Another Guest Post

Be prepared to shed tears

 

TRUTH MUST SPEAK LOUDER THAN MONEY. LOVE MUST PREVAIL OVER HATRED

RACHEL ALINTOFF’S STRUGGLE FOR HER SON

 By Rachel Alintoff

 

Brooklyn, NY (April 15, 2015) — My great-grandmother’s name was Anna. I remember so many things about her, but mostly it was her joyous devotion to her five children, husband, grandchildren and great-grandchildren that has stayed with me all these years.

My brother and I grew up in Ditmas Park Brooklyn in an old Victorian home, but on Sunday mornings, we invariably traveled to Manhattan’s Lower East Side to be with Great Grandma Anna. As the morning progressed, my cousins and uncles and aunts would arrive, filling the small place with light and laughter. You could not imagine how a one-bedroom apartment could hold so many people. Looking back, it seems like magic, something out of a Hasidic tale about how a small home can stretch to accommodate love.

I knew I was lucky to taste this warm, wonderful Old World Jewish family life, yet, I never could have imagined that the deep ties that had been cultivated within my family would one day be used against me by a judge in New Jersey as part of the reason to take my small son away from me in a contentious divorce case.

“The mother is too enmeshed with her family,” stated Judge Linda Grasso Jones in Monmouth County Courthouse, New Jersey in the insane ruling that rendered me a mother unfit to have custody of her small child.

By some logic hatched in an upside-down world, my son Hayden was snatched away from me — and the loving extended family I yearned to share with him — by a corrupt judge, which is sadly synonymous with daily life within the Monmouth County Court.

In an instant, all the zeal and energy I stored up for my mothering buzzed around me, looking for an outlet. I felt like the victim of a dark riddle: what do you call a mother who cannot mother her own child?

If the Monmouth County court is right about anything is it that I am close to my family. As a child, I had the best parental role models you can hope for, strong women whose love for their children knew no bounds. My own mother is a well-educated stay-at-home mom who tirelessly prepared meals, kept us clean, took us on cultural outings, stayed up all night when we were sick, supported us emotionally and cheered the loudest for our accomplishments. My great-grandmother Anna would show immense joy at our weekly visits to having everyone “under one roof.”   On Friday nights when we would visit, I would watch my great-grandmother light Shabbos candles in the kitchen and afterwards, she would take my hand and say, “don’t tell great-grandpa if I give you a piece of dark chocolate” with a thick Yiddish accent.   I adored her. She was tiny, but commanded great respect and had a sense of humor that even at a young age I could discern as being exceptional for someone of her age.

After what I have been through over the past three years I realize how lucky I was to have had such a carefree happy childhood. I viewed family as comforting and I loved the connection I had to my Jewish heritage through my great-grandparents and Hebrew school in Brooklyn. Bagels and lox, herring and tuna casserole on Sunday afternoons on the Lower East Side and playing with my cousins in the hallway until one of the neighbors would complain about the noise. My father’s mother, grandma Leah, lived across from my great grandparents so I never viewed living close to home as anything other than normal.   I am and was close to my Grandma Leah (she’s now 96 years old and still very much a part of my life).   As a little girl, I observed how my great-grandmother’s love of all her children was so beautifully reciprocated and I hoped to one day emulate that connection in my own life with my own children.

When I was in my early 30’s, I met and began dating Bryan Alintoff. From the way he presented himself, I was thrilled to see that Bryan and I shared similar family values. I never imagined that everything he had presented to me was a lie and a farce – a brilliant act by a narcissist and con artist to win a nice girl over.   We were engaged only four months after meeting and married about eight months after that. Two years after we were married, our son Hayden Max Alintoff was born.   I cannot describe the bliss I felt when Hayden was first put into my arms or all the months that followed as I was able to stay at home with him, nursing him as a baby and watching him explore the world. I felt a euphoric gratitude for his presence in my life and proud of the mother that I had become molded by the generations of Jewish loving mothers before me.

