I am going to take a page out of my rockin' daughter's playbook. It comes from absolutely ignoring that 50 ton elephant in the room that is both asthmatic and flatulent, You begin by sticking your fingers in your ears and following the mantra "sunshine, lollipops. and the delicate first flowers of spring," and then, after several hours of chanting, you begin to hold your gracefully poised hands under your chin and sleepily blink as the the fairy dust gently rocks you to an imaginary land filled with love, and the milk of human kindness.
And no one is ever sad. Except when your children utter the occasional phrase of "How I really don't like myself". It's then the flatulent elephant makes his presence known and all of your years of telling your kid how amazing they are start to unravel before your eyes.
You can visualize the insomnia, you can empathize with it wholeheartedly. You can listen to their stories and instead of the fluffy clouds of sparkling purity that were once surrounding you in your attempt to "move on" and "get a life", you look down to see your children's hearts in your hands.
And you start to notice that flatulent elephant in the room. And you start to stick your fingers in the many whole of their hearts, trying to stem the bleeding.
The dutch boy had it easy.
But anger is a bad thing. It is wrong to look around at the people that played a part in this destruction for they will proclaim their innocence. They just wanted to do what they wanted to do.
Your kids were just collateral damage. And so were you. So buck up and start smelling those unicorn farts, cuz they smell like skittles. Buck up! Stop whining! Get the fuck over it. It's history. You're just playing the victim. You're a whiner and a loser and JUST PLAIN MEAN.
It's not right to ignore the strides that fucked up women make after they get done fucking up your life.
It's also cruel to be hateful to STBX's siblings when they were just trying to convince you how much he really loves his kids.
Words can be said to "come from the horse's mouth". They can also be said to "come from the horse's ass."
But if I state my belief that kids should come first and their protection should be paramount above all else and the definition of love does not include molestation and physical beating and emotional torment, I have the sneaking suspicion that I would start to get the doe eyed lecture myself.
"Just because he did these things to the kids, doesn't mean he doesn't love them."
There are no bad people. Just bad choices. Let's join hands and sing!
No, I do frame my arguments with anger. It's the anger that makes me a "sanctimonious bitch". It's the anger of incredulity at anyone that could choose their own self interests over their children. It's the anger of incredulity that a mother with a son could even attempt to defend a perpetrator because he had "had a hard life". It's easy to say that when dear Uncle Tracy wasn't playing "cho cho train" with your little boy in the dark. Don't worry, I'm sure if he would have, you would be able to separate out your feelings and still agree that poor Uncle Tracy really had his best interests in mind. I'm sure he loved him too...every night for years.
I don't give a shit about any of it. I care that every day, I try to find the words to say to make things better for my kids. I try to tell them that they are loved. That they are wonderful human beings. That above anyone else in the world, I will always have their back.
As Charles Baudelaire said, "I cultivate my hysteria with joy and terror"
And with a happy little Parker-esque spin on Eminem: "Look, I can't change the way I think/ I can't change the way I am/ but if I offended you, GOOD/'cause I still don't give a damn."
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Friday, November 06, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Medicate Me With Music
There were two things that really helped me through the last nine months: Friends and music.
As I've moved through the different stages of grief, my listening habits have changed. I've moved away from the raw anger and betrayal songs that dominated the first few months and I thought that meant progress.
Then I listened to this song this morning.
Again and again and again.
The words and the video have brought me to my knees but funnily enough, it made my stomach ache go away.
The poison builds up if you let it.
As I've moved through the different stages of grief, my listening habits have changed. I've moved away from the raw anger and betrayal songs that dominated the first few months and I thought that meant progress.
Then I listened to this song this morning.
Again and again and again.
The words and the video have brought me to my knees but funnily enough, it made my stomach ache go away.
The poison builds up if you let it.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Seven Months Without Bloodshed
It's been seven months since I held the phone in my hand and asked STBX if he had ever molested our daughter.
And after he said yes, I told him if I ever saw him again, I would kill him.
Seven months since I made my one and only death threat.
You know, death threats are a dime a dozen on t.v. Everyone seems capable of making them or getting them.
But for an average Jane Schmo livin' in the burbs and NOT sellin' weed, death threats that are real and heart felt are actually quite difficult.
My only follow through was the verbal assault at the elevator in the court house which I muffed up. ("Motherfucker" does not turn heads. 50% of the people at the courthouse at any given time could probably fall under this umbrella. The phrase I should have screamed was "childfucker". This is an error that I regret to this day.)
But I really need to cut myself some slack. I mean, do normal people stand in front of their full length mirrors and practice their death threats? Is that what mobsters do when they are in their apprenticeship?
Perhaps one of the positive things I could draw from the last seven months is that I desperately wanted to kill this man and I didn't.
Until you live day in and day out with the overwhelming compulsion to destroy another human being, you really don't know how strong you are.
I have people tell me that I am strong because I've made it this far.
My strength doesn't lie in the fact that I survived.
My strength lies in the fact that he survived.
And after he said yes, I told him if I ever saw him again, I would kill him.
Seven months since I made my one and only death threat.
You know, death threats are a dime a dozen on t.v. Everyone seems capable of making them or getting them.
But for an average Jane Schmo livin' in the burbs and NOT sellin' weed, death threats that are real and heart felt are actually quite difficult.
My only follow through was the verbal assault at the elevator in the court house which I muffed up. ("Motherfucker" does not turn heads. 50% of the people at the courthouse at any given time could probably fall under this umbrella. The phrase I should have screamed was "childfucker". This is an error that I regret to this day.)
But I really need to cut myself some slack. I mean, do normal people stand in front of their full length mirrors and practice their death threats? Is that what mobsters do when they are in their apprenticeship?
Perhaps one of the positive things I could draw from the last seven months is that I desperately wanted to kill this man and I didn't.
Until you live day in and day out with the overwhelming compulsion to destroy another human being, you really don't know how strong you are.
I have people tell me that I am strong because I've made it this far.
My strength doesn't lie in the fact that I survived.
My strength lies in the fact that he survived.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Cold Hearted Bitch
There is an average of 6.3 people a day that look up Tracy C. Shaddox and find my blog. Much more since he's gone to prison.
Hmmm. Interesting.
It almost makes me want to put up a postsecret post card that I've been hiding up my sleeve. I saw it the week before the sentencing and I've been sitting on it.
Perhaps it's time to let my inner most thought known?
Sorry about that. I've spent the last two hours exorcising the last of him and his kin from our photo books.
I'm feeling none to sentimental right now.
Hmmm. Interesting.
It almost makes me want to put up a postsecret post card that I've been hiding up my sleeve. I saw it the week before the sentencing and I've been sitting on it.
Perhaps it's time to let my inner most thought known?
Sorry about that. I've spent the last two hours exorcising the last of him and his kin from our photo books.
I'm feeling none to sentimental right now.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Land Mines
I have a large pink bin in my closet. It's where I store photos and baby momentos.
Not, mind you, in albums or envelopes. I have them thrown in their as if Michael Jordan were my de-clutter expert.
Right after STBX left, we had the "Great Burning". Photos were burned, goats were sacrificed, incantations were chanted.
I thought I had all that crap cleared up.
But last night, I went diving for old photos for my brother. Anything I could find of our dad or our siblings since there was a time when some woman burned all of his photos.
Hmmmm. I'm seeing a disturbing pattern here...
As I'm digging, I dig to the bottom of the bin and find piles and piles of photos. Photos of STBX, photos of his family, photos that every time I looked at them, I wondered what was going on at that time in our lives.
That photo from our family vacation years ago? Guess what he was doing at the time that was taken?
That photo taken with his daughter in his arms? Was he already thinking about what he wanted to do?
That photo of the two of us, where I'm smiling everywhere but in my eyes. I remember that day. I remember the emptiness and the pain. I looked like a rabbit caught in a trap. Until now, I've looked at that photo and just thought "Wow, that's a bad picture!"
In all reality, it's probably the most truthful picture I own.
Not, mind you, in albums or envelopes. I have them thrown in their as if Michael Jordan were my de-clutter expert.
Right after STBX left, we had the "Great Burning". Photos were burned, goats were sacrificed, incantations were chanted.
I thought I had all that crap cleared up.
But last night, I went diving for old photos for my brother. Anything I could find of our dad or our siblings since there was a time when some woman burned all of his photos.
Hmmmm. I'm seeing a disturbing pattern here...
As I'm digging, I dig to the bottom of the bin and find piles and piles of photos. Photos of STBX, photos of his family, photos that every time I looked at them, I wondered what was going on at that time in our lives.
That photo from our family vacation years ago? Guess what he was doing at the time that was taken?
That photo taken with his daughter in his arms? Was he already thinking about what he wanted to do?
That photo of the two of us, where I'm smiling everywhere but in my eyes. I remember that day. I remember the emptiness and the pain. I looked like a rabbit caught in a trap. Until now, I've looked at that photo and just thought "Wow, that's a bad picture!"
