✍ Fragments of Me, Entry 4: The Cost of Justice

The courtroom was never meant to feel like home, yet I’ve spent more time there than anywhere else in recent years. Not because I chose it, but because the system demanded it. Family court is supposed to be about fairness, about protecting children, about balance. But when you’re standing alone, trying to navigate laws that change from state to state, fairness feels like a word reserved for those who can afford it.

I’ve stumbled through statutes, case law, and endless paperwork, educating myself because I had no other choice. Each state has its own rules, its own language, its own traps. What should be straightforward becomes a labyrinth, and I am left to wander it without a guide. Meanwhile, she walks in with state-funded lawyers, free representation, and resources I could never dream of. She is financially stable, yet the system arms her with support, while I am left to empty savings accounts, cash in my 401k, and take out loans just to cover a fraction of what legal representation costs.

And still, it wasn’t enough. Money—or the lack of it—has been the greatest barrier between me and my daughters. It is not my love, not my commitment, not my willingness to fight that keeps them from me. It is the price tag attached to justice.

What unsettles me most is the conscience of it all. I am ordered to pay child support to the very woman who, in truth, should never have had them in the first place. She holds them through lies and manipulation, yet the law rewards her with financial support. Their father, who was once ordered to pay me child support in our divorce, has never been held accountable. I never received a dime. And now, somehow, the burden falls on me.

It feels like being punished twice—once by losing my daughters, and again by being forced to fund the person who took them. The scales of justice are not balanced; they are weighted by wealth, by access, by privilege. And when you stand on the side without those things, you are crushed beneath them.

Still, I keep learning. I keep reading. I keep fighting. Because even though the system is designed to break people like me, I refuse to let it define me. My daughters are worth every sleepless night, every dollar spent, every ounce of strength I can muster.

This is not just a battle for custody. It is a battle against a system that confuses justice with money, that mistakes resources for righteousness. And though I may stumble, though I may feel helpless, I will not stop. Because one day, the truth will matter more than the lies. One day, the scales will tip. And one day, my girls will know I never stopped fighting for them.

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For my Daughters, I fight

The weight of addiction heavy on my chest,

As I struggle to regain what I've lost,

My daughters, 

once with me, 

now gone,

Torn away by false accusations, 

at a great cost.

Incarcerated and stripped of liberty,

My mind races while my heart longs,

To hold my children, 

close to me,

But addiction, 

a battle that never ends.

Manic bipolar type 1, 

a double-edged sword,

In the grip of a frenzy, 

little control I have,

Taken away by highs and lows,

Unable to hold steady, 

life is a frantic dance.

This battle, 

a cyclical pattern,

The urge again, 

I must resist,

The memories of my past, 

a constant reminder,

A future without my girls, 

I cannot persist.

But the struggle continues,

One day at a time I must fight,

For the chance to earn back what I lost,

To be a mother again, 

shining bright.

Addiction may be my foe,

But the love of my children

will always take hold,

For them, I must face my demons,

And never let my heart grow cold.

So here I stand, 

with determination,

To walk the road less taken,

And with each step, 

I pray for strength,

To win this war and not be shaken.

For my daughters, 

my heart bleeds,

And I'll do whatever it takes,

To free myself from the grip of addiction,

And finally break free from its chains.

I know it won't be easy,

The road ahead is long,

But I'm willing to do whatever it takes,

To prove that I am strong.

Recovery is not a straight line,

There will be ups and downs,

But with the support of those who love me,

I know I can turn my life around.

I'll take it one day at a time,

And celebrate each small victory,

For every moment sober is a win,

And brings me closer to my family.

The weight of addiction may be heavy,

But I won't let it crush me down,

For my daughters, 

I'll keep on fighting,

Until the day they're back in my arms, 

safe and sound.

✍️ Fragments of Me - Entry 3: Love That Hurts

 I used to think love would save me. 

That if someone saw me—

really saw me—

they’d hold me together when I couldn’t do it myself. 

I believed in the kind of love that heals, 

that wraps around your broken pieces and says, 

“You’re safe now.”

But that’s not the love I got.

The love I got came with bruises. 

With manipulation. 

With promises that turned into weapons. 

I let people in who said they cared, 

and they hurt me in ways I still don’t know how to name.

Some of them used my vulnerability against me. 

Some of them disappeared when I needed them most. 

Some of them stayed just long enough to make me believe I was worth something—

and then left me questioning everything.

And the worst part? 

I still wanted to be loved. 

Even after all of it.

My parts don’t agree on how to handle this. 

One is angry, 

screaming that I should never trust again. 

Another is desperate, 

clinging to the hope that someone will love me right. 

Another is numb, 

refusing to feel anything at all. 

And I’m stuck in the middle, 

trying to make sense of how love became a battlefield.

I’ve been told I’m too much. 

Too emotional. 

Too broken. 

Too complicated. 

But the truth is, 

I’ve just been hurt too deeply. 

I’ve learned to protect myself in ways that look messy from the outside. 

