The Name Game

In the movie, “The Crucible”, Daniel Day Lewis, who plays John Proctor is faced with either admitting he was consorting with the devil or go to the gallows.  But in saving his own life, he would be putting his name on a piece of paper, for everyone in the town to witness.  He passionately screams out, “Let me keep my name!”  But his options are non-negotiable.  He chooses to hang, rather than live a life in the shadows of the only name he’s ever had, forever blackened with a false admission. 

I faced a challenge with my name when the attorney representing my ex in court, pointed at me and demanded to the judge, “She is using MY client’s name!  She still wants to be married to him!”  Unlike John Proctor, I bore the name of my ex with indifference.  My matter-of fact rational was merely sharing the same surname as my children.  The fact it was his name was of no consequence to me, as I had long ago lost any feeling for this man due to his abuse and control.  That name held no respect, but after losing everything in my divorce, I still used the name to prevent further distancing from my children    

I was engaged to my second husband before the ink on was dry on my divorce documents.  My ex husband mockingly asked what name I was going to use?  It seemed logical to hyphenate both surnames, so I still had a connection to my children, as well as my new husband.  Unfortunately, due to longstanding issues he could not conquer, my husband suddenly disappeared when our daughter was barely three months old.  After a year without contact, I again pondered the issue of names.  My choices were to use the name of a man who was missing or a name associated with cruel abuse.  I chose to claim my own identity.   

The name battle had been raging in the presence of my children when their new step-mother would scream at them, “Your mother is using MY name!”  It was more important for her to adopt a new name and ignore the name bond she shared with her daughters.  My children were inordinately stressed from her constant badgering.  I thought my decision would alleviate some of their tension.  At first they were confused and my daughter asked if I would still be her mommy.  “Of course I’ll always be your mommy!  But I think it will be easier if I have a name that’s just mine.”  They understood.

I began to think of what name to select.  My mother’s maiden name was Robinson, which would be a bit redundant   I though of surnames started with “R”…but it seemed too contrived.  How could I just pick a random name?  Should I use my maiden name of Schlager?  I never liked the throaty sound of 4 consonants coming together followed by a guttural “G”.  It did seem natural to select a name beginning with “Sh”, a bit simpler than “Sch”.  During a random perusal of an obituary page in the newspaper, I noticed announcement for Shaye, an elderly person from the Jewish community.  I tried out the name and repeated, Robin Shaye.  It had a pretty sound…but also sounded familiar.  Suddenly, I remembered the movie, “And God created women…”  The remake starring Rebecca DeMornay (also a name changer), who played a character named Robin Shea who was an incarcerated musician and escaped from jail.  It was almost metaphorical of my life.  I, too, was a musician, and had escaped from my jail of being married to an abuser who was so controlling I had renamed him, and called him the Warden.

Analytical and wanting to be sure, I did a quick numerology check on the name.  Utilizing my full name, the numbers added up to a lucky 7 – just like my birth date!  Not only that, Shaye sounded like an anglicized Schlager.  It made sense. 

I was excited to legally receive my new name.  After standing before a judge and stating my reasons, I was granted with a document imprinted with my new name and emblazed with a gold foil seal.  It was especially beautiful because it symbolized a new beginning for me as an independent woman. 

My baby had been using her father’s surname for about a year.  Because of his absence from her life, I thought it was be less complicated to explain different names when she got a bit older.  I learned she could use the name Shaye without going to court.  I informed her daycare and pediatrician that she would be using my name.  Even her public school allowed her to use Shaye, instead of the name on her birth certificate.  When she was eight years old, her father resurfaced.  He had been crushed by years of self abuse.  It took him over a year to dredge up the courage to telephone our daughter. He died two months later.  His death opened the door to a legal name change yet her father’s name is also her birthright. 

I will leave it up to her if she wishes to change her name legally.  Whatever path she takes, I will support.  She still is joined to her father’s family by a grandmother, siblings and uncles.  I am hoping she may someday experience a strong familial bond with her father’s family, regardless of whatever name she claims as her own.  In the future, I see a strong young woman who may never want to take the name of her future husband.  She is showing the signs of young adult independence as well as a self pride.  I am hoping I had a little to do with that.  

