19 November 2008

"How many children do you have?"

One little question. Harmless. Pretty normal. But this one little question can also be a loaded question, one full of misery.

Someone asked me this question at work the other day. I have become well practiced at clenching my back teeth and not blinking an eye while responding with "I have two children" LIAR! IT'S A LIE! the inner voice inside my head screams whilst I proceed to tell the asker of question their ages. BUT YOU HAVE 3 CHILDREN, NOT 2 the voice is furious now. It hates the Lie. And the Lie has become so frequent of late.

There was a time I dared to tell the truth and include my lost daughter in that count but it became harder to disguise the truth and so the Lie came out and it has stayed.

But not without a Price. The voice doesn't let up and the guilt creeps in. How does a Mother deny her own child? How can anyone possibly understand how a small question can lead to days of feeling so guilty and as if I have betrayed my daughter? Yet another example of the distress adoption plays in my daily life... a simple answer can turn into so much heartache.

I hate denying her. Usually I try not to but few people would understand the truth or care to hear the full story. To tell a stranger my deepest pain would be like allowing them to reach in and hold the handle of the dagger that is so deeply embedded in my heart. Allowing them this far allows them to turn that dagger and my already so badly wounded heart bleeds anew. There is only so many times one can fix a hole.

So here, where anyone who reads can see... the truth to the answer in the title is: I have THREE beautiful children. I have two amazing daughters and one gorgeous son. And I love all three so very, very much. They are all part of me, part of who I am and part of my family. Just because one does not share my home in the physical sense does not mean she is not with me. She is thought of EVERY day, often and spoken of daily. She is not a secret within her family. And we wait, I wait until the day she takes her rightful place here, within her family where she was always meant to be...

09 November 2008

Bad Days

We all have them. Bad hair days as some call them. I don't know what to call them as they are days that haunt me. Play games with my heart. These are those days that, for no particular reason the grief you have become so good at hiding peeks out and grabs you by the heartstrings. And squeezes hard.

The sharp intake of breath. The straining as you try to keep that plastic smile firmly in place. Nothing is wrong... everything is just fine. If only.

Sometimes I want to scream. I want to curl up in a ball and just let myself slide into another place, a safe place where I don't have to think about that other part of me who is missing. My daughter... my precious girl who I miss every moment of every day.

What did bring this on?? Ahhh, I think I know. Noodle had her first day of orientation for Kindy. At the same school I was going to send A.. the one I had picked out whilst still pregnant with her and now her little sister will be going to it. Its a fabulous wee school. And its Catholic, just like the one she goes too. So there lies part of the issue. What has she really gained from being adopted?

I hate having this competition in my head with her adopters but when you have been told you would destroy your child's life if you kept her and are not good enough for your own baby, it kind of stays with you. And replays in your head. Hell, I am still fighting this now with my other two children. I don't think I will ever feel good enough... I was brainwashed so very effectively.

So, I have had a bad day. Another to add to a series of bad days over the past little while. I don't know why, but she haunts me. I feel her daily and it kills me that I cannot see her. I am sick of these days, they are very draining.

And they thought I could just get over it. As if.

19 October 2008

Since when does being against adoption mean pro-abuse?

I don't get this. Just because I am against mothers and their children being unnecessarily separated doesn't mean I am advocating to keep children with violent parents - regardless if they are biological or not.

Over the past few years I have often been accused of trying to keep children with their violent mothers/fathers/parents which is completely ridiculous. That goes against what I believe in as well. But where does it state that to be against adoption completely means you are okay with children being abused? Its just not logical and these people who think that is what I'm about are really cracked in the head - or lacking some vital intelligence.

In saying I am completely, 110% against adoption definitely means I want it eradicated. Abolished. Gone forever where it can no longer cause any more harm. However, this doesn't mean that if adoption suddenly didn't exist, there couldn't be something in its place to care for children who really need it. Permanent Care is one idea I am very fond of.

A system where children are in care only where necessary, they get to keep their original birth certificate, no names are changed unless it is for the child's safety to do so and the children and natural family are able to have a varying amount of contact; dependent on the needs of and in the best interests and welfare of the child. Adoption does not allow any of this. Adoption is not even about children today; rather it is about having what one wants and cannot have naturally, money, meeting demands etc. No one thinks about the mothers of these children nor the children themselves.

