Our Story Continues: Why I won't shut up

I have not written much about "J" lately ... I've said what I've had to say, not to expose her, to hurt her, to cause her any grief should she actually read this blog. I write what I write because when you love someone, when you have given of yourself for nearly 12 years in a parental role, and then watch in horror as it all comes unglued, you find it difficult to just "let go." When you are the one who was always there and when you know the truth about the way someone really felt about you--and that certain someone can't seem to remember it, or their mind has been so twisted by others who never really knew, who only wanted to destroy because it's the only way they can satisfactorily lose--you just cannot shut up.

I watched a movie recently in which children gave a school performance to proud parents and grandparents within the audience. I had a memory then ... one in which "J's" school was doing such as that. Her mother's job did not allow her to "take off" in the middle of the day (which was when the program was given), and it was the best job she'd had in some time, making more money than she'd made for a while. J's father was incarcerated. Everyone in the family--aunts, uncles, grandparents-- had jobs they just could not break away from.

I was fairly snowed under myself, but my job working from home allowed me to walk away for a while. Doing so meant putting in longer hours later on, but J was worth it. So I went.

I'll never forget the anxious look on her face as she scanned the audience looking for a familiar face. At first she seemed to panic, then she appeared so sad. No one had come, she thought. She was alone. But then as her eyes came near to mine, I waved and she brightened. Someone had come. Her MrsEya.

When the performance was done, I presented her with flowers. I'd brought cupcakes for the "after show party" and, together, we sat at a table and ate. Just as we did the many times I went to her school over the years to have lunch with her. My husband and I were the only ones who ever did.

But she has forgotten that and all those other wonderful memories, like the Tuesdays I read to her second grade class from Mrs. Pigglewiggle. Whether by illness or by coercion or by choice, I don't know. I only know what truth remains and that truth is how much she is loved and always will be.

But there's another truth as well. One you need to know. And if you don't know, you must educate yourself. "J" is now a part of a system that cannot adequately serve her. One she keeps running away from, landing on the streets. Each time she does, I push heaven and earth to find her, even if it means she "hates you for it" or others think I'm interfering where I don't belong. (Of course, those same people and that same system loved me when we financially supported her before child support was ordered, years of asking for nothing.)

I do not and will not sit on my can or act out some "pretense" of searching. And this is why: human trafficking is real and it's right here in Florida. Worse for those who are bipolar or borderline or who suffer from any number of mental health illnesses. The idea of J crying, of her being enslaved because of another's greed and a system's stupidity, of her being used like a sex toy or a punching bag or a personal slave, is more than I can bear.

I beg you to read this article by my friend Dan Beckmann. And then you tell me if you would just sit back and do nothing.

The Article.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for passing this on.

Eva Marie Everson

Friday's Southern-Style Faith: Our Story Continues

Losing J to the State of Florida's idea of help and to mental health issues was much like losing her to death. She was no longer accessible to us. In many ways, worse.

I have buried a few people in my lifetime. My beloved grandfather died when I was ten. I distinctly remember his funeral, my mother breaking down and into my father's arms. In our family, shortly thereafter, we buried three of our loved ones--two were an aunt and uncle who died in a car accident. Then, at the age of 14, I attended the funeral of  my "first love," a young man shot in a hunting accident.

Over the course of life, we hear the news that our loved ones have died. Their bodies live no more. We have that initial moment of shock, we cry, we grieve. In the South, we make casseroles, platters filled with deviled eggs, or decadent desserts, slip into our best funeral wear, and attend viewings, family gatherings, and funerals. I have been to my fair share.

Two of my most devastating moments in life came when my brother called from across the country to tell me our father had died. A couple hours earlier he called to say Daddy was getting better and was about to be moved out of intensive care and to his regular room. Hearing, "Daddy died!" threw a bolt of electricity through me I can still feel today.

The second call also came from my brother, only this time he was only a mile away. We were taking "shifts" over our mother's dying. His time to watch was my time to sleep, which--as exhausted as we were--came like bricks falling to the ground. That night, when I returned to our room at The Rathbun Center, I didn't even bother to undress. I simply kicked off my shoes and climbed into the narrow twin bed I'd been sleeping in for a week. An hour into my semi-comatose condition, my cell phone rang ...

Only a few months after Mother died, the words "the little girl you knew is gone," hit much in the same way as "Daddy died!" and "She's gone ..."

The difference being ... I knew she was out there, somewhere.

Stages of grief are real and, as J's therapist said to me, I would have to go through them. For me, the biggest problem was that I'd not quite made it through the stages of grief from my mother's passing. So, right in the middle of trying to experience that, which we owe to ourselves after the death of a loved one, I was hit with more than I thought I could emotionally and spiritually hold.

1. She's not mentally well.
2. You are being accused of abusing her.
3. The Powers that Be believe her even though the investigating police do not.
4. Though you are still her guardian, you cannot see her. You cannot talk to her. You cannot legally know where she is.
5. She's in the ghetto, not getting help, not doing well in school, still believing her own twisted stories

Harder still, for me, was that those who we knew as a family were seeing and speaking to her. It was as if we, and we alone, were ostracized. We--who had been there nearly every day for 12 years--were told (and I quote) to "get on with your lives and forget her."

But how do you get on with your life when the fingerprints of her life were all over my house? I stood at the doorway of her bedroom every night, unable to walk in, just staring at the bed, picturing her propped up on the pillows, laptop opened and resting on her knees, fingers flying over the keyboard. In my mind's eye, I could still see her looking up at me, smiling. I could hear her voice. "Tov you!"

Which meant, "Love you!"

Every so often I could hear her door opening, see her dashing out from "her side of the house," across the family room floor and to the kitchen where she'd get her favorite snack, pizza rolls.

"Can I have a Sunkist?"

"Have you had one today?"

"No..."

"Yes then."

I could smell her.

And I could not believe--I could not believe--she was gone. Refused to believe this was happening. Surely I could blink my eyes or nod my head or twitch my nose and this whole thing would be absolved. Surely I could go to sleep one night and wake up the next morning and discover it was all a bad dream A very bad dream.

Looking back now, I was in the first stage of grief. Amazingly, those who should have recognized that, were too oblivious in their own self-righteousness to recognize it.

