They say one picture tells a thousand words. Just imagine how many words would be in your mind if you have a photographic memory? Words that must come out. Writing helps to release those words. It is stress relieving. I put my fingers on the keyboard and type word after word. No bothering with spell check or grammar. I write. The writing then seems to release endorphins the same as exercise.
I do not write many descriptive essays because when releasing the memory onto the page, the picture fades in my mind. I want to keep those images for by chance; I might all of a sudden go blind. It is weird but I will stare at my children’s and loved ones faces, so if in fact I ever go blind, I will still have their face in my memory. I tend to worry about the strangest things.
Pictures are sometimes perfect all dolled up in Shirley Temple curls
A hard task to do with nothing but rags to curl with
and straight thick impossible to curl hair.
Somehow my grandmother Ruby managed to do that
The twins even won a contest for their portraits
All sorts of pictures and portraits all around grandma’s house
Of all ages on the wall, on the dresser, on the night stand
The twins dressed alike. Identical. I have stared so much
I can tell my mommy from any other
Including the identical beside her.
I go to grandma’s house and stare into the pictures
Pictures at my mother’s house are hidden.
They are protected like treasured gold.
Portraits of me and six month younger sister separated
Or always striking a different pose
Same home-made dresses slightly different
Maybe just a slight color change
Hair-bows made to match each dress.
Hair of my sisters curled to not quite perfect Shirley Temple curls
My hair in waves naturally flowing
Smiles upon my face because I love to dress up and look so pretty
I tend to glow right off the page with a genuine beautiful smile
No one can take that smile from me
It is captured forever in this picture
I sneak everyday to the top dresser drawer while my mom is out
Stare at the pictures stuffed so tightly that one move
And the pictures will be ruined
By not fitting securely into the space provided
Mom could some times tell that I looked at the pictures
She screamed don’t ever do that again me wondering
Why does she not frame the pictures and have them on the wall?
Then I could stare and not risk damage to the priceless heirlooms.
Pictures are not always perfect
The not so perfect pictures captured by mom’s camera put away in albums.
I was always told to never look at them, but I did anyway.
These not so perfect pictures fascinated me even more
Picture of me and my sis playing in a cardboard box
Picture of us wearing daddy’s military boots, picture of me asleep on the potty
Head against the shower curtain?
Potty trained before the age of rememberence
My memory only goes back to age 3.
A bedwetter until age 12.
I remember mom waking me up
Out of deep sleep,” come to the bathroom no wetting the bed tonight”
Spanked anyway the next day
Because all though she woke me up
In the middle of the night, I wet the bed
To this day I wish I knew why?
It was not because of laziness for sure.
I awoke after my bed was soaked. I never knew it until then.
I would of gladly woken up and used the restroom preferred to the
Physical and verbal abuse of bedwetting.
I spent many mornings making my bed up with it wet hoping to go undiscovered.
Every now and again it worked and a reprieve was granted
From the constant nagging for something I had no control over
Pictures to me are the most beautiful when natural
Not perfectly posed of even the perfect smile
I love to watch the models strike their serious poses
With one little thing slightly out of place or off center
You can’t quite tell what it is
Just enough wrong that you want to look at it again and again
I think the most beautiful singer in her picture is
One that has an earlobe on one side of her face lower than the other
It took such courage to do that with all the computer enhanced technology
And the money to buy the fix
The picture tells me she sees herself as beautiful just the way she is
No alteration needed
Indeed she is very beautiful. My eyes want to look at the picture over and over
Not because it is perfect but because she is beautiful even with a flaw
I seem to now like my flawed attributes
If someone stops to stare at me, it is
Because I am beautiful not ugly
Just enough flawed that someone will notice
I am beautiful with the flaw
Love me even though I am not perfect even when I am bad…..this is what my mind says to that.
I am back. I have not posted anything lately because my computer has been at the repair shop. Best Buy had to send it to the manufacturer for a new hard drive. Well I needed a computer to renew my Nursing license. Without it I can not work. So I broke my bank again to buy another lab top. It’s all good though. Now, when the broken one comes home repaired my son will have his very own laptop. Which was something I had planned anyways. Who would have ever figured on a lab-top less than a month old could get that damaged?
