You need to take responsibility for your actions. You haven't taken responsibility for your actions! When are you going to take responsibility for yourself?
Those are words I heard him say to me and assume it is what he says about me to others. Words I know he says to himself about me when he tells himself why it's ok that he's behaving the way he is.
She seems to minimize her behaviors and shift responsibility off herself. ...blames others... Has minimized her role in this matter. Explains away events. Does not accept responsibility for personal role. Did not cry or show emotion, was serious.
Statements and fragments of statements written about me by a "professional" after a "brief interview" with me and then a lengthy discussion with him.
For more than a week now I've thought nonstop about these things, about the theme expressed by those words. About the constancy of it's being brought up over the past year. If I remove all emotion from my thoughts, remove my attachment to the meaning and my need to respond, then I can see the way in which these things might have a foundation in truth. But only if I remove emotion and attachment and involvement, only if I try to stand outside it all. And then I see too, how my every effort to explain ANYTHING about my behavior, my actions, my FEELINGS even, appears to be blaming, shifting responsibility, minimizing.
If the shoe were on the other foot.... as the cliche states so accurately.
I don't necessarily accept that the statements and resultant theme held over me are true or valid - but I do accept that it is a believed (and believable) stance from which he has made his argument. And only by doing that, by seeing how he's arrived there at that point and how he's made it his absolute truth, am I able to finally, finally, oh God finally, let go of my futile attempt to figure out what to do to make this whole thing better.
I can't change his truth. I can't change his perception, nor can I change the tremendous damage I have done over the past year in my efforts at trying to change his truth (aka blaming, shifting responsibility, minimizing...).
What I can do is accept all of that and work with it instead of against it.
I can do what I expect HIM to do and that is to accept responsibility for my actions regardless of WHY those actions were committed. I can stop explaining why I've done something and simply sit with what I've done and the way that is perceived by others... and then respond to that. Not by explaining any reasons, but simply by responding.
I will do this because this is what grown ups do: take responsibility. I will do this because it is what a mom does, what a mom wants her kids to do, and I am, after all is said and done, Still The Mom.
Love, Mia
Showing posts with label mental health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mental health. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 28
Thursday, September 2
Current Events
While the stories are still unfolding here, so you can understand why my life is the way it is, there are things happening every day that impact my relationship with my kids. Today was another setback. In moments like this I find myself numb and distant, only able to think the same one thought over and over: "Isn't there any one, any where, who can fix this?"
Essentially, more than a year ago now, my husband told the court I was mentally unstable and he feared for our childrens safety. No evidence of harm or innappropriate behavior committed by me: to them or near them or indirectly toward them, just that one verbal statement that he had "serious concerns" and I have been viewed as a threat ever since.
At first, in September and October of last year, I had supervised visits with my kids. They were supervised at my husbands request, by a couple we jointly knew. This couple? I had cared for their children while that mom was in a mental health facility. I had listened to her, pre and post her hospital stay, tell me about screaming at her children, cursing at them, telling them to leave the room before she beat them. She told me how scared her kids were when she told them she felt like hurting herself and that she had to call a friend to help her. This was the woman who my husband asked the courts to assign as a guardian during my visits with my kids.
Initially she was willing, compassionate, and available. Then she wasn't. She had issues of her own, her husband was sick, her kids were struggling, etc. I was able to arrange, legally, for a friend of mine to be listed as an alternate so I could still see my kids. And then the restrictions were lifted, sort of.
In October I had moved into a house in our town with the parents of a girl who used to babysit our kids a very long time ago. We had stayed in touch (the mom and I) and she invited me to stay in the room her daughter, now all grown up and moved out, used to be in. The newest legal changes allowed for me to have my kids overnight and unsupervised, so long as the overnights were at that house, and that address, at my husbands request.
Everything happened relatively quickly and what came to light as I moved in and then the kids came to stay a weekend was that the house was filthy - real actual filth, mold, dust, animal hair, rodent excrement, etc. as well as very poor plumbing resulting in not much hot water available and only one usable bathroom. Additionally both the missus and the mister were entrenched in depression so thick that it hung in the air, a helpless hopeless despair of health issues, insomnia, financial ruin, unemployement: which is the reason I guess for all the filth. And then there was the drinking. Mister was a drinker of the sort that starts in the late afternoon and continues until he passed out in the late late evening but he would always rouse himself to drink more, sit in a bathtub of cold filmy water for hours sipping more alcohol, and then finally go to bed somewhere around 5am. After a couple of boozy inappropriate nighttime run-ins, I knew this would NOT work.
