Remember if you or know someone in need of help and resources, call 1-800-799-7233, 1.800.787.3224 (TTY) or visit the website www.safe4all.org.
Within days of fleeing my abuser, we were out of harm’s way
and living with my mother. Though it was supposed to be a temporary situation,
it was not. Much to her obvious annoyance, my son and I stayed with her for
about two years. It was also during this time, I realized how I was living in
abusive situations long before I had been married.
My son, who had been classified as speech delayed a few
years before, was not verbal at the time but he expressed his sadness and anger
in other ways. He became aggressive towards me, my mother, and even her cat. He
acted out violently whenever he could not get his way. His aggression only
increased when his father failed to show up for their bi-weekly visitation
schedule. In addition, on the handful of times he did, my son came home worse
than before. He broke things as he tore apart the house. I knew he and I both needed
help, but I had no idea even where to begin to look for it.
I remember the call to 911. Two officers showed up
and mockingly laughed at two women who “could not handle a six year old.” Mind you,
my son may have been small in height, but he was strong. I was afraid. After
this incident, my mother wanted us out. She suggested that we find somewhere else
to live. “A shelter might better,” are the words I remember as we sat there on the front stoop.
After locating the programs that offered this type of
assistance, I could not fathom moving into a place full of strangers, giving up
the job I was on leave from, or even how I was going to raise my son alone. Prior
to leaving his father for good, he had been the one “raising” our son, while I
went to work. As this was, the arrangement he decided was best for us. It is
not that I did know how to be a mother; I was never given a chance to be the
mother I wanted to or could be while in this abusive relationship. My focus and
concentration was warped.
During this time, the World Trade Center, Flight#93, and The
Pentagon were destroyed by individuals who thought as my abuser did: act out violently when you cannot get your
way. We are going to do anything to
get in control of something controlling us. In the wake of this devastation thousands died
or were maimed, inflicted with health ailments, and for those who directly or
indirectly survived: forever sad. I understood.
Another call to 911. This time six officers
responded. The same two were also there. This time they were not laughing. We
made our way into the ambulance enroute to the nearest hospital. I do not
remember much of the time waiting which felt like forever, but my son was admitted onto the children’s
psychiatric ward where he stayed for six weeks. He was the youngest one there. I was devastated.
In the days, I visited him they were trying at best. I felt as if
I were in some kind of bad dream I could not awake from. The staff shared with
me, how cooperative he was and could not possibly see the behaviors I had
described to warrant his stay. Yet the doctors and social workers, placed blame
me for my parenting skills. I should have been able to discipline and correct
his errant ways on my own. He was diagnosed with ADHD and ODD which explained a
lot of why he was behaving the way he did.
I just did not know that at the time. For more info check out this extensive site
http://www.adhd.com.au/conduct.htm
Within a few short years, he went from living with
developmental disabilities to now behavioral disabilities. This was too much
for me to handle alone. I needed and wanted support at this time finding none
in my immediate circle. The pressure for me to leave my mother’s apartment was
mounting, not just from her, but now from my sister as well. Suddenly relatives and family friends were
also joining the chorus. “You made your
bed, now lie in it.”
The lack of family support did not deter me, from trying to
find help. I eventually joined a support group and got into counseling. Unfortunately,
the counselor who had “years of experience working with DV victims” and I
clashed on me not informing his father about our son’s whereabouts. I felt that
if I would have contacted him, the orders of protection I had against him could
be voided, as there was a stipulation for us to have no communication by any
means. I also thought it would be best that my son was out of harm’s way as he was
often the target of his father’s abuse when I was not home.
I did learn the
hospital staff did reach out to him anyway, but was refused entry when he
showed up as he was only permitted by court order to visit on Sundays. At least six Sundays came and went, and his father never bothered to visit or
attempt to check in on how his son was faring. All that would be beneficial in later
court proceedings, but in the moment, crushing to my son who could not
understand. There was a time, I made a visit and was allowed to meet with him
in his room as he earned that reward. We were sitting on his bed when put his
hands around my neck. It was then I realized he witnessed everything his father
did to me, even though I thought he was in the bathroom at the time. I
immediately informed the nurse. She asked him,
“Why are you doing this to your
mother?” His reply,
“I saw my fardder do it to my mudder.” To learn about how domestic violence effects children
http://www.domesticviolenceroundtable.org/effect-on-children.html
I left there crying uncontrollably. The staff threatened me that
if I did not come back, they would be placing a call to child protective
services. The very same people who then had the power to remove children from
homes that were exposed to domestic violence and I had avoided years before. I
thought I was going to do one better. I would contact them myself.
I had very helpful caseworker explain what was available to
us. It was not much, so when my son was discharged from the hospital, all we
had were referrals to an outpatient mental health clinic. We went to the intake
appointment. Each time, I shared what was happening was like reliving the abuse
all over again. His behaviors were not improving. I was wilting away. Something
had to be done.
I made a follow up call to the child protective worker and
asked how I can make voluntary placement. I followed the steps and my son was
now in their custody. This move, divided my mother, family and I even further.
They did not agree with me, but did not offer suggestions on how to better the
situation. It was a hard time being away from my son, but I kept all but one
visit to the site to let him know I was still there for him.
It was at another court date, my abuser’s attorney motioned
to the court a visitation arrangement. I was in the courtroom unrepresented and
decided to ask for an attorney. Especially since, my son was no longer in my
care, but in state’s custody. I shared everything with the attorney assigned to
me who thought it be best we mention it when we came back from adjournment two
months later as opposed to then.
When the judge learned that my son was in foster care, she
ordered a law guardian be placed on the case and my son return to court the
next day. My son and his father reunited for all about five minutes. Hugging
and laughing as if they had never been apart. The law guardian observed and
reported his recommendations to the court. I lost custody and was ordered to
attend supervised visitation and parenting classes. I had also been allowed to
communicate with him over the phone three times a week.
His father made those six months hell not just for me, but the son he claimed to love. It was worse than the
grieving I experienced after burying my youngest son. His actions reminded me
of the threat he made, “I will do
something to hurt your heart.” The phone calls were supposed to be a half
hour each time, but when he allowed me to get through it would be for only the
last few minutes so my son and I never got to say much besides, “I love you.” When I would show up for
visitation, I would find that the half hour I was permitted was scrutinized as staff
recorded our interactions. I could not answer questions my son had, nor could I
promise when and if we would reunite. What made it worse was that I had to walk
the same path to the train to return home. I would notice that my son and his
father would be watching us from the corner donut shop. Since there was an
order of protection served against me at the judge’s suggestion from an earlier
court date, I had to pretend I did not see my own son sitting there. I left
visits feeling worse than going to them. I knew we would not be defeated.
