That sound, is the sound of my head, hitting the wall. Figuratively, well, mostly figuratively.
As I am sure you already know, the situation with my other children is kind of at a standstill. They have demanded money I don’t have, in order for me to be “allowed” to go see them. And there doesn’t seem to be all that much I can do about it, not having a money tree in my yard at the moment. So until I grow one, or figure something else out, I have been told, in no uncertain terms, several times, that should I go up there, I will not be permitted to visit them. Just like I am not permitted to call them. Or send them emails without them being read by his mother first.
Of course, they didn’t bother to tell the children the reason I am not there. Oh, no of course not.
So, every few months, when the ex’s mother is feeling generous, I am sent a scripted and monitored email from oldest daughter. Asking me to come visit, asking me why I am not visiting, and so on, in that same tone.
The most recent one was an invitation to her tenth birthday next month. The last time I was there for her birthday, she was turning four.
Up until now, I have tried to send noncommittal replies saying we would see, or just telling her I was sick, or,. “Not this time, sweetie.”
This last time though, something in me snapped. And I dared to use the word “allowed” In my reply. As in, “Sorry, I don’t think I am allowed to come to your birthday party.” Not my exact words, but, that was pretty much the gist of it.
The next day, I received a reply from his mother stating that she was refusing to let the kid read my email and would I like to rethink the use of the word allowed?
Um, No thanks.
The letter went on, as these things tend to do, to remind me what a failure of a person and parent I am, and then into: Where’s the money, send money, and if I loved them I’d pull the money out of my ass and, hey, why spend money to come visit them, instead just- send money! I’m not kidding:
“We do not want to hurt them more by telling them that you have “chosen” not to support them and until the support issue comes to rest, we are not willing to have you spend hundreds and hundreds of dollars visiting them, when in fact, that money should be going to support them.”
I take this second to remind you, yet again, that I was never ordered by the courts to pay him anything. That I was in fact never a provider financially for them, that my leaving changed nothing in their lives financially, and that I have offered many, many times to work out something I can afford. Also, I have told them on 12 occasions that should the children need anything at all to please call and ask me.
If the kids were living in poverty, I would, in a second, do anything I possibly could to change that. This is not however, even remotely even about the money. Never was. Its just yet another reason to keep me away from them and make me into the villain here.
Finally the letter closed with a nasty comment about how they will no longer be accepting things that are sent to them via my relatives. (Who live across the street from his mother.)
” Also, unless you are trying to prove to your family that you are a victim of not seeing your children, we will not be accepting cards and gifts by way of___. They are to be sent here directly or not at all. It is not her business and she does not understand the circumstances although if need be I will explain.”
You can’t tell me any of this sounds sane, can you? The entire email struck me as being written by someone who has completely lost their grip on reality. Hi. This is me. NOT ALLOWED TO SEE MY CHILDREN. BECAUSE OF SOMETHING ILLEGAL YOU ARE DOING. What circumstances does she think she has to tell my family? What world is she living in? How can she possibly think what they are doing is what is best for the children?
In the midst of this, the man came home from his vacation.
“I don’t even want to read your reply. You can’t send it anyway. It won’t make a difference. Just call family services again.”
So, I did, and left yet another message.
So yeah. That sound, that sound is the sound of me, beating my head against a wall in frustration and sorrow.