Nice people? yes. Generous to allow me to move in? yes. But it was not a place where I OR my kids would be safe, have a healthy environment, and the ability to settle in or experience some stability.
I moved - in late November of last year... and where I moved was where I could have a sound stable safe clean environment that welcomed my children and provided a foundation for me. Where I moved was where I could find employment, and a future. And where I moved was both where my husband subsequently refused to allow the kids to stay overnight, and was over an hour away. But with no other options I didn't know what else to do.
I felt like I was NEVER going to be able to get my kids on a regular basis and since ending my own existence wasn't a viable option (yeh, been there, tried that!) my next choice was to persevere with gaining a future that held something resembling hope and peace. So in spite of his refusal to let the kids stay with me, I stayed there... or rather here, where I am now.
I gritted my teeth and pushed my grief at bay through minimal visits with my kids in December, January, and February hoping he'd see that I was in a stable secure place, employed in the same job, and that the kids were enjoying our visits and not suffering any harm. I made it to soccer games, school meetings, and provided appropriate holiday treats. And then I petitioned the court to extend my visits at my new residence. March 2010. A year after I'd originally filed for divorce, 9 months since I'd lived with my children, and 4 months since I'd had them overnight with me.
My husband said that thing again, the "serious concerns about mental health" and the judge believed him. No matter my job, my stable housing, my compliance with every other restriction, my childrens health and well being - no evidence to support HIM or his statement, and with no credit for anything I'd done, I was refused.
I was ordered to undergo a mental health evaluation at a court clinic. Our next court date was scheduled for July 2010. A few weeks later I was told that the judge would be out on a county exchange in July so we wouldn't be heard until September. It took until July to get an appointment at the clinic anyway.
What I got was more time lost with my kids: no spring vacation, no summer vacation, no sleepovers or extended vacations. Just alternate Saturdays from 8am to 10pm. No assistance with transportation for the 70 mile drive.
And finally my mental health evaluation and a court date of September 7th, 2010.
My evaluation was initiated and then, of course, that doctor went on vacation and didn't return until this week. That result is that the report on the evaluation, which the judge needs time to review, is not completed yet and so the court clerk was told to postpone and reschedule the Sept. 7 date for a couple weeks out. More time lost with my kids.
I still don't know when the date will be, only that it will be that much longer before I can see my children for any extended time. I don't even know for sure that this "evaluation" and this doctors assessment will be favorable and that I will even be granted the time I want with my kids. But in my heart I was counting on September 7, 2010 as the day I'd be exonerated and finally freed from the burden of this "mentally unstable" label my husband is using.
I try not to dwell in how unfair it's been from the start, on how much injustice has been forced down my throat, and on how much fear drives so many of my choices on a daily basis - anger? maybe anger looks unfounded and irrational so I better not be angry! grief? maybe crying looks over sensitive and irrational and unstable so I better not cry!
I try not to dwell on how, if experience were to be my guide, I maybe should plan on losing custody entirely, on being placed back on supervised visits, on being told I can't be with my children at all, or that we will have to postpone until November, or some other ridiculous date.
But it's hard. It's so hard not to dwell in those places. I keep moving forward one day at a time trying to adjust my expectations. But it's hard.
However hard it is for me? Think how hard it is for my son who started high school the other day, or for my daughter who is right in the middle of really needing a mom for 'girl stuff' right now.
Love, Mia
Essentially, more than a year ago now, my husband told the court I was mentally unstable and he feared for our childrens safety. No evidence of harm or innappropriate behavior committed by me: to them or near them or indirectly toward them, just that one verbal statement that he had "serious concerns" and I have been viewed as a threat ever since.
At first, in September and October of last year, I had supervised visits with my kids. They were supervised at my husbands request, by a couple we jointly knew. This couple? I had cared for their children while that mom was in a mental health facility. I had listened to her, pre and post her hospital stay, tell me about screaming at her children, cursing at them, telling them to leave the room before she beat them. She told me how scared her kids were when she told them she felt like hurting herself and that she had to call a friend to help her. This was the woman who my husband asked the courts to assign as a guardian during my visits with my kids.
Initially she was willing, compassionate, and available. Then she wasn't. She had issues of her own, her husband was sick, her kids were struggling, etc. I was able to arrange, legally, for a friend of mine to be listed as an alternate so I could still see my kids. And then the restrictions were lifted, sort of.