My secure and beautiful life began to shatter slowly around me as my husband Bryan began to display controlling and angry behaviors towards me. We moved out to Long Branch, NJ partly because Bryan was insisting on distancing me from my family. Tragically, Bryan had not had a good childhood and his associations with family were far from positive. His mother was emotionally distant and often absent. His father, a wealthy Connecticut investment banker or something or that nature, had not been faithful and eventually left Bryan’s mother for another woman.   I never realized that Bryan’s shattered childhood and animosity towards both his mother and father would play out in our marriage, but it did and in the most horrific way it possibly could. Bryan began to resent me for being a good mother and for being loving towards our son. He began to verbally diminish me whenever he could, often telling me that I had never accomplished anything in my life and that being a mother in and of itself is not an accomplishment. He would constantly harass me to stop nursing Hayden. He would come home and demand to know hour-by-hour what I had done with my day and what activities I had gone on with Hayden. I began to fear Bryan and that fear would only worsen when he would drink. On the days and nights that Bryan would drink, he would black out and I would have to shield Hayden from being woken up or being bathed by his drunk father.   I found out that Bryan had been having an inappropriate relationship with the aunt of one of my friends – following in his father’s footsteps. Terrified, I left Bryan when Hayden was two years old and came back to Brooklyn to temporarily live with my parents until I could find my own apartment. In response, Bryan filed for divorce and immediately started a vicious custody battle for our son.

These past three years have been nightmarish and surreal.   My son, who has now been diagnosed as autistic, is the joy and love of my life. Descended from a long line of strong women, the support of my family keeps me fighting to regain custody of Hayden. Among the many obscene and unfair aspects of the custody battle is our dramatically different financial situations. Bryan has become wealthy from being a commodities trader on Wall Street and therefore has had an army of lawyers to fight me with while I was only armed with the truth, the facts, a quest for justice and the determination to tell my story.

Along the way in my fight for my son, I’ve uncovered a stunning reality: I am hardly alone as a parent seeking a just outcome in my custody quest in Monmouth County. More than 200 women have come forward to Governor Chris Christie over the past couple of years to complain about the collusion and fraud within the courthouse, galvanized and inspired by my example. The culture of corruption is deeply entrenched in Monmouth County. Money speaks louder than the truth and children are just the means to an end; their wellbeing is irrelevant to the judges presiding over the cases. I have witnessed too many instances of loving mothers deprived of their children and custody awarded to monstrous – and wealthy – husbands. In my situation, my son had the benefit of living with me in Brooklyn and attending a special needs school for the last three years of this court battle up until September 2014 when he was ripped from me by Judge Grasso Jones in a move that I believe was retaliation for my outspokenness as well as collusion with the well-heeled law firm my husband hired with his Wall Street money.

Though I am left with empty arms and a broken heart, I can still stand tall and fight for my son. My son needs me. My son loves me. He is a special needs kindergarten student for whom stability is vital. I believe that his development is being compromised by the instability in his young life.

The details of our custody battle are so horrible as to be ludicrous. Readers will have a hard time believing some of my testimony…unless they have been through something similar themselves. Yet, while my husband continues to play a game of “How much can I torture my ex?” my sole concern remains the best interest of my child, namely, the desire to give him the rich childhood that I enjoyed. With the strength of my Jewish heritage that taught me that nothing comes without hard work, I am determined to do whatever it takes to shine light on the massive corruption that festers and thrives within the walls of the Family Court System in New Jersey. Truth must speak louder than money; love must prevail over hatred. I am fighting for my five-year-old son and every mother who steps into that courthouse after me.

Today’s lesson

Last week, two days post-hearing, I went to see my therapist.

I felt absolutely nothing. I told her my news, we talked about how exhausted I am, we touched on how moving forward will look, and spent a good chunk on past hurts.

No anxiety. No tears. No joy. No feelings.

I thought – maybe this is because I am still in total disbelief. Then I also considered the fact that we have a brand new relationship and letting down my guard might be the problem. I said, “I am not normally this flat. Maybe I will start feeling things once I get the paperwork from the court.”

When I got the paperwork, I expected to breathe deeply and experience complete and utter letting go and relief.

Not so.

For one, the Minute Notes didn’t just cover what the judge ordered, it also covered the things that I tried to get him to order that he didn’t.

So the way it read is, “Petitioner lost arguments A, B, and C, Respondent was guilty but only received a flimsy slap on the wrist, Petitioner could have done a much better job of proving respondent in contempt if only she ‘d been more on her game, and Respondent, once again demonstrates that rules do not apply to him…

And BTW, the judge is hereby fed up with Petitioner and Respondent and gives sole decision-making to Petitioner, but forgot to mention recreational decisions, which is implied, but since we are dealing with a serious Narc, will become a bone of contention which may land back in court and Judge will seriously regret forgetting that one word.