A Grim Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there was a mother who had three beautiful children – two handsome boys and one beautiful girl.  They were everything to her.  The rising sun and setting moon could not measure up to the love she had in her heart for her children.  She made everyday an adventure. Although she had little money, she always came up with creative ideas to make each day fun and special. 

One day, the children didn't see her.  Their father had appeared and introduced them to a new house belonging to a new woman he said would be a better mother than the one they would no longer see.  The children were bewildered because this new woman was unpleasant.  She yelled at them all the time.  She never took them on outings.  She never sang to them or read them stories.  But, she was all they had, so in time they accepted her as a mother.  They clamored for their father's attention, but when he was there, most of his conversation centered on what a terrible person their own mother was and how lucky they were to be away from that terrible person.  In time, they started to believe it as well. 

There came a day when they finally were able to see their mother.  In the time they were apart, the mother had a baby.  They were so excited to see her and meet their new little sister.  Her hugs were as warm as ever, and she spoke to them in loving tones.  The fog that had grown through the years slowly dissipated as the children began to remember.  But their happiness was soon shattered by their father who daily told them that she only loved her youngest daughter and gave her all her love and possessions, while denying them with her lies.

Saddened, the children began to draw away from their mother.  Seeking a maternal figure, they grew closer to the woman who was now their father's wife.  In time, they did not ask about their mother and eventually they did not want to see her at all.  They coldly turned away when their mother tried to see them.  When their grandmother died, their mother again reached out to them, but they cruelly refused to attend their grandmother’s funeral. 

It was then that the mother had to make a difficult decision.  She could not think about her three older children any longer.  All of her attempts to talk to them were futile.  They were too frightened by their father to ask the details of their childhood, and and terrified to learn the truth, thus exposing their father as the liar.  So the mother devoted her life only to her youngest child, promising her she would no longer try to contact the older children because it made her sad, and her daughter did not like to see her mother unhappy. 

Years went by and the children went off to their own lives and families.  One day the three oldest children learned that their mother had died.   They went to the funeral and approached their younger sister who was standing there, her grief visible.  Approaching her, they briefly murmured condolences, and then turned to leave.  "Wait!" their sister spoke.  "I have a copy of Mom's will."  The three turned back, each remembering suddenly how much their mother had loved them.  Emotions welled up as the pain of all those lost years came rushing back.  She was their mother and they abandoned her. They asked no questions.  They never stood up to their father; and instead cried confused tears into their pillows.  "We're sorry," they cried.  "We loved Mom!  We're sorry we left you too!" 

As their tears flowed, their sister read from their mother's will: "To my two sons and oldest daughter- I loved you more than my own life, but you turned from me and never returned.  It made me sad that you chose to ignore your mother.  However, I did not want to leave you out of my will.  I want to give you something so you will always remember me....therefore, I leave to each of you one dollar.  This is so you will never forget that you only have one mother.”

The youngest daughter folded the will.  “She left me everything else.  But I would give it all away if she could have died knowing that you loved her as much as I did.”  She turned and walked away as one.  She would strongly stand as the one person who was fortunate to have her mother's love, which she knew would always be there.  

Highly Profiled Criminal Case Swayed By A Narcissist?

As I have preparing for the 10^th Annual Battered Mothers Custody Conference in May, where I will be presenting a workshop on Narcissism, Domestic Violence and my book, “…Until You Die”: The Narcissist’s Promise, I have been lax in my blog.  During this time, I have been consumed, obsessed, fixated, et al on the Jodi Arias trial.  As I’ve written about this trial in a prior blog (“Trials on Television Vs. Reality” 2-13-13), appalled that she is using domestic abuse and PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) as her defense for killing her former boyfriend Travis Alexander.  This alleged defense is the reason she shot Travis in the face, stabbed him 29 times and slit his throat back to his spine.    Obviously, utilizing this defense is sickening – especially for actual victims of batterers who, in their attempt to leave their abuser, ended up losing everything; their home and their children, only because our family courts do not fully understand the many components of domestic violence.  Could this really be happening in our criminal courts as well?

