3 - Where Are You Guys?!?!?!

With the fresh court order in hand and an agreement to work on something amicable for our 1.5 and 4 year old's, we were operating under the pretense of a "nesting agreement". For those who don't know what that is, one parent "flies" into the children's home (nest) while the other parent resides elsewhere. This flips back and forth and does so at various points in the week. It's supposed to create stability for the kids by keeping a homebase. Well, it did the opposite. It created more financial strains (holding down a mortgage and two other residences) and made my commuting to work hellish. It also caused the kids to ultimately see me less. The nesting agreement emboldened her so much that she would refuse to leave the "nest". Excuses like being sick would always prevail. I was being squeezed out of their lives and learned very quickly a court order means nothing when it's not followed. Cops don't help to enforce them and despite her calling and creating chaos with them, they'd take her side 95% of the time. 

Add to this mess, we were trying to sell a marital home. She knew we had no choice. We couldn't afford to keep it. That didn't stop her from trashing the home every chance she got. From defecating in the shower to hiding meat in the home (which made for some real awesome smells and maggots), you can imagine the feedback potential buyers were giving. She knew these actions would prevent the sale of the house. She didn't care. 

Knowing that she was purposely sabotaging the sale of the home alongside trying very hard to eliminate me from my parenting time, I knew I had no choice but to return to court and file yet again. But not without trying mediation multiple times. Like I told you before, you can't negotiate with a terrorist. But I was determined to find peace and do right by the kiddos. That didn't matter. She didn't care one bit.

- - - - -

I remember that day in November day so vividly. I had the shittiest work day and was looking forward to grabbing the kids and heading to our neighborhood park. It was a warm November day - one that I knew would allow us to enjoy the swings and slides for hours. I arrived to an empty home that I had sworn had been ransacked. Hardwood floors scratched to shit, peanut butter and jelly smeared all over the walls, mattresses flipped off the beds, carpets covered in urine and God knows what else. How could this be?!?! Our realtor confirmed the house was pristine the day before - after all she had bargained with my ex to please keep it clean so the house could be sold. I knew something was desperately wrong. The quiet in the home was deafening and my ex was unreachable. Panic set in. Tears burning down my cheek, labored breathing. Where are you guys?!?!?!

It was the longest 3 weeks of my life. She had taken off with my kids to a women's shelter claiming that I was abusing her. CPS had encouraged her to leave. I learned later she'd spun stories to CPS, Police and anyone who would listen. Now I was an abuser - a title that would be the least of my worries soon enough. It was unbelievable to me. I loved my wife. I grew up with the fear of God in me to respect women. Honor marriage. Fight for love no matter what. I can't tell you the amount of times I had been slapped, pushed, spat on and publicly demeaned by her. I turned the other cheek so many times despite being murdered by her tongue so many time. How on earth was I now being labeled the abuser?!?