When you can't stop trash-talking your ex, or "How to Really Fuck Up Your Kids"

A month or so ago, Tycho accused me of stealing pants from his dad's house. "You're taking all the pants and Daddy doesn't have any of my pants at his house!"

Now, the weather had been all over the place that month (yay "fall" in Maryland), but considering how few pairs of pants I had in his drawer, I knew what he was telling me wasn't necessarily the truth. But how do you explain that to a four-year-old?

Fortunately, Matt and I have a good enough relationship that we can talk about these kinds of things and sort them out. I told Tycho I was sorry he felt that way and that must have been confusing to hear, I'm sure he has enough pants, but let me text Daddy just in case. And that was that.

After a quick back-and-forth, including me telling him to "cut the shit" (yes, verbatim -- have I mentioned we have a good enough relationship?) with saying things like that, even by accident, the problem was solved.

And yes, he had enough pants.

I give this example not because I want to get that story off my chest (well, okay, a little... thanks for vindicating me, Internet!), but because it shows the importance of not trash-talking your ex. I could have just as easily retorted, "Daddy's lying, I didn't steal any pants!" or otherwise accused Matt of myriad things. In fact, in some ways, it would have been easier to give into the "fuck him!" mentality in front of my son than empathizing with him and saying we'd take care of it.

I know it's not that easy for others to just keep their lips zipped, even if opening their mouth is ultimately at the expense of their children's well being. It's sometimes difficult to stop the word vomit, especially if your ex pushes a particular button or, despite the passage of time, you're still not over the fact that the relationship is, well... over. You want to screw him over just one last time, get that final word in, to the nearest audience available... and that happens to be your kids.

Of course, the best advice would be "just be an adult." In case you needed reasons to do that, though, here are some ways trash-talking your ex can really fuck up your kids -- and your relationship with them -- in the long run:

• Sure, you'd probably love if your ex was never born (or suffered from cancer or a fatal car crash or something equally disgusting and disturbing what is wrong with you) so you wouldn't have to deal with their crap anymore. But the long and short of it is, and as much as you may not want to say it: Your children are half you and half your ex. Trash-talking the other parent ultimately means talking down about half of who your children are... and if you don't think they're internalizing that message, you're wrong.

• You're setting a really bad example for them. If you're constantly calling your ex names or regularly insulting them, your children will likely take after you. And would you want to be known as the parent with the foul-mouthed or condescending kid? Hating or fearing another parent doesn't come naturally; it's a learned behavior, and if your child is learning that from you, that makes you a pretty shit parent.

• You're legit abusing your child. You may think you're getting them on "your side" (whatever the hell that means), but ultimately, so long as there's no sufficient justification for it, denying visitation, trash-talking, and other forms of manipulation are all forms of child abuse. You're playing with their heads and, ultimately, their lives. Don't fucking do it.

• You could lose your child.* I can't stress this enough... if you're trash-talking your ex so frequently that you start to alienate your child from their other parent, or if you're doing anything else to accomplish the same goal, you could lose your child. Be smart, motherfucker. Perpetual shit-talk may be grounds for reducing your custody, and in extreme cases, may leave you with no custody. Do you really want to give up your child because you can't stop being petty?

* I am not a lawyer, BTW.

Okay, so you've resolved to do better, to be better. Still feeling that vomit rising in your throat? Here are some alternatives that won't have you hugging a toilet:

• Just don't talk about your ex in front of the kids! You have friends or family, I assume, right? Fellow adults in your life? Bitch to them about your ex. Sure, they may get tired of it after a while, but at least they won't go through the emotional turmoil your children undoubtedly would.

• Related: Don't talk to others about your ex when your children are home. Ever say a cuss word when you thought you were out of your kids' earshot, only to have them repeat it days (or seconds...) later? While they may have a hard time hearing when you ask them to pick up their toys, children tune in when you least expect (and want) it. Tell others not to talk about your ex when your kids are with you, too.

• Related x2: Talk to a neutral third party. Divorce sucks, even if you really want it and you're happier in the end. When you have kids with your ex, divorce sucks that much more because you can't just ignore them into nonexistence. Consider getting yourself (and maybe your children, too) a therapist to vent to and help you come to terms with the trials of divorce and its effect on children.

• Validate your child's feelings. This goes for when they challenge you by bringing shit from your ex into your home, too. Be positive about the time they spend with their other parent. You don't need to put them on a pedestal or even say anything nice about them. Too difficult? Focus on the activities they did ("Oh, it sounds like the park was fun!").

