...28 (in days gone by)...

  In Days Gone By:
 19.January.2021

While the kitchen tile project was ongoing, I'd the chance to reorganize all the file folder storage that "lives" beneath one of our sideboards and came across paperwork dating back to before I was married. Tax docs, our marriage license and copies of checks to all the wedding vendors, my ex's student loan repayment receipts, multiple certified copies of the restraining order (now expired) against him, etc... Enclosed in one were childhood photos of him that I had carefully placed in an envelope for Johannes at least 15 years ago. So while Henri napped (praise!), Johannes and I briefly sat down and looked through the photos, before he decided to dispose of them.

(As someone who takes a few photos (I kid, I kid) here and there, looking at these was...interesting...)

There's promise~possibility~potential, in those sweet little shots of baby and toddler...in those early teen/peak of athleticism track shots...even in the student and work i.d. cards. But to see them now, it's naught but illusion...a sort-of "alternate reality".

He's been spiraling for years...a vicious cycle of peaks and valleys that damages everyone involved.

From all accounts, he's been off his meds and is back to "self-medicating" with increasingly dangerous substance abuse.
From all accounts, his grasp on reality is in the wind right now.
From all accounts, his health is failing. It's terrible, and it's tragic, and it's...karmic? All that pain he's caused finding it's way back...

Tomorrow, his birthday...yet another year gone and nothing but wreckage to show for it. All the good advice and assistance and flat-out-doing-for-him-what-he-won't-do-for-himself by SO MANY people (myself included) just wasted effort.

And soon enough, a month away, Johannes turns 18. Despite his throwing away those photos and rejecting any "leftovers" (papers, photos, sentimental items), he'll carry this as part of his legacy his whole life. Nothing I have done, can do or want to do has ever erased the damage done by both action and inaction, threatening presence and dismissive absence.

If only it were as easy as tossing photos in the garbage, or shredding old files. If only it were as simple as shutting the door and ending the chapter.

But, you see...one chapter bleeds into the next. One door leads into another space. Everything gets carried on...

...6 (in days gone by)...

 In Days Gone By:
15.March.2019

This may be long, and you may not like it.

You may not agree with what I say or how I say it.

You may not like that I am so brash in sharing my own experience.

You may not like the way it makes you feel.

But please afford me the courtesy of reading it through anyway...and watch the accompanying video. Please allow your heart to be touched, just enough so that you raise your children to be empathetic.

I have been broken. I have been left. I have scrambled to recover from violence and loss and pick up the pieces of a shattered life.

I have worked 80 hour weeks only to see a negative balance in my account when my ex-husband drained the funds despite the multiple copies of my restraining order being on file at the bank.

I have used food stamps to feed my child. I have visited food pantries to subsidize my income, when I made too much to qualify but not enough to cover the bills and his therapies and still be able to fill his belly. I have gone without. Without breakfast and lunch and dinner for days, filling myself up on sugar water and praying I wouldn't faint. I have used the same tea bag in my cup four times, dipping it in and pulling it out quickly to save some of that flavor for the next cup. I have watered down a can of soup and made it stretch into four meals. I have rationed our food and our medicine and our vitamins. I have grabbed handfuls of ketchup packets and creamers and sugar packets when buying 1 single burger and stretched them into sustenance. I have gratefully and with no pride left in me accepted bags of groceries from a friend and felt I could not look her in the eye in my shame. I have patched our clothing and our socks. I have heated water on the stove so my son could bathe when I couldn't afford to keep the hot water heater running. I have tucked him into bed in layers and winter gloves and hats when I couldn't keep the heat on. I have been humbled and humiliated and desperate.

I have sent my son to school with lunches that meant I would not eat that day.

He? He has had his lunch bag stolen from him. Thrown away. He has had it grabbed from his 6 year old hands and kicked down the hallway. He has had a student dump their drink, purposely, right into his food. He has had another middle schooler throw garbage at his table and into his meal.

He has come home and told me I need to send more food in with him because his friend doesn't get enough to eat at lunch. He has asked me to send in the snacks his friends prefer because he likes to be able to share them. He has asked me to call his friend's parents and tell them to buy a better lunch plan because the 1 piece of pizza isn't enough to fill a teenage boy. (I called the guidance counselor instead.)

He has helped me sponsor a child with his allowance. He has agreed to reduce our budget so we can help subsidize the needs of my step-children, his half-siblings.

He has lived, as have I, on both sides of the equation.

