By Teresa G. D’vall
The phrase “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me,” although well intentioned, is painfully false.
If you are blissfully unaware that “names” can kill, kidnap your children and imprison your soul, continue reading, because you could be the hope that saves someone’s life.
Words are dangerous, reader I will never know, so read mine carefully and see how name calling broke my bones.
GROUNDHOG DAY, FEBRUARY 2, 2019:
I have been fleeing an assailant for six years. The police and the court system are powerless. Nothing has hindered his relentless pursuit.
Follow my journey, share my story. Send it to someone who needs it.
YEAR 1, JULY 29, 2013: HOPE.
How I Almost Became A Convicted Felon
Few women would be brave enough to leave an abusive marriage with six children and no source of income, but I did. There were some days that my husband was not a mean bully, but not many. I spent 15 years living with an enemy who threatened to take my children, have me arrested, ruin my credit, break my neck, set me on fire and, when I was pregnant, gut me like a fish. Once, when we were driving down a highway, he shut the car off in a fit of rage, leaving our children screaming in terror. When I finally managed to get away, he made good on most of the threats within a week; and the legal system seemed to be helping him instead of me.
The day my husband was removed from our home by police was a surreal one. I remember waking in the middle of the night and realizing for the first time that no one would call me lazy for leaving dishes in the sink or demand sex if I went downstairs for a drink of water. I actually skipped through the kitchen that night on my way to the fridge for an uninterrupted glass of juice. Still, things like the sound of the garage door opening gave me chills, even though I knew it was my oldest son and not him coming home in yet another bad mood. I longed for things others took for granted, like a full night’s sleep without being awakened at 3 a.m. and asked why someone left an empty yogurt container on the counter. Even so, I looked forward to getting out of bed the next day for the first time in 15 years.
Respite was replaced with angst when I answered my door the next morning and was greeted by a man from children’s protective services. My husband had reported me for being an unfit mother. A disgruntled looking man half my age told me to wait in another room while he interviewed my five oldest children one by one. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely dial the friend who’d been helping me through my long ordeal. I wanted to tell him what was happening, but I opened my mouth to speak and could only gasp. I tried to form words choked by tears and wasn’t even able to leave a voicemail. I hung up and sat on the floor crying as I waited for my turn to be questioned.
The social worker asked me to open my fridge and prove there was food in it. Next he inspected all of my children’s bedrooms. I had to deny I was an alcoholic who drank a 750 milliliter bottle of wine every night. I didn’t even know what a 750 ml bottle of wine looked like. I was 42 years old, and I’d never even had a beer. It was humiliating, insulting, and terrifying all at the same time. My greatest fear was unfolding, and I was paralyzed with dread. Years of abuse flashed through my mind as if I were watching a movie on Lifetime television:
The night he called me a whore at the dinner table in front of the kids. The mornings he threw toys at them for waking him up as he slept on the couch in the family room. The day he threw a mattress at my 8-year-old daughter and I jumped in between to block her, even though I was six months pregnant.
It all came flooding back. My husband always said that if they knew what was going on I’d be in trouble too for not leaving sooner. It was impossible to leave when I was pregnant or caring for a newborn, which was every couple of years. Now the day of reckoning was upon me—
and nothing happened.
No one took my children, no one thought I was unfit. I felt like I had just been paroled. I was free. The feeling was short-lived.
We were enjoying a peaceful dinner filled with laughter when I received a call from the police department. The officer asked if I would come down and talk to them about some charges my husband filed. I assumed it was some kind of retaliation for the restraining order but never expected what happened next. I made my way to the station after the kids were asleep. The sergeant sat me down in a small office and began the conversation by saying;
“I just want you to know that you have the right to remain silent…”
I stopped him right there and said, “It sounds like you’re reading me my rights?! Am I under arrest?”
The walls seemed to close in around me as I thought of all the times my husband threatened to have me “thrown in jail”:
If I took the minivan out, because it was in his name.
If I used the credit card, also in his name.
My mind raced as I tried to think of what I could’ve done to find myself being asked for ‘pictures’ (mug shots!) with pork chop still on my shirt from dinner and my waist-length hair piled in a greasy bun full of coconut oil conditioner atop my head.
I was being booked for grand larceny and forgery. I could have had my husband arrested dozens of times, yet I was the one placed in a cell, fingerprinted, and read my rights. I had been signing his name to household checks for 10 years, but now that I had the restraining order, he remembered he never gave me permission to do so.
The charges were eventually dismissed, but only after months of enduring the emotional and financial strain of retaining a criminal attorney and facing the possibility of a grand jury indictment. His message was clear; it was the same one I always heard: If you leave, I’ll make your life a living hell.
