Abuse

Your heart stops.  No, literally, it stops.  Time stands still and everything is whirling around you, past you.  You can’t reach out to ask for help.  You can’t even stand up.  Life, as you know it, is over. 

The minute you are told you are accused of abuse (and are innocent) you are thrown into a world of fear and mistrust.  Everyone you’ve ever come in contact with is suspect.  Everything you’ve ever said is examined.  It feels like everyone who sees you just knows.  You don’t have to tell anyone that you’re accused of abuse because it feels like every pair of eyes already knows that.  They are judging you, watching you, screaming at you in their eyes. 

The first thing you do is call your mom.  Your Dad.  Your best friend.  Then, you tell no one.  How are you suppose to tell people that you’re an accused abuser?  It doesn’t even matter if it is true or not because if it is suspected, you are guilty.  You are guilty until proven innocent, no matter what.

The system is put in place to protect innocent children from being hurt and neglected at the hands of their parents, grand-parents, neighbors, guardians or whomever else they come in contact with.  Our society now is constantly told that you can’t spank, scream, yell or even seemingly discipline your children.  If you do, they’re going to call CPS. 

The system fails.  It succeeds.  It fails the innocent families in the worst possible way.  The long-term effects of a CPS investigation are awful.  It’s like you have PTSD.  Every knock at the door is the knock from the cops.  Every phone call from an unrecognized number is the Social Services Office, the Sherriff’s Department, you laywer.  Every time you are in public and your kids act out you just aren’t sure how to react.  If you discipline them then you are a bad parent.  If you let them run amok, you are a bad parent.  There is no way to win this uphill battle.  There is no coming out of the neverending nightmare of investigation.  Long after the paperwork is signed, the charges are dropped and the accusations have settled down…you are still there, left with the shambles of your once perfect family, trying to rebuild what life you can scrape back together.

 For those who have never been investigated those words might sound over-dramatic.  Drama Queen.  So cliché.  Exaggerated.  But, for those who have fought the system, cried, lost sleep, not eaten, spent hours researching and thinking and calling – those words could never ring more true.  There is no greater fear than the fear of the unknown.  You never know if today they are going to decide to take your kids, or today they decide you’re guilty. Every court appearance feels like the last and the first at the same time.  Every meeting makes you sick to your stomach, heart pounding, shaking, crying inside and screaming to please, please just let God show them that they are persecuting the innocent.  But it rarely happens. 

The child protective services system makes a family break apart into tiny little individual sized life rafts and pushes you into a rocky ocean.  You just want to find your family, pull them close, keep them huddled until you can find a place to drift.  You need to find dry land.  Somewhere that the earth doesn’t move underneath you.  That will never happen.

 It feels like it has been months since our investigation closed.  Months of agony were ended so suddenly, but it felt like it lasted forever.  Each day was a month, each month was a year.  You age so fast.  You cry so hard.  You sleep so little.  But when the investigation is over, it never really leaves.  You are always left with the shattered pieces to glue back together.  You need to pick yourself back up and move on.  God knows CPS has.  They say “case closed”, stamp it, shoot it up the chain and move on to the next family.  You’re left there with undying fear.  You will never breathe another breath without fear.  You will want to move far, far away from the place that use to offer comfort and the place you called “home.”  Every step reminds you of where you were when this happened, or that was said to you.  Each phone call.  Each day.  You brush your teeth and remember when you were crying so hard while brushing your teeth you thought you were going to puke.  These memories, these thoughts, they are never-ending.

 

Today my family is recovering.  We are still not whole.  We may never be the way we were before.  Marriages shamble under the weight of abuse accusations.  Children try to understand why mommy and daddy are crying all the time.  Why they hug you so tight.  Today, we are still struggling to move on from the last few months.  

Avery is doing wonderfully.  She is almost 15lbs.  She is sitting up beautifully.  She says “mama” “dada” “babababa.”  She is starting to learn that she can move by turning herself in circles.  She is happy, healthy and thriving.  We owe so much to Altru Health Systems.  The hospital staff that cared for Avery (and our family) while we were going through hell.  We owe a ton to Avery’s Pediatrician, who helped us ensure that Avery was healthy before sending her home.  Our Speech/OT team in the hospital while Avery was inpatient, and those who interact with her weekly now that we are out-patient.