How we got here...

I met the sperm donor on Halloween, 2007. I was a government contractor, and they had assigned this immature gnome the task of signing me in each day until my clearance was finished and I got my badge. I hated him on sight because he took one look at me and said, "I like your type." 

I'm not a fucking type. Trust me. Every year, the people who think they know me find out something about me that they had no idea I can do. Or, maybe I am a type. Pandora's box. What you get when you open it depends on a lot of factors, namely you. At least, now. Once upon a time I had the word "welcome" etched on my forehead. 

This job was a new one, greatly appreciated after the job where I had my stroke fired me. It was a temp agency, they can do what they want. My skill set had me called back, just in time, as I lost my mind and fell for this idiot. 

He used to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I always knew his creepy ass was behind me, and I'd look to see him standing there, looking sappy. He would take things from my desk, take pictures of them and email them to me. The better for me to come retrieve them. Clear workplace harassment, but I had been raised to have no boundaries. Well into my adult life my body and mind were the property of others. 

With my own mortality staring me in the face (who has a stroke at 25?), I couldn't truly see that I needed to run. Years of my family destroying my character every time I said I didn't feel I was being treated right, led me to believe that the red flags I was seeing were somehow my fault. His grumbling about how I needed to "lighten up" or "learn to take a joke" were things I heard all the time at home and among kin, so I took it as a sign that he was right. The tortured, drunken angry man he showed me when his mask slipped... I saw that as something that love could fix. I thought we were just a broken Romeo and Juliet, so deseperate was I to be loved. 

My family has hated me since the summer of 1996, when my stepfather first set his sights on me. My mom married a man she knew for four months, because she needed a distraction away from her grief. The man who was supposed to be my stepfather died in May of 1994. I was taken to a foreign country and groomed before her hateful eyes. I was 40 before I realized that my mom always knew what that man was up to. She just didn't think that I was worth losing access to all that money. She gets to die surrounded by ease and wealth, and I live with my hand an inch away from my mouth at all times. 

I just couldn't see him for what he was. Even amongst the arguments, the meltdowns he pushed me into. And when my son came along, I was told to leave him. I went to a women's message board, concerned about his anger. The unanimous response? Run. Don't even tell him. Just leave. 

I wish I had listened. My parents divorced when I was seven, leaving me full of questions they never answered. That pain haunted me well past my father's death in 2002. I thought that the worst thing I could do to my son would be to give him a single parent. So I stayed, until it was almost impossible to leave. Four attempts later, I got free. But not before both kiddo and I were hurt. That is when the trials began for us. Now his father admits fault, but it's too late.

My son was born on a winter Sunday in 2009. New motherhood was magical, and watching him grow was a wonder. From the start it was just the two of us. I once pointed out to his bio dad that every picture he had in his work cubicle was one I had taken, that every picture he now has is one I had taken...because he was always too deep in his 40oz collection to make a memory. 

I was on my own with kiddo at home, from the time he was two days old. In October of 2010, because I was unable to rouse sperm donor from his drink sleep to go to the park with us, he pinned me to the floor and threatened to kill me. In front of kiddo. I lay on my back with this dude over top me, telling me I'd die before I left the house with my 21-month-old child to get to safety. Dude, we just went to the damn park. Maybe if you'd stay in this dimension a bit more, you could chill with us. But, no. Dude used to think he was Archie Bunker and that his show had just fallen from his hands, until I undid him. Which took a decade to do. Now he just does what I say. When you are working, shut up and pay me. You have no right to ask questions of me, you have no right to ask to speak to him. You walked out of his life for the last time in 2016, and I told you that. You have failed to be consistent with any type of video calling. You don't love this child, you have an obsession with me, and he's just your lifeline. For now. According to the laws of this state, you have committed abandonment. And I'm so close to finally being able to afford to break my marriage vow made under duress. 

I hated him when I married him. His first wife decided, six months before her twins turned 18, that the child support needed to be increased. And my son could not be counted in the calculations unless Idiotus Prime had full custody (never in heaven or hell), or we were married. 

So I bit the bullet. At the time I was beginning to apply for disability. I've been in a bed or a chair my son's whole life. The outings we can have are wonderful, but they cost me. I depended on him financially to feed my child, so I bit the bullet. And for many years, as he verbally abused me (he learned what happens when you put your hands on me more than once), threw shit across our apartment and cornered me asking for his "husbandly rights", I told myself I could endure. My son needed a father. Only he never had one in that man. 

