Written by Brooke LaLone, Marriage and Family Therapist
Brooke LaLone, LMFT, is an experienced therapist working with multiple populations. Brooke is an expert in working with Neurodiverse individuals and couples, in addition to treating eating disorders, trauma, and perinatal mental health.
Welcome to my first article. It’s a heavy one. I will put a warning out there that this involves domestic violence (DV). If you are currently or have previously experienced DV, this might not be the article for you, but aim to keep the details limited that could be activating. I want to discuss how domestic violence can be invisible to most. Most domestic violence abusers are well loved in their community, friend circles, at work, and even within their own families.
I was called to share part of my story given the recent-ish move, It Ends With Us. I’ve gone back and forth coming out with a small part of my story, but believe it could help someone, somehow. I hope. I am fearful of how dangerous the lack of trigger warnings and resources could be, and will be. If I were to see this movie, I am just assuming, 2-ish years ago, it would’ve just perpetuated the message that this was normal and would have continued to endure abusive tactics.
Ironically, I bought the novel back when I was bed ridden with a broken ankle, but something always caused me to put it down before even opening the cover. I had no clue it was a story around DV, not the usual hopeless romantic, teen & young adult novel.
I haven’t watched the movie, which I should have prefaced too. However, with the reviews and lack of any trigger warnings for the movie left me extremely concerned and moved to share.
From what I gather, this just glamorizes the toxic dynamics that are way too common in relationships, and pushes the reality of seriousness completely under the rug. We need to have open dialogue about domestic violence, not normalize it, or cause more shame to victims and survivors.
I don’t plan on watching this movie any time soon, either. If you watched it, and enjoyed it, okay. I hope that this can just bring some further awareness of the gravity of this topic is and how triggering it can be to DV victims.
No one is immune to domestic violence. I believe it is a generational pattern and clearly stems from trauma and toxic ideals in society.
My intention is not to be negative or harmful either in sharing my story. My intention and hope is just to highlight how domestic violence is not apparent, and usually those who experience it can be so isolated from support. It usually only happens behind closed doors, at home. It can be so invisible even to those who are the victims of it. Even as a therapist myself, for many reasons, I was in denial about my situation, and was feeling so shameful about it all. We appeared to have the “perfect life” as many of our friends would say.
My other intention is to start a deeper conversation. I wish for healing and can empathize in certain capacities still with my previous partner, and wish for change personally and systemically. I think this stems into men’s mental health (I know DV perpetrators can also be female, nonbinary, etc but statistically speaking it is cisgender male predominant), which is a much, much larger, global problem due to shame and stigmas there, but that’s a whole other post and books that need to be addressed and I am not currently up for. More resources, education, and awareness need to happen. Many victims stay in these relationships for a myriad of reasons; financially, children, shame, housing, job security, pets, lack of resources or supports, fear, denial, and so much more.
I want to again voice, my empathy, and also my heartbreak having to even write this. I did not go into a marriage ever, ever, expecting this. I am still grieving my marriage and my future, especially as the family I had dreamed of. I never wanted this.
Resources will be linked at the bottom of the article. But if you need urgent help, check out here.
In the last six months since having to file for an order of protection, I have learned that honesty and gratitude have expedited my healing. Sharing my story with a very safe few, having two judges validate my concerns and reality, becoming more vulnerable to my extended social networks, and more have all helped me to regain clarity and my reality. I owe it to all of my supports, no matter how small or big the interaction has been, it has helped me to heal and become a better mother, therapist, human, friend, daughter each day. As cheesy as that sounds.
It has been such a transformative journey, and professionally I hope to help guide others through this nightmare to get to the other side without any shame in asking for help, and as intimidating the legal system can be.
Please note: names, identities, and details have been edited, removed, or changed to avoid identifying information for those listed in this post.
Dear Mary,
Thank you. Thank you for your help. Truly, I am eternally grateful for you and your calm presence that I needed that day. I know with your job, you deal with this daily. But truly, you were my real life guardian angel. You will always be considered as such to me. Thank you for your empathy, and zero judgment. Thank you for giving me another shot at life.
With all of my gratitude,
Brooke
“Ms. LaLone-Ward, are there weapons in your house? You stated here that he has weapons in the home. Are there guns?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“One gun that I am aware of.”