I have broken my bank more times than I can count. Mostly for my children whom I love dearly. They are the only blood relatives I have in the world that I have ever spoken to in my life. I knew choosing unwed single motherhood would not be easy, for I give to my children everything with in my possibility. I give them more than I have for myself for sure. I give them my heart. They are my heritage. My only heritage.
I am very different from my mother in many ways. My sister was born on Valentine’s Day. When she was little mom made special her birthday. Bought special heart-shaped cake pans little ones and one big one. She made enough little cakes for all the students in my sister’s classroom and the big one. She celebrated Lisa’s birthday with her whole classroom at school. Me six months older in age one grade ahead of her did not get to even be invited to the party. In fact, my mom did not even save me a little cake from the party. It never really bothered me much until, six months later in August the family was on vacation. Not just some little vacation. This was a two-week trip to Florida staying not in an RV but motels. Eating steak dinners every day for lunch and supper at restaurants, breakfast every day at Shoney’s. Well my mom is always happy on vacations. I was so excited my birthday was during this vacation. I just knew it would be so special. I woke up that morning not one word of happy birthday from anyone’s mouth. We went to a tourist thing. I don’t even remember where. I remember the gift shop though because it was late in the day and still not even one word to me of a” Happy Birthday”. I saw a teddy bear key chain in the gift store. Nothing really that special but it did have my name on it. I asked my mom to please buy that for me. The cost was 4 dollars and twenty-five cents. Mom said no that was too expensive. I said please momma please. I begged and begged. Then I even through a hissy fit. I screamed back at her mom its my BIRTHDAY PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEE. She said no and never even apologized for forgetting it was my birthday. That was that. From then on, I realized for sure in my mom’s eyes there was nothing at all special about me.
So for my children, I will break my bank and not blink an eye.
When you see a baby shout, they must have something important to say. Listen to the children. They are way smarter than you think. They have no reason to lie unless provoked. If they can’t get positive feedback any other way……………validation required for sanity…………………..
I was always accused of lying about everything. “Lori Ann you are lying to me” constantly out of my mother’s mouth. “I don’t believe you”, “your just imagining things” . These words made me ponder my every thought. She seemed to only say those words when I was telling the truth. Another major statement of hers was ” be sure your sins will find you out” My mind would get so confused and flustered. I shouted back wanting heard, believed in. I would break into hysterical crying fits sometimes. Mom called these hissy fits.
Eventually, all the non-believing she had in me made me doubt her more and more to where I didn’t believe in her at all. How could she not believe me when I had living proof; plus she saw with her own two eyes? I kept all my thoughts hidden deep inside never to escape. Because no one not even mom believed me. I went into a shell. My bedroom is where I stayed without coming out for years.
Music from the clock radio soothed the need for thought-provoking stimuli. I listened and dreamed of love, happiness and validation through the words of the songs. Songs put meaning into my existence. While listening to music, I felt normal. Emotions, tears and laughter finally allowed independent thoughts. I listened to every station every genre of music rock, country, jazz, r&b and pop. Songs soothed my broken soul………In my room, I could make-believe a world of truth. I listened. I was no longer alone.
Lack of validation leads to no value of thoughts and opinions important to life, therefore causing one to think why live at all? The best validation to your soul is to realize that you are not alone, and there are others going through life’s difficulties. The music rendered possibilities of resolution to problems or situations beyond my control.
A whole lot of pleasure brings a whole lot of pain if pleasure is the only thing you have ever had. Plus choosing unhealthy pleasure can lead to bad health. Growing up emotionally apart from love, I never received hugs ever from my mom. Never an encouraging thought out of her mouth. The most encouraging thing I can remember is “mommies sorry I found my scissors” spoken after she had given me the beat down with a military belt over accusing me of using her scissors. I was 16 years old when this happened. What in the world would I possibly want with her scissors.
By that time, I wanted nothing at all to do with her. My life with her had been ridicule and beat downs for the stupidest things imaginable. A shirt in my closet hanging with one sleeve accidentally folded in. Really a beat down with a marine belt for that? A glass accidentally broken on the tile floor. Who has never broken a glass has never lived in my book. I walked on eggshells everyday of my life up till then. I never knew what weird shizz she was gonna beat me for. The constant continuous screaming at me as she smacked the belt across my derrier. ” do you understand me? are you going to do that again? I am gonna beat you until you can’t sit down” Me the whole time thinking in my head someone pleae give me some calgon to take me away from this crazy lady.