In all reality, it's probably the most truthful picture I own.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Out Of The Mouths Of Babes
How do they do all this on television so quickly AND have time for all those commercial breaks?
One of my friends that went to the sentencing made the comment Monday morning that "it wasn't anything like it is on t.v."
Yup. And believe it or not, those hospital shows are a little off base as well.
I spent last night ruminating, chewing my cud, and occasionally mooing.
STBX's big thing was talking about therapy and how much he's learned and how far he's come. I can guarantee that if you go to a therapist and say "I've got problems because my father was Tritan, King of the Mer-people and he never had time for me," you probably wouldn't get too far in therapy.
I'm imagining that his therapy is just like everything else in his life. Completely self centered. I feel this way...this was done to Me...I I I Me Me Me.
It's one thing to hear a therapist say "You should admit to this because taking it to trial would only hurt your daughter."
It's another thing to take into your heart that 99.9% of what you have done to your kids has been negative. You don't have to molest a kid to screw them up. You can ignore them. You can have nothing but hateful, sarcastic things to say to them. You can treat their very existence as a burden. You can sigh heavily and respond negatively whenever any expectation is placed upon you as a father. (Going to two school events in eleven years when the majority of the time you chose to stay home and play on the computer is not stellar parenting. FYI.)
Even though it was my daughter's idea to change our name and it was my daughter that came up with our new name, I had to check in with my kids yesterday to make sure that I was not placing words in their mouth.
(For some nagging reason, I'm curious to know if he's doing this to fuck with me or to fuck with all of us. As if splitting those hairs really matters...)
I asked them how they felt about their father. I asked them if they could ever foresee a time (15 years down the road) that they would feel compelled to see him or to get back in touch with him. I asked if there was anything left there in their heart of hearts.
And both said no.
Their father never had the capacity to love them. I honestly don't think he even knows what the word means. From my perspective, his idea of love was "you will take care of me. you will be the mother I never had. I will be the child that can only take and take and take."
And he always took whatever he wanted. Consenting or not. Legal or not.
As he's moving through "therapy", no doubt getting "better" every second, my journey through therapy has shown me that our marriage was always a nightmare. As I've stated before, when you look at a listing of signs of physical, sexual and verbal abuse and see your entire marriage spelled out, it rather kicks you in your lady parts.
Coming to terms with what he did to the kids also means coming to terms with what he did to me. Remembering the day that I stood outside our house in desolate Carney, Oklahoma, holding my baby to me, and sobbing because all I wanted to do was to escape and I didn't have anywhere to escape to...seeing that in retrospect, knowing that the baby in my arms would grow up to be his next victim, it cuts me off at my knees.
This whole name change thing, it is aimed squarely at his whole idea of power. Anytime he didn't want to do something, he didn't. Anytime he did want to do something, he did. Now, there are times when these might be admirable traits, but when it involves destroying other human beings, probably not so good. His last piece of power is "ownership" of the kids.
The part of me that is still fucked up from the last 17 years of my life wants to believe that he is hanging on to the name thing out of some twisted idea that there will be a reconciliation some day and he just can't get it through his head that it isn't going to happen.
But then, my daughter's intelligence cuts through the crap in my head.
"He's doing it because he's a dick."
She always was smarter than her mother.
One of my friends that went to the sentencing made the comment Monday morning that "it wasn't anything like it is on t.v."
Yup. And believe it or not, those hospital shows are a little off base as well.
I spent last night ruminating, chewing my cud, and occasionally mooing.
STBX's big thing was talking about therapy and how much he's learned and how far he's come. I can guarantee that if you go to a therapist and say "I've got problems because my father was Tritan, King of the Mer-people and he never had time for me," you probably wouldn't get too far in therapy.
I'm imagining that his therapy is just like everything else in his life. Completely self centered. I feel this way...this was done to Me...I I I Me Me Me.
It's one thing to hear a therapist say "You should admit to this because taking it to trial would only hurt your daughter."
It's another thing to take into your heart that 99.9% of what you have done to your kids has been negative. You don't have to molest a kid to screw them up. You can ignore them. You can have nothing but hateful, sarcastic things to say to them. You can treat their very existence as a burden. You can sigh heavily and respond negatively whenever any expectation is placed upon you as a father. (Going to two school events in eleven years when the majority of the time you chose to stay home and play on the computer is not stellar parenting. FYI.)
Even though it was my daughter's idea to change our name and it was my daughter that came up with our new name, I had to check in with my kids yesterday to make sure that I was not placing words in their mouth.
(For some nagging reason, I'm curious to know if he's doing this to fuck with me or to fuck with all of us. As if splitting those hairs really matters...)
I asked them how they felt about their father. I asked them if they could ever foresee a time (15 years down the road) that they would feel compelled to see him or to get back in touch with him. I asked if there was anything left there in their heart of hearts.
And both said no.
Their father never had the capacity to love them. I honestly don't think he even knows what the word means. From my perspective, his idea of love was "you will take care of me. you will be the mother I never had. I will be the child that can only take and take and take."
And he always took whatever he wanted. Consenting or not. Legal or not.
As he's moving through "therapy", no doubt getting "better" every second, my journey through therapy has shown me that our marriage was always a nightmare. As I've stated before, when you look at a listing of signs of physical, sexual and verbal abuse and see your entire marriage spelled out, it rather kicks you in your lady parts.
Coming to terms with what he did to the kids also means coming to terms with what he did to me. Remembering the day that I stood outside our house in desolate Carney, Oklahoma, holding my baby to me, and sobbing because all I wanted to do was to escape and I didn't have anywhere to escape to...seeing that in retrospect, knowing that the baby in my arms would grow up to be his next victim, it cuts me off at my knees.
This whole name change thing, it is aimed squarely at his whole idea of power. Anytime he didn't want to do something, he didn't. Anytime he did want to do something, he did. Now, there are times when these might be admirable traits, but when it involves destroying other human beings, probably not so good. His last piece of power is "ownership" of the kids.
The part of me that is still fucked up from the last 17 years of my life wants to believe that he is hanging on to the name thing out of some twisted idea that there will be a reconciliation some day and he just can't get it through his head that it isn't going to happen.
But then, my daughter's intelligence cuts through the crap in my head.
"He's doing it because he's a dick."
She always was smarter than her mother.
Monday, June 15, 2009
This Trail Isn't Marked
Getting mad is a part of getting better.
It's right in there in the steps of grief...in the steps of healing from trauma...in the steps for healing from sexual abuse.
Getting angry.
It can be a terrifying road to travel because when you are walking it, you don't know where it will lead. There are side roads to take you to mind numbing alternatives...drugs, cutting, abusive relationships, suicide.
These are all sorts of pitfalls and potholes along the way.
And once you walk down that path, it's impossible to see the end and after a few short steps, you can no longer see where you came from. If you hold your hand out straight in front of your face, it disappears in the darkness that envelopes you.
No matter how many people want to walk with you, they can't. Anger is a personal journey. People can walk beside you. People can hold out their hands and try to catch you if you fall, but no one can crawl inside your skin and walk your journey for you.
When my daughter asked for people to support her at the hearing on June 26th, this was a huge step for her. When the two of us, along with her PAVSA advocate, had to meet with yet another legal person in the system to spill our guts yet again (one hour after STBX denied her the right to change her name), she got as heated as I've ever seen her.
But not for herself. For me.
To sit there, knowing what she has gone through and knowing how horrible her father treated her for so many years and listening to her tell this person that her father treated me like crap was soul wrenching.
Later, her advocate commented that her anger was positive. It was a sign that she was headed in the right direction. She was channeling it through positive things. She was doing the right thing.
I then asked the question that had haunted me since our meeting. "How can she get so worked up over what her father did to me? What her father did to me was nothing. What her father did to her was horrifying."
And that's when all these last few months came down on my head.
"How have you managed to get through these last few months?" She asked me. "What has been the force that has pulled you through when you didn't think you could survive another five minutes?"
"My kids," I told her. "If we didn't have kids and if he had been a pedophile toward some other child, I probably would have put a bullet in his head and then did the same to myself. As a matter of fact, that thought haunted me even though I did have kids. But it was the anger that I had at him for what he did to my daughter that kept me going. My need to protect her now even though I couldn't/didn't protect her then."
"And why," she then asked me. "Do you think that her journey is any different?"
I just stood there, probably with my mouth hanging open and flies coming in and out. The parent-child bond is also a child-parent bond. I survived for her. She made it through for me.
Neither one of us looked in the mirror and said "I need to do this for myself."
"Myself" is a harder concept. "Myself" means that you recognize that what occured to you was wrong. "Myself" can lead down a road of "oh poor me" and that whole victimization bullshit that STBX wallows in on a daily basis.
But just for a moment, it can be the startling realization that it's easier to stand up for the ones you love than it is to stand up for yourself.
It's the realization that this road is a million miles long and we have only taken the first three steps.
It's right in there in the steps of grief...in the steps of healing from trauma...in the steps for healing from sexual abuse.
