PronouncedLeah

"Let Talk About Trauma and PTSD, It'll Be Fun" - Said No One Ever.

2017-09-20T10:45:00.001-07:00

For the sake of simplifying this post when speaking of PTSD I'm specifically talking about C-PTSD or Complex Trauma Disorder

Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD) is a condition that results from chronic or long-term exposure to emotional trauma over which a victim has little or no control and from which there is little or no hope of escape, such as in cases of: domestic emotional, physical or sexual abuse.

I’m not even sure how to start on this topic. I don’t even know where to begin to talk about my trauma. I don’t know how to describe what it’s like to live with PTSD. I’ve been sitting on this topic for awhile now for a few reasons. I feel like it’s such an abstract concept. It’s just something I have to live with. It’s not an event or a fact that I can pin down and break apart and analyze for the general population. How do I explain to someone who doesn’t have my trauma what it’s like to carry that weight. How do I explain what having PTSD is like to someone who doesn’t have it? I don’t know how to write about this without sounding like I’m crazy. Writing about this also scares me because for the most part everyone who knows me thinks I have my shit together.

To be fair, for the most part I do.

I’ve been working through the creative process to get to the point of sitting down and writing. Here I am and I’m still struggling. I can’t begin to tell you about the tears I’ve shed just writing down my notes and thoughts on this topic. I feel embarrassed and ashamed. Which seems to be the common concept on my feelings surrounding foster care. Right now I also feel more publicly vulnerable than I’ve ever felt before. It’s also forcing me to relive some of the things I try hard to shut out and move past.

Trauma is weird to say the least. Sometimes you don’t even realize the shit you’re repressing. It’s buried so deep you don’t even know what you’re hiding from yourself. Until one day you’re driving down the freeway just like any other day on your way to work. Then all of a sudden the sound of your blinker clicking brings you back to that time when you were scared for your life. There is absolutely nothing you can do to stop the memory from flooding back to you.

I’m 11 years old again and it’s 3 in the morning and I’m dead asleep until I hear the creak of the stairs leading up to my bedroom. My heart starts to race and I immediately jump out of bed to lock the deadbolt on my bedroom door. There is a pounding on the door and it’s loud and angry and matches up perfectly with the sound of my blinker. My door handle is turning and the door is shaking as someone is trying to break in. His voice comes through the other side. Screaming at me to let him in. He’s calling me every dirty name under the rainbow and threatening to kill me if I don’t let him in. It’s one of my parents friends who was living with us at the time. I know he’s either high or drunk out of his mind and probably won’t even remember this in the morning. I go sit in my closet and close the door and fold myself up as small as possible and cry. Praying to God that the door holds and that he goes away and leaves me alone. The pounding and screaming go on for what feels like an hour and eventually he admits defeat and leaves. I’m thankful in that moment that I have a deadbolt on my door and that I’m safe and unharmed.

Then I’m back in my car and my blinker is off and I've pull into a random parking lot and turned my car off. I’m hyperventilating and quietly sobbing. I try to compose myself enough to drive the rest of the way to work. Once I calm down enough, I fix my makeup and resume life as normal. Like it never happened. I walk into work and say good morning to everyone, pour my coffee, and turn on my computer. Calm and collected like it’s just another day.

PTSD is like a switch that once it’s turned on I can’t just turn it off. I have to ride the wave until it hits shore and it can happen at any moment.

I can be doing the same thing I do day in and day out. When I was around 15 I was hanging out my my adoptive brother while he was was playing this zombie game. I wasn’t much of a video game person but I enjoyed spending time with him so I’d sit in the basement for hours watching him play. I’m not sure what it was about this particular day but the sound of the guns going off and the temperature of the basement sent me straight back in time.

I was living at home with my parents and the house felt more hectic than normal. The air felt heavy and had the sickly sweet smell of cooked meth. My back and shoulders were tense like they would always get right before someone was about to yell at me or a fight was about to break out. I was standing in front of the fridge with the door open blanking staring in past the jugs of yellow liquid. I was questioning why this had to be my life. Did normal people keep jars of pee in their fridge? One of my parents friends came stomping up the stairs from the basement. His eyes looked wild and it felt like he was trying to see through me. His face was beat red and I could tell he was mad about something. He grabbed my arm and pulled me down to the basement and brought me over to a closet where my two cats were locked in. He was screaming incoherently in my ear and pulled a gun out. I was convinced I had done something to piss him off and I was going to die. I knew I should be scared but I was numb and auto pilot had kicked in. I open my mouth to ask what was going on but before I could get the words out he opened fire and shot my cats right before my eyes. I couldn’t process what happened. He let go of my arm like he was throwing my own dead weight at me. I turned around and walked up the stairs and out the back door of the house.

Abruptly I’m back in my new home walking up the stairs to my bedroom. I lay down in bed in complete numbness. I don’t tell my adoptive mom what I just remembered for weeks. Until it’s to the point of eating me alive.

I can nail down my triggers for what will make my anxiety flare up. I have tons of skills to cope with anxiety too. PTSD episodes are like something from a whole other world. I have no idea what will cause a flash back and I haven’t a single clue how to bring myself out of it once I’m in the depths of reliving it.

I’ve come to accept that it’s just the way my life it going to be living with trauma. Its creeps up out of nowhere and slams into me so hard I have no way to prevent it from completely taking over. How do I work through the shit that I can’t even remember happening? Before that day in my car I never even knew that night happened. Before that day in the basement with my brother I always thought my cats ran away or one of the randoms that lived with us stole them.

Sometimes I question if these memories that come flooding back are even real. How is it possible to completely block out memories like that? Is there just so much bad shit that I only remember the worst of it? Or is it possible that there is worse shit that I’m not remembering at all? How can I recover and process through things I don’t remember happening to me until I’m in a full blown panic.

Dylan has come home to find me curled up in a ball in our bedroom closet crying. We joke about it now because looking back on it, it seems silly. I couldn’t even tell you what set me off that time. I honestly don’t remember. Sometimes the memories come back and before I can come back to my senses they are gone again.

I can’t help but wonder what the heck is wrong with me? I’m always the biggest advocate for everyone to seek out the help they need. I just can’t help but treat my trauma and PTSD like this individual war that I have to fight by myself. It’s not really something I talk about and I can’t even believe I’m sharing any of this with internet right now.

I don’t want anyone to treat me any different or look at me different. I don’t want people to feel like they have to walk on eggshells around me. I don’t want to be looked at like I’m crazy.

I’m hoping that by sharing my experience I can help other people see that you really aren’t crazy. You can have PTSD and trauma and still be a normal person.

I’m hoping that professionals will look at this and realize that kids who’ve lived through trauma need to be treated for PTSD. It shouldn’t be dismissed so quickly as depression and acting out.

If you have a loved one dealing with PTSD just be there for them. Be patient and be willing to listen. Sometimes a hand to hold is enough.

If you are struggling with any kind of trauma just know you’re not alone.

It’s okay to break down and have moments of weakness. We just need to remind ourselves that we are survivors and we can move past it.

To read more about PTSD in alumni of foster care visit the links below:

http://www.fosterfocusmag.com/articles/post-traumatic-stress-disorder-not-just-soldiers-problem

http://www.thecrimson.com/article/2005/4/11/study-finds-foster-kids-suffer-ptsd/

Until next time

-PronouncedLeah

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Chosen Family

2017-05-16T19:33:00.000-07:00

Have you ever stopped to take a second and think about why people do the things they do? Why do they dress a certain way? Why do they listen to the music they listen to? Why do they act the way they do? Why do people naturally gravitate towards people who are similar to them?