Calgon was all the rage back then. A bathsoap commercialized with the theme calgon take me away. I even once had the nerve to ask my mom to please buy me some calgon at age 11. I did not tell her why but I just knew in my mind the calgon would take me away from her madness. She didn’t but it was worth a shot I guess. To this day, bubble baths are one of my favorite pleasures.
Not only did I get beat downs, I was ignored to the highest degree. At age 6 the family was on vacation visiting relatives in Corona, California. Well they have this huge gravel on the side of their streets. I was riding my bike and got hung up in the gravel , crashed and scraped a gash out of my knee all the way to the cartilage. I ran in the house crying. It hurt so bad. My mom looks at it says put some water on it. I go straight to the tub and soak my tears away in a bubble bath. It took over a year for it to heal. It is a scar that is still dark brown almost black on my knee. A constant reminder since I was six of how neglectful my mom was of my feelings and needs over the years.
Children will naturally seek out ways to make them feel better. Whether it be chocolate, steak, diamonds, cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, sex whatever makes em happy. It does not take much to make one happy if they never had anything to start with. My pleasures in life are soda pop, bubble bath, music, exercise used to be one, hair make-up, massage, cigarettes, chocolate. Yes cigarettes have been my pacifiers throughout the years. I started smoking to fit in and found that it would make my migraines disappear. So I smoke and it helps to relax me. It is so important to choose your hedonistic pleasures carefully because some can cause damage. It’s an oxymoron you can never receive pleasure without ever been in pain. The more pain you go through the more simple things give you great pleasure and the longer you can wait for the pleasure to come. This pain makes it easier to ultimately forgive.” A little bit of pleasure is worth a whole lot of pain”
I am a person that is outside of the norm. In my mind’s eye, I see everything as possible to achieve. This outlook has caused me to become manic on three different occasions due to my mind speeding up to accomplish the impossible. The impossible being the outcome of survival.
This is very unhealthy due to the body’s metabolic systems start to shut down making it possible for stress to kill. The flight or fight response takes over. Peristalic ability comes to a stand still and must take laxatives. I have to concentrate very hard to even urinate. Three times I have totally stopped urinating and catheterization intervened on my behalf. My mind spins so fast that sleep evades me. I eat more calories , more often to keep nutrionally sound. Do stress relieve things over and over to survive the stress of my mind doing the impossible. Talk non-stop to clear my brain of all thoughts so my body can catch up. If no one hears me, my thoughts go even faster until it is harder for me to understand them. Anyone that has ever talked in word salad might possibly relate.
One thing that helps when my mind is spinning out of control is the medication, trileptal. It is an anticonvulsant that slows down the sodium ions at the synapse. It actually blocks some of the sodium ions. This in return slows down the thought process to alow the body catch up to the mind. One major side effect of trileptal is hyponatremia . Where my psychiatrist told me simply to increase salt intake.
The downside of trileptal is that according to how much your mind is reeling is proporionate to how much of the medicine is taken for therapuetic effect. You could sleep for days if you are not manic enough to take the amount prescribed. Also, not many psychiatrist prescribe or manage this medication . The psychiatrist that prescribed it to me was only an inpatient doctor. He does not see patients unless hospitalization occurs. That doctor told me the medication is manageable logically to the hypomania, decreasing as you slow down. He said also to stay away from my mother, the trigger, as much as possible. Which was impossible back then due to her having custody of my son. My mind continued to do the impossible to survive.
Anyway, this is one reason why bi-polar manic patients get off of their meds and wall out and act like lunatics. Could someone invent the profession medication manager? And become specific to what medicine they manage? Be listed in the yellow pages, trileptal management for mania. That would help to prevent me from becoming manic to the 3rd degree. In which, psychotic episodes and hallucinations are included. At a time when the trigger to my mania was tracking me down like a blood hound, my mania increased just trying to get away from her.
I was up all night long one night praying to God. I was telling him that I was so lonely and wanted to meet someone I could share my thoughts, dreams and desires. Who loves me unconditionally. Someone that would fill my room full of flowers for no other reason but that they love me. Someone intelligent. Someone I could trust completely etc….. I was very specific as to my qualifications.
