The Edge of Impaired Abilities

By Robin Browne

It was a snap decision—a wrong choice made at the wrong time and in the wrong place—and for Robin Browne, it meant life would never be the same again.

The tragic car accident in her teenage years left Robin with severe brain injuries and at the mercy of not only the healthcare system, but the multitude of attorneys and court-appointed guardians who appeared more interested in her compensation money than her personal welfare.

Having managed to escape her alcohol-dependent mother, whose abusive ways led to Robin and her two sisters spending their formative years shuffled between foster homes, Robin found herself denied independence by the very authorities tasked with helping her adjust to life with such traumatic injuries.

Denied the means to assemble the skills required to live her new life to the fullest, Robin's cry-for-help suicide attempts put her deeper under the influence of the system. These desperate—yet justified—reactions to her situation resulted in her placement in a hospital for the elderly, while the authorities talked among themselves about what was to be done with Robin Browne.

An enlightening, harrowing read, all true—the author wants her voice to be heard and demands justice for everyone else trapped in the endless bureaucracy of uncaring carers.

This is Robin's story…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robin Browne
• Release date: Sep 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201499525

Book preview

Prologue:

The Mourning Swan

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As a little kid, one thing I learned the hard way was it’s a safe bet that if you adopt something in your behavior while growing up, it becomes an ingrained habit—and, more often than not, a bad one. And, I think all adults know from experience, we’re much less likely to walk away from such bad habits when we’re older.

Sadly, my mother, Ann, began her lifelong romance with the liquor bottle a shot too deep when she woke up one day to realize she was stuck in a living, breathing nightmare with four young kids and a stifling, lifeless marriage to a depressed, good-for-nothing, lazy-ass husband.

Looking back now with the benefit of that wonderful 20/20 hindsight, I can understand how it wasn’t entirely my mother’s fault, as alcohol abuse ran rife throughout Mother’s family tree. In short, she’d been exposed to the bad habit since she was a small child, so it was inevitable she’d follow suit.

That she steadfastly refused to break the pattern of alcohol abuse... well, that one is definitely on her.

I’ve often heard it said that a person’s past behaviors are good indicators of their future trajectory. If that’s the case, it’s all too easy to see how my mother threw away her life in the contents of a liquor bottle, and how she would subject her poor, unwitting offspring to her weekly quests for validation. These came in the form of the cheap, drunken thrill of I love you games, in which she would always single me out.

In her game, my dear, inebriated mother would pretend to dramatically plunge a butcher’s knife into her chest like some lamb in a slaughterhouse and then look to see which one of her children wasn’t crying.

And, somewhat predictably, I was always the one with dry eyes and an emotionless, vacant stare.

Why did I not cry at my own mother’s supposed suicide, which never failed to have my siblings in shrieks of terror and despair? Well, simply put, I was the smart one who’d be silently calculating which one—out of my mother and I—was the most likely to really die first. Even from a tender age, it was a straightforward thought process for me because I was the dependently sick child of the bunch and reckoned the odds of surviving the death of my mother were pretty damn slim.

Cynical, eh?

Well, that’s the mind of a six-year-old with an inbuilt survival instinct for you. I didn’t actually learn to be pragmatic until high school (a subject in which I scored a D)—cheers to the Chicago public school system!

For me, life became aimless very early on, until it turned to hopeless the day my lung popped and collapsed, partly, I’m sure, because of the neglect I was experiencing at the hands of my drunken mother; I thank her for that particular episode. Mother’s all-too frequent booze runs would typically turn into weeks of school lunch being my only meal of the day, except for the summer vacation, or course. During the summer months, I remember being given food from my charitable friends—the ones who also fed the stray cats that were abundant in our neighborhood. I think we all know do-gooder people like that, and they are all-too often incredibly holier-than-thou, but at least they mean well.

It was an incredibly terrifying experience when my lung collapsed; I was a little kid and simply couldn’t understand why it was so difficult—and agonizing—to breathe. Gripped by unbelievable pain, frightened out of my wits, and truly believing I was dying, I had to beg my blind-drunk mother to take me to the emergency room. Scared, fighting hard for every breath, as I scooted down the stairs on my way to the car, Mother swung out her leg like a scythe, like she was aiming to kick me in retaliation for having dared disturb her inebriated slumber.

Imagine that.

My.

Own.

Mother.

I recall vividly my twin sister, Harmony, being in floods of tears and absolutely hysterical throughout the entire episode; she would confide in me, later in life, that being party to my predicament was just about the most horrifying thing she’d ever witnessed in her short life, and that included Mother’s fake suicides.

When we finally made it to the ER—Mother really was in no fit state to drive, and it was an absolute miracle we didn’t hit anything on the way there—every nurse, doctor, specialist, and social worker we came across demanded my mother answer for my condition.