Oh yeah, Respondent owes Petitioner more money which goes back 2 months.”

Even though yes, I was awarded Sole Decision Making and Worksheet A (which in Colorado is titled Sole Physical Care) which, together, equal Sole Custody, it doesn’t feel like as big of a win because my “losses” are also right there under my nose.

That, and the fact that he just amped it up takes away the warm fuzzy.

In other words, why did I somehow imagine, just because the Judge ordered what he ordered, that this would somehow be over?

This was just another step in the path – it was no end to the misery.

From what I’ve heard from others in The Group (the cyber support group) this won’t stop him – might not even slow him down – might actually prompt him to pick up pace – rapidly.

No wonder I can’t let go, relax, feel relief, celebrate, cry, move forward, imagine a different future, or even say “Sole Custody” out loud. It’s not over. I must keep up my guard – now more than ever. War has been (re) declared and I am going to PAY.

 

 

It doesn’t feel real

I keep checking in with my boyfriend who sat in the courtroom all day:

“Seriously, the Judge gave it all to me?”

“Do you think the Judge can change his mind?”

“Really?  It’s completely done?”

It just doesn’t seem possible that the years of “sharing” and “co-parenting” are over.

He lost.

I won.

I only personally know one other parent in our state, who has received sole custody.

I hired her attorney after I heard what he did for her. $11,000 later he hadn’t done shit for me so I fired him.

One thought that tries to worm into my brain is, “So, why didn’t you do this sooner – try to get this settled before the children were almost 18?  Save them some suffering.”

It is hard, now that I have won, to not question myself, but then I have to let go of that, remind myself that if I had tried earlier, I might not have had as solid a case, and be thankful that I did finally make it happen.

6 years ago he told me that he no longer loved me (3 minutes after me getting pregnant.) He left 6 months after that. I filed for divorce because he never would have done it himself. August 18, 2010, we were officially divorced. February 11, 2011, we got our Permanent Orders.

Or actually, I did because he failed to show up at the hearing, but he did spend the next 4 years blaming me for what the Judge decided that day.

We went back to court. We went to mediation. He filed a new parenting plan. I filed contempt charges.

The tension grew. The abuse increased 10-fold. The conflict became non-stop.

Somewhere along the way I started hearing “Document EVERYTHING.” I figured that I saved all of the emails in my Gmail, so I was covered.

At one point, I was putting something together for my attorney and had to spend hours scrambling through old emails trying to find something that I vaguely remembered exN writing and I thought, “Oh, maybe I should be a little more intentional in my “documenting.”

I wrote down everything – every text, every conversation, every negative interaction with or for the kids. I bought a lovely green binder and covered it with a print-out of the Urban Dictionary’s definition of Douchebag and went from there.

Once I began looking at all that had transpired and I had it in writing and dated and organized, I realized that I had a case.

And at the same time, he starting really fucking with me.  He went No Contact.

That’s right – I got Gray-Rocked.

Can you stand it?

Dude, Game On.

He totally set himself up for Contempt of Court charges.

I became so deliberate in communicating with him. I made sure that I contacted him every single time that I should have. I kept all of my communications brief, to the point, polite, and unemotional.

I knew he’d never respond.

I never let him see me get frustrated.

In other words, I spent 9 months setting him up and covering my ass.

And then, when I felt like my case was so solid that I wouldn’t even have to argue it in court, I filed Contempt paperwork and got a hearing.

And it all went from there.

More later (I’m actually at work and should probably get back to it.)

 

 

 

 

Get Ready to Hear Something Really F-ed Up.

I can’t believe I am going to use my out loud voice to admit this one…

So there was a man, long before my ExN and again, after him. I would say that this man is also a Narc, but I think that’s putting it mildly.

Bi-polar? Attachment Disorder? Who knows, but he’s a bad person with whom to get involved.

I should know – I did it twice.

First time, he moved half way across the country to be with me and 2 weeks later, I came home to an empty apartment and note that said, “Don’t take it personally.”

Second time, (20 years later) was pretty much immediately after my husband (exN) of 15 years left and I was WAY open to “I’ve always loved you – leaving you was the worst mistake of my life.”