I distinctly remember the morning I fell to my knees and cried out to God, "Please help us!"

This will be one year ... came the whisper to my heart. This will be one year.

And so, for me, the idea that in one year a miracle would occur, came to be. And it would be a miracle, but not the one I imagined ...

Friday's Southern-Style Faith: Our Story Continues

Hearing the alleged charges brought against us was nothing compared with what was to come. I think, sometimes, God is like this: He allows the smaller tragedies that come with living in a sin-filled world to fall upon us first. Before the big stuff. And then the really big stuff.

In March 2011, two months after seeing J for the last time, we were cleared of all alleged charges against us. By Child Protective Services. By Casselberry Police Department. And by Seminole County Sheriff's Office Crimes Against Children. I received an official report from each of them; the latter contained a notation that the detective had gone to the foster home to see J. The foster home address was listed. I jumped in my car and drove, anxious to know. When I saw where my child was staying, I was horrified. Shambled houses, young people as well as older ambling aimlessly, liquor stores--outside which women stood, ready to sell a different kind of intoxication. More liquor stores. Second-hand stores. Litter. Graffiti.

My husband and I were invited to a meeting at CBC of Central Florida. I looked forward to the two hours we were to be there, but I should have been forewarned. When we were greeted by the case manager, it became apparent immediately that she didn't care what the police reports said. We were guilty. Why? Because the child had said so. Her cold demeanor and "I really don't care what you have to say" attitude said it all.

J's bio-family was with us and her bio-dad was "patched in" to the meeting by speaker phone. And, when he had the chance to speak, he had the nerve, the absolute audacity, to accuse my husband of sexually abusing J.

In an act I'd never seen before or since, my husband stood, slammed his hand down on the table near the "speaker" and began his own list of accusations. We'd known for years what her bio-dad had done and hadn't done to and for his child when she was a baby. It was all documented. And he wasn't denying it. My husband--my fabulously wonderful husband--had given this child love. Pure love. Never ever touching her inappropriately. He had paid for her needs, not just her wants, because her own father had not. He had held her when she was afraid, laughed at her childhood jokes, and taught her to ride a bike. Taught her to read. How to tie her shoes. He'd made sure she had food in her tummy when she was hungry and a warm place to sleep when she was tired. He'd built playhouses for her and her friends out of palm fronds. He'd held one end of a rope so she and her friends could jump over it as it swung near the ground.

He was old enough to be her grandfather, but he gave her all the energy of young dad. And, he had always treated her bio-dad with respect. In spite of his shortcomings. In spite of what he didn't do for his daughter, my husband's attitude was always, always: he is her father.

And this was how he was being repaid?

It took everything we had to get our story across to a room of about 15 people, most of who clearly didn't want to be there. The supervisor of supervisors at CBC spent more time reading her emails off her phone than she did listening to the facts of our situation. And, finally, when the case manager's direct supervisor stood and informed us that the child had all the rights and we had none, and that J didn't want to see us or allow us to get her the help she needed, we knew we were done.

So much for Children and Families.

Still, I continued to monitor J's school progress online. Even though she was in foster care, we were still the legal guardians and I still had access to her records. She was often tardy. She was belligerent to teachers. And she was in after school suspension and suspended quite frequently.

She was taken to several facilities for testing and with each report, the news grew more grim. Still, CBC and DCF refused to see the real problem.

And, like good parents, my husband and I continued to buy her clothes and those things we thought she might need and/or want. J accepted the gifts, but not us. Totally out of character from a little girl who always "thank you thank you thank you"'d anyone who gave her even the littlest thing.

In June, the State of Florida sent a doctor to talk to J for a half hour; this women--in spite of all the medical records and history--deemed that foster care and therapy would be sufficient. After a half hour with the child and no time with family or with us.

Then came July ... and something growing out of my chest. Turned out to be a form of skin cancer, which was painfully removed. I had a check up scheduled with a specialist on August 4 (I believe it was). About that time, I also received a call from the GAL office that CBC and DCF had filed a request with the court to have my husband and me removed as J's guardians.

"Will we get a notice to come to court?" I asked.
"You should," she said. "I just wanted to give you a heads up so you wouldn't be surprised." Out of all the people involved in this case, she and the GAL volunteer, and one therapist from DCF were the only ones who had treated us with any semblance of dignity.
"When is the hearing?" I asked.
"August 4," she said.

Great.

I waited for the paperwork to come, but it never did. J's aunts went to the hearing while I went to see if the cancer was contained. They called when it was over to tell me the judge had refused the petition. I breathed a sigh of relief. We were still J's legal parents; we could still fight for the welfare of our baby girl.

But then another call came from the GAL office. J had been taken into the judge's chambers after court, I was told. She didn't know the details, only that J showed such a level of mental disturbance that the judge removed our rights. "I honestly think he is trying to protect the two of you, Eva."

Devastated, I waited for the paperwork that would prove all our work, our expenses, our love and devotion were for nothing.

But it never came.

