The Poisoned Well

These days, life has reminded me, in a violent way as it always does to me, that struggles like mine never end, that every overcome test is nothing more that the preparation for a bigger test, that every battle won is nothing more that the preamble for a greater battle, more brutal, bloodier.

Life is a hard and unending training.

I say this, because as many that have been or are now in my situation have already discovered, solving in court the problem of the custody of our children is not the end of the war, but the beginning of an incessant sequence of big and small skirmishes, which only purpose is to sabotage the initial victory, to prove that joint custody does not work by making sure that it will not work (and so think the evil ones: if we suspect that our prophecy will not be fulfilled, we will force its fulfillment).

I say this, because in the same fashion of the wars of antiquity, on which and army poisoned the water that would be drunk by the other one, so many people, when they lose the sole custody of their children and see themselves forced to share it with their ex-spouse, from that moment on they commit themselves to provoke, to defy, to make the other parent’s life as miserable as possible.

I say this, because we cannot give up.