My husband was very persuasive. For years he had me convinced I was a lazy housewife, bad mother, and a person of little worth. He spent all his time at our restaurant, even though we were barely breaking even most years. I spent my entire marriage alone; we never even slept in the same bed. He was always angry and constantly reminding me how incompetent I was in every aspect. Over time, I learned that feeling nothing was better than feeling bad about myself every day, and as the years ticked away I shut down.
In 2010, the economic downturn began to affect business, and our $3,200-a-month mortgage was crippling us financially. We listed the house with the same realtor who’d been trying to sell our restaurant. Kevin first started showing us properties in 2007. As the years went by, he became more of a friend than a real estate agent. After nearly 38 months of languishing in real estate purgatory, it became clear we couldn’t sell our house for what we owed, despite having put over $200,000 down when we purchased it.
During 2011, I was able to convince my husband that completing my degree might help our finances. By the time I returned to school, the house was deep into the foreclosure process. Shortly after, I discovered I was pregnant with my sixth child. Still, I managed to graduate in 18 months, after returning with just 49 credits, mostly out of sheer determination because my husband said I’d never do it.
It was April of 2013. I had been looking at properties with Kevin almost weekly for over three years, and the pressure to move was mounting. I saw houses with him nearly every day at this point, and we were talking more as time passed.
By father’s day I still hadn’t told my husband I was leaving, so he insisted on seeing the house I was meeting Kevin at. I really liked this particular house, and it was Kevin’s job to convince the owner I was a good buyer. We were standing in the driveway about to leave and I said,
“Please help me get me this house.” He leaned over, grabbed my elbow, promised to do his best, and kissed my temple.
My husband stared incredulously and asked,
“Did you just kiss my wife?”
He insisted Kevin and I were having an affair after that. Neither of us took him seriously, but we would find out that he actually believed something more than friendship was going on between us.
About two weeks after “the kiss,” I had a particularly horrible argument with my husband and announced I was leaving. Hours later I found my daughter upstairs packing. I looked around, astonished; her whole room was in boxes. I realized then that I wasn’t the only one anxious to go.
I discovered that he had been bothering her on nights when I went to bed early to avoid him. I’d hear the garage and escape to my room, hoping he wouldn’t touch my chest and feel my racing heart. My daughter would rush to shut off her lamp, then hope he wouldn’t touch it and feel it was warm. When he wasn’t criticizing me, he was doing it to her. She was eventually diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder, and her father was cited as the precipitating factor. It would take six months of counseling, but she eventually recovered.
Once I realized how my children were being affected by my husband’s constant bouts of anger, I was more determined than ever to get away.
My husband was becoming increasingly jealous of the time I spent with Kevin, and his paranoia reached a boiling point on July 29, 2013. Kevin was carrying the baby as we left a house. Suddenly, he asked me what kind of car my husband drove, but before I could answer it came screeching down the driveway at both of us. He sprang from the car screaming,
“You’re dead bitch; I caught you! I want you out of my house.”
Kevin and I scrambled to my car, while my enraged husband took pictures of us, citing it as “proof” of our illicit affair. When he finally left, a cold chill came over me as I remembered the threat I’d heard most from him during our tumultuous marriage:
“If I ever think you’re having an affair, I’ll kill you and the guy.”
I went straight to the police and told them my fears. I had been there many times before, and they had been to our house as well over the years, but this time was different. I had a witness.
Women who are emotionally abused are often overlooked, because their scars are not visible. I often wished he’d hit me, because it would be easier to prove and then leave. Broken bones and bruises heal, I still cringe when someone raises their voice.
If you are reading this and looking over your shoulder or worrying about how you’ll delete it from your browsing history, it may be time to do what I did: run for your life and never look back. There is always a way around an impossible situation. For instance, my laptop is broken so I wrote this entire 2,000 word story on my iPhone using a stylus. I leave you with the words I have recited to each of my six children for the last 22 years: If you try; you can do anything.
4 YEARS LATER, NOVEMBER 2017: HOPING.
How I Manage My 157 Hour Work Week
Dear Absent Parent,
Raising six children means that nothing is ever quiet, clean, or routine. We always need milk, the lemonade pitcher empties in minutes and a box of cereal only lasts 3 days if I hide it before going to bed.
Our children are 3, 7, 9, 10, 17 and even though the 23 year old mostly visits, my house is always chaotic.
You said I need to do my share since I don’t work. Here’s what I do on a typical day during the 157 hours of the week you don’t have them:
Awake to tormented wails:
“He’s copying me!”
“She spilled Cheerios on me!”
“I have nothing to wear!”
“There’s nothing eat!”