Getting angry.
It can be a terrifying road to travel because when you are walking it, you don't know where it will lead. There are side roads to take you to mind numbing alternatives...drugs, cutting, abusive relationships, suicide.
These are all sorts of pitfalls and potholes along the way.
And once you walk down that path, it's impossible to see the end and after a few short steps, you can no longer see where you came from. If you hold your hand out straight in front of your face, it disappears in the darkness that envelopes you.
No matter how many people want to walk with you, they can't. Anger is a personal journey. People can walk beside you. People can hold out their hands and try to catch you if you fall, but no one can crawl inside your skin and walk your journey for you.
When my daughter asked for people to support her at the hearing on June 26th, this was a huge step for her. When the two of us, along with her PAVSA advocate, had to meet with yet another legal person in the system to spill our guts yet again (one hour after STBX denied her the right to change her name), she got as heated as I've ever seen her.
But not for herself. For me.
To sit there, knowing what she has gone through and knowing how horrible her father treated her for so many years and listening to her tell this person that her father treated me like crap was soul wrenching.
Later, her advocate commented that her anger was positive. It was a sign that she was headed in the right direction. She was channeling it through positive things. She was doing the right thing.
I then asked the question that had haunted me since our meeting. "How can she get so worked up over what her father did to me? What her father did to me was nothing. What her father did to her was horrifying."
And that's when all these last few months came down on my head.
"How have you managed to get through these last few months?" She asked me. "What has been the force that has pulled you through when you didn't think you could survive another five minutes?"
"My kids," I told her. "If we didn't have kids and if he had been a pedophile toward some other child, I probably would have put a bullet in his head and then did the same to myself. As a matter of fact, that thought haunted me even though I did have kids. But it was the anger that I had at him for what he did to my daughter that kept me going. My need to protect her now even though I couldn't/didn't protect her then."
"And why," she then asked me. "Do you think that her journey is any different?"
I just stood there, probably with my mouth hanging open and flies coming in and out. The parent-child bond is also a child-parent bond. I survived for her. She made it through for me.
Neither one of us looked in the mirror and said "I need to do this for myself."
"Myself" is a harder concept. "Myself" means that you recognize that what occured to you was wrong. "Myself" can lead down a road of "oh poor me" and that whole victimization bullshit that STBX wallows in on a daily basis.
But just for a moment, it can be the startling realization that it's easier to stand up for the ones you love than it is to stand up for yourself.
It's the realization that this road is a million miles long and we have only taken the first three steps.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Way To Early In The Morning
Back to my old blogging ways. It's 2:42 in the morning and I am standing back on square one. Spiraling, spiraling. No doubt, STBX is cuddled up and smiling to himself, ever so proud of the multiple ways he's fucked over the three people he's made so miserable for years.
Yesterday afternoon was me, pacing around the house, taking a hot bath, going for a very wet run, and then taking a second hot bath. I asked my daughter if it made me crazy for taking two baths in one day and she said it only made me crazy if I continually washed my hands and kept muttering "the stains just won't come off..."
Who knows, that may just happen today.
And just seeing his "fuck you bitch" look yesterday has finally made me realize, after all these months, that he isn't just stupid and fucked up, he is truly enjoying the ability to hurt us as much as possible. Anything that makes him look like a victim falls right into his belief of his life story.
I remember stopping at certain times of our marriage and giving him the "Whhaaa?" look when he would go off on his belief that he was the wing nut of the universe and that "the government" was out to get him because he did something so bold as to place a half cooked comment on some news blog somewhere. Maybe that was just a ruse for comments that he left on kiddie porn blogs somewhere. Who knows.
Of course, his virulent political beliefs were always "my way or the highway", his way of coping with ANYTHING he didn't want to do was to simply sit there and refuse as any two year old would do (amazingly enough, after living with his father for a few months in Oklahoma, the similarities were uncanny), and the 'rules' that he would lay down for the kids were always for them but never for him. "Do as I say, not as I do" was always his child rearing philosophy.
So I am doing everything I shouldn't be doing right now. Losing sleep over this piece of shit, giving him a single ounce of my mental energy, and lovingly remembering how I, at times, would stand behind him as he sat on the computer and look at the spot on the back of his head where the hair was thinning.
That, I used to fantasize, was right where my cast iron skillet would go when I smashed it into his skull.
But I didn't go through with it because, once you've spilled the brains and skull all over the carpet, guess who's going to have to clean all that shit up...
Yesterday afternoon was me, pacing around the house, taking a hot bath, going for a very wet run, and then taking a second hot bath. I asked my daughter if it made me crazy for taking two baths in one day and she said it only made me crazy if I continually washed my hands and kept muttering "the stains just won't come off..."
Who knows, that may just happen today.
And just seeing his "fuck you bitch" look yesterday has finally made me realize, after all these months, that he isn't just stupid and fucked up, he is truly enjoying the ability to hurt us as much as possible. Anything that makes him look like a victim falls right into his belief of his life story.
I remember stopping at certain times of our marriage and giving him the "Whhaaa?" look when he would go off on his belief that he was the wing nut of the universe and that "the government" was out to get him because he did something so bold as to place a half cooked comment on some news blog somewhere. Maybe that was just a ruse for comments that he left on kiddie porn blogs somewhere. Who knows.
Of course, his virulent political beliefs were always "my way or the highway", his way of coping with ANYTHING he didn't want to do was to simply sit there and refuse as any two year old would do (amazingly enough, after living with his father for a few months in Oklahoma, the similarities were uncanny), and the 'rules' that he would lay down for the kids were always for them but never for him. "Do as I say, not as I do" was always his child rearing philosophy.
So I am doing everything I shouldn't be doing right now. Losing sleep over this piece of shit, giving him a single ounce of my mental energy, and lovingly remembering how I, at times, would stand behind him as he sat on the computer and look at the spot on the back of his head where the hair was thinning.
That, I used to fantasize, was right where my cast iron skillet would go when I smashed it into his skull.
But I didn't go through with it because, once you've spilled the brains and skull all over the carpet, guess who's going to have to clean all that shit up...
Monday, June 08, 2009
29 And Holding
Remember when I said, after the omnibus hearing, that I felt so confident that the name change would be a breeze? Because, after all, what judge would deny a child the right to change her name when all she wanted to do was get rid of the last name of the man who molested her for years?
And how would he have the cajones to show up in court and contest our name change?
Guess what.
Yeah, you got it.
He showed up in court. And contested it.
And the judge threw it out because we could "handle it" during the divorce proceedings.
All he had to do was to accept the fact that his kids hate him, that his STBX wife wanted to make a new start with a new name and a new future.
But apparently, all that time in therapy in which he has become so "enlightened" has led him to believe in all his old ways. He will sit down on the floor and kick and scream and hold his breath until he gets his own way. And he will fuck with me at the expense of his kids ANY DAY OF THE WEEK.
His whole schtick in criminal court was to say that he was confessing because it was "best for his daughter".
Ohhh, but wait a minute...coming to court and saying "I have the right to molest you on a daily basis for three years, make your life a living, screaming hell of temper tantrums and physical abuse, AND you have to keep my name", that's all in her best mental health interest.
It was all laid bare that "his own best interest for his daughter" means nothing. He may have fucked us over today but in 18 days, he might find out that he only succeeded in shooting himself in the foot yet again.
I must admit, I did indeed lose it today. It all had to do with him and his lawyer walking out of the courtroom and his lawyer joking around with him and giving him a congenial slap on the back as he walked to the elevator. Isn't it FUN to screw over people that you have done nothing but shit on??? Hooray! Let's fuck'em some more!
That's when I broke away from our group and ran to the elevator and screamed at him that he was nothing but a mother fucking piece of shit. In retrospect, I should have screamed "baby fucking pedophile", I'm sure that would have garnered more interest. However, all I heard were the approaching footsteps of one of my friends, chasing me down and trying to latch onto the back of my sweater before I committed assault.
I turned around before I could get close enough to strangle him, before the security guard even had a clue, and walked away.
He just stood there with a delighted little smirk on his face.
He had succeeded in fucking with me. He had succeeded in making himself, once again, to look like the victim.
I knew I should have said "baby-fucker"
Well, because The Decemberists have a song for everything, here is a song dedicated to what a wonderful dad he was today.
When we got home, my daughter had finally had enough. She created this invitation to the sentencing on June 26th. She would personally like to invite everyone to show up and be there to see what happens. What her father has failed to fathom is that sometimes it is just best to tip toe past the hive of bees instead of finding the biggest fucking stick around.
This is why my daughter ROCKS.
And how would he have the cajones to show up in court and contest our name change?
Guess what.
Yeah, you got it.
He showed up in court. And contested it.
And the judge threw it out because we could "handle it" during the divorce proceedings.
All he had to do was to accept the fact that his kids hate him, that his STBX wife wanted to make a new start with a new name and a new future.
