A most excellent question, Wayne. Thank you.

Of the many and varied disappointments of my life, no I am not a writer. At one point, as a young man, I fell in rapturous delirium with Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Hemingway and of course many others. One day I will write like this, I thought. But of what can I write? I am nothing and know even less.

As such, events unfolded as described herein and as above. Since I cannot write, I shall live a life of such worth that it will inspire someone else to write about it.

That choice I made reminds me once again as to the failure I have become. No one writes about me but rather lives for themselves. For here, on these electronic pages, anonymously, I am writing to inspire, against myself but for my children.

A life worth living is nothing without humor I think. For those readers here, I will offer an anecdote that supports my discovery. Your endulgence in reading it honors me:

I had been denied, again and without just cause, parenting time with my children. A light bulb went off. At my next attempt to see those children, I naively armed myself with The Order of Dissolution of Marriage and Order of the Court on Matters of Visitation and Support of Minor Children with my and my nemesis names following therin.

With that document in hand and ready to waive it in triumph, I found myself with my dear friend Joe, present at my prior insistence, in the parking lot of the State Police Post ready to plead with the constables of law and order to assist me in following the law that had just yet again been violated.

No such luck, of course.

Joe, seething with empathy do to his intimate knowledge gained while in the trenches of warfare with me, suggested I march right back in there and proceed to violently bang my head against the wall or some such other immovable object with sufficient force and persistence to dramatically stimulate the gendarmes into action on my children's behalf.

'Joe, I said, I thought you were my friend.'

After the third day, I discovered I was hungry and abandoned yet another of my brilliant tactics in my contest with the law.

I would pursue the performance of a hunger strike and die if I must, emaciated and pitiful enough to inform and inspire the media.

As a refrain from Crowbob's tactical ploys I would suggest a couple of things to ask yourself.

Are you better off with her or without her?

You don't know what you have got until it is gone. This can be construed as good if what you had was bad. Or the reverse.

I was left with the mortgage of an empty blue house. On that house were large windows situated so as to face the road approaching it.

With two officers of the law (one of whom later became the sherrif) standing close by I also stood, in that empty blue house, one foot on the seat of the one battered and old kitchen chair left to me by order of the court. After the ordeal as the witch with her minions and their sagging U-haul drove away, we three were commiserating on several light and airy topics including their being occasionally ordered to maintain decorum as one former spouse relieves the other of (almost) all his worldly possessions.

I did at that time notice the sudden return of Elmira.

She soon crossed the once hopeful threshold of the formerly marital home, that blue house, and took that chair.

Lee - I have been reading this quietly remembering this from 'the other side' as it were.

Remember - just like people, no two divorces are alike - yours will be a unique journey. Try not to get sucked into all the hatred that is posted here. However, it looks as though your daughter will be by your side as well. I am sure you have a good support system, but a bit of therapy can go a long way - even two or three sessions can help.

And, believe it or not, at your daughter's age kids are much stronger than you might imagine. She will go through an entire process, hurt, anger, depression, acceptance, but sometimes it helps to allow them to help heal you. You, obviously will be part of her process of moving beyond this, but she can be a huge part of helping you move on, and if you involve her, it helps to empower her. She sounds like she is growing up to be an amazing young woman.

Good luck, and all the best.

Hatred, Fox?

Hatred of what? Hatred of the unfairness, the blasphemy, the violation?

Be sucked, gentlemen, be sucked in by that hatred!

Having no use for it, the mother of our children left for me my eclectic collection of worn-out, garage sale tools, including a circular saw whose trigger when pulled screamed loudly about needing its bad bearing replaced. With it I disassembled a compost bin and cleaned the assorted boards. From them, I assembled a bed for our children, happily thinking about their coming 'visits'.

What appears to be a rather generic hatred of women by some posters...

Some women deserve the hate piled on them, others have their own story which may alter a perception or two. All stories have at least two sides, so will Lee's.

This shouldn't be about others hatred, this should be about how Lee can move beyond this - his journey, the road yet to be traveled.

Sui generis.

It is about Lee's recovery, Fox. It is precisely about life, love and laughter. Open thine eyes, Madam. Open them!

Or not. I've really enjoyed what you have written, and can relate to parts of it, but I'm not sure that it isn't more approproate as a seperate thread altogether, perhaps as a cautionary tale.

Everyone's experience is vastly different, and I think that in fairness to Lee, we should try to keep this about HIS situation. I've read back through and can see that I've even taken advantage of this platform to vent about MY situation, which isn't fair to Lee.

Good thought here.

Whatever your answer is to that one Lee, remember that every day is YOURS now, more than ever. Without excuses, without anyone else to blame, every day is an opportunity given to you to make your world (and that of your daughter) a place of peace and happiness. That is something that is worth focusing on.

Every day, there is something small you can do to make PROGRESS. It might be working on a new mantle to fit a larger TV, it might be picking up something for your daughter to surprise her, it might be revisting an old hobby that you've not had time for in a while. But if you make a point of having SOMETHING small built into every day, it will start adding up. Trust me.

I believe your posts crowbob, as eloquent as they are, appear to be a catharsis for you or an ablution of sorts.

Again, sui generis.

It's not even noon and I leaned me a new word

Guilt and Redemption.

Aside from that haunting and blurred visage through smudged glass of the pajama boy referenced earlier, redemption did come. But first, a brief recollection of the former, one of the many visits upon me on my journey. Massive and inanimate guilt:

Very late one winter night. Or was it very early one morning? Irregardless, back in the days of actual telephones mine did ring.

'Dad, it said, I'm in trouble...'

Ablution is not found. It finds.

I like the truth because it never changes.

Purposely avoiding the details of the infraction at that time he committed it, I can and do now recite to you all, the results of which shook me to my core and my son to his.

I erupted. Amongst that volcanic exudate were shards of something molten I had not known were within me.

The exuberance of life escaped my son as poisonous fumes escaped from me. We cried. I, not as wise as some might think I am now, unleashed a thing more terrible than unrestrained fire.

And now the latter; redacted verbiage of a text received just last week from the perp:

'Thanks,

SXXXX and I could not have been any more fortunate to have you and Mom and BXXX and KXXXXx. I love you very much. I am proud of you and our family.'

I swooned once. I actually swooned.

Amongst the many and beautiful things I saw one day in Florence was a rather crude frescoe by the hand of an apprentice of Ghirlandaio.

Until that moment, the execution of divine inspiration by human hand was to me an abstraction. There before me, in poor light, were some small images of men in robes on the wall of the nave of an obscure Church in Italy.

At that very moment, my legs rubberized and I faultered, caught in descent by a surprised stranger. I had been stricken with the notion that divinity is unobtainable by any man. Yet, any man can try as Michelangelo had centuries ago. His legacy still speaks to us about his efforts.

Due to the influences of my mother, a life-long inspiration of beautiful things and an appreciation of man's unrelenting desire to create them, I also try to create, to paint.

The walls of the stairs leading to the lower level of my home is a mural. Trompe l'oeil. An illusion of stones and blocks painted on mere wallboard. Drywall as it is known in some parts.

Anywho that wall, that amateurish attempt, is the subject of a college paper my daughter wrote that carries the title, 'Living In Art'.

Aha! My legacy.

No, it is not the wall and not the paper (for of course, I had not created that). It is my daughter, whom I had.