The judge had ninety days to make his decision. I knew that one day he would send the final order to my lawyer who would eventually get around to sending it to me. Most likely I would be in the middle of too many things, momming though life’s normal challenges. Maybe I would be changing my youngest son’s clothes because he had an accident while I simultaneously told my older son “No, we aren’t doing screens right now,” while talking to my daughter about the game she had made up at recess. It would appear like an unexpected guest. A knock at the door. Then and only then would I face what was coming. When the answer was tangible.
I was back to waiting, which I had grown very weary of through the whole court process. I had spent my life waiting for the usual things that we all probably have. Waiting to find the right partner, waiting to find out if I got a new job, waiting for a baby, waiting for test results, waiting to sell a house. The new familiar waiting I had been living with was waiting for life itself. Waiting had become the thief of moments. It was stealing my joy, distorting my reality. That kind of waiting was full of what ifs and imaginary futures. Waiting fucking owned me. So I made a decision. I decided that the best way to cope with the waiting of the final order was to not wait at all.
The judge’s decision would not change my life until I held it in my hand. I knew I had zero control of its content, its arrival, and what it would do as it permeated through my day to day reality. It had taken getting the shit kicked out of me over the previous four years to realize that the only control I had was to not wait. I didn’t want to live with all that stress churning in my stomach, worried about what was coming as the real moments of my life slipped away, too preoccupied by waiting itself to experience my actual life. If there was no visibility then waiting was a game of power I could never win. So I refused to play.
Internally when I came up with the no waiting plan, I told myself I was full of shit (and a whole bunch of other skeptical sarcastic things). But everytime a thought popped into my head about what was coming, I would notice it then send it on its way. I would not entertain more what ifs until the final order was there to contemplate my options. No order, no entry.
Instead I lived life. I took care of my kids. I did laundry, I cooked. I drove to and from appointments and school. Did I fuck up, yes. Then I would try again. Over and over, that was the practice. It was the difference between living life and waiting for life. Life was already there. What I was waiting for would only nudge its course.
I had a therapy session right after my last day in court and together my therapist and I celebrated being through the last part of the saga. We talked about shifting my focus from survival to rebuilding myself. No matter what the decision was, I knew I wanted to move forward without B and May so present in my life. There had to be a break in the strings that connected us. I did not want to spend any more of my energy on that man or his wife. I did not want them looming over our household pushing Hank and I to parent from the shadows.
Then it was an ordinary Friday until it wasn’t. When the final order was delivered to my email inbox and I had the courage to open it, I immediately noticed it was different from every other order I had seen from our judge. It was not the redesign of our parenting agreement that I was hoping for with a laid out plan written in bulleted points. Instead it was pages of long wordy paragraphs.
These paragraphs contained lectures about evidence that fell flat and the judge’s reasoning for why he was making the decisions he was making. I couldn’t take it in. I skipped to the last couple of lines looking for anything that looked like an actual order. My heart was beating so fast, I felt both on fire and completely cold and numb at the same time. That’s when I read it.
No change to parenting time. No change to travel. No change to the video calls. The only thing decided in my favor, or decided at all, was that I would have sole medical custody of both children. I was also ordered to include B in all appointments by phone and take into consideration his thoughts on all medical discussions if and when he asked to participate. The judge made a point to say that since there had to be one parent who made the final decision, that would be me.
That was it. That was the whole fucking order. Four years of my life, my family’s life, for that. I tried to go back and read his reasoning but it was hard to take in his words. Hank was sitting at his own computer reading the whole document telling me bits and pieces that my eyes refused to translate into information my brain could digest. The judge not only dismissed the guardian’s report as “too old”, he called me hypersensitive. He made a statement about if he actually gave the mother full custody and changed the father’s parenting time, it wouldn’t take away the conflict. He believed it would do the opposite and add fuel to the fire.
With this order, he emboldened a narcissistic sociopath to continue his path of emotional torture and invited he and his wife to kick it up a few notches. Not only did B and May not really lose anything, but their behavior was justified in the face of the law. Reading this document I knew they would never stop. Why would they, they were untouchable. And the cherry on top was if ever a new issue should arise, we were court ordered to mediate before filing a motion. A deterrent.
After reading and rereading the order, the whole world turned gray. I could not move, I could not feel, I could not parent or function. I could not text anyone or talk rationally to Hank about what to do next. One day passed, then another and another. I woke up again and again not knowing what to do.
I needed a lifeline. I emailed my therapist. I barely remembered sending that email. I even read her response wrong and was sitting online waiting for her at a 1pm cancellation. When she didn’t show I reread her email which said the cancellation was for the next day. Before Hank left for work I did the only thing I could do. I walked into the shower and sobbed. He joined and just held me. Both of us stood there, saying nothing.
I had all the obvious emotions coming up. Shock, sadness, anger, fear. I slept like I was dead. I was not staying awake stressing staring at the ceiling anymore. Instead I woke up with crushing disappointment because sleeping was the only time I could forget. I was now on the other side and I didn’t want to be. I wanted the waiting back.
