A Mother Without Custody
Escaping abuse meant leaving my children
Today is the United Nations International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women.
I personally know zero mothers who are the non-custodial parent. It is widely thought that in the case of a divorce the mother is automatically awarded custody, although the number of fathers who seek custody of their children are noticeably increasing.
If the mother is not awarded custody, there are whispers and raised eyebrows. Judging voices mutter “What did she do to lose her kids? The kids always go with the mother, right? She must have done something really horrible! Was it abuse? Neglect?” My personal favorite is “Oh, I could never leave my children.” Not only have I actually heard these cutting remarks, I admit that I would have similar feelings if the roles were reversed. How powerful this stigma is.
I am very uncomfortable talking about being a mother. When I say I have kids, I always feel compelled to add, “but they don’t live with me. They live with their dad.” There is a permanent discomfort, a sense that I’m not a “real” mom since they don’t live with me. No non-custodial father ever has to justify it. It feels like a constant admission that I’m a failure as a mother. I have to be vigilant in reminding myself that I did not fail, I saved our lives.
According to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, it is estimated that half of all female homicide victims are murdered by partners or spouses, including multiple incidences of murder/suicide. Women are most vulnerable when they attempt to leave or try to escape the abuser. In some cases, the children themselves are additional victims, collateral damage.
“Why didn’t you just call the police?”
“Why didn’t you take the kids and run?”
Calling the police is not always the answer. The abuse begins long before broken bones and ER visits. The preceding threats and intimidation are not often compelling enough evidence for law enforcement to intervene. On more than one occasion, I was advised to provoke a physical assault so that I would have proof of abuse and be allowed to press charges. Restraining orders are worthless, arbitrary, and completely unenforceable. Abusers with pointless restraining orders show up at a workplace, or wherever she is hiding, gun her down, then kill themselves.
Far too frequent headlines about such stories, even in my hometown, were stark reminders that the danger was real and made my desire to leave my abusive situation fraught with peril. I wondered about the danger if I stayed or if I left. I had to choose the option which maximized the chances that we would all stay alive.
Getting Away
I fantasized about my escape. I had no idea what escaping would look like and I could not imagine where I would go. I wondered if I would have the courage to take the kids and go into hiding. But living as a fugitive with the kids, cut off from everyone I knew, living in a strange place was not an option. Besides, there was no question that I would be hunted down. Being trapped in a Stockholm Syndrome situation had kept me there for the first few years, but the stress of fear and the exhaustion from caring for four young children was taking a toll on my health. My judgment was impaired from the lack of sleep and at one point I began hearing voices and hallucinating.
My eldest child and I were the main targets. I sent her overseas to live with friends to keep her in a safe place while I figured out the next steps for my escape. No words can describe the anguish of getting on a plane in a foreign country and leaving my child there, knowing she would be halfway around the world for six months; an interminable amount of time for a mother and child to be separated.
The day I finally left, there was no calm resolve, no plan to “have a talk” with him, or make a quiet announcement. It was only after another harrowing chase through the house when I holed up in a closet, screaming, and called my parents to come get me. I never went back. I could never go back. The children were caught in a tug of war game and I had let go of the rope to end it. This was my own version of “Sophie’s Choice” and it did not have to end so tragically.
Coming to Terms
On a regular basis, I must make peace with these circumstances. There have been significant economic consequences. Being a full-time housewife, supporting a home business, and homeschooling for eight years has revealed a depressing reality that the skills gained from these experiences are not valued in the traditional workforce.
There are small silver linings among the bouts of anguish. There is no question that it has afforded me the kind of social life that most custodial parents have to sacrifice. Dating for single parents is complicated. Few people want to take on the role of step-parent. Even I won’t date people who have custody of their kids because I couldn’t bear spending more time with someone else’s kids when I don’t get to be with my own. It seems like a betrayal.
Nearly ten years have passed since I left. Whenever I’m drowning in the sense of loss, I find some relief in reminding myself of the dire alternatives. I have cultivated a caustic sense of humor borne from the bitterness of not being a “real” mother. Wallowing in relentless despair is no way to live and does no one any favors.
Organizations like the National Domestic Violence Hotline are a vital resource for people (not always women) in abusive situations. But I share my story here because I want to highlight the complexities and complications of escaping abuse. There have been painful consequences for the choice I made, but the fact that we are all alive is something to be thankful for.
