Co-Parenting My Daughter with a Child

My daughter has been at her dad's for three weeks now.  Our custody arrangement states that I have her every weekend and school break, and since he has moved to Washington, this will happen soon.  For the moment I am stuck in Alaska waiting for the settlement check from suing my creepy therapist.

When my daughter visited last Christmas, she showed me a cavity on her molar.  The cavity was big enough that I could easily see it with my naked eye and I am supposed to wear glasses. Horrified, I told her dad who said she had been to the dentist and there were no problems.  She could not remember the last time she had seen the dentist, but OK, not worth a fight as long as he gets her there now.

I reminded him twice in the next six months.  Always there was an excuse: not enough time, he had to work, the dentist couldn't get her in, insurance problems.  Since I was in Washington and they were in Arizona, I couldn't take her myself and felt helpless.  I offered to make calls if he'd tell me what days he could take her but he never knew his schedule.  How he managed to get anywhere on time must have been a miracle.

In April, he decided to move to Washington with his fiance.  I was overjoyed that all the begging I had done paid off.  It killed me when he moved to Arizona to be near his mom.  I had always feared that would happen. Sure enough, when his second wife was tired of being the sole bread winner he up and left.  He bragged to me he was leaving her with the holes he had punched in the walls.  She later told me the apartment charged her $3000 in drywall repairs.

His fiance began her new job May 1st in Olympia.  My daughter stayed with his fiance's mom in Arizona so she could finish the school year.  I was still asking for someone to take her to the dentist but was always told it wasn't in the schedule.  During that month I was only able to speak to my daughter three times.  I called and called, but no one ever answered the phone.  It was gut wrenching, especially since he said this woman was a "bitch".

My daughter finished her school year and met me in Alaska for the summer. When she opened her mouth to show me her cavity my heart broke.  Her cavity had gotten worse because her father couldn't make time to take her to the dentist. Turns out she had five cavities. The one I could see was so deep they needed an extra appointment to finish the filling.  I was livid!!!  I told him that she is his first priority and questioned how he could let her teeth rot for six months, knowing there was a problem.  He responded by accusing me of just trying to piss him off.  He generally thinks everything is about him.

When he was talking about moving to Washington I offered to babysit for him and his fiance.  I was worried that they would move somewhere else closer to family since there are four kids between them.  Plus any extra time I get with my daughter is worth it.  His response was I was "just trying to get close to" him, which came out of nowhere. There's never flirting or talking about anything besides our daughter but that's how he thinks.

Fast forward to today, mid-September.  My daughter has been home with him for three weeks.  A week ago, after me asking her daily about brushing her teeth, she finally said "Sorry mom, I don't have a toothbrush here."  I was shocked but didn't want to upset her, so I nonchalantly repeated what she said.  And I had heard her correctly.  I asked her if anyone had helped her unpack her suitcase because there was a toothbrush in the small pouch.  She said no one had helped her and she couldn't find it.  I told her to try using a washcloth to wipe her teeth.  She said the washcloths were for the little boy's baths and that her bath towel was too dirty.  She said she had been using her finger and toothpaste.

Even more livid than I had been about her cavities, I mailed her a toothbrush the next day, with a tracking number.  I have asked her every day this week if she got her package and every day she says no, they didn't check the mail.  Tonight, I heard her dad snap at her that he wasn't getting the mail tonight.  I looked at the street view of their home on Google Maps, and the mailbox is right across the damn street.  I hadn't mentioned the toothbrush issue to him because I didn't want him to get angry with her for telling me.  After seeing where the mailbox was, I texted him and asked him to check the mail.  His response?  That she had lied and really did have a toothbrush there.  She had only used her finger one night when she was stalling to go to bed.  His story does not make any sense.  She had nothing to gain by lying about the toothbrush and in fact, felt bad about it.

It's a delicate balance between fighting him and keeping a working relationship.  Kids do lie sometimes.  I know there is a toothbrush in the mailbox that she will get soon.  I would love to call Child Protective Services just so she could brush her teeth but they don't have funding for small issues.  Unfortunately, with my mental illness always lurking in the shadows, I have to appreciate what her father does do correctly and fight him when it is really necessary.