And, surprise, surprise, after months of “I love you’s” and “I want to spend my life with you’s”, he became passive aggressive, then abusive, and then vanished.

Again.

He owed money to everyone he knew. He swore off drinking and weed; only he did it in secret and then lied about it. Sometimes he couldn’t afford to eat or put gas in the truck to come see me, but he would manage to get himself to the liquor store for a 6-pack. He was nasty to my children. Never seemed to notice that I was a single mother and maybe needed a little bit of support. People everywhere were angry at him because he’d screwed them over one way or another. He had very few friends. He couldn’t hold down a job. He has no relationship with his mother, his sister, or his DAUGHTER. He lived in his truck that apparently wasn’t even his. He was bitter and resentful towards most people that he knew. He was the world’s biggest victim. He was mean.

He is sexy as hell.

And when he turned it on and his focus was you, there was no better feeling in the world. It was subtle and soft and seductive and sensual – nothing overt about him.

Mother of God.

One of his best friends actually came to my house when he and I first started dating the second time and said, “Don’t do it honey, he’s going to run out on you and you and your children don’t need that.”

When he vanished time number 2, I had a complete and unparalleled nervous breakdown. Of course it had something to do with my marriage having fallen apart and me not having dealt with it. And it had something to do with my complete and utter lack of self-esteem that remained after 15 years with a Narc.

The pain, shame, and deep humiliation were nearly impossible to recover from; only managed to do so with lots of therapy, medication, and hand holding. It was a long and brutal road and honestly, if I didn’t have children, I don’t know that I would have had it in me to make it through.

Anyway, this isn’t about that – but you need the background information to understand just how twisted what I am about to tell you really is.

A gal who I barely know, but happen to like very much, contacted me because she recently had her heart-broken by this man and wanted to talk – to try to make sense of it all.

We met for lunch, she told me a lot – I’m sure not everything, but enough. Some of what she had been dragged through was exactly what I had lived. Eerily so.

I think it was comforting for her to know that it wasn’t her, that it is most clearly him and his bizarre and agonizing patterns. I shuddered at reliving some of the events.

When she said, “We were going to move in together, we had talked about marriage, he was starting to change,” I thought, “Yeah right, we were too.”

And then, sitting at my desk yesterday afternoon, I felt so sad.

And here it is, The Thing…

I was insanely jealous. I was sad that she had that dream with him, I stared blankly at my computer screen comparing their “love and tenderness” to mine. I imagined the sweetness of cooking dinner with him (of course she had bought all of the food and was doing all of the cooking) while he serenaded her in his wimpy ass voice singing Ryan Adams – the only music he would listen to. I saw him brush his hand over her cheek – heard his voice whisper that he adored her.

I felt her warmth as she crawled into bed next to him, imagining doing this for the rest of her life.

I thought her thoughts of “He’s totally pulling his shit together FOR ME.”

I Imagined her pity for his past loves (namely me) because they weren’t capable of being what he needed and she was.

It ate at me yesterday. Intellectually I was laughing at myself. Consciously, emotionally, I felt so sad for her that she had to go through this and that he had hurt another good woman and was so relieved to be able to support someone else through the hell that he created.

But deep down inside it gnawed at me.

And that, my dear friends, is the insidiousness of the Narc-and-more.

 

 

 

Yet Another Narc

I’ve tried to pretend that this person is not a Narc, but the writing’s on the wall…

She is my friend. We have been friends for years. We have been through a lot together. Sometimes we are closer than others.

Her son is my boys’ best friend. He’s at my house a LOT. Has been for years.

He is sweet and polite and respectful and therefore, always welcome.

I have the house of refugees. Every teenager in town knows that if they need a safe haven, they can have one with me.

My children, having lived through their parents’ shit show of a divorce, have deep compassion for others.

This boy also happens to be a football teammate – a bond that apparently runs deeper than blood.

Mom is a writer.

I am a writer.

We actually write (in a group) together.

We are both single mothers.

Her ex vanished off the face of the earth leaving her with two small children.

She had cancer last year.

We support each other in our writing, single-handedly raising our children, being poor, being unwell, and dealing with our divorces.

Her life has not been easy.

And yet….

I don’t care. I want to tear her head off right now.