I felt like my hope had led me down a path of stupidity that things might land the way I wanted them to. That someone would see what we were dealing with, how we were living, how my children were being torn apart bit by bit in the process. I thought the judge would see that change needed to occur. But in the end my evidence meant nothing. I was haunted by something he had said to my lawyer in the hearing about a hearing, “If the mother wants to swim in dangerous waters, who am I to stop her?” I had dismissed his remark telling myself he would get it. That there was so much evidence, he would see it. But his remark was foreshadowing. A warning to me that he had already decided.
On the other side of all that waiting there was an emotional hell cesspool I was trying not to fall into. The thoughts that were flooding my brain were ones of failure. That I was a loser and this order proved it. That my kids knew I failed them and in contrast B and May were #winning. They had been #winning since they fucked in that hotel room. It had been one big long drawn out Bonnie and Clyde emotional killing spree for them since Baltimore. Now I wanted to kill. If I couldn't kill then I wanted to die. If I couldn't die then I want the pain to go away. If the pain couldn’t go away then what? It was a circle I kept running in my head over and over and over.
I was slowly losing grip on reality. I was sliding into a deep dark rabbit hole. The parts of me that believed the gaslighting was real were now taking over. Mirroring the judge’s opinion of me. Repeating back what B and May had said about me as a parent. Confirming all the feedback I had received as a little girl about being hypersensitive. I couldn’t find myself. I couldn’t find any part of me that could fight. Not the one who cracked a smile in any situation no matter the crushing weight placed on top of her. Not the one who could walk through fire unscathed. I was slipping. I was spiraling. Mainly because I couldn't fix it. Which meant I couldn’t protect my children. I couldn’t muster the energy to get help. It took everything I had just to cook dinner and then I couldn’t eat it.
In a true bit of irony we happened to have one lonely croissant left, sitting on the kitchen counter one morning. It was a symbol of where this had all started for me. Croissants were what my friend would bring me when the divorce had first happened and I felt much like I did back then. So I told myself that day, “Just keep eating the croissant. Keep putting one foot in front of the other.” I tried to be present for my son who wanted to play a game he had made up which was taking fake hot dogs from the play kitchen and making them little beds in little boxes. Mainly I stared at the wall or out the window. More gray.
What I didn’t want then was advice. Or pity. Oh my god pity would have fucking crushed me. When I told my family not to come over because of what happened they told me to not go at it alone. When I texted Hank that I couldn’t function he told me to focus on how great our son was. I didn’t want to hear any of it. I didn’t care what I was supposed to do or supposed to think. I wanted to drive over B and May with my minivan.
On that first night after reading the final order, each kid had their own call scheduled with B and May. They both reported that they seemed drunk on their call. This made perfect sense to me. I would definitely be celebrating my win if I were them. May boldly told my daughter that she had gone through her school email, commenting on each email she had sent. She had to log in as her in order to do this. May knew it was wrong but she did it anyway and flaunted her power in front of my daughter. As she stood in the kitchen and complained to me about how May had invaded her privacy, I thought about how I couldn’t possibly keep up with what they were capable of. It was disturbing to think about all that was coming. The reign of King B and Queen May had just begun. It would be worse. They would be worse.
A week went by and things were not any easier. I wanted to eat all the carbs. I wanted to do all the drugs. I wanted to drink all the booze. Anything to take away the pain. Instead I did nothing. I did not workout. I did not shower. I did not call my friends. I only did the thing in front of me. I emptied the dishwasher, fed the children, folded the laundry. I nodded and smiled. I tried to listen to their words buzzing around me as life kept going.
Hard yet normal mothering filled my days. One day while my youngest son was asking me to play with him. To make the voices. I was trying to engage, to get my brain to focus on the moment, when my older son’s teacher emailed me to tell me that he was caught looking up boobs again on his school chromebook. I had bigger problems. I put my youngest down for a nap so I could have therapy online. My therapist encouraged me to make a timeline with Hank about what we would do next so he wouldn't feel like I was not moving forward. There has to be a forward?
During that session she asked me if I was suicidal. “No,” I answered resolutely. But later that day while driving the car I felt the urge to press the gas as hard as I could to run myself into the truck in front of me. Fighting that urge made my body quiver. Oh, so that’s why she asked me.
I woke my son up from his nap and we played outside. It was fifty degrees, there was no excuse not to. I thought about monks and the tasks they do to calm the mind. I cleared the kid’s garden space. I told myself, rake, just rake. Then my phone rang. It was the school nurse. My daughter had a headache and needed to come home. It was only an hour from when school let out.
I explained to my son that we had to go. He threw a total fit. I didn’t blame him. We packed up, taking the dog with us. We were five minutes from the school, and stopped at a train when my phone chimed. An email from my daughter’s teacher. Subject: concern. The email explained what I had been experiencing with her at home. She was unfocused. She wasn’t finishing her work properly. “A bright kid who stopped trying.” Yup. The end of the message just said “Suggestions??”