Vacuum Cheerios from everywhere while my coffee gets cold. Start the laundry. Clean up after the dog who was just let in but prefers to pee inside. Clean up after the dog who was just let in but prefers to pee inside. Clean the cat litter.
Scrub a 1/2 dozen cups and sticky dishes in the sink because there’s nothing to eat and the only dishwasher is me. Mumble to myself that peanut butter is nearly impossible to get off a spoon after being left in the fridge all night.
Pick waffle off floor. Ask why there’s toast in the bathroom.
Gather book bags, coats, the homework Lou left on the counter, find my purse.
(I stash it somewhere new each night because the kids are always looking for gum).
Ask kids to clean up Cheerios. Again. Mop the floor on the way out the door to catch the school bus wearing slippers because it’s quicker than searching for my shoes. Remind myself of the time I arrived at school wearing one black boot and a brown one.
Start second load of laundry. Hang first load on makeshift clothesline. (It dangles precariously over a fence and if I don’t hang strategically, the longer garments get stuck on it; then fall off).
Make 5 beds. Pick up clothes, remnants of toys, empty wrappers, dirty utensils, duct tape stuck to floor and Cheerios in boys’ room. Empty water bottle that doesn’t have water in it without attempting to find out what it is.
Worry about finances. Apply for employment.
(22 applications so far this week) Child support isn’t enough to cover rent. Even though I went back to school and finished my bachelor’s degree, most available jobs pay little more than childcare costs a week.
Email our fifth grader’s guidance counselor and exchange a dozen texts with his therapist while trying to make an appointment at three different psychiatrists, all of whom don’t accept Medicaid.
Email our fourth grader’s teacher to make sure he turned in his homework.
Ask 3 year old why there are Cheerios stuck in her hair.
Wash 3 year old’s hair.
Vacuum Cheerios that were spilled, along with milk; while I hung clothes on the line. Mop the floor. Twice, because spilled milk is reluctant to be cleaned up.
Arrive at food pantry. Wait in line. Go to Walmart Supercenter for everything the food pantry didn’t have.
Realize the kids have a 1/2 day of school and l’m going to be late for the bus unless I abandon my cart immediately and leave.
Collect children from bus, drive home. Hang second load of laundry. Throw third load in washer and realize I forgot to get more laundry detergent. Drive to the dollar store because household supplies are cheapest there.
Leave dollar store with a renewed certainty that I will never, EVER go there with children again.
Realize I have 20 minutes before fifth grader’s teacher conference and no one’s had lunch.
Arrive at Burger King and manage to feed 4 kids with the six dollars in my wallet that’s there because most of it is change.
Apologize to fifth grade teacher for being late.
Explain that I didn’t realize the kids had a half day of school when I scheduled the appointment for 1:10.
Apologize to teacher who entertained three year old because her brothers argued during conference and she fell over during the scuffle.
Feign shock as teacher down the hall recounts lecture she gave boys about using the word ‘balls’ inappropriately.
Leave in shame.
Interrogate fifth grader about missing homework and having a 50 in social studies on way to car.
Arrive at playground to fritter away 25 minutes until the high school bell rings even though boys deserve confinement instead of fun after ‘balls’ faux paux.
Try in vain to look in three directions while being commanded to push a swing and “Find a potty” because 3 year old has to pee.
Create provisional toilet out of Little Mermaid ride on toy that we’ve been traveling with for no apparent reason. It has a liftable seat compartment so I line it with Walmart bags that I keep for when the kids get car sick.
Rapidly walk to closest garbage can at farthest end of playground with leaking Walmart bag. Hope no one’s watching.
Pick up moody teen age daughter. Affix magnet of shame that warns:
“Please be patient, student driver.”
Arrive home safely with student driver and headache.
Take second load of laundry off clothesline. Hang third load.
Ask Lou to do his homework.
Email fourth grade teacher to determine that Lou’s lying about not having homework. Again.
Console 7 yr old. Send 10 year old to his room for hitting him with a “sticky hand” toy; in the eye.
Lecture 10 year old about sticky hand which is broken, no longer sticky because it landed on Cheerios and also, not his.
Plead with 7 year old to stop hopping around the kitchen, holding his eye and screaming:
“He broke my sticky hand!!!” at a decibel level so loud it sends a flock of birds out of the tree Lou’s now climbing instead of doing homework.
Ask Lou why he’s on a tree wielding a stick he wrapped in duct tape and not wearing a coat. Beg him to do homework.
Refuse to discuss why I only give Cheerios as a snack.
Find 3 year old. Order boys to stop fighting. Again. Pack everyone in car amidst protest.
Drive moody teen to work. Command 3 year old to get back in her booster seat. Resort to threats. “Hurry! The police are coming!”