Most notably, inevitably, the Illinois Department of Child and Family Services—DCFS—were called in and asked her a whole raft of pointed, awkward questions; they were so concerned, they actually ended up conducting an investigation while I was still in the hospital!

The DCFS people determined, somewhat obviously, that my mother spending so much time passed out with some random man in her bed was endangering her three young daughters who lived in the apartment (go figure, huh?). Upon further investigation of our humble abode, the DCFS quickly discovered there was typically nothing to eat in our squalid home—although there was always plenty of alcohol. Hence, it was little wonder they took my siblings and I into court custody before placing us in our grandmother’s care. Unfortunately, what they weren’t to know—isn’t hindsight a wonderful thing?—was our grandmother was just as horribly abusive as the mother they’d rescued us from.

Consequently, when the DCFS did finally cotton on to the systematic abuse we endured at the hands of our grandmother, Harmony and I were placed in our first foster homes at the tender age of nine years old.

It’s a well-worn cliché, I know, but I was destined to spend twelve exceptionally unhappy years bouncing across the Chicagoland area between myriad foster homes until I reached twenty-one—just one lost soul among so many of the city’s displaced youths.

Over the years, as a solitary cog in The System, I had grown into what was known as an aged youth. And, as such, I was determined to grasp something that possessed meaning and depth, but I very quickly—and painfully—came to realize I had unrealistic expectations and personal standards of how I’d manage living my life and achieving what I wanted to achieve.

Sadly, I found out the hard way, all of that gets sticky with the copious amounts of red tape involved.

So...

How do I weep past the struggle?

It’s so eerie: it knows my route, my ways, and my invested tests.

Every gain I close as mine is trusted to waste.

No truth, no testimony, just greed and benefit of a better half.

The truth delivers on the right condition.

Not for the worth to shine, but to collect unclaimed blame.

I remember feeling unsafe.

Unstable in my own apartment;

forced to live on a crooked foundation.

The unsteady shaking of dangerous decisions,

where I envisioned a tragic death.

Allowing opportunists to pick me out as an easy target,

with easy access to all I that own.

A sense of injustice.

No repercussions—

This was my reality.

Wherever I went, there was no support for me,

no management of my mental health,

no clear direction,

no way ahead that I could see.

My Cook County Guardian enrolled me in a mental health program after I was hit...

After I was hit... by what?

After I was hit with this existence.

Living life shacked up in a home for nursing residents.

Living life in minimal privilege.

Living—

At twenty-three years old. What went before?

What caused this ill effect? What accident?

What suicide attempts? I know there were many.

Housing lost—

I got booted out after several months;

they don’t let people like me live there.

A supported living placement instead.

They don’t allow deranged grief on the inner limits of support.

A knotted and embedded struggle, deeply rooted.

No bed, I get it.

There is no room inside this place,

meant to be a place to rest.

Assured.

Assured of maintaining status quo,

as far as status goes...

My space:

a walk-in studio.

As I shuffled past the residential library on the way up to my room,

a kid would shout out obscenities and stereotypical terms at me.

This contributed to my paranoia and hopelessness;

this was the entrance fee to the stigmatizing sideshows—

of what the supportive living home offered.

The knots tightened.

This is what knots do.

Mental health is a crisis for me.

It had a grip on me.

A grip on society.

A gripping drama definitely.

Unfolding as we speak.

Folding in the mix.

Shortsighted, unreasoned logic is not logic.

Senseless conclusions never end.

Paranoia bends the mind to find myself.

Watching things from the outside lines,

unable to coexist with my neighbor.

A forced, unnatural, alienating obstacle.

I suffer conflict in meetings with social services.

Conflict with the services from the government order.

Infected by side effects and a symptomatic daze—

it scared me—

confronted by my past.

Coping with panic:

panic strikes with overwhelming terror.

My body responds:

racing heart,

shortness of breath,

weakness,

dizziness,

faint.

My mother and my twin,

joined at the hip,

with one came the other.

No distinguishing them as separate units,

but I must define this unit:

Mom.

Harmony—

my manipulated twin.

My options were omitted; limited to paying my mom’s rent because I owed bargained time to the devil...

Because of her abusive nature,

lost, I fell into inflicting pain.

Harmony was helpless,

to the attachment held by the mother over her head.

I’m afraid.

Afraid of losing control.

Got to breathe.

Drowning in a tangled web of deceptive bends.

Me dependent on the government,

Harmony dependent upon the mother.

I was paralyzed by trauma,

A reflection of PTSD from a life of abuse and struggle.

Flashbacks overwhelmed my senses, no room for reasonable logic.

Cook County—Crook County—decided.

Have you ever acquired an obstacle for which you were under prepared?

Misguided toward the edge of a cliff.

To fall,

to swim,

to sink.

Excessive focus, worry plagues every turn.

Extreme expressions of anxiety.

Cracking my knuckles till I get arthritis.

Grinding my teeth till they get really short.

Picking at my face and nose.