Apparently she is writing a book. Good on her. I am jealous – wish I had the time and the motivation. If she gets published before I even write chapter one of my book I will feel bottomlessly insecure and unaccomplished.

But, I am so not okay with how she is going about it.

She has implemented “Me Time.” This is the time that, when she feels inspired, she drops everything else and writes.

It can be in the morning, the afternoon, evening or even late at night.

Again, good for her for creating space for her creativity.

But…at what cost?

“Me Time” is not your average, go into my office/bedroom and close the door with the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob, time.

The children must leave the house completely. If it’s 10:00 pm, going to bed isn’t good enough – they must leave the premises.

What’s a teenager to do at 10 on a school night?

They are 15 and 17 – obviously old enough to supervise themselves. But we live in a town the size of a shoe, with about as many places to go as inside a shoe. During the day, the kids are in school, but “Me Time” doesn’t always conveniently coincide with school.

My creativity time doesn’t really either but that’s because I have a JOB. I don’t know what the fuck she does all day, but it’s definitely not a lot of working.

My writing time also looks like me getting up before everyone else in the house, drinking a pot of coffee before 6 am and…writing.

By 6:30 everyone is up and running and I am (or at least pretend to be) thrilled to connect with each and every one of them.

In other words, since I happen to be a mother, I accept that I need to create creative time and creative space for myself, not expect everyone in the house to cater to my desires.

She doesn’t see it that way. They must accommodate her.

So they must remove themselves from the premises.  She actually doesn’t really care where they go or what they do, as long as they are not within a certain radius. She doesn’t even mind if they go to someone else’s home to get fed and sheltered, as long as they do not return home during “Me Time.”

And, to circle back around, that location that she doesn’t care about is more often than not, the refugee camp. And I, the keeper of the refugees, am to be found stretching the beans to make one more burrito. A service which she has never acknowledged let alone offered a sign of appreciation.

Which all leads to yesterday. After spending the night at my house, her child sent her a text (at 10:30 in the morning) saying that he wanted to come home to take a shower.

Should he really have to do that?

She didn’t respond.

So he walked the 6 blocks to his house and got an ass-chewing as he walked in the door. “This is Me Time – you may not be in here.  What are you doing home?”

“But Mom, I sent you a text.”

“Yes, but I didn’t answer which means that I am writing. You should have known that and not come in here.”

“Well, I’m not staying long. I’m going to _________ with friend.”

“Oh no you’re not. You disrespected me, you don’t get to go.”

But you can’t be here.

Argument (and hurt feelings) ensued.

Final result, Child was told to go live with Grandma until Mom finishes book.

I’ve purposely denied that she is a Narc – I’ve wanted to not judge another single mother since I obviously know just how hard it is to be one. She has had her moments where she has really shown up as a good friend.

But then I realize that I’ve shown up a lot more often than she has in that capacity.

And many a time, after the crisis has passed, I have felt discarded.

And I have wondered, frequently, about her parenting and her priorities when it comes to her children. But her kids are such wonderful people that I have always let the mental thread drop thinking, she must be doing something right.

But this is too much.

I can no longer deny it.

Narc Narc Narc.

And now, I have to listen to her, in writing group, proudly proclaim, “I have given myself permission to take care of myself and allow myself the space to write.  And the good news is, I am almost finished with my book!”

Can I hear that without clawing her eyes out?

Can I sit there with the others, who don’t know the truth, and praise her “Good for you. It’s so important to make yourself a priority.”

Barf.

And we all know that if I point out what I think is the obvious, that yes, she is writing a book, but at the expense of her children, she’s not going to hear it – she is a Narcissist after all.

 

 

 

Narcissistic Vanity

One of the common traits of a Narc is vanity about their appearance: impeccable grooming, nice clothes, sweet ride – anything to make them look good.

Mine also has this trait, but it certainly doesn’t show up in typical fashion.

We were mountaineering and canyoneering guides – often spending a month or more in the backcountry without seeing civilization or running water. The best a person could do was to heat up a little bit of water over a backpacking stove and splash a little water in her PTA (pits, tits, and ass).

In our world, amongst our peers, there was a sense of pride in being a “dirtbag.”

I know – totally bizarre and yet it was our Normal.

Years later, I’m still not all that consistent in the bathing department – hard habit to break.