So, if you are spitting mad with steam pouring from your ears because you have read somewhere I am anti adoption (and that somehow offends you), you now have no excuse to accuse me of being pro child abuse because that is just plain stupid, totally illogical and completely irrational. I could say you are pro child abuse for being pro adoption but I won't. Rather I will say you are ignorant of the damage adoption has caused and are blinded either by your own needs/desires or those of a friend/family member and I would ask you to see past that and learn something. If you choose to stay closed minded to the ugliness that is adoption, then don't bother reading what I write here or anywhere else. Its that simple. Oh, and enough with the emails asking me ‘advice’ if you have decided to block a reply. Really, grow up already!

10 October 2008

Open Adoption - My paper from Melbourne Conference

In 2006 I was asked to share my experience at a Conference held in Melbourne about the effects adoption has on Mental Health. This is my paper. Again, it is another long post, not quite as long as the last one though! Thanks for reading. Myst xxx

Open Adoption. Closed Adoption. Either way you look at it, ‘Adoption’ features in both phrases which means at some point, a mother and her baby must be separated in order for strangers to become parents of another woman’s child.

My name is Myst and I am the mother of a precious 8 year old girl who was taken for open adoption in New Zealand. I hope to share with you today a little of my journey through an ‘open adoption’ and the private pain I have had to live with daily since I lost my daughter.

To introduce this paper, I would like to share with you a short story. It portrays a little of the raw feelings I experienced shortly after losing my daughter in 1998 and as such, is rather emotive.

Eyes closed, she steps forward. She doesn’t need to see nor does she wish to feel what is about to happen.

The night air grips her, shrouding her, feeding her fear; her terror. Pain ignites her body as he plunges the knife in. Her mouth automatically opens to scream but she cannot.

She drifts into unconsciousness – one from which she will never wake, at least not in the physical sense.

When she next opens her eyes, she feels no pain, merely a hole – a gaping space in her middle. Picking herself up, she happens to see a body lying where she had been. Clenching her eyes tightly, she waits a few moments before opening them, hoping the body will be gone. When she does reopen her eyes, she finds to her horror it is still there.

The body is covered in blood; saturated in the crimson life force that had only moments before flowed through her veins. The face is the face of a woman, a woman that she knows?! Struggling with herself she tries to remember where she has seen that face before. She knows but doesn’t want to believe or accept it. The woman’s body before her cries out to her in silence, a sound more agonising than screams. In her chest there is a wide hole exactly where her heart had been. Only now there is nothing.

She finally grasps the reality of the cruel sight before her. The body is hers. She is nothing but a ghost staring at the remnants of her life, once young and innocent, now lost, gone in the cruellest way possible.

Why? It makes no sense to her, but then none of it does. Why?

Then she remembers: her baby…they stole her baby…. They had wanted her baby and she had fought for her, fought to keep her motherhood intact.

She screams but no sound fills the air. She is condemned to drift the earth, a mother without her baby, a ghost with no chance to rest…

(Break for 5 seconds)

My nightmare began in 1997, whilst I was living in Christchurch, New Zealand. It was during this time I was sexually assaulted by an old ‘school friend’ and shortly after, discovered I was pregnant. My family had moved to Sydney Australia 6 months before so I was isolated and vulnerable. I made the decision to keep my child, however I did not realise this very personal decision would be challenged and I underestimated my vulnerability and the determination of others.

Indeed, from barely two weeks into my pregnancy until the day my daughter was taken out of my arms, I was told on a daily basis how I would ruin my child’s life if I kept her, I was selfish, unloving and my child would grow up hating me for not giving her up. I was told if I loved my baby, I would give her to a deserving couple who could not have children so she could be raised in a good home.

A good home? A deserving couple? What made me such an unsuitable candidate to raise my own child? After all, I was not a smoker, rarely drank alcohol, was not promiscuous and I was a good church going girl, you know, the twice on Sunday kind of gal. Not only that, I was a trained professional in Early Childhood Education and Care, and, up to this point in my short life had cared for up to 50 children. So, why did my daughter need to be adopted? When I voiced these questions, I was told I was merely an incubator, growing this child for someone else, to see myself as a surrogate mother and that God was using me to bless another couple with a baby.

