Looks like it’s time for another goddamn post about goddamn shit. And when I say that, I mean it as eloquently as possible, because at this point, there are no pretty little words that I can say to sugar coat the overwhelmingly unpalatable bullshit that is taking place before my eyes.
I’m not gonna bat my fucking eyelashes anymore. This is fucked up, and it’s getting worse, and I’m livid. And I have a RIGHT to be. Take. A. Fucking. Magnifying. Glass. And. Look. At. This. Shit.
Where do I even begin…?
I know, let’s start with a a fun bedtime story about a little 5-year-old girl named H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ. Fun fact: It’s a true story!
H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ was a very special little girl with very special needs that no one knew or understood. She was the sad result of a toxic relationship, or to put it in other terms, an accident. A mistake. An unwanted pregnancy.
However, the girl’s mother chose life, in spite of the father’s aversion to his little baby girl that he never got to meet. H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ’s mother was very much like her when she was born. They were both special little girls who were very sensitive and vulnerable, and they loved each other more than anything in the world. Mommy would do anything for baby, and baby felt that love and used it to blossom and grow into an innocent being of unconditional love and empathy. This is why, when her mother married a much older man who said that he would take care of them both, H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ lovingly accepted him as her new daddy. And she was happy. She liked it when mommy and daddy were happy because it made her happy to see them happy! But sometimes, H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ noticed that her mommy wasn’t happy. And that made her more sad than anything in her whole life before. She started noticing that sometimes at night, mommy and daddy would yell at each other and break dishes. Mommy would cry and call daddy mean names. Those sounds became the foundations of her deepest fears and sadness; it was a sadness so great that it made her little tummy hurt in a way that she couldn’t explain. Sometimes it hurt so much that she would throw up puddles of yellow bile that reminded her of peepee.
When H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ started going to school, she was a little scared because it was new and unfamiliar. But she thought her teacher, Mrs. Gabriel was very pretty and her school was a charming little round building with carousel horses on the outside, so it was okay. She was strong before she ever knew she was.
But daddy started having trouble with work and mommy had to juggle jobs to make ends meet, and so she was around less and less. Daddy had a CB radio that he hooked up into mommy’s car so that she could call home on her breaks (they had one at home, too, of course!). So while H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ was sad that she couldn’t see her mommy very much, she still got to talk to her sometimes, and as long as daddy was around, she wasn’t completely alone, and that made things easier for her. But daddy was emotionally unavailable, and it made her feel lonely anyway.
H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ tried many things to make mommy and daddy happy. One day, she spent all day drawing pictures to create what she didn’t know at the time was called a story board. And she presented them to mommy and daddy, explaining what was going on in the cartoon she created.
Mommy liked it very much, but daddy seemed very upset by it. Maybe he said something like… “I would rather spend my time watching real television!”
H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ felt sad, she guessed, but she didn’t quite understand her feelings.
One day at school, a band came to perform a song from her favorite movie, The Little Mermaid. The movie reminded her of her mommy because they watched it together a lot. So at first, H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ was happy and couldn’t wait to hear them play! They sounded so good, just like in the movie. But when they started playing the song “Kiss the girl,” something started to feel a little bit wrong. It was that icky butterflies on fire feeling in her belly again, and for some strange reason, she suddenly remembered how it sounded when mommy cried and she started to feel an overwhelming sadness rush over her as she realized mommy wasn’t there and maybe mommy was crying just then, and what could she possibly do from where she was? All she wanted, more than anything was to find her mommy and hug her and tell her everything was okay. But she didn’t know how to tell anyone this, and she couldn’t speak because her words were drowned out by strong, uncontrollable sobs that simply would not subside. She couldn’t catch her breath.
And she soon found out that mommy was going somewhere weird called boot camp, and daddy was going someplace else. But why? Why couldn’t they just stay together and be a family? She simply couldn’t understand.
Daddy’s mom (technically H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ’s step-grandmother) drove her all the way back to Nebraska to live with her Grandma and Grandpa and her two mean uncles. Nothing was the same and everything was sad and scary, and none of it made any sense. Grandma and grandpa were busy people, and the two stinky uncles only wanted to hang out with friends and do weird things that made her uncomfortable. Sometimes they had girlfriends, and those were always happy days because the girlfriends were always so nice to her when no one else was.
