“For you girl, the future holds never-ending promise…”;
Those are the words that my great-grandmother mumbled through her toothless mug at me last Friday when I went to see her (for the first time in way too long). At the time, I was just grateful that she hadn’t decided to Hex me somehow for allowing so much time to pass between visits; she actually never even brought up the recent negligence on my part to maintain our former schedule. I never really know where Grandma T is coming from with the randomly spouted morsels of wisdom that she is notorious for letting slip – yet, nearly everything she says out of context at the time she says it, oftentimes plays itself into the happenings of the days directly following the statement. She has always been a tearful woman; not like a psycho – cut off my hair – manic/depressive tearful, more like she remains in a constant state of mourning, all the time. I’m beginning to wonder if that has something to with me…
Yes, for me, the future holds promise; promise that things will change…good things will go sour and bad things will evolve into tolerable circumstances. That’s what Life is about.
There are promised periods of despair, self-doubt and loneliness; and I feel assured that my self-enforced alienation from my hell-bent-on-being-victimized parents will leave another hole in my Swiss Cheese heart; but I also feel very certain of my personal need to get away from the vicious cycle attached to the two of them, in accordance with my own daughter and only child. I feel as if this whole situation has always been on the brink, on the outskirts of my existence just waiting to occur. They have apparently decided to enable themselves to be destructively tossed around in that thankless and soul-sucking spin cycle; I have been swayed in the complete opposite direction.
It continues to be difficult for me to comprehend even on the most fundamental surface level: my place in this newly forged trench in the wasteland between Boo and I. I have been the spade thrower digging day and night while I am numbly sleep-walking around. I have deeply burrowed myself away from the battlefield and lost interest in the meaningless warfare.
I have, in essence, had to make the choice I’ve spent every moment in dreading recently… the choice that I feel as if I have spent forever hanging from the sharp edges of… from the two worst possible options for someone to be faced with. Cruel and unusual in nature, it’s a choice that offers a finality that will bring closure – even if it is NOT anything like the “closure” I might have liked to have. I have not yet fallen into complete resignation behind my choice yet, but, at least I have made the decision. This decision does not boast any perks for my future to come, outside of the hopeful prospect of some peace and fucking quiet; I will be cutting off my own nose to spite my own face with this choice – but the same can be said for the alternative choice being made as well.
In my adulthood (current state of being), I have allowed myself to become exceptionally recluse and isolated from others, including my family. Because of the close connections between my parents (mom and step-dad) and my only child to one another, I have spent many years leading up to this choice in being trapped between my own unrealistic, self-serving need for a family as an element of my own identity – and the reality that I my “family” is by far: the most emotionally destructive and unhealthy thing known to my existence. I am no angel, but I have learned from this Living Hell that I am also definitely not cut out for the dramatics and lack of humanity that seem to be attached to both my mother and my daughters’ personalities. I have been idly standing by throughout these past few months while my only child has single-handedly demolished whatever stability my parents had going for them, if warning and pleading with them to cut her loose means that much. The scratchy words in my throat still ring from the night before my stepfather was nearly beaten death, when I said to him,
“If you aren’t careful Pop, she’s gonna get you killed…”
They have been robbed, burglarized, my step-dad was beaten, ransacked, sucked dry of any money that they may have had prior to Boo’s return to the area; my mother’s car is totaled, the garage of their home has been crashed into and tumbled down. I get these calls from my mom detailing the extreme stupidity involved with all three sides – my mom, dad, and my daughter. I have to listen to how she lies her way back into their lives, then I have to listen to how she fucked them over again afterwards. I can’t do it.
So in essence, my mother’s refusal to keep me separate from the never-ending drama attached to my daughter, has ultimately pushed me back far enough to no longer want to return again.
