*Jazz Hands* Mom

It’s been a rough week. In the middle of a rough year. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been triggered to the point that I’m spiraling a bit. But, at the same time, I’m filled with hope as I remember my belief that…

My voice is a gift that God gave me, to speak out against the crimes that he knew would be committed against me.

It’s as simple as that. I have faith that God doesn’t allow things to not have purpose. The purpose of my existence is to help others through what I’ve been through and to use my voice, both in comfort and to make change. And, while I stumble over my words out loud at times, I’m the first to admit that I could probably talk a vegan into a steak if I wrote to them about it. When I put pen to paper, my words rarely get denied.

So, what happened was this.

After Aaron passed, I decided that it was time to get back into volunteer work. I knew what I wanted. It’s what I’ve always wanted. To help kids, who are where I was, in the ways that I wish I’d been helped. (That’s the other gift God gave me…I’m the traumatized child whisperer…they sense a kindred spirit and they let me in. I’m not even exaggerating here.)

So, I decided that the best step was to become a CASA (court appointed special advocate for neglected and abused children). It felt like the perfect fit. It felt like I would be able to do some good. And…it felt AMAZING to know that the county had something in place for these kids (which did not exist at the time that we were caught). It felt like the county had really moved forward in the 3.5 decades since my world fell apart.

I made it through the interview. I made it through the background check. I made it through the first couple of nights of training.

What I didn’t make it through was the guest speaker on the third night. A DFCS employee, who spoke about the wonderful programs in place to help these kids, was asked a question that led her to mention, in passing, a parental abduction case. I was intrigued. I asked if they see a lot of those and how they handle them. She was confused and asked what I meant. I specified parental abduction. At which point she told me…

…there’s no such thing as parental abduction…a parent can’t kidnap THEIR kid…and the police can get involved if they want but DFCS doesn’tget involved.

I was devastated. For the little girl inside me. For the children that have come since me. For the children yet to come.

Parental abduction still doesn’t exist as a traumatizing event to them. Services are not ordered to these children afterward. They are still alone.

I wanted to scream the truth at her.

That studies show that ANY child, taken by the noncustodial parent with the intent to run, is in danger. That, no matter the reason, that parent is not in a healthy frame of mind. Whether they are running to protect the child (fear), to punish the other parent (anger), to escape and start brand new (desperation)…whatever the reason…whatever the motivation…they are being controlled by emotions and a child can be hurt.

That NO child who is parentally abducted, no matter the length of time, will ever be able to have the same relationship with both parents. Abducting the child is one of those lines in the sand that no parent ever forgives. The left behind parent (even if it’s a day) will HATE the abducting parent. The abducting parent…let’s be honest…already hated the other parent. And that kind of hate is never unfelt by children. Even IF everything is done to help the child, in the end they will have to choose which parent to be close to. They’ll never be allowed to have both.

That it’s estimated that 200,000 children per year are put in this position.

I wanted to scream all of it. Luckily, I’m far enough in my therapy to not let my emotions control my reactions. So, I went outside and cried. Composed myself. Went back in.

The rest of that night was a bit of a train wreck for me because I was already triggered, and it’s an emotional topic. So, after the end, I stopped to speak to the person in charge and had a heart to heart about whether she thought this was the right place for me, if I can still be triggered. I wanted to HELP children, not somehow make it worse. But I assured her it wasn’t the material, it was the unforseen topic that came up. She told me to keep giving it a try but that we’d stay in communication. 

Two days later, she sent me a very generic email thanking me for my interest but they’d met as a team and decided I wasn’t a good fit.

Oh. Wow. Ok. A lot of reactions to this.

First and foremost in my mind: Wow. This feels like victim shaming. Not only should I be ashamed, they met as a group to talk about me and to decide, as a group, that I should be ashamed.

Next: *spiraling* WHAT DID I DO WRONG??? I handled it right this time!! I don’t understand what I did!!

Followed By: My boss telling me I should demand an explanation…and me saying, “No. I don’t chase people or their acceptance anymore. I’ve grown past that. They don’t want me? Fine. I’m gone. Yes, it hurts like hell, but I won’t beg for anything anymore.” And THAT felt like INCREDIBLE growth for me.

Simultaneously with: Acceptance that I didn’t do anything wrong. Maybe I did in their minds. I don’t know. I’ll never know. I don’t need to know. Because *I* know I did it right.

And then, finally: Resolute anger. Not at the DFCS worker. Not at the people who decided that I shouldn’t be allowed to help children. Resolute anger at a system that still teaches that children abducted by their parents are, “Fine. They’re with their parent.”

