NC Regulatory and Licensing Services Investigation of Families First Support Services in Shelby, NC

As many of you know, my daughter experienced multiple instances of neglect while in the care of Families First Support Services in Shelby, NC. After finding a great deal of difficulty in reporting what happened to my child, as well as to find other instances where agencies have been reported for abuse or neglect, I have decided to bring it public. This will be a series of posts, not in a particular order as there is a mountain of information I am sorting through right now. I do not believe any parent would knowingly put their child in harms way, but as it stands, parents have NO way to know if an agency or facility has been reported for abuse or neglect. I have spent the last two months making literally hundreds of cold calls hoping to find a way to hold this agency accountable. I have been randomly lucky and will be sharing those agencies who have been helpful as well as those who were not. I am grateful to say that Lori Davis with the NC Department of Social Services: Regulatory and Licensing Division has been very helpful and proactive in getting the information necessary to prove that FFSS violated various administrative rules. I am currently unsure of what happens now but will keep you updated. 

The difficulty in reporting what are well documented instances of negligence has been incredibly distressing to me, especially considering the fact that McDonalds has to display their health rating and a complaint number. Are our children not more important than a hamburger? 

Tolerance Levels

As a trauma mama, I live in a completely different world than most of my friends, and many who choose to follow or friend me on social media. Though it brings me much grief, I don't even fault you for it.

Most days I'm jealous and envy your normal. But, I am not alone. I'm surrounded by other mothers who live in worlds you simply can't imagine; where your 5 year old making a moaning sound or your 16 year old waking up dry are a success. A world where the hope is to end the day outside of a psyc er or hospital visit, a world where you are more educated about medication and disease than the latest intern who has been assigned to your case.

I live in a world of darkness where light is sporadic and almost dreaded because of the knowledge it will quickly fade. I was reminded earlier of a time when I was still in church and one of my children said, "oh God" in front of the wrong person. She immediately chastised me saying, "I can't believe you let your child use the Lord's name in vain." I said, "Mam, I'm just glad it wasn't 'fuck you."

You see, while some of you are upset because your child didn't clean their room or because they have a C in science, there are mothers like myself who ache because their child cannot live with them or who go to bed in hysterics after the latest hours long tantrum that ended in a police visit or hospital admission.

We don't mean to be snippy or rude, we understand on a logical level that a C in science is a big deal, but we simply cannot reconcile that with the panic we felt when we got the call our daughter stabbed herself. We are trying. We are sorry.

We are sorry for feeling jealous and lost and terrified that we may never ever get to be worried about science class or rooms being cleaned. Our tolerance level is higher. It just is. It doesn't mean we don't care that our child is failing math, it just means that in our world, the fact that she sat through class deserves a standing ovation. We are trying. We are trying desperately to fit into a world that doesn't even exist to most.

My Kinda Jesus

So often when people talk about Jesus they talk about conquerer Jesus who rose from the grave, or compassionate Jesus who forgave the sinner, or healing Jesus who made the blind man see or even sacrificial Jesus who died so we might live, but they forget betrayed Jesus who was handed over to his enemies or angry Jesus who turned over tables, or lonely Jesus who ached for someone to be near him in his suffering, or desperate Jesus who asked why God had forsaken Him. There is no emotion that we feel that He did not, He knows your heart and feels your pain, you are NEVER alone. 

Her Stories

She told her stories and she had her dissenters, 

people who refused to believe that kind of evil existed, and others who knew their friend was not capable of such ugliness.

She told her stories and her heart broke with every sarcastic and unbelieving glance.

She told her stories when physical wounds had healed and proof of reality was far past her reach.

She told her stories to free herself and warn others

But she was crazy

And so they did not listen

She told her stories and lived them out in nightmares

She told her stories and begged God to protect her children from them.

She told her stories and no one listened

And by and by, they told their stories which were altogether her stories on repeat

They told their stories when physical wounds were not healed and proof of reality was possible

They told their stories and they had her stories to prove they were not crazy

Crying and Screaming

I can't remember

I can't forget

I wake up at night, 

screaming about things I don't remember.

crying about the things I do

Sick at my stomach and unable to move

I can't put a face on it, 

was it him or him, was I big or small, 

but my body remembers . . .

