Waking The Wounds

by Angela Kayne

  It was clear that confronting either of them about anything they had done was simply off limits. Part of me knew this was something I would have to do eventually, somehow. I would have to confront them, and what they had done to me, or allowed to happen to me. And I would have to finally be heard. I knew this was where the heart of my wounds centered from. I grew resentful of them as the years went on and angry at their refusal to address anything. And on top of that my brother, who had abused me, was living with them. They were protecting him, and enabling him to continue harming even more children. I hated my brother, and felt justified in doing so. What he had done, and was still doing was simply unforgivable. I had no intentions of forgiving him, ever. And I made sure I told everyone I knew who he was and what he was capable of. There would be no more children harmed on my watch.

  I tried for many years to maintain a relationship with my younger brother, my beloved childhood sidekick. However, his life took a very different turn for him. The events I had gone through that wounded me so deeply, he went through as well. He simply could not function in the adult world, the responsibilities had always proven more than he could handle. He spent his life back and forth between homeless shelters, prison, and my parents house, until he’d wear out his welcome where he went. He struggled with various forms of addiction, and expected everyone in his life to take care of him. He insisted on being viewed as a victim, incapable of taking care of himself. In many ways he became an abuser, thinking only of himself. Eventually I just could not deal with this version of my brother and made a painful decision to cut ties with him. This was and still is a huge loss for me, the bond we once had and the little boy I once knew will never be forgotten.

  Back to that awful void I still carried, no matter what. Even with two beautiful children, I couldn’t fill it. That void, I now understand, is what drove me to get involved with foster care. I was a full time stay at home mom, and I desperatly wanted more children to love. We couldn’t have any more of our own since my husband had a vasectomy after the birth of our daughter. Foster care seemed like a good option to me, or the only option. Our daughters were seven and four years old at the time. I convinced my husband to give it a try, and told him we didn’t have to keep any of them, they were just temporary. It was a way to bring in a little more income to allow me to stay home full time as well, I think this part sold him more than anything. We agreed we would only take the ones who were “normal”, no kids with issues, and certainly not kids with disabilities. Yes, I’m sitting here laughing as I write this. We thought we knew what we could handle, and that we actually had control over what type of child we could, and ultimately would love. I was certain I couldn’t love a special needs child, my reason why?? Because I had a severely handicapped brother, I watched him suffer extreme neglect and abuse. I saw how unloveable he was for my parents, and I hadn’t bonded with him either. Of course in my mind that translated to me being incapable of loving such a child.

  Over the months ahead, we had a few children placed with us, you know just one at a time to get our feet wet. The first few were “normal” meaning not disabled, but I quickly learned “normal” doesn’t exist for children in foster care. These kids were wounded, in ways I was not prepared for. There was no amount of training they could have offered that really would have prepared us. The toddlers we kept getting had so much anger, their little lives had been nothing but chaos, and they reacted to it accordingly. It was a challenge for me to say the least, but I never walked away from a challenge, I gave the kids everything I had. Again, pouring out myself into these broken little ones. They just wanted to be loved, and feel safe. I could give them that, and I would as long as they were in my home.

  One day I received a phone call from our foster agency, about a placement. He was a baby, eighteen months old, he had a feeding tube, seizure disorder, a vp shunt, and was diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy. His prognosis was grim, he would likely never be able to do anything in life, at eighteen months old he was still functioning at an infant level. He was not rolling over yet, no speech, no signs of normal development. Immediately in my mind I thought “oh heck no!” this is not what I signed up for, I want a normal kid. But I didn’t know how to say no to people at that time, so I figured I’d put this on the hub. Surely he would say no, and I’d be off the hook, because we agreed we were taking only normal kids. But, he didn’t say no as I expected him to, he instead responded with “well why not? It’s not his fault” ugh. Ok, begrudgingly, I would give this baby a try, who was I to look like a jerk and refuse a helpless, handicapped baby right? Within a few days, the foster parents he lived with brought him to our home with all of his things. We were trained on his care, and updated on all of his medical information, then he was left in our hands.

  He was perfect, the most beautiful little boy I had ever seen, and I knew right then that loving him would never be a struggle for me. He was severely brain damaged, but it didn’t matter. He responded to being loved and nurtured just like every other child. It didn’t take him long to bond with all of us, he knew each of us in his own way. He quickly became the center of our family, our girls showered him with love and attention. And, in spite of what we were told regarding his prognosis, he was thriving. He was making gains, and began doing things never thought possible for him. We all knew he HAD to be our child, giving him back would have been unthinkable for all of us. Our caseworker told us he would be adoptable soon, and that the birth parents rights would soon be terminated. Rights were terminated, and we jumped on it, and were so excited to make him a permanent part of our family. It was three years later until his adoption would be finalized and he became ours forever. And so began this new life of raising a severely handicapped child. I quickly learned how to become both a mom and a nurse, and got used to his many medical appointments, and all the unexpected challenges that came with him. He became my purpose, if I couldn’t heal myself, I could and would do my best to heal this broken little boy.

