I’m Finally Breaking My Silence
My biggest supporters will notice my absence here, on Medium, but I have a good excuse. I’ve been deeply depressed and feeling anxious about writing/posting on Medium, especially this story.
The idea of sharing, terrifies me. It rattles me; So many painful feelings and emotions- sadness, regret, anger, resentment, hostility, hate, disdain.
Reflecting back on the last 3 years makes me physically ill. Literally. From headaches and migraines to upset stomach and relapsed eating disorder.
Racing and intrusive thoughts invade my mind, paralyzing me. The longer I wait to write, the more my anxiety seems to build in my body.
I’ve been putting it off because of the way it makes me feel, emotionally and physically, but also because I simply don’t know where to start. Sadly, I obviously lack the resources to ensure the desired outcome.
Intellectually, I know the way to get over a problem is to push through that problem. Emotionally speaking, my hands are already shaking and I find myself falling into distractions as a way to avoid writing.
The point of starting my Medium account, after all, is to document this specific story, so that my daughter would have and know my perspective, in the event something happens to me before she is able to know the “full story.”
My daughter needs to know what really happened- it’s so important to me. So, I write, even though I am already weeping and my pain feels unbearable.
For clarity and understanding, the information will be written chronologically:
April 2020, my ex-husband and father of my (then) six year old called the local police, filed an Order of Protection for himself and my little girl on the allegations that I sexually abused my daughter and drug-use.
The Order of Protection prevented me from calling or seeing my daughter for an entire year.
I dropped her off at her dad’s house that morning and had cops escorting me that evening, serving me with an Order of Protection.
Blinded-sided is an understatement.
First and foremost, I have never, ever sexually assaulted my daughter. The very thought makes my stomach churn and the lump in my throat turn into a tension headache.
Second, I don’t even drink alcohol. Even those Truly and seltzer waters make me turn my nose up. The last time I actually bought and enjoyed an alcoholic beverage might be years ago.
I simply don’t like how it tastes and I usually feel sick the next day. Even with just one drink. In fact, I’m not sure how anyone enjoys being “buzzed” and certainly don’t understand how people enjoy being drunk, ultimately being hungover the next day.
Honestly, I have used marijuana and started when I was in high school. I started because I wanted to impress a boy I liked and then was caught by my parents.
My mom and her husband threatened to send me to rehab and to live with my dad in San Antonio, a man I met only twice and the first time being when I was 13 years-old.
They were obviously overreacting and trying to scare me. I can’t even count a dozen times I used marijuana between high school and college combined. Now it makes me nauseous and it’s been more than a decade because of that single fact.
All that to say, I also don’t use drugs. And is marijuana even really a “drug?” Everyone I know would say, “that’s not even a drug.”
I knew I was not a harm to my daughter and I fought the Order of Protection and won. The judge “quashed” the allegations and called them “unfounded.”
Unfortunately, that’s not the end of the story. The very day I got the Quashed Order of Protection in the mail, my ex-husband filed the very same allegations with Family Court and the Department of Child Safety.
Fortunately, the Department of Child Safety performed their obligatory investigation and it was ultimately closed.
I cannot say the same with Family Court. It’s been brutal.
Initially, I was sentenced to drug testing, first with hair follicles and then with random urinary drug screening (UDS) five times monthly.
That’s not even the worst part.
The judge ordered that I only have supervised visits with my daughter until the next court hearing.
Naturally, I fought everything by drug testing as ordered, all resulting in “negative” and I filed for another hearing that was sentenced for months down the road.
My ex-husband was not compliant with those visits. He would choose not to schedule them and gave the supervising agency a hard time, it was nearly impossible to keep the monitors because they were virtually bullied by my ex and his attorney.
Eventually, we were in and out of court for hearing after hearing. My ex’s attorney brought more lies to each and every hearing. The allegations against me grew like Mt. Everest. And, I keep climbing.
Just over one year, in May 2021, my daughter turned eight and with the mounting allegations, the judge sentenced me to another year of urinary drug screens and supervised visits.
In addition, she also sentenced me to drug treatment and to demonstrate that I am involved in an after-care program.
It didn’t matter if the allegations were false. They included: having an affair with my prescribing doctor, engaging in prostitution, meth-use, opioid dependence. I couldn’t win!
So, for another entire year, I completed my random drug testing and supervised visits. While I was doing everything the judge ordered, my daughter did not always come to her visits because her dad simply refused to schedule a visit or he would not show up on the day they were scheduled.
May 2022 arrived; one year since the last sentencing. I filed for an evidentiary hearing and consulted with an attorney.
The hearing took place the first of this month.
If you guessed that I was railroaded again, you’d be right.
His attorney accused me of refusing to engage with his law office to arrange discovery. He didnt mention to the judge that the attorney I consulted with attempted to reach my ex and his attorney on multiple occasions without success.
His attorney accused me of explicit detail of sexual assault and told the judge that the Department of Child Safety never actually closed the investigation, even though I brought a letter from the department that indicated the investigation closed years ago.
His attorney told the judge that the local police have an open criminal investigation for prostitution and sexual abuse on a child. This was news to me, but I was accused of lying. His attorney called me a liar, saying I knew about an investigation.
I was accused of having a sexual relationship with my prescribing doctor. Despite my continued denial, the judge simply said “I have that concern and you haven’t proven that’s not the case.”
How the fuck (excuse me) do I prove an affair didn’t happen? By bringing in my doctor as a witness? How embarrassing for us both and I would be mortified for him to hear the allegations against us. Simply unthinkable.
This isn’t the end of the allegations.
