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?