The Storm Has Come

These are two old pieces but they describe what's going on. I'm sinking here and holding on has been difficult. My writings are jumbled, as are my thoughts. Just thought I'd fill you in on why I've been sporadic here. The actions described below have not taken place, but are in the forefront of my mind. I'll say that I'm safe and that all things that can cause harm have been locked away or thrown away.

For me, being bipolar brings mixed feelings. I'm usually on the manic side, loving life and having fun. I treasure that part of me. The the flip side is the dark. Darkness is coming and I'm trying my best to fend it off. The good thing is that I now can recognize the signs and take preventative action.


 Unorthodox:

Even through the fog the vision was clear, unsettling and necessary.


Through the haze I heard the call and followed the echo of my name that was being repeated in the heavy, thick air that surrounded me. 

Time had been suspended in those eternal minutes and the distraction that followed was a welcome relief from the bombardment. 

The movements were smooth and deliberate. Emotion was numbed and release was imminent. 

Seeing the effect of those carefully placed strokes was strangely calming and despair was banished. 

The cause and effect has been burned into my soul and will not fade from memory.

Although unorthodox in it's delivery, the ethereal peace that flooded my mind and body was as life giving as the crimson drops that fled the open wounds. 

The whirlwind that surrounded this peace was for a time stifled, the world had stopped and I was allowed to catch my breath. 

I'm left to contemplate the actions and the benefits and wonder if another time I shall surrender to it's spell.


Calm:

I think tonight will be a night for a bottle of wine, Blue Six in the CD player and a very hot, very long bubble bath.

My heart feels like it's turning, beats skipping. 

I'm fighting the allure of what's become my escape. Maybe I shouldn't fight it, but give in and let it envelope me in its calm.

I would slip beneath the foamy water and feel the heat cover every inch of my body only to look down and see my long blond tresses floating beneath bubbles that have been mixed with crimson threads.

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Bipolar Has Trumped The Diva

It's been a bipolar week or two. Actually, I'm switching medications. I've been tapering off two of the meds I'm on. Let me tell you, that's big time fun!

One's a mood stabilizer, just the sound of that's scary. The other is thyroid. It was making me all jittery, cold and jumpy. I'm sure everyone I was around thought I was a crack whore, so I'm cutting that one back. I damage my reputation enough, I don't need a script helping me along.

My friend Joe died Saturday morning. That's been weighing on me. I want to get to Texas but don't think I can until February. I'll be going back in April as well, so three trips so close together are a bit too much.

I'm touring the private firing range tomorrow night to make sure I like it before writing them that first check. That will be a great distraction. I'll take classes a few days a week to brush up on my mad ninja gun skills. I bought some really cool targets. They have these insanely scary, life sized clowns on them, well, they're politicians, but what's the difference? I plan on relieving some stress by blowing the holy hell out of the things.

Hopefully that will help this bipolar fog lift. For those of you that know what has happened in the past with the foggy times, I'm safe, just foggy.

Tomorrow afternoon I think I'll make a trip to the Cheesecake Factory for some white chocolate raspberry cheesecake. I'm sure that'll help quell the fog.

I'll probably be scarce for a few days until things even out.

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Everyone Made It Out Alive, This Time

A glimpse into the chaos that is my life.

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Mary, Xanex and Scandal

I'm listening to you all, well, I'm reading the endless emails I've gotten about Mary. She'll be back in full force, but it's been crazy wild here and Mary, well, she takes effort. I have to be able to focus enough not to puke my socks up with every word I type. My nostrils burn just typing her name. The smell of that house was seared into my memory banks.

Truth be told, I've been distracted these past few days. I had a couple of the grand-creatures over for a few days. That's always fun, but busy.

Then it "snowed" here. We got all of about 1/8" and it's all on the grass. It was enough, however, to stop Portland in it's tracks. Everyone's been home and I've been sucking xanex anticipating their return to wherever they go during the day.

All of that's been good for me. I've had something on my mind that's tearing me up. My friend, Joe, is dying. He's in the hospital and unconscious. He was removed from life support a few days ago and given last rites. Everything within me wants to get on a plane and fly to Texas to be there, to see him, to say goodbye and to do whatever I can to support his family and friends.

I can't do it. I sit here and try to think of other things and stay occupied. It doesn't work. I jump at every text and every time my phone rings my heart stops. Our friend, Doug, is keeping me informed and I love him for that.