My son and I picked her up in the school office. They had to buzz us in through two sets of doors. She was an emotional mess on the drive home. I tried to listen. To talk her through the concept of what happens when you shove all your emotions down. I encouraged her to speak her truth equally to all four parents. I told her I knew how hard that was for her. She told me they yell at her, belittle her and her feelings. She said the truth wasn’t safe in the other house. She started crying.
More things kept coming. My mom called to tell me that my dad, who was losing it mentally, thought it was groundhog day and asked why the news wasn't covering Punxsutawney Phil. It was April. My older son was especially cuddly while I read to him at bedtime. He kept using the phrase. “I am so clingy, I need something to squeeze.” I tried to talk to him about what was making him feel that way. He didn’t know. He threw up before getting into bed.
I woke up in the middle of the night to find my youngest son in my bed next to me writhing with growing pains. I forgot to take Advil before I went to sleep so I could not lift the sheets to move, I was in so much pain. I forced myself to go down the stairs using stutter steps, taking them one by one. I wondered what it would be like to fall and break something. I brought him medicine, waited for it to kick in, and transferred him to his own bed.
Then I woke up to do it all over again. Things were not magically better. My daughter asked if she could stay home but I made her go to school. Life was pain. It would not get easier hiding in bed. We could do this. Thoughts that never left my lips but controlled my actions. Hank and I yelled at each other about what to do about the final order. Then he went to work.
I attempted to workout that day but nothing was going right. The TV wouldn't load my workouts. I adapted and used my phone. Then my watch wouldn’t read my heartbeat. My right ankle wasn’t doing what I wanted it to do. I took a few minutes to breathe and started sobbing uncontrollably. That’s what happened now in the middle of doing all the things. Uncontrollable and unpredictable sobbing was my new normal. The aftermath of those long wordy paragraphs. There was change coming but it wasn’t for the better. The judge had unleashed a dragon he thought was a helpless kitten.
The house was buzzing with so much different energy and emotional content. When everyone was gone and just my youngest son and I were left, he commented on how peaceful it was, how quiet the house felt. We built a Lego t-rex from a book we borrowed from the library. It took us all afternoon. Then the t-rex’s head was too heavy to stay upright. He looked like a majestic giant too depressed to go on. I could completely relate.
At three, the phone rang and it was the school nurse again, same time, different kid. My son came home sick because of his stomach. I had written off the throwing up the night before as my son had learned to make himself throw up on cue in order to stay home. And because he rarely ever got a fever, it was impossible to know whether he was actually sick or faking it. When everyone showed up again in the afternoon my youngest immediately showed agitation. His fits started up again. He said mean things to everyone. It was a lot for a three year old to process. It was a lot for any of us to process.
I had almost updated all the people in my life. Almost. I could only handle talking about things in small doses. It became more real and more permanent with every retelling. Here are some of the things people would say to me and how they were being interpreted by my brain:
You are not alone. Don’t forget that. Yet I feel very very alone so this means I must be broken.
Focus on your little one. I have so much to be grateful for and yet I am an ungrateful privileged bitch.
At least you don’t live in the Ukraine. My problems are so small in comparison, what am I even upset about?
You should just quit following the court order. If I were you I would. I am weak for letting him win. I should’ve fought harder for my children.
That day I was scheduled to make lasagna. Lasagna was in my food plan. I had shopped for it. I had planned for it. But as dinner lingered closer, I had no energy to make it. I had forgotten that Hank had a late lab to teach so I made mac and cheese from a box instead. I fed the kids raw veggies with it while I ate yogurt.
Watching all three of them happily munch away at their dinners, I thought to myself, who needed lasagna when my kids were just as happy with the mac and cheese? Because lasagna equals “stay at home mom” and mac and cheese from a box (even if it was the groovy kind) was a representation of the filter B and May had been using on my parenting. I was a failure. I needed to always be proving myself. By making lasagna.
This was such a small example of how hard I had been pushing. In the end what was the difference between mac and cheese and lasagna anyway? Weren’t they both just pasta and cheese? One took forever and one took fifteen minutes. That’s when I got it. I needed to ask where else I was pushing just to out run how much I felt watched and under scrutiny. I had pushed the shit out of that court case and it had gotten us nowhere. I was definitely pushing myself to be a better mom and housewife making up things to do everyday.
So I asked myself, what would happen if I completely let go? I was starting to think there was an easier path for everything. I wasn’t assuming that path wouldn’t require work and love and devotion. But maybe, just maybe all that effort I had been putting into fighting B and May and trying to prove that their version of me wasn’t true could be used for something better. What if it could make a difference in the lives of the people I cared about instead of running us all into the ground.
All I wanted to do was love them. It was in the simple act of choosing to pour that box of mac and cheese into that boiling pot of water instead of spending an entire hour layering noodles with handmade sauce and cheeses into a casserole pan that I realized moving forward would require just two things. Love and a better filter.