I know it sounds like a pretty obscure and philosophical question but in my opinion the answer is quite simple.

The reason people do anything is to fit in.

Everyone wants to feel like they belong. We all have an uncontrollable need to conform and merge with a group that makes us feel welcomed, comfortable, and connected. No one wants to be the odd one out. Unfortunately, fitting in isn’t always something we can control.

Growing up while being a foster kid makes it incredibly difficult to find “your people” and fit in. I personally can attest to this. We all know how cruel kids can be. Scratch that… People in general can be cruel even if you’re a “regular” person. Whatever that means. Anyways, throw in being a second class citizen in today’s society and you might as well have a target painted on your back.

All my life I felt like I grew up with a giant neon sign plastered on my forehead that flashed “FOSTER KID” over and over. No matter how hard I tried to fit in it always seemed like I was different and didn’t quite blend in as well as I would have liked. Walking down the hallways in school it was almost as if I carried a stench on me. Hanging heavy like a cloud of noxious gas that surrounded me, acting as a warning sign to the other kids – this kid is nothing but trouble. I’ve mentioned in previous blog posts that foster care was the single most isolating thing that I’ve ever experienced. I’ll stand by that for the rest of my life. Being a foster kid didn’t allow for me to “click” with other kids. I didn’t get to have sleep overs with the other girls in my class – unless their parents would agree to undergoing a background check through the county. Believe me, not a lot of parents jumped at that. Shocking. I didn’t get to go on family vacations. I didn’t have a family and none of my numerous foster families took us on vacations. Christmas break was more just a week of sitting in the foster parent of that month’s house and feeling my heart ache for my real family while I watched their biological kids open their gifts. Those are just a couple example but I could go on forever. Just the act of existing in foster care in itself is an act of being a social outcast. Missing out on all that normalcy was heartbreaking.

I’ll be honest for a minute here… Going through years of being a social reject and missing out on normal kid and teenage things eventually made me a little jaded. Even now after lots of therapy and trying to make up for lost time I can’t help but feel a little salty. However, one of the most therapeutic things I have experience as a survivor of foster care is connecting with my alumni family. The first time I was in a room surrounded by other people who grew up how I grew up I went home and cried – that’s a pretty big deal! I’m not typically an emotional person. Now that I think about it that’s probably a side effect of foster care. After I let it sink in I had an epiphany. That day was the first time I had ever truly experience normalcy. Not the normalcy that society has always told us is the norm. My own very real and true normalcy. Normalcy for me has never been the princess tea party with family and friends. My normalcy was my parents being so strung out and high that they forgot me at the grocery store for over an hour. Normalcy for me was never growing up with the same friends since we were kids. My normalcy was 15 different schools over the course of 8 years. After I met other alumni of foster care it felt like something in me finally clicked into place and healed. I have spent so much time and energy trying to fit into a mold of normal that I could never squeeze into. All this time the normal I needed was the normal I grew up with. Just knowing that I really wasn’t alone and that there is a solid group of people out there who have the same dark and sick sense of humor that I do because of the circumstances we grew up in. Believe me, foster kid jokes are enough to make most people cringe.

After meeting this group of foster alumni I realized I wanted more. Connecting with people who have had a similar past, after living for so long feeling isolated, was one of the most validating and moving things I’ve ever experienced. For once I felt like I didn’t need to fit into societies box of what normal is. Having an alumni network is an opportunity to create our own definition of normalcy. When you’re with a group of people who deeply and truly understand you with all the ugly of your past… THAT feels normal.

Sometime has passed now since that initial meeting and aside from the normalcy and connected-ness there have been other lasting side effect. Connecting with this family of alumni has been the most overwhelming wave of support I have ever received. There has been more than one occasion where I have been going through a tough time or needed some advice and one of my alumni brothers and sisters has called me to be there for me. I don’t think I can emphasize how deep my gratitude goes for my foster alumni. This past year I have leaned on my network for job leads, references, emotional support, socializing, and inspiration. Meeting other alumni has been like meeting family I didn’t even know that I had but that I desperately needed. The more alum I meet the more I want to reach out to and connect.

A big reason I keep writing and sharing my story is because of my foster alumni. I share my stories because they make me feel like it needs to be heard. I’ve been able to see the way my stories have touched and moved others and it motivates me to keep posting. Being a part of a network of foster alumni has inspired me heavily in many of the things I do.

I’d like to highlight and name some of my foster alumni that have greatly touch my life they also happen to be the other co-founders and board members of Foster Alum Minnesota.

First I’d like to mention Joanne.

She has inspired me to handle shit like a boss. Over the time I’ve gotten to know her I’ve watched her juggle working, volunteering, advocating, and being a mom. Might I add she does it all with such grace.

Next is Rashad.

He has inspired me to stand up for myself and speak what’s on my mind. This man holds nothing back and sometimes I’m taken back by it but I also listen in awe. He has taught me to speak up because people will listen and they do want my input.

Then there is Jessica.

Jess has inspired me to practice self-care and how to say no. I am constantly amazed by how easily she can prioritize her life and business. She is always making sure she is carving out good quality time to spend with her son and taking time out of a never stopping work to recharge her battery. She inspires me to slow down and make sure I’m okay before I agree to more.

Next up is Hank.

Hank has inspired me to keep going, always. Honestly, I don’t think this man every stops. He is the king of getting back up. I’m definitely the type of person to dwell if things aren't going my way. He has shown me true perseverance and in my opinion the energizer bunny needs to be his personal mascot.

Lastly, all my other alumni.

Please know if you’re reading this that you inspire me. Every day that you exist you inspire me. Life has given you the short end of the stick yet here you are. There are countless times that you could have given up and let it be the end but you pushed on. I’m inspired by your strength, resilience, and determination.

Alumni family (and friends) – I will leave you with this. I encourage you to reach out and join an alumni network and experience firsthand the profound connections, support, and inspiration your alumni family has to offer.

If you’re in Minnesota, I encourage you to click the link below and join Foster Alum Minnesota.

FOSTER ALUM MN

JOIN! BECOME A MEMBER! IT'S FREE!

Until Next Time

- - PronouncedLeah

Identity Crisis & Birth Certificates

2017-03-24T15:51:00.002-07:00

I’ve been recently dwelling hard on an issue that I always seem to come back to time and time again. Sometimes the questions swimming around in my head won’t stop and the just lead me to ask more questions. What actually makes us real and exist? Have you ever really thought about it before? I swear I’m not stoned! I just can’t stop thinking about it.

Is it our family and friends who know us? Surely that is pretty concrete evidence that we are here. Could it be the energy you take up and put back out into the world? Arguably that would make someone real. Or, is it a slew of legal documents that legally tells us who we are, where we are from, and who we come from? I suppose if you don’t have a birth certificate, social security number, or an ID then you never were or never will be.

Part of the reason I tear myself apart with these questions is because on some level I’m always struggling with my identity. Not in the way that all these desperate 20 somethings are just “trying to find themselves”. It’s a lot more complicated than that. It’s not a questions that can be answered by life experiences or partying or going to school. At least not for me. I always want it put down in permanent writing. If you commit something to paper then it makes it real. So many things in my life were so wishy-washy that I only trust what has been recorded. In my mind paper = permanence.

I set myself up for failure with that mindset but let's be honest - I’m stubborn as hell and have no intention of changing. However, this has caused me to struggle more with who I am.