The very next day on my best friend’s mother’s boyfriend’s porch I met that man. It was love at first sight. We only had a short conversation because he was about to leave to go to California, and I was just on a lunch break from work. We exchanged phone numbers. We conversed on the phone. He sent me gifts because he is so sweet. I could tell by talking to him he was the baby boy of sisters. Finally after about 7 months we met again in person. It was the most fun I had in years just watching a basketball game. Our love grew by leaps and bounds. Now I love him more than ever and will never stop. He is everything that I prayed to God to send me for a mate and more. Nobody in this world can change that opinion but me. I love him dearly. He came into my life at a time when I had nobody. My mom had taken my son. I can’t even describe the hurt and loneliness. When I got out of the mental hospital and unpacked boxes in my new little rent back house. Not one box had anything of my son’s in it. It was a month away from Christmas and my parents had thrown out my Christmas tree saying they thought it was trash. My nursing shoes that I had worn all throughout LPN school that were ya worn out on the sole but looked still brand new on the top ,I spent half a months income on, were so special to me because in clinical you are even graded on your shoes. I spent many mornings polishing and cleaning those shoes. My mom had just thrown them away. Her only statement was I threw out everything I thought was trash. That was the loneliest time of my life. This is the time period that I met Reginald. We fell in love even with all this stress.
My love is amazing. He shares everything including his thoughts and dreams. He loves me just because of who I am not because of who I was or who I will be. He cooks like a master chief. Loves to spend time together. Has patience to wait for me. Does little things just to see me smile. Tells me when he thinks I am dead wrong. Lets me think dream and become independent of my own feelings. He is very mature and still young at heart. He is very intelligent and gives good advice. I love him so much. No matter how far apart physically we are he is close to my heart. My life seems complete satisfaction in knowing him. He does not argue, fuss, or fight. He is so sweet.
The first person I think of when someone asks me about love is God. He can do all the above and more. The second person I think of when someone asks me about love is Reginald whom I was thinking of when I wrote that whom can do all that. The third Peoples I think of when someone asks me about love are my children whom I wish could do all the above they can do some of the above some of the time……
I always try to do my best. Looking back I can see where not always my best was my complete best but the best when considering all other things happening at the time. If I would have done less than my best at the time, I would have failed.
The year was 2003. I was in my second semester of Practical Nursing School. The best nursing school Arkansas has to offer. I was one in 30 of over 400 applicants chosen by way of test score. This practical nurse school has more clinical hours than any nurse program in the state including all degrees. A grueling 30 clinical hours per week, scrutinized by even your appearance.
The second semester is the start of clinicals. Three 10 hour clinical days and two days of classes per week. Test taken every class day. One of the classes taken was Geriatrics. It was a four-week class consisting of 4 exams, taught by the Director of the program. This semester started at a time when the 162 dollars a month income was crippling me. My electric and water had been shut off at the same time.
So me and my son went and stayed at the homeless shelter. I obtained full-time employment at a Nursing Home as a Certified Nursing Assistant. The pay-day fell to where I would work a month before getting enough pay to pay the electric bill. Employees were paid bi-weekly with one payday held back. Starting on the second week of the payperiod, brought the sum total of my first check to only like 50 dollars. Therefore, me and my son stayed a month in the homeless shelter. That, by the way, charges people 60 dollars a week to live there. It isn’t free like most people think. I worked night shift then. Then went straight to clinical from work.
In my geriatric class, I missed one class day because of a transportation issue. It happened to be a test day. I learned the hard way in nursing school, you can not make up a test. You get an 0 regardless of the reason you missed the test. Even if you are deathly ill, you are supposed to come to the college with a mask on and take the test on the day of the test. If not, you get F, no matter what.
In this nursing program, you can not make less than 75 percent in any class or you fail. Well, this made it near impossible for me considering there were only 4 exams; and I had zero on one. That meant I would have to make 100 percent on all the other test; in which, I had already made a 98 percent on one.
I was not stopping. I came too far to turn away. The professor gave an extra assignment to write a research paper on anything to do with geriatrics. This paper would count as 100 points like an extra test grade. If you choose not to do it, you only have the four grades.
