Little Lamb of Mine

"Little Lamb of Mine"

A subtle scent of lavender lingers

On soft tufts of hair

Warmth

And tender touches

The calm sedation

Of beautiful sensations

Heart shaped lips

And dainty fingertips

Tiny bundle entrusted to me

Cuddles and coos

And ultimate truths

Little lamb of mine

PTSD

WARNING:  I CAN NOT WRITE IN STORY FORM.  THIS IS WHY I DON'T WRITE FICTION.  HOWEVER, THE STORY IS WORTH THE READ!


Did you know that Post Traumatic Stress Disorder does not only occur with soldiers returning home?  PTSD can be caused by any kind of trauma.  For example, being exposed to domestic violence throughout your entire childhood.  PTSD has been known to be misdiagnosed as Bipolar Disorder in cases such as these.  I bring this up because I have been given a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder, and we think PTSD and I have a new story for you.


On Black Friday, I was spending the day at home with my kids and husband.  I was deliberately avoiding the public masses of lunacy on this epic sales day.  At about five o'clock, there was a knock on the door.  When I opened the door, I found an eleven-year-old girl standing in front of me with tears running down her face.

Angel, we shall call her, lives a few houses down from me.  She has two step-sisters, "Arriana" (10) and "Anna" (8).  These girls live with Angel's mom, Andrea, and Arriana and Anna's dad, Jeremy.  Their parents are obvious meth users.  The girls come to my house often to play with my nine-year-old son.  

"What's wrong?" I said.

"Jeremy just hit my mom and then me.  Can you please call the police?"

"Where is Arriana and Anna?"

"Down there," she stated as she was pointing to her house.

"Go get them, come up here, and watch 'The Lorax' with us.  I will find my phone."

She left to get them and I started looking for my cell that the notorious toddler terror had misplaced earlier that day.  Before I could find it, the girls where knocking at the door again.  When I opened the door the first thing I noticed was Arriana's eyes.  She was crying and there was a desperation in them that no child of ten should ever exude.  

"Please don't call the police on my dad," she pleaded.  "He has warrants, and they will take him to jail."

I saw myself in her eyes.  I had an instant flashback to my own childhood.  Me calling the police while my dad was hitting my mom.  The police showing up and arresting my dad.  I begged the police not to take him away.  I just wanted him to stop hitting my mom.  The desperation and guilt I felt was terrible.

She looked like I felt that night. 

Staring down at this little girl asking me not to bring harm to her Daddy froze me.

Before I could collect myself, a white Chevy pickup came screeching to a halt in my front of my house.  The mom screamed from the driver seat, "Hurry, get in the truck!"

Arriana looked like a deer caught in high beams when she looked up at me.  "We have to go!"

I watched in helpless horror in shock as they jumped in the bed of the truck.  Jeremy came running down the street.  

"HURRY UP!  GET IN THE DAMN TRUCK!" Andrea yelled.

"FUCK YOU BITCH!", he screamed as he did a head dive into the bed of the truck.

I have never heard such venom in a person's voice before.  It was enough to shake me and get me out of my own head.  I wanted to hurt him.  I wanted to cuff him to a bed and take a belt and beat him with the buckle end.  I wanted to beat him until he was covered in black and blue welts that were cracked open and bleeding.  I wanted him to feel the terror and helplessness these innocent, young children felt.  I wanted him to suffer.

I looked down and I saw my broken porch rail on the ground.  It took every ounce of self- control I could muster to not run to the street and beat him repeatedly.  

What did I want to do?  Well, I have already told you. 

What did I actually do?  I went inside and closed the door.

I paced the floor.

I talked to myself.

I swore . . . a lot.

I called the police.

The next day, I saw that nothing had happened.  The useless waste of air actually asked if he could take my trash off.  No thank you.  Here, let me introduce your face to my door.  Jerk.  

I went to an AA meeting Monday.  I vented to my "people".  Little did I know that one of my "people" works for the county.  I met him after the meeting and told him everything I know. Now something is being done.  Police and social services are involved.  I should feel relieved, but I don't.  I am not sleeping well.  I am having panic attacks.  Remembering things that are best left forgotten.

As much as I hate everything this man stands for - I feel for him.  My heart aches for him.  What happened to him to make him rotten to the core?  Babies are not born evil.  He was a little baby -- a sweet child -- the picture of innocence at some point.  What went wrong?  Was it the drugs?  What led to the drugs?  Why is he so broken?