Incase you're unaware - let me give you a little nugget of information. When you’re adopted in the state of Minnesota they change your birth certificate. The person who you were born as and born to be is gone once the state has declared your adoption as final. Your history is then stripped away. Who your parents were and where you came from is completely erased. Unless you have a copy or have requested one before the adoption - your original birth certificate is gone forever. Your biological parents names are then replaced with your adoptive parents and the state deems your new birth certificate the only one that is valid.

When this was brought to my attention before my adoption when I was 13 I almost called off the whole thing. We were there at the courthouse and I overheard someone say something about a new birth certificate and I flipped my shit. I was already taken away from my family time and time again. I’d already switched schools time and time again. I’d already given up so much. I’d given up family, friends, security, my education, my pride. NOW you want me to give up my history and my identity?

My adoptive mom knew me well enough to know how sensitive I would feel about it and made sure to request multiple copies of my original birth certificate. Bless her heart! Basically it was the only piece of reasoning I listened to. Otherwise, I’m sure I would have thrown out the entire adoption all together. Like I said, I'm stubborn.

I’m still appalled by the entire concept. When you get married you don’t change your entire identity. You get a marriage license. Sure, you might be changing your name but your maiden name is still a form of identification. Sure, you’re joining another family but your family isn’t going away forever - it’s an addition not a trade. Even dead people have the respect and dignity to have an official record of the who, when, where, and how.

I always try to say how grateful I am that I was adopted but ever since my birth certificate, my real life real world birth parents, and my origins were stripped from me it’s left a hole. I know I’m one for the dramatics but this is an honest to God issue that I will never stop talking about. My argument is that there should be an entirely separate document for adoption. I see no reason why the state wouldn’t want to issue adoption certificates. I doubt it’s anymore work that what they are already doing.

I believe that if a separate document was created it would help foster and adoptive alumni sort through their issues of identity. It would help with medical records and being able to look into what you could potentially be passing on in your genes. For people like me it would be a real life road map of the journey life has taken you through, being able to lay it all out and make sense of it all. Nothing would be more therapeutic than to feel like one whole person instead of the 15 different people I have become divided into.

If an adoption certificate was created there would be concrete real evidence that you are the person you used to be but you’re also the person you’re becoming and you’re also all of that at once.

Until Next Time

-ProunouncedLeah

High School Sweethearts

2017-02-16T07:45:00.000-08:00

Dylan and I were 16 years old when we started dating. He always told me from the beginning how he knew that “this is it” and that he had always planned on his first girlfriend to be his last and ultimately his wife. You would think that would be every 16 year old girl's dream to hear that from the boy who she is going steady with. Partially it’s true, I was over the moon happy to have a boyfriend that loved me so much and wanted to stay committed. On the other hand it scared the crap out of me. I was only 16! What I knew from my life so far was that I could barely get a parent or guardian to commit to me for more than a few months - how the hell did this sweet and caring boy think he could last the test of time? Either he was completely nuts or he was some type of masochist.

I was completely head over heels about him immediately that the logical side of my brain that typically filters out such things seemed to have dissolved and leaked out my ears. I was never a commitment type girl. I had a slew of relationships but they were more like impulses and trends. I changed relationships like I changed the color of my hair - which was often in those days. My longest relationship was no longer than 3 months. But here I had this guy promising me marriage and forever and wanting to dream and talk about our future. It definitely must have been love because typically that kind of talk sent me running for the door.
Bye Felicia.

However, here we are 5 years later and we’ve made the ultimate commitment of forever - till death do us part. But marriage isn’t easy. Hell, navigating a relationship with me isn’t easy. It took me a long time to learn how to be a good partner and I know for a fact it took a lot of patience from Dylan to work through it with me. My life was full of disconnected relationships with family, friends, schools, and everything else. It left me with a bunch of broken pieces that didn’t fit together but somehow I was supposed to figure out what love should look like.

With a lot of time, patience, and communication I feel like I’ve finally put together a somewhat normal looking puzzle. I have to give Dylan a lot of props. He’ll be the first to tell you I’m difficult and I’m also not afraid to admit it. I’m short tempered, sarcastic, and a bit of a diva. I have to say that Dylan’s peace keeper mentality, light hearted attitude, and down to earth personality helps keep me grounded constantly. Sometimes I come up with these terrible and impulsive ideas but with super powers of reasoning Dylan talks me into a more logical and less extreme course of action.

It probably sounds like I’m talking Dylan up and putting him on this pedestal (although he honestly deserves a medal for putting up with me sometimes). He does have faults of his own and isn’t perfect. In a lot of ways Dylan is the exact opposite of me. He is patient and level headed and I’m just not. I think the fact that we are so different is the glue that holds us together. People will tell you that you should change for your partner or your partner should change for you but I don’t really agree.

Going into our relationship Dylan and I both knew who we were. Faults and all. I knew that he holds people to unfair and unusually high/impossible standards. I also knew that he has to eat all of one thing on his plate before moving on to the next. But he also knew that I'm sensitive to other people's feelings and "catch" their moods. He also knew that I don’t have an inside voice and I need to be reminded that I’m yelling. There is constant give and take. There are also periods of time where it is all take and you need to learn how to work around it.

Our relationship isn’t perfect but I know that it’s what I need and it’s what Dylan needs. Even though we are on opposite sides of the color wheel we somehow have found a middle ground to get to where we compliment each other's weaknesses. Being married is a learning curve. I think at first everyone probably sucks at it but it gets better with time. You just need to be patient and put in the time and effort to wait for it to sweeten.

Until Next Time

- PronouncedLeah

Where Did You Come From?

2017-02-08T09:19:00.000-08:00

Ever since I was a kid and now as an adult I have always toyed with the idea of trying to put together a family tree. As a product of the child welfare system I feel like in some way it’d be almost therapeutic to see it all laid out in a neat and organized fashion. I hate to admit it but something in my brain and my heart says that if I can somehow commit it to paper maybe it’ll make more sense to me and maybe it’ll be easier to explain to other people.

When I was a kid in school there was a project at some point to actually make a family tree, to research your heritage and create a display. I’m partially proud and partially ashamed that I somehow maneuvered my way out of the project. I stayed home sick for a week to avoid the project and refused to do the project all together. Avoiding school and homework was not out of the ordinary for me so I’m sure my anxiety and stress over the assignment went completely unnoticed. But I was anxious and stressed. The idea of trying to put it on paper and present it to the class made me sick to my stomach and I had a nervous rash all over my body.

It is my personal opinion that the school or teacher or whoever should never have assigned this kind of project to begin with. There is no way you can know every single kids home situation. I believe that even if they weren’t a foster kid like me this kind of assignment would bring up feelings of shame and embarrassment. Maybe someone has a single mom, or they live with their grandparents, or one of their parents passed away. You never know what those kids go home to and how they feel about it. Not to mention, kids can be nasty and mean to begin with. Why would someone want to give kids more ammunition and reasons to bully and tease someone who is more than likely already an under dog. I was made fun of and ridiculed for being a foster kid already – there is no way you could have forced me to put it on blast. The weight of being ashamed of where I came from and the jumbled mess of my family is hard enough to process as an adult – how the hell was I supposed to create some content out of my family tree that was worthy of a passing grade as a kid? I know I wasn’t alone in this feeling either. There were kids with divorced parents and step parents and they didn’t want to put it out there to the entire class room that their parents split up. I just don’t think it is an appropriate school project- period.