10 seconds passed, but it might as well have been 10 hours as I watched the judge leaf through the multiple page packet I had filed all afternoon with a domestic violence advocate, Mary.
“Ms. LaLone-Ward, are you fearful for your daughter if she is alone with her father if you serve this order of protection due to his anger?”
“Yes.”
“Ms. LaLone-Ward, I grant you a temporary Order of Protection and Temporary Sole-Custody of your daughter. All weapons will be confiscated and he will be evicted from your property immediately once this order is served. You have 24 hours to serve this order. Since you are moving forward with a divorce as of right now, whichever court that will take oversight to your divorce case will take precedence over the custody ruling.”
The rest of what the judge said was definitely blacked out. The room was spinning and the judge was getting really blurry. I can’t remember if that was because I was fighting back the tears that were welling up in my eyes, from holding my breath, or pure panic leading to a blackout. Or all of the above.
I turned around and saw Mary, eyes pretty wide.
Uh, shit.
She said not to say anything about custody. Did I say the wrong thing? I took probably ten steps forward towards the door out to the hallway with a sheriff next to me escorting me back to the DV office. And then I don’t remember what came next.
The ice pack on the back of my neck felt like fire on my bare skin. But I came to it. I’m not sure where it came from, it was the shock my system needed.
I looked around on the floor in between the slits of my fingers, there was a garbage can next to me. Did I throw up? Must be. I was back in the DV office, at Mary’s desk.
Mary asked me how I was doing. I couldn’t tell you what I said. I just remember crying, panicking about everything. It felt so surreal. There is no way this just happened.
I then realized my seat was wet. My dress was wet.
Oh no.
The long black maxi dress with tiny white polka dots. Some dainty flowers on the chest. My recent favorite that I put on that morning. The one that hid my alien body. The body that had stretch marks from just above my knees to my inner thighs, across the entirety of my stomach, and on my love handles. All the way up into my armpits and expanding into my inner biceps.
They still were all pretty dark red. Not bright ripe red towards the ninth month of pregnancy. But still pretty predominant. I hated them. Couldn’t miss them. Even as a body image therapist, no amount of self-love and affirmations could erase the feelings. I did not hate my body itself. I hated how foreign it felt, how much pain I felt daily living in it, and how, no matter how hard I tried, nothing felt normal or comfortable. I felt like a shell of a person.
The first time I put this dress on a few months back in the fall, my husband “oohed” and “awed,” and spun me around in the kitchen as I got all of our lunches ready in the morning. That compliment and morning still sears into my mind, it felt like when we were first dating. I needed it the most back then, feeling like my body was the number one public enemy most days. I felt hollow, I longed to be the person he first dated most days. He always said he missed her dearly. He desperately wanted her back. But. That Brooke was a long goner. I felt so guilty for letting myself go, and desperately finding that old me to reignite the spark in my life and marriage.
At least this dress gave me some pep, and I could hide myself enough to feel semi-attractive.
That morning, I never expected a compliment. As much as I desperately longed for his love, or at least kindness, logically I knew I would never get another compliment. A week and a half before this stark February morning, I made the hardest decision of my life and asked for a divorce at the end of January since he had made it clear that he was not willing to apologize for infidelity. The infidelity that was my fault, because he was lonely. And it was my fault for finding out about this infidelity on his public Twitter. Things became bizarre and frightening after I finally decided to end it. I knew there would be hurt, anger, and grief, but never imagined how intense the fear became to even try to live together like two ships in the night.
But what I also did not expect that morning, was that I was going to make an even tougher decision about six hours later. The decision to go and get a restraining order. I should not have been surprised though now looking back at the entirety of our relationship. Six months later, my mind was slowly becoming more clear about what the hell had happened.
We had a long history of what multiple therapists deemed as “Domestic Violence.” The therapists he continually pushed me to see, since I believed that there was something innately wrong with me, and once I could figure those problems out, he and I would go back to how it was when we were dating and engaged. Many times, I would cringe in my individual sessions when not one, not two, not three, not even four therapists, five therapists, all called out the dynamics going on. Complete denial though. I could fix this. They just did not get it.
It was not his fault, it was mine. Just tell me what to do to fix it, and there won’t be any issues! Right? Right? Wrong.