But apparently, all that time in therapy in which he has become so "enlightened" has led him to believe in all his old ways. He will sit down on the floor and kick and scream and hold his breath until he gets his own way. And he will fuck with me at the expense of his kids ANY DAY OF THE WEEK.
His whole schtick in criminal court was to say that he was confessing because it was "best for his daughter".
Ohhh, but wait a minute...coming to court and saying "I have the right to molest you on a daily basis for three years, make your life a living, screaming hell of temper tantrums and physical abuse, AND you have to keep my name", that's all in her best mental health interest.
It was all laid bare that "his own best interest for his daughter" means nothing. He may have fucked us over today but in 18 days, he might find out that he only succeeded in shooting himself in the foot yet again.
I must admit, I did indeed lose it today. It all had to do with him and his lawyer walking out of the courtroom and his lawyer joking around with him and giving him a congenial slap on the back as he walked to the elevator. Isn't it FUN to screw over people that you have done nothing but shit on??? Hooray! Let's fuck'em some more!
That's when I broke away from our group and ran to the elevator and screamed at him that he was nothing but a mother fucking piece of shit. In retrospect, I should have screamed "baby fucking pedophile", I'm sure that would have garnered more interest. However, all I heard were the approaching footsteps of one of my friends, chasing me down and trying to latch onto the back of my sweater before I committed assault.
I turned around before I could get close enough to strangle him, before the security guard even had a clue, and walked away.
He just stood there with a delighted little smirk on his face.
He had succeeded in fucking with me. He had succeeded in making himself, once again, to look like the victim.
I knew I should have said "baby-fucker"
Well, because The Decemberists have a song for everything, here is a song dedicated to what a wonderful dad he was today.
When we got home, my daughter had finally had enough. She created this invitation to the sentencing on June 26th. She would personally like to invite everyone to show up and be there to see what happens. What her father has failed to fathom is that sometimes it is just best to tip toe past the hive of bees instead of finding the biggest fucking stick around.
This is why my daughter ROCKS.
Friday, June 05, 2009
And I Thought My Marriage Was Just A Pain In My Ass
The training session was even harder than I had assumed. With an hour to go, I started to get a migraine.
I used to get migraines ALL the time. After two thousand types of meds, I ended up going on atenolol everyday and for about seven years or so, I've only averaged two or three a year. Thankfully, they are merely uncomfortable and miserable as opposed to debilitating with a need for medical intervention.
But today, my body said "ummmmm. no." It was when I heard the presenter talking about abusive relationships and it was laid out in front of me that physical bruises are by no means a necessity of an abusive relationship that I started getting a little veklempt. Then, when I heard her say, word for word, a phrase that STBX said to me early in our marriage when I tried to explain to him how hurtful his behaviors were.
"I don't know what your problem is, I don't beat you."
It was at that exact moment that I looked down at all the behaviors listed for an emotionally abusive relationship and saw my entire marriage. Seventeen years. The early years being lived in isolation in Oklahoma, told that anytime I was unhappy about the way I was treated that I was in the wrong and being a bitch. As long as I didn't have bruises, I had no right to complain.
And all the years afterwards of putting up with it. Why didn't I leave? Why didn't I stand up for myself and say "You are a horrible horse's ass and I hate the way you treat me and I despise you."
Have you ever had the sudden realization that you are no different from a lab rat? That, like a lab rat exposed to an electric shock at their food bowl, you learned to go to the other corner of your cage, sit alone, and starve yourself. Even after the electric shock had been removed. Even after his level of overt hatefulness turned into sullenly ignoring us, with frequent spikes of making it obvious that we were the bane of his existence (after doing the math, this attitude started after he stopped molesting our daughter). Even after being called a bitch stopped. Instead, he physically and psychologically sat down one day in front of the computer and just never got up again.
Too many things for his selfish, childish personality to get involved with. Porn. Online games. Cheating wives with young daughters, willing to offer them up as jailbait.
His world was all about him. We were just the inconvenience. Oh yeah, and the cooked meals. And the only way he could keep this roof over his head. And his personal secretary...and an orifice to fuck until I got sick of the sight of him..
The overt knowledge that he was sexually abusing my daughter is the most devestating thing. The creeping knowledge that he was psychologically abusing us all is yet another crumbling piece in the foundation that was our life.
So, this is what I learned this afternoon. And then I had a migraine. And I puked my guts out. And I curled in the fetal position on the floor and cried until my dogs were howling downstairs.
Every day seems like a thousand little deaths. Thankfully, I have a fuzzy possee to take care of me.
I used to get migraines ALL the time. After two thousand types of meds, I ended up going on atenolol everyday and for about seven years or so, I've only averaged two or three a year. Thankfully, they are merely uncomfortable and miserable as opposed to debilitating with a need for medical intervention.
But today, my body said "ummmmm. no." It was when I heard the presenter talking about abusive relationships and it was laid out in front of me that physical bruises are by no means a necessity of an abusive relationship that I started getting a little veklempt. Then, when I heard her say, word for word, a phrase that STBX said to me early in our marriage when I tried to explain to him how hurtful his behaviors were.
"I don't know what your problem is, I don't beat you."
It was at that exact moment that I looked down at all the behaviors listed for an emotionally abusive relationship and saw my entire marriage. Seventeen years. The early years being lived in isolation in Oklahoma, told that anytime I was unhappy about the way I was treated that I was in the wrong and being a bitch. As long as I didn't have bruises, I had no right to complain.
And all the years afterwards of putting up with it. Why didn't I leave? Why didn't I stand up for myself and say "You are a horrible horse's ass and I hate the way you treat me and I despise you."
Have you ever had the sudden realization that you are no different from a lab rat? That, like a lab rat exposed to an electric shock at their food bowl, you learned to go to the other corner of your cage, sit alone, and starve yourself. Even after the electric shock had been removed. Even after his level of overt hatefulness turned into sullenly ignoring us, with frequent spikes of making it obvious that we were the bane of his existence (after doing the math, this attitude started after he stopped molesting our daughter). Even after being called a bitch stopped. Instead, he physically and psychologically sat down one day in front of the computer and just never got up again.
Too many things for his selfish, childish personality to get involved with. Porn. Online games. Cheating wives with young daughters, willing to offer them up as jailbait.
His world was all about him. We were just the inconvenience. Oh yeah, and the cooked meals. And the only way he could keep this roof over his head. And his personal secretary...and an orifice to fuck until I got sick of the sight of him..
The overt knowledge that he was sexually abusing my daughter is the most devestating thing. The creeping knowledge that he was psychologically abusing us all is yet another crumbling piece in the foundation that was our life.
So, this is what I learned this afternoon. And then I had a migraine. And I puked my guts out. And I curled in the fetal position on the floor and cried until my dogs were howling downstairs.
Every day seems like a thousand little deaths. Thankfully, I have a fuzzy possee to take care of me.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Not So Good For Mental Health
Hanging out with the crazies can be a bitch.
Yes, it is my intention to offend as many people currently seeking mental health treatment as possible.
While a good many of us at the ole' cracker factory outlet store have been merely kicked in the teeth by life and are just trying to stop those fucking stars from spinning around our heads, others need to be dragged out back and sterilized with a rusty razor.
After having recently been to a medical doctor in the same system as my therapist and having him say to me "I see you're stressed out...as a matter of fact, I can see EVERYTHING about you. And I mean EVERYTHING," obviously referring to the fact that he was privy to my therapists notes, I am in a horribly pissy mood regarding anyone and everyone related to any medical system this side of the sun. In other words, I wasn't going into the waiting room in a "loved by Jesus" sort of mood.
Perhaps I'm being too harsh but of all the places I DON'T want to hear people discussing the reasons they are at their clinic, a mental health setting is probably top of the list. Followed closely by a proctologist. I hold no love for either end of the human body.
As I sat in the waiting room, two women who hadn't seen each other since high school had a grand reunion. They then began to catch up with each other. Both were there for their children.
Should you really, as a good and proper mother, stand next to your approximately ten year old son in the middle of the waiting room and discuss with your new found friend across the room how your son was accused by a cousin of sexual molestation?
Really?
And proceed to make every excuse under the sun for your son?
That the cousin was a liar?
That your son LOVES to follow rules and would NEVER break a rule and gets very ANGRY when people break rules?
All the while, the son is playing his hand held game, appearing to have just cheerfully drowned a sack of kittens.
In the mean time, the friend has two children who are climbing the furniture and screaming, rolling around on the floor, and racing out into the hallway in a game of tag.
I seriously looked at this young boy and without knowing truth from fiction, I could feel my hands around his neck. I just wanted to grab him by the collar and shake the shit out of him.
After slapping mommie that is.
It was all played out in front of me. My past, his future, cause, effect, shitty parents, excuses, blaming, and the overwhelming sense from a very small person that it didn't matter what he did, there would always be someone there to cover for him.
I hated him.
Yes, it is my intention to offend as many people currently seeking mental health treatment as possible.