The day before due, I moved back to home without the electricity being on two days before payday because my son witnessed first hand a man trying to kill another man. A man walked up in the mens dorm and went to beating another man with a 4 X 4. I decided my son and I could camp out for 2 days better than that shiz.
After college that day, I went to the library checked out three books. One of the books was about the normal aging brain. I think it was entitled something like The Greying of America. Anyways, I went home to no electricity. My neighbor on the other side of the duplex ran an extension cord to my side. I took a nap woke up then scanned over the books and chose the normal aging brain theme to write my paper. In fact, I titled my paper Normal Aging Brain.
I became sleepy because for some reason reading makes me sleepy. I went to sleep then woke up about 9pm. I wrote non-stop free writing my paper on the back of some old handouts. I was so poor at the time, I could not afford paper lol. I wrote five pages of small print non stop. I finished about 4 o’clock in the morning. My son and I then hurried for school for it was a must to arrive in time to type the paper before class started. The paper was due when class starts and late assignments were not accepted. I did just that. I am not a very fast typist either. I just typed it word for word like I had it written. No time for spell check. I barely finished in time for class.
Well in Geriatrics, I made one zero. My other test were A’s ranging between 95 to 99 percent. The professor gave me a 100 percent on the research paper. She even made the comment , ” I like your references and family details to make your points.” That was the first and only research paper I had ever written. I made a 76 percent in Geriatrics passing that class by one measly point. I was so happy. I felt like I could do anything after that. I cried though because that same class a class mate failed. For some odd reason, she did not do the research paper. I cried and cried because I could not even begin to phantom what kind of hard times would have made it impossible for her to do that.
Inside that research paper, I had written about my father, Grandmother, and Great Aunt Goldie and how old age is different to everyone. Also about memories; there are studies according to the book that the brain’s area for long-term memories increases instead of decreases as you age and also causes the older person to think more abstractly and get the point of literature and wisdom of things that a younger person can’t understand yet. Also it stated the short-term memory area shrinks and so it makes your elders just know things without remembering how or whatforth they know it lol. So when my mom says “just because I said so” She has the wisdom well above my years and just knows without remembering why.
Also this quote was in my paper from my Great Aunt Goldie ” make happy memories now, because when you are old memories are all you have left” . My Great Aunt Goldie was a retired licensed Pratical Nurse. She loved life. She continued her whole life doing her favorite things hunting, cooking with the pots on the table lol, she drove, talked on the phone 24/7 to friends, said words like poop, etc… in contrast her sister my Grandmother Ruby never drove in her life, had a business degree but never employed other than babysitting, always said things like putting pots on the table is trifling, and that’s not ladylike. It was like my Great Aunt Goldie had broken away from tradition in her generation.
Well my Great Aunt Goldie died during my nursing school my last semester. I was almost to the breaking point. I could not even miss 5 minutes of class or clinical or I would of failed. Only 3 days are allowed throughout the program. I had been up singing along to the song Send Me an Angel at midnight. The next day I randomly called my mom and she told me that my Great Aunt Goldie died at midnight the night before. I believe she is truly one of my angels. I could not attend the funeral. Not only because of not being able to miss the class time, I was also too poor for the gas to go; and when I thought about it, I know my Aunt definitely wanted me to pass nursing school.
Pine Bluff Commercial – Pine Bluff, AR
Goldie Stanley Lewis
One thing that saved me during the time of my abuse 1977 was Oparah. I was sexually penetrated by my father for a year once sometimes twice a day. Then found out caught red handed by my mother who did nothing but ask me what he did to me. At the time, I was scared to say anything because father had threatened to kill me if I told anyone. The time my father molested me he had just retired from the marines, then a four year call back overseas to vietnam. He spent 24 years in the marines. His latest rank was master seargent. Even a grown-up at the time my father threatened me would of believed it. If you have ever been threatened by a marine corp master sergeant, you might know what I am talking about. My father could give you a war face that could scare superman.
I did tell mom that he tried to make me suck his peter. In which at the time thought was the grossest part of the ordeal. My mom then spent one night on a pallet in my sister’s and mine bedroom. Then went back to a shared bed with my father the next day. My father never raped me again, but it did severe damage to my emotions.