The denial was clearly too thick for me to see the reality of the situation. Even as a therapist myself, we can all be blind to what’s truly going on. I have learned that denial was my survival mode for too long. Self-blame was rooted in childhood and always had a layer of shame.
That morning, I knew that no matter what I said or did, there would be negative consequences. I wiped down my daughter’s high chair “wrong” (the paper towel per him was too wet) and even after I had dried it, there was verbal hell to pay. I was told that I was a piece of trash, and was going to be treated as such. I was told I was mentally ill, and an unfit mom. CPS was threatened on me when I took out the garbage while my daughter was in her highchair, despite clearly still being supervised by her father who was threatening to call.
While typing this, I can almost laugh at how ridiculous this sounds. In this state of mind, I could have easily laughed at it, and stood my boundaries. But after years of continual, insidious, and most of the time invisible put downs, criticisms, and threats, I was in such a mental fog that I could not even think straight that February morning. I began to hyperventilate, and I could hear laughing in the other room. I attempted to make myself toast, to help get some sort of nutrition in me since it was probably over 2 days since I had eaten. I was so sick to my stomach with a gnarly mixture of sadness, confusion, and panic for the past month. I stared down at the toaster, hoping there would be no more interactions that morning, but I was pushed and shooed away from the toaster since I was “in the way” of him getting a plate in the cabinet above the toaster.
Instantly, I knew what I needed to do.
I did not react. Normally, I would have asked why the heck did that just happen, or cry. That would lead to more intense interactions. I did what I had been told by multiple therapists, do not engage.
Thankfully, nothing more came about that morning. I tried to fly under the radar, and avoid being in the same room. I got my daughter ready for daycare, and off all three of us went about our day.
As I waited in line for Starbucks, I googled Willow’s hotline. Willow is a local domestic violence agency in Western NY. I did have it memorized, since I had used it a handful of times. But I wanted to triple check, and again in denial that I even needed to have this memorized. Before calling Willow, I called the attorney’s office that I had an appointment scheduled with for the next week, ironically on Valentine’s Day, for a consultation for initiating the divorce. The receptionist said they could not help with any legal advice here, and did not have sooner options to meet.
As I pulled into work, I looked at the clock. 8:33 AM. Soon I’d realize how important the number 33 was about to become, but that’s a whole different story. For some reason, now I understand why, that time was seared into my memory. Well, maybe it was because I finally made the dreaded call, and this time, I knew it was different than the times before.
I got in touch with an operator, who I recognized her voice. Odd comfort. “We will need to do a new intake for you, since it’s been over 3 months since you have last called. We actually have time today for an intake therapist to call at noon. Does that work?”
“It’s gotta. I’ll take it.”
“Okay, ma’am. All set. They will call you at noon.” I could hear and sense a shift in her tone, almost like she was hopeful. I am sure she has many people call multiple times, desperate for support but terrified of what to do, and never follow through.
I had work meetings until 10:30 AM, and was also scheduled to meet with an old therapist from two years prior. I reached out to her to get rescheduled, since she knew a majority of my history. She was the first professional to point out some of the red flags in the relationship, her eyes would get so wide when I was talking, it would stop me dead in my tracks. I would have the shameful “oh shit” epiphany, but quickly sink into denial and try to over explain what was going on.
One of the biggest lines that struck me a couple of years prior from her was, “You know, maybe you really like the show, Maid, because not only does it remind you of your childhood, but maybe what’s currently happening too.”
Oh denial became so thick that day. Absolutely not. It was my protective cloak.
I was telling her about how some of the characters in the Netflix series about domestic violence reminded me of certain situations and people from childhood, and that was her response. While I instantly became angry at her for such a ridiculous comment, it planted a vital seed.
A few months after that session, I decided to end our sessions since it just did not seem beneficial. I can now see why years later. If you are blind to the truth, you cannot change your reality.
Back to the present time, I walked anxiously up the sidewalk to her building. I was crying in the car, and being about 10 degrees out, the snot instantly froze in my nose. Wonderful first look. Hey old therapist, your favorite previous hot mess of a client is back. Not in denial mode this time.
The whole hour was me rapid firing all of the updates and events that had occurred in the last three years. Including a pregnancy, traumatic birth and NICU stay, broken ankle, postpartum challenges, an impulsive new business after jumping ship from my old job, an ADHD diagnosis, and well all the rest that lead to the order of protection. She was silent for 57 minutes, since I steamrolled the entire session filling her in.