Joe Martinez

Now to change the tone. My friend. D. Scandal gave me this cool award for one of my posts. It was "Beagles, Mexicans and Facebook." These are her words,

Have you ever read a post and thought to yourself, "I couldn't have said it any better myself? It's like they got inside my head or something?!" Since I'm such a Big Mouth Whore it's hard to believe I didn't say it first. (You like that didn't you BSF peeps!) Well, just in case you aren't reading these amazing posts? I'm going to share them with you! These are the two posts that inspired this new award!





If you haven't yet discovered her scandalous site, click on over there and read the secrets of a sweet, southern girl.

On top of all the goings on here, I'm getting sick. It's lights out for me. I have too much to do to be sick!

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I'm Uncomfortable With That

I'm going to give you a little personal background before I get to the point. I have eight kids. Six of my kids are adopted. Of those six kids only one is white. All of the other kids are black, or black and white.

When we went to adopt for the third time, we were adopting a beautiful, ebony skinned, six year old girl through the State of Washington. The state suggested we attend diversity training, our black friends suggested we didn't.

Since Nikki's adoption could have been on the line we attended. It was taught by radical social workers that seemed to feel it was their duty to let the white parents in the room know they were dooming the children they were adopting to hell.

I thought it funny at the time that all of the people in attendance, that were adopting, were white. All of the children being adopted were black. We were told to expose the kids to "black culture," "black food," "the black lifestyle." We were told that "African-Americans" and "European-Americans" were fundamentally different.

When a lone parent had the courage to ask why there were only white people in the class the instructor got in a huff. Her exact terse words were "It's not in our culture to adopt. European-Americans adopt." So why in the hell was she berating the parents that did want to adopt kids that needed parents to love them?

After she ranted on the vast differences between "African-Americans" and "European-Americans" for several more minutes, the same courageous parent from earlier politely said he wasn't "European-American," he was white. That's when she really got aggressive with her "diversity training."

I left the meeting in tears, my husband was pissed. That night we spoke with some friends, black friends. I asked them what "black culture" was. Mike looked at me like I was an alien. Then he asked, "Have you been talking to social workers?"

"Yes, we attended a diversity training class so that we could adopt Nikki."

"Teri, forget everything they told you. I grew up eating at McDonald's just like you did, I went to 7-11 and shopped at Safeway. I suppose they told you to give her ribs too?"

"Yes they told us to make sure to feed the kids ribs, chicken, greens and pork chops. When they said that, I thought it sounded a little stereotypical."

"Teri, those people only have one thing in mind and that is to continue segregation."

"Mike, the trainers were all black."

"I assumed so."

I was feeling better after our talk, and his encouragement. I spoke to other friends. They told us the same thing. Something else each of our friends mentioned was to ensure that our children knew they were American.

We followed the advice of our friends, after all they lived the life and had no agenda. Our kids know that they are first a child of God, then an American and then a member of our family.

A couple of years ago my daughter, Nikki, was at a friend's house. The parents had friends over and when Nikki walked into the room the mother introduced Nikki, not as her daughter's friend, but as her daughter's "African-American" friend. Let's see, what if I was being introduced? Would she have introduced me as her "European-American" friend? I don't think so.

My daughter said, "I am NOT African-American! I've never been to Africa and I never plan to go to Africa. I prefer that you don't disrespect my pride in being an American by hyphenating my heritage."

The mother sat there speechless for a few seconds before she said, "I'm just not comfortable with calling you that."

WHAT? My daughter wants to be called American and you're not comfortable with calling her that? What kind of Kool-Aid have you been drinking?

With that little revelation Nikki gathered her belongings and left their home.

Before you all jump on the "evil white parents indoctrinating their black children" bandwagon, you have to know that our kids are well-rounded. They've been taught history, ALL history, not just the type you read in school these days. They have friends of varying backgrounds, they've been exposed to the world, not just one small section of it, and they are comfortable with who they are.

I took the long way around to bring you to this. I was at the pediatrician's office Friday and saw this print hanging on the wall.

I realize that many of your opinions regarding this print will vary from mine. Many of you would have never thought anything of it and there's nothing wrong with that. I'm on the other side of the fence. I've had people try to shove my kids into a box for 20 years.

I think that the radical social workers would be proud. My kids were offended. To me this screams "stereotype" and continued segregation. How are people supposed to get along if there are those that continually find a way to put a wedge in race relations? Uh, tell me that Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton, tell me that.