DCF and CBC of Central Florida had our rights removed and we were never notified. Not before. Not after. Not since. The Big Bad Wolf had finally huffed and puffed and blown a child's house down.

~~~

(Note: For the third time this year, J is missing from the "care" of DCF and CBC of Central Florida. But she is not alone. Right now, this minute, there are nearly 200 children in Florida they cannot account for. 200. What if one of them was yours? Just one?)

Friday's Southern-Style Faith: Our Story Continues

I am often asked, "Why are you doing this?"

Meaning "the blog."

I thought I'd take a break from talking about various mental health issues that can claim our children ... and/or about our story in particular ... to answer that question.

I do it because, God forbid, it ever happen to any of you.

I do it because the State of Florida--in particular the Florida Department of Family and Children, and Community Based Care of Central Florida--need to stop thinking they are the do-all, be-all of child and family services and come to realize that there is a difference between:

1.  The abused child
2. The vindictive child
and
3. The mentally ill child

These agencies have the ability to know the difference. But, they don't want to know the difference. They have--and I have this on the word of those who have worked within the mental health system for decades, who have worked alongside organizations like these--spent so much time and energy on swearing that every child who claims abuse is abused, if they go back now and try to correct that untruth, they will open Pandora's Box.

There are those, right now, who are serving time for abusing children they never laid a hand on.

There are those, right now, whose reputations are destroyed because the lies or mental unrest of a child were not dealt with properly by the organizations who should have known better.

There are those, right now (my gracious, how many of you have emailed me privately) who have boxed up, packed up and moved, leaving no forwarding address, as soon as their child, foster child, or guardianship "child" ages-out of the system. Why? Because the system has done such a poor job of helping the child, they are now a dangerous adult.

Every effort I  made to help J was stopped by the work of DCF and CBC of Central Florida (if you, or anyone you know, if aiding CBC of Central Florida financially, I implore you to demand they get their act together on issues like ours before you give another dime).

DCF and CBC of Central Florida swept into our lives without ever once coming to our home to see where J lived, how J lived, or the level of love poured out on her. They hardly ever returned a phone call or an email. They spoke to us with such contempt, we knew they'd accused us, tried us, and convicted us without so much as hearing our side of the story and without full disclosure from a doctor. Or, in our case, doctors.

They gave all the power to the child. The word "parent" meant nothing to them. The word "permanent" meant nothing to them. They snatched J up, threw her in the worst possible area of one of Central Florida's towns -- a place I dare say none of them would allow their dog to stay -- and then treated us with contempt.

When this much power goes to a group of people who claim to have a child's best interest at heart, but who don't even know the child, we have a problem.

More than once, J ran away from foster care. She was gone about a week the first time, thirty-one days the second time. She lived in every whore house, crack house, and abandoned house (according to what I have been able to piece together from family and law enforcement officers and J's own friends) in Sanford, FL. My husband and I worked tirelessly during that time to find her. Her great-aunt -- my dear, sweet friend -- and I worked side-by-side. We were constantly on the phone (my phone bill doubled the month of her second leaving), in the car, on the Internet. Our friends and J's old friends "from before" did the same. We were not afraid to put out posters, knock on doors, talk to people, beg if necessary.

What did DCF and CBC do?

Notified a website. Notified family (more than 24 hours after she was missing with a three-line email essentially saying, "J is missing."). And then they went on about their business.

When J was found the first time, CBC's director issued a statement to the press (because I had gone to the press to plead for assistance) that (paraphrased slightly) "each child in our system is important. Like one of our own."

Really? I don't once remember bumping into you on the streets. I don't once remember you calling me to find out what I knew, me the one who kept her ear to the ground. I bet you never lost a second of sleep worrying about J, while her aunt and I were on the phone and on the Internet at 2 and 3 in the morning. I'd be willing to bet you don't lose sleep about J or about the hundreds of kids the State of Florida cannot account for on any given day. Hundreds. Some as old as 17. Some as young as six months.

How dare you ...

Finally, I do this because I love J. I never let a day go by that I don't pray for her. She is one of my first thoughts in the morning and my last at night. I do this because I have 11- 1/2 years of precious memories and only a few weeks worth of nightmare. I do this because, I believe, one day she will knock on my door and say,"I love you, too." I do this because I don't know what else to do. 

I am not doing this to draw any attention to myself as a writer or as a speaker. Let me make that clear. I have all the attention I need, thank you.

I do this because--for nearly 12 years--I protected and loved and adored. And I was loved and adored in return.

And then, one day, I was told by a system sworn to protect families to "back off," and get on with my life.

Friday's Southern-Style Faith (Our Story Continues)

The meeting with Detective D was set for Wednesday afternoon at 2. I called my husband, told him, and he arranged to be off from work that day. Feeling that this was just a gathering of information on J's earlier life, her time in the system, and what we'd seen transpire over the last month, I returned from Denver and put the data I'd collected over the years on one of the desks in my office.

I spent Wednesday morning doing what I always do. I worked. When 2:00 was nearly upon us, a wave of nausea swept over me. It made no sense. I had absolutely no dread of the meeting, but now, suddenly, as if the Spirit was alerting me in the way He always has ... I felt sick to my stomach.

I tried to do something "normal." I told my husband I was going to let the dogs out so they'd not have that need once the detective arrived. Outside, the nausea continued. Swelled, even. Inside, I fed the dogs and was just returning their food to the pantry when my husband said, "How many detectives did you say were coming?"

"One."

"Well," he said looking out the front window, "there are three cars and four people standing in our front yard."

My heart beat a little faster. "What are they doing?" I asked, unable to move.

"Just talking."

A moment later, the doorbell rang.

Dennis and I went to the door together, opened it, smiled. Our dogs stood at our feet, tails wagging. "Come in, come in," we said, graciously.

Three women, one man. Dennis shook his hand. "I believe I met you at the hospital," he said. Then he looked at me, gave me the "I told you so" look.

Detective D, who was clearly in charge, suggested we sit at the dining room table. They had notebooks and files; it would be easier for them. So, we did. I offered them something to drink. They declined.

I honestly cannot remember how the conversation started. Perhaps they asked us what had occurred on that awful night (as we then knew) when J  had planned to kill us. What had caused us to send her to the friend's farmhouse for a month. What had happened (the cutting) to lead us to being forced to Baker Act her again. I don't know. Because what happened next, I do remember. And I remember it well.

