In a previous post, I shared how I signed up for a gym after my attorney had made me promised that I would start to do something for myself every day, even if it was just for 10 minutes. I was so excited. I had a great week that week when I finally was able to get back to the gym. And then… everything started to happen.

My daughter got sick. I had to take her to the emergency room (ER.) No worries. She’s fine now. But I missed almost two weeks of work and, or course, of going to the gym or even for a half-hour walk during lunch break or anything of that sort. More of what happened can be found in a previous post of mine. If you had got a chance of reading that post, then you know how I feel about getting sick and being with a narchole. And I thought that was bad enough. Well, it seems it can get even worse when there’s divorce and custody pending.

My attorney called me a few days ago to let me know that my husband’s attorney had sent her a nasty, yet ridiculous, letter about many things, ranging from food to clothes, insurances, and, most of all, taking our daughter to doctors.

Yes, you read that right. The letter said that I had been taking our daughter to the ER for now good reason. Instead, I should have taken her to her pediatrician.

With my husband, it all comes down to money, even when the letter did not specifically said so when concerning the visits to the ER. What they did say was that all those visits were unnecessary and I basically was exaggerating.

First of all, we’re talking about a 2-year old. Anybody who knows anything about basic medicine and health care knows that when a child develops a drastic fever in a matter of a couple of hours, you don’t mess around. The younger the child, the faster you need to act, especially if your child cannot tell you what is going on, which is the case with my daughter who has speech delays. Every time I had to take my daughter to the ER has been for that very reason: While she would not be full of energy like she usually is, she would be fine and then, without notice, her body would be burning and she would be crying, clearly in pain, and with a high fever. The last visit was precisely because of this.

There was that other time when she was about 9 months old and she started to project vomit. That was actually the very first trip to an ER. Worst of all, it was over a long weekend. While I was there trying to help the medical staff with our daughter, my husband was checking the game on his cell phone and sending text messages to his parents saying that everything was fine, even when the doctors had no idea what was going on, yet. (By the way, there were big notes in the room and hallways saying ‘No Cell Phones.’ I guess the rules do not apply to narcholes, do they?)

The rest of the visits to the ER had been because of some accident while she was being supervised by her father (falling down stairs, from furniture she had climbed on, from a picnic table on concrete floor, and the list goes on.)

I do not want to bore you with all the details of our trips to the ER. What I’m trying to say is that not once my husband the narchole took responsibility for what had happened to our daughter. His reasoning (or more like excuses) have always been one, if not all, of the following,

  • She’s too fast
  • I just had to take the phone call
  • I needed to send a text message
  • She didn’t obey me (Note: Like a 2-year old won’t test your limits, right?)
  • She moved too quickly
  • I had to go to the bathroom (Never mind that I had asked him to watch her because I was in the basement taking care of laundry or maybe cooking in the kitchen from where I can’t see the other rooms, taking a shower, Etc.)
  • They knocked on the door
  • I was there, watching her (Yup, he even said this to me once; not sure what he meant by that. If he was watching her, then how did she still end up falling head first on the floor?)

And the list goes on. The amazing thing — amazing for not finding a better word — is that now he has turned the whole thing around and he is trying to tell the court that I’m a hypochondriac, I baby our daughter too much, and that I am a very controlling person. Well, that I’m a very controlling person has been his main reason to file for divorce. Even if I would be a controlling person, which I’m not and I know that, how does taking our daughter to the ER for a genuine reason make me a controlling person? It just doesn’t make sense.

Either way, my attorney said that the whole thing was ridiculous and she didn’t even want me to spend one minute reading it, neither their letter, nor my attorney’s reply to them. She did send me copies for my records. I guess I’ll read them one day when I’m not in the middle of this whole affair.

While her and I were talking about this correspondence, she said that his trying to slander me could backfire. I hope she’s right. So far, she’s been handling my case very well and I can’t complain. Considering that I had to fire the previous attorney, I think I can finally say that I trust my current one. As a matter of fact, I wish I had met her under completely different circumstances. I could see us becoming friends, hadn’t I had to be her client.

So now I feel I need to start again. Once I feel I have found a way to cope with everything that is going on, putting this poker face when I have to be with him, and finding a way to get through my days that can make it all easier, something happens. It’s as if you were walking through a field full of landmines and, or course, they are not marked in any way. You just take a deep breath and you try to cross the field, praying that you will not end up blowing up in pieces with your next step.

There are days when I feel I can’t go on with this anymore, like giving up. Most of those days, I can make it through the day without shedding one tear until I get back home (if I can even call that place I share with my narchole of a husband home.) And that’s when the hardest time of the day kicks me with brutal force.