To date, on the witness stand is a Dr. Samuels, a psychologist for the defense, brought in to confirm Jodi Arias is indeed suffering from PTSD; and her alleged “memory loss” of the damage she inflicted with the knife to Travis is not uncommon with an individual in the throes of a traumatic event – supporting Jodi’s claim of “self-defense”. 

In the past, Dr. Samuels has incurred sanctions because of inappropriate conduct with a former client.  It is becoming apparent that Dr. Samuels has crossed the line of appropriateness with Jodi, and his appearance in court is slanted for her benefit and not as an objective evaluator. 

This struck me with the sickening familiarity of how narcissists have the ability to charm a professional assessor to the point of disregarding the reason for the assignment.  

The same captivation occurred in my own custody trial, where my former spouse charmed the guardian ad litem to the point of writing a report full of contradictions.  So enamored was she, that she testified that she did not feel certain exhibits or investigations “were necessary”.  Chillingly ironic, these were the same words used by Dr. Samuels in the trial of Jodi Arias.          

The GAL in my case ignored the 50 pages of journal entries I gave her in support of my sole care of my children and an abusive husband.  She deemed them “unnecessary”.  Also needless was knowledge about the woman my ex was living with, even though she would be caring for my children.  The crux in her report was a statement, “Robin’s friends had nothing to say about J, as he was never home.”  This followed his claim that he was always home and the only caregiver for my children.  My journal entries were filled with pages of how upset I was when he chose to spend time with his friends away from the house.  How could she deem this unimportant?  This is how a professional can get reeled in by the compelling act of the narcissistic sociopath.

Dr. Samuels has seen the gruesome pictures from the murder of Travis.  I have seen them as well.  Looking at Jodi Arias and hearing her soft voice, it seems impossible that she bears that kind of evil.  But the pictures alleviate any doubt of the sociopathic core this woman possesses.  Dr. Samuels has the same quandary as the GAL in my custody case.  He is torn between a charming, attractive woman and the unforgivable result of her actions.  But, he has allowed his attraction for the narcissistic sociopath to cloud all logic, enabling him to twist the facts enough, turning this villain into a victim. 

In contrast, when a GAL, judge or family worker are ignorant of the allure of a narcissistic sociopath, they routinely turn the victims into villains; doling out the punishment of losing custody of their children. 

I am hoping my workshop at the Battered Mothers Custody Conference will bring attention to these injustices in our judicial system, and ultimately stop the victims from being punished just for seeking justice. 

Grandmothers

I recently took my youngest daughter to visit her paternal grandmother, who is now residing in a nursing facility in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.  A once vibrant woman, she is now quiet, and offers sporadic random words…trailing off with her loss of memory.  Conversation is bursts of news from us, or making successful guesses at the few words she utters.  Although her scant memory does not allow her to contribute much, their time together will be treasured, and someday shared with my daughter’s own children and grandchildren.  

Reflecting on this made me think of my three oldest children and their grandparents.  At the time of their birth, they had three living grandparents.  My first born was their first grandchild.  The news of my pregnancy was met with a joyful reaction from my mother, a hearty congratulations from my father-in-law, and a bland response from my mother-in-law, accompanied by a sour face.  Abruptly, her weekly phone calls stopped, indicating her lack of interest in the pregnancy or her yet-to-be born grandchild.  When my son was born, she declared her desire to be called by her first name instead of any pseudonym for Grandmother.  It wasn’t until her daughter was expecting her first child that I witnessed any emotion.  She squealed with manic delight when she told us the news, just pausing long enough to add that she wanted to be called, “Grammy”.             

A year later when we visited her home in Needham, she had replaced a photograph of my son with a picture of her daughter’s son…in the frame we had given her.  I didn’t understand why she could not buy another frame and display pictures of both her grandsons.  It was not just a random oversight because years later when there were five grandchildren, any image of my three children were absent.  Displayed on the refrigerator and around the house were just the pictures of her daughter’s children.  It seemed to be a confirmation for a brewing thought that my husband (and his children) was not as important because he was not her biological child.  Although I did not know it at the time, unreciprocated love toward a child plants the seeds of narcissism. 

