An Open Letter To Judge Harris Clayton

Your Honor;

I have a difficult time referring to you as "Your Honor" because I don't feel you have any. I'm one of the nameless and faceless.

12 years ago, in a humid, smelly Texas courtroom, you awarded sole custody of my 10-month-old baby to his father. As I slid to the floor, my grief so overwhelming that I no longer cared if I lived or died, you told my attorney to "get her out of here".

You may have wondered at the time why I was so devastated. The court ordered standard visitation, did they not? Why, I got to see my son for two hours on Wednesday and every other weekend from Friday at 6 p.m. until Sunday at 6 p.m. Was that not enough? In short, no, you narrow-minded, sexist sonofabitch.

I knew, without a doubt, that my son would be used as a pawn against me. The last words his father spoke to me before we entered the courtroom were, "You hurt me. Now I'm going to take away the one thing you love the most." You know how I hurt him? I left him. I left him because he was a verbally abusive, physically violent, philandering waste of flesh. I put up with it from the time I was fifteen until I had my son. I walked away thinking that no one would ever want me because I was a worthless piece of trash, but my son smiled at me every morning like I was an angel, and that, to me, outweighed the sheer terror I felt at branching out on my own with a small baby.

I told you all of this. I told you about the beatings and the drug abuse and the squandering of money and the pawn shops and the times I listened to my newborn cry because he was hungry and his father was out drinking at a bar. I told you about the women, my god, the women, and the verbal assault he waged on me for years and years. I told you about the struggle to overcome my feelings of inadequacy and trying so hard to meet people's eyes so that I could keep my job as a waitress. I told you about the times, not TIME, you motherfucker, the TIMES he stood me against a wall, naked, and voiced his disgust and said things to me to ensure that I would be self conscious and awkward for years to come. I told you about his spitting on me after he had beat me into submission and how he beat my dog, my sweet, innocent beagle, just to hurt me. I told you about his attempt to kill me and my regaining consciousness as he was backing his truck up to the front door in order to get rid of my body. I was 8 weeks pregnant with our son when he did that. I told you that, also.

Now let's see what he had to use against me:

See that up there? I'll tell you what that is. IT'S NOTHING. Nothing. I don't use drugs, never have, I didn't drink, I had no criminal record and I wanted nothing more in this world than someone to love me as much as I loved them. I found that in my son and you took that away from me.

Your reasoning?

Because I was going to school at night and waiting tables during the day, I couldn't be a good full-time parent. "Get a regular job and we'll see about changing things, maybe giving you joint custody", you said. You basically told me to quit school, drop below the poverty level and ensure that I would effectively live there for the rest of my life if I wanted a shot at joint custody. Not a sure thing, just a shot at it. And then, the piece de resistance, you assigned child support in an amount that flung me below the poverty line any-fucking-way.

Before I was carried out of the courtroom that day, I made a promise to myself. That promise was that I would have no more children. I knew that my son was lost to me because his father was an evil, selfish man who would stop at nothing to see my spirit crushed.

And I was right.

He found a new girlfriend a scant one month later, moved her in by my son's 1st birthday, and then they moved. And moved. And moved again. They went running with my son and their two kids and no one would help me. The Attorney General dragged me into court to assess my financial situation and increase child support, but no one would tell me where that money was going. I was told years later that my baby boy wanted nothing to do with me. I shuffled through life, broken and sore, and somewhere in the midst of all that, I stopped believing in anything.

Fate brought my child back to me last year. He has suffered through 10 years of verbal and physical abuse. He came to me with nothing because he had nothing. His father pawned his bicycle, for shit's sake. He is old and tired, but not broken. No, not this one. He is spirited and loving. He is thoughtful and wickedly bright. He is awkward with affection, but eager to give it. He has suffered and no child should ever have to suffer. He has been made to feel, by his father's girlfriend, much like I was made to feel by his father. All because he wasn't hers. He has been used as a babysitter and whipping boy for most of his childhood. He is fraught with neurosis because he thinks he's ugly, he's fat and he's stupid. In reality, he is handsome, built like a kid going through normal awkward hormonal changes, witty and intelligent. His teacher's have said he is one of the most gifted children they have ever taught and that makes me proud in a way that I've never experienced before.

I think of you often, Judge Clayton. I thought of you when we were at Six Flags and my son wanted to go into the park on his own, but he is too painfully shy to do so. I thought of you this morning when I watched him pluck at his clothing and adjust it twenty times to hide his body as much as possible. I think of you when I watch him walk with his head down, looking at the ground, not meeting anyone's eyes. I think of you when he checks his email, EVERY SINGLE DAY, and I see the disappointment on his face when there's still no word from his father. I thought of you when, through my tears, I had to tell him the truth about what happened that day and that I hadn't given him to his father and said I didn't want him, as he's been led to believe all these years. I thought of you every year on his birthday when I wondered where he was and if he was getting any birthday presents since mine were always returned in the mail. But most of all, I thought of you on Mother's Day, when my arms ached with a need to hold the child that I didn't know but still fiercely loved, and my heart died more with each year that went by.

I hope that you've learned to listen since then. I hope that you haven't hurried through your decision and that you have honestly tried to do what was best for each and every child. I hope that there are no more children out there, alone and afraid, thinking their mother didn't care about them because you had your head too far up your own ass to see that a mother who only wanted the best life she could offer her child was a far better parent than the man with the easy smile and the wealthy family. I hope that I never have to think about you again, and one day, when my son realizes his own worth and knows what a gift from heaven he has been to me, I hope to be released from the hatred I've carried for you all these years.

But my most fervent hope is that my son finds a way to love himself like he has taught me to love myself this last year. It is the best gift that anyone could have ever given me and it has allowed me, for the first time in my life, to feel as though I deserve Chris, this special man, who only touches me with love and tenderness. I have been able to be proud of the parent I've been to my daughter, instead of concentrating on all the bad things that could happen and all the hurts of the past. I feel like my life is beginning and I owe my incredibly wise son for that. If I can find a way to undo all the shame and pain that has been inflicted on him, I will finally be able to truly relax and enjoy this fragile family that has been formed between three damaged hearts and one bright, shiny new one. And you will be a memory that holds no power over me anymore.