In October I had moved into a house in our town with the parents of a girl who used to babysit our kids a very long time ago. We had stayed in touch (the mom and I) and she invited me to stay in the room her daughter, now all grown up and moved out, used to be in. The newest legal changes allowed for me to have my kids overnight and unsupervised, so long as the overnights were at that house, and that address, at my husbands request.
Everything happened relatively quickly and what came to light as I moved in and then the kids came to stay a weekend was that the house was filthy - real actual filth, mold, dust, animal hair, rodent excrement, etc. as well as very poor plumbing resulting in not much hot water available and only one usable bathroom. Additionally both the missus and the mister were entrenched in depression so thick that it hung in the air, a helpless hopeless despair of health issues, insomnia, financial ruin, unemployement: which is the reason I guess for all the filth. And then there was the drinking. Mister was a drinker of the sort that starts in the late afternoon and continues until he passed out in the late late evening but he would always rouse himself to drink more, sit in a bathtub of cold filmy water for hours sipping more alcohol, and then finally go to bed somewhere around 5am. After a couple of boozy inappropriate nighttime run-ins, I knew this would NOT work.
Nice people? yes. Generous to allow me to move in? yes. But it was not a place where I OR my kids would be safe, have a healthy environment, and the ability to settle in or experience some stability.
I moved - in late November of last year... and where I moved was where I could have a sound stable safe clean environment that welcomed my children and provided a foundation for me. Where I moved was where I could find employment, and a future. And where I moved was both where my husband subsequently refused to allow the kids to stay overnight, and was over an hour away. But with no other options I didn't know what else to do.
I felt like I was NEVER going to be able to get my kids on a regular basis and since ending my own existence wasn't a viable option (yeh, been there, tried that!) my next choice was to persevere with gaining a future that held something resembling hope and peace. So in spite of his refusal to let the kids stay with me, I stayed there... or rather here, where I am now.
I gritted my teeth and pushed my grief at bay through minimal visits with my kids in December, January, and February hoping he'd see that I was in a stable secure place, employed in the same job, and that the kids were enjoying our visits and not suffering any harm. I made it to soccer games, school meetings, and provided appropriate holiday treats. And then I petitioned the court to extend my visits at my new residence. March 2010. A year after I'd originally filed for divorce, 9 months since I'd lived with my children, and 4 months since I'd had them overnight with me.
My husband said that thing again, the "serious concerns about mental health" and the judge believed him. No matter my job, my stable housing, my compliance with every other restriction, my childrens health and well being - no evidence to support HIM or his statement, and with no credit for anything I'd done, I was refused.
I was ordered to undergo a mental health evaluation at a court clinic. Our next court date was scheduled for July 2010. A few weeks later I was told that the judge would be out on a county exchange in July so we wouldn't be heard until September. It took until July to get an appointment at the clinic anyway.
What I got was more time lost with my kids: no spring vacation, no summer vacation, no sleepovers or extended vacations. Just alternate Saturdays from 8am to 10pm. No assistance with transportation for the 70 mile drive.
And finally my mental health evaluation and a court date of September 7th, 2010.
My evaluation was initiated and then, of course, that doctor went on vacation and didn't return until this week. That result is that the report on the evaluation, which the judge needs time to review, is not completed yet and so the court clerk was told to postpone and reschedule the Sept. 7 date for a couple weeks out. More time lost with my kids.
I still don't know when the date will be, only that it will be that much longer before I can see my children for any extended time. I don't even know for sure that this "evaluation" and this doctors assessment will be favorable and that I will even be granted the time I want with my kids. But in my heart I was counting on September 7, 2010 as the day I'd be exonerated and finally freed from the burden of this "mentally unstable" label my husband is using.
I try not to dwell in how unfair it's been from the start, on how much injustice has been forced down my throat, and on how much fear drives so many of my choices on a daily basis - anger? maybe anger looks unfounded and irrational so I better not be angry! grief? maybe crying looks over sensitive and irrational and unstable so I better not cry!
I try not to dwell on how, if experience were to be my guide, I maybe should plan on losing custody entirely, on being placed back on supervised visits, on being told I can't be with my children at all, or that we will have to postpone until November, or some other ridiculous date.
But it's hard. It's so hard not to dwell in those places. I keep moving forward one day at a time trying to adjust my expectations. But it's hard.
However hard it is for me? Think how hard it is for my son who started high school the other day, or for my daughter who is right in the middle of really needing a mom for 'girl stuff' right now.