Idiotus Prime was born around Thanksgiving. In 2012 on his birthday, I left him. 

I didn't mean to be so cold, I was about to bake him a cake and pretend I liked him. But he started in on his tantrums again. After he threatened my life while sober and with a straight face a few months before, I started working with a local womens agency on plans to leave him. I read Lundy Bancroft's Why Does He Do That?, covering the book cover out of fear. Hiding it under the mattress when he was home. I learned to never let him corner me in a place where there were no windows or doors. Ultimately, on the 25th of November 2012 I ended up back with my other abusers. My mother and the pedophile, may be burn in hell soon. 

I stayed with those odious people for 18 months. I noticed that kiddo would make all sorts of progress when we weren't with that man. So, I allowed my parents to pretend they were grandparents who gave a shit (while they tortured me), and stayed as long as I could. Christmas of 2013 those two would sit me down and say that kiddo and I needed to move into a homeless shelter. No reason. Just go. 

So I started trying to get a shelter spot. Abuse from the caseworkers at these "assistance" agencies, along with the local DHS always playing with my SNAP (I needed SNAP to eat in my mother's house), I ended up in the psych ward. Giving Idiotus Prime instructions on how to care for his own kid over the communal phone on the ward. Kiddo upset because he's missing school. And me.

I was released five days later. In March of that year, I explained to my "parents" that an eviction notice was required. Just like recently, my stepfather knew he could not evict me as a tenant. I'm family. And I'm disabled. And I have a minor, disabled child. So, what did he do? Write some condescending letter, claiming that he'd given me so many chances to get my life together. Nah, dude. You and your wandering phallus took my life from me. I got in his face about the letter. My mom decided her husband trying to fuck me was funny, and my outrage about it was even funnier. 

I caught a charge for slapping her under a table. I'd do it again. 

That action, followed by a stay in a cold basement as punishment for standing up to my mom, marked kiddo's and my ticket into a shelter. My SSDI was approved at the same time. All I had to do was wait, and we'd have money to have our own place. 

And suddenly....we did. I had enough funds to pay a year's rent and furnish an apartment. I found a weed guy and kiddo and I had a wonderful summer in DC, going to museums, the zoo and every park I could push his stroller to. I kind of miss those days now. I was so lonely, but he was happy. I watched the nightlife from my window and dreamed of a better life until I realized my monthly stipend wouldn't be enough to stay where we were and pay utilities...and I could rent nowhere else in the area. Housing lists were four years long when open. Relisha Rudd disappeared from the shelter we were likely to end up at, and I knew we'd never be safe there. 

By spring of 2016 I had found an apartment in Utah. It was 1/3 of my SSDI, and there were two people locally who I could call in case of emergency. So I made plans to set off. We left DC on the 5th of May, 2016. I intended to never set foot in DC again. 

Well, here we are.

I think the thing that bothers me the most is that, out of all the possibilities for our situation, I had never in my life imagined this one. 

My kid looks at me with disappointment in his eyes, when he's not looking at me in anger. I have tried my best with the limited information that I have (he will not communicate with us via the way he used to) to meet his needs, but as usual I fall short. Yes, he has led a very traumatic life. No, it's not due to my irresponsibility, past not heeding the feeling of fear his bio dad instilled in me from the start. Had I done so, my son wouldn't even be here. Not to mention, at that time I was still brainwashed (family shit) to think that if I took any sort of offense to what was being done to me, that was evidence of my mental instability. Prior to the age of 30, I wasn't even aware that I had human rights. I had my son at age 27. Let that sink in a bit. 

I have walked through, climbed out of, swam through some deep shit with that kid on my back. And right now I'm exhausted. My son's nads are dropping, my egg repository is about to shut TF down, we're both hormonal and tired, and there's no help in sight past a devoted stepfather I'm not allowed to talk to. That's right, no touching. Regulation 12" apart or you will be manually separated. 😶 The dorm master is strict about these things. Which means I'm always horny. I can't wait until school starts, we have 40 more days in the wilderness...then we have Fridays free. Probably a good idea to invest in some prophylactics. It's crowded enough in here and things get more and more expensive. 

