It was December 16, 2008 about 6 PM. It was a typical early winter evening in southeastern Wisconsin. When I stepped out of the attorney’s office, my feet sunk into the cold wet and heavy snow. Each step sunk into and packed the snow under my feet. Many years ago I would have thought that this was great packing snow and been outside with my kids building a snowman. This evening I barely noticed it. It was just a minor obstacle on my way to my car. With each step a little more snow stuck to the sides of my shoes. And with each step a little more anger built up around my heart. Logically I was quite certain I would get to my car – emotionally I wasn’t certain of anything.
I did make it to my car; spent a few minutes brushing snow off the windows; tried to get most of it off my shoes; got in my car and started it. I started to make my way through the snow out of the parking lot. I simply did not know what to do with the building rage inside of me. It seemed a little silly at the time (still does), but I pulled over and stopped my car. Then I just looked up and screamed – loud and long enough to release some of that rage; to irritate my vocal chords; to feel the release of pressure from my chest. It didn’t help in the larger scheme of things, but at that moment I needed to express the frustration, the vehement anger, the hurt, and the astonishment at the injustice in our social and legal systems. I was at the mercy of a multi-billion dollar industry that perpetuates itself by feeding off both the innocent and the guilty. I was learning that how one has led their life really makes no difference to the system. As I drove home, I couldn’t help but ask myself over and over – How did I get here? What the hell happened? Does our system really work this way? How could I have so little awareness?
It had really been building for months, but the time in the attorney’s office was the fuse that set these feelings off. We were in the conference room. I was on one side of the table with my attorney. My wife was on the other side of the table with her attorney. I had been working (without a great deal of success) to suppress my feelings of righteousness. After all, I had not had an affair; I had not blamed my affair on my spouse; I had not moved out without telling my kids I was doing so; I had not wished my children a Happy Thanksgiving with a text message; and I had not even been the one that filed for a divorce.
My wife's attorney, Miss Z, was a loud, obnoxious, and bullying personality. She started the discussion by blaming me about the fact that my daughter was angry at her mother. Well, at nineteen, my daughter is a bright, mature, outspoken, strong-willed young lady that always speaks her mind. Miss Z in no uncertain terms told me that I was not saying the correct things to my children and that even though they are adults, I need to force them to go to counseling. The fact that they I had offered them counseling at least a half-dozen times was shrugged off. I still remember the conversation.
“You need to force them to go to counseling."
“I have offered it to them. They are both adults."