These statements day in and day out did my head in to the point I was like a robot, systematically programmed to do its masters bidding. My essence, my voice, was frozen inside, only daring to come out at night when I would cry over my belly, sing and talk to my ever growing babe. I would whisper to her repeatedly how much I loved her and how much I wanted to keep her but wasn’t allowed. I look back and barely know that girl but I do remember being her and it scares me I was once so fragile.

A was born on a warm blustery February morning in 1998, after I went into labour only hours earlier and literally ran away to have her. The adoptive couple, chosen by my church and whom had ‘befriended’ me during the latter half of my pregnancy, had pressured me into having them present at the birth. I had been, at this stage, trying to find any way to get out of the adoption. I strongly opposed the idea of the adoptive couple being in the same room with me or even at the hospital when I gave birth but the pressure was intensified. It was due to this stress I went into premature labour and my daughter was born 6 weeks early. Running away and not telling anyone except my family in Australia ensured the adopters would not be present and so I had my baby alone.

She was the most beautiful, amazing little girl I had seen and I bonded instantly with her despite knowing there were people waiting to get their hands on her. My stay in hospital was strange. It was as if I lived two existences. Most of the time I was by my daughter’s side in the Neo Natal Intensive Care Unit, encouraging her, telling her I knew she would get better, that I was there and loved her very much. The other time was spent in my room under a barrage of pressure from the prospective adopters, church people and my so called crisis pregnancy counsellor, an adoptive mother with her own agenda. I decided, despite the pressure I would keep her. My only support during this awful time was my family, in particular my mum who had flown over from Australia to be with me.

After deciding to keep my baby, the pressure worsened. Confused and at breaking point, I spoke to my lawyer about other alternatives to adoption. Being an adoptive father himself, this lawyer, also handpicked for me by my ‘counsellor’ sat me down and told me adoption was my only choice while showing me photos of his adopted daughters. Still not happy or satisfied, a meeting was called with my mum, adopters, social workers and myself, to discuss my feelings. I asked the couple to consider a Guardianship Order so I wouldn’t lose A as I really wanted to keep her. They told me they were only interested in adoption. I was devastated and let them know I didn’t want to part with her. They persuaded me to sign the consent and promised if I still felt the same way after signing and wanted my daughter back, they would return her to me. There was to be a ‘3 day trial period’ after which, if I still wanted to keep A, the adopters would return her to me. I trusted this promise.

Eventually, under extreme duress which I just wanted to stop, and not realising the full implications or legalities surrounding the consent, I signed. My daughter was taken out of my arms at Christchurch International Airport and I flew back to Sydney with my mum. After arriving in Sydney with my front wet with milk, barely three hours after she had been taken out of my arms, I told my mum I still wanted my daughter and was going to get her back.

I thought this would be okay, the adopters had promised me I could have her back, right? Wrong. First, I found out under the Adoption Act of 1955 in New Zealand, once signed, an adoption consent is irrevocable, unlike Australian law which gives a period of 30 days. I was not informed of this before I signed and had believed my consent was not binding until the Final adoption Order was made, 12 months later. Second, I found out the promise the adopters made me was merely a way to get me to sign the papers.

I decided to return to New Zealand and fight for my child. Against all odds, I won my first court case and the order for interim adoption was denied. I lost this case on appeal but the judge redirected it back to the family court to be heard on the best interests and welfare of the child. I was elated as I thought I would win this, I should win this….until I heard who the Judge would be and then I knew I would lose. I did.

By this time my beautiful girl was now 8 months old. I decided, to reduce further confusion in her life, to end the fight. This decision broke my heart. I returned to Sydney empty handed and prepared to die. I lay in bed for weeks praying and begging with God to let me die in my sleep. He didn’t think it was such a good idea.

My mum convinced me get a job and while I hated it at the time, it was the best thing she could have done as it helped integrate me back into ‘normal’ life.

Since then, I have married and had another equally beautiful and precious daughter. But the wound remains, open and raw, equally painful with no relief in sight.

As for the Open adoption bit? Open Adoption is really a farce; a term coined by adoption professionals to entice young women to part with their babies. Why? Adoption figures, which had been so high in the 1950’s, 60’s and 70’s due to the unethical practises of that time to literally take babies, were falling. Government assistance and contraception had become more readily available. However, the demand had not changed. The professionals came up with an ‘idea’. It had been known for many years the pain and loss Adoption causes to both mother and child. Adopted babies, now adults, had grown up and spoken out, wanting more information about their roots and families. To ensure the future of adoption, Open Adoption was introduced. It is basically a system that encourages women to adopt their children out with the belief they will not really lose their child. Unlike the closed adoption system, Open adoption supposedly means names are disclosed and there is a varying degree of contact, from annual letters or photos to phone calls and visits to the very ‘fortunate’ few. However, Open Adoption has not worked as well as those facilitating them would have you believe.