There was a moment of perplexity between the detectives by something I said. I was clearly innocent of any wrong-doing and so I presented as such. I knew about the allegations of cameras in the bedroom and bathroom. And I was honest about the odd things we had found around the house, things that psychologists and therapists had explained to us were signs of early sexual abuse. I spoke as though I were giving them the information they had come for. They'd asked us simple questions (Question: How do you discipline? Answer: take away privileges. Question: Does she have a bedroom door? Answer: Of course she has a bedroom door! Reply: You understand that as the parents in the home, you have a right to remove her door. Answer: But we haven't. We don't allow locked doors for long periods of time, but we allow closed doors. And, we knock and ask permission to enter, even for our children.) Simple questions. Simple answers.

But that was not why they had come, I guess. And thus, the perplexity.

"Perhaps," Detective D said to Detective SJ, you should read the allegations to the Eversons.

"Allegations?" I asked.

"That J has brought against you."

"Okay." I turned my head to the left, to where Detective SJ sat. She flipped open a manila file and began to read.

She wasn't allowed to take a shower unless we watched.
She wasn't allowed to have a bedroom door.
She wasn't allowed to dress unless we watched.
I forced her to pull down her pants so I could look inside her.
Cameras in the bedroom.
Cameras in the bathroom.
We punished her by hitting her.
She was kept prisoner in her room. (Which I found odd, considering she "had no door.")
I was touching the dogs sexually and smiling.

(There's more, but you get the point.)

I looked from the detective to my husband. Everything moved in slow motion. Whirring inside my head blocked most sound in the room. When my eyes finally reached my husband's face, I saw his eyes rolling to the back. His hand was at his mouth, fingers laying gently against his lips. They quivered.

"Oh my gosh ..." I breathed. "Oh my gosh." This could not be happening. Not our little girl. Our precious precious J. Our funny child who we loved and who loved us with such depth. No!

Then I remembered. I looked back at the detective. I had reports from years before, I told her. Reports that proved she was "transferring."

"Do you have that where you can show it to us?" they asked.

"I sure do," I said, jumping up from my seat and then darting into my office where I'd carefully stacked the old files. My legs felt like they were made of jelly. My hands shook. My head ached. My heart shattered. My vision was blurred by tears. How could she have lied. How could she have done this to us? To us, the two people who had loved her so much. Protected her? Adored her? Gave her everything she could have ever wanted? How could she not know the truth?

I managed to get everything back to the dining room table. They looked over my files, asked for copies. I returned to my office where I made the copies. Just then my phone rang. I looked at the Caller ID. The caller was her new doctor who had performed the psychological.

I answered, said, "I can't talk right now. Detectives ... charges of abuse ... I can't talk right now."

I know now that I shouldn't have answered the phone. I should have just let it ring.

Friday's Southern-Style Faith (Our Story Continues)

The day after I admitted J into the hospital, I boarded an early-morning flight to Denver for a business conference. I didn't want to go; I didn't know how to stay.

After I admitted J into the hospital, my next order of business was to cancel a protective order I'd filed against her bio-dad. Having managed to get into her computer and read the emails and messages between them, and between J and the woman I previously called "S," I realized adults--adults!--had planted such disgusting lies into this child's mind, facilitating the madness, encouraging the stories her sweet, sick brain had made up in an effort to understand its own past. My first order of business was to file an injunction for protection against these two people, along with her father's girlfriend. Having filled out all the paperwork, I elected to drop the case against S because I knew it would be a "she said/she said" court case and I'd lose. In spite of knowing I'd told this woman more than once that J could not legally see her father without my supervision or without my permission, and in spite of reading in the emails and messages between them how this woman had facilitation these meetings, encouraging them even, I would lose. Because I knew that any woman who would knowingly say such things to a child as what I was reading in these messages would easily lie in court. No morals. No scruples. No conscience.

So ... no way.

With J in the hospital, and enough paperwork filed out for the time being to help get her into residential (the hospital told me we were looking at at least a year of treatment), I called the judge's office and cancelled the court hearing. "He can't hurt her where she is now," I told the Judge's Assistant. "Nor can he get to her."

How foolish I was.

And so I flew to Denver.

The first day there I received a phone call from my husband. He'd been asked to go out to the hospital to have a family therapy session with J. He was so hopeful. He couldn't wait to see her, he said. And, if she would let him, to hold her. To tell her he would take all this pain if he could. He would make everything as it once had been--happy childhood. Happy memories.

Later, he called again. It had not gone well, he said. "When I got there," he went on, "a Casselberry police officer pulled up about the same time. We went to the locked doors and rang the buzzer for entrance together. I said, 'Good day, sir,' but he really had nothing to say to me. When the therapist opened the door, she whisked him inside, turned to me and said, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Everson. We cannot meet today. J is not doing well right now.' Something is up," he said. "I think the officer was there for J."

"Why would an officer be there for her?" I asked. "There are hundreds of kids in that hospital. What makes you think it's J they came because of?"

"I don't know," he said. "It's just a feeling."

His feelings were right. Later that day my cell phone rang. "Mrs. Everson," the woman--J's new therapist--said, "This is C, from University Behavioral Center. I need to talk to you about allegations of abuse J has made against you and to tell you that, by law, I have had to call the authorities. I also want you to know that I believe J is a very, very sick child and that I don't believe what she is saying based on her case history and what I have learned from the courts about your relationship with her and who you are. But I have had to file the report."

I asked what it all meant.

"It's not good," she said. "And all I can tell you now is that your time with J. may be over. I don't see this going anywhere but south."

I told her I was a woman of faith. That I believed in a God who could do the impossible. I told her about the abuse J had sustained by father and mother and select family members, about the emails, both from her bio-dad and from her friend's mother, S. She agreed that their interference had accelerated J's illness, but that much of this was also genetic, based on hospital records. And, she told me, I should look for another call to come within the next few hours.

The following day, a Sunday, as the conference was wrapping up, I sat outside the auditorium doors, listening to the keynote speaker when my phone rang. The number was from the courthouse. A 665 number. I answered as I made a beeline down the hallway to an abandoned ballroom of the hotel where we were meeting. Looking for privacy, out of instinct, I suppose.

"Mrs. Everson," said the woman, "This is Detective D. I'm with Seminole Country Sheriff's Office Crimes Against Children. We need to speak to you and  your husband as soon as possible ..."

Friday's Southern-Style Faith (Our Story Continues)