• Support their contact with their other parent. Just because they want to talk to Daddy on the phone doesn't mean they love you less. Chances are, they miss YOU when they're with Daddy, too. Don't punish them for wanting contact with their other parent; instead, encourage it by dialing their number and giving your kid the phone. Then go to another room, across the house, and punch a pillow or something, idk.

• Remind your children that the divorce was NOT their fault. I'm not a child of divorce, but my son is, and I often reassure him that Mommy and Daddy love and care for him very much and that we are better parents for him when we're apart. If you're trash-talking your ex, they're going to believe they were part of the problem and even carry that shit into their adult lives. Imagine telling your kids that their other parent is a "liar," only for those kids to grow up believing they may be liars, too, or that the other parent never told them a truthful thing in their entire lives? Or if you slip and call your child a "liar"...

• If you ever find it in your heart to do this -- or, simply, if you want to exercise some empathy -- do the exact opposite of trash talk. Not only will you kill your ex with kindness (and that would drive them crazy!), but it's a message your kids CAN internalize. After all, you purportedly loved your ex at some point, or you wouldn't have made such a beautiful child together. Tell them the positive qualities they inherited from your ex: Their creative eye, their compassion, their soccer skills, even their left-handedness. Even if it's simple, it humanizes your ex, and your kids hear the compliments just as, if not more, readily than the positive message that their other half is important, too.

This April, both Matt and I will be celebrating our son's fifth birthday together, in the same room, with no fighting or anything. Can you even imagine?! Not only is there no drama, but our son sees two parents who, despite any reason why they divorced, love him unconditionally and are willing to put aside their own shit for his best interest.

Yes, this may take time to accomplish, but while you're waiting for the magical day when you can be within a few feet of your ex without stabbing their eyeballs out of their skull, you can at least quit the shit. For your kids' sake.

Mommy, Tycho, and Daddy on Tycho's Third Birthday
<3 Divorced parents coming together for their son <3

Me, Too: Breaking the silence

This post is full of triggers. Please read at your own discretion.

TIME Magazine just came out with its Person of the Year 2017, and I have to say, y'all... I'm speechless.

The Silence Breakers

But now, I'm speechless for the right reasons. Finally, after all this time, we are finding our voices and speaking out against boundaries crossed, opportunities lost, lives shattered. We're telling our stories, not meekly behind computer screens or stealthily to our dearest friends, but with gigantic fucking megaphones.

And finally, there are repercussions.

Sure, we still have a long way to go; after all, Bill Cosby still admitted to his crimes and walked away, Brock Allen Turner still only served a paltry sentence for rape (and is now fighting that ruling because of course he is), and we have a shameless sexual predator occupying the highest office in the land.

Still, there's a palpable shift going on, and TIME recognized it. Sought it. And if #MeToo brought these truths to the world stage, TIME just flicked on the floodlights.

And begrudgingly, it's my turn to step into the spotlight. This is the first time I've ever told my entire story, and while it's one of many I could tell, it's the one that stands out most clearly, was the most egregious of them all.

I was eighteen when I was raped.

He has a name, but he's not famous. He could be anyone; in fact, he's been everyone since.

I barely knew him. He worked stock, I was in the photo lab, so we didn't interact very often. He was twice my age, too, so when there was opportunity to talk, there weren't a lot of common interests. But it's not like he was a stranger.

It started at a Fort Lauderdale nightclub. I was invited by a friend of his, another coworker who had about seven years on me and who thought it was a great idea to doll me up to go out (she told me later, because this guy had a thing for me). Not only was I grossly uncomfortable in the short skirt and the makeup, but the attention at the club was disconcerting, too: Men of all shapes and sizes and colors and ages grinding up against you, touching you wherever your skin was exposed, and in some places where it was not. I left the dance floor a number of times, only to be dragged out again and again, finally by him.

I guess he thought I was "his." One hand on my lower back, pulling me closer, the other steadily pushing other men away. I didn't know you could feel simultaneously thankful (only one guy was grabbing my ass now) and disgusted (someone still has my ass in his hand). He forced a few kisses, too, on my neck and my face and my lips, even as I turned away and tried leaving the floor again.

Blissfully, 2am came and the club closed for the night. Since my female colleague had already left -- no doubt because she was hoping something would happen for his friend, if you know what I mean -- he offered to drive me home. I was already past my curfew, so calling my parents was a no-go... so I accepted.

I don't remember the drive home, only when he dropped me off and how his hand felt on my thigh and the alcohol on his breath as he tried to kiss me again. I got in quite a bit of trouble last night, but I should have known my parents were the least of my concerns.

