Blah

I have been feeling blah for a while now.  It’s almost like my meds were working, and then they don’t seem to work anymore for me.  So then I stop taking them cause can’t see the point of taking them if they aren’t doing what they are supposed to do for me.

I wasn’t ready to leave the hospital when they discharged me.  So much so that I had a hissy fit.  It wasn’t pretty, I didn’t hurt anyone or myself.  I just basically told them that I wasn’t ready to leave but that they were kicking me out of the hospital anyways.  I told my doctor there that I didn’t feel ready.  That I wanted to stay longer till I felt I was ready not when he thought I should be ready. But all he had to say to me about that was that I had been manipulating both him and the nurses for the last month.  I to this day don’t think I was manipulating anyone.  I was just wanting to get help. But I didn’t really get it.

I was told that I had 20 minutes to pack my stuff up or my nurse could pack it for me.  And that if I wasn’t ready to leave in the 20 minutes than security would come and help me leave.

I wasn’t ready to leave.  But no one would listen to me. I didn’t feel fixed enough to be able to make it in the outside world. But I was forced to leave.

I thought my doctor was an asshole. He told me at one point that I needed to train my son like I would if I had a puppy.

I still talk to a few of the other patients that were there with me.  I am not sure if they are making it outside of the hospital or just really good at faking it.  I hope and pray that they are making it.  Because it’s really had to fake it, I know.

I find it funny how those who want to leave end up staying for a really long time even though they keep asking to be discharged.  And me on the other hand was practically begging to stay and they sent me home.

I went on the weekend to visit a wonderful lady who still happens to be in the hospital.  My 3 months were up so I could go and visit. As I sat there with her, and I knew it was getting closer to the time I needed to leave to catch my bus to go home. I was so hoping and praying that I was dreaming about having to leave.  I was hoping that I still had a bed there waiting for me to sleep in at night.

How does one put there child through leaving them again? How do people survive life when all they want to do is curl up in a ball and never come out of the ball.  And if they do come out of the ball, the only answer for them is to either kill themselves and end the suffering one feels or abandon there child and hope to return to the hospital to get the help needed in order to survive.

I am at the point where I am not exactly sure I want to survive anymore.

I appreciate that I can say what I am feeling here and not be judged for what I say. Some times I feel like if I don’t write it down then my head will explode. But at the same time if I do write it down, then I am opening myself up more than I want too.  If that makes any sense at all.

My first few days in the psych ward.

November 15th, 2014 at 5:36 pm I walked into the Victoria Psych Ward. I was terrified about being there.  I was disappointed with myself for being there.  I was ashamed that I was there. But while feeling all those other emotions I also knew it was the best thing for me.  I knew I needed help and I needed it now.  I couldn’t say I would be around to ask for it again.

I was terrified because it was something new.  I didn’t know what to expect from this.  I didn’t know what it would be about. I didn’t know what would happen to me.

I was disappointed with myself because I felt that it made me a weak person that I couldn’t cope with it on my own.

I was ashamed because I felt it made me a weak person that I couldn’t cope with it on my own.  I was ashamed because I had to leave my son in order for me to seek help for myself.  I have always put my son’s needs before my own and now to be putting mine first I didn’t like it.  I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t know how to react to me doing it.  Other than to hate myself more than I already do.

And for those reason’s and other’s I knew I needed to get help.

So I have a great nurse show me around the unit.  She did my vital’s, asked me some questions, and then told me that my doctor would like to have a meeting with me.  So off we went to talk to him.  He asked me why I was there and I told him because the suicidal thoughts are happening more frequent.  And that I have started to try to actually go through with what the thoughts are telling me to do. We talked for about 15 minutes, and he then told me that he’s going on holiday’s for two weeks starting the next day and that I would be seeing another doctor starting Monday.  Since of course there are no doctor’s there on the weekend.

I am sure he said a bunch of other stuff to me that night but to be honest things weren’t making sense to me.  The whole past two days were just so over whelming for me.  I didn’t know if I was coming or going.

