Sometimes, it's better to listen to instinct...

Near the fall of last year, 2023, things weren't amazing, but they seemed to be getting better. I had officially filed for divorce, I was on the right meds for my mental health, my kids were settling in their new school, and I had started my new job. I had started seeing more of my own friends and getting back into my hobbies when the kids were with their dad enjoying the weekend away from their overbearing mother who didn't allow them to keep the frogs they caught in the marsh in the back woods. Things seemed... happy? Naturally, that couldn't last long.

This is more of a cautionary story, for those who are just trying to co-parent a bunch of loose cats with the person they decided to have them with; there IS such thing as "too nice".

I went into this co-parent relationship, knowing it was going to be hard and not what my ex husband wanted, but I knew that we both wanted what was best for the three goblins currently running away from the lava on the floor. That superseded anything. I was such an optimist then. I knew I was, essentially, breaking his heart, so I wanted to be as agreeable as possible to ease the ache. That meant everything from giving him more time with the kids, yet more time for himself. He would ask for them, and I would oblige if I was able; but then, he'd want me to get them earlier than normal because, you know, football. It even meant letting him keep my disability so he could keep paying his bills and putting savings away for when he eventually lost that extra income. I even let him keep MY car that I paid off. I was all kinds of agreeable.

Things took a turn around Thanksgiving of that year. Everything that I was doing to be nice and keep the peace was either being taken advantage of, or not enough anymore. I was constantly being screamed at and threatened. Even blackmail was on the table; nothing "bad" or illegal, but I have a very conservative, Catholic family and I am a private person. It all became too much. I had the papers and I wanted them served ASAP, so I was going to be the one to do it. I know, I know, not my brightest move, but I didn't want to put anyone else in an unsavory situation so I was going to bite the bullet. I almost did... literally.

We had had a fairly nice, calming day; no one was yelling or angry. Just a lunch where we talked things over. We were amicable. It was almost.... nice? Not in a "let's get back together way", but nice, none the less. That was, until I went to leave.

I had gotten a hotel for the night because my parents house was 3 hours south and I was not looking forward to driving that in the middle of the night. My ex husband had begged my to stay and not waste money (it was already paid for, sssoooo....). When I gave him my stern and final "NO.", things got ugly. He through the papers back at me and attacked me as I was sitting in my car with the door open, getting ready to leave. I threw my legs up to stop him from dragging me out, which did nothing. I don't remember much, except there was a scuffle and a bear hug that gave me bruises for days, even with 3 thick layers on to stop the Michigan cold.

I cried and screamed and no one came out to help, or even look. The house is in a quiet neighborhood subdivision full of old fogy's and nosey neighbors, particularly the ones that lived next door. That night, it felt ominously quiet. At one point, my keys were thrown and I was, again, bear hugged and dragged to the door and thrown inside. I remember arguing, begging, and pleading with him to let me out. It wasn't until he grabbed the shot gun, my dad's shot gun, that he seemed to not keep it in. He had a quiet rage to him until that point; that's when the hysteria started to come out. If it wasn't for the fact that he couldn't load the damn thing, I truly believe he would have used it on both of us. He was even, almost begging, me to be quiet as I screamed for anyone to help as he stood in the way of the door.

He finally dropped the weapon and told me he'd let me go if I stopped screaming and crying. I remember him finding my keys in a near by bush, then blocking my car as I tried to drive away. No matter what I did, being stern and angry, mean and hurtful, calm and soothing, nothing was breaking him from the trance he was in again. That quiet, seething rage.

It wasn't until I managed to find my phone from where he threw it under the seat from the first struggle and started to dial 9-1-1 that he left for good. I know I am forgetting a lot of details. The memories come and go, in and out of order. I know he managed to drag me from the car twice, because I couldn't lock it fast enough, I know he planted his foot under the tire so if I tried to leave I'd run him over, and I know no one came to help. The same way I knew damn well they heard me.

I was shaking so bad when I got through to my mom; northern Michigan means spotty cell service. I was able to calm down enough to make it to the police station where she told me to call the dispatcher because the actual department was closed (it being 930 at night in a small village, made sense). That's just what I did... only to be told "There were crimes on both sides. What do you want us to do?". That was Officer Simmons. He golfs with my ex husband on a golf league, because of course he does, and told me that my actions of self defense (hitting him in the side of the head to let me go, that didn't work) was a crime. Unfortunately, I don't remember the other officer's name, but he offered to scan the neighborhoods and hotel parking lots long enough to grab my stuff to make sure the bastard (ex, not cop) didn't show up and I could check out and leave that town behind.

And that's just what I did.

This is a long one, but hopefully it'll get you to see that sometimes, amicability is better than friendship. I understand "not all people", but then again, maybe that one.