My first breakdown happened almost immediately.
I felt sucker punched with the irony of having the envelope
handed to me by the same son who the letter was about. It seems that my children’s father has
decided to show up now. Now, after almost 9 years, is when suddenly his
father-son bond desire has decided to kick in.
And my son, every bit of a 14 year old entitled teen, is buying it.
Hook, line, sinker. And sadly, it means,
in his head, that I have never cared about him, never loved him, am trying to
keep his life from being his choice, and basically stopping him from the
amazing and one true relationship he is missing. Yep, his dad. Like me, his sister, his best friends, his
grandmothers, my partner, my adult friends, and well, everyone in my village
who has shown up and covered that lack of relationship he has had with his dad
for, um, ever, are somehow not really worth much. It hit me hard to hear it.
Almost on the floor. My reaction
was to be angry, but that was just a mask for how sad and hurt I felt. The breakdown, well it was loud, and then
immediately quiet. I wanted to cry, but
it was stuck in shock. I had been
served with papers asking the court to grant his father custody.
The second breakdown happened in the car while driving.
I called my partner, and my best friend, and without even
remembering to breathe, I was sobbing on the phone to each of them, separated
by minute of cell phone time. I don’t
remember how I could have still been driving, and yet I was. My SO telling me to be safe but get to
him. My best friend telling me to go
let my SO hold me and reminding me to be grateful for the many people in my
life that will have my back. I would
not go to a court battle alone. This
time, unlike 9 years ago, I would not be alone. They knew better, and would support me, and prop me up. I cried anyway, and drove, and tried to
remember that, and not feel like a failure.
The third breakdown happened in the night.
I had crawled in to bed with my boyfriend, and what I wanted
was sex. Yep, not gonna lie. Sex, throughout my adult life, had been my
go-to to feel connected. The need was raw.
I had shut off, felt too hurt to let myself cry or explain. It, too, was my go-to, when emotions were
too in-my-face and out of my control, and shutting off seemed easier that
facing anything. I wanted to be
wanted. I wanted my son to want me as
his mother. I wanted my ex husband to
want me to continue to raise my son with all the wonderful things I could and
have exposed him and his sister to. I
wanted to be the kind of woman that really could have and do it all. I wanted
to know I was strong, and composed, and in the right. I wanted to be powerful and aloof, and so above it, that I could
fuck and have it not even phase me. No pain, no fear, no commitment to being a
mom. Just me. Oh yeah, and my BF was
gonna have to be there. Or at least the
part that would get me to an orgasm was. The rest, well, it was not something I
needed to be connected to, since I wasn’t connected anyway, in my shut off
state, and I just fine with being just a body right then. He was having none of it. He was not going
to let me run away. He was not going to let me be emotionally vacant. So, instead, he held me. Turned me down flat, but held me as I
balled, first not able to breathe, and then until the sobbing took over and
shook me. Then as I fell asleep.
The final breakdown on day one happened while out shopping.
Everything looked like something I would buy for my son.
Everything. I didn’t even want to touch
things because in my head I already would never even be able to show him any of
it. He was already gone, like the court fight had already happened and no
matter the outcome, everything had changed.
I could do nothing about it. I
would have to comply. The shutdown was
back in full force, and that is when I broke again. Something inside me said it
was going to have to be okay, because it already was. I had not died, as if
that was even possible, and I was not alone.
The world had not stopped. This breakdown happened silently. I was broken,
but knew I would survive.
So, what’s next?
Court, I suppose. And trying to figure out what to do with this new
space I have to live in with my son.
And my daughter. And my boyfriend, and my supporters, and my friends,
and my village. Not so broken down
after all. Bruised and still fragile, and completely exhausted by the last 24 hours, but present. This time around, unlike 9 years ago, I am writing about it immediately, owning it before it owns me.