Anyways, after school my parents were never home. I would always rush home and turn the television to Oparah. My brother left in charge never wanted the television until after his homework and studies. Whom ,by the way, never knew he was dyslexic until college after the marines. Those early shows of Oparah were all I had to assure me that my parents are sick.
Later about the age of 15 my father did apologize to me. He said he raped me because I was adopted and my sister whom is six months younger is not adopted. I was the favorite child for the most six months because my mom was pregnant at the time of my adoption with my sister whom was born on Valentine’s Day 1971. My birth certificate says my birthday is August 12, 1970. I truly believe my mom had that day altered in the court so us girls could be in separate grades. For my mom is an identical twin herself. My supposedly birthday just so happens to fall one week before the cut off to start kindergarten at age 5. The reason because my mom never had sex with him after my sister was born. I lived 17 years with this sick twisted family.
The day of my highschool graduation, my father threw me to the ground, kicked me and said get out of my house you lazy bum.
My father repented when I was 8. He never did the sexual abuse to me again. I always wonder if he hurt others instead. I carry guilt in my heart not knowing. Thinking that I never did enough to make sure he did not hurt someone else. All I can do now is give it to God like I do everything else in my life. God has answered so many of my prayers. I believe he will answer this one too. Father God please do not let my father on earth hurt another child, forgive him for what he did, heal him from the guilt he feels and please make the world a better place.
I have a victim letter stating he is guilty of penetration. In 2007, the abuse hot-line opened up an investigation that I never knew I could even do until I was trying to open an investigation for my son whom at the time was living with my parents.
I grew up with a sister six month younger than me. She was the miracle love child in my mom’s eyes. My parents were not supposed to be able to conceive according to the Doctor’s of that era. My mom had been married from the age of 25 and had just one natural-born son thus far. She had been to doctors to find out why she could not conceive. My dad was diagnosed with being low sperm count. My parents adopted a baby boy six years after the first-born. Six years later my mom mourned for specifically baby girl. They applied for specifically baby girl this time. Parents continued to try to conceive on their own because they had very little hope of being able to adopt a second baby.
Well the miracle happened and mom became pregnant. I never could understand why my mom that is so highly religious never had faith enough to believe God gave her the baby girl she desired. I say she is religious because upon graduation from highschool ; she hopped a train. Her dad was a train engineer. She went to California all the way from Arkansas to bible college. It was the only four-square church bible college I believe at that time. My mom has some kind of degree in bible theology. To me she was just religious, meaning a form of Godliness denying the power there of. I came to that conclusion because when I was pregnant myself I asked God for daughter with curly brown hair with curly eyelashes like her father and skin like a porcelain doll. I believed God would not give me anything less than the desire of my heart and he did exactly everything I asked for. My mom blatantly did not trust God to even give her a girl much less anything else. I presume that given the fact that she adopted me on the premise that she wanted to be certain she gets a girl. She adopted me at a time when she was pregnant and had even forgotten all about applying for the adoption. You may ask how do I know this? Because I have asked her about this so many times. When you are adopted you have an unsatiatable curiosity about where you came from and why and whatforths that carry you throughout life to always question your existence. I don’t know how else to explain it. I presume again that anyone who does not know their roots can concur what I am talking about.
Well I was the favorite baby girl for less than six months. I was already 2 weeks old when my parents brought me home from the hospital. The youngest picture my parents have of me is 2 months? I never understood that either. How can you bring a newborn home for the first time and not take a picture? I have questioned whether I was actually 2 months rather than 2 weeks old because of this fact. My mom was a pictureaholic in those days.
Its weird the way my adoption papers read. It’s like my birthday is not even correct. It’s a mystery from day one of my life. Well after my miracle love child sister was born February 14, 1971 my mom only felt obligated to keep me. You may ask why do I say this? Because as a teenager my mom repeatedly said to me, “ Lori Ann I am obligated to provide a roof over your head, clothes on your back, food in your stomach and when you turn 18 I am no longer obligated to do those things” To me I felt clearly unwanted by her. This is why I always asked her why she adopted me why?????????? Not only that I am of mixed race and she so clearly is racist it is so ironic. I look so different from any of my cousins they all have blond hair and blue eyes the shortest of any of them is like 5’9. I am 5’2” with hair so black children would make fun of me as a child and say my hair looked blue in the sunlight, with natural tanned skin, brown eyes so dark you can barely see my pupil. Seems like to me I was actually a last desperate ditch effort to obtain a baby girl by any means possible.