Love, Mia
Thursday, August 26
After The First Part (2)
I drove-travelled for about 3 days. I stopped when I wanted to, napped when I wanted to, ate when (and what) I wanted to. I was 'doing' and 'being' just for ME.
Selfish? Maybe. Irresponsible? A little, in regards to my finances maybe, but since my kids were away with my 'husband' and I didn't have any other obligations so it didn't seem to really matter what I did or didn't do. Good for me? I don't know. I think yes in some ways, the time of solitude and doing just for myself and not for anyone else; but no in some ways because of the solitude, the freedom which wasn't free-ing but empty and purposeless.
I learned a lot in those few days. I was brave, adventurous, challenged and victorious. I faced incredible fears and got through them, mostly, and learned a few limits as well. I experienced things I've never experienced before, both good and bad. And I did it on my own. I found where my bottom line was and I was prepared for that with the phone number and address of a facility that professed to offer help.
When I went to stay at the place that promised to help me, I met an incredible doctor who listened to me, believed me, validated me. I grieve that I only met her briefly and no longer can access her as a resource. A partially retired occasional fill in on call when she wants to be kind of practitioner, I blossomed in courage while under her care. She sent me home. To my real home where he was, where my kids were. She said I should reestablish my place there as was my right. And I followed her advice.
With bravado, a bit of self righteous anger, a broken heart, and having had a respite, I left that place and drove to my home intending to live there until the divorce was finalized and spelled out the division of assets - as I was supposed to have done in the beginning but was too broken to do.
The result was him, coming home, late at night after I'd been there for awhile and unable to reach him. The result was reaching him finally near midnight on the phone, and him arriving home to confront me. It was an intense standoff of him barricading me in the guest room: all 6 foot 2 and 220 lbs of him in the doorway refusing to let me out while yelling and demanding to know where I'd been and why I was back. The result was me, desperate to get out of that room, all 5 foot 4 and 110 lbs of me trying to dive inbetween the door frame and his arm. The result was me on the floor on my back, him above me, a tangle of flailing arms and grabbing hands and me in a flight AND fight escape mode, grabbing the nearest body part (between his legs) and then scrambling, running, falling, scrambling, running, ahead was the kitchen door to the garage, his hands thrusting on my back, me flying through the air not touching the steps downward, landing on concrete, thinking my kids were inside the house terrified at what they were witnessing, desperate to get to them, rolling and turning and scrambling hands and knees back IN the house as his feet and hands kicking, pulling door shut on my head, yelling, and then sudden stopping of everything: a silence. Him turning away, back inside, me pausing on hands and knees at the doorway, and hearing him using the phone to call the police. "Hello? Yes, my wife is assaulting me and I want her arrested." The result was knowing my kids weren't there, not knowing WHERE they were, the sound of sirens in the distance, the feel of stinging scrapes on my knees, palms, forearms. The surreal wavery sensation of absolute disbelief that the man who had held me in his arms while I gave birth to our children, the man who held me in the middle of the night when my uncle died, the man whom I'd held when his mother died: this man had hurt me with his hands, and was calling the police.
I was handcuffed. Escorted down my driveway and into a police car. Driven to the station. Photographed, fingerprinted, and put in a cell. Me. Stay at home mom, foster parent, girl scout leader, church-nursery attendent, church cleaning team member, teacher and facilitator, arrested.
I heard later that he tried to get them to release me but was told they couldn't. I was told that he gave the bail money to the friend who came to pay for my release. I was told that he drove my car a few blocks away so that I could retrieve it upon my release.
I heard all that, but yet none of it stopped him from filing a restraining order declaring I was a significant threat to him and to the children and that I was to have NO contact whatsoever with them pending a hearing. I was served with that order, after midnight, a full 24 hours afterward. I can't even relay the extent of my devestation, shock, grief, bewilderment, disbelief, incomprehension at the events that had transpired in that 48 hours. It was a Lifetime TV kind of moment. A hokey B-movie kind of thing. Yet it was real.
What now???
Today I am still here, and I am still the mom. But I need to tell you what happened because even if you don't believe me, it all happened and it was as unbelievable to ME as it might be to you and I have to tell it to bring it to light. I am the mom. I always was, and always will be no matter what happened. And that is only the beginning part...
