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Witness My Pain, Hear My Words

Hear my words, witness my painThere are times when you know that there is nothing anyone can do to help easy the burden that you are carrying. Sometimes it is just enough that they hear your words, and witness your pain so that you know that it’s not just in your head. That someone out there hears you.

Today it has been six weeks since Chris died.  There have been significantly less tears today, but there is still so much hurt and anger yet.  Not so much at him, I told him exactly what I thought about all of this when I had the chance.  He knew.  It didn’t matter.  I didn’t expect that it would.

The hurt and anger are towards his family, my daughters included.  In the immediate space and time after his passing, there were phone calls, and text messages that were vile, and hateful, and hurtful.  And yes, they went both ways.  I was called horrible names, I returned the favor.  There were horrible hurtful things said to me, and said by me.

I have since owned my shit.  I have acknowledged that what I said was wrong, and I should not have said any of it.  I should NOT have hung up on my daughter when she called me yelling that her father had died.  It doesn’t matter one single fucking iota that I hung up out of self-preservation.  We had already spent 12+ hours yelling and screaming at each other, hurling insults, trying to hurt each other as deeply as we were hurting.  All of it was fear and the realization that he was going to die, and they were not with him.

I sat at breakfast, on the first day of our vacation, and was assaulted with text messages, and phone calls, and voice mail messages.  It was like his family waited until he was no longer there to stand between them and me, and they hurled all of their vile hatred of me at me.  The shelter he had provided me against them was no longer there and they could not wait to attack me and tear me down.

The difference between me and all of them, my daughters included, is that I know that what I said was not helpful, was not right, and I should have stepped back and acted instead of reacting.  I know this to the core of my being, and I am deeply sorry for the pain I added to that awful day.

They have found ways to justify what they said and did to me that day.  They feel justified.  No, they are convinced they are justified.

It has been 13 years of his entire family playing this sick twisted fucked up game with my life, where they have dangled my daughters in front of me, like pawns and have set them up to be some kind of prize.  Like my daughters’ affection, and love, and loyalty is something to be won or used against me.

WHO DOES THAT?!

There are days when the anger and hurt get so overwhelming and I am tempted to throw his entire family under the bus.  Even here, I am tempted to tell the truth, the not-edited-to-make-them-look-good-and-me-look-bad truth.  Even here, I can’t help but throw a little dirt and shade their way.

I do not believe for a nanosecond that I deserve a cookie with my name on it, because I have taken the higher road.  Taking the high road is a small consolation to every unanswered text message I have sent my daughters.  It would seem that refusing to play his family’s sick twisted fucked up game of power, means I am excluded from my daughters’ lives.  At least for now.  Maybe forever, because trust me when I say, I know his family is telling my daughters that they are right to shut me out of their lives.  They are justified in what they did.  It matters not one whit what part anyone else played in what happened in the hours after he died.  The only thing that is remembered it what I did, what I said.  And that is used to justify their hatred of me.

This sounds like I’m playing the victim.  I am very aware that I am not the victim here, my girls are.  Their emotions are being fucked with for the benefit of his family.  They don’t even realize they are pawns in this fucked up power struggle his family insists on forcing on me.

There is no real point of this post.  I just needed to write. I needed this out there, somewhere.  I need someone, who doesn’t have a dog in this fight to just hear me.  Hear my words, witness my pain, the emptiness, the missing my girls.  The uncertainty that I’ll ever be a part of their lives again.

Tomorrow is another day, just another Wednesday.  Sam will work half a day, we’ll go to the gym and the library, and my life will go on. And maybe I’ll be one day closer to that ever elusive someday everyone tells me will be the day my girls come back.

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2 comments to Witness My Pain, Hear My Words

  • I can only offer you hugs and tell you I am dealing with the same thing with my kids. I know your pain and I hear you.

    • Thank you my friend. I have been here before (where the girls don’t speak to me, and the ex in-laws take great pleasure in making sure they don’t) but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. In fact, without their father there to plead my case, and bridge the gap, they may never come back. I’m so sorry you are going through this as well.

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