PART ELEVEN: RISING UP

DISCLAIMER: This entry continues the story that involves experiences of bullying, sexual misconduct and/or assault, and self-hate and could possibly trigger a reader who may have (or is still) struggling with any of those issues. Please be cautious.

As with all of my entries and stories, each piece of writing I post here is from my personal perspective, experience, logic, and truth. I do not, and nor will I ever claim, that I know best, or all there is to know, about any topic or experience another individual may have experience(d). These are my words, my thoughts, my feelings, my truth.

It wasn’t a long and bloody battle, thank the stars, but it was still awful. I immediately asked for full custody. It just made sense as my son was living with me and I had taken on all responsibilities in raising him. When I approached and told him, he was totally fine with it. To my relief, he agreed. I explained that drawing it up legally was just a formality to protect my son, in case something ever happened to either of us. I also informed him that he would still be a vital role in his life, and I meant it. Despite my personal feelings, I never wanted to deny my son his father, or vice versa. It wasn’t a matter of what was fair or right to the father, but that I wanted to do right by my son. I didn’t want him to question or have any doubts about who his father was, nor did I want to be the one to provide him with the answers, or have to paint a picture for him. I wanted him to know his father himself. So, I brought the papers, explained them in detail, told him where to sign and left them with him. I walked away feeling so relieved. I was sure he would sign and all would be well. I guess I was still quite naive. Perhaps hopeful.

The next time I saw him, he refused to sign the papers and accused me of trying to take his son from him. Of course, I understood where his fears were coming from - even though I knew it was his parents that had enlightened him to this fact and told him not to sign. He was afraid of the very thing that caused me to seek full custody in the first place. But I didn’t want to share my son. I felt I was entitled to, and had earned, full custody. I assured him that I would never take his son away. I told him we could put that in writing and make it legal, but he didn’t care. He refused to sign and I was devastated. He wanted joint custody so I told him he’d have to get his own lawyer so we could negotiate. I did not want him to have joint custody. There had to be another way. Of course, he refused to get his own lawyer and said he would just use mine.

I met with a lawyer and pleaded for there to be a way wherein I could just be awarded full custody. Wasn’t there some sort of bias where a judge would award it to me based on the sole fact that I was his mother? I hate admitting that I felt that way because I know that any sort of gender bias in the judicial system is wrong, but I felt like I was a good parent. I felt I was the only parent. He’d done nothing to care for his son. Even getting funds from him for support was a constant battle. I had to beg for every dollar he gave me, which was very little. He wasn’t the primary caregiver, I was. Didn’t that count for something?

Apparently not. I was told that if the father wanted to be an active part of his child’s life, no judge in their right mind would deny them that. I know this is a good thing, but for my personal situation, I was angry. I pointed out his inability to be a good parent, his poor judgement, his unhealthy lifestyle, and his combative personality. I even told my lawyer about the drugs and drinking, but none of it mattered. So, I told him, under no circumstances would I agree to joint custody. I was too much in fear of any psychological and emotional abuse he would inflict on my son. I’d experienced too much of it myself to allow it to happen to him. I wanted to protect him.

After much negotiating, wherein he used my lawyer and I was charged for it, I was finally presented with the idea of ‘shared custody’. I would have full physical custody but his father would have access and visitation rights, and I’d have to consult him with any life decisions such as schools, religion, health care, etc. I still didn’t like it, but finally gave in and agreed.

For the next fifteen years, it was a constant struggle. His father would always be the “fun” parent, creating this unrealistic expectation of a constantly fun and rewarding life with him, and then he’d come back to me, having to live with rules, boundaries, and expectations, and it would be hell. My son would come back from a weekend with his dad having late nights, junk food, and special events, and it made for him putting his father on this pedestal where he could practically do no wrong. It was like he played us into a good cop/bad cop game and I was forced to always be the bad cop. I always had to be the responsible parent - doctor’s appointments, school trips, sports, clubs, curfews, chores, etc., while his dad got to always play and have fun with him. Why should he get to have the joy and unconditional love without even earning it? And beyond that, I was worried. I knew a day would come when he would begin to see his father for who he really is. He’d finally have the maturity and intelligence to see his father as the selfish and unreliable person he is and he’d be…disappointed. I knew it would break his heart, and therefore mine.

There were so many days and nights when my son and I would fight about the realities of life. He always wanted things to be fun and easy, just like his dad would make life out to be, and when I instilled boundaries and expectations, I was the bad guy. Even when I thought things were going well, if my son got even a little upset by something small, I’d hear him whisper under his breath that it’d be better if he lived with his dad. Each time I heard it, it broke my heart. Not just because it hurt to feel like he liked his father better, but also because I knew it wasn’t true. By the time my son was old enough, I told him to go. I said, “Call your father and ask to live with him” because I knew he would say no. And he did. And each time, I would help my son pick himself back up from the heartache of not feeling wanted. It was awful. It was heartbreaking. And there was never anything I could do to stop it.

When my son was in middle school, he told me he wanted to go live with his father half of the time. It was so hard for me, but I agreed. So every second week, he was gone. Thankfully, his father only lived 2-3 minutes away. Each Sunday I would get him back, we’d go for long walks to talk about his time there. Each conversation hovered around the fact that his father wasn’t actually that nice to him, that he was difficult to live with and didn’t understand him. And often, he would ask me questions about our past, wondering how we even got together and had him. However, I outright refused to tell him anything bad or personal. I never told him anything about the abuse, the lies, the manipulation, anything that I felt could cloud his vision of the man he thought his father was or could be. I knew if I did that, even inadvertently, I would likely lose my son. And so, I had to basically be an ally. When he would talk of his frustrations with his father, I would speak from a place of empathy and try to help him understand why his father might be/act/talk that way with him. It was so hard, but it was the right thing to do. After a year or two of it, he finally got in a big enough fight with him he decided not to go back. I can’t recall the details, but I do remember him telling me that his father began speaking ill of me and that was when he drew the line and walked out. I was so proud of my son, still am. And I’m also proud of myself for never having stooped that low.

I don’t want to speak to my son’s current relationship with his father too much. My son is 20 years old now, and such a good person. He’s kind. He’s caring. He’s generous and thoughtful, and he has such a deep ability for empathy and is so smart, I’m beyond proud of him. I’m not sure where things stand with him and his father. I know they speak frequently, see each other here and there, and care for each other deeply. I’m not sure that they speak the same language when it comes to expressing that love, but I’d like to think they understand one another and have found common ground to be a healthy part of each other’s lives. Now that we no longer have to work in tandem to raise my son, I can only wish and hope that things stay that way.

Ⓒ June 2022. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.