While a good many of us at the ole' cracker factory outlet store have been merely kicked in the teeth by life and are just trying to stop those fucking stars from spinning around our heads, others need to be dragged out back and sterilized with a rusty razor.
After having recently been to a medical doctor in the same system as my therapist and having him say to me "I see you're stressed out...as a matter of fact, I can see EVERYTHING about you. And I mean EVERYTHING," obviously referring to the fact that he was privy to my therapists notes, I am in a horribly pissy mood regarding anyone and everyone related to any medical system this side of the sun. In other words, I wasn't going into the waiting room in a "loved by Jesus" sort of mood.
Perhaps I'm being too harsh but of all the places I DON'T want to hear people discussing the reasons they are at their clinic, a mental health setting is probably top of the list. Followed closely by a proctologist. I hold no love for either end of the human body.
As I sat in the waiting room, two women who hadn't seen each other since high school had a grand reunion. They then began to catch up with each other. Both were there for their children.
Should you really, as a good and proper mother, stand next to your approximately ten year old son in the middle of the waiting room and discuss with your new found friend across the room how your son was accused by a cousin of sexual molestation?
Really?
And proceed to make every excuse under the sun for your son?
That the cousin was a liar?
That your son LOVES to follow rules and would NEVER break a rule and gets very ANGRY when people break rules?
All the while, the son is playing his hand held game, appearing to have just cheerfully drowned a sack of kittens.
In the mean time, the friend has two children who are climbing the furniture and screaming, rolling around on the floor, and racing out into the hallway in a game of tag.
I seriously looked at this young boy and without knowing truth from fiction, I could feel my hands around his neck. I just wanted to grab him by the collar and shake the shit out of him.
After slapping mommie that is.
It was all played out in front of me. My past, his future, cause, effect, shitty parents, excuses, blaming, and the overwhelming sense from a very small person that it didn't matter what he did, there would always be someone there to cover for him.
I hated him.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
A Father's Legacy
As I've stated before, I've been told by professional therapists that the fact that my kids are willing to open up and be honest with me about their feelings is a good thing. It doesn't mean that I've not been stopped dead in my tracks by what they say or how they feel.
I do my best to keep my mouth shut about what is going on in the deepest, darkest recesses of my spleen. In most simple divorce cases, nothing good is ever accomplished by parents playing the kids off the other parent. Kids are not pawns in a game. Kids are unfortunately more like tennis balls, getting lobbed back and forth from one environment to the other. Hopefully, they can maintain their "resiliency". Hopefully they can "bounce back".
Hopefully one more therapist won't use these words with me again or I will set my hair on fire while singing Tip Toe Through The Tulips.
I am tired of jargon. I am tired of being told my kids are doing the best that can be expected. I'm tired of being told I'm doing the best that can be expected.
Whose expectations? Who gets to be the all knowing, all seeing person that points the trident of Poseidon at the unfortunates and deem one ok and another not?
There is so much more going on here than just a simple divorce. My kids discussed divorce with me before I ever discussed it with them. When I was called out to the garage on that snowy December day to be told by my husband that he was a cheater, I told him that our kids had mentioned the fact that I should divorce him long ago.
"What did they say?" He demanded. Of course, at this time I only knew he was a cheater, not a pedophile. "What are they supposed to say?" I shot back. "That you don't give a damn about any of us. That you never lift a finger to be a part of the family. That you don't act like a father."
In retrospect, I believe he looked relieved by that answer. He was fishing for whether I knew about his molestation of our daughter. Somewhere in the sick, disgusting recesses of his mind, I think he was looking for absolution for his perverted behaviors. From the fact that he felt it was ok to contact me at work after admitting to molesting our daughter, I honestly don't believe he felt an ounce of remorse for what he had done to his family.
Oh, there was remorse. There was remorse for the fact that he had finally discovered the straw that broke the camel's back. There was remorse that I wouldn't be one of those women who discover that their husbands are child molesters and feel the need to choose their spouse over their child. (They exist. I know three people personally who were molested by fathers and their mothers are still with those men and are in full knowledge of what they did. Needless to say, their daughters are basket cases.)
This has been a very dark couple days for me as I find myself haunted every waking moment by wondering what the fuck could be going on in a person's head that could do this. That could harbor a secret so heinous and still choose to live among the people that he perpetrated it upon.
And of course, there is the flip side. All the stories that I could never disclose here that should have been red flags. All the times of being hurt and running interference between my husband and kids. All the therapists that have shown me how our situation was no different psychologically than a woman who was being physically beaten. She will stick with a marriage until the abuse turns to her children and then she will realize that if SHE isn't worth saving, at least her children are.
To listen to your son tell you how much he hates his father and how he is ready to testify to that fact at his name change hearing makes me travel through all those years, all those hateful comments, all that indifference, all the times when a flippant remark would cut him off at his young knees and realizing how much cumulative damage has been done.
This coming from the child that wasn't molested.
After spending time with another guy who took an interest in him and explained things and enjoyed his company my son turned to me and said "That's more than I got out of dad in 15 years..." Yeah.
There are times when my heart just breaks.
I do my best to keep my mouth shut about what is going on in the deepest, darkest recesses of my spleen. In most simple divorce cases, nothing good is ever accomplished by parents playing the kids off the other parent. Kids are not pawns in a game. Kids are unfortunately more like tennis balls, getting lobbed back and forth from one environment to the other. Hopefully, they can maintain their "resiliency". Hopefully they can "bounce back".
Hopefully one more therapist won't use these words with me again or I will set my hair on fire while singing Tip Toe Through The Tulips.
I am tired of jargon. I am tired of being told my kids are doing the best that can be expected. I'm tired of being told I'm doing the best that can be expected.
Whose expectations? Who gets to be the all knowing, all seeing person that points the trident of Poseidon at the unfortunates and deem one ok and another not?
There is so much more going on here than just a simple divorce. My kids discussed divorce with me before I ever discussed it with them. When I was called out to the garage on that snowy December day to be told by my husband that he was a cheater, I told him that our kids had mentioned the fact that I should divorce him long ago.
"What did they say?" He demanded. Of course, at this time I only knew he was a cheater, not a pedophile. "What are they supposed to say?" I shot back. "That you don't give a damn about any of us. That you never lift a finger to be a part of the family. That you don't act like a father."
In retrospect, I believe he looked relieved by that answer. He was fishing for whether I knew about his molestation of our daughter. Somewhere in the sick, disgusting recesses of his mind, I think he was looking for absolution for his perverted behaviors. From the fact that he felt it was ok to contact me at work after admitting to molesting our daughter, I honestly don't believe he felt an ounce of remorse for what he had done to his family.
Oh, there was remorse. There was remorse for the fact that he had finally discovered the straw that broke the camel's back. There was remorse that I wouldn't be one of those women who discover that their husbands are child molesters and feel the need to choose their spouse over their child. (They exist. I know three people personally who were molested by fathers and their mothers are still with those men and are in full knowledge of what they did. Needless to say, their daughters are basket cases.)
This has been a very dark couple days for me as I find myself haunted every waking moment by wondering what the fuck could be going on in a person's head that could do this. That could harbor a secret so heinous and still choose to live among the people that he perpetrated it upon.
And of course, there is the flip side. All the stories that I could never disclose here that should have been red flags. All the times of being hurt and running interference between my husband and kids. All the therapists that have shown me how our situation was no different psychologically than a woman who was being physically beaten. She will stick with a marriage until the abuse turns to her children and then she will realize that if SHE isn't worth saving, at least her children are.
To listen to your son tell you how much he hates his father and how he is ready to testify to that fact at his name change hearing makes me travel through all those years, all those hateful comments, all that indifference, all the times when a flippant remark would cut him off at his young knees and realizing how much cumulative damage has been done.
This coming from the child that wasn't molested.
After spending time with another guy who took an interest in him and explained things and enjoyed his company my son turned to me and said "That's more than I got out of dad in 15 years..." Yeah.
There are times when my heart just breaks.
Monday, April 20, 2009
All The Little Pieces
The next criminal court appearance will be May 22nd at 10:30.
Within six weeks we get to make an appearance at the St. Louis County Courthouse three times. All I really need to know is this:
Do we get frequent flyer miles?
Unfortunately, the date that I'm actually looking forward to the most happens last. Our name change.
A local pastor has offered to do a name ceremony for us which I think would be lovely but I'm not too sure about the overtly Jesus aspect of it. My thought would be to have a name changing ceremony at our house along with a Native American smudging ceremony to get out all the bad juju that he left in our lives.
I wonder how it feels to be considered the evil spirit that your family is trying to exercise? To have so totally fucked up three other human beings on the face of the earth and to have caused such emotional pain which goes to the very morrow of the bones, the soft curl at the center of the soul.
To have your kids stop you when you accidently refer to something before your world exploded. Something that referred to him. Something that seemed an innocuous comment. Something that caused your child to look at you and softly say "Mom, just...don't." Three words that are pregnant with pain and meaning.