Arrive home and realize the cat’s with us.
Serve dinner and almost sit down to eat it then realize the dog peed on the floor again. While cleaning dog’s ‘accident’ she pulls 3 year old’s dish onto floor.
Ask for the vacuum because rice is nearly impossible to wipe off a floor, but everyone’s finished eating and gone already.
Call for help clearing dishes, receive none. Declare 5:30 bedtime since they’re too tired to help with dishes. Only the 3 year old returns to help. (Clears every dish with a smile, proclaiming she’s a big girl).
Give her the dollar I found in Lou’s sock drawer earlier because I know he took it out of my purse without asking.
Bribe Lou to do his homework with gum. Bathe 3 year old. Wipe flooded bathroom floor because shower door leaks and I forgot to buy caulk.
Exit bathroom and find kitchen curtains knocked off rods, a broken mop, and Louie wrestling his older brother who he claims just stabbed him with a fork.
Realize it’s almost 9 and send everyone to bed.
Tuck everyone in snug like a bug in a rug. Lay with 3 year old who asks to sing me ‘Muffin Baby” tonight instead.
Savor the moment as she belts out her version of “Hush Little Baby”
Notice she fell asleep clutching the dollar I gave her earlier.
Pick up moody teen at work. Listen to her tell me I shouldn’t complain about leaving the house to get her after 9pm because I don’t do anything all day.
Sit down to “relax” for the first time and begin to answer various emails from teachers and therapists, apologizing for doing so at such a late hour.
Delete to junk employment scam emails.
Wonder if I’ll ever find a job using my degree.
Worry about finances.
Realize the third load of laundry is still on the line.
Fall asleep with dinner on my shirt because I forgot to shower.
Your Lazy Ex-Wife
YEAR 5, FEBRUARY 2018: HOPING FOR THE BEST.
Why I’m Raising Your Next School Shooters
While the country heaves a collective sigh of grief over the Parkland tragedy in Florida, know this:
School shooters are created over a lifetime, not in a single instance.
As a survivor of domestic violence and Mom of six I warn you, with dreadful certainty, that one of my kids may end up killing yours because violence in the home gives impetus to apathy; and is contagious.
I have been trying to get counseling for my aggressive children since August of 2017 and have encountered one roadblock after another. The reason why should incite you.
A recent article by CNN describing the Florida shooter’s history of violence as a youth and failed attempts to get help infuriated me.
I currently have an active, permanent order of protection against my ex husband. There is a clear and present history of violence in our home. Still, the schools, police, and NY State Child Protective Services are failing my family too.
Followers of my blog may recall reading “How I Almost Became A Convicted Felon” the story of how I escaped my abusive marriage. That piece focused on the difficulty of leaving and the battles I overcame to do so. Nearly FIVE years later, we are still struggling in aftermath. Despite efforts to convey the gravity of my circumstances; our newly assigned judge has done more to hinder than help.
I filed four pro se motions in 2017 and four orders to show cause; requests for emergent assistance. All were denied, almost in their entirety.
The only victory I achieved was after my second motion in April. The judge agreed to prohibit my ex from bringing the children to the station when he filed police reports. I hold the dubious distinction in The Town of Warwick for most domestic incident reports. There was a point during the summer when the police were literally at my house every week, sent there by my ex husband. It is not unusual for an officer to stop me as I attempt to explain and say:
“I already know this story.”
Each time I interact with the Warwick, NY police I am told there’s nothing they can do. After almost 40 calls in 2017 alone, only three police officers offered any type of help or hope. Officer Serviss offered to speak to my son & did. Officer Pascal spoke to both of my sons and told me about the PINS program that helps youth in peril. Officer Kearns listened to me & gave me hope.
Twice in November of 2017 & again in January of this year I filed orders to show cause seeking help to resume the counseling my children have been getting for the last three years.
All three motions were denied by Judge Franzblau of Sussex County NJ Family Court. Then, shockingly, my pending motion, asking for the same help, returnable 12/15/17 was adjourned; Indefinitely!
I appealed that decision to the Supreme Court of NJ begging for my case to be heard.
My ex husband was able to remove the counselors that my kids were seeing for three years in August of 2017 due to a loophole in ‘joint custody’ that allows him to participate in decisions about the children’s healthcare. Their behavior has deteriorated exponentially since, including severe disruption at school.
Students who are compromised emotionally suffer consequences few would expect. They are more susceptible to bullying and prone to outward displays of inappropriate or negative behavior. I am shocked and dismayed almost daily as I listen to the horror stories of middle school. If the general public knew how prevalent bullying remains in schools despite the fact we are 20 years ‘wiser’ after Columbine; they would be horrified. Bullying has also mutated in its severity. I have heard tales of physical violence going unchecked while innattentive lunch monitors play around on their cell phones. Today’s middle schoolers are more ruthless than when my older children went through school just a few years ago.