Love, Mia
Selfish? Maybe. Irresponsible? A little, in regards to my finances maybe, but since my kids were away with my 'husband' and I didn't have any other obligations so it didn't seem to really matter what I did or didn't do. Good for me? I don't know. I think yes in some ways, the time of solitude and doing just for myself and not for anyone else; but no in some ways because of the solitude, the freedom which wasn't free-ing but empty and purposeless.
I learned a lot in those few days. I was brave, adventurous, challenged and victorious. I faced incredible fears and got through them, mostly, and learned a few limits as well. I experienced things I've never experienced before, both good and bad. And I did it on my own. I found where my bottom line was and I was prepared for that with the phone number and address of a facility that professed to offer help.
When I went to stay at the place that promised to help me, I met an incredible doctor who listened to me, believed me, validated me. I grieve that I only met her briefly and no longer can access her as a resource. A partially retired occasional fill in on call when she wants to be kind of practitioner, I blossomed in courage while under her care. She sent me home. To my real home where he was, where my kids were. She said I should reestablish my place there as was my right. And I followed her advice.
With bravado, a bit of self righteous anger, a broken heart, and having had a respite, I left that place and drove to my home intending to live there until the divorce was finalized and spelled out the division of assets - as I was supposed to have done in the beginning but was too broken to do.
The result was him, coming home, late at night after I'd been there for awhile and unable to reach him. The result was reaching him finally near midnight on the phone, and him arriving home to confront me. It was an intense standoff of him barricading me in the guest room: all 6 foot 2 and 220 lbs of him in the doorway refusing to let me out while yelling and demanding to know where I'd been and why I was back. The result was me, desperate to get out of that room, all 5 foot 4 and 110 lbs of me trying to dive inbetween the door frame and his arm. The result was me on the floor on my back, him above me, a tangle of flailing arms and grabbing hands and me in a flight AND fight escape mode, grabbing the nearest body part (between his legs) and then scrambling, running, falling, scrambling, running, ahead was the kitchen door to the garage, his hands thrusting on my back, me flying through the air not touching the steps downward, landing on concrete, thinking my kids were inside the house terrified at what they were witnessing, desperate to get to them, rolling and turning and scrambling hands and knees back IN the house as his feet and hands kicking, pulling door shut on my head, yelling, and then sudden stopping of everything: a silence. Him turning away, back inside, me pausing on hands and knees at the doorway, and hearing him using the phone to call the police. "Hello? Yes, my wife is assaulting me and I want her arrested." The result was knowing my kids weren't there, not knowing WHERE they were, the sound of sirens in the distance, the feel of stinging scrapes on my knees, palms, forearms. The surreal wavery sensation of absolute disbelief that the man who had held me in his arms while I gave birth to our children, the man who held me in the middle of the night when my uncle died, the man whom I'd held when his mother died: this man had hurt me with his hands, and was calling the police.
I was handcuffed. Escorted down my driveway and into a police car. Driven to the station. Photographed, fingerprinted, and put in a cell. Me. Stay at home mom, foster parent, girl scout leader, church-nursery attendent, church cleaning team member, teacher and facilitator, arrested.
I heard later that he tried to get them to release me but was told they couldn't. I was told that he gave the bail money to the friend who came to pay for my release. I was told that he drove my car a few blocks away so that I could retrieve it upon my release.
I heard all that, but yet none of it stopped him from filing a restraining order declaring I was a significant threat to him and to the children and that I was to have NO contact whatsoever with them pending a hearing. I was served with that order, after midnight, a full 24 hours afterward. I can't even relay the extent of my devestation, shock, grief, bewilderment, disbelief, incomprehension at the events that had transpired in that 48 hours. It was a Lifetime TV kind of moment. A hokey B-movie kind of thing. Yet it was real.
What now???
Today I am still here, and I am still the mom. But I need to tell you what happened because even if you don't believe me, it all happened and it was as unbelievable to ME as it might be to you and I have to tell it to bring it to light. I am the mom. I always was, and always will be no matter what happened. And that is only the beginning part...
Love, Mia
Wednesday, August 25
After The First Part (I)
I was in the hospital for just a few days. He came every day and when I was discharged, I went with him, to our home.
The kids didn't know - they'd been with him out of state when I'd sent him the letter saying goodbye and they'd not yet been back when the police and ambulance that he'd sent came to get me. While I was in the hospital I called them every day.
I was only home a day when he and I were fighting, when he was telling me how manipulative I was, how "sick" I was. So I left. I went back to my lonely smelly miniscule apartment.