There are days when these little phrases, scattered throughout the day, can cut your heart out. They end up as pieces; ugly, painful, and waiting like land mines. Don't go there again, you're told, it might be worse.
The pain might be dormant for years but someday, you will walk here again. You will forget for just one moment and you will step your foot down and your world will go up in a blinding flash of light.
I am going to be wandering through the next six weeks of my life, picking up the pieces. His pieces. The pieces of flesh and memory that he took and used and threw away.
How can I gather all the pieces? How can I repair this damage? How can I stop this horrible cycle of anger, sadness, and heartbreak?
How can I hold my children in my arms and tell them that it will be OK when I'm still trying to convince myself?
Within six weeks we get to make an appearance at the St. Louis County Courthouse three times. All I really need to know is this:
Do we get frequent flyer miles?
Unfortunately, the date that I'm actually looking forward to the most happens last. Our name change.
A local pastor has offered to do a name ceremony for us which I think would be lovely but I'm not too sure about the overtly Jesus aspect of it. My thought would be to have a name changing ceremony at our house along with a Native American smudging ceremony to get out all the bad juju that he left in our lives.
I wonder how it feels to be considered the evil spirit that your family is trying to exercise? To have so totally fucked up three other human beings on the face of the earth and to have caused such emotional pain which goes to the very morrow of the bones, the soft curl at the center of the soul.
To have your kids stop you when you accidently refer to something before your world exploded. Something that referred to him. Something that seemed an innocuous comment. Something that caused your child to look at you and softly say "Mom, just...don't." Three words that are pregnant with pain and meaning.
There are days when these little phrases, scattered throughout the day, can cut your heart out. They end up as pieces; ugly, painful, and waiting like land mines. Don't go there again, you're told, it might be worse.
The pain might be dormant for years but someday, you will walk here again. You will forget for just one moment and you will step your foot down and your world will go up in a blinding flash of light.
I am going to be wandering through the next six weeks of my life, picking up the pieces. His pieces. The pieces of flesh and memory that he took and used and threw away.
How can I gather all the pieces? How can I repair this damage? How can I stop this horrible cycle of anger, sadness, and heartbreak?
How can I hold my children in my arms and tell them that it will be OK when I'm still trying to convince myself?
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Mommie Dearest
It's always interesting to pop the top off your head and take a look at what makes you tick.
I remember a long time ago when my kids were toddlers, I went to a workshop on parenting and the presenter said that, when your kids are misbehaving and you are at your wits end, it sometimes helps to pretend that they are someone else's kids. You are less likely to throttle someone else's kids. You are more likely to step back from the situation and act responsibly.
I've found that advice to be very beneficial over the years when examining my own self. Having had the cheese slip off my crackers as a college student, I really don't want to go there again. Having had less than stellar therapy in the past, I'm less than trusting when it comes to laying all the power at someone else's feet.
Thus, I tinker.
During the years of my marriage, I would stand in the kitchen, stare out of the kitchen window, and psychoanalyze why I was so angry. I would delve into the reasons for my sadness. I would take comfort in the fact that I had reasons to feel the way I was feeling.
And then I wouldn't do a damn thing about it.
It's sort of like being the most enlightened person on a deserted island. In the long run, it doesn't really matter much.
Something I've been examining lately is motherhood.
So much of what is going on revolves around motherhood.
Mother-guilt for not knowing what was going on (yes, I know it's ridiculous to beat myself up for ignorance but SAYING it and FEELING it are two entirely different things.)
Abysmal choices by mothers-STBX's manhole choosing to carry on a relationship with a known pedophile when she has a young daughter. (Do you think he fantasizes about her daughter when they're having sex?).
Maternal abandonment issues-something that I've been working on in regards to myself and my first few months of life.
STBX's mother issues-He never moved past the psychological development of a ten year old and always acted like I was supposed to be his mother rather than his wife. I know a lot of women feel this way about their husbands but his is a deep seated psychological issue rather than an annoying immaturity.
There's also the culture of judgment of mother's, mine being right up there at the top. Mothers are judged far more than fathers. One side of the coin is that we're all trying to do the best we can with what we have. The other side of the coin is the reality that we often act out of selfish desires for our own safety, our own security, and our own desires.
See, prying the top off your head can get ugly.
You have to be willing to own what you have done. To admit that there were times when you should have made better choices and that there were times when you were just hanging on by a thread.
To realize that the decisions you make as a mother are made in somewhat of an echo chamber, they might seem transitory at the time but when you string them together, they make a conversation, the foundation of a life for your children.
That is the ultimate challenge and the heartbreaking joy of being a mother.
I remember a long time ago when my kids were toddlers, I went to a workshop on parenting and the presenter said that, when your kids are misbehaving and you are at your wits end, it sometimes helps to pretend that they are someone else's kids. You are less likely to throttle someone else's kids. You are more likely to step back from the situation and act responsibly.
I've found that advice to be very beneficial over the years when examining my own self. Having had the cheese slip off my crackers as a college student, I really don't want to go there again. Having had less than stellar therapy in the past, I'm less than trusting when it comes to laying all the power at someone else's feet.
Thus, I tinker.
During the years of my marriage, I would stand in the kitchen, stare out of the kitchen window, and psychoanalyze why I was so angry. I would delve into the reasons for my sadness. I would take comfort in the fact that I had reasons to feel the way I was feeling.
And then I wouldn't do a damn thing about it.
It's sort of like being the most enlightened person on a deserted island. In the long run, it doesn't really matter much.
Something I've been examining lately is motherhood.
So much of what is going on revolves around motherhood.
Mother-guilt for not knowing what was going on (yes, I know it's ridiculous to beat myself up for ignorance but SAYING it and FEELING it are two entirely different things.)
Abysmal choices by mothers-STBX's manhole choosing to carry on a relationship with a known pedophile when she has a young daughter. (Do you think he fantasizes about her daughter when they're having sex?).
Maternal abandonment issues-something that I've been working on in regards to myself and my first few months of life.
STBX's mother issues-He never moved past the psychological development of a ten year old and always acted like I was supposed to be his mother rather than his wife. I know a lot of women feel this way about their husbands but his is a deep seated psychological issue rather than an annoying immaturity.
There's also the culture of judgment of mother's, mine being right up there at the top. Mothers are judged far more than fathers. One side of the coin is that we're all trying to do the best we can with what we have. The other side of the coin is the reality that we often act out of selfish desires for our own safety, our own security, and our own desires.
See, prying the top off your head can get ugly.
You have to be willing to own what you have done. To admit that there were times when you should have made better choices and that there were times when you were just hanging on by a thread.
To realize that the decisions you make as a mother are made in somewhat of an echo chamber, they might seem transitory at the time but when you string them together, they make a conversation, the foundation of a life for your children.
That is the ultimate challenge and the heartbreaking joy of being a mother.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Take Two
Reboot.
That's what today has been.
I talked to my therapist (individual, not group), on Friday morning and she headed me in the right direction. I have some meds from when I saw my family doc back in January for anxiety and I've been using them a little more than previously. I'm sincerely not interested in anti-depressants at this point because I'm not interested in being a zombie. That's what they do for me and I hate it.
So today was spent in the gym, exercising the demons a little more holistically. A nice long sauna after wards was really relaxing as well.
I then went to Home Depot for a gardening presentation that didn't really tell me anything that I didn't already know but when I entered my name into a drawing, I ended up winning a gigantic peace lily. I'm going to believe that I won because I entered in my "new" name. Had I entered in my stbx's last name, not only would I not have won, I probably would have been hit by a truck in the parking lot.
Yeah, I know...but we all gotta tell ourselves stories to get through the day, right?
I also crawled out of the hole I obviously exist in and went to Earth Exchange over in Superior. Every time I've been by there they have been closed so today was my first time to actually go inside. HOLY COW! It's about damn time this area got a shop like this! Since I'm having a real problem finding food very interesting lately, I sort of keep losing weight even though I'm not trying anymore so I was totally pumped to find two pairs of jeans for a buck a piece.
I then tried to bulk up on Starbucks Coffee Cake and met Mary for a quick book sale. Currently, my son is making manicotti from scratch to go along with some sourdough bread I made this afternoon.
After the criminal case is over, I'll have to share some of the reasons why I took this tentative step off the deep end. Thankfully, I'm treading water for now.
That's what today has been.
I talked to my therapist (individual, not group), on Friday morning and she headed me in the right direction. I have some meds from when I saw my family doc back in January for anxiety and I've been using them a little more than previously. I'm sincerely not interested in anti-depressants at this point because I'm not interested in being a zombie. That's what they do for me and I hate it.
So today was spent in the gym, exercising the demons a little more holistically. A nice long sauna after wards was really relaxing as well.
I then went to Home Depot for a gardening presentation that didn't really tell me anything that I didn't already know but when I entered my name into a drawing, I ended up winning a gigantic peace lily. I'm going to believe that I won because I entered in my "new" name. Had I entered in my stbx's last name, not only would I not have won, I probably would have been hit by a truck in the parking lot.