Recently, one son, who hasn’t wanted to leave the house with me in months asked if I’d bring him to Walmart so he could buy Valentine’s treats for a few girl friends he had at school. That night when I asked how candy giving went I was flabbergasted to hear that a girl took the bag he gave her and threw it on the floor.
Imagine how devastating such an act can feel when you are 12. The cruelty of adolescence remains incomprehensible to me. Middle school stress combined with the long term effects of domestic violence can devastate a young mind.
During a particularly bad episode of misbehavior my sons revealed that they were being exposed to details they were incapable of processing.
“You’re trying to declare me ‘mental’ so you can get more child support.”
To their older brother:
“You’re not our real brother, you don’t even have a father. Your father left because mommy is crazy.”
Judge Franzblau stated in his last decision that “there was no clear evidence or danger of irreparable harm”, even though I submitted violent drawings my son made of ways to kill himself. He stated that I had a remedy in law; filing a motion.
It shouldn’t take this long or be this difficult to get help. My children are in peril, drowning in a system that does not recognize the long term effects of domestic violence.
I am watching helplessly as my children display increasingly alarming apathy. They are beginning to lie about the smallest indiscretions and refuse to take ownership of their actions. I have a 5 year old little girl who laments she wants to kill herself if I won’t buy her candy at the supermarket. When questioned by a police officer about why he called me a name, my 11 year old replied that he wouldn’t use such language if he didn’t hear it from his “Fucking Fat Ass Father.” I looked on helplessly, shocked by both his words and lack of accountability.
I emphatically believe that both parents in domestic violence situations should be required to undergo mandatory psych evaluations. A parent who repeatedly exhibits inappropriate behavior in the presence of minors should have supervised visitation until it can be determined that the children are no longer at risk to exposure of negative influence. When necessary, joint custody should not be granted if a parent has a history of serious mental illness.
School shooters aren’t born, they are created by a series of missed opportunities for help.
Perhaps tragedies like Parkland can be avoided in the future if the mentally ill receive adequate intervention. Gun control will only resolve part of the issue. It is imperative that we create a system that does not fail the most vulnerable members of society.
Call your state representative, or anyone who will listen and demand change.
Nearly seven months after my children lost the right to have counselng, I had my day in court on March 9, 2018.
During the course of a thirty minute dissertation I sprawled 45 police reports, a dozen closing letters sent by Child Protective Services and six denied court orders across the table in front of me. I implored the judge to look at them with scrutiny; then closed with this:
“These are the documents that an investigative reporter will dig up after one of my children commits a violent crime.
This is my family falling though the cracks.
And the paper trail will lead back here, to this court, where I have pleaded before you for the 6th time in a year’s span to help my family.”
Less than a week later I received Judge Franzblau’s decision by mail.
He signed an order permitting the children to receive counseling and prohibited my ex from sending police to our home unless there is a life threatening emergency.
A week after that, another “anonymous caller” made a report alleging child abuse, and this time the state ploice were sent to my house.
I envy the woman who gets punched in the face. Society and the Courts recognize physical abuse. If they don’t, eventually, her abuser will kill her and she’ll finally have an end to the game. There is no end for me.
YEAR 5 1/2, JUNE, 2018: HOPEFUL
Dear Suicidal, Die Trying Instead
Thinking about driving into that tree, swallowing those pills or using the blade vertically?
Read this first.
About two weeks ago, they carved a dark spot out of my foot to biopsy for melanoma and during my 10 day wait to find out if I’d live or die, the thought crossed my mind that death might be the better option.
Believing you’d be better off dead is different than wanting to kill yourself. It’s worse.
Currently, my very young children have pottty mouths that would make an inmate blush. My ex husband has become such an accomplished domestic abuser that he actually has the police helping him, 5 (FIVE!!) years after I was granted a permanent order of protection.
AND, I still can’t find gainful employment that will support my emotionally traumatized children, even though I have a Bachelor’s Degree in business management.
Yet, I am still here.
Five years ago, I was married with 6 children, lived in an upscale neighborhood, owned a profitable business and a 3300 square foot colonial with an inground pool.
In 2013 I lost “my husband’s” business, the house (which was my husband’s and NOT mine!!) went into foreclosure and my marriage ended. Then, neighbors in a town where everyone knew me because we owned a restaurant, found out that my picture perfect life was a complete sham. A lie. Fake.
For 15 years I lived with a man who called me names, said I was worthless and terrorized my children. Then one day, I found the courage to leave, but that’s an old story and you already know “How I Almost Became A Convicted Felon.” if you follow me.
