I’m still alive. For now, anyway.
My wonderful adventures with DCFS are over-not only did we get the kids home, we blew the lid off some serious corruption in the courts, too. And my asshole in-laws will never, ever be allowed to foster another child. They’ll never see my kids again-we ended up going no contact with my husband’s entire family a little over a year ago, and our lives have gotten progressively better ever since. Amazing how things improve when you stop surrounding yourself with assholes.
I also cut off my relatives. All of them. I finally realized that they’ll never change, and I don’t have time for their shit.
Ironically, around the time I stopped wanting to kill myself, I found out I’m dying anyway. I’ve developed a lovely blood disorder that is pretty much destroying my heart. I might have a few days, or a few years-no one really knows. I’ve had two surgeries on my heart in the past eight months, and expect to have another one within the next year. If I survive the next surgery, though, my doc expects me to last another fifteen years-by then, half my heart will be fake anyway, lol. God, this is weird.
Its funny-I still don’t have a problem with dying, but I’d like to hang on long enough to get my kids settled in to their adult lives. Kicking the bucket doesn’t scare me, but I don’t want to leave things unfinished.
I’ve published a kid’s book, and I’m a couple of weeks away from publishing my psycho family’s worst nightmare. I decided the best way to get even for the way I grew up would be to write about it-the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, lmao. I’m seriously considering sending copies to every one of my relatives, but I probably won’t-I don’t want to be responsible for any of them dying from fright (no matter how much they might deserve it).
Two years ago, I was ready to die. Now I’m hoping to have enough time to live. Strange how that worked out.