If only I could remember,

I could work my way through

If only I could forget,

I could pretend I'm normal

unbroken and unafraid

but no.

Not this time

Maybe never

Maybe monsters will always be bigger

Maybe I will always be stuck in the place of remembering and forgetting and 

wishing for neither. 

As I Lay Sleeping

As I lay sleeping the phone rings. It is him, he is scared and alone. I rush quickly to get dressed and make my way to him, terrified I won't make it in time. This time it's bad, I can tell from the sound of his voice. It reminds me of when I would listen to him cry as my father locked him in his room. I can't breathe. I am driving but the road is swirling about, making me feel dizzy and sick.

I call and I call, but he no longer answers. I try helplessly to figure out where he is based on the things he said when he was making more sense. . . wrong. Over and over I call his name but no one answers. Maybe, I figure, his vision is blurry too, so I drive to a similar location. Still not answering. I lower the windows and dial the number and listen. . . nothing. Keep driving, keep calling, keep listening. Finally I hear it. Oh God, I hear his phone but not him, please let him be ok. I run frantically around the area trying to find him, I keep calling.

There he is. . . curled under a bush, not moving. He is cold and stiff. I panic, afraid that I am too late. I drag him out, God he's so heavy. I don't remember him being this heavy last time. I get him turned over and am bombarded with the smell of alcohol and vomit. His eyes slowly open, "Lady" he says "it's ok, my sister is coming, just leave me here." He seems confused when I explain that it's me, that I have found him, that I will take him home.

Home to what? Home to broken dreams and promises. Home to empty walls and beds? How can that be home? Perhaps the concrete where he was lying was a little warmer than this place.

My heart breaks a million times over as I watch him stagger around and cry about all he's lost. I want so badly to help. Just like when he was little I would try to figure out how to push the food under the door so he could eat. Now it seems there is nothing I can do. I stood there helpless and sick until the mosters inside finally quieted enough to let him rest.

I tuck him into bed and kiss his forhead. I am so sorry.  "Sorry for what," he says. "Sorry for all of this," I reply, "Sorry that I can't help this time." I leave the house tired and thankful that I found him. Please God if you can't make his burden any less, please always let me find him. Please don't make me say good-bye to someone else over a broken heart.

My

Family is, to me, not just relational, but created. I say that as a woman who lost or never had most of the people who have the usual titles that many people take for granted, "mom", "dad", "grandparents", etc... I say that as a mother to children who have lost all of their "normal" family and struggle to find the words to describe the roles the new people in their lives play.

I came from a very broken family. I learned to improvise. I learned to allow people into my life to fill in those parts that had been stolen. You see, I can't say, "My mom" without my heart aching for who she could be. I can't say, "My dad" without remembering all the things he did that daddys shouldn't do. The list goes on and on down a dark hole I would prefer not to visit. Rather than dwell on that, I have created new "my's".

You see, when I talk about the most important people to me, for the most part, they don't have a normal or typical title. For example, at the age of 10, an older couple at church stepped in to play a grandparent roll in my life. When people saw us together they would do the thing that most normal people do, search for a connection. They will ask or give you this look, now who is this?

They don't mean, "What is their name", they mean, "How do you belong?" Well, now, what does one do when you don't belong? Or rather, when you don't belong the way everyone else, when you have been grafted in or adopted or accepted by people who chose to love you when those who should could not? I couldn't call them my grandparents because technically they weren't, so I started calling them my Nina and Papa Rob. From there, many people have earned a "my" role, each of them bringing healing and wholeness to my heart.

Now, I fully realize each of these people are not only mine, there are people in their lives who have the blessing of having normal and typical ties to them. Papa Rob has a daughter who calls him Daddy. He had a wife who called him husband, a mom who called him son. The list goes on, but the bottom line is when I say someone is "my" whoever, it is my way of saying they are part of my family of the heart, a person who I love, trust, and am grareful for. It's not typical or understood by some, it's even mocked by a few of the unkind, but it is all I have and I wouldn't dare do anything less.