This disorder grew within him, and developed into the need for control, and ultimately abusive behavior.  Although my children had a biological grandmother who adored them, my husband’s quest for maintaining control along with severing supportive ties, he marred my children’s relationship by creating animosity and fear.  He encouraged terror toward my mother’s dogs, who were barkers.  He would warn that a barking dog was a prerequisite to a biting dog, enforcing a high level of alarm anytime a visit to her home was planned.  

Upon our divorce, he forced a relationship with the parents of his girlfriend.  My children soon replaced their affections on her parents instead of their own biological grandmother.  Although my ex was no longer with the woman by the time her mother died, my children kindly attended her funeral.  Yet a few months later they refused to attend their own grandmother’s funeral.  My daughter, who was 20 at the time, sent me an e-mail on behalf of herself and her brothers stating they were not attending because she was not involved in their lives, the brief interaction was “not pleasant”, and she disliked her “lack of effort” to be a part of her life; either ignoring or not understanding her father prevented interaction, and encouraged hostility toward her grandmother.   

Despite my daughter’s harsh words, I only felt sympathy that she had developed into such a cold, heartless young woman, without the ability to see past what she had been programmed to feel.  I felt profound pity for her hateful words that bore no merit.  Considering her father had banned me from most of her life, her intense anger can only be attributed to what he had instilled into her developing mind for so many years.  His bitter revenge probably offered him satisfaction believing my children’s absence hurt me.  However, I told my children about the funeral for their benefit to pay their last respects.  I did not need their support.  

My three older children have been denied all biological ties, except for their father.  With so many adoptees seeking a relationship with their biological family, it is profoundly odd that my children limit their ties to one person.  But, since their father is a narcissistic sociopath, his desire is not uncommon.  He always craved utter equality, regardless if it was a boat, the size of a closet or the number of orgasms one should be allowed.  Therefore, it is not strange for him to deny his children a relationship with his biological grandmother, or mother for that matter, as he never enjoyed that relationship.  And that is just one manifestation seen in a narcissistic sociopathic individual.   

My youngest daughter was fortunate as she had a relationship with her maternal grandmother since birth.  Although her relationship with her paternal grandparents began late in life, I chose to foster that relationship so she could have some biological tie to her father, who died before she could meet him.  The saying that it is better to give than receive does not just apply to a tangible gift; it is putting someone’s needs before your own.  Doing so for your child demonstrates what it means to be a parent; undoubtedly a lesson handed down by a grandparent.  These generational life lessons of decorum create the foundation of becoming a loving and gracious adult.      

Trials On Television Vs. Reality

After experiencing the injustices in family court since 1996, I hoped that someday I could make a change in what was happening within our legal system.  At one point I was preparing to attend law school, anticipating position as an attorney would allow me to identify the continued abuse of the victims of domestic violence inside the courthouse. A change in my circumstances halted the funding of law school, where I’d have the luxury to pick and choose my cases.  Staying on that career path would incur hefty academic loans, forcing me to accept every case in order to payback these loans in addition to supporting myself.   I could not bear the thought of compromising my morals, values and ethics by possibly having to represent a batterer and destroy a family to satisfy my financial obligations.  So, despite my careful planning, I walked away from the legal profession.

Years later, I still find a great fascination with the law, specifically trials.  In addition to reading about true life crime (I’m a huge Ann Rule fan); I have become an avid armchair court watcher.  I barely missed a moment of the Casey Anthony trial, as well as the analytic programs in the evening.  The outcome was heartbreaking, but the reasoning was logical.  It was a chess game.  It was strategic.  It was not based on honesty…it was based on performances.  This was something I had learned from my divorce trial.  Sadly, the idealistic belief that our legal system is respected by all is not so.

When I heard that the Jodi Arias murder trial was going to begin, I was anticipating the start.  Preferring that to local programming, I began watching.  Jodi Arias is a 30 year old woman on trial for killing her ex-boyfriend Travis Alexander in 2008.  She stabbed him 29 times, slit his throat and shot him in the face.  After initial denials, Jodi admitted she killed Travis in self defense.  Although she allegedly stole a gun belonging to her grandparents, dyed her hair during the 100 mile drive to Travis, borrowed gas cans to anonymously fill her tank during the long trip, rented a car (insisting on an “inconspicuous” color) and manipulated the license plates, she denied her actions were premeditated.