Usually, escaping domestic violence is the hard part but I have experienced every setback imaginable since.
My long journey ends tonight.
Even though my kids do not value or respect me and remind me daily that my tax job is only seasonal and therefore doesn’t matter…
(Who gave them that idea???)
Even though all these things and a few I haven’t mentioned because I want to publish this before midnight-
I am about to close on my first home tomorrow. My kids don’t even know yet. I’m going to surprise them. I even made a sign that boasts:
Surprise! We have a home.
I’m doing this because they’ve already seen this house. I took them there the first time I was going to buy it in 2015. Then I lost my full time job.
(The one that is seasonal now and doesn’t really matter.)
I cried all the way home that day. I didn’t want to disappoint them again so I waited this time.
Tomorrow, I finally get to give my kids a home.
So you see, Suicidal,
It really does get better.
But sometimes it gets worse first.
Hang on for better.
YEAR 5 3/4, OCTOBER, 2018: HOPE SINKS.
How to Kill Your Ex and Get Away With It
Domestic Violence Awareness month is in October which means spouse killers, beatings & disfigurement will once again get all of the attention while those of us being slaughtered on the installment plan continue to die slowly, unnoticed.
“Help! Someone’s trying to kill me!”
Usually doesn’t fall on deaf ears, but if you are a victim of emotional and mental abuse, you’re better off shouting:
“Trump is the best president Ever!”
Any of the above will gather more attention than this story.
I’m going to tell it anyway though, because somewhere out there in social media land there is a person who’ll get it.
If one male, female, or gender neutral person reads this and it resonates…if it helps you hang on for one more round of the game…then score one for Silent Domestic Violence, the interminable abuse no one ever thinks about.
Earlier this year I wrote “Why I’m Raising Your Next School Shooters” a story about the long term effects of domestic violence on children.
Five years ago, I wrote “How I Almost Became a Convicted Felon” the story of how I escaped my abusive marriage with 6 kids and no source of income.
Both were written to send one simple message:
Never give up, because things always get better.
For the past 5 years, I’ve clinged to the notion they couldn’t get worse.
My most recent story,
“Dear Suicidal, Die Trying Instead” was a happy one, a tale of suffering and torment finally laid to rest.
I proudly announced to all you readers I will never know that I had finally reached the end of my Domestic Violence nightmare.
Here’s the Epilogue to that story:
On June 21, 2018 I bought my first house; a foreclosure that sat vacant for 6 years with a defunct heating system & not one single working light bulb.
On June 23rd, I surprised my kids with it & saw my 12 year old smile at me for the first time in almost a year.
“I remember this house mommy. We’ve been here before.”
He was right. I had the contract on it in 2015, then I lost my job.
It was the happiest moment of my life, driving my kids up to our new front lawn decorated with a sign I made myself that said:
Surprise! We have a home.
The next day, I dropped them off to visit their Dad.
They came back home late June 25th.
On the morning of June 26, my 12 year old, who had been happy enough to smile just 2 days prior, threw me into a wall & punched me in the face.
My 11 year old committed grand larceny, stealing a USB device that contained over $15k from his older brother. He’d stolen cash, an Iphone replacement screen and an Amazon package over the previous 2 months.
I called school when the iPhone screen disappeared and asked if the in house policeman could give him a lecture but it did nothing to deter him against felony theft.
I told both boys that there would be no electronics, no TV, nothing until the USB was found.
Instead of looking for it, my 12 year old decided to fight me for his phone. I struggled to pry it out of his hands with no success at all. Moments later, I was knocked into a wall & then the floor by him. Shortly after that, he punched me in the jaw.
My 25 year old son had been yelling at the 11 year old to find his “missing” USB, which contained a year’s worth of work, for almost a half hour by then.
Until that day, I’d never heard my oldest son raise his voice or swear.
Anthony was my babysitter so I could work. He earned his accounting degree in 2015 but put off getting a ‘real job’ because childcare for 4 young children costs more than any job I could get.
Instead, he had a home office where he programmed computers that mined cryptocurrency. His income was stored on the USB.
Anthony changed diapers, made dinners, did homework & played ball in the yard with his siblings. Every few weeks, he’d host a “boys night” during which they were allowed to eat snacks, (that he bought for them) & play on his xbox.
After I fell to the floor, Anthony managed to get the phone away from my 12 year old.
Suddenly, my 11 year old appeared with a crow bar and came towards him. As he turned to disarm the crow bar wielder, my 12 year old hit him with a wooden birdhouse, causing him to bleed heavily because that’s what head wounds do.