Led into oncoming traffic in this mindset,

then left there to crumble.

Left, right, I was an inexperienced aged youth with no steps toward accomplishment...

While the sky was falling on me,

I was attempting to find pieces to fulfill some kind of empty space—a wasteland...

A brand-new outlet.

A new gear to tap into.

In transition.

Being emancipated—

It was the transition of being liberated from a wasteland where I was worth no more than a dying statistic...

Being an imposed adult since the youth of my days, in the desert haze of endless budget cuts that refused my much-needed disability diagnosis.

Faced with this reality,

being cut off,

being unsupported,

being under prepared to provide for my needs.

My fears and sorrows cannot be an opinion...

They are not irrelevant.

It’s a fact that National Foster Youth reports show that each year,

an increasing number of DCFS wards turn up:

homeless,

without a job,

sleeping under bridges,

or incarcerated.

The statistics offer every six out of ten females to the reality of pregnancy and without support.

So, learn how to survive this struggle...

In a land where the medical field plays the game of statistical entities and blesses your anatomy with man’s ability.

Chapter One:

On Being a Statistical Entity

If commercialization of our anatomy as statistical entities is allowed by the medical profession, how is it that working as a prostitute to balance out being shortchanged is more often than not frowned upon? Now, to me, that’s one hell of a double standard.

How so?

The way I see it, based upon my own experiences and cynical observations, my medical records were of considerable financial benefit to any medical professional who cared to take me on—a veritable meal ticket, if you will. Yet somehow, despite the statistics suggesting otherwise, I was left to struggle out on the streets without any benefits to show for my predicament while the doctors enjoyed those financial benefits at my expense.

It’s as easy to see now as it was then that the entire supposed support network strung me blindly along and in no way prepared me for any sort of meaningful life beyond the brutal, soul-destroying cycle of the fostering system.

I appreciate this makes me sound awfully pessimistic, but I’ve discovered the hard way that, either way you look at it, those of us who need help the most are the ones who always get sold short.

Let’s put two elbows together for the sold-out show of the shortchanging playgirl! I won’t take none of your time for nothing but a dime, but I only exchange tips for the change cup.

Okay, so a doctor sterilizes a needle in the interests of shortchanging someone the full effect of a medical benefit, but then sterilizes another needle for the taking of illegal drugs—you tell me which one is worse. Growing up, my doctors profited by treating my disorder with the copious amounts of drugs the medical reps sold them, quite possibly with the promise of a sweet vacation or new flat-screen TV; it worked for a while, until it didn’t, and while the steroid Prednisone’s side effects may have just about papered over the cracks of my symptoms, my quality of life was never there for me.

As it turned out, I discovered everything is an incentive to further serve the greedy opportunists and line their deep, deep pockets. As an example: A doctor lives off the fees he earns, extortionate amounts the majority of his sick, vulnerable patients simply can’t afford. In turn, said parents cannot cope without the doctor’s cheap, faulty science, and paid-for guesswork—it is a heavily one-sided co-dependence in which the patients invariably come off worse. In my mind, the whole scheme is pretty much tantamount to selling people to the pharmaceutical drugs companies. What the hell ever happened to medicine being a noble vocation, and working for a cause?

As for me, I was trapped in a mindless chaos: This was me in traffic, me waiting in the welfare line, me waiting to get tickets to watch Ring of Fire as they tell me to Walk the Line.

I’ve heard it said before that genes are a major factor in statistical outcomes when it comes to what ails us. However, let me assure you, they’re most definitely not the only contribution. When you find yourself trapped in the atmosphere of a certain statistic, it is statistically likely you will follow what it inclines you to. But, as my old geography teacher used to say: there are lies, damn lies, and statistics.

Is it too much to expect to be taught how to invest, to be encouraged to learn, to be shown how to advance to a fulfilled future?

It is unfortunate the system is not equipped to support a disabled case as complex as mine. Therefore, I ask, am I destined to forever be trapped within the body of a statistical entity?

What do I mean by that?

It’s a simple question; is it my fate to forever be labeled as little more than a statistical entity, to be viewed as nothing other than a number on a spreadsheet, a dollar figure on some medical professional’s profit and loss report? Is it really my lot in life to forever endure the experience of walking into a room—or even down the street—and have people talk down to me with the comments and gestures I’ve come to know by heart? Why is it complete strangers feel it’s acceptable to make offensive comments and gestures they’d never dream of aiming at an able-bodied person?

***

I dwell within the Tunnel of Shadows: the concrete tunnel of the guardian’s office and their shortchanging efforts. And, within this tunnel, I always seem to fall short of where I should be because of my association with my guardians, where surely it ought to be the other way around.

I truly believe I was forced against my will into that unfortunate circumstance, as I was only able to flourish when Mother lay in one of her all-too frequent drunken

Reviews for The Edge of Impaired Abilities

[ilovegunner61 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was an amazing book about a real life struggle