From the research I have conducted and mothers encountered participating in open adoptions, all too often, within the first couple of years or as in some instances, even weeks and months, once the adopters have the baby they covet, their address and telephone number is changed and they move to where they cannot be found. Open Adoptions are not legally binding in many countries and while they are in some states of Australia, the Open Adoption agreement in most places is reliant on merely the 'good will' of the adopters. The adoption can be, and in most cases is, closed. In other instances, the effect of seeing your child with another couple and seeing all you are missing out on means many mothers cease contact when the pain gets unbearable. Open Adoption is like dangling a meaty bone in front of a starving dog. He is allowed to sniff the bone, lick it even but just as he goes to take a large bite, it is whisked away, leaving the poor dog desperate and still just as hungry.

Open Adoption is torturous. In my case, the adopters closed the adoption shortly after claiming my daughter. They wrote courteous replies to my mother’s letters but had no contact with me. When my daughter was 2, they moved to Sydney Australia. Knowing she was in the same city and country as me was too much so I wrote to the adopters and begged to see my girl. They met with my Mum and I first and laid out the rules. Desperate to see her I agreed to whatever they said. I have now seen her a handful of times since she turned 4. Dictated by the adopter’s rules, each visit is a farce, a game of pretend where we play at being happy about the situation. My daughter is not allowed to talk to me on her own and the adopters stand over my shoulder at every turn. Each visit is like ripping open my ever present wound. I relive losing her at the end of each visit and watch with a breaking heart as she is driven away. I do not sleep, eat properly or function well in the weeks leading up to a visit or in the weeks afterwards. I lie in bed wondering what she is thinking, hoping she is thinking of me like I am her. I cry myself to sleep nights after these visits to the point I have no tears left.

How can this be better? Sometimes, I truly wish I could separate myself from this situation, live the next ten years of my life without this torture. I have been told to count myself lucky that I get to see my daughter at all, that I know what she looks like. Lucky? To see my own child? Lucky? Those who have told me I am lucky have not walked in my shoes, have not lived in my skin and experienced my heartache. I am NOT lucky. My daughter should never have been adopted.

In the mental health arena, I have encountered many professionals who have no idea how to deal with this issue. Each session seems to earn me a new label, a new mental illness. To date I have been diagnosed with Bipolar Mood disorder, Anxiety disorders, Severe Depression, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder and Separation Trauma. Could it be I am just suffering indescribable grief from the unnecessary adoption of my daughter? This trauma is not validated by most in the Mental Health profession. The counsellors I have visited want me to close this chapter of my life, to move on to bigger and better things secure in the knowledge I have done the best I can and nothing else can be done. Do they not think if this was possible I would have done it by now? I walk out of these sessions in utter disbelief and usually angry at the lack of understanding and compassion these people have. Due to the social conditioning surrounding issues of adoption, many do not want to change their thinking and see how negative adoption is. The majority of society I have spoken to about adoption chose to see it as a beautiful act of love, apparently ignorant of the ugly truth lurking under all the gloss.

So far today, I have spoken of my experience of open adoption, from a mother’s perspective. I do not and cannot speak for the adoptees who have had to live through this as well but, in closing, I would like to share a story I found while researching on the Internet. It shows the perspective of the open adoption experiment from an adopted person, written by a 16 year old girl.


“I am a product of the Open Adoption experiment. I was born on December 24th, 1988 and I was soon transferred from one mother to another because my first mother, wasn’t married to my birth father.

I have been told that December 24th, 1988 was a cold and cloudy day. The black clouds meant much more than a weather forecast of rain to come; it was the day that the lives of four people would be profoundly and forever altered; much more like a forecast of doom, rather than rain. I went home with a new family, new name and a new life while my first mother went home to her old life; one of high school parties, dates and the prom.

My second mother began to write letters to my first mother during my second month of life, updating her on what I was wearing, what I was doing, and to remind her of how thankful she was for the gift she freely gave, ‘the gift’ being me.

