It has been over a month. Yep, a full 6 weeks of not posting a thing. Oh I have been writing, but mostly just scraps and things, the back of napkins and the occasional text. I also had to write a report to the people at the domestic violence center. Yes, I said that correctly. The domestic violence center.
Back on the day I picked up my children from their two weeks of "vacation" with their father, the woman he is now married to decided to go on what can only be described as an evil drunken rant. It was public: in the restaurant where the exchange happened. It was timely: on her daughter's 15th birthday. It was family oriented: my children, her children, her ex, my ex, her ex's new wife, yep we were all there. It was completely justified: I WAS 5 minutes early picking my kids up after not seeing them for 14 days.
To follow this lovely display, complete with sailor type cuss words and several finger gestures, I got an email from her (via my ex's email, but signed by her just the same) basically outlining again all the things she had publicly told me was wrong (being the fat ugly bitch that I am, selfish in the extreme for not picking my kids up later than the court ordered time, and for existing) with the added bonus of being told that I deserved to have my son (Seth, the one that died) be dead because I was such a fucked up mom.
Yeah, that floored me. It took me almost three days to realize that I had just been battered.
Most normal people would have been pissed. Most normal people would have been able to see what had happened as the evil coming through from a drunk psychotic. Most normal people would have been able to see the problem and not feel the mind and body numbing fear and shock.
On the Wednesday after it happened, (ok, Thursday morning, it was 1:40am) I woke up sweating and wide awake, terrified that I was back in my old relationship, and needing help. I called the Domestic Violence Hot Line. I told my whole ten year story all over again. I talked about the one and only time my ex hit me. I talked about the words I heard him say daily that made my world nothing if not beholden to him. I talked about the two years since, and the way I was living my life and raising my kids inside a space filled with love and positive words. I talked about feeling safe now, and loving my life and finding my strength and stability and happiness. I talked about why the less than 4 minute rant of an obviously insane woman and the following email took me back to feeling afraid. I cried, a lot, and shook, a lot, and wanted to curl up in a ball and die. What happened instead was this amazing woman on the other end of the line said "I am proud of you!". Wow, proud of me? Yep, she said, I got out and I was happy, and this flashback was just that, a fucked up (yes, she said fucked up) reminder of all the things I am free of. Proud.
Yep, in that moment I was proud. I could melt down, recognize the behavior as not mine, have the right amount of fear and still know, all the way down where it really counted, that I was out! That I was free of all of that, and I was fine.
When I told the story to my counselor he said it is a little like having a helium balloon in the perfect color and with just the right amount of lift, and then someone else handing you a needle and telling you to pop it. And a messed up person goes "Okay, I guess I should pop it." and does. I had been letting people hand me needles for years. I didn't know that the needle was even in my hand when I heard the balloon pop. I didn't even know that I could just not take the needle from them. More, that even if I did take the needle from them I didn't have to pin it to my lapel for use later, the next time I had a balloon and they weren't even around.
I would say that makes me stupid, pinning someone else's way to deflate me to my skin, but that would be me using the needle without them being there, wouldn't it? I don't think I am stupid, (or fat or ugly or worthless) and yet I have a collection of sharp pins right there waiting to take the carnival colors out of my life. No one even has to be present for the sharpness to cut right through.
So back to the drunken rant. I let my ex's wife hand me a needle. I let the colorful balloon that I fill up and delight in at seeing my children get popped. I let my sadness over my son's death be something she could manipulate. My solution was brilliant. I went to the Domestic Violence Center and had them send her a Cease and Desist letter. I told her, in very clear terms, that she is to stay away from me in all forms of contact (email, in person, by phone etc) forever. She is not to talk to me, write to me, be in the same room for me for as long as we both shall live. I filled my balloons back up and dropped her needle in a mailbox. I worked with my attorney to make sure my ex knew that he is completely responsible for her bad behavior and he can basically suck it! (my words, not my attorney's).
Since then, I have not seen her. Drat that I will not get to spend Christmas with my former in-laws, or get a birthday present from them, but I am okay with that, given just how big and beautiful my new bouquet of balloons is becoming.
Next up, a haystack, so I can lose the rest of the needles.