To date, Jodi is in the midst of her testimony where she described Travis Alexander as an abusive, hypocritical Mormon man, who had pedophile tendencies.  There is not a shred of supporting evidence – no pictures, no journals, and no police reports.  Her robotic revelations reek of discrepancies and incredulous statements, none of which could be an excuse to stab a man 29 times, slit his throat and shoot him in the face.

I am particularly interested in this case because I was a victim of domestic abuse.  All I wanted was a traditional family lifestyle with my husband and our three children.  My needs were simple, and focused on conventional values and my children’s happiness.  But, I was married to a controlling abusive man who mocked religion and indulged the lifestyle of a single man.  Our relationship was very different than Jodi and Travis who appeared to enjoy a great deal of cohesive couple time and shared ideas.  Yet, Jodi’s accusation that Travis abused her, resulted in a vague description of an alleged strangulation evoking panicked thoughts of being unable to breathe. 

Experiencing the trauma of hands tightening around your throat does not allow one to cognitively reflect on the effects of being strangled - I know, because it happened to me.  When my husband was strangling me, I was unaware of anything, and was unable to move.  When he stopped, I was numb.  I barely remember getting off the ground and walking into our apartment.  The shock of seeing the marks on my neck jolted me into the reality of documenting the event by taking a few self-portraits.  One thing I remembered was later trying to pick out the gravel from our driveway that was embedded in the back of my scalp. 

Because of the inability of the Norfolk County Probate Court to understand all the components of abuse, even with the pictures, the judge said he did not believe I was strangled.  The unethical attorney representing my husband basically used the Jose Baez, a la Casey Anthony ploy.  She threw enough shit out to deflect the judge from the truth of the case…that I had been severely abused in every way possible.  Despite that, I was an exemplary mother; while my husband was a batterer and absentee father.  Because of her lies, fabrications and ranting, she won custody of my children for their father….who has damaged them beyond repair. 

If Jodi Arias is able to beat her crime using an abused woman defense, I would say that our system is brutally flawed. Jodi Arias could very well be given that “get out of jail free” card for her animalistic killing of Travis Alexander.  The verdict is not in, but it makes me angry to hear some of the analysis after the testimony and the anticipation of the “experts” who will provide support in Jodi’s claim of being a victim of domestic abuse.  This is making me feel that all the women I know who have been through similar situations and lost their children in the process have merely been swept under the rug because we did not stab our abusers 29 times, slit his throat and shoot him in the face. 

Is that what needs to be done in order to have experts recognize the effects from years of domestic violence?  Many women have avoided taking the law into their own hands because they are decent women who had a belief that our courts would recognize what they had endured, and make the appropriate recommendations instead of ripping their children away and giving them to their abuser.  Because I am a survivor…and a strong one at that…I have taken my own path in this journey for justice.  Although my children are destroyed, I have written a book as documentation with supporting evidence as to the gross mistakes made in Norfolk Probate Court.  I can only hope that the changes I wanted to make as a prospective attorney will be recognized as errors in the system, so the real abusers will face their deserved punishment, instead of the victims.

And what will happen to Jodi Arias?  The case is not over.  I am praying that she is not labeled as a victim of abuse, for if she is, it will denounce the real victim’s plight, and in fact, she will be getting away with murdering an innocent man, the same way my abusive ex got away with the freedom to continue his abusive ways on me and our innocent children.  And if Jodi does walk, she will be leaving the memory of Travis as an abuser who was ultimately murdered because of his “behavior”.  If so, shouldn’t other abusers share the same fate, instead of being given the right to continue to live and abuse their former wives and children as allowed within the halls of “justice”?         

