✍ 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.

---

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