I haven’t been speaking to any of my family besides my great grandma, because she lives on a reservation that my daughter will not go near out of fear of being strung up for her crimes against her family. My mother stopped calling, a sure sign that she is too ashamed to face me now – translating into the likelihood that my offspring still resides in her domain, somehow – despite the piles of bullshit and destruction that she has managed in the few months she has been around.
My decision comes down to this:
I have chosen to keep it this way; to not allow myself to get sucked back into the unhealthiness again, not by anyone, even my mom. I don’t know any other people who have a parent and a child that is bad for them; so I am totally winging it and doing what feels necessary in order to keep trying to try to survive.
Broken sockets in both of his eyes
While you undoubtedly stood right by
Beaten to bits with his own Maglite
How do you live with such oversight?
The last standing of your Champions
The only one left to allow you back in
And this is your reward to him
While his eyes may never see again.
And the last things they saw were certainly
Your friends taking off with his phone and money
As you had the nerve to play your victimology
He laid alone, bleeding out in the street
I can honestly and openly say
That I didn’t raise you to turn out this way
Your drama comes through like a tidal wave
And hurts the ones whose blood is the same
I will stand up with my heels both dug in
Stand the ground that surrounds my closest kin
There’s no way in Hell or in Heaven
That you’ll get a chance to hurt him again
Say what you will to shift the blame
I can see only your complete lack of shame
and it spits the fuel at my furious flame
an X shines through the mark of your name
But, I now also see the truth behind so many things
I can no longer give any excuse, force-fed your identity
a hideous and inexcusable, vicious non-human being
the monster survives and thrives in my own offspring
I found out about it this morning upon waking up to look at my phone (set on silent overnight, as per my usual routine); and I will say that my heart dropped down into my belly somewhere and hasn’t yet returned to its proper place.
I groggily read just a few snippets of the slew of text messages sent throughout the night by my Mom; catching things like:
“Your father (by this, she means my step-father) went to get Boo downtown and hasn’t come back…”, Or:
“He’s STILL not home, I’m worried…”, Or:
“It’s been THREE HOURS NOW! I have no car, and I’m going crazy…” Or finally:
“His phone just goes straight to voicemail…”
It was just the day before yesterday that I sat out on the front porch with him to escape my mother’s hollering into her Bluetooth inside (she still doesn’t grasp the notion of the other person being able to hear her fine if she just speaks in a normal tone); that I verbalized some very haunting visions to him in a foretelling plea for his logical side to come out and hear me…in total vain, it turns out.
Boo has been consistently dishonest and destructive to my parents ever since that dreaded moment in which my mother was struck by some gods-awful notion that she had to see Boo through the next few surgeries until the tracheotomy is removed and she can speak naturally again; she has brought with her presence in their home nothing but grief and disarray – dope fiend maneuvers, and all things associated with a fucking street hooker’s lifestyle, in essence. My parents are so naive…sickeningly naive…naive from age, apparently. Because, the clueless and vulnerable old folks that each has evolved to represent these days were NOT the two people who I had around during my teen-aged years, by a long shot.
Boo’s despicable thievery has, thus far, totaled up to at least:$3,500.00(yes, you read that correctly) stolen out of my sleeping father’s wallet in the wee morning hours while she was awake and whacked out on drugs; but, there have been other instances as well of stolen cash in much smaller amounts, too.
She has stolen family heirloom jewelry (oddly enough, her father literally stole pieces of the exact same set almost 20 years ago) from my mother’s room while being left alone at their house during the workday.
She stole ALL of my mother’s medicines (a very notably sized plethora of pills including but not limited to Oxycontin, various tranquilizers, psyche meds, and the handful of different medicines that my mom NEEDS for rheumatoid arthritis and lupus.
She stole my father’s entire wallet; as well as a stun gun that was deep inside of one of her bureau drawers.