But his pride in dirtbag-ness was present during our entire marriage, regardless of settling into civilization and the real world.

In other words, he was still dirty more often than not.

And the real vanity lay in his being unconventional, different from the rest, above those shallow needs of the average man to be clean and groomed. The rules of society don’t apply to him. My exN thought he looked like a Calvin Klein model even though he smelled like sheep shit.

Once, in the very early days, we both needed physicals for another year of work, so we went together because we did everything together. I sat in the doctor’s office and watched him pull at least two tablespoons of moldy, black, and stinky wax out of each of my beloved’s ears.

I. Was. Speechless.

But only saw this as one more sign of his coolness because he spent so much time outdoors and no one carries Q-tips in their backpack.

Every one does. Except him.

Not sure he is even aware that Q-tips have been invented.

And there were his teeth, which he hardly brushed, even at home where we had a bathroom sink AND running water. Coffee stained and a little fuzzy. And, I overlooked that too.

And his lips. His lips. I can’t even imagine what they would look like without leftover coffee crusted in the little wrinkles. A problem that probably would have been solved had he brushed his teeth.

He farted, all of the time, without ever an “excuse me.” One day I snapped and said, “You smell like ASS – all of the time.” His response, “Passing gas is a natural process, it’s too bad you are so uptight.”

Words that resounded in my brain every time I thought “Eeewww,” and thus, silenced me.

When we first met, he had really long hair – a trait I found incredibly sexy at the time – until he began to lose it and never washed it and it began to separate into greasy strands over his pate. If I suggested a shower it was received with, “You’ve changed, you’re not the loving, accepting person that I fell in love with. When did you become so shallow?”

T-shirts with stains (faded stains, but there were there nonetheless.)

Jeans that didn’t fit quite right that were rarely washed.

Shirt with a collar? Absolutely not – way too “elitist.”

Belt? Who needs one when your ass is so big, there’s not a prayer of your pants falling down.

Decent shoes for going out to dinner with my parents?

“I am not succumbing to your parents conservative belief system.”

After 15 years of no longer living in the backcountry, the only thing that had changed was his buzz cut. I guess even he realized that the comb over was bad.

Last time we went to court – he arrived in jeans, hiking shoes, and a wrinkled, untucked, short-sleeved button-down.

At least it had a collar.

And about that ride? He drove the biggest, loudest, beater truck that he could find – more proof of his devil may care attitude.

But he SO cared.

So yes, my exN is loaded with the vanity trait, he thinks about his appearance every minute of every day. He silently dares anyone to comment on his hygiene. And if they do?

He wears it with pride.

Who I Really Am…

Yesterday, my BF said that he would not only cook dinner, but also go to the store beforehand for provisions.

I was just psyched. I got off work late and drove home, fantasizing about the hot shower awaiting my arrival.

As I pulled into the driveway, the phone rang – BF – I answered, even though I was about to walk into the house. He looked out the window with a sheepish smile and said into the phone, “I forgot the charcoal.”

“I love you,” as I backed back out of the driveway to go to the store at what is considered rush hour around here, the last place that I wanted to be, with a “no problem,” attitude. As I pulled out onto the highway I thought, “Wow, I’m not the least bit perturbed about this – I actually am quite easy-going.”

As opposed to “Uptight. Rigid. Controlling. Vindictive. And…Selfish.”

Had this been with my ExN, I would have been, if not livid, then at least totally bent out of shape.

What’s the difference, you ask? I certainly asked myself the same thing.

It’s because I am treated with respect and consideration – this man actually realizes that he was asking me a pretty big favor, and appreciated my willingness to go.

It really doesn’t take much to make me a nice person.

And apparently not much to make me mean and vindictive too.

What else am I that I was told, for years, that I wasn’t? And what am I not, that I was convinced that I am?

What I am:

easy-going

relatively unflappable

relaxed

giving

forgiving

appreciative

nice

What I am not:

selfish

lazy

vindictive

controlling

overly sensitive

too emotional

bitter

uptight

sexually frigid

My home is peaceful – or as peaceful as it can be with my man-child BF and three teenage boys.

And all of their friends.

And two cats.

But I have noticed that over the years (since the divorce) I have become a much less uptight parent – way better at rolling with things than ever before. There is a lot of laughter as they fill me in on their latest escapades instead of immediate lectures and disappointment.

Not always though.

