I've posted here before about my own experiences with the wondrous family courts in my state. But tonight I have to take a more personal bent.
You see, I'm a survivor of domestic violence. Oh, no....I never had any physical injuries, mostly because I knew how to apologize away the anger before it got to that point. I mean, you learn to practice smiling in the rear view mirror of your car on the way home as you're stuck in traffic because you know you have to figure out a way to explain, as placatingly as possible, why you're late. You learn to have sex and fake every moan when you're absolutely terrified that a hole will end up in a wall if you don't.
When the time came to leave, however, all of my ability to fend of physical attack came to haunt me. After all, if there aren't any bruises, it didn't happen. Never mind that I shook so badly just talking about it that I couldn't write. Never mind that I threw up while being interviewed by a social worker about a time when a vase was thrown at my head. Never mind what other people said: no bruises, no happen.
Abusers have become notorious for challenging for custody in divorce cases. More often than not, they win. One of the worst things that can happen to a DV victim is to be forced to maintain communication with the abuser. Even worse is to place the ultimate weapon in the hands of the abuser....a child. And because MY child lives with his father, I have to put up with the abuse to this day.
I've been living in this Hell for just shy of five years. As I've written before, my seven year old lives over nine hundred miles away. If there'd been no child to argue over, I'd never have talked to the SOB again. But I call my child every day, and that means I have to talk to "Fred" (as we euphemistically call him in these parts) every day.
My child isn't doing well in school. He hasn't been for a while. I got involved as soon as his teacher began emailing me last year to tell me what was really going on. I have homework copies express mailed to me (at my cost), and then help with the assignments over the phone, sometimes for upwards of two hours a night. I talk to the teacher regularly (and by that I mean weekly). I've offered to send my child to counseling at my expense. I've done every conceivable thing, short of move to live near him.
But moving is the last thing I want to do. Why would I want to live anywhere near anyone who threatened to kill (and had the guns to do it) his own father over a crude joke? I could go, yes, and maybe...MAYBE...it would help my darling child. Or maybe I'd be quaking every time I set foot out my door for fear of being followed, of being assaulted, or worse?
So today I was at work when I received a phone call. It's a very stressful time at work, and I have more on my plate than I normally would have. It's Fred, calling to tell me that he just doesn't know how to handle the school problems. Now I've been trying to convince Fred that maybe he should let our child come live with me for a while. I mean, I couldn't do any worse, right? I'm a professional woman with a solid track record in my field, a fabulous support network, and a wonderful soon-to-be husband. If the kid were to move, I'd still have to pay child support and all that, but at least my child would have a fresh start. Frankly, I think all the kid needs is attention, boundaries, and routine, things he seems to totally lack at "home". And when he's here, believe me, he gets all of that in spades. There's no XBox...there's freeze tag. There's no Cartoon Network....there's basketball. Hell, the kid has learned to sing "Big Box Mart" (and if you don't know what that means, go to JibJab.com).
I mentioned it again today and was verbally lashed. I handled it with dignity and total control. I'm not about to be attacked like that and respond in the quivering Jello-style of those many years ago. As has been the case so many times, I was called every name under the sun and accused of every wrong ever committed by anyone.
Now all of those things wouldn't mean shit under other circumstances. But this person, who thinks nothing of hurling verbal abuse, is PARENTING MY KID! And my KID is trapped. Trust me....short of convincing Fred to send my child home, there is nothing I can do. I've talked to half the attorneys in the city, and unless I can prove that the kid is under threat of immediately bodily harm (and no, drinking and drugs only count if there's abuse), there ain't SHIT I can do.
After I got off the phone, I fell apart. I mean, I was shaking and crying and utterly fucked up. No, I wasn't scared. I'm SO ANGRY! What the FUCK kind of society do we live in that takes children away from healthy home environments just because one parent HAD to work (after all, it has to be someone, right?) What the FUCK kind of courts fail to recognize abusive use of conflict and manipulation?
And I get to live with this for another eleven years.
Ok, rant over. Please, fellow Kossacks. Pray. And when we win back our country, someone needs to talk about family law.
Because like a ton of other noncustodial parents in this country, and a growing number of women, I'm screwed for the foreseeable future.
And even worse....much worse...my kid is, too.