  I poured myself into my children, always looking for new ways to improve their lives, and be the best mother I could be. Over the next ten years, we went on to adopt two more children with special needs, also diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy. My husband continued to worked full time at the same place, while I stayed home and raised our children. I began homeschooling our daughters after some struggles they were both having in public school that could not be resolved. I fought the idea for a while before I decided to go ahead with it.

  Teaching them seemed too big of a task for me. I still saw myself through the eyes of others from my past. I wasn’t smart enough, I only had a GED, who was I to think I knew better than a real teacher how to teach my kids? And honestly, it was hard, and would take a while to adjust to. But only until I realized I didn’t have to replicate public school in my home. I could homeschool them however I chose to do so, within the parameters of the homeschool laws. I could let them decide what to learn about, and when. There was a freedom that came with that knowledge that enabled me to keep going. My biggest goal for my daughters was creating good character in them. I wanted them to be good people, I wanted to really like who they were, public school had the opposite effect on them, so it was an easy decision to stick with. But I won’t lie, it was one of the hardest things I’ve done. I don’t believe teaching was ever something I was good at, and still isn’t. I often had times I felt like my girls were smarter than me, like it was actually them teaching me not the other way around. I think it would have gone much better if I had focused on changing my own behaviors, and had modeled the respect that I tried so hard to demand from them. The broken, wounded part of me needed to feel in control over something, that need overflowed into my parenting and created a power struggle with my kids. We remained stuck in that cycle for too many years.

  Religion fed this struggle, as I felt like I was surrounded by bible believing families who demanded absolute control over their children, and or spouses. What I saw was a lot of abuse, being justified through a few bible verse
s. The idea that a child must obey at all times, regardless of how a parent treats the child. And if they complained, or had a bad day, it was disrespect and it needed to be beaten out of them. While this never sat well with me, the idea that my kids needed to respect me regardless of how I behaved, to a degree, I accepted. One of the many mistakes I’ve since apologized to my daughters for making.

  I still had no real support system, and after many years only had a few close friends, but they were not much help when it came to needing wisdom in parenting. My parents were in our lives until our oldest daughter was thirteen. I had finally had enough and knew I had to cut ties with them permanently. That moment of absolute certainty came after they brought my brother to our home one night on Christmas Eve. He sat in the car, but to me it didn’t matter. I didn’t want him anywhere near my home, or our children, which they were well aware of. I knew from past experience that confronting them in person never ended well, they both were still very defensive, and had explosive tempers. Instead of speaking to my parents I wrote a letter to them , and to my brother and mailed them. It wasn’t so much about confronting them as it was about setting a clear boundary with them, there is a huge difference. Of course they were offended after receiving my letters, they wrote me back scolding me for not forgiving my brother. They even included some bible verses about forgiveness. But, neither they nor my brother had ever admitted to anything happening, ever. I had never heard an apology, and had only been shown denial and a refusal to even discuss any of it. Nothing happened, and if it did, let it go, stop causing problems. You need to forgive! You are the problem, not us! That was the message I got from them, so I cut ties with them and moved on. This was a very hard decision to make. They were my parents, and I still wanted to know them. But I knew the pain of having them in my life was just too great. The confrontation that really needed to happen still hadn’t happened. I was better off without them in my life, but I couldn’t move forward and finally heal my deepest wounds until I confronted them about how they had hurt me. It would be another ten years until this confrontation would finally happen.

  Chapter 7

  Troubled Waters

  It was sometime around this point in our marriage the dreaded “p” word came up again. I discovered one day that my husband was again using porn. And again, I was devastated. This time I think it hurt even more, because I had gained a lot of weight and had zero self esteem. This had me shaken, and emotionally broken for a while. He of course was very sorry, didn’t mean to hurt me, and again said he was done with it. In the back of my mind I couldn’t help but wonder if it had in fact been a part of our marriage the entire time, I felt stupid and naive. While I did not trust him, and wouldn’t for a long time to come, It simply hurt too much to dwell on it for long. Instead of dealing with it I jumped right back to focusing on raising and caring for our children. There was an obvious lack of intimacy in our marriage, but we were both determined to make it work. Neither of our needs were being met, but it wasn’t about us it was about our children, they came first. No counseling was sought out, we would just keep doing our own thing as we had always done. Our daily cycle of him working and me raising our children would serve as a distraction once again from our issues.

  During the next few years, we sort of church hopped, we tried many local churches, and some home fellowships. We stayed a while at some then moved on for various reasons. I found it hard to fit in anywhere with our special needs children. My husband still after many years, had no interest in going to church, so that meant going alone with all of our kids. As they grew bigger this became a much bigger task, one I simply was not willing to do alone.