I spent two weeks going to a group program discussing feelings, boundaries, coping and self soothing techniques. And I went to my job, and back to my empty apartment, and I saw the kids a few times. I was exhausted, broke, and sad. He was controlling and demanding and nothing was different. By now I'd lost almost a full 25 lbs and I looked horrible. I refused anti-depressents because of how they made me feel actually crazy instead of just sad and hopeless.
He said if I didn't take them, and tell him, then I wouldn't be able to have the kids overnight.
It was a few days after our 14th anniversary, which we didn't celebrate obviously, when he again took the kids out of town with no notice, not asking if it was ok, and not allowing me the option for any time with them. He'd already placed our 11 year old in a daycamp instead of letting her be with me, and he'd arranged to take our 13 year old to relatives to stay for a week.
I worked and supported myself, but it wasn't enough. I saw the kids when he said I could, but I had no say in it, wasn't given the chance to actually parent them. If I worked more, I saw the kids less. If I worked less, I couldn't afford to see the kids more. If I was sad and told him, he said I was "sick" and needed help. If I was sad and didn't tell him, he said I wasn't "dealing" and could never be "healthy". I figured, what the hell. Nothing I did was right, there didn't seem to be a way to get ahead, and I was so broke I couldn't pay my bills or buy groceries for myself much less buy gas to visit with my kids. He was taking them away, again, and since he'd told me I was irresponsible and unreliable, I decided I might as well really act that way.
I took a road trip all by myself. I packed my car and got in and started driving. I stopped by the library to load up on audio books, maps, and tourist books. I packed my most important papers all together and brought with me. I didn't know if I'd be coming back. I researched mental health facilities in case I thought I needed one. I drove.
It was lovely. I called the kids every day. He wanted to know what I was doing and where I was but I wouldn't tell him. He was out of state and it didn't matter, nor did he have the right to know. I drove thru the August sun. I went to the beach. I drove through the mountains. I drove and drove and drove. I went camping.
And then I stopped.
And I checked myself into a mental health "retreat" of sorts.
And would you believe that things got even worse after that??
Love, Mia
The kids didn't know - they'd been with him out of state when I'd sent him the letter saying goodbye and they'd not yet been back when the police and ambulance that he'd sent came to get me. While I was in the hospital I called them every day.
I was only home a day when he and I were fighting, when he was telling me how manipulative I was, how "sick" I was. So I left. I went back to my lonely smelly miniscule apartment.
I spent two weeks going to a group program discussing feelings, boundaries, coping and self soothing techniques. And I went to my job, and back to my empty apartment, and I saw the kids a few times. I was exhausted, broke, and sad. He was controlling and demanding and nothing was different. By now I'd lost almost a full 25 lbs and I looked horrible. I refused anti-depressents because of how they made me feel actually crazy instead of just sad and hopeless.
He said if I didn't take them, and tell him, then I wouldn't be able to have the kids overnight.
It was a few days after our 14th anniversary, which we didn't celebrate obviously, when he again took the kids out of town with no notice, not asking if it was ok, and not allowing me the option for any time with them. He'd already placed our 11 year old in a daycamp instead of letting her be with me, and he'd arranged to take our 13 year old to relatives to stay for a week.
I worked and supported myself, but it wasn't enough. I saw the kids when he said I could, but I had no say in it, wasn't given the chance to actually parent them. If I worked more, I saw the kids less. If I worked less, I couldn't afford to see the kids more. If I was sad and told him, he said I was "sick" and needed help. If I was sad and didn't tell him, he said I wasn't "dealing" and could never be "healthy". I figured, what the hell. Nothing I did was right, there didn't seem to be a way to get ahead, and I was so broke I couldn't pay my bills or buy groceries for myself much less buy gas to visit with my kids. He was taking them away, again, and since he'd told me I was irresponsible and unreliable, I decided I might as well really act that way.
I took a road trip all by myself. I packed my car and got in and started driving. I stopped by the library to load up on audio books, maps, and tourist books. I packed my most important papers all together and brought with me. I didn't know if I'd be coming back. I researched mental health facilities in case I thought I needed one. I drove.
It was lovely. I called the kids every day. He wanted to know what I was doing and where I was but I wouldn't tell him. He was out of state and it didn't matter, nor did he have the right to know. I drove thru the August sun. I went to the beach. I drove through the mountains. I drove and drove and drove. I went camping.
And then I stopped.
And I checked myself into a mental health "retreat" of sorts.
And would you believe that things got even worse after that??
Love, Mia
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