Our pantry is full these days. Our fridge is stocked with healthy foods and unhealthy treats. When his toes dig a hole into a sock, I turn it into a rag for spill clean-up...and I buy the new socks.

I have two step-children now. Apparently I did for some years now, as they are 12 and 9. But it's only recently that I have been made aware of, and stepped into the responsibility that comes with, that title. They have grown up in neglect and in poverty and in the abuse that their parents create. They would go without breakfast were it not for the free breakfast program at their school. Each week, come Friday, they are handed a bag of processed food to take home so that there will be something for them to eat over the weekend. I have heard that my step-daughter has complained that the free lunch at school doesn't begin to fill the gnawing hole. I have heard that my step-son, when given free reign, will eat until he makes himself sick. I have sent money and giftcards and boxes of food and treats and clothing.

If you've made it this far in the reading, I wonder how you feel?

Are you shocked by my admissions?

Embarrassed for me?

Does my experience or his or theirs make you uncomfortable? Do you wonder what I did wrong to earn that part of my life?

Are you reminding yourself that you would never-could never-sink so low?

Are you thinking you are better than that?

Are you reading this, jaw gone slack, thinking that I should never have had the nerve to put these words to page?

Donate that canned good. Fulfill that angel tree wish. Fill up useable purses and backpacks with supplies and turn them over to foster-care programs. Buy that extra box of diapers or tampons or toilet paper and take it to that shelter. Send in the extra snack or snacks or lunches. Encourage your school to keep a "free" food station for children whose parents couldn't or didn't send in lunch. Check in with the guidance counselor and let him/her know if you can help...I guarantee you, they not only know exactly which kids need your help but how to do so with the discretion and anonymity those kids and their families deserve.

And hear when I tell you we would not have made it, were it not for those already doing the good.

...4 (in days gone by)...

In Days Gone By:
12. September.2021

Some among you here reading know the story, in bits and pieces.

Some of you have walked through chapters of it with us.

Others of you know only the result of the early years of our family...know only the team of two that rebuilt atop the ashes of a violent, crushing past.

But all of you today, reading this, can celebrate in your own way as today we step into our freedom...finally!

Today everything new begins.

Yesterday, everything old finally ended. Ended...

was obliterated...

was erased...

was disowned...

was disavowed.

Yesterday, the young man I am so proud to call my son was able to confront the man who came so close to destroying us both and not only put voice to the long-silent emotions of what he endured, but also firmly say "No more!".

Yesterday, Johannes...18 and every inch the young man who has risen so far beyond every challenge he's been presented with, made the decision for us both and for his loved ones...his grandmother and his half-siblings...and, having finally "had his say", permanently excised the excruciating weight that has been his 'deadbeat dad' from our life. Having the opportunity to finally say whatever he wanted, he proved himself the far better man, exercising restraint. Instead of lashing out, he was clear and precise. A declaration of strength...an acknowledgement of the hurt and shame he had felt...a strongly worded demand that he never be contacted again...and that Christian stop using him and his siblings to drum up pity and charity.

(As I have said before, there are some words that exist only for those moments of intense emotion...and, in my opinion, while inappropriate in regular conversation, are the only way to fully communicate absolute rage and disgust.)

His words were forceful...his language carefully chosen to exact the result he wanted. And in the end, after demanding his due, Johannes had the final word.

Some 16+ years after first filing for a restraining order, we are both finally able to walk away cleanly...never again having to acknowledge this wretched creature, or feel dragged down by the burden of his chaos and sickness and threats.

As I typed so joyfully but a few years ago, "they are all safe"...and now it is even more true.

My stepchildren are flourishing in a stable, safe and secure home...surrounded by a family that has chosen to come together to raise them up in love and support. We have built solid bridges to one another. Johannes has safely reached the age of majority...the threat of custody or visitation no longer keeps me from exhaling.

The threat has dissolved into yesterday.

Last night I sat with my eldest son and we breathed in the relief denied to us these many years. We felt our shoulders relax and our senses mute a bit from what had become an all too familiar alert to impending doom. We spoke freely...the words and emotions pouring out...and then let them melt away, with no need to take it all back up again.

I told him, laughingly but earnestly, "You are my hero.", and how I admired his ability to strongly and eloquently say the things that needed to be said. I told him that what I had wanted for him all those years ago, was finally his. Freedom. The ability to walk away. The time to be done carrying the shame of having had Christian for a father (a word Johannes never allowed, but the biological relationship nonetheless) and disavow any tie. Here...now...it was his. It was mine.

Johannes answered back, "I am my mother's son."