In a nutshell, she has been horribly ungrateful and disrespectful, she has remained in constant violation of the home that they have, once again, opened up to her in her time of need. Last night should have undoubtedly been “the straw” for both of them…
My father drove downtown last night to pick Boo up at the drop of a dime when she called, claiming she had been punched in the face and her phone had been stolen (I live in the silicon valley, a live and wide awake place where downtown isn’t welcoming at nighttime to the average person);
when he arrived to the place she had directed to meet her at, he was beaten nearly to death by five grown men who appeared from nowhere – only seconds before Boo suddenly appeared, as well. One of the cowards even went into his car and found his ginormous Maglite flashlight, then proceeded to beat him in his face with it until my dad went unconscious in the street. I was not there…I do not know for myself any of the minor details surrounding this heinousness; but I do know that it changes everything – forever…for ME at least.
After what felt like hours of listening to Willow (my Mother) talk about what seemed to nothing but gibberish regarding her past experiences with “Satan’s Angels” (this is what she calls doctors and/or nurses), she finally started to get on a page that I could somewhat begin to read with clarity.
“Remember when you lived down south and I got the Shingles that weekend when I came down to visit you?”
“Yes, how could I ever forget that? That was awful – forever…”
And it was awful forever:
Willow came down with the Shingles Virus in her left eye while she was staying with me down south, over ten years ago. In her case, she had a delayed reactivation of the anti-bodies or something and basically in a nutshell: continues to live in chronic and severe optic nerve pain (which is supposedly horrific pain) from day to day.
“Well….at first, the docs had me on Vicodin for the pain; but when I went in for a checkup with my regular doctor when I came back up home, he said they had me on the wrong meds – and he put me on something for actual nerve pain instead, which worked like a charm…”
It was an interesting story, but my tooth was killing me and I could hardly concentrate on anything but my own chronic pain at the moment. Finally, she turned up the lamp that she keeps on the table to the left of her recliner and stared digging around for something.
“Well, that’s great Mom, that they figured out the issue – I had forgotten about all that but yeah – I remember how miserable you were that weekend…and I didn’t see you for a while after that, did I?”
It is occurring to me as speak these words that the weekend she came down with the Shingles was the last time I saw her before my traumatic injury and near-fatal experience that left me hospitalized for a year plus; she left with my daughter that day, and she and I had planned on her keeping Boo for a few weeks – she knew something was very wrong with my situation. She finally stops the shuffling and hands me a bottle of pills.
“These are the same a s what the y gave me for the nerve pain in my eye, honey…it’ll probably at least ease some of that nerve pain in your mouth…try it out, here”
She shoves the bottle into my hand and turns down the light again, sitting back in her chair as if her work is done.
And let me tell you: the stuff worked like a charm…
Based on the fact that she is my Mother, and wasn’t present in any way, shape or form throughout my youngest days, she has been glorified in my heart and my mind somehow; in my mind over time, she has morphed into some painted-faced Goddess with great power and control over my actions and sense of self; she continues to have the carrot to dangle before me, and I continue to focus on it and follow her lead.
She is my Mother, yes – but she is not right in the head, and never was – so I’m told…she never had any business having babies of her own with a head as twisted as hers – never had the stuff it takes to be somebody’s Mama. My Mother doesn’t really know how to care about other people; she is just hard-wired that way…some people call it sociopathy, others call narcissism; she’s a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic – she has the history of getting way out there at times, if not medicated and monitored regularly by a “specialist”. She is aggressive and violently explosive in her mental instability; this is the trait about her that she has most impressed upon me throughout my lifetime in observation of her behaviors; she is ruthless when it suits her needs – I have bared witness to this many times, as well as played the role of her “victim” during such instances also.
I cannot trust her word – it is mud in my book; despite what she says, her actions always speak horribly louder than what she tells me. Anyway, our relationship is the epitome of awkward and edgy, because it newborn for the most part – I am only barely getting to know her, I’ve never made the effort in the past. She is a nut job, no doubt – and oftentimes, when I have a conversation with her, I find myself hardly able to control myself from just bursting out:
“The fuck are you talking about, Man?!!!”
