Our Adoption Story: Part 3

Struggling:

The next part of our adoption story is where I really struggle.  I struggle to understand why.  I struggle to understand what is okay to share and what is not.  I struggle with the stigma attached to our troubles.  I struggle with the unfair judgments that are passed upon me and/or my family.  I struggle with the gossip.  I struggle with people’s lack of understanding.  I struggle to accept. 

It is this struggle that prompted me, in the first place, to write this adoption story.  Ours is not the warm fuzzy story that so many of my friends have.  It has taken a long time to come to terms with that.  I have felt bitter, heartsick, devastated, and beaten down. 

When pregnancy doesn’t work you are told, “It’s okay—you can adopt.”  What happens when that doesn’t go the way you expect either?  Well, that is what you are about to find out in the upcoming posts. 

 Breaking Point:
January 2011 rolled around and something happened that I still struggle to put into words.  At no point had the foster care trainer covered anything like this!  I instinctively knew that this wasn’t “normal”, not even for a foster care adoption.  This was beyond anything I could comprehend!

 I called our post-adopt worker and told him what was going on.  He listened carefully and then replied, "She is going through a ‘Psychiatric Break’.  She needs to go to the State Mental Hospital".  I fell to pieces!  What? My baby has to go where?!  No! She's not going!

 When Living Rooms Become Psychiatric Hospitals:

For many more months, I spent countless days and nights caring for her as if we were in a psychiatric hospital.   Night after night I stayed up with her until 5am as she screamed uncontrollably about "something blue that had jumped out of the sink".  She insisted it was coming to get her, as was “the man with a knife standing outside of her window each night”, none of which was actually happening. 

I would put my hands on her face, look into her eyes, and with tears pouring down my face, say, "Sweetie, where are you?  Please!  Come back to us!"  She stared back vacantly.

The nights of screaming turned to days of screaming.  The psychosis got worse and she began taking out her violent actions onto my other two children, who were only 3 and 7, at the time.  Bloody noses, black eyes, and bruised cheeks became common-place.  Brothers where asked if they wanted a treat and when they replied yes, they’d get punched in the face and asked, “Did you enjoy your treat?”  None of which she would remember when she would pull out of the psychotic episodes.

The boys’ beds were pulled into our rooms at night, so that they could sleep safely behind a locked door with mom and dad nearby for protection.  Life became about surviving, literally and emotionally.