The call came while I was getting ready for a business trip to Denver. J had been staying with friends while we worked through getting her psychological testing done. Staying home was not an option; she had admitted to our not being safe from her actions. My husband and I had been called into the doctor's office several times to discuss the bizarre behavior, her history with bio-families and being jerked back and forth between bio mom and dad and a great-aunt, and the "stories" J had begun telling. Stories that went beyond "cameras in the bedroom." These were stories about having been in the car with her mother during a store robbery gone bad. Someone had been shot. The only reason J was still alive was that she hid behind a Dumpster. This was just one of a new list of about 15.

Of course none of it was true.

We brought in our paperwork. Our proof, if you will. We poured our hearts out, expressed our concern. Our love. Our desire to see our little girl get whatever treatment she needed so she could come home.

And then the call came. J's aunt had asked to take her shopping two days earlier. I'd said yes, told the aunt where she could pick J up from, and then asked her to stop by and pick up some money. "She needs jeans," I said. And so the aunt, who happens to also be my dear friend, did so. We shared our hopes that this nightmare would soon be over. We had no idea...

The day after the shopping spree, she called. J's arms were covered in cuts. She asked J about it, and J claimed she fell while going over a fence. But the aunt was wise. Persistent. "Did you do that to yourself?" she asked.

J admitted she had.

Self-mutilation. This was new. I called the friend J was staying with; she confirmed that J's arm held somewhere between 30 and 50 cuts, elbow to wrist. She'd just been told by her daughter and was about to call me, she said. She took a photo and mailed it to my phone.

My next call was to J's therapist.

"That's it," she said. "We have to do something. I'm having her Baker Acted."

I spent the rest of the day forgetting about packing and, instead, talking on the phone with the hospital where J had been admitted just five months earlier. Ironically, the admissions clerk said to me, "I knew she'd be back."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I just knew. I knew she wasn't really ready to go home back in August." She then said I may want to think about residential. Not that it was her call, but I needed to prepare myself, based on what she knew about J previously, added to the current issue.

My only question: would it bring J back to us? Not just physically ... but emotionally and mentally as well.

I was scared. And I missed my baby girl.

It was a call that changed everything, but it didn't hold a candle to the one that came a few days later.

Friday's Southern-style Faith

I am always amazed at how the number of readers of this blog spikes on Fridays. Those who have known me for a long time, those who knew our relationship and love for our daughter J., come to know "just what happened." Then there are those who hear about it, who are naturally curious how such a nightmare could have occurred. Not just with the illness, but with the State of Florida's mismanagement of the illness, our case, and our child. I hear "In this country? But this is America!" time and again. 


Then there are those who are professionals, or who suffer from the same illnesses, who come to read. To know more. Because the more we know of the stories, the more we learn ... and hopefully, the more likely we are to not repeat the mistakes. 


Another question I get is this: Why are you doing this? 


I do this because our family is not the only one. We are just one, but we are one with a member who writes and speaks publicly and who doesn't want to see this ever happen to anyone else again. To warn people, before they adopt or foster, of what they need to know FIRST. To encourage the State of Florida ... and all states ... to learn more about mental health issues and to get their noses out of the air and, by golly, start doing their jobs. To educate people about the mismanagement of organizations such as DCF and the community-based care programs across the country. To stop the outpouring of financial support until these people vow to get it right, instead of being hell-bent on proving themselves right, they don't care who gets hurt in the process.


I read every single comment. Last week, a professional gave such an amazing report, I asked her if I could use it for this week's post. So here it is. I encourage you to read every word. To know the truth. And,if you are from the state-side, if you are a DCF worker, or with a community-based care, etc., read carefully. This is not an angry parent speaking.This is one of you ... but one of you who decided to do more than slap the alphabet after their names. This is one of you who decided to know.

I would like to offer my professional opinion about this situation. I have worked with high-risk children for many years as a foster care social worker (SWIII) and in-home family therapist working with DSS, mental health centers, and the Methodist Home for Children in North Carolina for over 20 years before becoming a licensed marriage and family therapist in private practice. I've watched this landslide of bureaucratic mismanagement from afar and could so clearly see what was happening, and honestly, I am not surprised.

I have worked with many teens like J. through the years. Deeply emotionally wounded early in life, they are taken and placed in loving homes, only to viciously turn on the very same people who have attempted to love them and give them a home. Children like this have personality disorders, usually borderline personality disorder concurrent with physiological imbalances like bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. Their view of the world and their place in it is warped. One classic symptom of emerging Borderline PD is the sudden (and sometimes violent) turning on people that they claim to love. The truth is, these children don't know how to love. They only know how to pretend to love to get their very basic needs for safety met, a skill learned early in life to cope with their chaotic and painful childhoods. Some become so severe as to form Reactive Attachment Disorder, the inability to truly attach to anyone at all, even their own child. Paradoxically, it is when they get into a safe place that they begin to act out their very deep and frightening anger at the world. They misdirect that anger at the very people that made them safe in the first place! 

I know firsthand how easy it is to be manipulated by these children, who are often very bright and convincing. And, I'm not saying that they all are lying. Sadly, on rare occasions their stories are true.But when there is a clear diagnosis of mental illness, no evidence to substantiate wild accusations, threats of violence and sick behaviors and their cases are being managed by social workers who clearly are young and inexperienced and may have lost their objectivity, there is a recipe for disaster. Not only are good people devastated emotionally, financially, and socially, but the child is learning that manipulations, lies, and acting bizarre 1. gets a lot of attention 2. feeds their desperate need for power and control over others 3. and feeds the need for vengeance for wrongs done to them early in life. In other words, J. gets to do to the Everson's what was done to her, and if someone doesn't confront her with that, then she may one day do it to her own children as well.

I am deeply sad for this child and this family. They all have been deeply wronged. Although I believe it is safer for both J. and the Everson's to have J. removed from their home, to have them be denied parental rights and to treat them as the enemy here has been a miscarriage of justice and a prime example of social work at its worst.