I remember the nurse got me a dinner brought up for me since I hadn’t eaten since Wednesday November 13th.  It was cold salmon, cold rice and cold orange and yellow carrots.  I remember what I had to eat, but don’t remember what the doctor said to me.  I find that odd, but I think it was easier for me to focus on the small stuff that first few days and not the bigger picture.

I remember going to my room and unpacking my stuff.  Earlier that Friday I had written my son a note telling him what to pack for himself while I was gone and also for stuff for him to pack for me.  Since when I left my house on Thursday the only thing I took with me was what I thought I would wear to sleep.  So after I had unpacked my stuff I went to the common area of the unit.

I didn’t know anyone there, I had never been to the psych ward before.  Heck only time I had ever been in the hospital was when I gave birth to my son and in 2011 when I had a infection on my leg.

I had my book, and I sat at a table in the dinning area and I read.  No one tried to talk to me, no one really looked at me.  I felt like I had the plaque and no one wanted to be around me.  At 10:00 pm I was being told to go to bed.  I could read in bed but I had to go to my room.  I don’t usually go to my room till between 12 am and 2 am.  So to have to go then was strange.  I didn’t want too go but I didn’t want to argue with them either.

So off I went to my room to read.  I just hoped that my roommate wouldn’t mind me reading.  When I got to my room she was asleep so I didn’t want to leave my light on incase I woke her up.  So I laid in bed and waited for sleep to happen.  The last time I had asked the nurse who checks on you at night what time it was she said it was 2 am.  I finally fell asleep after that, but after a bit I woke up again. I wasn’t sure what time it was, I wasn’t sure if I could even leave my room or if I had to stay in there until someone came and got me.  So again, I just laid there in bed waiting for something.  After learning the time was only 4:30 am I eventually fell back asleep.  I got up and took a shower around 7 am.  When I got out of the shower and was dressed I was going to leave my room. And hope that I was allowed out.  A nurse was coming in, she wanted to take my blood work.  After 3 tries she finally found a vein that would let her get the blood she needed.  After she did that I went to the dinning room area after asking the nurses if I could be out now.  I learned that I could have come out when I woke up.

Breakfast came, I ate all by myself.  Everyone else was still sleeping.  Eventually a few people started coming out for there breakfast.  I sat at the table and read my book.  Then it was lunch time, so I got my lunch tray and after eating it I still sat there and read my book.  I sat in the dinning room every waking minute for the first 3 day’s reading.

On my fourth day it was Monday.  Finally something was going to happen.  There were groups for me to go to.  I was looking forward to the groups because maybe then someone would talk to me.  I had only had the nurse that took care of me to talk to since I got there.

People started to say hi to me that Monday, but it wasn’t until Tuesday or maybe even that Wednesday when I finally had an actual conversation with someone other than a nurse.

It was nice to finally talk.

The start of getting help.

So I guess since that day when my son was put into the psych ward my life started on a downward spiral. And the spiral just kept getting faster and faster.  With no slowing down, not even for a little bit.

Finding out that my son has Asperger’s was a good thing please don’t get me wrong.  But at the same time now knowing what he has made life so much harder.

You see, my son is a Google freak.  He will think of something and then Google it.  Which he did when he learned he has Asperger’s.  After he Googled it and learned what it was, what the symptom’s are.  He started to then develop symptom’s that he didn’t have before he Googled it.

That lasted about 3 years.  However, he now thinks he doesn’t have Asperger’s nor did he ever have it to start with.  He says that the doctor’s are just out there to push meds.  Which part of me agree’s with him.  But I am the one that has to live with him.  I am the one that see’s what he’s like when he doesn’t take his meds.  Now, I am sure a lot of you are now asking yourself why in the world would I have put my son on meds.  And my answer to that is, so that I can get him help.  A child shouldn’t have to live with depression, or anxiety.  A child shouldn’t want to kill themselves. Which is what he’s on meds for.  It’s no different than me being on my meds for depression.

So as I am trying all I can to get him the help he needs.  I am letting myself slip deeper and deeper into my own depression. To the point that my thoughts always drift to I don’t want to live anymore.