This is my story of how I came to be. I have dug deeper and am trying to discover how and what were the reasons I was given away by my birth-mom. I always used to dream of her rocking me in a rocking chair, singing sweetly to me, telling me my name and how much she loves me, in her hospital room, right after birth, right before; I was snatched away.
The name given to me is one of a kind. The meaning of the name Doreen is Gift from God. It sucks that my adopting mom gave me a name shared by who knows how many? Google Lori Schreiner and lots and lots of people show up, who are not even related. I even have a facebook friend Lori Ann Schreiner. She laughs too about having german last name and dark brown hair.
Google me, just me. Doreen Van Assen googled I am the only one. I used to google these names daily even before blogging or writing in search of clues to my birth family. This one little thing that my birth mom did, makes me feel so special, in her eyes, that I have never seen.
The next manic episode happened one year later. I was living in Corsicana, Texas as a travel nurse. My son was still at my parents. I would talk to my mom and she would ask me what I said to my son to make him cry. The only thing I would say was that I love you more than anything no matter where we are in the world. Asked him if he needed anything. He told me his shoes were too small. I told him I would send a package in the mail. I was worried that my parents were neglecting my sons needs and emotional abuse. I confided in a friend at work. Their advice was to call the abuse hotline. For some weird reason Texas won’t investigate Arkansas. Probably to do with politics and money. Anyway I became manic again not sleeping. This time I was delusional and having auditory hallucinations. It was like I was talking directly to God and he was talking back to me. God told me I did not have those parents anymore. That he was my dad now and he would take care of me. That he made me his direct descendant and my dna goes back to Adam and Eve. That the dna proves who I am. We also talked about Jesus that he was my brother. God has way more children than just Jesus. Jesus was the one that endured so much for everyone. Anyways I was basically just in our world. I went outside in a see through shirt with nothing on underneath I was talking to not only God but demons as well. The demons were trying to pull me down. I actually had bruises all up and down my legs. Well I finally went to sleep and had a nightmare about the end of the world. The dream was like a movie and no matter which way it was played backwards or forwards it was the same peace for thousands of years all that needed to happen was my parents be locked up. I woke up from my dream to my mom ringing my doorbell. I would not answer. Then cops came. I opened the door they grabbed me. Threw me on the ground shackled and cuffed me and took me to psychiatric hospital in Dallas. I have never ever talked about the hallucinations before. Anyways I was in hospital for two weeks diagnosed as psychotic episode. Both times in the hospital I was there on Halloween, and election day. At the end of this hospital stay, the scocial worker bought me a bus ticket back to Corsicana where I had left my car and all my things in my apartment. During this hospital stay I had put my mom on the list of names who could contact me at the hospital and I called her a couple of times while at the hospital. When I got to Corsicana the bus dropped me off and I walked to the police station and had an officer drive me the rest of the way to my apartment. What happened next was so awful. My apartment was empty and car stolen by my mom. She had taken all my things to Arkansas. I tried to get the officer to fill out a police report of grand theft auto. He would not do it. Then he calls my dad. Parents told the officer they would be there next day to get me. I cried and told the officer no way. I was hysterical again. I told the officer I wanted to go back to the hospital. He took me back to Dallas. I was seen in the ER and given a bus ticket for the day. The social worker discussed my arangements. I had a friend who lived in Dallas named Michelle. I used to work with her in dialysis in Arkansas. My mom had all my cell phones so I called her from the hospital and no answer. So I just left on a bus and went to the salvation army. I was going to get in touch with my mom and get Michelle’s number. She had just been promoted by Davita to train and hire acute dialysis nurses. She was the one that had already trained me and even though I did not have my RN liscense yet she had already told me she would hire me for 25$ an hour as an LPN. Next day my mom showed up at the homeless shelter. She had no clue what my plans were. But I decided to go back with her anyways so I could get my things and my car back. When I got to Arkansas my mom said I had an 8:00 bedtime. She was very mean and rude to me. I went and stayed at a friends house and got a job at the nursing home that I worked at when I was first married. My friend then kicked me out of her house stateing her husband did not want me there. It just so turned out that a girl at work knew someone