As an adult now I have revisited the issue a few times. I don’t know if it’s because it feels like unfinished business or what but I keep coming back to it every couple of years. I’ve made a few failed attempts and I’ve now realized there IS NO WAY to make a family tree for me that is tidy, organized, and has a flow. I can hardly get past my parents and siblings before it turns into a giant mess. I have biological parents, step parents, and adoptive parents. I have 4 half siblings and 2 of them I don’t even know their names or anything about them- I don’t even know if they know I exist. I have a step brother I’ve only met a handful of times who I doubt cares for or remembers who I am to him. I have an adoptive brother who isn’t blood related to me at all and he has a biological family out there somewhere too.

Logically I know I don’t owe anyone an explanation when it comes to my family. That doesn’t make it any easier though. I’m an open book and I’m sure sometimes I over share. Anyone who knows me knows about my family, and foster care, and blahblahblah. However, it is still challenging. My husband obviously knows everything and anything there is to know about my family but even for him it’s hard to keep track. It’s never simple. I can never just say “Oh one time my mom and I_______.” It’s always followed up with a question of which mom. I’m forever grateful of where I landed and I know my family was already messy before foster care and adoption.

If I could do it over I think I would go back and talk to my teacher who gave out the assignment. I wish I would have spoken up and tried to articulate why the project was so damaging and hurtful and why I was refusing to do it. Because I never spoke up I know that the year after and the year after and the year after that the same project will keep getting assigned. The shame that I held onto so tightly other kids will be holding onto and the teacher will have no idea. For the time being I’m in the clear to share what I want and to with hold what I’d rather not share. Until Dylan and I have kids. I dread the day they might get this assignment in school. I want to talk to our kids about my past and family on my terms – not some schools. I’d never lie to our kids about where I came from. But I want questions to come up organically instead of attempting to lay it all out on the table for someone else when I can barely explain it myself.

All in all my family tree isn’t really much of a tree at all. It’s more like a weird and messy game of connect four. I’m constantly trying to work past my shame and embarrassment that comes with my family baggage. I’m at a good point in my life where I’m willing to openly share where I came from and who makes up family. Although, I know that’s not the case for a lot of people.

If it’s within your power and your school or your child’s school is assigning family tree/ancestry/ heritage projects please speak up. Even if your family dynamic is what society has deemed “normal” – speak up for someone else. You have no idea what kind of pain you might be saving someone from.

Until Next Time

- PronouncedLeah

Today Is Just Like Any Other Day

2016-11-29T18:06:00.001-08:00

I’m sorry this one is going to be a longer read – please stick around until the end!

The Holiday’s are basically here. Houses are starting to be adorned with lights and decorations. Christmas trees are going up with beads and ornaments with piles of presents beneath. Everyone is shuffling around with a little more pep in their step. The snow on the ground is light and fluffy, the winter beverages in coffee shops are hot and fragrant, and family and friends are coming together. All of these things really give this time of year a feeling of magic and wonder. Many would say that the Holiday’s are the best time of the year. I on the other hand can’t quiet help but feel the bah-humbug-bug.

I know I should focus more on what I do have. I have a wonderful and loving husband. I have the beautiful blessing of own our own home and having a roof over our heads. We have the ability to buy presents for family. Also, not to mention that at this point in my life I actually have so much love and family that at times it is over whelming. I am undoubtedly incredibly blessed beyond belief. My life has done a complete 360 since I was adopted and then another 360 since meeting my husband and getting married. I have so much in my life to be grateful for but the Holidays are the time of the year that I can’t help but mourn.

I don’t want to be the ultimate downer but the Holidays seem to put me in a perpetual funk. Starting in November all the way through the beginning of February I tend to be a little, well, crabby. I attempt to stop and “smell the snowflakes” and join in on the Holiday cheer but my mind can’t seem to stay away from everything I’ve missed out over the holidays. I’m not talking about not getting the Christmas gifts I wanted, having to work on Christmas, or missing out on parties and events. I’m talking about Christmas as a foster kid.

As I sit here, just writing down the line “Christmas as a foster kid” I instantly felt the wash of shame come over me and I can’t help but to tear up. Years in foster care are hard enough but throwing the Holidays in is a new level of trauma and emotional scarring. Imagine being ripped away from your family and being so incredibly homesick that you can hardly get out of bed. Now it’s Christmas and you’re surrounded by people you hardly know, a family that isn’t your family, in a house that isn’t your house, with a Christmas tree that isn’t your tree, and with ornaments that aren’t the ornaments you made in grade school, and not a single present under that tree is yours. Try to explain and rationalize all of that to an 8, 10, or even a 12 year old kid. Every year I relive the pain of the holidays – now more than ever since I’m estranged from my biological family and have cut the toxicity out of my life.

I vividly remember waking up Christmas morning in one of my foster homes and feeling dread and a sorrow so heavy it had me pinned to the bed. I was around 11 or 12 years old and I hadn’t seen or talked to my parents in over a year. I couldn’t have told you the last time I’d seen anyone from my own family. I could hear the whole house awake and frantically prepping as I lay in bed. I brought the memories of my families faces to my mind. Daily I tried to push away the thoughts of them for fear that the pain would take over and I’d never be able to get it all back in – much like squeezing the tooth paste out of a tube and trying to put it back in. But this one day of the year I would think of them and remember them. This one day of the year I allowed myself to think, to remember, and to feel. Carefully building their images in my mind and holding them for a moment but only a moment before I knew I needed to let go. Tears rolled down my face and dripped onto my pillow. The Christmas music playing full blast drifting down from upstairs seemed to mock me. How could I be so miserable and those around me so full of light?

Once I had hollowed myself out I successfully dragged myself out of bed. I was repeating a mantra in my head of “Today is just like any other day. Today is just life any other day. Today is just like any other day.” It used to be the only thing that held me back from making any cruel remarks or acting out. It’s just one stupid day to get through.

The whole day would pass in a blur. I’d sit at the dinner table with someone else’s family. I’d watch someone else’s kids and grand kids open their gifts. I’d watch as they posed for pictures. I could feel my heart shatter as a mother held her son in her arms and planted a huge kiss on his cheek. I’d bite the inside of mine, hard, to keep the tears from welling in my eyes. The day would pass, just like any other day, and I’d be watching it go bye like watching a movie. This was not my family or my life and it did not belong to me to partake in. I’d smile and join in on conversations to keep appearances and to not bring down the whole house. After all, for these people it certainly was NOT just another day.

The house always eventually wound down and everyone left at some point. I’d always be grateful the moment the last person left and the chores were done because I could be alone again. I’d go through the motions of getting ready for bed. Once in bed I’d once again bring my families images to my mind. This time I’d kiss them all good bye before wishing away their images. I’d bring all the other things I missed about Christmas to mind too. I missed my mom’s monster cookies she made every year because they were my brothers favorite. I missed seeing the ornaments my brother and sister and myself made strewn about the tree. I missed unpacking the ornaments with my mom because every one had a story. “Your grandma gave me this one when I first got married”. “Your sister made this one when she was your age”. I missed my dad holding my on his lap while he sat in his chair with the sound of Christmas music in the background. I even missed the scrawl of my mom’s handwriting and the way she wrote “From Santa”. In my head I’d list the things I missed and once more before the day ended I’d allow myself to shed a few more tears. No matter what foster home I was in – it was the same every year. My Christmas was stolen away from me and I now had the ‘pleasure’ to watch as other people enjoyed theirs.

As an adult I wish I could tell you I’ve put this ritual behind me – but I haven’t. Every year the decorations, the music, and everything that goes along with it re-open an old wound. I still think of my family and bring their images to my mind. I still kiss them all good bye and wish I could just go back and recover what was taken from me. I still allow myself the moment to feel, to cry, and to mourn.

