Helpless and Hopeless

My distaste for our county CYS continues to fester. Two weeks ago the county worker dropped a bombshell into our lives via an email to our CHOR case worker. She immediately asked for a meeting, a moment to recuperate and hopefully clear up any misunderstandings. Yet, despite a flurry of emails sailing around between the two agencies and my input into some doodle scheduling calendar, the meeting has yet to materialize. This afternoon was a time everyone on the list was available. The only time all of the players involved would be available. The next best option is next Friday, conveniently after our next permanency court date, which is on Tuesday. I don’t see how I’m going to see this case worker and not try to talk to her about things. I don’t know how, short of a needle and thread, I’m going to keep my mouth shut. Why drag this out? What game are they playing? They just want to say whatever they want in court and never mind this huge disgusting mess they’ve made? I am so furious! And, if I’m supposed to be a para-professional (as has been asserted by CHOR trainings), why are you disrespecting me this way? What have I done to warrant this treatment? And, for the love of God, what about the children? Oh, right. They are just collateral damage…

 

In addition to feeling frustrated with the county, I’m also disappointed in the kids grandmother. I had hopes that we would be able to talk about things and maybe clear the misunderstanding regarding my intentions and whatever words the county may have put into my mouth. I called her Saturday afternoon when the children were napping. When she didn’t answer I left her a message asking to talk about things and to set up a visit in October as she had asked. I apologized for being busy when she initially contacted me. I have not heard back from her. I thought about trying her again, but then I got angry and stubborn. If she wants a visit she needs to contact me and we need to talk. That’s all there is to it. I really thought she would contact me, sadly I was wrong.

 

Maybe I’m being too quick to think negatively about things. I know I’m not the only case the county case worker has, I know she is perpetually busy. I don’t understand her thought process. I don’t know why she has done what she has done. And I don’t see her as being very willing to take responsibility for misunderstanding and not clarifying. But, rather than owning up to her mistake, she keeps pushing things in this misguided direction. It’s hard to not feel like she has a vendetta, it’s hard to feel like she doesn’t like me and therefore is trying to find a way to pry a child from my home and plop her into an unprepared home. My fear is, once the misunderstanding is explained, she will try a new tactic, calling me inappropriate for Chica Marie, citing the grandmother and her wife as better equipped. Except, I see them as brushing behaviors under the rug and not advocating for more interventions that might actually help – based on how long it took them to get Mini Momma into therapy and how often it seems the older kids are left to care for the younger kids when I’ve been there picking up or dropping off a child(ren). I have expressed concerns at the lack of parental/guardian oversight when the wee ones visit. I can only see that as catastrophic if the two girls are left to their own devices. And, if you are calling me an unfit mother for Chica Marie, why not go whole hog and yank my license? I mean, how do you call someone who has endured all that I have with Chica Marie and never once said “take her away?” I can tell you there are many foster homes who would have had Chica Marie move on, in fact there was one that had her only a few months and put in a notice. I never did. All I’ve been asking for is HELP. Help us find the services that will work for us, the services that will see improvements. Instead, I get called unfit, inappropriate, not the best option, incapable. But, I’m still good enough to get her scheduled for various assessment appointments and take her to get blood drawn which resulted in black and blue shins (she hates getting blood drawn) and I’m good enough to keep working with the school and keep pushing to find a therapy that will work because I haven’t given up.

 

I’ve had friends tell me to remain positive, to not think all doom and gloom about things. The truth is, they don’t know the whole story (because they can’t) and they also have not personally witnessed the insanity of the CYS. I don’t think of myself as a negative person, but it seems foolish to try to sugarcoat this or try to find a silver lining in this storm cloud. I’m a realist. I realistically know my chances when it comes to the county. I have no rights. I am the last person on the totem pole of options for a foster child. It does not matter if the new home will provide adequate mental health care services, if they are kin they are in. Twice in this mess I thought I saw a glimmer of hope – once, when our case worker came back from medical leave and thought the option of Filial therapy was a plausible option and the second time when I thought we would actually have this meeting before court. Both times my hope has been dashed to pieces. It’s eerily familiar to the monthly hope/crush of infertility. Hope is a cruel and punishing mistress; arrogant in her ability to keep positive in the face of adversity then pathetic and humbling in her loss. Simply put, hope is a bitch.

 

I don’t know what to do, other than pray. I don’t know what course of action can derail this insanity train. I don’t know how to fight the good fight. I hate feeling so helpless and hopeless. I hate feeling like I’m sitting around doing nothing, just waiting for others to decide my fate. I feel like I’m a mushroom; just keep me in the dark and feed me bull. That makes it easier to railroad me, right? But, I gotta tell you, I am one angry mushroom…