I understand. Careers are at stake, jobs can be lost, and after all, social workers are all overworked, underpaid, and not trained to deal with sick children--at least not to the extent they should be. I deeply respect the unsung heroes of social work. The job is brutal at best. But it wasn't until I became a therapist that I really learned how much I didn't know when I was a social worker and how much the system has deteriorated in the last ten years. It’s scary to think how often this is happening and how many lives are being destroyed in the process. I hope someone has the courage to stand up and do the right thing.

Deborah B. Dunn,LMFT
www.deborahdunn.com

Friday's Southern-Style Faith (Our Story Continues)

So what do you do when you've spent the entire night keeping vigil because your precious child, the one you'd give your life for, has become so psychotic, you fear that rather than die for her, you'll die by her? What do you do the following morning--so tired your muscles ache and your brain refuses to work--once the sun has risen again and you know life goes on?

As it turned out, J had an appointment late that morning with her therapist. I called ahead, told her what had happened. Neither of us were fully surprised. Four months previous, we'd hospitalized J for what we thought was a reaction to her ADHD meds. Just before that, she and I had gone away for a week, which would have been and should have been a lovely time together--but had turned into a disaster when she informed those around us that my husband and I had installed cameras in her bedroom and bathroom so we could watch her undress and shower. Of course none of that was true. After the week away--with the first four days being such fun and the last three being something akin to hell on earth--my husband and I took her to a therapy session where she explained, oh so casually, why she thought there were cameras and we, of course, explained otherwise. Everyone left happy. Then, two days later she stood in the middle of the street screaming she is going to kill herself. Totally broken down. My husband and I were helpless as officers handcuffed her and drove her away. Helpless watching her thrashing about in the back of the squad car. Just helpless.

The ADHD meds, they said. We'll ween her off. Make her better. And, after a week, she returned to us, pretty much her old self. So maybe they were right.

But there had been those previous problems in school. The year before, we'd gone from elementary to middle school--that cesspool of hormones and mean girl issues. J got in trouble one day for defending another girl from the attacks of a third. Then, she was thrown against the bathroom wall (warning: if you are in middle school, just learn to hold it) by a girl who was suspended for three days. There were other fights. She also struggled with her school work, but socially, she seemed to be doing well.

Then came the notices. Skipping class. Failing in class. Disrupting class. Fighting at lunch. I was getting emails from teachers nearly every day and phone calls from the school counselor just as often. I amped up my mothering role. I started having email sessions with the teachers on a weekly basis, letting J know that a good week would result in an award. A bad week ... well, there go your privileges.

By March, with a child failing and having been suspended too many times, I removed her from school (at her request) to homeschool her. In homeschooling, she did so well. She blossomed.

But, like I said ... then came August. And then...then came October when CPS (child protective services) showed up at my door. They had a report that we kept J. imprisoned in her room. That we had cameras in the bedroom and bath.

Here we go again.

I showed them our weekly calendar. She had a social event every Monday. Tuesday was ballet. Wednesday was Youth Group at church. Thursday was jazz. Nearly every Friday she was heading out to the farm where her best friends lived. She spent most weekends (I met her at church on Sunday) with them. After Sunday service, we'd go shopping. Or maybe to a matinee.

The officer talked to me at length. Talked to J. Smiled and said, "She's a normal kid."

But something smelled like a rat. And the rat had a name. S, I have called her. Her friend's mother. So I called S and confronted her. She swore she hadn't called ...but she was concerned because I wouldn't let J see her bio-dad. What? She had total freedom to see her bio-dad! She insisted she didn't want to.

Oh ... that's not what she told me. Maybe I misunderstood.


Maybe you should get your nose out of my business and rear your own kids.

Okay. I digress.

And so I went to the therapist and said, "I think we've got issues."

To which she said, "Yes, we do. J is beginning to create stories in her head that could easily land you in prison. I think it's time for a psychological. With the onset of hormones, we may be seeing the same illnesses her bio-parents suffer from."

All along I kept the GAL (Guardian ad Litem) supervisor undated. She's been so good to us in the 2.5 years of court hearings and I knew how much she loved J. How much J. loved her. She also knew how much we loved J and how much she loved us.

But love wasn't going to get us through this. Nor was prayer. You cannot pray hard enough or love deep enough and think that mental health issues and illnesses will just go away. Sometimes there is a purpose.

And right now ... it seemed that the purpose was to destroy our family.

Where mental illness left off ... DCF and CBC of Central Florida picked up. Departments designed to save families and children, but destroyers of them nonetheless. Departments without hearts, who only care for the power they hold, to use it for evil and not for good. Departments without ears ... and none are so deaf as those who refuse to listen.

Because then came January 11 ... and a final trip to the therapist after that long, long night. The last day I would see my little girl ... because of the idiocy of DCF and CBC of Central Florida. Because the state of Florida gives children--even those diagnosed with mental health issues--all the rights.

Friday's Southern-style Faith (Our Story Continues)

A glimpse into our world. Into what happened that night.
 
It began with a simple phone call. Just before bedtime. A friend. A good friend, calling to tell me that Jo (who I will now refer to only as J), had a Facebook page I wasn't aware of.

"Under what name?" I asked.

She told me ... it was an oddity made out of her given name combined with her father's last name.

Her bio-dad, he was often called because she insisted that it be that way, that he be called by his given name. She insisted that my husband was her "Daddy" because he took the role seriously and always had. "It takes more than sperm to make a daddy," she told me once. I nearly wrecked the car. I wasn't aware she knew what sperm was (and then I remembered the paper I had to sign for the 5th grade class given just to the girls).

We didn't have to do it, you see. We didn't have to fight so hard for permanent guardianship. Didn't have to play the role of Mom and Dad. There was no blood relationship. But we loved this little girl. And she loved us, so openly. So fervently.

We had been given "permanent guardianship" so legally her last name had not changed (she insisted that, at eighteen, she would legally change her name). A few days after the ink had dried on the paperwork, I received a call from her fourth grade teacher telling me J was now writing our last name as her own on her paperwork. I asked the teacher how she planned to handle it. She said, "I don't plan to handle it at all. In her heart, she's an Everson. She's smart enough to know that legally she isn't, but believe me, Mrs. Everson, in her heart and soul, she is evermore your child."

So, now, I'm hearing that her Facebook holds her biological name. I'm fine with her calling herself whatever she wants, but I have always wanted her to be honest about her feelings.

I checked the name, but I couldn't find it. So, I went into another Facebook name I use occasionally and ... voila ... there it was. I checked her friends. One was a female friend of her bio-dad. Another was her friend ("T's") mother, who I will call "S."