  At some point I ended up feeling done with religion, not done with God, but done with all the man made systems and the never ending hypocrisy I saw everywhere we went. So much judgement and condemnation, from those who claimed to be holy and spirit filled folks, no thank you, it wasn’t for me. I knew God existed, but why did so many people have Him all wrong? Was He really all about rules and perfectly recited prayers? Did I really need to wear a skirt, and a head covering to gain His love and approval? Or was He able to meet me where I was? Why was it so hard to find people who really were able to love you where you were at, without expecting you be the bible scholars, or the perfect pillars of faith they portrayed themselves to be? Were they really all healthy and righteous Christians, or were they just as broken as I was, but in denial about the fruit of it in their lives? And why did it seem like church fellowship resembled public school, in a sense of women finding their cliques and excluding anyone different? Why was there so much gossip disguised as a prayer need for someone? Where was the example of the set apart, spirit filled women that I needed to see? I longed for fellowship with strong women, there was so much I wanted to know. For me it wasn’t just about being accepted, I truly wanted to grow as a believer. After much disappointment, I had enough, I was done, and again I would manage just fine on my own.

  After a while, our daughters grew up, and life went on. The years went by, birthdays and holidays came and went. We moved from our small cape cod home in the country into a large hundred year old victorian in town, to accommodate the needs of our growing children. Our daughters grew into adults, and started earning their own money, and learning how to become responsible for themselves. One by one they fell in love, left home, and started their own lives. This process of them leaving home was extremely painful for me. Until that point, we had done everything together, from cooking meals, to countless hours just chatting over coffee, or watching that same old favorite chick flick for the fiftieth time. I had spent so much time with them, and loved and missed every bit of it, even the fighting. They were my purpose, and all that was changing, gosh how would I let them go? I would because I had to, they needed me to, and it wasn’t about me. They were doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing, and they were happy. So I would be happy for them, I would be there for them when they needed me, but I would never guilt them or make them feel in any way like they owed me anything. If anything I felt I owed them, they were beautiful blessings from God, and they were never mine to begin with.

  And all I could think of were the ways I had let them down, all the things I would change if I could, and all the ways I had failed them as their mother. I couldn’t take anything back, there were no do-overs from here on. All I could do was apologize, and own any mistakes or regrets that were brought up in the future. And in spite of my many mistakes, they were strong, amazing young women. I don’t know if It’s because I did enough right, or just that they were good at learning from my mistakes. Either way they were, and are amazing humans, and I’m grateful to be their mother.

  Against all odds, our marriage survived up until this point, and we had raised two daughters to adulthood, and were very proud of the people they had become. Our three adopted children were thriving, in spite of the caregiver burnout I had been experiencing for several years. While our marriage had survived, it wasn’t thriving. It was deteriorating at a rapid pace. For many years our relationship had turned into more of what felt like a roommate status. My husbands deep depression and anxiety kept him from living and thriving, and caring for himself. He had no interest in anything, and for many years had been unable to fulfill my need for intimacy. We lost the ability to have a real conversation about anything, and spent very little time together even in the same room. Our focus had become about caring for our children, and with all of their needs it was a heavy job. Neither of us were fulfilled in our marriage, and once our daughters moved away from home our issues became much more obvious. I felt alone and completely overwhelmed in our marriage, and most of the time felt like I was going down with a sinking ship so to speak.

  I longed for him to become the spiritual leader that our family needed, and I resented him for leaving the responsibility for so many years of teaching our children about God to me. I had no desire to lead our family, I NEEDED him to. I needed to view him as strong, and capable of leading us and defe
nding us, and passionate about God, and it just wasn’t there. After everything we had been through, I still had that void within me. Maybe if my husband would just do what I want him to do, that will go away? Maybe, just maybe If I felt truly loved and cherished by him, that would fix that void. I didn’t understand the void had nothing to do with my husband’s shortcomings. It had everything to do with the wounds I was still carrying, and had yet to heal.

  At some point before the girls left home, I started drinking alcohol again, as a stress reliever which quickly became an addiction for me. I steadily grew into what’s known as a functional alcoholic. I could go without alcohol long enough to do the things that needed to be done, but every night I looked forward to having alcohol. I’m not talking about a glass of wine to help unwind after a long day, at first that’s all it was. But by this time I was drinking a bottle of wine each night, or four to six drinks with hard liquor. I went for highest alcohol content, and I made myself wait as late as I could to start drinking because I knew once I started it would continue until I went to bed. It had become the only way I could fall asleep. I grew dependant on alcohol to dull the pain within me, and I was completely owned by it.

  There were times I tried to cut back to just on weekends, or just on special occasions, but I always went right back to it. If someone else brought alcohol to my home, all bets were off, it was mine, nothing was off limits. One time, you just can’t make this up, about five years ago, my daughter had a nurse who I will call nurse A. She had been with our family a little while, and even though she had no respect for boundaries, AT ALL… I felt I could somehow fix her, so I kept putting up with all of her antics.