As my 9 year old son stood watching his oldest brother bleed, the mom puncher & thief left out the front door, refusing to look for anything or clean up the blood.
I called Warwick Police for help that day.
For the last 6 months, I have needed to call Warwick PD almost every week after they returned from a visitation. The last time an officer left he said,
“I don’t know what to tell you anymore, they don’t respect anyone.”
Again, there was nothing they could do to help except make a report. The report stated that no harm had been done to the boys and that there had been an alleged theft of a USB device. Anyone can FOIL it and read every detail.
During the birdhouse scuffle, my 12 year old’s track phone broke.
About an hour or so later, he asked to use my phone to call his dad. While on the phone with him, he announced:
“Daddy says he wants $80 for my phone or he’s pressing charges against Anthony.”
Not a word about our 12 year punching me. Not a word about our 11 year old stealing.
My 12 year old asked if they could go with his father that day.
The prospect of moving, making the house livable and breaking up fights between my mom puncher & thief was overwhelming, so I said that they could go with him until I got the house ready.
The next day, police arrived at my door and arrested my 25 year old son. The charges were:
Harassment; for yelling too loud about his stolen property.
And criminal mischief for the broken phone.
The day after that, Child Protective Services showed up to investigate me & my oldest son for about the 10th time this year. That’s almost 2 reports for every month since January.
I have not seen or heard from either of my younger boys since, even though I’ve sent texts and made phone calls to them. Even when our dog died unexpectedly, their father would not let them come back. They got to be in the house I worked so hard to buy for them less than half a day. Their room sits empty. Their summer clothes, never used. The last image I have of my 12 year old is of him in the tree outside our new home, smiling.
My ex didn’t bring them to their counselors all summer, even though I obtained a court order in March that prohibited him from interfering with their mental health.
Anthony’s “harrassment trial” was scheduled for August 21 but was adjourned. The judge noted, for the second time, that there appeared to be more going on than what was written by his accuser, my ex husband.
On August 22nd, my ex husband walked into Sussex County NJ Family Court and tried telling our long suffering judge, Franzblau, that the boys were afraid of me & didn’t want to come home Labor Day Weekend as planned.
His request was denied.
Later that day, he went to Orange County NY and told better lies.
On August 23rd, a sheriff showed up in my driveway and told me that my ex husband had retained a stay away order. I wasn’t allowed within 1,000 feet of either boy because I was a danger to them and they were afraid to come home.
On October 18, 2018, I’ll get to tell a NY judge the story I just wrote after which my mom puncher & thief will be returned to me. Until then, I am a mom who has done nothing wrong who can not see her children. I’m exaggerating a little, I have my youngest 2 kids. Apparently I’m not a danger to the 5 or 9 year old.
It would be easier for me to let my ex keep them. My family and 3 police officers have all said I should give up, turn them loose and move on because they are ruined; hopeless.
And they may be. Even inmates on death row frown upon punching their Mom in the face.
No one has damaged property all summer, called me a whore or tried stabbing a younger sibling since they have been gone.
My boys have been poisoned by an accomplished domestic abuser. He has spent the last 5 years manipulating the police, child protective services, the courts and now, his own children, to circumvent my order of protection and torment me for divorcing him. I am the only person on this earth who knows what he is capable of. I survived 15 years of hell with him.
I’ll never give up and sentence my children to that same hell.
This latest stunt, however, has convinced me that I was wrong, reader I will never know.
Things do not always get better.
I am trapped between jurisdictions, having lived in NJ for 20 years and divorced there, NY says it doesn’t have the authority to make decisions in my case. Safehomes, the Orange County Domestic Violence Advocates in my area have tried, twice, to have their attorney transfer my case to NY.
Both times the judge said our NJ judge retained jurisdiction.
This means NY Child Protective Services can’t order a psych evaluation or supervised visits for my ex. Neither can NJ because my kids live in NY.
The NY judge who issued my ex a temporary stay away order to keep my kids away from me doesn’t know that I have been to court 6 times over the last year begging my ex to take the kids for an extra hour on Sundays. Each time he refused saying he had laundry to do & errands to run. That hearing is also a matter of public record.
Judge Klein of NY isn’t aware that I spent 6 months fighting to get my kids counseling back after he removed them, arguing my case, pro se, all the way to the Supreme Court in NJ.
She has not seen the court order I won that prohibits my ex from sending police to my house every week for nonsense .
All she knows is that my ex husband signed a sworn statement claiming my boys; who punched me & stole $15k from their brother, were afraid of me and didn’t want to come home.
My ex did mention the incident that occurred June 26, but only to illustrate the danger my oldest son was. He forgot to mention that our 12 year old punched me. Or that our 11 year old stole $15,000.