And so he is.

But he is so much more. He is who he has chosen to be...he is the product of his own choices: to rise above, to be empathetic, to love. He is the product of bearing witness to what Christian has done and choosing to do the opposite every time. He is my hero.

Yesterday, we cleaned house. We settled our accounts in a way.

Particularly me.

Typing into my final text that I didn't even mind the wasted time~money~energy~etc...because it served as proof to me of my having done all that I could.

Knowing my words wouldn't cut through the haze of drugs and lies and ego, and knowing also that it no longer mattered to me whether or not they did.

I have done all I could.

I have sacrificed all I am willing to.

I am settled.

I am at peace.

Yesterday, we washed our hands. We stopped the infection that is his disgusting life, from spreading any further into ours. We dreamt up the 'what ifs and whens' of moving forward. We marveled at the fact that sweet Henri will never have to know our pain and stress over that man. We cleansed ourselves of all the insidious thoughts and feelings that inviting his damage in had created.

Yesterday, we cut off the rot.

Today, we celebrate.

Today, we are our own.

Today, I am mother to two remarkable boys I've given birth to and step-mother to two equally remarkable children who have grown in my heart.

I am not the ex-wife...

the estranged spouse..

the maligned...

the abused...

the terrified...

the victim.

I am not broken.

I am not even the survivor.

Today I am what I chose all those years ago when I finally got up the courage to save us.

I am one who overcame.

And today? Today Johannes is MY son...100%. Belonging to no one but himself. Worthy and loved and wholly his own man. He is who he chooses to be. He never needs to feel the burden of Christian again. He is safe.

Today, we celebrate. We eat cake...literally...because if ever there was a moment to savor and laugh through and feast over, it is this. We'll sit around the table, our cobbled together family of four, and revel in the lightheartedness. We'll make plans, and tell stories, and crack jokes. We'll make a mess and clean it up.

And in the months to come, I'll set aside the money to hire the lawyer and the process server and pay the fees. I'll come to terms with my own irritation at, having already carried the financial burden all these years, I've to do it one final time. I'll justify it, in time, as the greatest gift I've ever given myself.

We are finally able to turn our backs completely on the monster.

Free.

12. September. 2021

...3 (in days gone by)...

 In Days Gone By:
18.December.2020

TL;DR

Trigger warning...mental health, spousal abuse, suicidal ideation, child neglect

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Emergency services are currently dispatched on another welfare check to my ex-husband. We expect a phone call confirming that he's being taken in for observation. If you are a prayer... go one further and pray he's determined unfit to be let back out. Pray that he be held. Pray that he be treated...long-term, in-patient.

He...spirals... quickly and dangerously and frequently. Earlier this month, he was communicative and self-aware...

read also:in the upward tick of manic mode.

During that time, he moved into another county, leaving behind the services others had worked so hard to set up for him, in a burst of 'outrunning his problems' energy.

Ill-advised doesn't even begin to cover it. Outraged that his previous landlord was asking for help with basic household chores (in return for exceptionally discounted room and board), he burned that situation to the ground and moved his dilapidated rv onto the property of a former friend he'd reconnected with. As of last week, the household was Covid positive. By all accounts, he's been holed up in the RV ever since. He's off his meds, has missed every appointment for care management, and is effectively reliant on his alcoholic friend for everything: food, transportation, electricity, water, advice, etc...

This is a man who, by want of both his ego and his illness, has damaged everything and everyone he touches. A man who both actively and passively abuses every person in his life, whether through violence or neglect. A man who buries his guilt underneath personal attacks on those who try to help him get help. Who knows he's done horrific things but believes his 'superior intellect' releases him from any responsibility for those actions.

And who, every time without fail, scorches the earth as he comes out of his manic phase... which makes it nigh on impossible to get him into care. Lashes out every time and then threatens suicide as the depression takes hold.

Fast forward: between last night and this morning he sent out his 'customary' novella of text messages full of vitriol, baseless accusations, and finally, farewells.

I'm...tired. This roller-coaster is exhausting. My eldest son and step-children deserve so much more... so much better. I hate this for them. I hate this for me. This man was my monster in the dark for years... and his brokenness does not erase the terror or the damage.

Words fail.

Untreated mental illness contaminates everyone in the circle...causes immeasurable stress and distress to every caregiver, no matter the distance. And burns out the very sympathy and empathy so needed by the one who is ill.

I fear for the day when he sinks a hook into my eldest.

I fear for the day that he goes beyond threatening.