I just can’t relate to any of the things that define the daily existence of my Mother, Willow…she is seriously on another planet in my opinion…all I can do is just shake my fucking head over it, I suppose.
I’ve been walking on wire
high above a horrific crime scene,
looking down at the sheer
size of such a bloody tragedy
the yellow tape is stretching
for miles across the trees
and the vultures circle
the tight rope
I’ve been walking.
I look down, muted sounds
while little dots of people
mull their ways around
most of them don’t care
that I’m watching
from the air,
but a few, I see
have taken notice of me
magnified by a cross-hair.
They will try to kill me,
they’ve tried so many times
to shoot me down
from the heights I’ve found,
but they can’t seem
to tap that bead.
And so on I look
bullets flying right at me
I do not falter,
just too desperate to see
the object of this circus show,
the victim of this scene…
Is it my baby that you
have down there
amongst such a
All I want answered
is this simple query
put down the rifles
and answer me.
They know what I’m after
and they know just as sure
that I won’t be going
a damned place without her.
But, I’ve got a shocker
Folded into my sleeve
and it’s something that
none of these cowards are
expecting from me.
This is what happens,
with all of this time
they’ve given to me,
my mind has mapped
its very own crime scene,
and mine’s filled with bodies
of them, not her and me.
from my high place
above the green trees,
and once it’s all done
I’ll climb down finally
for my only baby…
I know that she’s here
I can hear her calling to me.
But I never could find her
amongst so many
other dead bodies,
she screams to me
The haunt of my dreams.
Last night, at around 8pm, my phone started ringing in my pocket; I was surprised to see Boo’s name brightly lighting up the screen through the dimness in my lap, playing the custom ringtone “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd loudly to the vibrating beat. It made so many wrong things feel right to talk to Boo on Christmas, last night…
It has been since our dog Ozzy died in late June, that we last spoke. Since we have seen one another, she had a birthday…our relationship truly couldn’t be any more estranged and alienated. The more time that passed by without any contact, the more guilt was stacking up behind each minute spent separated from each other like we have been forced to be. It’s been so, so long this way…inhumanely long. She writes to me often enough, robotic letters that hold no meaning – just words that she thinks she’s expected to write to her Mom at a given point in time. I admit, I have been withdrawn from her; which is inexcusable, so I won’t bother with coming up with any excuses behind this fact; it is what it is.
Last night, we talked for 37 minutes straight! This is by far the longest I can ever recall having a conversation with Boo (in person or on the phone) without some type of major drama or explosion on her part. We are typically like fire and water; and the older Boo grows, the less often have we been able to even remain in the same vicinity for very long without combustion. She is very different than I am, always has been. She thinks that I am a “goody-two-shoes” somehow; this is a truth that still just blows my mind. I’m not sure where she ever got that from, but that’s her perception of me. It is what it is. I think she is a disloyal and conniving, beautiful and intelligent little blonde, long-lashed, doe-eyed creature; who has unfortunately come to epitomize the poster child for the self-imposed cycle of traumatic experience; she wouldn’t even begin to know how to break down that label into anything that made any kind of sense, though…she barely reads. It is what it is.
We talked last night about all kinds of stuff that I wouldn’t have expected to talk about with her. She has decided that she’s gay again – which is a song and dance that she has played with me since she was thirteen years old – for a reaction that I can’t believe she hasn’t learned by now, she isn’t gonna get from me on that score. I always tell her without fail (and I mean it, too) that she can be with whoever she wants to be with and have my approval so long as it’s a healthy and somewhat “normal” relationship. I couldn’t give a shit if she’s gay. It is what it is.
We talked about her caseworker and how useless she is, which led to other conversations that got my blood boiling, as usual, in the context of that good for nothing, stinky bitch caseworker assigned to my daughter’s gig. Boo said, “I wish I could just get myself arrested somehow so I would get a probation officer, instead (of the caseworker)…”; a remark which at first made me cringe, until I remembered having once said the exact same words from a juvenile holding cell…damn…it is what it is.