Back in late September I had had enough.  I took my butcher knife and held it to my wrist. I did the cutting motion.  But I just couldn’t press hard enough on the knife to do anything.  And the reason why I couldn’t is because I couldn’t let my son be the one to find me in a pool of blood laying on the kitchen floor.

About a week later I had the same thoughts where I didn’t want to live anymore.  This time I took a handful of my sleeping pills and was going to take them.  But again, I couldn’t do it because again I couldn’t have my son be the one to find me.

November 12th, 2014 I couldn’t take it anymore again.  So I grabbed the handful of sleeping pills again.  This time I put 8 of them in my mouth.  I drank some water.  I tried to swallow them, but I couldn’t.  I don’t know how long I held the water and pills in my mouth for before I realized that again I couldn’t go through with it.  So I spit what was left of it into the sink.  I then sat on the kitchen floor and cried.  I don’t know if I was crying because I was too tired of living and wanted to die and couldn’t do it or if I was crying because I was a chicken shit for not going through with it.  Either way, there I sat on the kitchen floor for what seemed like forever crying.  When I finally finished crying, I got up and went to bed.  Part of me wondered if maybe enough of the sleeping pills had gotten into my system and maybe come morning I wouldn’t wake up.  Part of me really prayed that would happen.

As you can see, I woke up that next morning.

I knew I had to get help. Something wasn’t working for me.  I always slipped back into thinking about suicide.  I would go through ways to do it that would still allow my son to get the life insurance for me.  Knowing full well that if they knew it was suicide he wouldn’t get it.  I thought of falling into traffic, but I couldn’t have someone else get hurt due to me.  I couldn’t have someone feel bad for killing me when it’s what I really wanted to happen.

So November 14th, 2014 I had a doctor’s appointment and I told my doctor how I had been feeling.  She knew about the stuff I have been going through with my son.  She just didn’t know what I was going through myself.  So she recommended that I go to the Crisis Response Centre (CRC).  She told me that I wouldn’t have to wait as long to see someone because where as if I went to normal emergency they don’t look at Mental Health as a need for help as much as Crisis Response Centre (CRC) would. So I went there Thursday night.  After I had the police come and remove my son from our home.

I had them come because I was scared as to how he would react to what I was doing.  And because he felt that he should be able to stay home alone while I was in the hospital if that’s what happened to me. The police took him to CFS.  And I had his Grandpa pick him up from there.  I wasn’t really sure what was going to happen to him.  I didn’t know where he would go or where he would end up staying.  And to be honest with you, at that point I didn’t care.  I had it in my head that I was going to go to CRC and see about getting me some help.

The police took him, and I had a friend take my dog to her house, while I had another friend take me to CRC.  She stayed with me while I saw the first person there.  I told her to leave, she has a family she had to be with and a child who she needed to help with there homework.

Needless to say I was at CRC for 23 hour’s.  They put me in a room where they had put a blow up bed.  I dozed in the recliner chair.  I maybe got an hour sleep. I wanted to be at HSC because then I would be close to my son’s school.  But there were no beds there.  The only place that had an open bed was Victoria General Hospital.  When they told me that I had a panic attack.  I have had the odd one before but nothing like this one.  I threw up, I had the shakes, I couldn’t catch my breathe, I saw stars, my vision was going in and out of focus and I was freezing.  They gave me something to calm me down, and it worked. Thank goodness because I wasn’t having a good time at all.  After I calmed down I realized that I need to get help and if the only place open is Victoria then that is where I have to go.

So Stretcher Services came and picked me up and took me from CRC to the Victoria hospital.

My son

When my son started school Kindergarten went great.  I have to wonder if that is because it was only half a day.

Because come Grade 1 when he was there full days, it was at least three times a month I would get a phone call asking me to come and pick him up.  He had hurt another student and was suspended.

Come Grade 2 and on till Grade 4 I got those phone calls at least once a week if not more.  The T.A’s would each have an arm and a leg, while another would hold his head.  They would carry him down the hallway like that to the principal’s office.  Where I would get my phone call or page to the office to come and get him and take him home.  At one point in Grade 4 while they were carrying my son like that he was struggling to get out of there grasp and accidentally kicked one of the teachers and now because he hurt a staff member he was expelled from school this time.  So they arranged for him to go to another school right away.