But the girlfriends came and went and for three years, H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ changed schools a lot and became homeless sometimes because her family just couldn’t seem to make enough money, no matter how hard they worked. Grandma and grandpa became just another mommy who was never around and a daddy that was quiet and busy. Poor little H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ was so lonely, and missed her mommy and daddy so much. During boot camp, mommy couldn’t make any contact with anyone outside the Barricks, or whatever. And so for a long time, H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ wondered if her mommy was even alive or if she would ever come home.
Well, eventually she did get to make weekend calls, and H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ looked forward to them every week, just to hear her mommy’s voice as she read her a bedtime story and sang her a lullaby. She loved hearing the stories and her mommy’s sweet voice singing her little songs. But when the song was over and she had to say goodnight. H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ’s tummy started hurting again and she would cry herself to sleep, missing her mommy so much.
To keep this story brief, I will abridge much of the details (which can actually be found here), and skip to the part where H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ learned for the first time about CPS. It was in a gas station some cold winter night. She must have done something upsetting, though she can’t ever seem to recall what the things were that warranted situations like the spanking in the gas station bathroom. All she remembered was being punished and losing her snow boot in the process. So as she stumbled out of the bathroom with her grandma, trying as hard as she could to get her snow boot back on, she over heard the ladies working the counter. They were angry at grandma. They were threatening her. They said they would call CPS. It was all very frightening both for grandma and for H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ, as they hastened to get into the car and drive away as quickly as possible. Once in the car, grandma took a long, strange route home as she explained what CPS was and what foster homes were and how if something like that happened again and they were to get involved, I could get taken away from grandma and placed into one of these homes, and then I would never see my mommy again.
Did I say me? Ehe…
Yeah. Story time is over.
That single incident and finding that stuff out really messed me up. It became my biggest fear. I didn’t want to leave the house ever again for a long time, because I was afraid that one of those ladies would see us, or the police would find me and take me, and it was so much more stress than a little five-year-old girl needed on top of everything she was already going through. I developed migraines in the second grade, sometimes so crippling that I couldn’t go to school.
And don’t even get me started on the separation anxiety. It’s all there in that other blog post. I don’t feel like talking about it anymore because it’s making my stomach hurt, and I can feel the burning butterflies swarming inside my belly again just like when I was little, and increasingly every day that I am away from my baby girl and her daddy with little contact.
But what makes things worse is just knowing that I fully intended to bring Ivy up in a life that wasn’t full of the same horrible traumatic things that mine had been filled with. But what happens? She loses her brother just weeks before her third birthday. Something I never had to deal with at that age. And then shortly thereafter, she loses her home. She’s forced to go live with her grandma and two uncles. Only, at least for her, she has a mommy that understands the feelings she’s feeling. And where I had no dad, then a step dad, and then no dad again, Ivy is lucky to have had two daddies and a mom. So it wasn’t so bad, especially because mommy knew and knows her better than anyone else in the world.
And mommy feels like she really knows daddy deep inside also, and so… now what do I say? I’ve reverted back into talking mommies and daddies again.
We just ran out of sugar coating. So I guess it’s back to here and now and real grown up words, here in the present.
I want to make some things perfectly clear.
There was supposed to have been a paternity hearing where test results would have concluded that Ben is, in fact, Ivy’s biological father, even though she has a birth certificate with his name on it, and even though she looks just like him, and even though Ivy was a very much planned pregnancy using ovulation trackers and contraceptives to ensure than when a baby was made, it was for sure Ben’s baby.
Sorry for the TMI Tuesday, but I mean. We all know without any sort of doubt that Ivy is Ben’s daughter. And if you needed any more proof, Matt’s father was one of seven boys and no girls. Faron, who was Matt’s biological son was also a boy, and further, Matt’s brother (who is a boy) also had a little boy. Girls don’t run very common in the Schreiner family.
But, whatever, evidence isn’t good enough unless you stab people with needles or pull out their hairs, or do other various things with their body tissues.
TO GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THE POINT I HAVE BEEN TRYING ALL NIGHT TO MAKE, WHICH I HAVE HAD A REALLY HARD TIME FOCUSING ON SINCE BEING FORCED TO GO BACK ON THE MEDICATION THAT MADE ME FEEL REALLY CRAPPY, LET ME JUST WRITE SOME SENTENCES.
- I’m being forced to take a medication that I have found to be detrimental to me as opposed to beneficial, so that I can prove I am a fit parent for my daughter, while also stopping the perfectly legal over the counter medication that I was using to actually FUNCTION and BE a good mother to my daughter. So. Counter-intuitive?