Her few words hit me just as hard as the comment about Maid a few years prior. “You know what you need to do.”
I felt the denial and rage hit for 2 seconds, and shifted extremely fast into a weird combo of panic, despair, and relief.
I left her office and sat in my car waiting for Willow’s call. I was so numb that I forgot to start my car for about 20 minutes. My teeth chattering was my wakeup call to turn on the car.
Noon hit. No call. Maybe they forgot. 12:01 PM, nothing. Maybe they won’t call. 12:02 PM, phone rang. Shit.
I let the phone ring on Bluetooth for as long as I could. They don’t leave voicemails. And they wouldn’t follow up with me if I missed the call. I’ve done that a few times. But I answered. I went through the intake questions one by one, painfully admitting to many truths and yeses that I had downplayed in prior intakes.
“We recommend you seek out an order of protection. We can help assist with this. Would you like assistance with this, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
What the hell did I just say?
A wave of calm, or probably more likely, dissociation hit me. My gut knew what I needed to do.
“Okay. We have advocates in the Hall of Justice. Would you like their phone number or address?”
I got the phone number and put it in my notes app. Okay, well worst case scenario I will call in the future, I thought to myself. I put the car in drive and began driving from my old therapist’s office to my work office.
Almost to the exact day, a full year prior, I had made a call to Willow and followed through with the full intake after a horrifying incident. The therapist on the phone that day also highly encouraged an order of protection. I vehemently denied needing it. The therapist probably was not surprised at the denial and pushback, despite the irony of the severity of the situation, and did not challenge me or try to persuade me in getting an order of protection.
I remember calling while sitting on the top of the stairs of my basement while my daughter was in her bouncer in the living room, just an earshot away. She was home sick for the 30+ time that winter. I whispered so that I could not be heard from the security cameras we had inside our home. I was out of the line of sight. I remember my ankle aching violently that day from the winter cold and trying to clean the house while caring for a sick baby. I was finally able to walk on my own after dislocating my ankle that prior August. I could hear my PT’s voice reminding me to not “overdo it” by being on it too long, not using a crutch or cane, and from carrying a baby or heavy objects around. All of that was unavoidable. There was no time to rest. And sitting still made the millions of anxious thoughts that I had on a normal day, absolute torture. I was told in the fall that it was highly unlikely I would ever be able to walk “normally” again, and most likely would need a cane for the rest of my life. There was no way in hell I would be using a cane. Over my dead body. While on bedrest, I was reminded dozens of times of how much of an inconvenience I was for not being able to walk and help with the household tasks and the baby. As soon as I got the clearance to hobble around and bear some weight, I went full boar to help out and go back to “normal.” The comments made me spin them internally and cause so much self-deprecation.
Just try harder Brooke. It will eventually get better. Try harder.
A year later, my ankle throbbed violently while I was driving, but fortunately I don't limp as much and can fit back into my normal boots and shoes. .
In the 15 minutes it took on my drive to the office, my thoughts went from “maybe I might need this number” to something in my gut and heart loudly overriding my thoughts screaming “call right now!”
I called at 12:33 PM, and who I now know as Mary, answered. “Hi, I am looking for help filing for an order of protection. I don’t know if I do qualify for one (lies, Willow and five therapists have told you at least a dozen times that you did in the last couple of years), and also I don’t want anything to look bad in a divorce case, but wanted to see if someone could help me.”
Initially, Mary did agree that getting an order of protection could look very terrible in the court’s eye, especially with custody cases in divorces and not being advised by an attorney to seek one out. Normally, I’d hear something and hang up immediately to help validate my avoidance and denial. However, Mary did not let that happen. I don’t remember what she asked exactly, but whatever she did I spilled on for about 10 minutes in tears.
“Oh no. I will need you to come in this afternoon. We are on for lunch soon, the office will be closed, so come right in at 2:30 PM and we will help you. I am very concerned.”
We hung up, and another round of eerie peace rolled over me. I called my dad, and he expressed his support. “I will be there for whatever you need. Call me after.”
The next hour or so was the fastest and slowest hour simultaneously in my life. I moved my work schedule around with the few clients I had that afternoon, and paced my office in circles.