Having Babies - Stealing Children

I was married in 1987.  We shared the important personal commonalities that would create the foundation of a successful relationship.  Our lifestyle was energetic and fun.  Overshadowing our happiness was his need to be the center of attention and be viewed as “unique” was often disclosed without blushing.  The hints of troubles began on our honeymoon when he refused to pose for the typical “newlyweds” pictures, or sleep in the same bed.  Instead of seeking a marital bond, he found a friend who he incorporated in our together time.  I hated my honeymoon.

Our marriage started off with highs and lows which I attributed to adjustment.  Instead of enjoying our time together, he prioritized his days in the company of his friends, and admitted he believed his own desires took precedence.  Normalcy was putting your own wants first, was the mantra of the man I married, the words of a narcissistic sociopath.

In the fall, he ignored birth control and threw caution to the wind.  By Christmas I was pregnant….and ecstatic.  He reacted with moans of annoyance.  He complained of the morning noise as I ate crackers to quell my nausea, grumbled about buying maternity clothes, and expressed irritation of purchasing baby furniture.  His disinterest in the pregnancy was clear as he did not want to feel the baby kick, attend prenatal visits, and mocked our childbirth classes.  During my three days of labor, he offered no support, encouragement, and incredulously left the hospital, returning hours later too stoned to be allowed in the operating room for my emergency C-section.  The birth of our son did not elicit a kind word; only a gleeful whisper that I wouldn’t be “all stretched out”.  Without experiencing the journey toward parenthood with my husband, I was now a mother.

Recently, I saw a gorgeous portrait of a woman on the beach.  She was partly reclining, leaning into the man seated behind her, holding her in a protective embrace, their hands entwined and resting on her pregnant belly.  The picture conveyed love, caring and the sharing of a beautiful moment that I missed.  I only experienced blatant indifference during pregnancy #1 and #2, and a frightening demand to abort my third pregnancy.  I fought for the life of my third child and was blessed with a beautiful daughter, who, at 21 years old, ironically puts her father on a pedestal, despite his order to terminate her life.      

He claimed our children were interference to the life he wanted, and choose to pursue that rather than be a father.  His appearances at home were rare, his knowledge of his own children were vague, having to often defer to my expertise.  His limited times alone with the children were almost disastrous, and I maintained my role as sole caregiver. Nevertheless, when I filed for divorce, he decided to retaliate by demanding custody.  His lawyer was the daughter of the attorney who represented him in the 1980’s for cocaine possession.  Her unethical way of practicing law did not hinder her conscience to present him as the perfect father, business owner and securely living in the house belonging to the woman he had been dating during his marriage.      

Money talks in many ways.  It spells success, regardless if it’s obtained legitimately or criminally.  Money buys what you seeking in the family courts.  It erases any former drug records, photographs of physical abuse, and infidelity during a marriage.  In the courtrooms of justice and family, the more money you have, automatically makes you the better parent. 

It makes no sense that the probate courts are also called “family” courts.  The word family evokes a picture of two parents happily enjoying life with their children.  It does not conger up a picture of a man strangling his wife, ignored the cries of his children, reveling in his reputation of dealing marijuana, and or beating his children.  Logic would immediately dismiss such a man as a custodial parent, until they peak in his pocket.  Some mothers have who lost custody due to illnesses, or temporarily relinquishing custody, or a prior past of substance abuse.  My past was not marred by anything.  I was a stay at home mom who provided meticulous care, love, and a variety of activities for my children, despite having no income and no access to money.  I wore maternity clothes throughout my marriage while my husband spent his money on boats, cars, a wine collection, other women, and his designer wardrobe.  Despite that, I was a survivor for my children, yet…without money, I was an easy target for the probate courts to steal my children and give them to a drug dealer, batterer, liar, philanderer, and thief. 

I will never see a portrait of myself being protected by a partner.  I have realized that it is not something I need.  And it’s a trade-off as any picture of me demonstrates personal strength, independence, and the will to reveal in my ability to sustain sanity, and share my story.  And as to my qualifications of being a mother…one only needs to see my youngest daughter (from my 2^nd deceased husband) to confirm how I have excelled there as well….on my own.