For Me, Suicide is Always on the Table

A note to my future self and anyone else that feels the world would be better without them:

Please give yourself at least 24 hours to think about it, because there's a small part of you that knows your wrong. Feelings alone will not kill you but they will definitely cloud your judgement.

This post may be triggering.  The suicide hotline is 1.800.273.8255, please call if you want to talk.

I'm sharing my story in case it might help someone feel less alone. 

 

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I remember my first suicide ideation like it happened yesterday. It was May 1991. I was about to turn 10 years old and I was more than ready to end it all. I had had enough of living with my alcoholic parents who seemed to hate me. I just couldn't stomach one more insult, one more painful reminder that I wasn't wanted.

There were four bars in our little town and I knew each of their phone numbers by heart. My parents were never home. Instead they'd go out to the bars most nights. I would wait until I couldn't stand it and then start calling, usually around midnight. The bartenders would usually put my mom on the phone but sometimes they'd lie for her. That was the worst. My heart would be pounding. Not only was it dark outside but I was home alone with my little sister.

"Hey JoDee!!" I'd hear the bartender shout over the music, "phone's for ya". "Huh? Ugh, tell her I'm not here" my mom would slur back. "Haven't seen her" they'd casually tell a terrified kid looking for their mom.

When they made it home they'd be completely trashed. For as poor as we were I have no idea how they afforded their booze. Not only did they drink at bars but the fridge was perpetually stocked with beer and boxed wine, the cupboard with vodka. If they didn't pass out they'd end up in a huge, violent fight. I would try to get them to stop, then I'd call 911.

So when my birthday was nearing I couldn't fathom why I should stick around. I would do chores until the drama started. Patiently waiting for the alcohol to kick in and hate to emanate from my step-dad, Mike. It seemed he hated my guts and could never quite control that intense feeling from surfacing every moment I was in his presence. My mom was a little better, she'd make sure I was fed dinner. But she couldn't contain her disdain for me. I ruined her childhood and I was a pain in the ass. I had been colichy, bit her toe once really hard and was too smart for my own good. I constantly had her on her toes which she really didn't appreciate.

My plan had been to shoot myself in the head on my 10th birthday. The pistol I was going to use was kept in the hall closet with ammunition. I wrote my suicide note that morning before school. I said goodbye to my little sister. I loved her to death but knew she, like the rest of the world, would be better off without a bad person like me.

When I arrived home from school Mike was already there. He got off work early that day.  I couldn't believe it, he was never home early. I took it as a sign that I shouldn't kill myself. So I didn't until October 2005.

It's not that I didn't think about suicide after my first botched attempt. I would find myself entertaining the idea often. I felt it every time I was banished to my room for the day. Doesn't sound so bad, and it wouldn't have been, but I could overhear from my room all the nasty comments my parents made about me. It's tough to be criticized. It's excruciating when it comes from those that are supposed to love you. The thought that constantly crossed my mind was "If my mom doesn't love me, who will?". I didn't have an answer but I knew it certainly wasn't me.

Four years later I attended homecoming with my new boyfriend, Jacob. He was a junior that drove his own car and offered me a ride to school.  One morning he brought a dozen roses with him and asked me to the dance. I ecstatically said yes, trying to conceal how lucky I felt to carry roses with me to school that day.

I brought my homecoming pictures with me to visit my family three hours South.  Dad loved them but when I asked if I could take them to my cousin's place my dad said no. He was adamant that I not see him. My cousin had been in a lot of trouble lately and I felt that he needed his family to support him but dad disagreed.

After dad left my grandma gave me a ride to my cousin's house anyway. I showed my cousin my Homecoming pictures, excited to show him my new boyfriend. I brought my new Alannis Morrisette CD with me as well, not realizing it would be the soundtrack of my rape, my first sexual experience.

I was horribly ashamed. I didn't speak more than a few words to anyone until I saw Jacob two days later. Being the upstanding and responsible person he is, Jacob dragged me to the counselor's office. I was then sent to the police station for a report and the hospital to have my genitals probed with a magnifying glass by a group of nurses. The shame seemed to never end.