By the way, that stereotypical list of "black" foods on the menu are all culturally southern foods, not African foods. That's what I ate while I was growing up and I still do. All of my kids eat those foods, even (GASP) my white kids.

Stop trying to keep my kids at the back of the bus!

So that's my second rant in two days. I should be good for several months, unless someone pisses me off before then.

Kisses to you all,

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A Rare Diva Rant

I rarely publish my rants but I'm a tad, well a lot, pissed off about a couple of things. Some of you know that I took my 12 year old to the pediatrician yesterday for a check up and vaccinations.

First of all let me say that I LOVE the kids' pediatrician. She's not only their doctor, she's our friend. She walked us through Isaiah dying and when she got the call that we lost him, she was at our house in less than five minutes. She stayed with us for hours that terrible night. We've been friends ever since.

I also should say that she's part of a practice that includes a number of doctors, so in no way am I coming against her.


When I checked my 12 year old son in at the front desk yesterday he was handed a "private" paper. I was told that he was to fill it out without parental input. RED FLAG!

I took the paper from him and read through the entire thing. While some of it was innocuous, the rest was none of their business in my very strong opinion.

I was a foster parent for years. I know how the State works. I know what doctors are required to report to the State and I certainly know what belongs between parents and children. I also am smart enough to know if my child needs a counselor. I've seen the State abuse their power. I've seen doctors, not ours, abuse their power.

I tried to find the form online and was unsuccessful. So this is from memory.

"Do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend?" This matters why?
"Do your parents argue?" Whose parents don't?
"Are you afraid of your parents?" I certainly hope to an extent they are. It's called respect, not fear.
"Do your parents listen to you?" Preteens never think their parents listen.
"What form of discipline is used in your home?" None of your freaking business. Does my kid have the tell tale signs of abuse? NO.
"How do you feel about sex?" Again, preteen here.
"Who lives in your home?" Why?
"Do your parents have guns?" Have you heard of the 2nd amendment?
"Where do they keep them if they do?" I keep mine loaded on the kitchen table in full reach of all of the kids and grand kids. Come on!
"How often do you stay home from school?" Again none of your business.

There were other questions that are escaping my memory. Most of the paper I marked a line through and wrote "PERSONAL" across it.

This form was put out by the American Medical Association. While I realize there are irresponsible, and abusive, parents that children need protection from, I also realize that doctors, and schools, are trained to notice this and take appropriate action. They are, as I was being a foster parent, called "mandatory reporters." I have no problem with that.

In my opinion this questionnaire crossed the line. I am not a sheep. I'm not going to blindly do something because someone "in authority" tells me to, especially when it comes to my kids. I'm not going to divulge information that is none of their  business. I will not let organizations or the government get into every part of my life and the lives of my children.

If you see my kid with a hand shaped bruise across his face turn my ass in. If you see that my child is obviously malnourished and there's not a medical reason for it, turn my ass in. If you see that my kid jumps when a hand is raised, or is obviously afraid of me, turn me in. But don't ask leading questions, don't go on a fishing expedition and do not get into our personal business.

I think this post is long enough. I know that some of you will disagree with me and that's fine. These are my opinions.

I'll save the other rant for tomorrow. I'm taking the weekend off from Mary. She'll be back on Monday.

Also if you're going to chew my ass out for my opinions, respectfully chew please. I moderate comments and if you're a jerk I'll take Gucci Mama's lead and post your comment in a new post and tear it apart.

Lovingly, 

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What About Mary, part six

Here we go again. If you're new you really need to catch up. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5. You'll love me for it.

Several days after the sandwich bag incident we were back at the house. We had to complete the cleaning so subs could begin work. We were on a deadline; we needed to finish before Mary was released.

Jeff and our boys went down to the dark cave of a basement to clean the makeshift kitchen. They bagged up and threw away whatever they came across. By that time trying to save anything was futile.

I was upstairs with the girls cleaning the master bedroom. I heard the boys yelling, I heard Jeff yelling. Then I heard kids running like wild horses up the stairs.

“What happened now?”

“Dad opened the refrigerator! It’s black in there. The smell is awful, Dad’s gagging!”