As I keep getting closer and closer to my exit on the interstate, my body starts feeling tense. By then, I might have already shed some tears. I learnt to keep a box of tissues near by so as not to get my hands off the wheel for long or in any way that would put me in danger. There have been times when I had to pull over because I could not see through the waterfalls from my eyes. I have to then force to compose myself and confront the traffic in a very numb way. Not numb in the sense that I would put myself and my daughter in the back seat in danger. But numb in the sense of numbing my thoughts and just think about traffic around me. I then focus on the humming of my engine. Many times, I call my mother using the system in my vehicle so I don’t have to hold the phone. I don’t talk to her. I just ask her to be there, in case I need anything. My poor mother! She’s already had to face her own trials when she was young and I was an infant and until I could be on my own and now she’s seeing me somewhat repeat her story.

There are days when the commute back goes uneventful. But once I am trying to put my daughter to bed and it’s just the two of us, the Hoover Dam opens. I just can’t control it anymore. I see my daughter there, in her crib, or when I’m rocking her in the rocking chair. All I can think is that she doesn’t deserve a broken family. That none of this is her fault. I just wanted her to have a normal childhood and grew up in a normal family. Instead, I don’t even know if she’ll be with me at all. The odds are supposed to be in my favour since our county tends to favor the mother. But when we’re dealing with a narcissist, I just feel that I need to hold my breath. And whatever happens, the one who will really suffer the consequences is my daughter. Not him, not me. Her.

I sometimes even wonder if anybody remembers that she is not a possession, like a piece of furniture or a car to be fought over. She’s a human being, separate from me and her father, with a whole life in front of her. She’s not a trophy to be won in this sick game that my husband has caused. Does anybody care? Does the court really care? I know I care. But is that enough?

The night she was born I could not sleep because the real truth of what it means to be a parent hit me. She was barely 15 hours old and she was sleeping on my chest. She didn’t want to stay in the bassinet. And I was so tired and awake from giving birth that I couldn’t sleep. Therefore, I didn’t mind holding her like that, in the bed, with me. I knew that I was not going to fall asleep.

I looked at her, peacefully sleeping in my arms. She had a little scab under one eye. She had clearly scratched herself with one of her tiny fingernails while being in the womb. She looked so small, but already determined somehow. I started to talk to her (my husband was snoring on the guest’s bed in the room.) I remember telling her that I knew that she was a separate individual from me. Maybe she was dependent at that point and she would be for a few years, but I understood that she was not me or her father and that she was herself, separate from me, ready to live God’s plans for her. That my job was precisely that: Help her find God’s plans for her and to some point; the rest would be up to her. My job was to give her the tools so she could become an independent human being from me. I didn’t own her. I didn’t possess her. Yes, she had 50% of my DNA and that proved that she was part of me. But she did not belong to me. She was not someone to be controlled or for whom to write a path to follow. All I could do was prepare her the best I could so she can face life and become a decent, good human being. That was my job. Not to force her to live my dreams. My dreams were mine and her dreams would be hers. All I asked from God was that He showed me the way to accomplish His plans for her and maybe for me while doing that. And to help me be a good mom for her.

Now I’m going through this divorce. Looking back at that night at the hospital, I have to wonder if this is God’s way to show me a better path for both her and me and so I can accomplish what I was talking about that night when she was born. I hope that’s the case. I pray that’s the case. To some extent, I don’t care that much what happens to me. However, the idea that my daughter could suffer and be in danger and even damaged from this divorce breaks my heart a lot more than what my husband has done or could do to me. I rather have me be the punching bag than her to suffer at the expense of an emotionally immature father. I know I have my flaws. But I would never, ever, use a child of mine to get at my husband. That’s between him and me. Unfortunately, when it comes to a narchole, you can never guess or foresee what their next step will be. This is when you have to let God take care of you.

Many courtrooms in this country have the “In God We Trust” words somewhere on one of their walls. I always thought how hypocrite that sounded when we hear all these stories of people lying in those very same rooms: From attorneys to defendants to plaintiffs to witnesses. Now that I’ll be making several trips to courtrooms — not just for this divorce and custody battle, but with my husband being the way he is, I’m sure I’ll have to make a lot more trips later on and for many other reasons — I have to force myself to change that phrase to “In God I Trust” and really let Him take care of me and my daughter, as well as my mother who has already suffered for me enough. I’m still in diapers when it comes to my relationship with God. I’m scared. That’s all I can say.