IT. HAS. TO. STOP.

So, I began to research. Here’s what I found for the state of Georgia (which was no surprisurprise, as this is how it is in most states, and it’s something I’ve helped fight against in the past). Parental Abduction falls under Custodial Interference. This bucket encompasses the extreme of parental abduction all the way down to a parent being an hour late returning a child from visitation. Because, yeah…that’s TOTALLY the same. Additionally, that bucket is so all encompassing, you can abduct your child twice without it being a felony, as long as you don’t cross state lines.

Let me stress that point. A child can be kidnapped twice, and it’s only a misdemeanor.

This is, quite honestly, unacceptable.

So…back that voice.

Thanks to the moment that I never expected…and the triggering that followed…and then the spiraling of feeling rejected and shamed…

I decided that, if I can’t help in the way I had planned, I’ll use my gift to take it further.

I’m going straight to the state about the laws. They can hear from the mouth of a survivor WHY these laws have to change.

I’m going straight to the state and county level of DFCS to plead that they change policy to start assisting victims of parental abduction, as well.

Don’t get me wrong. Inside of this determined, and usually fairly composed, woman is a raging petty w(b)itch…who WANTS to blast the woman who told me it wasn’t a crime. Yes, I want to scream at her…I want to write a letter to her boss…I want to scream at the people who decided, as “a team”, that I wasn’t acceptable. I want to do all of these things, but I won’t. Why? Because part of the gift of a voice is knowing to use it when you have a chance of being heard. But if you use it in anger and retribution, people stop listening.

Just as I won’t let anyone take my voice from me, I also won’t give it away recklessly. This gift of mine has been hard won and I’ll never let it go.

Now it’s time to put it to use.

I had a dream the other night that you were still alive. You told me you’d woken up right after I left the hospital, and it turned out they were wrong and you were all better.

And then I woke up. And reality hit.

Today I put away laundry…I went to hang your towel…and it hit me I don’t need two towels hanging anymore.

It’s these little things. Things I used to take for granted. Waking up. Doing chores. Driving passed a restaurant. Little things that happen every day, that make grief steal my breath away.

I miss you.

They said that it would come
At the time I'd least forsee
That if I just stopped looking
I'd find the heart meant for me

I never could believe
I never did expect
That in one person I'd find
Love, honor and respect

But there you were waiting
With the love I never thought I'd find
"You had to have made each other in labs"
Our people often opined. 

Joy, laughter, and love
Bickering and silly fights
Every second of our togetherness
A highlight of my life

But nothing perfect can last forever
And the same was true for our love
Now when I miss you
I have to look to heaven above

The dreams that we shared
The visions of our life
Knowing that I'll never 
Have the honor to be your wife

We'll never have the home 
Or the matching rocking chairs
We'll never get forever
As one of histories great pairs

Two imperfect people
Yet, perfection from the start
I'm left with visions of empty rocking chairs
And a completely shattered heart

Fair Warning to those who read my blog. My boyfriend passed away last week, so I foresee that I will be writing mostly about him for the foreseeable future. To be blunt, I wouldn’t wish this experience on my worst enemy.

Anyway, Part One of my wish to share how amazing he was with the whole world (or my little corner of it).

Part One is the story of how I met the love of my life…and the birth of Wicket Earp.

Back in early 2021, a couple of friends invited me to a nerd Facebook group. There I saw alllllll the nerdy things that make me happy. And this guy…I didn’t know him, but I enjoyed interacting with him (spoiler alert, it was Aaron).

So, this one day, I was looking at mouse pads for my new home office that was decorated in all things nerd. I came across one that had an Ewok with a gun riding at AT-AT. But Amazon had it listed as “Cute bear riding a wooden camel with gun.” I was outraged and took my outrage to the nerds.

Along came the guy that I had enjoyed talking to. He made a couple of anti-Amazon jokes with me. And that was that.

Until the next morning. I wake up and check Facebook. He had posted a 3D print design he had come up with the night before. Of a cowboy Ewok with a gun riding an AT-AT. He said he had gotten the idea from a friend and decided it needed to be real. I very excitedly replied, “OMG. I SHALL CALL HIM WICKET EARP!!”

Two weeks later, this was mailed to my work for me.

And so our friendship began.

Dear Future Sheri,

Your boyfriend died 2.5 days ago.

2.5 days ago.

And, yet, I just caught you lambasting yourself for being a drama queen and not getting up to clean the house.

Has it been long enough for you to see the idiocy of this?

Cause we’re going to talk about this later when we’re not so drained.