I thought I was providing enough cover, "crouching" over him, to keep his eyes away from my abusers. Ultimately his as well, because due to their hatred of me, my child lost an entire family. It makes me rage, knowing his future with all those random negroes crawling across the east coast, who could at least have tried to give him a little love. 

Kiddo feels lost and alone in a world that moved on without him. What was here when we left has shifted beyond his recognition, upon our return. When we left this place before, we left THE most inclusive situation he could have had. Back then you could get speech therapy in a matter of weeks. He had friends, his favorite teacher. We had each other. By many twists of fate we managed to have a lovely home. My dumb ass let one more roomate in...and she did us in. Promises to pay that never materialized. I had to turn over my lease, because I simply could not afford to incur an eviction. It would take months of my pay to resolve. Where would we live until then? 

I had no choice but to leave. I don't think either of us would have survived the local homeless shelter, and after that first and only run in the "best one in the area", I said never again. I wonder if he can remember those days. He was but five years old. He was six when we left the DC area for the first time. My family life was that bad that I was willing to step into the complete unknown, 2100 miles away from home. Strangers have always been safer than my family. Often much kinder as well. In August of 2019 I stepped off an Amtrak train with kiddo, after 32 hours of travel, into the arms of the one who still sleeps beside me. He too, was a stranger. I got much deserved side-eye from my friends until they realized who he is. He's a good one, that's who he is. Every month, the week before my period, I try to put him out. Then, once the red tide has died down, I'm glad he didn't go. I'm beginning to miss the days of sporadic, painless cycles. Lemme be caught out again, instead of insane on a schedule, please. 

My son and I are like two fighters in a ring, glaring at each other during time out. Our old dynamic has been worn down by years of moving, COVID restrictions (that's when he stopped playing...when he had no space to). For 18 months we lived in a studio with my fiancee of four years. That's where I went, when I lost our home out here. Again, a veritable stranger was safer than my family. I'll get into that in other posts. Luckily for us, my gamble was a good one. Joel is a rock to this family. He loves kiddo. He loves me. He's a provider. And my backup. He's often the only one pleading my case and the case for my health with regards to our current parenting situation. And yes, I consider him a parent. He has full authority to act on my behalf regarding kiddo. I'm grateful for it. Because sometimes I have to tap out. If I didn't have that option today, I shudder to think about where we'd be. I'm getting sicker, and few people are listening. It's scary. What happens if I can't take care of my kid? At least now I have someone who knows all his meds, knows how to program his tablet. Knows his preferred foods. Someone can finally pick him up from school now! The terror of before, knowing he'd be in state care at the end of the day if anything ever happened to me, bcause there was literally no one. I don't have that fear anymore. If I died, he'd keep kiddo. And he'd be qualified to, because all bio dad can give him is space on the street until the system absorbs him for life. It can't end that way. It just can't. 

That's not something my son's care team seems to understand. Because of my initial status as a single black mom, I think I may have collected a lot of educated white saviors the last time I was here. When they could help the hapless, tearful, desperate mom, they gave a shit about me. Now that I come with an equally educated white man in tow, he's "some guy" and apparently I'm no longer as devoted to my son, now that I've made it clear that this shit ain't a nunnery? I guess? They need not worry, my son was some random Disney miracle. I'm sure I shoot blanks. He just popped up because a dream is a wish your heart makes... I hope, that as he gets older he realizes that he's been wanted since he was a flutter in my belly. I hope we can reconnect sooner than When Puberty Is Over. This shit suuuuuucks. But anyways, chugging on because this train don't stop for no one who ain't already on it...

I guess I'm no longer inspiration porn if I bring in stable help. And I'm waiting for any of these people who are essentially consultants in the Business of Raising My Son (you can be replaced, FAFO) to intimate that I've brought someone questionable into my son's life. I've dated twice since I escaped his dad (ball and chain ass bitch of a man, he hasn't played in traffic yet much to my dismay). I made the mistake of not doing a background check on the first one, but he came from wholesome Mormon stock, so I thought he was okay. Nah, his ass was the runt of the litter. It's telling how much they trusted someone with "cursed skins of darkness" to reign that dude in. His parents let us house sit for a bit. I'm the only reason he got to stay there, I guess my personality (and kiddo's cute presence, no doubt) put them at ease. However, dude was a mess and I left him. Second (and last) time around? Yeah, nah. I did my background check. Once burned, and all that. 

