Ok. Put yourself in the position of the domestic abuse survivor. Imagine you are her. You untied yourself from the proverbial whipping post of your abusive husband, left him, filed for divorce, and now you're taking a deep breath as you enter the court system for the final process to be written, processed, sealed, dated, and completely official. You are looking for protection, so you go file an order of protection. Got me, so far? You walk into court, more than likely, for the first time, with a drummed up notion of security. Because this massive building made of marble and brass fixtures just screams justice and protection and security. You're scared but you have a sense of relief. Your story that you're about to tell is completely personal and very private, so you go alone. You're getting ready to spill your guts to all the right people for all the right reasons and the last thing you want is someone close to you to change your train of thought in this. It's a delicate issue. An official stranger with an official manila envelope bearing your name and your court record number will hear and record all your information and for some odd reason, this is comforting. Your nerves are on edge and you feel like running away but you go ahead and do this because your very life depends on it. And if you have a child, it's even more imperative to get this story out and get all the help your state officials have promised you even before you were born.
You tell your story only briefly to the person that will direct you to the correct office. That office will whisk you away to a back room behind a heavy door where you'll sit down at a very official conference table. It all feels strange in a very good way. You're taken seriously as you cry and tell your story. Notes are taken. Nods are given. They'll push you for more because they know you're holding back and scared. You'll strip your soul down to its very core in that room; crying tears you never cried before and your story will spill out of you like blood. It'll be a release that you never expected. It'll fire you up and you'll feel like you're further away from that whipping post. A court appointed lawyer / official will handle your case. They won't necessarily walk you through the entire process but they will definitely push you to continue. And you will. Continue. You'll go home feeling justified and very self-assured. Feeling on top of the world, for once. You'll wait for the next court date.
That's when you realize. Maybe not the first couple of court dates, because you're still on some kind of inner high. But you'll begin to realize soon enough, you're a number. A court number of a court case stacked amongst many other court cases similar to your own. Some are far more dire, others are not that extreme, and some are just left hanging in oblivion because of some change in mind or final decision. The court appointed official will not necessarily disappear but your contact with them will become less and less until you never see them. You're on your own. To handle your own case and you have no idea how to any of this legal mumbo-jumbo, but by damn, you do it. It's at that very moment, mere weeks into this, that you realize you've been tied to a different kind of whipping post. Now it's official. Now a judge will blatantly tell you how things will go. You wait to speak. You keep your tone of voice even, even though you feel like screaming. The judge will tell you outright the number of domestic violence cases your state is handling. You'll look at your wrists expecting to see rope tied around them and wonder if the judge even cares about you. Not on a personal level, of course, you're not stupid. But you'll definitely feel your number come into play.
The judge will read to you all that you spilled out on that first day you walked into court. Sitting at the table mere feet away from you is your abuser with a smirk. You won't need to look at him to know it's there. Now the real fear comes into play. It won't matter whether or not you have an official order of protection. You'll be expected to walk in and out of that court without personal protection. You won't be segregated like you imagined in your mind. Like you feel you should be. No. He'll be right there. Pride will fly out of the window. You'll try with all your might to not sound nervous as you answer all the judge's questions and confirm everything that manila folder contains. In fact, you'll strike up the nerve to add more verbal content just to make sure the judge knows the importance of all this. The whipping post bonds will tighten as the judge sends you away with no real sense of protection.
You're not going to waste your time or your money on a lawyer. You now realize this will go on a lot longer than you ever imagined. You started to do tiny research on narcissistic sociopathic abusers and know they like to drag it all out for as long as they can. It's punishment and they mean to exact it. The court sees him, read his file just the same as yours, but he's a human in the court's eyes. They don't know him like you do. They never will. You take notes and remind the court every court visit just what you had living with. You're not going to get frustrated. The court and the judge half-ass expects that. A sniveling, driveling victim. So you straighten up your attitude. You quickly learn a new way to walk, talk, look, and speak. You are becoming your new you. The court is forcing you to do this. To do anything else, and you will spell out your failure in no time.
That all said. You take mental notes of the other domestic abuse survivors that walk into court. Some treat it like old hat and just wear a dirty T-shirt, sweat pants, and flip flops with dirty socks. They literally woke up tired, went to court tired, and go home tired. They look beaten, don't they? You're not going to do that. You're not going to spend money on an entirely different wardrobe but you will wear clean, nice looking jeans. No T-shirt. A blouse. You will wear make-up and your hair will be clean and combed and trimmed. Fresh. New. You. The court has no idea who the hell you are and they're expecting you to change your mind and look at your abuser and change your naïve little mind and go back to him. And you know what? Those are the cases that sit in oblivion. The cases that gave up because it got too hard and went on for far too long and there's damn bills to pay....etc, etc, etc. Get that stupid shit out of your head. You're not going to back to your monster, so just shut-up, unless you want to plan your own funeral.