I had been to the courthouse before, thankfully. It was required for a class in graduate school for my marriage and family therapy degree. Ironic, I know. I was no stranger to courthouses in general since I had previously worked in child protective and foster care systems in surrounding counties. At that moment, I was very grateful for the exposure I had to trying to navigate this right now.
I parked in the bustling parking garage, thankful for a spot close to the entrance, and large enough for no door dings. I looked around for any familiar cars, none. A tiny anxiety creeped in, “What if you run into one of your clients?” Well, for one, the courthouse is massive and it should be so busy, I would just be another random person in the busy hallways. Also, there are so many floors, the chances of running into anyone I knew were probably slim to none. Especially attorneys, I am sure they’d all be busy in cases, at their own offices, whatever.
I walked in and through the metal detectors. I shook as I took off my jewelry and coat to put it through the security sensors. Embarrassingly, my snotty tissue wads fell out of my coat pocket leaving the machine, landing on the feet of a sheriff, and I quickly offered to clean them up. “Ma’am do not step out of line!” Another security guard held me back with the metal detector wand. The officer whose feet were coated with my snotty tissues, cracked a half smile, and said “Don’t worry about it.” I wanted to melt into a puddle. What the hell am I doing? I was thankful for the sheriff’s grace and could sense his sympathy despite not having any idea why I was there.
I found a welcome desk, and asked another officer for the location of family court for filing an order of protection. Located the elevators and prayed to not see anyone I knew.
Made it to the 3rd floor, but still was clueless to where the domestic violence office was. I found another welcome kiosk and asked the officer manning it. He told me that he would need to call to confirm they were back from lunch. I stood there for what felt like 10 minutes, I anxiously looked around, darting my eyes back and forth hoping to not see a familiar face. Phew, no one.
I looked to my left and made direct eye contact with a client. “Oh my god hi! I have been meaning to email you! I need to reschedule an appointment.”
“If you go straight down the hall, then take a right, the DV receptionist is behind a glass window. Tell them your name and they’ll page you in.”
“Oh goodness, are you here to testify for another client’s case? Oh right, yup, HIPAA, sorry! I know you can’t answer that. Anyways, I can show you!” I was whisked away by my old client and I don’t believe I said more than a sentence or two. I went with her assumption that I was there for another client and professionally testifying. Thankfully I could finagle the conversation with the old client for her to say goodbye and not hear me have to check in with the receptionist. As I was checking in at the glass window, I happened to look to my right and see another woman making a mad dash down the hall, binders in hand with loose papers flying out. Shit. I recognize her too. Too late. Too late. Eye contact engaged.
“Brooke! Hi! I need to reschedule our session Saturday, I’ll text you!!” Her voice echoed down the hall with her heels clacking on the floor.
Damn. Two for two. But thankful she was in a hurry and did not even seem phased as to why I was in the court house.
I was brought back into a fairly small office area behind locked doors, with three women who were all DV advocates. I began filling out forms, still shaking and so confused about what to answer. Do I need Legal Aid? Do I qualify? What kind of order am I even seeking?
Thankfully, I was paired up with Mary, who I had spoken to on the phone. She explained the various orders, an order of refrain, and an order of protection, and what each entailed. Either way, I could receive one of these today possibly, and still decide to not serve it. That gave me some relief, and I decided to pursue filing for one and could totally back out if needed.
Mary also explained how I should not petition for anything custody wise, as I had not acquired an attorney yet. She explained that it could be viewed as manipulating the system and using the order as an advantage in the divorce. Noted. I will absolutely not do that then, as terrifying as that was. “Your daughter needs a safe, alive mom.” We completed the Danger Assessment, where it has 20 questions to answer “yes or no” to, and the higher the number, the higher the risk for danger. I scored a 15 out 20.
We sat for over an hour typing up the petition. She asked for events and situations that were of concern around anger, threats, hostility, and weapons. Anything that was of question, she encouraged me to say it and she’d verify if legally it counted. Initially I was hesitant, but soon memories began flooding back of so many questionable, scary events. She rapidly typed as my stories began to flow out of nowhere, and would occasionally look up in disbelief, but quietly resume typing. It felt like I had unlocked Pandora’s box, and there was no going back now.