At the next school it was just before Christmas that his teacher upset him and then said that my son punched her in the stomach.  To this day, he will say he never punched her or hit her at all.  But because he already had the “bad boy” label they took the teacher’s word even though no one else saw this happen.  And once again he was expelled from school.

From there he went to tutoring for one hour each day from January till the end of June.  When there was about one week left of the school year we went for a tour of his next school which would be his school from Grade 6 till Grade 8.  Fingers crossed that this one would last for the whole three years as we were running out of school’s in our area.

So September comes, and school starts.  He LOVES his teacher which is great.  He did get in trouble still but not as often or as bad as he had before.  The principle and vice principal were great with him.  I was so impressed with them.  Grade 6 went off great.

September of Grade 7 comes and I just keep praying that this year will be the year where I get no phone calls to come and pick him up.  I got the phone calls but again less often than the year before.  It was actually getting to the point where during the day I wouldn’t cringe when the phone rang.

That is until June 24th, 2010. I was almost walking out the door to go and pick my son up from school to take him for his doctor’s appointment.  I was going to be leaving in 10 minutes tops.  The phone rang, I didn’t think it could be the school because my son knew I was coming to get him.

It was the school, it was the acting vice principal that was calling asking me to come to the school right away.  So I hopped in the vehicle and off I went to the school.  As I am about to turn onto the street the school is on  I see the vice principal standing in the opening to the bay the school is on.  And I see her telling someone that they can’t go into the bay or that’s what I believe she is saying because I am not there yet.  When I get there she is coming to my vehicle, she starts to say that I can’t go into the bay then realizes it’s me.  She lets me go past her into the bay.

As soon as I turn onto the bay I see my son sitting in the middle of the road in the bay.  I can’t figure out why he is just sitting there in the middle of the road.  So I park and the vice principal is at my window. I ask her what is going on?   She tells me that the school is on lockdown because my son said he had a knife in his backpack which he didn’t and they knew that because they looked through his backpack but kept the school on lockdown because my son decided that he would run out of the school and stand in traffic in order to get killed.  The vice principal had to call the police because my son wouldn’t get out of traffic and they needed the police to direct traffic or help get him out of traffic.  I assume that once my son knew the police were coming that he got out of the main road but decided the bay road was just as good. He see’s me and comes over to where I am.  He tells me that he’s ready to go to his doctor’s appointment which I have now had to call and say we wouldn’t be making it.  But I am bawling hysterically so I have to get another staff member from the school to explain why I won’t be bringing my son to the appointment.  That instead he will be going to Children’s Emergency to have a Psych evaluation done.  I have to keep telling my son that he can’t get in the vehicle, that we aren’t going to his doctor’s appointment.  That I can’t leave with him because the police have already been called and are on there way.  He is pissed now because I won’t let him in the vehicle so I get out of the vehicle and go inside the school.  I can’t stop crying, I don’t know what is happening even though I have been told what is happening.  I couldn’t register what they were actually saying to me.

So I go into the principal’s office and sit in a chair and bawl.  The secretary who happened to be a friend took me into the vice principal’s office so people couldn’t see me.  When I felt that I was settled enough to go back outside since that was still where my son was I got up and went outside.  Just as I am opening the door and start walking towards my son, I see two policeman walking towards him and then I see one of them pull out his handcuffs and put them on my son.  All I remember is starting to bawl again, and my knees going weak.  Next thing I knew I was back in the vice principal’s office and I had a can of coke.  One of the policeman came into the office and told me how they now had my son in the police car and were taking him to Children’s.  That he school social worker was going to follow in his car.  And then told me to stay at the school till I felt I was ok to drive or until I could find someone else to drive me to the hospital.  One of the staff at the school ended up driving me to the hospital.

Finally the Psych doctor came and spoke to my son.  I was in the bathroom while this conversation happened because they didn’t want me in the room they wanted my son to truthfully answer the questions which they thought he might not if I was in the room. When I got out of the bathroom, the Psych doctor came up to me and told me that she would like my permission to admit my son to the Psych ward.  I gave my permission.  I wanted to get him help.  I needed to get him help.  I was scared that he would try to kill himself again. I knew he was going to hate me for it.  But I had to do it. And it was the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life.  I tell people that it was the worst day of my life and the best day of my life at the same time.