S and I had had a recent discussion about the fact that she had listed "J" as her "daughter" on Facebook, changing J's last name to her last name. I found that completely odd. I couldn't imagine doing something like that. I mean, what if I had listed T as my daughter, writing her name as T Everson? She acted put off that I would ask her to remove the listing. At first, she refused, but eventually she complied.

I clicked out of Facebook and went into J's room to discuss the situation with her. Above everything ... I wanted to talk about the deceit. In our home, this was unacceptable ...

I had no idea the danger I was putting myself in with that one tap on her door ... and that one question, "Can we talk for a minute?" I had no idea the Devil's Workshop I was about to walk in to. Because I was naive, you see. I didn't yet know about what mental illness could do to the most adorable of little girls upon their arrival at puberty's gate. I didn't yet know how it could destroy a family ... and the lives of those therein.

Friday's Southern-style Faith (Our Story Continues)

"Narcissus" by Gyula Benczur (1844-1920

He was beautiful to behold, but not so lovely to know. Those who dared to love him were shunned by him. One day, having been drawn to a pool of water, he bent down, peered in, and saw his own reflection. So enamored by what he saw, he was cursed. He couldn't move from this striking beauty before him and, frozen in place by his own desire, he eventually died.

This is not a true story, of course. It is but one of the many versions of the story of Narcissus. You may remember him from Greek Mythology 101, a class I aced because it was all about telling stories. I've always loved the art of storytelling. Thus, I became a writer of fiction.

"Narcissus" by
Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (1571-1610)

Today, Greek mythology gives us some of our most common sayings, whether we know it or not. Have you ever heard the line, "She's his Achilles' heel"? That's one.

She has the Midas touch. That's another.

Even the term "mentor" comes from Greek mythology.

Initially, I was Jo's mother's mentor. In time, I came to love her as though she were one of my own. And, in time, I felt the same about Jo. Enough that I committed to rearing her, with my husband, to adulthood. Not just a verbal commitment. It was on paper. Legally binding. More or less.

But I've just run down a rabbit trail. (I don't think that comes from Greek mythology. I think that comes from ... well ... rabbits.)

From the name "Narcissus" we have derived the medical term "Narcissism" or more properly put Narcissistic Personality Disorder.  Now, I can hear what you are thinking: What? Thinking you are "all that" is a disease? No. Thinking you are "all that" is just being vain. There is a difference.

Those with NPD:

1.  Believe they are better than others
2. Fantasize about power, success, and attractiveness
3.  Exaggerate their achievements and talents
4.  Expect constant praise and admiration, constant attention
5. Fail to recognize other people's emotions and feelings
6. Expect others to go along with their plans and ideas
7. Take advantage of the generosity of others
8.  Express disdain for those they feel are inferior
9. Are jealous of others
10. Set unrealistic goals
11. Have trouble forming and keeping healthy relationships
12. While they see themselves as better than others, their self-esteem is fragile
13. Appear unemotional
14. Reacts to any form of criticism/guidance with anger, shame, or humiliation

Sometimes we can look at someone with NPD and say, "Well, they're just confident! They know what they want!" It can appear that way, yes. But the person with NPD feels all this to a pathological level. They don't "rise" because of it ... they suffer due to it.

When at least five of these symptoms are found in a patient, a qualified doctor can make a diagnosis of NPD. However, other diagnoses need to be ruled out first. Typically, poor early childhood parenting and genetics is at the root of the cause.

Is there treatment? Yes, of course. But it's often difficult and time-consuming. And, remember, anyone with any personality disorder typically cannot see themselves as ill, therefore they reject treatment. Most often, family members beg a loved one to "get help," which leads to treatment.

For any parent with a teenager, you may be thinking, "Sounds also a lot like being a teen to me." True. But, I'm here to tell you from my own experience, that numbers 5 and 13, coupled with any of the other symptoms, make a dangerous combination.

And when I say "dangerous," what I mean is ... dangerous.

When a teenager with NPD, one you brought into your life and loved as your own, looks at you--looks through you--with cold eyes and says, "There has never been anything between us ..." and when you find the pieces of picture frame that were shaped like shanks to be used for your own murder ... it's dangerous. The child may be the victim of the illness, but then you, as the parent, are the victim of the child.

What's worse is when you become the victim of the system you thought would help. When, in our case, DCF and CBC of Central Florida failed to recognize who the victims really were ... and then left them in the dust to figure it out on their own.

And that's just a part of our story.

[I implore you to learn more about Personality Disorders. I am doing what I am doing to educate others about them--as many as I can think of--not necessarily saying that J was diagnosed with these illnesses, but that these are very real. And very dangerous. If you or someone you know has adopted a foster child, taken in a foster child, adopted or become the permanent guardian of a child whose history is not completely clear to you ... you must learn more about these illnesses. One day, like in our story, everything is fine. And then, one day, it is not. It is really, really not.]

Friday's Southern-Style Faith

Our Story Continues ...

Typically, Bipolar Disorder does not rear it's head until a person is in his/her early twenties. But that doesn't mean teenagers are not affected by it. Don't have it. They can and they do. And when they do, the change in moods, the extreme highs and desperate lows, are more frequent. Some teens with bipolar disorder can "cycle" in an hour, though most cycles can be seen within a day or a week.

Now, anyone who has ever reared a child from infancy to adulthood knows that teens are already moody, thanks in part to shifting hormones. But teens with bipolar disorder are even more moody. Hard to imagine, I know. But it's true.

Teens with bipolar disorder will be overly happy. Act silly (like a younger child). Or, they can have a short temper. Have trouble sleeping but not feel tired. Or, they sleep too much and they're still tired. They are often unable to stay focused on one thing for any period of time. They talk really fast but don't stay on subject. Or on task. And, they are more likely to over-focus on sex. Talk about sex. Have sex. And, because they are also apt to do risky things, the likelihood of them doing something sexual and stupid are great.

These children are not just "depressed" ... they are sad. They have stomachaches. Headaches. Their may talk about feelings of guilt. Worthlessness. They overeat. Or, they don't eat enough. They lose all interest in the activities they once loved and/or excelled in.

They think about death and suicide. A lot.

I remember the day I found a drawing Jordynn left behind. Done in black pencil, it showed a dead tree, a dark moon, and a headstone with her name under which she'd written: Death by Suicide.

I thought of the day she and I visited my mother's grave. Jordynn, who had an amazing gift for photography, was taking photos of some of the more interesting headstones, statues, and floral arrangements. I noticed that she'd become fixated on one and, after she had walked away, I ambled over. It was the grave of a young girl, just a little older than herself, who had committed suicide. Why the family thought it necessary to share this, I don't know ... but they did and, for reasons I didn't understand yet, my child was drawn to it. When I found her etching, I felt sick to my stomach. Even more interesting to me was that she had always been adamant that we call her by our last name, but in the picture she used her birth name.