with a rent trailor. I had one half of a paycheck. I rented the trailor for 250 a month. I had no furniture or electricity. My landlord hot wired me to the trailor across from me and lent me a little electric heater. I lived like that until I could pay the 750 deposit to have my electric turned on. My mom was nice to lend me a single sized blow up bed. Well since I was back in Arkansas I did the abuse hotline thing again for my son. That is when they opened up an investigation for me also. I pimped out that gheto trailor with the nicest bigest screen television, sleigh bed a dressor in which the mirror touched the roof. Big nice couch with nice round glass coffee table as tall as the couch. I was making a home for me in Arkansas. Two months later I recieved a victim letter stating Andrew Michael Schreiner was guilty of penetration and had so many days to put himself on the offender list. During that same time period I was digging into my biological background. I had been asking my mom for a copy of my adoption paper. She never would get it to me. So while I took the victim letter to Hot Springs, Arkansas for safe keeping it was on my mind to also obtain my adoption paper and store it with my other important documents. So I called my mom up and asked her nicely to give me a copy of my adoption paper. She stated she was in Monticello and did not know when she would be home. Monticello is like just 30 min from her house. So I said will you be home at bedtime? That I would meet her then. Well when I got to the house to get the adoption paper my dad met me at the door handed me the paper and knocked me down on the conqrete so hard I still walk with a limp to this day. I still dont understand why he did that. Well I became slightly manic again. I took the adoption paper to Hot Springs for safe keeping. My car ran out of gas. An officer asked me if I was on medication and I said yes. I had my medication with me in the car. The officer had my car impounded and took me to the hospital. There was a sign in the hospital stating services due upon seeing a physician….. so I asked the nurse since nothing was wrong with me and I had no money could I just leave before I saw a physician. She said yes so I left. I was on foot without a car in Hot Springs. I walked to a friends house and for some strange reason when I knocked on his door he called the police. I was taken to jail charged with tresspassing. I spent a week in the jail. Got out I was way manic again by this point I had no medicine all that time. I just walked and talked with God. He led me to a house I had never been to before. Turned out to be one of my Associate Degree Nurse classmates house. I stayed there over night and then went walking on foot again. I walked to the same house of my friend I was going to borrow his phone to call my employer to send me my paycheck so I could get my car depounded. Called the popo on me again. I went back to jail again for loitering. I stayed in jail for another week. When I got out this time Iwent back to the college classmates house. I was way manic. I went walking again this time I was like at a trailor park at the end of a gravel dirt road. There was this huge opening with a tree in the middle with a big hand made sign that said NO Tresspassing. I went and took the sign down and set it beside an old worn out camper and went inside. It was extremely cold cuz you guessed it it was like a few days before halloween. So I left out of the camper and walked to the one nice house in the neighborhood opened the chainlink fence made friends with the pit bull and rockwaller and knocked on the door. I asked the total stranger if I could please come inside out of the cold for just a minute. The man said no and I was walking back down the road. Cops came and asked me my name I so did not want to tell them my name that is on my birth certificate because I had just been to jail twice already on that name. So I said Doreen Van Assen. They took me to jail for using a false name. I was in jail for a week. I was told by the judge that I could use this name anytime I want from now on. This time my mom had come to the jail and signed to have a psychiatric evaluation and commited to the state hospital if possible. They sent me to rivendale in Little Rock from there I went to Jefferson Hospital in Pine Bluff. I was there for a week then extradited back to Hot Springs to court hearing over my being found sane not insane. She did all that like always without even talking to me. Everytime I have been hospitalized she has not once even bothered to ask my Doctor how I am the only plan of care she wanted for me each time is put away without a life. This was why I once told someone on facebook if I was to treat my own mom how she treated me. My mom would be in jail in a psych ward with the key thrown away never to be heard from again. With all her most favorite things taken away. Anyways I got out got my registered nurse liscense and went traveling. I had to get away. You see my mother is my trigger to the manic. I have had every psychiatrist tell me to stay away from her as much as possible. It is so hard sometimes when she hunts me down like a blood hound sometimes.