For some people, the Holidays are extremely difficult. I have been so fortunate to meet others in my journey that have experienced similar things in life. This year more than ever I find comfort in the fact that I’m not alone in this feeling. At the same time my heart breaks knowing they are living through the same pain that I am.

If you’re willing I’d like to leave you with a few pieces of advice with you.

Don’t force your Christmas cheer on anyone. Sometimes all they need is space and to be allowed to feel what they’re feeling. There are appropriate ways to be there for someone around this time without trying to cheer them up.

If you’re a foster parent – please be patient. I’m sure you care about your foster children and you want to give them a great Christmas but this is a very hard time for them. Give them space and let them mourn everything they are missing. This is honestly something you can’t make better.

Lastly, please be safe. Check in with yourself. It’s absolutely OK to feel sad and not to love the Holidays. It’s so important to take care of yourself and make sure you’re getting what you need. You are not broken. You’re feelings are 1000% valid and sometimes you need to let yourself feel them. You are not alone!

If the Holidays are as hard for you as they are for me then my heart goes out to you! Just remember that it is just like any other day.

Until Next Time

- PronouncedLeah

Stick Around Long Enough to Find Out

2016-11-05T20:52:00.001-07:00

There was a point in my life when I literally wore my heart on my sleeve for the world to see. The pain and hurt I was carrying with me from the misfortunes of my life were expressed as vivid and angry red cuts along the lengths of my arms. Now that I have distance and perspective since that time in my life I can very clearly see that it was an intense need to be in control, a severe lack of healthy coping mechanisms and a desperate cry for help. I'm much older now and in a much better place but I'm left with the scars and the reminder that comes with them from the dark place I once was in.

I know I'm not alone in the feeling of liking to have a sense of control. I remember growing up feeling like I didn't have control over anything. Everyone around me was making decisions about my life for me without my input. I developed habits and routines to control what I could. Some things were harmless such as dying my hair whenever I got the itch. Others, not so much. I was roughly around the age of 9 when I started self harming. I don't remember what triggered it or why I even started. What I do remember is the panic that seemed to constantly surround my life. The only thing that seemed to make it all slow down and not hurt as much for awhile was cutting. The not so funny thing about cutting was it made me feel like I was in control. When everything else was out of my hands - this was my way to take back the power. The thing that no one talks about self harm is that it's addicting. It gives you a rush of adrenaline with a numb calming effect afterwards. For me it seemed like it started to spiral out of control. Almost like a drug addiction, I would self harm for the high it gave me. Eventually it was the cutting that started to control me. It's sad how ironic that feels putting it so plainly. The rush it gave me wasn't the only thing to keep my habit strong for years. Just like any other addict - you turn to your drug of choice for other reasons then before you know it you're in too deep.

Thankfully I was adopted and my mom was the first person to really work with my through my issues. I'd done therapy for what seemed like my entire life but it never seemed to help. Until I found the right therapist. Then having the right therapist lead to me other things that helped me recover. We concentrated on working on healthy coping skills, putting together lists and action plans, and she referred me to other resources (DBT Therapy) that ultimately made me quit the blade for life. If I would have had these coping skills and opportunities earlier maybe it could have saved me from a lot of gauze and antiseptic wash. Part of it was being receptive to getting better. You could have spewed coping skills and solutions at me all day. Listening is a totally different story.

Often times when you're young it feels like no one listens to you. In my old poetry I frequently described the feeling as being in a room full of people and screaming but it felt like no sound was coming out. Everyone knows the saying of actions speak louder than words. No one heard what I was trying to say so I had to act. If you would have asked me while I was in the worst throes of it I would have completely denied it being a cry for help. Being taken from my family and shuffled around from placement to placement, not only was ripping me apart mentally it was forcing my hand to physically tear myself apart. My outsides were starting to match my insides. I wish someone would have noticed sooner that I was struggling. I wish someone would have realized what was happening and tried to help me before it got as bad as it did. It wasn't until a few suicide attempts later and after being adopted that someone finally heard me. If it wasn't for my adoptive mom I honestly don't think I would be alive today. I remember the very last time I cut myself. It was deeper and worse than any other time before. My mom tried to convince me to go in to the hospital because I needed stitches. The grief and worry she wore on her face like a mask still haunts my memories to this day. I remember thinking that if I was gone my mom would be more sad than she was in that moment. I never self harmed again after that. When I was still self harming though my mom never made me feel ashamed. She never put me down because of it. She simply listened, wrapped my arms in bandages, and let me know how deeply she cared about me. If there is one piece of advice I could give parents who's children are harming - it would be to listen. REALLY LISTEN. Actions speak louder than words.

I've provided a link down below and a link to more info about DBT. Please, if you're struggling - seek help! People honestly do care about you! If you would have told me when I was suicidal and self harming that some day I would have made it to 22 and be happy and married, I would have laughed in your face.
It does get better. I promise.
You just have to stick around long enough to find out.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Call 1-800-273-8255

Until Next Time

- PronouncedLeah

Girl Don't Like Boys And Girls Can't Tolerate Me

2016-10-29T10:19:00.001-07:00

I’m just going to come right our and say it. Women do not like me. Most of my friendships with women have had an expiration date of about one year. Some of them have ended in a huge fight with words exchanged that just can’t be taken back while others have simply fizzled out and died. I’m not entirely sure what the exact reason is that could send all my female friends running but I have a few guesses as to what they could be. Part of it could perhaps be that I just get along better with guys. It could also be that I’m entirely to honest and don’t hold anything back. Or it could also be that I don’t take the time to keep up or invest the energy required to maintain a friendship with the women I have been friends with. Maybe you understand where I’m coming from. Are all of your female friends fleeing from you and you can’t figure out why? Or maybe you’re reading this and already thinking “Man, this lady is a real bitch.” I can only speculate as to why so many of my friendships have fallen apart and I’m prepared to lay it all out for you.

First of all, let me address something and be clear about it. It’s true that all of my friends are guys with the exception of my best friend Abbie (BLESS HER SOUL). I’d like to consider myself as “one of the guys” but not in the “I’m annoying and trying to hard” kind of way. AND unlike the dynamic of so many other friend groups – I know for a fact the none of my friends want to sleep with me. Being friends with guys is just all around a lot more simple. You can just shoot it straight and no one gets bent out of shape over anything you do or say. In fact, if you insult or say something offensive to a guy friend they are either going to shrug it off or laugh it off. At least in my experience none of my male friends hold grudges. In the off chance that I have managed to piss one of them off I’m almost instantly forgiven. Being friends with mostly guys is less work and 100% less effort. Guys are content to just hang out and do a whole lot of nothing. In my experience girls are restless and always want to be doing something or have something planned. I like a plan as much as the next person but when I’m relaxing and hanging out with friends, I want to do just that. I don’t want to get caught up in the drama and stress.