Yeah, I know...but we all gotta tell ourselves stories to get through the day, right?
I also crawled out of the hole I obviously exist in and went to Earth Exchange over in Superior. Every time I've been by there they have been closed so today was my first time to actually go inside. HOLY COW! It's about damn time this area got a shop like this! Since I'm having a real problem finding food very interesting lately, I sort of keep losing weight even though I'm not trying anymore so I was totally pumped to find two pairs of jeans for a buck a piece.
I then tried to bulk up on Starbucks Coffee Cake and met Mary for a quick book sale. Currently, my son is making manicotti from scratch to go along with some sourdough bread I made this afternoon.
After the criminal case is over, I'll have to share some of the reasons why I took this tentative step off the deep end. Thankfully, I'm treading water for now.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Emergency Plans Are Not Always A Good Idea
When all this shit happened, I thought it would be a good thing to have a plan for my kids. What to do if I get hit by a bus, who to call, all that jazz.
I managed to get them set up with cell phones, and I set myself up too. We programmed in emergency numbers.
I don't know, is that the modern equivalent of an emergency plan?
I wanted to write it down for them. Maybe it's because I've worked as a paramedic before and I've seen the horrible things that take people by surprise but I wanted the piece of mind that comes with the knowledge that my kids would know what to do in an emergency. Call this person, call that person. This is where this piece of paper is, this is where that piece of paper is.
I'm glad I don't have a plan right now.
A plan gives a person piece of mind, but right now it also gives permission.
To have your stbx cheat on you and molest your child and demand money from you when you are holding yourself together with bubblegum, your family together with silly putty, and your life together with those little tiny bandaids that always come off and are absolutely ridiculous, is a little too much to take. When you used all your money to pay off bills and fix the house and you're being treated like you took a Carribean vacation is maddening.
Going into the bathroom at work once to fall apart and curl into a ball and completly lose your shit may be understandable. Doing it three times is a little frightening. Heading home and being forced to pull off the road because you couldn't see any longer due to crying and coming to the realization that all you want to do is disappear and too bad you didn't have that plan in writing and...and...and...
Up to now, I've been able to latch onto things that I know will keep me going. The very basics. My kids. My pets. My friends.
Dear God, all I want to do is disappear.
I managed to get them set up with cell phones, and I set myself up too. We programmed in emergency numbers.
I don't know, is that the modern equivalent of an emergency plan?
I wanted to write it down for them. Maybe it's because I've worked as a paramedic before and I've seen the horrible things that take people by surprise but I wanted the piece of mind that comes with the knowledge that my kids would know what to do in an emergency. Call this person, call that person. This is where this piece of paper is, this is where that piece of paper is.
I'm glad I don't have a plan right now.
A plan gives a person piece of mind, but right now it also gives permission.
To have your stbx cheat on you and molest your child and demand money from you when you are holding yourself together with bubblegum, your family together with silly putty, and your life together with those little tiny bandaids that always come off and are absolutely ridiculous, is a little too much to take. When you used all your money to pay off bills and fix the house and you're being treated like you took a Carribean vacation is maddening.
Going into the bathroom at work once to fall apart and curl into a ball and completly lose your shit may be understandable. Doing it three times is a little frightening. Heading home and being forced to pull off the road because you couldn't see any longer due to crying and coming to the realization that all you want to do is disappear and too bad you didn't have that plan in writing and...and...and...
Up to now, I've been able to latch onto things that I know will keep me going. The very basics. My kids. My pets. My friends.
Dear God, all I want to do is disappear.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
This Is My Brain On Thursday
There are many “behind the scenes” issues burbling right now. Things that came to the surface while standing in the courthouse and seeing stbx.
There are places in this universe that are like mental fault lines, tears in the fabric of life. When I stand on these faults, I can feel all the misery of every single soul that came before me. It seeps out of the ground like toxic sludge. It flows down the walls like tears. If I listen hard enough, I can hear weeping.
The unbearable sadness of this situation is clawing at me. I’m the single stationary point in a time lapse movie. The world is spinning around me and I can’t comprehend any of it. The only thing I can do is warm my hands on my coffee cup, close my door, and cry. This is The Grieving. This is beyond anger. This is when the situation implodes.
To see someone that I thought I used to care about and know, in my heart of hearts, that I could put a gun to his head and pull the trigger, all the while staring him straight in the eye, is unsettling. Most human beings, I would hope, have never stared into that black pit in their soul.
It’s like death. It’s the full revelation of how twisted we can all be as human beings. It’s a constant struggle to hold onto that line by Abraham Lincoln and be guided by the better angels of my nature.
It’s the realization that I don’t believe in angels.
The universe is whole and entire and I am completely outside of it. I’m standing in the street after the bombs have gone off, surrounded by what used to be my life, my family, my everything. I am surrounded by ruin and covered in blood.
The pieces are so many and they are scattered so very far.
There are places in this universe that are like mental fault lines, tears in the fabric of life. When I stand on these faults, I can feel all the misery of every single soul that came before me. It seeps out of the ground like toxic sludge. It flows down the walls like tears. If I listen hard enough, I can hear weeping.
The unbearable sadness of this situation is clawing at me. I’m the single stationary point in a time lapse movie. The world is spinning around me and I can’t comprehend any of it. The only thing I can do is warm my hands on my coffee cup, close my door, and cry. This is The Grieving. This is beyond anger. This is when the situation implodes.
To see someone that I thought I used to care about and know, in my heart of hearts, that I could put a gun to his head and pull the trigger, all the while staring him straight in the eye, is unsettling. Most human beings, I would hope, have never stared into that black pit in their soul.
It’s like death. It’s the full revelation of how twisted we can all be as human beings. It’s a constant struggle to hold onto that line by Abraham Lincoln and be guided by the better angels of my nature.
It’s the realization that I don’t believe in angels.
The universe is whole and entire and I am completely outside of it. I’m standing in the street after the bombs have gone off, surrounded by what used to be my life, my family, my everything. I am surrounded by ruin and covered in blood.
The pieces are so many and they are scattered so very far.
Now At Amazon.com
I think I'm going to write a book.
After standing in the psychology section, the parenting section, and the self help section of the bookstore, I'm seeing a decided lack of realistic books on parenting. Let's cut to the chase and stop using all the euphemisms. Spirited child? Yeah, come to terms with the fact that your kids is WILD. It's like AA, once you speak your problem out loud, it becomes easier to tackle.
I want to write a book called "How To Not Fuck Up Your Kids".
Direct and to the point.
Obviously, there is a need for it.
Reading the stories of local child abuse trials, listening to horrifying stories in group, and knowing what my stbx did, there are a lot of people out there that need a "Dick and Jane" type easy reader book with large font and lots of pictures that has a simple directive on each page.
Don't raise your child in a meth house.
Don't fill your baby's bottle with rum.
Don't twist your child's arm until you hear that annoying cracking sound.
Don't show your child pornography.
Don't use your child for pornography.
Don't let "Uncle Joe" babysit for the kids. What he learned in prison isn't going to involve positive early childhood education.
Don't hold your child's head under water.
Don't hold your child's hand on a hot stove.
Don't work as a prostitute out of your own home (I learned that one from Watchmen. For God's sake, get a street corner).
Don't pass out drunk among the Legos (those little bastards are sharp!)
If it feels wrong, then DON'T DO IT.
There will also be the section for the mildly awful parent.
Don't call your child stupid.
Don't live your obnoxious dreams through your child.
Don't shame your child.
And for God's sake, don't be one of those piss awful hockey Nazi parents that scream obscenities at the ref and beat other parents up.
Oh, and if your kid doesn't make the cheerleading squad, don't plot to kill the kid that did.
This whole life of mine lately has really made me think about the legacies that we pass on to our kids. I see so many horrible things (and when you're going through this, your vision is terribly clear) and I want to grab people and just shake the shit out of them. My kids asked me, long before this, why I was still married to such a loser. That was the beginning of my awakening to the truth of my marriage. It took the honesty of kids to point out what I was trying to ignore.
When stbx told me he was cheating, I brought up the fact that the kids had wondered for a long time why I was still married to him. "Is that ALL they said?" he demanded.
Yeah, what he was fishing for was whether or not my daughter had told me what he did. Once I found out the truth, I looked back on this conversation in absolute disgust. What a good dad! Trying to save his ass to the bitter end.
Perhaps the last page of my book will be for people like me.
Trust no one.
After standing in the psychology section, the parenting section, and the self help section of the bookstore, I'm seeing a decided lack of realistic books on parenting. Let's cut to the chase and stop using all the euphemisms. Spirited child? Yeah, come to terms with the fact that your kids is WILD. It's like AA, once you speak your problem out loud, it becomes easier to tackle.
I want to write a book called "How To Not Fuck Up Your Kids".
Direct and to the point.
Obviously, there is a need for it.
Reading the stories of local child abuse trials, listening to horrifying stories in group, and knowing what my stbx did, there are a lot of people out there that need a "Dick and Jane" type easy reader book with large font and lots of pictures that has a simple directive on each page.