He and his attorney accused me of drug use and opioid dependence. They told the judge I did not comply with the drug treatment I was ordered. Even though I brought my therapy records and informed the judge about the 12-Step Meetings I attended throughout the year.
He is somewhat right. I did the only type of treatment that was available to me. It’s impossible to walk into a rehab center and demand drug counseling without an active diagnosis. I’d know because I was a drug treatment counselor for a decade.
So, after failed attempts to get into drug counseling, I turned to therapy and 12-Step meetings. Both were beneficial and I learned a lot about myself, but they didn’t meet the court’s definition of “drug treatment and an aftercare program.”
To top things off, his attorney told the judge that I had a missed UDS and multiple tests to result in a “positive” for amphetamine. He’s not wrong, but he’s also not completely right.
I did miss a UDS when the facility was closed and the judge recognized this because the courts are notified of closures. That didn’t stop his attorney from calling me a liar.
And the “positive” amphetamine screen was a presumptive positive, but confirmed negative. I asked my doctor about this and he said that sometimes we take medications that can metabolize as amphetamine, one of them being Ranitidine, which is usually prescribed for heartburn relief.
Luckily I had the confirmed negative that was submitted as evidence to the courts. But it wasn’t enough.
The judge has sentenced me to more drug testing and supervised visits.
Family Court has more than 80, yes eighty, of my negative UDS results. Not a single test resulting in a positive.
The judge said she didn’t feel “comfortable” returning to our previous 5–2–2–5 schedule, the one we had for years before he pulled this stunt because his attorney made new allegations (just like he always does), including the “criminal investigation” and “open DCS investigation.”
Despite my evidence to contradict the allegations, the judge went with my ex-husband and I feel hopeless.
The first thing I did when I got home from court was call the local police and it was confirmed that there is no criminal investigation, but they recommended I contact the county prosecutor’s office to confirm (based on the allegations).
The county’s prosecutor’s office also confirmed that there is no criminal investigation and doesn’t even have anything in their system that includes my name. This came after I submitted a request for records, something I intended to provide to the judge.
I have a new records request with the Department of Child Safety, which I know will return with a letter of closure because I already have a copy, but wanted a copy with a current date.
My next step is to change doctors because I am mortified to drag my doctor into this nightmare. He’s been so kind, he spends time to educate me on the medications and makes me feel special as a patient. I will be sad to leave, but I just have to show the judge that his allegations are unfounded.
Once I have all of this evidence to demonstrate the allegations are false, I can return to the judge for another evidentiary hearing. The only thing that scares me will be new allegations.
I’ve been called a child sexual abuser, a prostitute, a drug addict. What could possibly be worse? Only time will tell.
In the meantime, I have to keep fighting even though I feel tired and weak.
My therapist has been incredibly supportive and patient with me as I work through the trauma of the last few years.
But most importantly, I worry about my daughter. He has put her through so much. First, the Order of Protection kept her from talking to me until it was quashed a month later, the day before her 7th birthday.
Our first phone call since the quashed OOP, she wept. I wept. We didn’t need to speak. Our crying spoke volumes.
Each visit is only four to six hours because they cost me an arm and a leg. But they’re precious. We paint, play with her new hoverboard, we color and write stories together. She tells me about the things she looks forward to doing with me in the future.
I fantasize about our reunification. The day I can make her lunches again and surprise her at school during lunch. I think about volunteering again, working at the book fairs, watching her perform in the school plays and Field Day.
I miss taking her to school each morning and seeing her excitement when she runs to me during school pick-up. I miss her asking “can you tickle my back?” I miss cooking breakfast together on the weekends and sharing a plate because she wants to sit on my lap.
I can’t wait to coach her soccer and basketball team again, to watch her perform gymnastic with so much enthusiasm. I miss arguing about brushing teeth and brushing hair.
I wonder how she’s doing, if she’s eating her dinner and if she thinks of me before she goes to bed. I hope she doesn’t miss me because the idea of her hurting crushes me.
I mail letters, even though she tells me they “never arrive.” I call her every day or night to remind her that I love her and I am always thinking of her. I want her to know that she is always on my mind.
Before she leaves from each visit, I remind her that I am “okay” because I know she worries about me.
The worst part in all of this isn’t even being called a prostitute, a drug addict and a child predator. The worst part is seeing my daughter go through the most traumatic event she will hopefully endure.
The worst part is that she has experienced more trauma than I have in my 34 years, combined. She’s only nine and has been forced to grow up and feel things a child should never feel.
I can’t help but think about my decision to divorce her dad. What if I had just stayed married? She wouldn’t be in this situation.
Instead, I chose my happiness first by divorcing him and expecting to find happiness outside of him. I’ve not found happiness because of what my daughter has seen, felt and carried.
I’ll never be the same. The pain and regret I have each night before going to bed feels so heavy. I try to push the thoughts away, but they’re intrusive.
I worry that something will happen to me before she is able to return and she won’t know how much I love her or how much I fought. She has to know how much I love her.
Part of me wants to tell her what’s really happened. She deserves to know, but not now. She needs to enjoy her childhood.
I know she has questions and will have questions. Hopefully I will be here to tell her everything. Hopefully her father will wake up and realize the mess he’s made.
Not sure where to end this because I left out details and my mind is racing. It’s been weeks that I’ve had this written, but only finished it today because I feel this will give me the relief I’ve been seeking.
Someone has to know the truth. My daughter deserves the truth.
To my daughter, I am so sorry. I’m sorry that I couldn’t protect you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t break the cycle of trauma.
Sorry isn’t enough and I will spend my entire lifetime fighting to make this up to you. May our future be filled with happiness, no worries and lots of Pink Drinks.
Don’t let this define you.
I love you, Chicken. Never forget how much mommy loves you.