Uncovering My Stuff

Most of my stuff is stuff I'm well aware of. Yes. I know I hate to use the telephone; having to call an insurance company makes me break out in a cold sweat and I will procrastinate for months. Months! I will put it off until Josh threatens something more hideous, like leaving me home not alone for the weekend. Or hiding my mini Cadbury eggs.

Yes. I will actually have a bona fide panic attack while getting ready to leave on a trip. Even if there is no deadline whatsoever. Having to make a plane on time will make me go catatonic. Packing makes me cry.

Yes. I get very grouchy when presented with canned green beans and will refuse to set a good example for the children.

Yes. Preparing for the Christmas trip to Josh's parents' brings up PTSD type behaviors ever since The Nightmare Trip From Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell of 2008. Even though I love going.
Ok. So that was only one Christmas trip ago. But it was a doozy, let me tell you.

But this one, this one I didn't know was there.

Yesterday I spoke with a brand-spankin-new foster parent (yes, on the phone, no less). She had been placed with twin three-month-old drug-addicted preemie boys. The agency had wanted her to also take their 11-month-old brother. Because, you know, who cares about setting a foster family up to fail as long as all the baby siblings are together. Priorities. And it all came screaming back, flashing through my head late into the night, making me crabby with the kiddos.

* Holding a crying, needing-to-be fed newborn and being too stunned to prioritize feeding her over listening to the caseworker. A friend took her out of my arms without my even noticing

*Crying and kicking things out of my way to make a path from the kitchen to the living room because I had no time to unpack from the camping trip we had been on and the influx of stuff needed for three small girls

*Screaming "f*** you" at Josh across the yard, a word I've never used before or since

*Watching Princess bounce up and down at an intersection yelling "J's house J's house J's house," having no idea who J was. Finding out J is the birthmom, whom the girls called by her first name

*Driving as fast as possible to the therapist's appointment, praying the three-month-old I had no legal rights regarding would not be hit by the shoes and toys the three-year-old I had no legal rights regarding was throwing at my head

*Trying, TRYING to relax and have fun with formally-only-child Buddy during the girls' two-hour visits

Later,

*Picking up the girls early from a visit because the birthmom promised them they'd be home by Peanut's birthday

*Picking up the girls early from a visit because the Cuddle Bear had become so stressed and upset she would not allow herself to be fed

*Allowing three crying, screaming girls to be pried off me by the visit supervisor; wanting desperately to grab them and run away

*Two days from Easter. Knowing we'd only see them two more times before never seeing them again. The call from the caseworker telling us every lie had been exposed and termination proceedings would begin

*The management change at the agency. Changing from loving foster care to feeling completely unsupported and like there was no one I could trust. Keeping everything inside.

*The first investigation. The second investigation. The third investigation. The fourth investigation. Unbelievable stress; each one delaying adoption another six to twelve weeks.


The empty feeling in my heart the day after the adoption was finalized. The hole that fear had left.