The best day because now I thought maybe I will get some help in understanding why he is the way he is.

Needless to say he was in the Psych ward for 2 weeks.  He had a double room, so I slept in one bed and he slept in the other.  He was diagnosed with Asperger’s. I was so happy, I finally had a diagnosis for him.  I could put a name to why he is the way he is.  I could read about it and understand it now that it had a name.

This June that will have happened 5 years ago. My son turned 17 November 25th, 2014.

November 25th, 2015 he turns 18.  He plans on killing himself that day.  I have 312 days left with him if he follows through with what he says.  His doctor’s know his plan, the school people know his plan, his grandparents now know his plan as does his dad.  They don’t think he will do it.  I however am not sure if he will or not.  I pray every day that he doesn’t.  I want my son around for a long time yet.  No parent should live longer than there child.  Or that’s my thought.

The birth of my son

So other things have happened to me in my life which I am just not ready to share with the world.  But will say that they all play a part in my depression. Things that I wish I could get past so that I don’t have them hanging over my head.

And then years later I had a son.  I love my son dearly, he means the world to me.  It’s always just been him and me.  We have spent more time together than I ever have with anyone else.

He was born November 25th, 1997.  It was a very beautiful time of year, the temperature was very mild.  I gave birth to him in Brandon, Manitoba.  I was 10 days late and was induced on Monday November 24th, at 8:00 am.  I finally had him at 7:50 am on November 25th.  He was a big boy, he weighed 10 lbs. 71/4 oz. and I was so tired from trying to push him out that when he was finally born I couldn’t open my eyes to see him I was that exhausted. I remember the nurse yelling at me to open my eyes and look at him.  She told me that if I wanted to see him I had to do it now because they were taking him to another room to examine him because when he was born his right shoulder came out at the same time as his head.  So they were worried that he either had a broken collarbone or pulled muscles in his neck.  I tried as hard as I could to open my eyes but they didn’t want to listen to me.  By the time I finally did open my eyes they had already taken him out of the room.  The nurse looked at me and said “you missed seeing your son for the first time!” Meanwhile, I am thinking well when I do see him, it will be my first time so I really didn’t miss seeing him for the first time.  I however, didn’t say that out loud.

They stitched me up and sent me back to the room I had spent the previous night.  I had no sooner gotten back into bed and another nurse was there telling me to get up and try going to the bathroom.  They needed my bed but I couldn’t be sent to the ward until I had peed.  So up I get again and off to the bathroom I go.  I peed and went back to the room.  As soon as I entered the room the nurse was there to ask if I peed.  I told her I did, she said ok gather your stuff were going to take you to your room now.  I get to my room, there are four beds in it and all of them are now full.  I just wanted to get into bed and have a sleep.  Which I wanted to do that but at the same time I was hungry.  I had not had anything to eat in over 36 hours I was starving.  So I had something to eat and then went to sleep.  I wasn’t in the hospital very long, they were making me leave two days after giving birth.  I wasn’t ready to go home, I was scared to go home.  Would I be able to help my son?  Would I know what he was crying for?  Would I be able to take care of him all day by myself?  What if I needed help?

But none of that mattered because off we were going home.  I hurt like I have never hurt before. I was happy to be home.  I got to see my dog Sasha.  I missed her while in the hospital, I had never been away from her since the day I got her.  My ex (husband at that time though) went back to work. And I was now alone with my son. I know they say that you should nap while the baby sleeps.  But I couldn’t, I was too scared that if he cried I wouldn’t hear it. Or that maybe I put him in bed wrong and he would die in his sleep.  I had so many thoughts always going through my mind that I couldn’t sleep.  I was running on maybe two hours a day of sleep.  I was so exhausted that the night before his one week check up he wouldn’t settle back to sleep so I brought him into bed with me.  I had him laying on my chest and I just laid awake.  Once I thought he was sound enough asleep I put him back into his crib and I went to sleep.  I was so exhausted that I fell into a really deep sleep.  To the point that I don’t remember putting him back in his crib.  I thought that my pillow was him and I couldn’t find his face.  I ripped my pillowcase apart looking for his face.  I finally realized that it was my pillow and not him.