That was significant. Jeff doesn’t gag. He’s the guy that has caught, in his bare hands, vomit spewing from the mouths of kids. They weren’t even our kids. He’s the guy that cleaned up after a dog that had eaten an entire turkey. He’s the guy that would have no trouble eating lunch in a Porta-Potty. If he was gagging it was bad. If he was gagging I was hiding.

I heard Jeff yell out for me.

“TERI, come down here!”

He was evil, pure evil. The only reason he wanted me down there was to torture me, to watch me lose it. He liked to laugh at my involuntary retching. He would be wiping tears from his eyes while I was puking my feet up. I wasn’t about to give him that satisfaction.

Kids were laughing, Jeff was yelling and I was making myself scarce.

“Teri, come on. Please.”

“Jeff, I’m in the middle of something. I will NOT come down there. Savor the mess by yourself.”

Jeff’s laughter was radiating up the stairwell. He could damn well laugh himself silly. I wasn’t about to join in the fun of marveling at a filthy, mold growing, toxic waste site.

He gave up and I went back to bagging dirty clothes. The piles of clothes were up to my waist around much of the room. My intention was to have the girls take them to a laundromat, wash and fold them. It would be nice for Mary to have clean clothes, probably for the first  time in years.

Under the clothes were prescription bottles from the eighties, ten year old newspapers, and over a dozen dead rats. There were even more rat skeletons. We were used to the rats by then. We scooped them up and dropped them out of the window into the 40 yard dumpster.

We were on our third 40 yard dumpster and the house was only 1000 sq ft. When the third dumpster was delivered the delivery guy shouted, “Where in the hell are you getting all this shit?” We told him it was all from inside the house. He just shook his head and drove away.

The girls and I continued cleaning. Finally all of the clothes were bagged and the floor was clear. I noticed the dresser. It was next. I stood there with my arms crossed staring down the piece of furniture. I was wondering what I was going to encounter in its belly.

I pulled open the first heavy, wooden drawer and was surprised. The drawer was filled with Beanie Babies sealed in plastic eggs. I closed that drawer and opened the next. Dozens of beady little Beanie Baby eyes blankly stared back at me. I was feeling pretty confident then. No dirt, no dead rats, no odor.

I opened the bottom drawer. There were more Beanie Babies. Those Beanie Babies were in shock. They’d been traumatized. They were innocent toys for children. Neatly stacked beside the wide-eyed, pellet filled playthings were several stacks of lesbian porn.

The Beanie Babies were confiscated to be sold. The magazines were left where they were found, left for an old lady with cases of batteries.

The girls and I switched modes. We needed some fresh air. We began lugging the bags of clothes down to my daughter’s car. My son came walking out of the house eating a chocolate bar.

Not knowing if I wanted to know the answer I hesitantly asked, “Cole, where did you get that?”

“I found it under some boxes downstairs. Do you want some? There’s gum too.”

I puked, the girls gagged and chocolate eating Cole was sent on his way. I didn’t have the strength to fight him.

That afternoon the girls took 17 black garbage bags of dirty clothes to the laundromat. They drug each bag into the front of the establishment pretending not to notice the inquisitive stares of other patrons.

They opened one bag and started filling the first washer when a woman from the back hurried toward them. She had a disgusted look on her face and a can of air freshener in her hand. She saturated the air with the miracle spray while informing the girls that they needed to take the remainder of the clothes to the back room, the enclosed back room, the back room of death.

The girls respectfully agreed. They began the chore of pulling the heavy bags into the room reserved for the worst of the worst. With every step they noticed wrinkled noses, faces covered by magazines, and mothers protecting their children from the putrid breeze that followed them and their bags.

They worked into the night washing and folding the aged clothes. As the garments were folded they were packed neatly into boxes and loaded into the car.

Meanwhile back at the house Jeff and I were moving furniture off of the carpeted areas. It had been determined that the carpets could be saved. First they had to be pulled up and the underlayment sealed. We rolled the sealant over decades of pet urine so it wouldn’t soak up into the carpets after they had been steam cleaned and sterilized.

We went through two gallons of sealant and I went to get a third. We kept all of the extra supplies in the spare room down the hall from the main area of the house. I started down the dark hallway.  It had been cleaned so the path was clear. Half way to the room I tripped on something.

I backed up and turned on the light. I saw what had tripped me and called out to my husband.

“Jeff, how much worse do you think this will get?”

“We’re nearly finished cleaning. It’s all downhill from here.”

“Uh, Jeff?”

“Yeah?”

“I think Scooter the dog is dead.”

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