This past weekend, my parents went to visit Boo out of state for Boo’s seventeenth birthday. I could not go. I did not want to go. I knew that something bad was going to happen by the way that she has been talking to them on the phone leading up to their wasted and painful trip…I don’t want to be used anymore by people, not even my only child.
“You guys need to buy me a nice little dress that I can wear; not something too dressy, something I can get dirty in…” is what she had declared over the line just a few days prior to their departure flight at the airport to see her. I told them as soon as that phone call ended that if they bought her a dress that she can get “dirty in”, she would bail out on them and run away to be pimped out by some disgusting grown man, as she always does when given the slightest opportunity.
YES, my child is teenaged prostitute by choice. YES, she does things that scream loudly how miserable she feels about herself, she displays the worst type of PTSD: the kind that continuously undoes any “progress” she’s able to forge in her own “recovery”. YES – my only child is a train wreck…and it breaks my heart too much to bear most times, but I know that she is nowhere near ready to begin to heal; therefore, I have chosen to keep my distance from her so as not to antagonize our already crumbling “relationship” to one another.
Point in case:
When my parents arrived and picked Boo up from the locked facility in which she has been court-ordered to reside indefinitely past her eighteenth birthday because of worsening mental health issues, Boo seemed to be happy to see them and they picked her up without incident and continued on to their hotel room. It was Friday night, my mother and step father had been traveling all day and were exhausted of course.
Within an hour, Boo was itching to go to Wal-Mart because she claimed to need some toiletries for a shower etc. My step father (who has been Boo’s ONLY consistent male presence throughout her lifetime, might I add bitterly) finally broke down and agreed to take her there, against his own better judgment of course. She bolted from him in the parking lot and ran straight into a mini-van full of strange, grown men on the expressway. My stepdad, needless to say, diligently chased the vehicle in his rental car for several miles.
During this time, Boo apparently had told the men in the van that she didn’t know my step dad and that he had been chasing her with a gun and trying to kill her. The men, who had no clue what was going on, were concerned for her safety and pulled over to the side of the road, where all six of them got out and waited for my step father to pull in before proceeding to beat him senseless. Boo watched the whole thing happen from inside the van, too.
He is lucky he wasn’t beaten to death…my heart feels so torn by this latest piece of unbelievable heinousness put forth by my own flesh and blood…
Her own grandfather, someone who’s been her staunchest ally and always had her back, even when her grandmother and I had given up on her and said it was no use to keep hurting ourselves by trusting her or believing her, he has stood by her and not wavered. It breaks my heart what he has had to go through this past week, recovering from a violent attack on his already degenerating body. It makes my blood boil to know that she sat there and watched him be beaten almost to death, based on a lie that she told in order to serve her own warped needs and desires…
I can’t apologize enough to my stepfather, it’s hard not to look him in his eye now, with every word that I speak to him…I feel so deeply bad and regretful whenever I look at his swollen and disfigured face – hoping to see a glint of anger or betrayal or realization when it comes to Boo and what he has just endured…
Yesterday, he burst into tears – full blown grown man tears – and says, “I just wish I could protect her…”
I saw Renee today; all grown up and covered in dark make-up, hair twisting down to her ass in shiny, sleek braids and tresses; she looked beautiful – sixteen and a half years old already and driving her father’s beat up old blue pick-up truck…
Renee and Boo used to be best friends for like – EVER, in the ‘hood. They went to different schools but played every day after homework was done, took each other on family trips and so on. By the time that Boo had to leave home in exchange for a “residential treatment facility” because of her increasingly unruly behavior, the girls had grown apart for the same reason: Renee is a tried and true “angel”, without a mean bone in her body; Boo is natural-born and rightful Hellraiser.