I would grow up never having to question who I looked liked, where my strawberry blonde hair came from or where I got my green eyes, because I had a picture of my first mother taped on my vanity mirror. I also had a photo album full of pictures. I would never have to wonder where my smile came from.

I remember the day I found out my first mom was having a baby. I was barely nine years old, and confused because she wasn’t married. When my second mother explained to me that my first mom would be raising the baby, more confusion set in.

Just before thanksgiving vacation, my little sister was born. I went to bed knowing that in the morning, I would be woken up to the news, but what they didn’t know; was that I was awake until almost morning crying into my pillow and praying that she would arrive safely and unharmed.

I was unable to see my little sister until she was 10 days old. My second mother took me shopping to buy her a present and I picked out a small, brown stuffed hippopotamus. My second mom was less than thrilled with my choice and wanted me to choose something else, something cuter. After begging, pleading and pouting, she decided on a pink bunny for the baby, and agreed that I could have the hippo for myself. Today that hippo is my favorite possession and he is kept on my bed, maybe someday I will give him to his rightful owner.

At about the age of 12, I started becoming an out of control pre-teenager. I would test both my first mother and adoptive parents constantly. As punishment, I would lose my video games, cds, and phone privileges. Eventually I would start losing my visits with my sister. I was unable to see my first family from the age of 13 until age 16. But every year, like clockwork, a basket on Easter, a present on both Christmas and my birthday would arrive.

Last year I finally learned that if I truly wanted something, I would have to keep my emotions tucked inside and play by the rules. It’s still working.

I look at the photographs of my childhood and I can see the big smiles. I can see how most people would look at me and see a happy adopted 16.5 year old girl. Most people would think I am lucky to have two families, other adopted people may think I am fortunate to know my genetic history, my heritage and where I came from. But what I see is different from what other people see; I can plainly see the pain behind the smile.

My memories are more than just visits with my first mother and my sister. My memories are of a constant battle between happy appearances with an inner turmoil.

My memories take me back to that cloudy and dreary December evening. The day that my life would drastically change and the person I was meant to be would never be.

My memories take me back to the day that I was a ‘happy’ toddler running around the park, laying my eyes upon my first mother for the first time in two years. I must have learned very early. My memories take me back to that horrible night, etched into my brain is the memory of pure terror that my little sister would die, or I would never see her, or she would be given away. I will never forget those tears in my pillow and all the prayers said that night in fear.

My memories take me back to being a little girl who fell in love with an ugly hippo and wanted desperately to give it to her 10 day old sister, but was unable to.

My memories take me back to the feelings of jealousy and inner rage, each time my first mother would pull out of the driveway with my sister in the truck. We would stand on the porch and wave. Damn that hurt.

My memories are of missing my sister’s Kindergarten and first grade graduation.

My memories are built around being what some refer to as a chosen child, but I call it being broken at birth.

My memories are of fighting feelings of being unloved and unwanted, even though I was constantly told how much they loved me.

My memories are of sitting on the same fluffy pink vanity chair and staring at her picture, the picture that was still there, throughout all those years, while trying not to allow the tears to smear the makeup I was putting on.

My life is not a solution to a problem or the fix for another problem. I am angered that I was a part of a failed experiment and that my life was devalued by trying to prove that it could work.

On Friday June 10th at 11:15 am, my little sister will graduate from the second grade. Of course I won’t be there.”

Thank you.

29 September 2008

Incomplete

"Incomplete"

Empty spaces fill me up with holes
Distant faces with no place left to go
Without you within me I can't find no rest
Where I’m going is anybody’s guess

I tried to go on like I never knew you
I’m awake but my world is half asleep
I pray for this heart to be unbroken
But without you all I’m going to be is incomplete

Voices tell me I should carry on
But I am swimming in an ocean all alone
Baby, my baby
It’s written on your face
You still wonder if we made a big mistake

I tried to go on like I never knew you
I’m awake but my world is half asleep
I pray for this heart to be unbroken
But without you all I’m going to be is incomplete

I don’t mean to drag it on, but I can’t seem to let you go
I don’t wanna make you face this world alone
I wanna let you go (alone)

I tried to go on like I never knew you
I’m awake but my world is half asleep
I pray for this heart to be unbroken
But without you all I’m going to be is incomplete

Incomplete

The words to this song depict perfectly how I feel about my firstborn. Incomplete. Not whole. Empty. I hate it.