I had a chance to share the drawing with her doctor, but it was long after the fact. Long after the State of Florida and CBC of Central Florida had stepped in and taken her out of our home. Out of our care. Long into the downward spiral of insanity that wrapped itself around our lives. At least for a while.

Bipolar teens can be helped. With therapy and medication. The National Institute of Mental Health, in one of their brochures, talks about the importance of doctors working with family members to help the child through this difficult time. So what do you do, then, when people who know nothing about such an illness presume to remove the child so that you cannot work with the doctors. You cannot help your child.

What do you do when you are forced to watch your child drown and those who are supposed to protect look at you dumbfounded and say, "What water?"

Friday's Southern-Style Faith: Our Story Continues

There is more to borderline than the few things I mentioned last week. Borderline is probably the most difficult of all the personality disorders.

Those who love people with BPD (borderline personality disorder), may see dramatic shifts in self-image. Goal shifts. Value shifts. Vocational shifts. First they want to be an astronaut, then a secretary, then a stay-at-home mom, next a crossing guard. Tomorrow ... a nun. Their sexual identity changes. Their peers. Teens with BPD can change from hanging out only with the good kids, to hanging out with the hoodlums. They are needy and then, the next minute, they are the avengers of all wrongs. Sometimes they see themselves only as bad. Evil. Other times they are nonexistent. If the patient is in school, school can be a disaster. If they are adults who work ... then work is a ...disaster. They can also flip from happy as anything to ... angry as anything. Over ... nothing.

Living with a borderline is an exercise is patience. Heartache. There's simply nothing quite like it.

What causes BPD?


Well, that's a good question. We don't know. Doctors don't know. Researchers don't know. But there are theories. Genetics? Early childhood development with family, friends, other children. Children who are left to "cope" or "survive" are likely to develop BPD. Sexual abuse could be another factor. In other words, there is no single factor. It's complicated. And good chance, a parent with BPD will pass BPD to his/her kids.


How is BPD treated?

Another good question. Long-term psychotherapy. But, of course, the therapist should be trained in dealing with BPD. There are also meds to help. Of course, you have to take the meds. And, if you are a child in the state of Florida and you are under the care of DCF or CBC of Central Florida, you get to choose whether or not you want to take the meds. For this or for Bipolar disorder. Actually, for any disorder. Children have the rights. Children. The way they allow kids to run the show is ... crazy. Crazier than trying to explain BPD.

There's more, of course. Much more. So ... let's talk about that later.

Thank you for being interested in knowing more about this personality disorder. Take a moment to imagine that suddenly your child shifts from being happy to lucky to ... nothing makes sense. Nothing.

Friday's Southern-style Faith (Our story continues)

[I've taken a few weeks off from telling our story for a variety of reasons, the biggest one being that I traveled to three states in one month.]

To fully understand our story, one must first understand the dynamics of various mental health issues. I've already talked about BD, or bipolar disorder. (Bipolar disorder, sometimes referred to as manic-depressive disorder, is characterized by dramatic shifts in mood, energy, and activity levels that affect a person’s ability to carry out day-to-day tasks. These shifts in mood and energy levels are more severe than the normal ups and downs that are experienced by everyone.*) 5.7 million Americans lives with BD. Quadruple that for an idea of how many loved ones are affected. My husband and I are two of them.


Now I want to share just a little with you about Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD).


Years ago, a friend of mine--a psychologist--said to me, "BPD is the most complex, and the most difficult to treat of all the personality disorders."


Many of you probably have never heard of it. What is it? Simply put: The main feature of borderline personality disorder (BPD) is a pervasive pattern of instability in interpersonal relationships, self-image and emotions. People with borderline personality disorder are also usually very impulsive.**


Children are not diagnosed with BPD, however they can be diagnosed with emerging BPD. In other words, "Legally, I cannot put this under diagnosis, but ... dollars to donuts, here's what we're looking at."


Before I talk further about our own story with BPD, I want to share another nugget of information from PsychCentral's website (http://psychcentral.com/).


Take a minute, please, and read:

Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment.

The perception of impending separation or rejection, or the loss of external structure, can lead to profound changes in self-image, emotion, thinking and behavior. Someone with borderline personality disorder will be very sensitive to things happening around them in their environment. They experience intense abandonment fears and inappropriate anger, even when faced with a realistic separation or when there are unavoidable changes in plans. For instance, becoming very angry with someone for being a few minutes late or having to cancel a lunch date. People with borderline personality disorder may believe that this abandonment implies that they are “bad.” These abandonment fears are related to an intolerance of being alone and a need to have other people with them. Their frantic efforts to avoid abandonment may include impulsive actions such as self-mutilating or suicidal behaviors.

Unstable and intense relationships.

People with borderline personality disorder may idealize potential caregivers or lovers at the first or second meeting, demand to spend a lot of time together, and share the most intimate details early in a relationship. However, they may switch quickly from idealizing other people to devaluing them, feeling that the other person does not care enough, does not give enough, is not “there” enough. These individuals can empathize with and nurture other people, but only with the expectation that the other person will “be there” in return to meet their own needs on demand. These individuals are prone to sudden and dramatic shifts in their view of others, who may alternately be seen as beneficient supports or as cruelly punitive. Such shifts other reflect disillusionment with a caregiver whose nurturing qualities had been idealized or whose rejection or abandonment is expected.

~~~~~~

Caregivers. Or adopted parents. Or those with permanent (the most ridiculous word I've ever typed in connected with this issue) guardianship. 


If you have read these words above, then I would venture to say you now know more than those who work for DCF (Department of Children and Families--another ridiculous word) and especially those of CBC of Central Florida. 


But they aren't paid to understand. They aren't paid to even care enough to read up on it. They, like the disease, are paid to destroy ... and destroy they have. Perhaps even more than the illness.


And I am left to wonder: what may have happened had they taken a minute to fully understand mental health issues? Because these who are so diagnosed, and especially these children, are by no means guilty of any crime. They are not demons. They are not "crazy." 


But neither are the caregivers, parents, and guardians. 


Yet, we have become the victims.


*Taken from:  http://www.nimh.nih.gov/statistics/1BIPOLAR_ADULT.shtml
** Taken from: http://psychcentral.com/lib/2007/symptoms-of-borderline-personality-disorder/