Love,

You

Randomness: I’ve been listening to a lot of Brene Brown’s shame research lately. It’s not the first time, but it’s hitting me differently now, as I work on my past. When I read her works before, my instant reaction was, “I don’t feel shame. I don’t believe in regrets, so how can I claim shame. I own my story. I share my story. I AM being vulnerable and shame resilient.” But…as I revisit the materials, I’m forced to admit…one of my defining personality traits is shame.

Things I rarely admit, especially to myself.

I feel shame that my parents were happily married…until I was born.

I feel shame that my mother didn’t take me because she loved me, but merely because she hated my father and loved my brother.

I feel shame that my mother never loved me, but could love my brothers.

I feel shame every time someone makes a joke to me about being on America’s Most Wanted or a joke about a wanted poster.

I feel shame when people joke about my mother going to jail.

I feel shame that I wasn’t what my father hoped to find.

I feel shame that I have too many feelings and can’t “just get over” things.

I feel shame that my stepfather loved me more than life itself…and then decided I wasn’t worthy.

I feel shame that there always seems to be a time limit on how long people can love me.

I feel shame that I don’t know HOW to be a mother and just wing it based on not doing what they would do.

I feel shame that I’m the only person in my family who doesn’t fit.

I feel shame that I couldn’t give Bella a two parent home.

I feel shame that I don’t know anyone else who has seen the things I’ve seen…so maybe I really am broken…maybe I really do deserve it.

I feel shame that I don’t get out and try to have a life.

I feel shame when I do try to have a life…and I feel more alone.

I feel shame that I’ve allowed my illnesses to win…that I’ve gained so much weight…and that I can’t find the energy to lose the weight again.

I feel shame that I don’t have much left to give people.

I feel shame.

Yes. I own my story and am willing to share it. And that IS vulnerable and it IS good because people need to share their stories and connect. But…I think sometimes I share it to avoid the shame…or to go ahead and get the uncomfortable silences and quick exits out of the way. I use my story as a shield against shame. Which can be good when done right…but I still feel the shame. So obviously my methods need to change.

Weirdly, I don’t feel shame that I’ve gotten this wrong so far. So…baby steps.

/randomness

*Jazz hands*

If you had asked me…well…basically…ever, I would have told you that my greatest weakness is that I have too many feelings.

I’ve heard it my whole life. “You’re too sensitive.” “You feel too much.” “You have too many feelings.” “You’re kind of a lot…”

I’ve heard it all. And I knew…the level of feelings that I have in me was…more…than most people around me.

It often leads me to a memory. I was around 21 and I went to a wake to support my friends. I didn’t even know the person who had passed. Never met him. But I was overtaken by very real grief. I cried like this person was my best friend. It wasn’t fake. It was very real emotion. Very real emotion that even I couldn’t understand.

As I got older, I started hearing the term “empath”. Someone who feels the feelings they’re surrounded by.

At first I latched onto that word. “YES! I FINALLY GET IT! THIS is why I feel it all! Why others’ sadness makes me sad. Why anger overwhelms me. Why I have to try so hard to surround myself with laughter. I get it!”

Then I started down rabbit holes with it…and was suddenly less enamored.

Wait a minute…the traits of being an empath sound an awful lot like being codependent…maybe it’s just a nice way of saying, “Gurl…you all kinds of fucked up…”

I definitely fell out of love with the word and have stayed that way for years.

So, last week, my therapist said something about me being an empath and that I have to protect my energy.

I had to ask: “Ok, but which came first? The empath or the codependent?”

She seemed surprised. I mean, she’s told me for years that I’ve battled some serious codependent habits…but she seemed surprised by the question because she also thinks I’ve gotten much better.

“It seems to me that empaths and codependents share the same traits. So…am I an empath because I’m codependent? Or did my being an empath lead me to being codependent?”

She laughed. “Empaths are born.”

Oh. Ok…

So, back down the rabbit hole I went. Apparently, some empaths are easily trained to be codependents, but not all are.

Ok. I can live with this.

Then…came the next phase. I was listening to a Brene Brown book…and she was talking about vulnerability. She was talking about how tempting it is, for all of us, to want to turn off our feelings. She talked about how it’s brave not to.

“Well…if an empath feels EVERYTHING others are feeling…and still doesn’t turn it off…wow. THAT’S bravery.”

Brave.

That label feels right.

In all the ways that the other labels never felt…RIGHT to me…

Too much. Too sensitive. Too many feelings. These labels never felt like ME.

But brave?

Brave feels like I was born with that label printed on me like Izod on a golf shirt.

Brave.

I like it.

I am it.

BECAUSE of all of those feelings.

./blog

*Jazz hands*