By the time it was around 3:45 PM from what I can recall, she put her hand up to indicate a pause. “This should be good enough. I will send it over for the court staff to submit.” “Wait, I have more I could keep talking about.” “I believe this is more than enough information now for the judge. I suggest you journal whatever might still be in mind for future court appearances.”
She left the office to hand in the 7+ page packet we just created. I think I could only get out about 10-15 incidents that I could recall, but it already felt like a novel was being written with how much I told Mary already.
Later on, I did journal and timeline all of these events, and it ended up being over 30 pages of information.I later showed Mary too.
I stared up into the fluorescent overhead lights. Tears began to trickle, I was sweating and shaking, even though for some reason the AC was on in the beginning of February. I had to pee, real bad, but I did not want to move from the chair or office. The humiliation of running into a client of mine, or the fear that for some reason my husband would be here looking for me kept me planted in the chair.
Fuck. Future court appearances? I should not be surprised. I cannot believe I am doing this. What am I doing? I am blowing up my life. No. I am saying all the things I have kept private for years. All of the things I desperately had hoped to change, fix, heal. He is going to kill me. How can I afford this? What about my daughter? I am being dramatic. No way. I can’t do this. No one will believe me. Everyone will hate me. What about our friends? Fuck. No way. No one knows what has gone on. What am I doing? How did I get here?
I was going to blow up my life. I was exposing all of the things I kept hidden for so so long. I wanted to fix all of these things. How did this happen?
At this point, a few days later, it was forced upon me to cut all contact from his family and friends. Our mutual friends. My only lifelines out here in Western New York. I texted his grandma a day or two after I decided to end things, trying to express my gratitude, and keep my panic as silent as I could. His grandmother had given me so much love, comfort, support, and advice in the years I was with him. I texted her subconsciously knowing this relationship would be cut off against my will. My intuition was correct.
“Why would you text my grandma? What narrative are you trying to set?!..”
“Don’t even think of doing that again with her, or anyone else. Unfriend everyone! I’ll make sure you look crazy if you continue to try to talk about our divorce.”
I was going to be so alone. So alone. On top of trying to make amends to my family that our relationships were totally demolished by this marriage. I did what he said. I unfriended 90% of our mutual connections about a week prior. I did not text his grandmother, or anyone else. No one will believe me anyways.
I am alone.
And currently, to this day, I so badly miss his grandmother especially. She was like my own grandmother. I will cherish her love and laughs, daily. I am still heartbroken more over this, then my own marriage disintegrating.
Tears streamed hot down my face as I looked up at the fluorescent lights. I had so much gratitude though for my dad in that moment. While in my marriage, I was made to believe I was such an embarrassment to him, and he did not love me. My brief phone call to him, being so honest and raw, helped to show me otherwise. That was just the start of the unraveling that was to come about the lies that were spun to keep us apart.
What the fuck am I doing? I will have no one out here. No one. No one will believe me.
“Remember, you can always decide to not serve this.” Mary pulled me out of my trance.
“I won’t serve it if there is an order of refrain. I know that. I am worried that will piss him off and I don’t know what would happen after that. It won’t protect me.”
“I know. Once you get the verdict, I will help you with the next steps. Remember, don’t ask for anything custody wise. You will be okay. If you decide to not serve it, he will never know you were here.”
Maybe, maybe not. It wasn’t until recently I had the courage enough to turn off my location that he had me share on my phone, but never was able to have his location to reciprocate. I had a fear of a tracker in my car. I kept an eye on my phone all day, anxiously awaiting a text from him calling me out for being at the courthouse, or if he did not know my location, asking for my whereabouts if he had any inkling I was not working. Nothing though.
We waited for a while to hear back for when it was my turn to appear in front of the judge. There were a few other people coming into the office and beginning the process to file petitions as well. The more time passed, the harder it was to mask my shaking. Mary did not say anything, she came out from her desk, and just held my hand in silence next to me.
What am I doing? I am blowing up my life. If I was a better wife, maybe we would not be here. If I could just lose the baby weight. If I could be more organized. If I could make more money, and be home more. Maybe one more couple’s therapist.
I knew exactly what I was doing. I knew in my gut I needed to do this.
