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The Curse of Invisible Scars

November 21, 2015

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I was crafting this post in my head, planning how I would structure the appropriate, and most effective words to say the things that needed to be said. But then I got her text and I stopped trying. Her words say it all far better than I ever could:

Tonight.
I was a fool.
So gullible.

What was I thinking exposing my pain to them.

I made myself vulnerable, standing there in
front of the police, sobbing, trying to explain
the past 10 years in a few short sentences.

I really thought it would matter.
To them.
How could I be so naïve?

I did not want my boys to hear me.
I always try to be strong for them.
They no doubt heard me crying.

I broke down.

If only he would shoot me, I told them,
then you could help.

You could get him away from us.

I could already see it in their eyes.
My futile attempt at trying to save us
had failed once again.

The police had already talked to the boys’ dad outside.
I watched through the living room window as he walked
up to each of the officers and shook their hands.

The devoted dad, the caring father,
hurting and longing
to spend time with his boys.

He played them well. He eagerly handed them
a stapled list of my ‘wrongdoings’ probably hoping
they would handcuff me on the front lawn.

The evil, bitch-of-a-mom
depriving him
of seeing his boys.

After briefly speaking to him,
the policemen assured me that
he wouldn’t be violent toward me.

They could tell that
after a three-minute
conversation with him.

I answered back that maybe he wouldn’t attack
me physically, but I would prefer it rather than
the years of torment he has put me through.

Don’t you see the pain
in my eyes, the desperation
in my voice?

The threats, the
accusations, the insults,
the mind games.

None of it matters.

Only physical wounds count
in their eyes. He hasn’t broken
any law, committed any crime.

I have.

I am in contempt.

I have violated the court order.

My actions today, thinking proactively,
asking for assistance from the police
made the situation worse.

Ironic.

As the one policeman said, it’s
my job to prepare the boys and
encourage them to go with their dad.

I am in the wrong.
I am at fault.
I am a bad parent.

I failed my boys today.
I’ve made it worse for them.
I told them they have a voice

but they don’t.

I told them to speak
their minds because
they are old enough.

They are not.

I thought
that their
wants mattered.

They don’t.

They are minors,
meaning they
have no rights.

And I am
powerless.
I am the criminal.

It is his voice that is heard.
Only his story matters.
After all, he is the victim here.

They always believe him.

If only someone could understand
the damage he has done.

But no one ever does.

I really failed as a
parent today.
In a big way.

My critical mistake was
trusting in a system that
is severely flawed.

I knew better.
But, I reached out instead.
Just hoping.

What a fool.

I hope the damage
done today can
be repaired.

I hope my boys can forgive me.
I hope we can survive on our own because
there is no one coming to the rescue.

I pray that God watches over us and we
can heal from today. I am thankful God
knows the truth and is always with us.

WEAVE (Women Escaping a Violent Environment)
recognizes five kinds of domestic abuse: physical,
emotional, financial, sexual, and spiritual. If you’re the
victim of one or more of these, please contact WEAVE
at: http://www.weaveinc.org/contact-us

 

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2 Comments
  1. Dann permalink

    One way manipulators and narcissists do their work is to carefully provoke others. This way they redirect attention and blame to their victim. Sickness.

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