Yes, it is possible to lie in court, embellish half a story, and temporarily take children from their mother.
I spoke to an attorney who actually told me that.
Any man or woman can walk into their local family court & claim their children are afraid to go home.
If you are narcissistic enough and can cherry pick the information that will get what you want, it is shockingly easy to wreak havoc on an ex.
If you’re reading this and thinking:
There must more to this story??
There has to be??
Nope. There’s not.
The truth never changes, even if we wish we could change it.
I left my marriage 5 years ago and not one single day has gone by that I haven’t been punished for it.
Yesterday I found out he managed to register them in the Vernon Township School System, despite the fact that I sent them our custody agreement showing that I have primary residential custody, & we reside in NY, where they are already registered at Warwick Central School District.
They were supposed to start receiving counseling again at school in NY this week.
Today, I have left work to file yet another order to show cause so I can explain to our NJ judge what he’s done this time. I am finishing this story on a bench outside family court where I have wasted countless hours since 2013.
My ex husband is killing me.
Every day, I die a little more and no one, not the court system, child protective services or the police can stop him.
So you see, reader I will never know,
It gets REALLY worse before it gets better.
Or maybe it just keeps getting worse until you’re dead and not keeping track anymore.
Until there are better safeguards in place, Silent Domestic Violence is losing.
Vindictiveness and revenge is winning.
It won’t get better for me. All I can do is hang on for worse, because it will always be coming.
In about 2 hours a law clerk will emerge from chambers and tell me my request to have the boys put back into their schools was denied.
She’ll instruct me to file a motion and I will tell her I already have, that it was scheduled for 9/14, then postponed till 9/28, & postponed again until 10/29/18.
I’ll cry all the way back home.
I’ll ask myself how much longer I can keep doing this.
If you know anyone being tormented by emotional and verbal abuse, share this. Tell that person to hang on and fight. Don’t waste time waiting for things to get better. Just keep fighting.
Shatter the silence.
Win the war.
6 YEARS LATER, JANUARY, 2019: HOPELESS.
Murder by Mail: How It Could Happen to You
138 days ago, a convicted domestic abuser walked into NY State Court and kidnapped two children by committing perjury.
The mother was forced to endure a trial, pro se, against an accomplished attorney, and exonerated herself. Supreme Court Justice Klein ruled her testimony credible and that of her accuser, not credible.
Yet, the children were not returned that day.
There is a loophole that exists in custody law that should terrify anyone with offspring.
If you are divorced in one state, but reside in another, neither place can stop an ex spouse from stealing your children.
Simply put, you can lie in one state & by the time the other state figures out that you’ve lied, it’s too late.
Since June of 2018, I have filed five orders to show cause in two states, appeared in NY court four times, NJ court six times, called the police in both places almost weekly and faxed Judge Amirata’s Chambers more times than I care to recall.
I received a phone call at work today from the NJ judge’s law clerk.
A decision has been made in my case and he wanted to confirm my address.
The mail is going to tell me if a convicted domestic abuser has managed to keep my children forever.
After 5 1/2 years of fighting to stay alive, it has come down to this.
I am going to be murdered this week, and the court system is my killer’s accomplice.
UPDATE: FEBRUARY 3, 2019
“WILL YOU REMEMBER WHAT I TOLD YOU TONIGHT IF MY STORY CHANGES TOMORROW”
Less than 1 week after Judge Amirata’s 1/7/19 decision ordering my 11 & 12 year old sons to remain with a convicted domestic abuser, one of them finally asked for help.
I had not seen either boy since before Christmas. The moment my 11 year old was alone with me asked to come home. His father had been screaming at him for weeks. The moment our convicted domestic abuser had a piece of paper in his hands allowing him to pay less child support by keeping two of the children, the mask fell off.
My son was locked in a room and screamed at until 1am. During this unlawful imprisonment, his father kicked a chair across the room and hit him with it.
Even though he told this to the Warwick Police, Sergeant Mullins insisted he must return to his father that night.
The title of this story is what my son said to Sergeant Mullins before they made him go back.
NJ Child Protective Services did not interview him for 2 days because his father kept him out of school 2/4/19. They decided that getting hit with a chair did not warrant removal.
NY Child protective Services is finally launching an investigation into the ongoing battle I am fighting and has requested access to the motions I have filed in NJ since 2016.
I filed an order to show cause, attempting to have my frightened son returned 2/5/19. In his denial, Judge Amirata stated that he was aware of the situation because my convicted domestic abuser had been at court the previous day trying to cut off my visitation.
His honor stated that a chair being kicked did not rise to the level of abuse and was not emergent. I was told to file a motion.
It’s pending March 1, 2019.
TO BE CONTINUED…