It's been a little while since I posted in here. Part of the reason why I have been delinquent in my posting is because I've been rather busy trying to get the chaos of the house under some semblance of order. Part of the reason is the questionable fun of motherhood and the true fun of motherhood (puking babies are the former, walking babies chasing falling leave are the latter). And finally, I've been unsure what to post here that would not be damning. It's been ... difficult and I have been giving it a lot of thought.
Nothing hidden on the Internet can say hidden forever. I can only hide my identity so well before I am ferreted out by some truly diligent soul. There are legal ramifications of my nervous breakdown that I hadn't expected in a million years. Ramifications that force me to consider what to write down where and who I talk to about what. And I don't like it.
Mental illness is not a crime. Asking for help when struggling with mental illness is not a criminal act. I, however, am being treated like a criminal. Sure, you can say that all of the constraints that I am under are for the sake of protecting the children but it's a lie. Why is it a lie? Because of one simple fact, the entire case against me is built upon a tissue of lies, cherry-picking evidence for the most alarming details, and conveniently omitted facts. This is how the government operates, folks.
I made the mistake that my good friend did and here I am caught up in the gears of this thing. I'm told that because large sections of the stuff I'm dealing with are boiler-plate details, not anything personal, that I should be thankful that is all I have to deal with. I'm sorry, but I can not swallow my outrage and hold still for the proceedings while they have me over a barrel, and then say 'Thank you, sir, may I have another?'
Mental illness should be treated like any other illness. Just because a person is ill doesn't mean they are neglecting their children. It doesn't necessarily make them a danger to their family and loved ones. When medication is working correctly and all therapeutic avenues are clearly progressing as they should be, there is no reason to black ball the person who is ill. Yet, here I am, being the person with the Black Spot and all for the sake of what, the appeasement of the sense of horror that was felt by some people who were squeamish in the face of suicidal depression and post-traumatic stress disorder.
If that little glimpse into my world made them quail in terror, they should try living it. They should try dealing with the pain of the past and the effort it take everyday to get thru it. Everyday, I have the silent prayer that my PTSD will not rear it's ugly head. Everyday, I have the silent prayer that my depression will not rob me of the joy of my children's early childhood. Everyday, I struggle forward and do my damnedest to keep these proverbial monsters from overshadowing my family. I can't afford to have a bad flashback because it will scare my children.
Now, I can't afford to have a bad flashback because these lily liveried bureaucrats will see it as evidence that I am incapacitated in some fashion and unable to care for my children. I have been dealing with this from before my kids were born. I was a productive and reasonable member of society prior to this nervous breakdown. I was a productive and reasonable member of society prior to having children. Now, I'm being told that I am a danger but not enough of a danger to lock away. That kind of back handed bullshit I grew up with, it hurts like hell. I'm not going to tolerate it anymore.
I'll mind my Ps and Qs. I'll bide my time. Justice is on my side and when it is time, I'm going to show these people just how big of a mistake it was to piss in my cornflakes.