The courtroom deputy walked in, and called my name. He had a huge grin on his face and was singing some sort of catchy tune. Not my current vibes, friend. But I did appreciate his lightheartedness. He must have caught on to my fear, and told me “You will be alright. I will be next to you the whole time. This will be quick.”
I walked into the courtroom for DV. Family court. It was the exact one that I sat in for two hours straight observing many people filing for orders of protection about seven years prior. I believe it was also a really cold February day too. Mary sat in the bench behind me. I was so thankful for her presence. I turned around, she was leaning over, her hands clenched in a fist covering her mouth. Was she also anxious and worried?
What am I doing. No, no, hang on.
I took the oath of office, as many times before for work as a caseworker, and sat down alone at the table in front of the judge. The court deputy stood a few feet from me. His face more serious than a few minutes ago while humming.
I cannot believe this.
The judge quickly leafed through my packet, and asked only those two questions about the gun and my concern for my daughter. That was it. Looking back, it was pretty underwhelming if looking at it as an outsider. When I observed this courtroom before, some cases had a lot more questions from the judge, and required a lot more testimony.
I answered both honestly. Then the blackout ensued back to Mary’s office.
Back to Mary’s desk. I was trembling, and could not believe that I followed through with my worst fear. I apologized profusely for being such a wreck. Mary grabbed my arms and hugged me. I noticed some vomit on my sleeve.
Ugh.
“Did I answer wrong? Custody? Custody?! You said not to say anything about that, but I did.”
“You are okay. I have only seen that happen a few times in the 8 years I have been working here. I think the judge was so alarmed, she made the decision herself. Your case is very severe.”
Severe? No. That seems a bit dramatic.
“Should I have lied and said I was not concerned?”
“If you weren’t concerned about his actions and anger, then you should not be here.”
Fair. Touche. “You will be okay.” Uh, yeah right.
Mary went on to explain the process for serving the order the next day. I could not do it that evening since I was petrified to do it while being home together.
“You got this. This is the hardest thing you will ever have to do. Your daughter needs you. You did what you had to do.” She gave me a hug and her business card.
I walked into the hallway, it was pretty bare. I had a sheriff escort me to my car. Embarrassed if he caught a whiff of urine, sweat, or vomit, but had no energy to care.
Mary was the first person, outside of my father, an aunt, and the therapists that knew about what was going on. She was the first person to get the most truth out of me. She was the beginning of my clarity and new reality. Her business card is still hanging in my office. Every time I see it, I feel a wave of gratitude for being able to have her help me that day. I cannot believe still what happened that day. It feels like an alternate universe.
I got home that evening per the normal time planned with my typical work schedule. I hid the order of protection in my work office, and would get it the next morning. As I walked in, I was mostly hoping he would not notice the smell of urine on my dress, my puffy red eyes and nose, or notice the mascara marks I forgot to wipe off. I was secretly hoping for some sort of reconciliation, or at least peace. I wanted to find any tiny reason to not serve the order.
Please god. Anything. I can’t do this.
He walked by me a few times while in our tiny kitchen, assuming he did not smell me. I quickly shuffled to our basement to get a change of clothes. Thank god it was black so no one could see the war it had been through.
I came back upstairs and ate my dinner alone at the kitchen table awkwardly. To break the uncomfortable silence, I asked about the few apartments he had been supposedly touring since the plan was for him to move out eventually. .
“I got denied all 3. Probably won’t get one. Soon enough I’ll find a way to get you out of here!” as he laughed leaving the room. That was a threat.
Fuck. Fuck.
I knew what I had to do.
Read more from Brooke LaLone
Brooke LaLone, Marriage and Family Therapist
Brooke LaLone, LMFT, is a licensed Marriage and Family Therapist in New York State who specializes in working with Neurodiverse individuals in a variety of areas of expertise: treating trauma through EMDR therapy, supporting clients with challenges with their relationships to food and body image, overcoming burnout, and navigating parenthood and marriage. Brooke ensures that every single one of her clients experiences a safe, empathetic, and warm environment while in session with her. Brooke also provides professional training and speaking events on the topic of Neurodiversity locally in Rochester, NY, and also online worldwide. Her mantra: Shame dies when stories are told in safe spaces.
Further resources:
Willow – for Rochester, NY locals
Domestic shelters – the screener I took, Danger Assessment