- Two days ago I was served papers stating that Ben is suing me for custody of Ivy, and now suddenly she has been put into a foster home (so bonus points, you guys! Not only have you made her live my trauma, but you also got a special bonus of making my childhood nightmare a reality for her!). Since then as of now, I have not been given any physical proof that my daughter is alive or safe. I have been told that the foster parents’ comfortability with me is more important than my comfortability with having my child under the care of these strangers, who I have never met before in my life.
- There was a paternity hearing today (it’s gonna be yesterday by the time this gets posted) in which absolutely nothing was resolved, as no test results were acquired and the judge asked me if I felt I was under duress to take the plea bargain offered to me, which my public defender had advised was the better option. However, I could not truthfully say that I was under no duress when my daughter was suddenly removed from family custody and legally kidnapped into an undisclosed location with strangers that I have never met!
- Further, Ben has stopped communicating with me again, which I am sure has something to do with manipulation and pressure from the legal proceedings on his side. So now, my daughter is MIA, her father who I trust and rely on for moral support more than anyone in this world is back to ghosting me, and here I am once again, all alone with no support, struggling to keep going on fumes alone while my body shuts down from stress, AND my brain starts wasting away from the cracked out medication that I’m forced to take.
How in the BLOODY FUCKING HELL IS ANY OF THIS HELPING ANYONE????
IT WAS AN ISOLATED INCIDENT. IT HAS NEVER HAPPENED AGAIN BEFORE OR AFTER SINCE. I GOT BETTER WHEN I STOPPED TAKING THE MEDICATION THAT I WAS BEGINNING TO SUSPECT MIGHT BE MESSING ME UP, AND NOW I’M BEING FORCED TO TAKE IT AGAIN!!!!
Listen to this. The incident that occurred involved missing several doses of Lamictal, possibly accidentally overdosing on it and losing three days of sleep.
Once in the hospital, they started me straight back up onto the same regimen of 100mg AM 200mg PM, instead of tapering up from a low dose.
So then they also took away my Ativan and replaced it with an antipsychotic which made things worse and was the original catalyst for me resorting to DXM in the first place last spring, when the ones I was tried on caused me very serious side effects, some of which (particularly the neurological bits) have still not gone away. After taking a few doses of that and feeling worse than ever, I finally looked it up and found out what it was and why it was making me feel all those same shitty ways again.
This entire thing was also going on during an extreme dental infection which was possibly and probably spreading infection to my brain. The MRI I was scheduled for might have shown that if I had not been unwillingly removed from my home by police and held prisoner in a psychiatric ward for days on end, despite my desperate pleas to understand that because of my conditions, the isolation was the opposite of what I needed and was only causing more trauma to me.
And then I’m sure you know the rest by now. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, family split up, I haven’t been able to see or hug my baby girl in some two months, been pressured into doing all kinds of overwhelming tasks all on my own while being promised therapy or some shit, and not being allowed to have the freedom to just talk to my daughter’s fucking father who is my only emotional support in this world.
This is heinous. This is out of control. Everything has just been made worse by this whole entire fiasco, and I am physically running on empty. My body is not well. I cannot fucking take this shit, and if you want Ivy to even have a mother to come back to, then you need to reevaluate the situation and realize that the people involved are all much, much worse off than they were before the incident.
In fact, I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: Things were just starting to look up for me. I was interested in starting to try implementing daily routine into our lives, so that we could have better structure and better communication, and maybe start functioning better as a family.
But that didn’t end up going over because certain people were making me feel very emotionally abandoned while others were trying to force me to relax by playing really grueling games that I just didn’t find relaxing, and then of course, the lamictal had me on a downward trend, and then whatever happened happened, and yada yada yada, etc.
Lamictal never seemed to make me better. I always felt as though there were long periods of mania and long periods of depression, almost seasonal. And then messing around on the dosages, on again off again…
It’s not good for me. I don’t like it.
And I don’t like this situation. And I’m goddamned tired of it. And I’m goddamn tired!!!! It’s like 5:30 AM. I’ve been up ALL NIGHT struggling to write this entry because I can’t think straight. And here I am not sleeping again. Jfc.
I’m done with this. I have to go to bed. I have to try to get at least some sleep, if I can. So forgive any weird typos, hopefully you’re smart enough to figure it out. Cause I don’t have time to proof read this.
It just needed to be said.