Norfolk Probate Court

Traveling east on a secondary road in Dedham, Massachusetts, one is treated to a tree lined street framing beautiful old Victorian homes.  Even at the traffic lights, a sign of a entering a commercial area, the appearance of a court house on the left is majestic.  The probate court house of Norfolk County, architecturally magnificent, stands as a symbol of justice.  Many believe that the building serves as a haven, a sanctuary for those seeking protection from abuse, and end to an unhappy marriage.  Walking into hallowed halls, high ceilings, and marble floors almost demands whispers, voices softly encouraging and comforting those enduring an emotional life transition.  But in contrast, the echoes in these halls are an agonizing amplification of the injustices in the court rooms.  Equally picturesque, the dark wooded courtrooms, with intricate detail, are the mask of what is actually a torture chamber, with judges freely stamping their gavel on decisions with the intensity to crush families. 

The well utilized basement area of the courthouse looks more like a prison holding area, where everyone waits for their cell assignment.  It’s dark and crowded with limited seating.  It’s an agonizing wait as couples are called into the small rooms with the hopes of coming to an agreement to bring in front of a judge and expedite the process.  The first time I stood there, I heard conversation around me.  Once woman was stating she had been coming to that courthouse for 17 years.  I couldn’t imagine the reason.  In my mind, you go to court, arrange the common visitation schedule – every other weekend, one weeknight – and an amount for child support.  Simple, easy and quick.  My naïveté was due to my idealistic belief that people respect what the court stands for; truth and justice.  Lying in court, or perjury, is only committed by seasoned criminals.  Sadly, I was mistaken. 

Prior to going to court, my abusive ex told me he was warned by his family that I was going to accuse him of sexually abusing the children.  To me, that was not only shocking, but ridiculous.  You don’t lie in court.  You don’t make fraudulent accusations.  What I had to relate about my ex’s vile behavior was enough – I didn’t need to fabricate anything.  But he did…..and the court allowed it. 

One court worker was enamored, finding my ex so compelling, she loudly related her empathy to his latest fabricate complaint to another court worker. When I boldly interrupted her, she merely replied, “Well, that’s what he said.”  And I retorted, “Considering the source, you should know it’s a lie.”  There are many positions which demand discretion.  Information is respected privacy and should remain out of earshot to non-staff.  Therefore, how can a court allow their workers to discuss cases, and vocalize their own misguided opinions where anyone can listen?    

Norfolk probate court judges made decisions without hearing the facts from both sides.  How can a Jewish judge believe testimony that children had to go to Hebrew school seven days a week?  How can a judge make a decision on the tearstained photograph of a woman with fingerprints on her neck be anything other than proof of being choked?  How can a judge remove custody from a parent after the same motion was already denied twice?  How can a judge sleep peacefully at night, after destroying the lives of innocent children?

The only thing missing from the pictures of the Norfolk probate courthouse, are the mothers who gathered outside, sobbing after a judge removed her children from her care, merely because her abusive ex displayed the calm demeanor often seen in a sociopath, while she showed emotion at the thought she was going to lose what she loved most.  And the court, offering the same lack of empathy as the narcissistic sociopath, with unconscionable ruling, did as she feared most.

The probate court has since moved to an industrial area in an antiseptic brick building.  Have the demons that once lived in the imposing structure followed along?  Well, that’s not my story to write.  By the time I had to utilize the services there, I was much more savvy in the ways of the court.  I did not need an attorney, because I could represent myself.  I was no longer intimidated by the unethical attorney I faced, and found ways to get around her objections; by testifying to evidence she was afraid to allow me to submit, for it proved the trail of injustices allowed in my case.  I was finally able to stand up and tell the judge I refused anymore abuse by my ex, his attorney and the Norfolk Probate court. And after years of battle, my case was closed, and I felt as if I had won.  I did not win the deserved custody, as my children were almost grown, but I won the freedom from my abusive ex, and the freedom of facing false accusations in that court. 

But in attaining freedom, and access to children gave my ex carte blanche to do whatever he desired; to manipulate, to degrade and to destroy, and control his children – their thoughts and deeds, in the way he wanted.  And that’s what he desired most….his own freedom to continue his abuse away from the eyes of those who judge….because someday he knew, they may not be judging in his favor.