I’ve learned to expect pain where there should be tenderness.

I want to believe in love again. 

I want to believe that someone could hold me without trying to fix me, 

without using me, 

without breaking me further. 

But right now, love feels like a risk I can’t afford.

I’m still healing. 

Still learning. 

Still trying to forgive myself for the things I allowed, 

the people I trusted, 

the wounds I carry.

This is what love has looked like for me. 

Not roses and poems—

but silence, 

confusion, 

and scars.

But I’m still here. 

Still writing. 

Still fighting.

And maybe one day, love won’t hurt. 

Maybe one day, it will feel like safety

✍️ Fragments of Me — Entry 2: The Weight of Missing My Girls

There are days when the silence in my chest feels heavier than any burden I’ve ever carried. It’s the silence of absence—the silence of missing my girls. Their laughter, their voices, their presence—it’s all gone from my daily life, and the emptiness it leaves behind is unbearable.

I wake up with the ache already pressing against me. My parts argue about how to handle it. One tells me to be strong, to keep moving forward, to bury the grief under routine. Another collapses under the weight, whispering that I’ll never be whole without them. Another tries to numb me, to shut down the feelings entirely, because the pain is too sharp to survive. And I’m caught in the middle, exhausted from trying to hold all of these selves together while the grief keeps tearing me apart.

It’s not just missing them—it’s the guilt, the questions, the endless replay of what I could have done differently. My heart feels shattered into fragments, and every piece is connected only by pain. Nothing else. Just pain.

And while I carry this grief, the world doesn’t stop. Relationships keep breaking me. Men who claimed to love me left scars instead. People who said they cared disrespected me, hurt me, made me doubt my worth. Sobriety is a daily battle, and the stigma of my past—being a felon, having warrants—keeps slamming doors in my face even when I’m more than qualified. Every step forward feels like being shoved two steps back.

I cry constantly. Every minute, every hour, every day. Tears are the only language my body knows right now. I feel alone, scared, and numb to everything except the ache. My parts keep me spinning, dragging me in different directions, and I am worn down to nothing.

But even in the numbness, I write. I write because it’s the only way to give shape to the chaos inside me. I write because if I don’t, the grief will consume me whole. I write because maybe, just maybe, someone will read these words and understand that I am not careless, not uncaring—I am surviving a war that never ends.

Missing my girls is a weight I carry every second. It’s the heaviest part of me. And yet, it’s also the part that reminds me I am still human, still capable of love, still tethered to something real even when everything else feels broken.

This is the weight of missing them. This is the war of my fragments. And this is why I keep writing—because even shattered glass can catch the light.

✍️ Fragments of Me — Entry 0: Naming the Battles

Most people don’t know the full story of me. They see pieces—forgetfulness, exhaustion, scattered thoughts, missed appointments—and they think that’s all there is. What they don’t see is the weight of the diagnoses I carry, the names that explain why my life feels like a war inside my own skin.

I’ve lived with parts of myself that don’t always agree, voices that pull me in different directions, memories that slip through cracks I can’t seal. It’s not laziness. It’s not carelessness. It’s the reality of a mind that doesn’t move in straight lines.

There are other battles too—depression that drags me under, anxiety that keeps me wired even when I’m exhausted, trauma that echoes louder than I want it to. These diagnoses aren’t excuses. They’re explanations. They’re the language for what I’ve been surviving all along.

I’m sharing this because silence has kept me misunderstood. People assume I don’t care, when the truth is I care so much it breaks me. People assume I’m unreliable, when the truth is I’m fighting wars they can’t see.

This isn’t about labels. It’s about honesty. It’s about saying: yes, I have mental health diagnoses. Yes, they shape my life. And yes, I’m still here, still trying, still writing.

If you’ve ever felt broken by your own mind, or judged for battles no one else can see, know this—you’re not alone. My fragments are mine, but the fight to be understood is something we share.

✍️ Fragments of Me — Entry 1: The War of My Parts

I wake up already tired. Not the kind of tired sleep can fix—the kind that comes from being pulled apart from the inside. My parts are loud today. One is rushing, demanding, making lists. Another is quiet, hiding, curling into corners. Another is angry, another is numb, another is trying to hold it all together.

They all think they’re helping. They all think they’re right. And maybe they are. But they’re pulling me in opposite directions, and I’m the rope in the middle, fraying.

People see the aftermath. They see me forget things—appointments, errands, conversations I swore I’d remember. They see me scatter-brained, inconsistent, unreliable. They say I don’t care. But I do. I care so much it hurts. I just don’t know which part of me made the promise, and which part of me is supposed to keep it.

I’m exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I feel like I’m breaking.

And that’s not all. I miss my girls so deeply it feels like a physical ache. I carry that grief every second. I’m still trying to heal from relationships that left me bleeding—men who claimed to love me but only taught me pain. I let people in who said they cared, and they hurt me. I’m still trying to understand why I allowed it.