Seeing Renee today, so happy and full of life and promise and bright futures wide open to her, I have to confess I was stricken by some sort of jealousy or envy – CORRECTION – I was nearly consumed by it.
I spoke to her for a few minutes about her dad and dogs and whatever other things I could think up to say as I watched her eyes dart everywhere around us, looking for Boo – searching for Boo with so much hope and excitement barely contained behind her eyes. It always goes this way when I see one of Boo’s friends, or better yet: a parent of one her friends – someone who knows very little about me and my daughter’s trials and tribulations – someone ready to spit venomous and projected judgments at me,
I finally shot out my hand and grabbed Renee’s arm, surprising myself with my own sudden decision, and said,
“Renee, you and Boo might be totally different and worlds apart these days, but she’s been MIA on the run for almost 2 months and just found out that her father died; yeah – her father died, yeah, the one that’s been in prison – he died; she just returned from AWOL yesterday morning to hear that news, and…well, you know how she is…she could probably use a friend, a real friend right now…”
My eyes stared down at the concrete where we stood in front of the donut shop, my grasp still tight on her arm. Her response was almost immediate, and painfully sincere; she said,
“I love Boo and always will, but I guess it’s because of that, well that’s why it’s too hard to be friends with her…you know?…because she hates herself so much…”
I choked up, but covered it beautifully behind my dark sunglasses; I smiled down at her, my grip loosening slowly and gently, so as not to imply any offense or resentment towards her. “I know, Kiddo…” I said, “I understand…”
IF YOU ARE A SOCIAL WORKER READING THIS POST (OR ANY OF MY BLOG FOR THAT MATTER):
Spare me your high and mighty remarks about the excellent jobs you all do in helping kids. The only effect that those posts ever have on me IS FAR from the one that you’re shooting for by defending the corruption within the terroristic agencies attached to the notion of child welfare. I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done. You’re ALL the same to me by now, tried and true Robots of the system.
Okay – So I’ve always been looked at as an “exception” to the unwritten, unspoken rule amongst the “professionals” of the dread Juvenile Court, the rule that proclaims any parent who comes through there is automatically 110% guilty and totally questionable in every aspect of life – until or unless the court becomes officially convinced otherwise. At the beginning stages of Juvenile Court proceedings, any misidentified (as an abusive) parent unfortunate enough to be included should prepare to spend a while being strung up from a tree under the scrutinizing microscope of the DFCS and juvenile judge.
The act of actually officially convincing the courts however, is yet, another obscured and confusing – almost childlike, in a fifth grade student council kinda way – element of the shadiest corner in the Superior Courts of every U.S. state. The people who operate these courts are a breed like no other: cold hearten and turned into creatures so artificial in existence, that the ability to achieve REM sleep on a regular basis does not evade them at all – EVER. Anyway, I have been tied to that hellhole of a courthouse for over five years now, and have maintained my “parental rights” on paper, which is nothing more than the right to be notified by the Department of Family & Children’s Services learns of her death or whereabouts before me; it’s just another safeguard in place for the social services case workers, court-appointed attorneys and other useless entities to cover their’ chicken shit asses after someone down the line fucks up and ruins a young life or two – but hey- shit happens, right? These people are mutants in the most raw form of mutation – these people are role players on stage – being paid to destroy lives and break apart struggling families through brute force of the most mysteriously veiled legal arena in existence.
Social workers and case workers have safeguards galore; immunity in court for the things that do or do not do for the kids who are forced to depend upon them for safety and security. In fact, the notion of immunity for all“professionals” of the child protection community seems to hover over the courthouse building like a veil of dark and deceitful mist.
