the blog

It Doesn’t Make a Difference

“I’m writing a book too,” he says. “No really, that’s why I’m here. There’s an epidemic of children being taken from their mothers due to drug use. Literally thousands. I’ve talked to some of them and their stories are heartbreaking.”


Okay, yeah, so let me break this down for you one last time. I lost my children to a divorce, not to drugs. I started doing drugs because I lost my children, not the other way around. And the loss was not a considered loss. My ex husband hired a lawyer, I had no money, he told me of the hearing the day before I was supposed to show up and I spent the morning bawling my eyes out instead. Then I made a plan to fight later, and yall stole that opportunity. 

Whether or not I am sober literally makes no fucking difference. It was an entire year after my divorce before I started using, and I saw my children less then than I do now. Why? Because my ex’s girlfriend was filling the mom role, according to him. They didn’t need me.

And it doesn’t make a difference now, either. I sent photos and videos and multiple professions of abuse to CPS, I called all the way up their chain of command, level-headed. My boyfriend at the time talked to the shady social worker who Adam had tucked into his pocket, and I was several months clean. They still closed the investigation without doing so much as referring him to counseling services. 

I know this is your little game or some bullshit, but this one is too far. Nothing that I put into my body has anything to do with anything regarding my children. I know, it’s hard to believe, it’s hard to imagine that the world exists outside of your stereotyped, narrow thinking. But it does. Since this is the fiftieth time I’ve corrected this narrative, can we please drop the bullshit now? 

If anything I did could make a difference, I would do it. It doesn’t. If you know something that I don’t know, then as I’ve said: Give me a reason. But don’t make shit up and don’t lie to my face to try and manipulate my behavior. Frankly, leading me on with a virtual carrot could only backfire anyway when I try to finally take a bite. 

I still see my kids every weekend, Fri-Sun, which is 3/7 days per week. Just under half. I Skype them almost every night @ 7 and we chat or draw or read or practice karate. I pay child support. I taught them how to swim and how to ride their bikes, I taught them the alphabet and how to write. For a while, I was the only one giving them baths for fucksake. I am every bit a mother to them still, and every Sunday they still cry when they have to leave. 

You don’t have to like what I do in my free time. But one more time, I will say: What you put into your body has nothing to do with morality. The value of your character is judged by the works of your hands, by your output, not your input. What I consume need only be weighed for its moral worth if it reliably skews my output in a negative way. It does not. 

The end.

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