When I got to my doctor’s office she took one look at me and asked me how much sleep I have gotten.  I told her usually no more than two hours a night.  She said “to me you are going to have a nervous breakdown, I am going to readmit him into the hospital and under no circumstances are you to sleep at the hospital with him.  You can stay there all day but you have to go home at night.” I would spend all day there with him, and then reluctantly go home.  The first two nights I never slept because I felt like the worlds worst mom.  Who has there child readmitted into the hospital just so that the mom can get sleep?  I had never heard of that before and I felt like shit because I had now abandoned my son at a week old.  It also didn’t help that the day he was readmitted happened to be my birthday.

He was in the hospital for a week.  When he got out, my son and I moved into my inlaws house.  We lived with them for about 3 months.  I finally felt that I could take care of him myself.  So my son and I returned home.

June 2nd, 1999 my son and I moved back to Winnipeg. And it has been just me and him ever since.  Sure he see’s his dad. But in our house I play every role.  Mom, dad, cook, maid, etc.

It was easy in the beginning.  He was a great baby, and a quiet little boy who you could take out shopping or to a restaurant and would have no problems.  As long as I had a pocket full of dinosaurs all was good in his world.

That is until he started school…..

The places I slept when I would run away

I ran away from home many times as a child.  I remember the first time I ever ran away I think I was about 8 years old and I ran away because I wasn’t allowed to take a bus by myself downtown.  I can’t remember why I wanted too, I just remember being told “no your too young”.  So I ran away, I ran away to a friend’s house and spent the whole day there.  I came home after dinner because I had dinner at my friend’s house.  I wasn’t sure what was going to happen to me when I returned home.  I admit I was scared to go home.  I kept thinking the whole walk home about how much trouble I was going to get into.  About what kind of beating I was going to get if my dad wasn’t home when I got there.  I was so scared that I turned around 3 or 4 times to go back to my friend’s house but knew that it wasn’t the answer because they weren’t home.  You see they had gone out for the evening after dinner so I had no choice but to go home unless I could find another friend’s house to go to.  But even if I did find another friend’s house, how long could I possibly stay there before their parents would send me home.

So I kept walking till I got home.  We for whatever reason never used the front door of the house.  So I walked up the driveway and to the backdoor. I don’t know if they saw me coming up the driveway but I assume that they did.  I slowly opened the backdoor and walked into the house.  I took off my shoes at the backdoor and walked through the kitchen to get to the living room.  I was so thrilled when I saw my dad sitting there in his chair.  I felt safe that he was there.

No one said boo to me.  They acted like I had never left at all.  I was shocked that I wasn’t in trouble.  I was shocked that I wasn’t grounded.  I was so shocked I really didn’t know what to do.  So I turned around, walked back out of the living room and went to my room.  I stayed in their the rest of the night.  I guess I felt that since I was bad for running away that I would have been grounded so I basically grounded myself.  I never would have guessed that they would have pretended nothing had happened.  Especially not my mom.

That was the first time, but certainly not the last time.  I ran away many times after that.

I ran away and would go to a friend’s house, I would knock on her bedroom window.  Her parents were older so they would go to bed early, usually the same time as the kids.  Since it would take me a while to walk to her house her parents were usually already asleep by the time I would knock on the window.  She would come to the backdoor, let me in and we would go downstairs.  I never told her what was going on that made me run away, and she never asked.  We would sit up and talk, or watch tv, and sneak a smoke.  We would then sneak upstairs, she would check to make sure her parents were asleep and then I would sneak past their room and we would go to bed.  In the morning, she would get up and then go into the kitchen when it was breakfast time.  Until then she would stay in her room getting dressed and just talking with me.  When she would go to the kitchen, I would have my shoes in her room, I would carry them to the front door, and I would quietly open the door and go outside. I would put on my shoes and then ring the doorbell as if I am calling on her for school.  She would come and let me in, and then her mom would make me something to eat as well.