Don't raise your child in a meth house.
Don't fill your baby's bottle with rum.
Don't twist your child's arm until you hear that annoying cracking sound.
Don't show your child pornography.
Don't use your child for pornography.
Don't let "Uncle Joe" babysit for the kids. What he learned in prison isn't going to involve positive early childhood education.
Don't hold your child's head under water.
Don't hold your child's hand on a hot stove.
Don't work as a prostitute out of your own home (I learned that one from Watchmen. For God's sake, get a street corner).
Don't pass out drunk among the Legos (those little bastards are sharp!)
If it feels wrong, then DON'T DO IT.
There will also be the section for the mildly awful parent.
Don't call your child stupid.
Don't live your obnoxious dreams through your child.
Don't shame your child.
And for God's sake, don't be one of those piss awful hockey Nazi parents that scream obscenities at the ref and beat other parents up.
Oh, and if your kid doesn't make the cheerleading squad, don't plot to kill the kid that did.
This whole life of mine lately has really made me think about the legacies that we pass on to our kids. I see so many horrible things (and when you're going through this, your vision is terribly clear) and I want to grab people and just shake the shit out of them. My kids asked me, long before this, why I was still married to such a loser. That was the beginning of my awakening to the truth of my marriage. It took the honesty of kids to point out what I was trying to ignore.
When stbx told me he was cheating, I brought up the fact that the kids had wondered for a long time why I was still married to him. "Is that ALL they said?" he demanded.
Yeah, what he was fishing for was whether or not my daughter had told me what he did. Once I found out the truth, I looked back on this conversation in absolute disgust. What a good dad! Trying to save his ass to the bitter end.
Perhaps the last page of my book will be for people like me.
Trust no one.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Divorced By Father's Day???
Hopefully, this whole divorce schtick will be done in a month. There wasn't a lot of differences and the two lawyers are hopefully going to get this shit straight soon.
We were both excused from mandatory parenting class. When the judge asked about custody and I said I had it, I also made sure to mention the order for protection. When the judge didn't know about the criminal case, I started to open my mouth but my lawyer made sure to pat my arm and say "I'll handle this". Smart lady. My next words were going to be involve twenty nine variants of the word pedophile.
Things I learned ? He got fired from his job. Since he was a contract employee, he is getting no money for unemployment. It might come down to a point of settling for no child support in lieu of me paying him money for the house. We'll just have to see how it all shakes out but I'm willing to walk away from him with that deal. If I were forced to pay him a single red cent for this house, I would simply lock the door and walk away. I'm sure my credit will be ruined sooner or later and I'm willing to ruin my credit before I give him so much as $1.00,
I had my hate filled glare going. We were kept well apart before the hearing and separated by two lawyers during the hearing. But I made sure to look him in the eye when I had the chance, and send my most hate filled vibes his way.
He is a sorry, pathetic piece of shit. Hopefully, I'll be rid of him before the criminal trial commences. (By the way, our criminal trial judge is on personal leave. Yeee-haw.) I did find out that he is going to the Center for Sexual Health which I'm sure will be used in the criminal trial to show that he's really a responsible guy.
Speaking from someone who has been abused, the fact that he was abused cuts no slack with me. It fucks you up and it frankly, the willingness to screw another person up in the same manner is even more reprehensible.
I'm sure his girlfriend will be there for him. Along with her 6 year old daughter.
We were both excused from mandatory parenting class. When the judge asked about custody and I said I had it, I also made sure to mention the order for protection. When the judge didn't know about the criminal case, I started to open my mouth but my lawyer made sure to pat my arm and say "I'll handle this". Smart lady. My next words were going to be involve twenty nine variants of the word pedophile.
Things I learned ? He got fired from his job. Since he was a contract employee, he is getting no money for unemployment. It might come down to a point of settling for no child support in lieu of me paying him money for the house. We'll just have to see how it all shakes out but I'm willing to walk away from him with that deal. If I were forced to pay him a single red cent for this house, I would simply lock the door and walk away. I'm sure my credit will be ruined sooner or later and I'm willing to ruin my credit before I give him so much as $1.00,
I had my hate filled glare going. We were kept well apart before the hearing and separated by two lawyers during the hearing. But I made sure to look him in the eye when I had the chance, and send my most hate filled vibes his way.
He is a sorry, pathetic piece of shit. Hopefully, I'll be rid of him before the criminal trial commences. (By the way, our criminal trial judge is on personal leave. Yeee-haw.) I did find out that he is going to the Center for Sexual Health which I'm sure will be used in the criminal trial to show that he's really a responsible guy.
Speaking from someone who has been abused, the fact that he was abused cuts no slack with me. It fucks you up and it frankly, the willingness to screw another person up in the same manner is even more reprehensible.
I'm sure his girlfriend will be there for him. Along with her 6 year old daughter.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
"Stand Back", Said The Elephant, "I'm Going To Sneeze"
Having two people traveling this nightmare journey at the same time, in the same house, can be like some sort of demented tv show. Kind of like Facts Of Life meets One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. Or perhaps Family Ties meets The Shinning. Whatever it is, it has to have Jack Nicholson in it, crazy as hell, and perhaps wielding an ax. (That part would be played by me.)
It means that we can find ourselves in the most mundane surroundings, having the most heart wrenching conversations.
The hardest lesson to learn for me is that we all take this journey at different speeds. Also, a lot is dependant upon our age and experience.
At first, it was so hard to talk about it. The shock of the situation was overwhelming. When you find yourself in a house that is crumbling, you really don't want to stand inside and discuss the viability of supporting beams. You just want to run like hell. (Can't imagine WHY I thought if phrasing it like that...)
I'm in a position of wanting my daughter to talk. I'm in a position of not wanting to hear the facts. I'm in a position of wanting to do what's best for my daughter. I'm in a position where what's best for my daughter gives me nightmares. I'm in a position where I have to be strong enough to stomach the nightmares because I love my kids more than anything.
She has a counselor and will start with a therapist next week. I will always be there to listen to whatever, whenever, but I also want her to talk to professionals. I want her to open up to people that can guide her, ask the right questions, give her the right coping tools, and support her with their eleventy million years of experience.
But that's not how a teenager works. Nothing is straight forward. Nothing is easy and this? This is beyond belief. Teenagers rarely go into their therapists office, kick back and talk talk talk. It's not how they are wired.
But my daughter does art. It has been her therapy for years. It is her safe place. Her way of soothing herself.
So when her art teacher presses her for her artistic statement, they have a tendency to come off rather flat and snarky. When her art teacher presses her to discuss the inspiration behind her art in class, her answers are glib and evasive.
Until yesterday. Apparantly the teacher gave her a less than satisfactory grade on something and was less than impressed by her answers in class.
That's when the elephant sneezed.
My daughter proceeded to write her a three page letter explaining what is going on in her life. She finally let her know what her artistic motivation was.
She told me that she wasn't being rude or snarky, just informative. Hopefully the teacher takes it that way too.
I told her that I was so proud of her. It takes an amazing amount of courage to do what she did.
It's a start.
It means that we can find ourselves in the most mundane surroundings, having the most heart wrenching conversations.
The hardest lesson to learn for me is that we all take this journey at different speeds. Also, a lot is dependant upon our age and experience.
At first, it was so hard to talk about it. The shock of the situation was overwhelming. When you find yourself in a house that is crumbling, you really don't want to stand inside and discuss the viability of supporting beams. You just want to run like hell. (Can't imagine WHY I thought if phrasing it like that...)
I'm in a position of wanting my daughter to talk. I'm in a position of not wanting to hear the facts. I'm in a position of wanting to do what's best for my daughter. I'm in a position where what's best for my daughter gives me nightmares. I'm in a position where I have to be strong enough to stomach the nightmares because I love my kids more than anything.
She has a counselor and will start with a therapist next week. I will always be there to listen to whatever, whenever, but I also want her to talk to professionals. I want her to open up to people that can guide her, ask the right questions, give her the right coping tools, and support her with their eleventy million years of experience.
But that's not how a teenager works. Nothing is straight forward. Nothing is easy and this? This is beyond belief. Teenagers rarely go into their therapists office, kick back and talk talk talk. It's not how they are wired.
But my daughter does art. It has been her therapy for years. It is her safe place. Her way of soothing herself.
So when her art teacher presses her for her artistic statement, they have a tendency to come off rather flat and snarky. When her art teacher presses her to discuss the inspiration behind her art in class, her answers are glib and evasive.
Until yesterday. Apparantly the teacher gave her a less than satisfactory grade on something and was less than impressed by her answers in class.
That's when the elephant sneezed.
My daughter proceeded to write her a three page letter explaining what is going on in her life. She finally let her know what her artistic motivation was.
She told me that she wasn't being rude or snarky, just informative. Hopefully the teacher takes it that way too.
I told her that I was so proud of her. It takes an amazing amount of courage to do what she did.
It's a start.
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