My grandparents were notified and made the decision to never tell my dad what happened. To say I felt horrible would be a huge understatement. Not only did I disobey my dad, but my cousin, who he already had issues with, raped me while I disobeyed him. It was a double whammy.

The only time I ventured South during the next year was for the deposition. My grandparents told everyone they were going to the beach so no one would know I was in town. I felt like a shameful secret.

By the time a year had rolled by, I was feeling pretty suicidal. I missed everyone, especially my Dad. I had a hard time talking to him, the shame was overwhelming. I couldn't tell him he had been right, that I made a huge mistake and that I was sorry. We knew he'd murder my cousin.

Then the unthinkable happened. On October 26th, 1996, at 10:41pm, my dad was in a drunk driving accident. He had been out with a coworker that had given him a bad deal. This night was supposed to make it up to my Dad. My step mom, 8.5 months pregnant, answered the door to the frantic neighbor. He was looking for my dad to help with the accident that just happened across the street. No one realized it was dad until they saw him lying on the ground. He was ejected from the car and died instantly.  

His viewing is when I realized I couldn't commit suicide. I not only felt the raw, gut-wrenching pain of losing a parent, but I saw the pain everyone else was experiencing as well. I knew then that I had to stick it out. Even if it still meant living with parents that hate me.

Until October of 2005, suicide had increasingly felt like the only way to end my emotional turmoil and the wreckage that was my life. I was emotional and impulsive. As relationships fell out around me I felt more and more isolated, alone and ashamed. 

Then an Oprah episode came on. I was huddled in the corner of my closet under blankets, positioned so I could still see the TV. My dog, Abby, was by my side with her face gently pressed into my leg to comfort me. Faith Hill was the topic. She spoke about her life which of course sounded amazing. What happened inside me though was not jealousy or even envy. It was the realization that I could never and would never feel true happiness. Looking at the facts and the chaos that surrounded me, I knew that I couldn't be happy and I just gave up.  

I decided I needed to save the world from my horribleness so I looked up the dosage on my fiance's sleep medication. I made sure I took enough and went to bed, thinking how incredibly easy it was to swallow a handful of pills. As I drifted off I felt relieved to escape my feelings.  I had been drowning in sorrow and heart ache knowing that I was not good enough for anything. I hadn't been able to maintain success, everything always ended in shambles. I thought I took care of the problem.

I woke up two hours later because I had to pee. I will never forget the terrible, horrendous feeling. My body was dying and I could feel it happening. Every inch of my skin and my organs were screaming in agony. I fell out of bed and my fiance noticed something was wrong. I told him about the pills and he lost his shit.  All he could keep asking is "Did you really take those pills?!?". Since I couldn't speak it was really annoying that he kept asking the question, over and over.  

When we got to the hospital, I fell out of the car and stumbled into the Emergency Room. The lady behind the counter looked horrified as she called for a wheel chair as I dropped to the floor.

My next memory is of me on the exam table, with the doctor inserting a catheter and me screaming. I was convulsing and dying.

The next morning I woke up in ICU. I had two plastic chest paddles stuck to my chest, ready to go off in case my heart stopped. Apparently my research had paid off and I took a huge dose of those pills. The college I went to sent a Psychology student to come talk to me and evaluate my mental health. I must have passed with flying colors because the hospital released me that day, with no follow up appointments made.  

There was another attempt in October of 2011 after a year-long addiction to Spice. Turns out though that antidepressants don't do much when used to OD.

So it's been a few years with no real attempts but a lot of ideation. I just can't seem to pull it off the table, which frightens the Hell out of the part of me that is sane. It might be a small part, but it is definitely alive. I don't want to die. The problem is that I sometimes know that my loved ones would be better off with out the burden of putting up with me. Of course, I am wrong when that goes through my head but it is right to me at the time.

A note to my future self:  

If you are thinking about suicide, please give yourself at least 24 hours to mull it over.

Even though you might think you're right about this doesn't mean you can't talk it out with someone in the meantime. You're worth that, every single person is worth a conversation.  1.800.273.8255 to talk it out.