"My relief at it all even makes me feel guilty," my Methodist Preacher Kid's inner voice seeped out to Dr Mandy.

"Who wouldn't feel relief to now feel safe?" she countered. Relief is normal? Hey, who knew?

I always have processed my emotions rapidly, even disappointments often quickly fizzle away , evaporating in the exhaust smoke as I'm already gone, as my fast paced mind moves on, diving into projects and things I like to do, never bored, usually engrossed in something.

The elementary school principal, the one who'd had to clear her entire schedule during one difficult year with The One Who Must Control Everything, having to try and monitor, manage and dispel negative, disruptive, and sometimes dangerous behaviors, pointed out to me yesterday that when kids are in non-family placements, they very often will do much better.

Dr. Mandy agreed, "Yes, because then the normal expectations of love, courtesy, empathy, caring, and other thorny emotions are not there anymore. Behaviors that certain folks can not be expected to have, nor to display." Taking those expectations off the table changes everything.

Our principal has a severely emotionally disturbed relative and truly understands the difficulties for other family members and their likelihood of being targeted, emotionally abused, physically lashed out at, or otherwise resented. This same principal took notes, attended RBWO meetings, and assisted me in a thousand ways over the years with some supremely challenging children.

It's been such a long difficult road and has included about ten different severely diagnosed kids over a 17 year period of unrelenting stress and challenges.

No wonder I'm now looking at the breaks in the clouds with some suspicion still and can be attributed both to the traumas I've endured and the full-blown PTSD. Duh. Cortisol and adrenaline having run amuck within me for way too long, damaging the internal organs, most notably my heart.

My darling son-in-law Preston eventually bolted down all the heating vents in each bedroom, as they were pulled up and routinely stuffed with trash, treasures, hoards, or urine. The wall intake vents? Not so fortunate. My February retirement check will go towards finally replacing each one, along with checks for $60 each to Chuy and Mayra for their Lifetime Sports classes, and a deposit upon the room where the rehearsal dinner will be held for Daniel's wedding.

I flat out emptied my wallet for this month yesterday at Lowe's for two more gallons of paint, more wall plaster and patches, plus incidentals designed to improve the quality of our life now. It makes me happy to work on positive endeavors. The hooks I'd hung on the back of bedroom doors and closet doors for their belts, accessories, towels or whatever? Routinely destroyed. Will I ever learn?

I wanna quote part of an email I'd received yesterday from another trauma mama, "Gutted the kitchen and rebuilt it, gutted a bathroom to the studs after years of intentional water damage, took the dining room, living room, mud room and several bedrooms totally apart and patched, mudded, sanded, stained, painted...replaced half the doors..the rest are next along with carpet in my room and wallpaper in a bathroom that the little boys removed. Getting there."

She was once a professional, out in the work world, surrounded by other educated parents whose children did not rage and destroy. Like me, she now is stunned and half shattered, but working on her own emotional recovery. Who'd a thunk it? It's not like we chose abusive men to have in our lives. We chose to try and help children, to share our blessings...

17 years of me being emotionally and, sometimes, physically battered. 17 long years in which I did find time to smile and be happy - although folks would then make me pay for daring to be vulnerable.

It will not take me 17 years to heal.

I won't necessarily morph into some social butterfly, I'll likely remain a hermit to a large degree, but I won't twitch and recoil, dive for cover at the sound of a ringing phone that usually meant another problem. Hopefully I'll be able to digest my food properly, sleep at nights, and learn to trust and enjoy life again. I won't cringe in abject terror.

The 12 kids still at home have their own sets of issues, but these are issues that, with therapy and good choices, will heal to some extent.

It is my prayer of course.

Where's my paint can?