Part of avoiding drama and stress is never withholding the truth. I’ve said it before and I’m sure you’ll hear me say it a thousand more times but lying makes my stomach turn. I’m terrible at lying. Everyone who knows me knows you can see it all over my face. Even little white lies are difficult for me to say. In my opinion, honesty is always the best policy. This has definitely back fired on me in my endeavors with my girl friends. Sometimes girls want you to lie to them. The worst part about this is that I’m a complete hypocrite. If my hair looks awful, please lie to me and tell me it’s fabulous. However, when the tables are turned I find myself unable to get the little white lie past my lips. Something in my brain tells me that if you asked then you’re going to get an honest answer. Of course there are nice ways to inform someone that maybe they should pick a dress with a different cut but I’m all about that no BS policy. I’m sure if I was a little sweeter in my delivery of “constructive criticism” I would have been able to hold on to more of my female friends. But why should I change who I am just to make someone else more comfortable? I may come off as mean or rude but that has never been my intention. I’m sure you think I could easily apologize or explain myself – it just hasn’t worked out that way. Sure, my apologizes in the past were accepted and my explanations were heard and the situation was fixed - temporarily. Only until I open my mouth and say something again to step on someone’s delicate feelings. I know, I'm an asshole. Wouldn’t it be better to keep friends around that can handle you as your truly are though? Instead of living in this cycle of offend/apologize/repeat.

Perhaps other people in this world do invest such time into their friendships. Maybe everyone else is okay with the cycle of offending and apologizing. I know the words "I'm sorry" can easily roll of so many peoples tongues. I could be completely crazy to not want to invest the time and effort it takes to maintain those types of relationships. Every friendship takes some amount of time and effort - but at what cost? I deeply value my time and I don’t appreciate it being wasted. I can only assume that is the feeling most people have. Wouldn’t you agree? So why is it that so many people require so much attention? I don’t want to text my friend’s everyday. I just don’t. I don’t enjoy talking on the phone. I also do not feel the need to spend time with my friends 5 out of 7 days a week. It’s just down right exhausting. I have had multiple friendships where fingers were pointed at me because I never replied to texts and I never called back and I wasn’t spending enough time with them. Blah, blah blah, the list goes on. It was sucking the life out of me and I just needed to cut my ties and walk away.

This could all boil down to a simple explanation of me being lazy and that I just don’t care enough. I don't mind admitting that I'm maybe a bit of an asshole. I’ve always put it off and thought that the person on the other end of the friendship rope was the one that cut ties and walked away. Maybe that still holds truth and they couldn’t stand me or my attitude anymore. The case could also be that I’m a serial-friendship-end-er (yup, I’m making that a word). It’s so easy to point the finger at other people before placing the blame on yourself. So, here I am, publicly pointing the finger at myself. If you used to be my friend – I’m sorry if I was a giant jerk and if I was way too hard to handle. This will be my last apology on the subject. For everyone else, stay firm with who you are. Don’t change yourself just to keep people close to you. Eventually the right people will come into your life and they will be able to tolerate you beyond your wildest dreams and they might even stick around for awhile.

Until next time

-PronouncedLeah

I Miss You, I Miss You Not

2016-10-13T10:00:00.000-07:00

Every once in awhile there is a picture that pops up in my social media feeds. I'm not typically the type of person that is into mantras and cliche phrases but something about this particular message resonates with me. The picture reads "Just so we're all clear, it's okay to miss people you no longer want in your life." I'm always grateful for the reminder. I've made some hard decisions to cut people out of my life. Although it has been necessary for my own well being it's still hard to get over the emptiness it leaves you with.

It's been a little over 3 years since the last time I spoke to my parents. The last conversation I had with them I explained that I had given them dozens of chances and they clearly weren't changing their ways. I didn't cry when I had this talk with them.The defense mechanism in my brain took over and I spoke on auto pilot. My voice was even, monotone, and expressionless. I delivered my message as matter-of-fact even though my heart was breaking. I explained that after today I was cutting them off completely. I listed all the things they would be missing out on because once again they decided to choose drugs over me and I wasn't going to stick around to watch it happen.

Cutting them off meant they would no longer be attending my wedding coming up in a year. When Dylan and I have children in the future my parents will never see them. They will never have our address and their number will remain blocked in my phone. I told them all of this and tried to get them to understand that this was the final conversation we would be having.
Of course they cried and pleaded with me but my mind was made up. My mind had to be made up for the sake of my new life and family. I needed to do what was best for my future and I saw them playing no part in it.

I desperately needed to move forward with my life and leave them in the past where I should have left them long ago. It wasn't worth waiting on their promises to get better. They'd been shoving those falsities down my throat my entire life. I couldn't withstand anymore manipulation and deceit. Lies have always made my stomach turn even if they weren't my own.

A main reason for cutting them out was protecting my new life. I couldn't possibly bring my new family into this disaster. My adoptive mom, Kate, had protected me and welcomed me into her life with open arms. The least I could do was protect her from the insanity that was meant to be left in my past. My husband to be, Dylan, didn't need this kind of drama and hostility weighing him down. It wasn't his mess but mine. Then there were my in-laws, they knew a little of the past life I had but I couldn't allow them to come face to face with the reality of my origins.

Despite all of my reasons to cut ties and walk away it has remained a difficult decision to uphold. Everyday I am battling with myself internally because I miss them so much. Almost daily I go back and forth with the debate of just calling them to talk one last time. Weekly I'm debating if maybe I should just write them a letter. I wouldn't need to put a return address on it. Just say what I need to say and be done with it.

I just hope they know I still love them. For as fucked up and unhealthy as they are I still love them and miss them so much. I try to remember that for my own well being I can't have contact with them but I still struggle with the back and forth in my mind. I have moments when I'm close to cracking but then I receive a nasty reminder for why I need to stay away.

They still attempt to contact me. It's been a long time since I blocked their number. However, I still receive voicemail's and Facebook messages. I've even gone as far as changing phone numbers. I'm on my 3rd number but to no avail. Someone keeps giving out my number to them. It doesn't matter anyway at this point because I know what they will say. Every message I receive follows the same pattern.

My mom will start in with the begging and pleading. Each message goes a little something like this...

"This is your mom Leah, your real mom. Please call me and daddy back. Please if you are hearing this message just call us back. We miss you so much. "

That immediately flows into the guilt trip and heavy manipulation.

"This is your REAL mom Leah, the one who gave BIRTH to you. Does that not mean anything to you? We weren't always the best parents but we always did the best we could. Is this how you repay us? By ignoring us? We won't be around forever. Someday we will be gone and you'll regret this."

Every voicemail, every time is concluded in anger and blame.

"Leah, what the hell is wrong with you?! If your grand parents were alive to see how you're acting, they would be ashamed. You can tell your brother and sister that too. Shame on all of yous. I didn't raise yous to behave like this. What the hell has gotten into you? I sure as hell didn't teach you to act like this. This is your mom Leah. CALL ME BACK."

For any "normal" person that alone would be enough reason to say "good riddance". I wish that was what I thought. I wish I could be a normal person with a normal relationship with normal parents. Instead I sit hear and torture myself and feel like shit about my decision to protect myself. Anytime I get one of these messages I start in with a game of 20 questions in my head.

If my parents pass away will I regret never calling them back?
Is it going to eat away at me for the rest of my life if I don't say my good byes?
Will I attend their funerals if they do pass away?
What will other family think or say if I do?
What if I don't?
Am I morbid for dwelling so heavily on these questions?
Maybe this was the wrong decision all along?

The aching I feel in my chest for them is almost too much to bare and I wish I could just go back to the way things used to be even if they weren't good to begin with. Maybe a shitting relationship is better than no relationship at all. Someday's it feels like the wrong decision.

Without the support system I have in place I surely would have caved and been stuck in the down ward spiral I tried so hard to escape. Dylan is always there to listen to the messages with me and combat the negativity I take from it. My adoptive mom Kate has always kept her arms and ears open when I need to hash it out again and again. Ultimately I know the ball is in my court. Sometimes the sense of control over the situation is the only thing keeping me from driving to their house and throwing my self at their feet for forgiveness.
When I've had enough and I don't want to play the game of keep away any longer the message appears in my feed. Always at the times when I seem to need the reminder most.