Sobriety is hard. Every day is a fight. And the world doesn’t make it easier. I’m more than qualified for jobs I’ll never get because of my record. Warrants. Labels. Stigma. It’s like dragging a boulder uphill while everyone else gets a paved road.

I cry more than I admit. Every minute, every hour, every day. I feel alone. I feel scared. And I feel like the only thing connecting all the parts of me is pain.

I’m numb to everything else.

But I’m still here. Still writing. Still trying.

This is the war of my parts. And this is only the beginning.

Fragments of Me — A Journey Begins

Fragments of Me is my raw, unfiltered I guess we can call- series about the battles I fight both inside and out.  

It’s about the exhaustion of being pulled in different directions by the parts of myself, the heartbreak of missing my girls, the pain of love that wounds, the struggle of sobriety, and the weight of stigma that keeps pushing me back.  

This series isn’t polished—it’s honest. It’s the fragments of my life, stitched together by pain and resilience that has shaped me towards becoming the woman I am  today, and I am always going to hope that even shattered pieces can catch the light. I will most-likely bounce back and forth between topics at times sharing my experiences in different ways that hopefully open new perspectives on those topics often considered to be sensitive, overlooked or simply not talked about at all. I am human. I have made MANY mistakes in my life- some were unintentional but there have been many that were made intentionally even knowing I'd face some sort of retribution, consequence or some type of chain reaction that potientionaly can erupt leaving me a huge mess, unnecessary financial problems, legal problems or it usually ruins close relationships/friendships. Living thru the consequences  of those choices I have made often leads me into a manic episode until i am ready to crash out. By me sharing the voices and parts of myself that I feel needs to be seen or heard has been an amazing form of therapy for me. If you or anyone you may know can relate to this "series"  i am sharing with everyone please share my space here with them! 

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Not everyone will approve and not everyone will back me completely in relation of some of the stories im going to share and 

If you’ve ever felt broken, unseen, or exhausted by your own battles, you may find yourself here too. Fragments of Me is not about answers—it’s about truth, survival, and the courage to keep walking forward.

Half-Love; Half-heart: How do we settle?

There are moments when I sit with myself and wonder why I accept less than I deserve. Why I stay in spaces where I’m treated like I’m not enough, even though I know deep down I am. Maybe it’s punishment I put on myself. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s the belief that I don’t deserve happiness until my girls are home. I don’t always know the answer. But I know the feeling.

I know what it’s like to give everything—love, loyalty, effort—while being told I’m not really “in” the relationship. To be expected to show up like a girlfriend, like a wife, while being denied the respect and commitment that should come with it. It feels like a punch in the stomach every time. And yet, I stay. I keep giving. I keep hoping.

I’ve settled for the minimum too many times in my life. I’ve accepted crumbs when I know I am worthy of the whole meal. I know how good of a woman I am. I know I should be appreciated, wanted, and loved fully. And still, I find myself questioning: why do I allow this? Why do I keep chasing after someone who doesn’t chase me back?

Maybe you’ve asked yourself the same questions. Maybe you’ve felt the same ache—the loneliness of being half-loved, the exhaustion of pouring yourself out without being refilled. If you have, I want you to know this: I see you. I hear you. I understand you. You are not alone.

We deserve more. We deserve effort, care, and consistency. We deserve to be shown off, to be chosen, to be loved without hesitation. And even if we don’t always believe it, even if we punish ourselves or carry guilt, the truth is still there: we are worthy.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve felt the sting of being treated like you’re less than, know that I’m standing with you. I’m fighting my own battles too, but I believe in us—I believe we can stop settling, demand the love we deserve, and one day stop questioning our worth because it will finally be honored.  

I’m always here. If you ever need a shoulder to lean on or an ear to vent to, message me. I’ll never pretend my decisions are always wise—I usually know the risks before I take them. But I own my choices, I carry accountability for the pain I’ve lived through, and I try to learn from every mistake and heartbreak.  

The truth is, I know what’s acceptable and what isn’t. I know what I should and shouldn’t tolerate. Yet depression and mental battles cloud my judgment, and too often I accept things I shouldn’t. I fight wars I know I’ll never fully win. And I’ve learned I’m not alone—so many of us do this. Maybe it’s because we don’t give up easily on those we love. Maybe it’s fear of being alone or starting over. Maybe it’s guilt, or the belief that we don’t deserve happiness until our children are home.  

I’ve seen how broken the system can be, how family court can strip parents of their rights, how lack of knowledge or money becomes a weapon against us. Even when you fight and win, the financial and emotional aftermath can break the strongest person. And the truth is, the battle doesn’t end when your kids come home—healing the bond takes just as much effort.  

So we cope. We cling to pain because it reminds us we’re still alive in a world that tries to numb us. We form trauma bonds that make it almost impossible to walk away. And if you can relate to any of this, I invite you to share your story—whether in the comments or privately with me. You are not alone in this indescribable pain. Sometimes just putting it into words is the first step toward relief, and together we can carry the weight a little lighter.