My method is this: I find out about you, and if there are no barrier crimes (the usual nasty shit that makes you wish certain methods of torture were legal, DV, evidence that you ain't learned your lesson yet) then I wait for you to tell me what you did. If you do, then you stay. He did, and so he stays. 

Anyways, the presence of the educated white man with opinions on my son's care and who makes them listen to me...he's being met with a bit of chagrin. Oh, well. We both love the fuck out of this kid, and something is wrong. I have a feeling that some of these people are just mad that the source of my son's pain can't be proven to be us. That would be nice and cut and dry for them. Allow them to still feel like they alone are the reason for my son's progress. 

I'm just sitting here most days, after another day of touch and go with my heart beating outside my chest. Every time he singles me out, every time he lets me hug or kiss him, every time we can get through a transition with a smile on the other end, I am grateful. 

But I'm scared. The people I once trusted are now looking at my child and only seeing his autism. That four letter sentence "it's just the autism," is smothering him. Last year at school, his teacher called me. She told me to rush over. When I got there, she told me she had to evacuate the class after kiddo had a meltdown. She then told me that he used his talker to say "I feel violent."

Tonight I feel especially violent because a group of people who remember my son at age 10, all russet curls and wide green eyes, are refusing to see the frightened almost-man before them. They are infantlizing someone much smarter than they realize. In that, he is like me. I will let you think I know nothing, because I'm watching you to see how you treat those who you percieve as no threat to you. If you show mercy, you may be part of my tribe. If you show enough arrogance, even my ditch-dwelling ass can touch you. This is just camouflauge. 

Today my surrogate mom and I went to lunch. We talked about kiddo. She too, has raised a son on the spectrum. She readily admits how different our situations are, but she still gives very sage advice. And on this, she has told me to finally show them who I am. 

My son's pediatrician, who I moved across the country to gain him access to, disappointed me the other day. It took Joel to make me see that she still sees the child she met in my son. She has not been with us these last four brutal years. As teachers got to abuse him for months with no reprisal. As we were locked indoors and chased from every park when we did go out...and he just didn't understand. As his thoughts and his body began to change, and it was scaring the fuck out of him. As we struggled to find doctors who would simply continue his meds. Therapy? Unheard of since July of 2019. 

And yet it's so easy to just blame us, instead of this system that sucks most of us dry. Not gonna let them, though. I'm going to learn to be more merciful towards myself, too. I have put him on every waitlist I can. We're in harm reduction mode until he can be given the therapy and tools to cope with the changes that are happening, and the things now expected of him as he grows up. I know he can do it, I just need all the other adults in the room to believe it. This coming year's IEP is gonna piss some school staff off, but they're gong to give me something to work with, after the certificate of 19 years of completion is done. Since you could never help him get a diploma (oh, I have such opinions on that), he will learn to legibly write his name (this is improving), we will master basic arithmetic (which he can do) and reading will be sent home Monday through Friday. We can read together, books sent from school along with his personal library, because my son is literate. 

If we had been able to stay here, he wouldn't be in the condition he is in. I wish we could have stayed. I wish I had fought all the things that were happening at that time. I wish I had tried harder. Joel would have eventually come out here, that wasn't an issue. But the two school years of outright abuse, he didn't need that. The lazy advocates who never fought for him, he didn't need that. All of the pain he had to endure, the bullies that were never admonished...all that invalidation, he didn't need that. He didn't deserve that. 

Unfortunately, because I've been the only constant since day one, I'm the place where his emotional chickens come home to roost. There is no way for him to see that I'm not orchestrating this. His world is so limited right now, that he can't see. I just hope he can forgive me one day for how awful it is for him now. I hope he can forgive me for not making it clear that, though we were coming back here, not all would be the same. He can't go back to 4th grade. He has to wait one more year to get his favorite teacher. His friends have moved on...in so many ways. I ache for him, and I can't soothe his pain. He's like any other teen, I'm the most uncool thing right now. 

I just hope we don't solidify into this. This wasn't what I had planned, kiddo. Not at all. But for most of your life there was no village where there should have been a large one. I'll never forgive my family for that. Or the Ball and Chain...unless he erases his carbon footprint and allow Social Security to provide the child support he has sporadically given (15% of this child's life!!!) thus far. 

Fix it Jesus, if you are real. Damn.