Why does this woman continue to stay with this man?  Why doesn't she feel she is worth more?  She is a beautiful woman, so why is she so broken?

Why am I so broken?  Why can't I just let it go?  What if the girls get placed in another bad situation?  What if they are not better off?  I need to let go of the "What if"s" and this irrational guilt that I feel.

A conclusion with no relief.  Will I ever move past this?

Isolation Booth

Dimly lit diner

Clean floors

Thrifty Nickel in the corner

In a booth

In the diner

A tear-streaked face of a girl

She's waiting

With a baby in her arms

A diaper bag in the floor

No one will come

No where to go

She is alone

She is isolated

The Cruel and the Innocent

This is a story to remind you how cruel people can be.

I was stopping to get gas while on my way to work. While entering the store to pre-pay for my gas I noticed a commotion in a car that I was passing. A woman was repeatedly striking a child that was in the back seat crying. I will refer to this child as Baby Jane, as I do not know her real name. Baby Jane was in a toddler carseat and could not have been more than two years old.

Baby Jane was screaming and the woman was saying “I told you to shut it up!”

Yeah, hitting her will get her to be quiet.

I continued into the store even though every fiber of my being wanted to yank that woman out of the car and show her what it feels like. I was kicking myself at the register and I decided to grab a pen and a piece of paper. I was going to get the tag number and report the scene to the proper authorities.

With my mind made up, I started out of the store.

What I saw horrified me.

The woman had gotten out of the car and walked around to Baby Jane’s door. She had opened the door and had grabbed Baby Jane by the arm to pull her out of the car. The woman, in her anger, had not unstrapped Jane completely. She yanked Jane’s arm so hard the crying toddler came out of the car with the carseat still attached.

I was frozen in fear and disgust. I couldn’t believe that no one in the parking lot was intervening. In retrospect, I think they were trying to “mind their own business.” Whatever.

The woman began shaking Baby Jane out of the carseat. Enough was enough. If I had been thinking with my head and not my emotions I would have reacted differently. I would have said “I am calling the police” to get her to stop. Then I would have proceeded to do so.

But, I was thinking with my emotions. I was angry. So angry I was shaking and my vision was blacking over.

I ran over to the woman and screamed “What are you thinking? Are trying to kill her?”

The woman told me it was her granddaughter, and she could punish her any way she saw fit.

I told her that wasn’t punishment it was abuse. I informed her of my hatred for child abusers. I told her if she ever did it again, I would hunt her down and inflect every form of abuse on her that she had inflicted on Jane. I never once thought about the fact that Baby Jane could hear what I was saying -- that despite what this woman was doing Baby Jane still loved her.

I wish I had reacted differently. I didn't. People can be cruel, even the people who are trying to stop the cruelty. This was two years ago, and I still think about that experience. I wonder how Baby Jane is doing today.

Suffer the Children

I recently had an experience with a couple of “Christian women” that left a bad taste in my mouth. Sharing this will not change my opinion on church nor will it change the attitudes of this particular type of Christian. It will, however, make me feel a lot better.

I was on a quest to retrieve my son’s birth certificate. Despite the fact that I had to deal with the people at the local health department I was in an upbeat mood.

There were a few Hispanic children playing a few rows down from me. They were not being rowdy or unruly; they were just playing. That’s when the two women behind me started tearing the children apart. All I could think was, “Lord I hope the children’s parents can’t speak English.”

One woman stated that if those children where hers she would have already beaten them.

Beat them?

The other woman says in a snooty tone, “That’s why I hate coming to places like these. It does make me feel blessed for the things that I have though.”

Places like these?

Woman one retorts with a story about church. Ms. Whoever had been leaving her two older children with her during the sermon. It seems she had to keep getting up to take her toddler to the nursery. Woman two states that she would have already told her off.

Finally, my son’s name is called and I get an escape. As I am walking up to retrieve his birth certificate I can hear more negative comments about the children at play.

Come on people! What do you expect out of children who have been sitting for hours with nothing to do but stare at the walls? It seems to me the parents of these children were wiser than the two “Godly” spectators. They allowed their children to be children. Is that a sin?

If you happen to be one of the spectators, I will pray for you. I will pray that you find the definition of Christianity which is to strive to be more Christ-like.

Is your behavior in this matter really what Jesus would do?