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 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 ..."

Monday's Musings on All Things Southern

When I was a young teen, a preteen even, my friends and I made our own entertainment. We collected magazines, flipped pages, cut out pictures and words and phrases from ads and articles, and then pasted them onto poster board.

Essentially, we made collages.

What those poster boards revealed was who we were. What we thought. How we felt about life and such. Sometimes those revelations were silly. Other times deep. Brooding. The older we got, the more fashion oriented they became. Eventually, they faded altogether.

We became too old to find such creative ways of expressing ourselves.

A year and a half ago I began receiving O Magazine. For the longest time, I didn't know why. Who had sent me this subscription. Then, just before Christmas 2011, I received a card in the mail letting me know my good friend Allison Bottke was the sender and that she was sending another years subscription.

I've been pretty busy this past year; the magazines were flipped through, but not really read. Then, yesterday as Tropical Storm Debby beat down on Florida, I gathered a stack of them and started reading.

A memory of clipping and pasting washed over me.

I'm too old for making poster boards, but I'm not too old for journaling. I started cutting. I went to the office and pulled my journal from its place on my desk. The double-sided tape from its place. I returned to one of the family room sofas (the one nearest the picture windows looking out over an ever-rising lake) and started creatively sticking pictures and words and phrases to pages.

One of those "phrases" reads: WHAT I KNOW FOR SURE.

I taped it to the top of a page and decided I would write what I know for sure, one thing at a time. Not to be hurried. Not to be about others but about me. 


I wanted the first thing I wrote not to be something like "That Jesus loves me."

Even though I know He does. For sure. That's more about who Jesus is.

After a while, after pondering, I wrote the first thing I knew for sure: "That I cannot wait for my grandson to be born."

At the end of nearly two very difficult years, this baby is Jesus reminding me how much he loves me. He will bring laughter back to my life. And, prayerfully, he will bring healing. And, the truth about me is that I have been so broken and bruised over these past two years--by Jordynn, by DCF, by Community Based Care of Central Florida, and by certain members of Jordynn's bio-family. Ripped to shreds. Left to bleed on the floor without care. Without compassion. Without pity.

Because of them, I have been afraid to love--to fully love--those I call my own. My children. My grandchildren. My friends and loved ones.

But this child ... 

So, what would be the first thing you wrote if you knew something for sure?

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.