The Year I Barely Survived

It’s the time I still have trouble talking about, but feel the need to share. It’s a story of overcoming, and I hope it reaches the right person. I can write about it now, two and a half years later, because I can see the beauty that arose from the ashes. And I can bring a message of hope to those still in the fire.

I entered the summer of 2017 with high hopes and expectations. I accepted a new teaching position at a school nearer to home, eliminating my 45-minute commute each way. A commute that had been part of my daily routine for the past nine years. The position was teaching an at-risk middle-school combo seventh and eighth grade, self-contained classroom; a challenge, no doubt. Also, an assignment I felt called to make a difference in the lives of my students.

The students were challenging but rewarding to work with. It was my boss, it turned out, who was the problem. Let’s just say this person believes in criticism, daily visits, old-school teaching practices, and making teachers cry. First strike, the daily stress of working with a person bent on seeing me fail.

In my class was a quiet boy who lived in a group home. It came to my attention that they were looking to place him in foster care but couldn’t find any families who that accepting children. Fresh on the job, wanting so badly to make a difference, I talked to my husband and we decided to open our home to this boy.

The process for being a foster family is now identical to the adoption process (at least in our state) and includes numerous hours of classes, extensive home visits, interviews, and inspections. Added to this was the misinformation that reunification with the birth mom was possible, even probable at some point, when in reality there was no such option. Strike two, the daily stress of integrating a troubled youth with a myriad of medical and psychological issues and appointments into our home with three children of our own, and no end-date on the horizon.

The same week we brought him home, I got the news about my ex-husband. Turns out an injury had led to prescribed pain medication, which led to dependence, which led to street drugs. You know the story. We share custody of my two sons, ages 16 and 13, and this situation called for me to file for emergency full-custody. I now had a house-full of heartbreak. I wandered around, trying to pick up the pieces for my sons, who were deeply and understandably shaken. Strike three, the heartbreak, confusion and worry over someone who had been a great co-parent for years and no longer capable of caring for our children. And the prospects of “getting better” from this grim.

In this school year, I experienced the darkest period of my life. I woke up after fitful sleep, dreading every aspect of my day and regularly getting sick before work. This may have been because I added fuel to the firestorm by drinking, secretively and heavily. Smart, huh? Some of this dark reality was out of my control, but some of it I brought on myself. My doctor diagnosed me with stress-related high blood pressure, and put me on anti-anxiety medication. It was a triad of disasters with no end in sight. I remember calling out to God on many occasions that something had to give.

In time, it did. I made it through the school year and resigned to look for a position that didn’t crush my soul. My ex-husband surrendered, got help, got our boys back, and has over two years clean and sober. And sadly, our foster child was removed from our home after an episode over spring break of that infamous year.

Gradually, I realized the nightmare had ended, and gradually we healed, both individually and as a family.

While in the thick of it, I thought God’s timing was imperfect; that I had been held to the fire for far too long.

But it is when we look back over the difficult times that we can see the character-building and refinement that comes from being broken. We witness the beauty that comes from the ashes, and the extreme gratitude that comes with having not only survived but also our weaknesses strengthened.

Today, I am grateful for a job I love, teaching pregnant and parenting teens. My ex-husband, children and current husband and I all have strong relationships with one another, and more importantly, with God. I am still processing the “whys” of having our foster child but I do believe in some ways we helped him on his journey.

Most importantly, when my problems lifted, and the drinking remained, I got honest with myself about my relationship with alcohol. I finally saw it for what it was, what it was doing to me, and the fact that I had to let it go. And this realization has been my freedom, and my ultimate victory.