It's okay to still love my parents and not have a relationship with them. It's okay to still yearn for a connection to them but to keep the ties of communication cut. It's okay to still want to hear their voices but not let them hear mine.

And just so I'm clear, it's okay to miss my parents and no longer want them in my life.

Until Next Time

- PronouncedLeah

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A Life Lived in Spite

2016-10-06T10:00:00.000-07:00

My life has been a series of events strung together fueled by spite. Whether the results have been good or bad I've based a whole lot of my decisions off of what is the most spiteful course of action.

All of us have something in our personalities telling us to turn left or turn right with every decision we make. Perhaps you’re a peace keeper and your instincts tell you to take the path of least resistance at all times while smoothing over difficult situations. Or maybe you’re more of a care taker. Putting others needs first comes natural to you, you have a desire to up lift others, and you’re okay with your needs taking a back seat. There is also a chance that you could be more like me – spiteful.

I don’t mean spiteful in the sense of being catty or vindictive in a mean way. I just have this desire to do the opposite of what is told of me and a strong will to prove people wrong. Whether I was born with this trait or developed it over the course of my life is debatable. However, within the last year I’ve reflected on some choices I’ve made and the positions they have put me in. A few spiteful actions have resulted in mistakes that I have had to learn from. Such as rebelling against the wishes of my caretakers by dressing a certain way, not auditioning for plays I wanted to audition for, and buying a pet I wasn't ready for. Some of these are small problems in the grand scheme of things but they were absolutely decisions made because I had to prove a point.

On the other hand, a lot of the reason I am where I am today is because I did make decisions out of spite and had a strong desire to show people they were wrong about me. As someone who grew up in the foster care system there are certain stigmas and statistics that go along with it. A few of these stigmas involved having children while under 20 years old, being incarcerated, becoming homeless, not graduating from high school, and/or becoming addicted to drugs. I am proud to say that I have either avoided all of those things. I was determined to throw it back in the face of the people who told me this is what I could expect to happen to my life.

You might be asking yourself “OK, but what does any of that have to do with being spiteful?”

When I was around 12 years old I was placed with my aunt and uncle so that they could be my foster parents. At the time it sounded like a great idea and I was thankful my social worker was able to make it happen. I remembered living with them before when I was much younger and I had loved it. It was safe, stable, and I was more than a little spoiled in my time spent with them. Because I was a preteen old hormonal girl who was going through the lowest of her depression it turned out to be a nightmare. Neither I nor my aunt and uncle ended up being happy with the situation we were in. I rebelled against everything they wanted even when they had the best of intentions. I’m sure they thought they were getting the sweet blonde haired angel they used to have. Instead, they got me with black hair, way to much eyeliner, and dressed in black head to toe. While living with my aunt and uncle the harder they pushed me to wear more color or bleach the black out of my hair the more I pushed back. I wasn’t going to let anyone tell me I couldn’t look how I wanted. The more they wanted me to look another way the more I wanted to look the opposite.

After I was adopted my life turned around for the better. I had a stable home and a mom that loved me. A year or so after I was adopted my mom and I decided to add to our family by adopting again. Soon enough I had an older brother. We got along great but still fought like siblings. There was a lot we had in common including acting and music. I always loved acting and being on stage and although I love music I’m not the most gifted singer. My brother however, had a beautiful singing voice and was very gifted musically. The year previous to my brother moving in I had been in a school play and was excited to audition for the school musical that year. My brother also was excited to audition. Discovering that my brother was going to audition immediately changed my mind and I refused to even consider auditioning. I knew he was a much better singer than I was and I couldn’t live with the idea of him making the play and not making it myself. No matter how much my mom tried to convince me my mind couldn't be changed. My brother did end up getting a lead and although I loved watching him perform I couldn't help but feel regret that my spiteful attitude held me back from doing something I love. I never auditioned for another play again and put my dreams of being on stage to rest.

The trend of never listening to my mom’s advice continued for many more years of my life. As an adult now, I seek out her wisdom and try to take it to heart, but as an attitude filled 17 year old you couldn’t pay me to listen to my mom. I was dead set on adopting a small animal. I had a job and was making my own money and decided I would save up and get something small and cute. Talking it over with my mom we had talked about guinea pigs, rats, birds, and ferrets. The only one my mom was completely against me getting was a ferret. So naturally I decided that was what I needed to get. As much as my mom protested my mind was made up. Later that week I drove to the pet store and spent well over $400.00 on the ferret and all the supplies I needed. It wasn't long before I realized my mistake. Although I loved my ferret (who I had named Boo Radley) he was turning out to be a lot more work than I had anticipated. I did absolutely zero research before getting him. Did you know ferrets are nocturnal? They sure are! Boo kept me up all hours of the night running around in his cage, playing with his toys, even drinking and eating he was noisy. Did anyone ever tell you ferrets are smelly? Listen to those people they are correct. Even though he was noisy and smelly I enjoyed having him but it was definitely more responsibility than I was ready for. My mom ended up proving me right and eventually I ended up having to put Boo back up for adoption.

Despite the lessons I have learned from being spiteful I haven’t changed that characteristic of myself. In the end it has surprisingly has done more good than bad. I am currently 22 years old and my husband and I don’t have any kids and we are still choosing to wait. Being a pregnant teenager is one foster care statistic I was never going to let happen for me. I’m not perfect and have definitely broken some laws but have fortunately never been in jail and I don’t see that ever happening. I've never been homeless, in fact my husband and I bought our first house at 20 years old. That’s something I thought would never happen! I graduated high school and have a great career. I made it happen because everyone told me I wouldn't. I've created a life better than I ever imagined.

I've done it all in spite of the people, statistics, and stigmas telling me I couldn't. I’ll continue to make my life the best one possible in spite of what I have had working against me.

Until next time

- PronouncedLeah

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Black Suits and Dream Catchers

2016-09-29T13:05:00.000-07:00

I’d like to take you back to the first time I was taken from my biological family. I’ll never forget that day and the trauma that it’s left with me.

My personal experience with foster care was terrible. Nothing in my life has ever made me feel as isolated and despondent as the time I spent in the system. I was ripped away from my family numerous times unaware of what had happened and why. I felt as if I had done something wrong and I was being punished. I was placed in new homes and forced to conform to the lives of people I’d never met before. I was forced to carry on in school and pretend nothing had changed because I was ashamed to tell anyone. Everyone around me was making decisions about my life because “they knew what was best for me”. Every time I spoke up I was silenced.
Foster care was meant to save me from my supposedly dangerous and negligent home. In reality foster care stole away my dignity, confidence, and certainty in where I belonged.

I was around 7 years old and was spending the night at my friend’s house. It was early on Sunday morning and my friend and I were watching cartoons in our pajamas while we rubbed the sleep out of our eyes. Our hair was wild from a good night’s sleep and blankets and pillows were piled around us on the living room floor. Her mom was in the kitchen humming and cooking scrambled eggs.
I remember smelling toast and orange juice in the air. At one point the house phone rang and my friend’s mom answered and immediately went in another room and closed the door.
Her face looked solemn and her shoulders hung as she came back after the call was done. Then breakfast was done and I didn’t think to ask what was wrong.
I scarfed down my food and the question that was in my mind was gone. Not long after we were done eating there was someone at the door. Three loud and quick raps on the door followed soon after by 2 rings of the door bell. At the time I couldn’t quite put it together and wasn’t sure why but my stomach sank and my mouth instantly felt dry.