I would love to know how to switch off my feelings for my daughter; learn to forget I even had her so I could lead a full life again. This pain is unlike any other; it still has the power to reduce me to a wreck and unable to function 10 years on. It still generates suffering and heartbreak. It still feels raw and like I won't ever be able to breathe again.

I love how I was told once my daughter had been taken I would move on and have other children to replace her. Well, I have two more children but they have their own place in my heart (as they should and deserve) but I cannot move on. See, someone forgot to do some vital surgery when they took my daughter. They forgot to unhook that invisible mother/child bond from heart and they forgot the lobotomy. Had these two things been performed, I could have moved on, could have forgotten her and lived a full and whole life. But this didn't happen and I am left with nothing, living in the shadows of my daughter's life. Her mother yet not her mother. It sucks.

I saw her today. It hurt, hurt so bad after she left I felt like I would never come out of my shell. I retreated as long as I could to my safe place but I cannot stay there as I have two other children who need their Mama. Sometimes though, I wish I could stay there. She has grown so much. I asked her if she was enjoying her visits with us, if she wanted them to continue. Apparently she does. She even wrote me a short note to say that. She doesn't know how to make decisions. Everything is 'I don't know'. I told her she could say what she liked with me. She was allowed to think for herself and she started too. Why would she feel like she couldn't?? She told me today she would like a sister. I told her she had one already and she said "Oh yeah". Then I said I understood she wanted one that lived with her permanently and she said yes. Thats exactly how DD2 feels and I told her that. She smiled. This is just so damn hard. I wish it was easier.

Well I must go. I am feeling fragile and I don't have anything more to say right now. Still processing everything that went on.

21 September 2008

Seeing my girl

So I get to see my girl soon. These visits often have me pent up with so many feelings weeks before. I guess its because we don't really talk. Its not a visit with me per say, but she visits my family and I just happen to be there.

It is so hard to know what is going on inside her head. I know there is something, just what? I so wish I could tell her how much I love her; want her; miss her. But with her adoptive parents breathing down my neck and keen to whisk her away at even a slight whiff of truth, I keep my distance. One day, I hope she will seek answers to the questions I see across her face. One day, I hope she will feel safe enough with me to vent her anger, her hurt at how she feels I gave her away. Because this is how she feels. She has told me that much. And that hurt. I did tell her I didn't give her away but that is all I have said for now. So more questions have formed but now she is afraid to ask them as apparently, she spoke to her adoptive parents about what we discussed and there was 'fallout'. Whatever that means.

I feel they chose to be blind to her and her pain, like if they recognised it, validated it they would see what they are guilty of. They will know they were wrong all along and its something they cannot face. So my baby girl (who is no longer a baby), is suffering for it. And I want to reach out and touch the hurt and kiss it better. Like I can for my other precious daughter. When she (Noodle I will call her) hurts herself, a kiss from Mummy is usually all it takes to make it better and that is what I want to give my oldest. Just something a mother would do; try to take all the 'ouchie' away.

So yeah... this post is me rambling a bit. I just got home from work and its 1:25am and I have had very little sleep this week after we have all had a nasty round of Gastro and my youngest one K.T. has been teething, poor wee guy. Sorry if it makes no sense!

xx

09 September 2008

So I'm finally here...

I have been asked by a few people now when I will start my own blog. So here it is. I am finally here. It is with a little trepidation I start sharing my inner most thoughts so publicly but maybe it will help just a little.

This blog will be about my experience with adoption and what I have learned since being plunged into the 'Shadowlands' so to speak. Many will not like or appreciate what I have to say and that is okay. I am here to educate others so they do not suffer the same fate as I have had to. I am also here to educate others on what adoption is really like and promote ways other than adoption for children who NEED care.

Mostly, I dedicate this blog to my beloved daughter, A. Never for a moment feel you were 'given' away, that you were not loved or wanted. I wanted you, I fought for you and at one stage we were almost reunited by the courts until one judge, who has a reputation for separating young mothers and their children, requested and took over our case and we were wrenched apart despite being proven that I was and am a truly fit mother and that it was in your best interests and welfare to be returned to me at once. This man is responsible for so much pain, heartbreak and anguish; may karma come around and he is given a taste of what he has done to others.

To my readers and supporters, welcome! I cannot promise what I have to offer is anything much, but it is from the heart and soul. Hope to see you around.

Myst xx