BF and I don’t fight. We have never yelled at each other. Never slammed doors. Never threatened to break up. Never said “Fuck you.” Never thrown things. And he’s never tried to run me over with his truck.

I slept on the couch the other night and when my son came into the living room and saw it, the concern (for his world being about to fall apart) was all over his face. “Why are you on the couch?”

“I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t want to keep up BF – he has to go to work this morning.”

“Really? You slept down here so he could sleep?”

I think it stunned us all – we’re still getting used to being considerate of others.

And I know it’s not happening in the other house.

But NW seems to prefer the bathroom floor when she sleeps elsewhere.

That’s another story.

My point here is this: I’m not a hag.

Wow – wasn’t planning on doing that.

So I’ve got this contempt hearing coming up in 8 days. Last week, while at the courthouse for Jury Duty I met with the Family Court Advisor – a lovely woman named Maria.

While Maria is unable to give legal advice, she was incredibly helpful in preparing me for the hearing. And then…

“You need to file a Motion to Modify Decision Making since you two can’t make joint decisions. And, if you are going to ask for more child support, since the amount of time that you have the children has changed, you have to file a motion for that too, and a child support worksheet. And to go with that you have to file a Motion to Modify Parenting Time and if you do that, then you also have to file a new Parenting Plan.”

“Oh, and it has to be done by Monday.” This was Thursday.

In-between wrestling tournaments and meeting with Doula clients, I put together Motion after Motion, Affidavit after Affidavit and then a few thousand pages of evidence.

What I didn’t really realize when I started, but what became glaringly apparent as I plowed thorough the paperwork was that I was actually filing a Motion for Full Custody.

A term we don’t use here in our state, instead saying “Sole Physical Care and Sole Decision Making.”

But, the word “Sole” is the significant one.

I have fantasized about having sole custody (I’ve also fantasized about him falling off a cliff) but it’s really hard to get that here in the Intermountain West. Plus, I KNOW that do to so would be opening myself up to a total blood bath.

But asking for Sole Decision Making – a request that seems perfectly reasonable since he has refused to make decisions with me – is, to me, the only solution to a problem that has existed for the 6 years that we’ve been divorced (or the 20 years that we’ve known each other.) No other choice at this point except to go on with the infighting that has become the norm.

And then the change in child support – if he’s having the kids for 3 overnights a month as opposed to the 10+ that he’s supposed to, I should be getting more money to feed and clothe them. So that too, seems like a no brainer.

But when it comes time to calculate child support, there is Worksheet B and Worksheet A. Worksheet B is for when the other person has the children for 93+ overnights a year, A is for fewer. And at the rate exN is going, he’s looking at maybe 50-60.

So, obviously A. And there it is, at the top of the worksheet, in bold caps: WORKSHEET A, SOLE PHYSICAL CARE.

“Oh my,” I thought, “I wasn’t turning this into a custody battle – I just want him out of the picture.”

And that, Ms. Narcissus’ Ex, would be a custody battle.

I filed the paperwork yesterday and sent his copy to him Priority Mail. It all seems very unreal and I feel incredibly (and foolishly?) confident. I think it’s because it all happened so quickly and that I didn’t have time to ponder over the decision to do it or not, and I didn’t have time to labor over every word that I wrote.

I will most likely become a quaking mess come next Wednesday and the Judge is likely to laugh me right out of the courtroom for being so bold, and surely, SURELY, my exN will attack so viciously I will seriously regret that I ever did this, but,

for the time being, what’s done is done.

He is going to lose his shit.

Jury Duty – the unexpected gift

Called to do my civic duty, I arrived at the courthouse yesterday along with 399 other potential jurors.

Having been raised in the world of “dressing” (for church, for flying on airplanes, for appearance in courtrooms) I wore a lovely, conservative-ish, and memorable green dress.

I chose the dress intentionally for the following reason:

When the judge asked if there was anyone involved in a current court case and I walked up to the podium to say yes, I wanted him to notice and remember me (in a good way).

“Your Honor, you are my divorce judge and we have a hearing in two weeks.”

I received a warm smile and “Okay Ms. that’s not enough to automatically disqualify you as a potential juror, but we will need to ask you more questions.”

Just what I was hoping for – I make a good impression now, I’m one step ahead on Contempt Day.