Being kids we ran to the big front window to look outside. A black car was parked out along the curb of the front of the house in the cul-de-sac. My mom’s truck was pulling in behind the foreign car.
My friend’s mom went down the stairs and opened the front door and let in a manin a black suit. Everything felt like it was going in slow motion the second he stepped into the house.
I remember focusing on how shiny his shoes were. I don’t think I’d ever seen a man in dress shoes before. He came up the stairs with my friend’s mom and my mom followed soon after.
I was brought over to the kitchen table and sat down with the man and my mom. My friend and her mom disappeared somewhere else into the house. My moms face was streaming with tears and her body was shaking with shame and sobs.
I reached out my hand to hold hers. Her body shook more violently with tears.
The man was talking at me but I didn’t hear a word he said, all I could think was what did I do that was so terrible and was making my mom cry so hard?
All I could think was that he was from the school and I was in trouble for missing to many days. I couldn’t possibly think of anything else I could have done wrong. For the most part I kept my head down and stayed out of trouble.

My friend and her mom came back in the kitchen and my over night bag was all packed up. My friend handed it to me and hugged me tight. My friend’s mom’s face was stained with tears and she
bent down to hug me and I felt her tears on my cheek. It burned on my face when she pulled away and kissed my forehead good bye. The man in the black suit took my bag from my hand and exchanged words with my friend’s mom.
Everyone was standing and walking towards the front door. My mom was squeezing my hand so tight it almost hurt but I kept silently praying she wouldn’t let go. I could swear it was the only thing that kept me from sinking into the floor. My mom held my hand all the way to the black car while the man in the black suit escorted from behind.
My mind was swimming with questions. Why am I going in the black car?What did I do wrong? Why is my mom crying? Who is the man in the black suit? I thought I wasn’t supposed to trust strangers? Certainly I’m not supposed to trust this strange man? Did something bad happen to my dad? Why isn’t he here too? Are my parents trying to get rid of me? I really must have done something bad.

My mom pulled me into the tightest hug and chanted I love you over and over in my ear. All I could do was repeat those three words back. I prayed in my mind that my mom understood the weight of how much I truly did love her. She pulled away as the man in the black suit said it was time to go. My own tears felt hot on my face this time as they rolled down in a steady stream. I crawled in the back seat and my mom buckled me in. She squeezed me one last time and kissed my forehead and said good bye. The man in the black suit got in the front seat and started the car. As the car left the cul-de-sac I felt the weight of the world come crushing down on me. My head was pounding and my chest was tight as I gasped for air between sobs. I knew that where ever this car was going, when I got out, I was never going to be the same person again.

As I was getting my breathing back to normal and wiping my face of my tears I noticed the car starting to slow down.We pulled into a drive way the lead to a large tan house. The yard was perfectly kept and the drive way looked as if it had been swept. I remember thinking the neighborhood felt quiet and deserted. It felt as lonely as I did. During the drive I had promised myself that I wouldn’t let “them” see me cry again and I would never show any weakness again.The man in the black suit came around and opened my door. I took his hand and followed him to the door. His hand had none of the warmth that I felt in my moms. It only made me feel more isolated and empty. My head was still throbbing but my feet carried me forward like they had a mind of their own. An older woman with dyed black hair, blue eyeliner, and over sized dream catcher earrings answered the door of the tan house. The man in the black suit said good bye and we parted ways. I never saw him again. Unfortunately the way my life was about to turn there were plenty of other men and women in black suits with black cars.

The woman with the dream catcher earrings led me inside to the house and showed me “my room”. The please and thank you that came from my mouth didn’t feel like my words. The body that carried me through the door of the tan house couldn’t have been my body. I was acting on auto pilot and complied with the directions I was pointed. The woman with the dream catchers left me alone and left the door open behind her. She spewed niceties at me along the lines of she would let me get settled and she would be upstairs if I needed anything. The stairs creaked as she went up stairs. I was finally alone and all I wanted was to scream or hit something. Instead, I sat on the end of the bed and stared blankly into space letting the numb feeling in my chest wash over me completely. The bed beneath me felt hard as a rock as I lay down. I curled into a ball trying to be as small as possible. Hoping that if I made myself small enough maybe I could disappear. Words from earlier came flooding back to me as my head started to clear. Two words rang over and over in a loop as I closed my eyes and started to drift to sleep.
Foster care.

Everyone's experience with foster care is different. My personal experience has left me with a life time of trauma and PTSD to try to heal from.

This story is just one instance of the traumatic events of being taken from my family.
I hope to share with you the other stories. For me this wasn't a one time event but the beginning
of my life being turned upside down over and over again.

Until next time

-PronouncedLeah

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Life as PronouncedLeah

2016-09-29T09:04:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the twisting and turning life of PronouncedLeah!

I thought for my first post I should do a little get to know me and what you can expect to see on this blog.

So first things first, my name is Leah and despite what you are reading my name is actually pronounced like “Lay-uhh”. Yes, that is right. Just like Princess Leia. You can feel free to call me Princess, you can choose to call me Lee-ah or you can call me by my actual given name. I have lived pretty much my entire existence correcting people. How about you and I try to start out on the right foot though? ;)

Leah May 2016

Let’s get into a little bit of what my life looks like right now. I am 22 years old but at heart I am a grumpy middle aged woman. My husband Dylan and I own a small house in the frozen tundra known as Minnesota with our 2 pets. My husband’s younger brother also lives with us because as they put it they are “a package deal”. Things are always pretty interesting around our house hold. Between a very patient husband, a crabby brother in law(almost as crabby as me), a Pitbull who likes to eat everything, and the most vocal black cat I've ever encountered, every day is a new adventure.

Dylan with Timber (left), Willow (top right), My brother in law Kyle (bottom right)

Rewind back to little Leah’s childhood… Growing up I was in and out of foster care. This has greatly impacted who I am as an adult. I lived with my biological mother and my step father up until I was around 6 years old. That is where my journey in the child welfare system first began. After being taken from my parents the following years resulted in me having 10 different placements and attending 13 different schools by the time I graduated. Ultimately, I ended up being adopted by a complete stranger when I was 13 years old which thankfully was the best thing possible for me. I am very grateful for how my life turned around. Unfortunately, that is not the case for most kids. However, that is a totally different story for another time. We will get into that eventually.

What can you expect to see on this blog? Well, I plan on writing about my life. I would like to write about my crazy childhood while I was living with my birth family. I want to be able to share my stories of my time in foster care in hopes that it’ll reach others who have experienced similar situations. I plan on sharing my experience navigating a new life after adoption as a teenager. I will write about my continued involvement in the child welfare system and the people I have met along the way. With these heavy topics I ultimately plan on writing about them in the same way I would talk about them: with a dark sense of humor and a note of seriousness.

If the “doom and gloom” type of blog isn’t for you, good news! I plan on writing about other important pieces of my life as well! As someone who met their significant other while in high school and got married young you can imagine that we’ve faced quite a bit of kick back. I want to share our experiences of the challenges and adventures we have gone through throughout our relation ship. I will write about owning a home and remodeling it piece by piece. You can also expect to see post about music, and makeup, and anything else I deem note worthy.

Reader, are you still there? Thanks for making it to the end of this introduction. If any of the above mentioned sounds even remotely interesting, stick around! I have plenty of stories and cant wait to share them with you. If you enjoy the sass, sarcasm, and/or content share this with a family member or friend. Can’t wait to share with you soon!

Until next time!

-PronouncedLeah

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