maintain a relationship. It gets confusing and frustrating for me from 2012 to the present, because the timeline is foggy and sporadic. The events don't make sense. The reasons are a now tattered mystery novel leading to shattered lives. As I said, our relationship was never, ever the same, no matter how hard I tried to retrieve my shadow. Some part of her was just gone. It felt like someone had amputated one of my limbs. It still feels that way.  She continued to drift further and further away. The lack of encouragement from her other "parents" to spend time with me has never helped, and only hurt. No matter how many times I was told "she needs her mother," she wasn't supported or nudged to spend time with me. It only fostered the idea that she could then decide what she wanted. I feel like she has learned to manipulate people at will and does not even realize the extent of her own mental illness. It scares me as a mother. Thankfully, she no longer attempts suicide, but since October of 2013, she has stopped communicating with me altogether. No phone calls, emails, texts; I'm blocked on Facebook, Instagram, and whatever other social media sites she is a member on.

I believe I can pin-point that, as well. I kept asking her what she wanted to do for her birthday, as it is in October, and she kept making excuses as to why she couldn't do anything. I eventually said [short version] just let me know when you decide you are ready to spend time with me. If I really think about, it probably wasn't in the nicest of tones; it had become hurtful and frustrating to me to have to keep asking, and I missed her so much. Just like that, she disappeared completely. It was then that I realized she does not like to be called out on anything, and if anything I ever said or did was going to threaten the existence of the way she has her life set up now, the way she wants it, she was not going to allow me near her. She has cut me off completely. So did her older brother, 2 months after she did. They are the closest to each other out of my children, relationship-wise.

I don't know if she can't forgive me for certain things or if she can't forgive herself for certain things. I don't know the truth versus lies anymore. I don't understand or know her motives behind anything she says or does. I don't know if she just wants negative attention or if she enjoys getting the attention she gets from others because she portrays herself as a victim. I often wonder if she has accommodating Borderline Personality Disorder. I don't know if she actually blames me for things I had no control over or if she thinks I simply turned into a mom who didn't care about her. I don't know what she thinks - at all.  I tried reaching out for a while, to make sure she knows I'm still here, but honestly; I'm a human being, too, and there is only so much I can take. When you keep reaching out and reaching out and reaching out, and no one is ever there to respond or take your hand, and you just get talked about instead, even after all you've done to change your life, your arms and your mind become crippled. Crippled in pain and in ways you can't possibly imagine unless you are a parent of a child who wants nothing to do with you, no matter what you try to do to fix it. So, you stop. You let go. I let go for months. Only today I finally decided, I'll try one more time. I texted her. No response. So I texted her one last text, "I love you and I forgive you for cutting me out of your life."

The tears were a waterfall today. I struggled well into the night. It's 5 a.m. and I am just now about to attempt sleep. How do you let go? How do you just release a child and try and pretend like everything is okay, that part of your heart isn't shattered every time you get no response? How do you do it?  How does everything become "okay" again and where do you find the answers?  When do you figure out "why?" But I can't continue to torment myself. I can't ask "why?" every single day and try to fix something that I obviously cannot fix. You can't fix someone else, you can only fix yourself; and that's what I strive to do every day - become a better ME than I was yesterday. I can't run after someone who doesn't want to be caught.

I can't make someone love me again. Not even my own child. 

Those were the hardest sentences I've ever had to type.

Right now I feel like I have two children, not four children. I am blessed to be called mother, whether they see me or not. I focus on the two that do. There is nothing else, nothing different, that can be done on my end.

Just as the story of the prodigal son, the father waited and waited, and when the son finally returned, he rejoiced. I finally returned to my mother. If I can do that, I have faith my children can return to me. I don't know when and I don't know how, and I know it is going to continue to be painful; but I will wait. 

Even if my little girl sixteen doesn't see it, I am now and always will be her mother.