I know that judges are to remain impartial, but come on, you know they can’t be completely immune to gut feelings about people standing in front of them.

Then, just to add to the gift…

Each person sitting in that room had to complete a questionnaire which asked about such things as our experience in working with children and whether or not we had ever been victims of a crime, including…

Domestic Violence.

The judge was to read these, after the initial courtroom questioning.

So here I am, in the great green dress, having just pointed out to the judge that I am about to have a hearing in front of him, and then he was going to read that my ex-husband was abusive.

Right?

I have been called back for further questioning, which means, if I can continue to maintain my composure and not sound like an illiterate meth-head (of which there were a few in the room yesterday), I will have another chance to further myself into the good graces of my divorce judge.

And I thought jury duty was going to be a drag.

Narc-Dar (Radar for Spotting a Narc)

I live in a town the size of a thimble: tiny, no privacy, everyone knows everyone by either first name or the car that they drive. With that said…

There’s a guy, R, who lived here with his wife and 2 children, then didn’t live here, then returned here when his wife was finished with him. He believed that our community was thrilled and relieved to have him back in our midst. With his belief being so strong, I think that many of us also thought we were thrilled.

Since he left, years ago, there has been an influx of new people, like-minded people, people who believed when he said he was an important glue for our community.

And although those of us who had known him before – known him married – known his wife – thought we were excited for his return, there was an underlying, “Hmmmmm, I actually didn’t think he was all that, when he lived here before.”

But no one said it aloud.

4 1/2 years later and he has become an integral part of a spiritual and healing community of people – to the point of being compared to…

Jesus.

For real.

He has broken the hearts of two women – one, he utterly crippled. He has had random sex with a couple of others, telling them that he wanted to “connect” but his spiritual path is too important at the moment to lose himself in a relationship.

He has renewed and then lost several old friendships.

He has established himself as a “go-to” guy for all things deep and heartfelt.

He is still fighting bitterly with the mother of his children.

A couple of years ago he invited me and one of my sons on a spring break camping trip. He actually told me that he didn’t want my other son’s “energy” on the trip – although, he hadn’t spent 3 minutes with that child since the toddler days.

I refused.

He tried very hard to get into another friend’s pants – his way of approaching her, “You have so much to learn from me.”

He has come between his current girlfriend and her mom – ruining (hopefully not permanently) their bond.

He was recently fired from his job because he was above doing some of the required work there.

He is cruel in the guise of being “honest.”

Are we all getting the picture here?

Did someone say “NARC”?

And yet, there are so many people who don’t see it – people who think that he is all that he is telling them that he is.

I hate to say it, but my boyfriend is one of them; as are many of our friends, mostly men, who haven’t yet been on the receiving end of his narcissism or just haven’t had enough experience with narcs to run away.

I spewed one night to BF, no holds barred, “He makes my skin crawl. I don’t trust him AT ALL. He’s misogynistic, arrogant, disdaining. He reminds me of my exN.”

BF listened, told me he understands my perspective, but has only been treated well by this man. He then pointed out one of my best friends with whom he “struggles.” He has learned to love her (and tolerate her – barely) because I love her so much.

I get it – I love that my BF wants to see the best in people and won’t condemn without his own proof.

There are plenty of people in this community who also believe the best of this man.

Am I cynical? Am I judgmental? Or is my Narc-Dar spot on?

The friend whose heart he crushed said to me, “When people talk about him and the Second Coming, I want to scream that he’s not who they think he is, but that’s just petty and vindictive on my part. Just more proof that I am a nasty piece of shit.”

Hello Sunshine – that’s him making you feel that way.

So as I write this, my BF is at his house – there was a brunch there this morning and then ice skating or something like that.

I want to hurl. I am threatened – I feel like my sanity is at stake. I certainly think my safety is. I want to forbid my BF from seeing this man, but that wouldn’t go over all that well. Might even make me look a bit Narc-ish.

I called a friend – one of the ones from the old days – one of the ones who maybe wasn’t so excited to have the Prodigal Son return – the one whose husband discarded this particular Narc ofter being told that his marriage was shit and his wife needed to go. She and I said “eewwww,” together and she reminded me that my BF is actually very grounded and will eventually see the truth.

She said that we have to believe that others will too and that for the time being we can just trust our guts and protect ourselves from the toxins that ooze.