Hunker down, sweet pea. You're in for the long hall. If you think the judge will give you a hug after each hearing (if you're fighting the visitation progression like me), then you're sadly mistaken. Chances are your abuser will get more time to speak his mind than you ever thought possible. He'll gladly jump through all the hoops you originally designed out of sheer fear and for protection purposes - but only half ass. The judge doesn't keep good notes, so you will constantly refer to what was said in the last hearing. The frustration won't show and you better not let it. You'll get quickly reprimanded if you do. You'll feel like an errant child when ask for further stipulations. Your intuition and your gut instincts will constantly tell you "Wait a minute! Tell the judge this.." or tell the judge that. Go ahead and tell him. He or she needs to know. You need to humanize yourself in the judge's eyes, anyway. Get them away from treating you like a number but do it with suttle grace.
Here's where it all gets interesting. You're a woman. Women are supposed to act a certain way. What I'm saying, is this. The court system is antiquated and holds a second class thought process in their treatment of women, especially women of domestic abuse cases. Don't file yourself away into that mentality but definitely learn to play the card game. Smile often. Low voice. Soft dress. You get my drift. Throw a wild card out and remind the judge of the harassing phone calls and text messages. In my case, I have to constantly remind the judge that my ex is a crack cocaine user. "Is" - not "was." I have to constantly remind the judge that my ex is abusive. Sounds strange but it's true. That's what you will do. Remind them why you're even there. At the end of each and every hearing, you will look the judge in the eye and say "Thank you for listening." That's what women with good manners do, anyway, so get in that habit from day one.
This post is for people interested in the cause of ending violence but never personally experienced it. It's for the survivors out there second guessing themselves. It's for anyone who gives a damn. You better give a damn. There's a ripple effect to domestic abuse. A woman who is going through this system (& the men who experience it, too) is called away from their job to go to hearings. Time and money is poured into the court system for social workers, lawyers, judges, and other state officials. Abusers are still given the sense that it's all ok. When they grow tired (and they will, trust me), they will simply look for their next victim and the process starts all over again. I'm not even going to mention the final outcome of murder cases that come as a result of lack of protection. There's more than I care to mention here.
I'm disgusted today, especially. My judge "forgot" about my case and was at his dentist's office. A female judge handled the hearing today. In one way, it was a blessing. I was able to tell my ex and this new very temporary judge what was on my mind..."I think he's simply dragging this all out as a form of harassment." I said more than that. And it felt damn good. My ex whined about not seeing his son often enough. The visits got ramped up (every Saturday 10 - 6pm with the addition of every other Sunday 9 - 6 pm). No overnight stays, yet. I was completely shocked when this temporary judge today told me that my original judge "denied" any future drug testing. My abusive, sociopathic, ex husband refuses drug rehab. He randomly attends anger management meetings and their not with a social worker like I originally demanded. He can sit and talk with just about anyone he wants about his anger management as long as they sign some flimsy paper he hands them. That's all the proof that is needed. He had the opportunity to start this new schedule immediately...this weekend. He adamantly refused. It's about control. It's not about bonding with his son. As far as I can see.
He comes late on some Saturdays and drops our son off early. Sometimes he will even give some reason known only to him and not see our son at all on any given weekend. The choice is his and he's choosing not to bond.
It's all as I expected. I have done my research and I trust my instincts which is why I'm calm at this very moment. My ex will get very tired of all this. He treats it like a hassle in so many ways, all ready. I stalled the court to an unbelievable amount. My son was 2 days old when I left my husband and Tot is now almost 4. He's a chatter box and tells me everything. I don't have to force him to talk about anything. I all ready have a strong bond. A routine that he's used to. He trusts me. So I'm sitting here as a mother tonight. A surviving mother. Not a domestic abuse victim. I see the light at the end of the tunnel. I've come further in this than I ever expected but there are still shadowy parts I can't think about. Like, what the hell will it be like when my son is forced to spend the night with my abusive, drug addict ex husband? I can only pray. Tonight, I'm feeling a sense of God's Hand working in ways that I don't quite understand. It puts the word Faith into an action form for me. I am actively involving Faith. I have to. It's key to my survival.
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