Looking back now, I am sure her parents must have known I was there.  They just didn’t say anything to either of us so I would just keep coming back. But some nights they wouldn’t be home when I came, or they would have company and her parents would still be up.  In which case, I wouldn’t knock on the window or sleep there that night.

On those nights I would have to find somewhere else to sleep.  I slept under the staircase of a friend’s apartment block since I couldn’t actually sneak into his house.  Plus where would I sleep since he was a male friend.  I slept there a number of times. I remember that this one particular time I couldn’t do the under the stairs spot, and my friend wasn’t home.  I didn’t know where else to sleep.  I only really had those two spots that I would sleep at.  So I was lost.  I was stuck.  I was confused as to where to go and what to do.  All I knew was that I needed to sleep and that I couldn’t miss school the next day.

That’s when it hit me as to where I would sleep that night.  I slept in the school field.  I figured this way I would get sleep, if I could actually sleep which I didn’t know if it would be possible.  I assumed someone would see a figure sleeping on the ground and either come and attack me, come and check me out or call the police.  None of that happened to me thank goodness.  I also knew that if I slept in the school field, well  I couldn’t be late for school as either the kids coming to school would wake me up or the school bell would.  I did manage to get sleep that night.  And a friend of mine on her way to school saw me and woke me up.

I don’t ever remember getting grounded when I would go home the next day.  But I also would time it so that I knew my dad would be home when I got there.  I am pretty sure that he must have made sure that he would be home before me each and every time.

Did running away solve anything? Nope my problem was still there each and every time I went back home.

To this day

Years ago I was diagnosed with depression and post-traumatic stress disorder.  I have had depression for as long as I can remember.  I was the kind of child where all my good memories took place when I wasn’t at home.  I loved going to school because it was a safe place for me.  I wasn’t good at school, I just liked going to school.  I loved summer camp because I wasn’t at home any more.  The first time I went to summer camp it was for two weeks.  I had never been away by myself for that long at one time.  I was thrilled that I didn’t have to worry about things for two whole weeks.  I felt safe for those two weeks.  But those two weeks were not nearly long enough.  As the two weeks came close to the end I started to panic again about having to return home.  I didn’t want to return home, I was scared to return home, I resented that I had to return home.  I knew that I wouldn’t be safe when I returned home.  And as that home day drew closer the fear grew higher. After that first summer at camp, I would always go for a month.

Now that you know that part, let me tell you why being away from home was a safe place.

For as far back as I can remember I was beaten.  I was adopted at 7 days old.  I was adopted due to the family not wanting to give birth to another child but yet wanting another child.  So one would think that they had wanted me since when you adopt someone you get to pick the one you want.  Or that’s how I think it works even back then.

But that didn’t seem like the case to me. If I got to pick the child I wanted out of all the children being put up for adoption I really don’t think I would have beaten that child.  If I had wanted a punching bag I would have bought one instead of adopting a child to use as a punching bag.

It was the adopted mom that would beat me.  And it didn’t matter what she used, it would be anything that was handy to use at that particular time.  It would never happen when the adopted dad was home so I would pray that he wouldn’t ever leave the house and if he did leave the house that he would take me with him.  Which unfortunately didn’t happen. I was told years later that when a lady would babysit me that when my mom would come to pick me up I would sit on the babysitters foot, and wrap my arms and legs around her leg and beg her not to send me home.  To let me stay and live with them.

I walked on egg shells in my house.  I was always ready when I turned a corner, or walked out of a room that she would be there waiting for me. I didn’t sleep well, because I always felt that I had to be aware of the noises around me in case it was her coming into my room at night to beat me for something I did during the day that she couldn’t hit me for then because my dad would have been home.

To this day, every little noise I hear at night I am awake to because I get terrified that someone is coming into my room to beat me.

To this day, I flinch every time someone moves something around me too quickly.

To this day, I fear that I will be beaten by someone in my life.

To this day, I fear that I will be the beater to my son.

To this day, I feel that I must have done something in order to deserve what I got.  Why else would someone adopt someone and then do that to them.