Safeguards…what a joke if you are the natural parent of a child who becomes entangled with the system to any degree; because in this courthouse – Nationwide – the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing; and nobody holds themselves or each other accountable for the many irreversible damages created by the social welfare system. Nope, on the contrary, these drones have been professionally trained to pull the ol’ ‘Look at the birdie’ decoy maneuver and redirect the fault toward the already overly-persecuted natural parent. This circumstance can easily become enough for even the most steadfast and stubborn of parents to lose their will in the faces of so much collective evil. And often, that is what happens to the pleasure of the courts. That way, they can adopt the kid out and earn the funds available for that process, which is a substantially larger amount that those available to the kids limbo-ed in foster care.
The circumstances as they were in our particular case, being that it had ALWAYS been the child(not the parent) in the situation, that was profiled in official court documents as being “high risk”, “mentally unstable and unpredictable”, “self-destructive and violent with the tendency to escalate to extremes”, my unusual legal standing as the natural and rightful parent to a ward of the court – was apparently quite rare. The uniqueness of our case was an element that I didn’t quite grasp until those absent ” legal safeguards” came into play a few years into my enslavement to the juvenile court who held my only child ransom – and technically still does. In the easy majority of cases heard, decided, and monitored through the Juvenile Courts, the legal parent or guardian of the child has been stripped of any and all rights pertaining to said child within the time frame 18 months, given the courts’ propensity to “terminate” parental rights alongside of the termination of what they refer to as “Reunification Services”. If the parent has not jumped perfectly through each and every hoop held out by the hand of the judge and DFCS (‘Department of Family & Children’s Services’, but I have altered it to ‘Devil-Faced Child Swallowers’), the odds of them being reunited with their kids in a legally acknowledged way are nearly obliterated then and there.
Because of Federal Government stipends and locally funded program incentives driven by the money-hungry notion of “permanency” ( in other words: a “permanent”, consistent place and a so-called family environment for children in foster care), the time frame for a parent to reunite with his or her own flesh and blood kin is now only 12 months long. And if you haven’t made the DFCS and judge happier than a fag in dick tree by then – your babies are as good as gone. Just like that.
I learned all about the complete LACK of these “safeguards” when mydaughter was sexually assaulted and abused by a mental health support staff at who worked at the COURT-ORDERED treatment facility to which my little girl (then 11yearsold) had been remanded.
Now, let us NOT forget the fact that she had been remanded there to begin with, due to her behavioral and social struggles – she was supposedly there to get better. When she was brave enough to tell on him, the response put forth by the collective of the “professionals” involved (including law enforcement, the ombudsman and the fucking city council) was despicable beyond words. They openly doubted her. They officially deemed her allegation as “unfounded”. They sent her to a different place…six fucking hours away from me! They isolated and alienated her during a serious trauma in her young and vulnerable life. I still strongly want someone’s head on a hotplate for that, and always will.
It was during that crucial and pivotal circumstance, that the very community entities that claim to protectthe kids and their “best interests”, the DFCS and Juvenile Courts, blatantly and corruptly disregarded everything about my only child’s best interests in ANYTHING – past, present, future. It was then that my baby was destroyed and left alone to try and manage with so much doubt and betrayal by so many people with authority over her life.
Sickeningly, the pedophile remained on staff for three more years and continued his ways until another VERY YOUNG, and very brave cut-throat came forward and had an accusation so similar to the one made by my daughter years prior, that the notion was finally (but way too late for many kids) taken seriously and investigated.
The child predator in question now awaits trial on 27 counts of lewd and lascivious acts with a minor under he age of 14 years. He has plead not-guilty to each and every count.
His parasite lawyer intends to put a string of little girls who were victims to her pedophile client on the stand and smear each one somehow, to discredit them one at a time. I’d like 2 minutes alone in a room with that bitch.
In my case, all hoops has been satisfactorily jumped through in the eyes of judge, thank the Gods; because the case worker (who is always referred to as Shiva the Destroyer in my blog posts) on the hand – has had a raging hard on for me since my kid got sexually molested and mindfucked by a man who called himself a “counselor” on the county’s watch. Like it was MY fault that the industries of Child Protection, Mental Health and Welfare could care less about the kids in actuality.