I avoided him pretty well after that night, only going to the stock room, where the printer paper and ink and all other supplies I needed to do my job were stored, when absolutely necessary and always when I saw him on the floor. Of course, him being occupied by something else didn't stop him from dropping whatever he was doing and pressing me between his body and boxes of merchandise. Cardboard still give me anxiety for the way it feels against my bare hands.

I couldn't say anything, though. He had been working there for several years and I was only a teenager -- an adult in the eyes of the law, yes, but a child in every other aspect. I was terrified that saying anything would cast doubt, get me fired, or worse. So I kept quiet and away as much as possible.

Where it went from "what a gross guy" to "what have I done" was summer of 2003. My workplace was less than a mile from my parents' house, so I often walked to work. One hot July afternoon, as I made my way to work, a car pulled up beside me and he called out, "Do you need a ride?"

It was hot. I had on layers (regular clothes plus my work smock). Things had been relatively calm for the preceding month, so maybe he had changed. Whatever excuse I had, I took him up on the offer and climbed in.

"Oh, I just need to grab something from my apartment." Sure... oh, your apartment is a ways away...

"This might take a second, do you want to come up?" Um... yeah, you have a balcony, I'll just stand there and out of the hot sun.

"Do you want some water?" No, thanks... hey, why are you grabbing my hand...

I remember the layout of his apartment. Not really much inside it, just that a tiny kitchen was immediately to my left, a dining area as you step inside, a living room just beyond that, and a bedroom and attached bath the next left, just past the kitchen.

I remember thinking it weird that he had such a huge mirror over his bed. I still can't look at myself naked in a full-length mirror.

I remember his eyes looking around my entire body as he took away the fun of undressing. Looking up as he took away the fun of oral sex. Looking down to my chest as he took away the fun of penetrative sex. Looking away, not with shame but a grin, after he came and pointed me to the bathroom.

I remember the shower stall was like a black hole. There was a pattern on the tile, but I couldn't make it out past the blurriness welling up in my eyes. I hated that I had to use his soap, had to smell like him the rest of the day. Bar soap. Like he was rubbing himself against me again.

I don't remember much else, a small blessing. I did go to work that day, a hazy, lazy Sunday. The walk home after closing up felt like an eternity as he followed me slowly in his car, his voice echoing my name. I don't remember responding. Or sleeping, or any of the days that followed.

I eventually left that job and that city to attend college almost 500 miles away. I had new friends, went to class, started dating. It was a warm fall evening and I was walking with my boyfriend to the cafeteria for dinner when I heard it: A wolf whistle.

And there he was, down the street, walking towards me with purpose. I guess he thought I was "his."

He had followed me across the length of the state of Florida to find me. There was no social media at the time, no digital means of tracking my movement, but on a campus of almost 25,000 students, he managed to find me.

I don't remember what I said then, either, but my words were harsh, biting. He asked for privacy; I told him no. He asked for another kiss; I told him no. He asked me to take a ride with him; I told him no. He asked me to keep this between us;

I told him no.

Within an hour, campus police knew of his whereabouts and had him escorted off the premises. Still, I locked myself in my dorm for the rest of the evening, told the front desk not to let anyone in without their student ID, and stayed inside, almost cowering, for the rest of the week.

I sought no legal recourse; after all, though they did their job and found him, their reaction when I told them I was being stalked and harassed was far from encouraging. Why would city police believe me.

It's been 15 years since, and while writing this out still spikes my anxiety, I feel these stories need to be told. #MeToo isn't just a social movement, it's personal empowerment, and not only for those who share their personal experiences.

I've shared aspects of my story several times in the last 10 years, after I bucked up the courage to say, "Yes, I've been sexually assaulted." Of course, the story just gets new layers year after year, since some men never learn and insist women are objects and treat them accordingly. My story isn't the only one adding layers, either. But by sharing my experience, I've had several friends and family share theirs with me, too, either publicly or privately.

TIME recently revealed that their photo features an elbow. At first glance, it appears surreptitiously cropped from the rest of the photo, like someone just didn't make the cut, or perhaps a result of sloppy editing. Instead, they reveal it was "an anonymous woman who is a hospital worker who was experiencing harassment and didn't feel that she could come forward."

These are the women helped when we reveal our stories. Who truly benefit from the #MeToo campaign. If those in power (or who, like me, feel confident enough to) share their experiences, we may see the true "trickle down" effect and dole out consequences to other men and justice to those who have suffered at their hands.

Including my rapist. He with a name, he who could be anyone... and he who always has been everyone.