October 29th, 2026
Thursday
2:24pm
So, we had our day in court.
Of course it was kind of a shit show.
Then again, it was kind of a miracle, there in the end.
Of course my mother brought her handy-dandy little notebook, the one she keeps with all of the dates and times that Justine fucks up in there.
Ya gotta keep track of that shit, ya know?
I think the Judge is finally starting to get a clearer picture of just how the Bonczars treat me when it comes to me being involved in my boys’ lives.
I said, “I have not, in the past year, been allowed, or invited, to go to ONE–doctor’s appointment, parent-teacher conference, special sporting event or practice (like last night–there was a soccer banquet), family event, vacation, or anything else that I can think of.
My mother’s excuse:
“She can find that stuff online.”
Mmmmmmmmmmm….no “she” can’t, Bindi.
They change the practice times all of the time, and I wasn’t told about all of the games, and so I missed some of them. I only was able to go to the ones that the boys remembered to tell me about.
The soccer banquet wasn’t online, parent-teacher conferences and doctor’s appointments aren’t online–what are you even talking about??
So, the Judge did say that he would make it EVEN MORE clear that “shared legal custody” means that I am supposed to be apprised of these things well BEFORE they happen, and not AFTER THE FACT, like they have been doing for the boys’ entire lives.
They said that I had made the boys uncomfortable with my “Uncomfortable Mom Talks.”
I said, “Yeah, that’s why they’re called ‘Uncomfortable Mom Talks,’ and every boy has to have them with every Mom, and I stand by my decisions!”
Hey, okay–when the 12-year old in the next town over tragically and shockingly and horrifically kills himself, and the school in this town is radio-silent about it for the first several days, but all of the students are buzzing about it–I’m sorry but I’mmmmmmmmmmmmmm NOT SORRY, because IT’S TIME for an Uncomfortable Mom Talk!
But guess what that is??
That’s me being like, “Hey, guys, Um….come over here, because I want to hug and kiss on you a lot and tell you that if you ever, like ever feel hopeless to the point that you feel like you want to die, please, please, PLEASEpleasepleaseplease remember how very loved and cherished you are by this family and me and Motorcycle and Jake and Pixie and Tiger and the other Tiger, and on and on and on, like, okay, please??
You know?
And, like, yeah, that might be uncomfortable for a 12-year old boy to absorb, that a boy his age felt that way and did that thing, but I NEED him to know how VERY, VERY much he is LOVED, and CHERISHED, and NEEDED, and WANTED, in this FAMILY that we are, like I never was.
Because I DO know what that feels like–to not belong to your own family.
I have felt that way since I was born, and my Mother reinforces it every single day, just like she did today.
When I asked her, on the stand, if she could remember if ever, in the last 10 years, in the last DECADE, she had CALLED ME to SEE HOW I WAS, ONCE she said, “I don’t know.”
I know.
No, you haven’t.
Not once.
You call other people.
You would rather write down everything I do wrong, and report it to a judge, than tell me what I am actually doing wrong, so that I can fix it.
You would rather disparage me to the entire family, and then have them be surprised and shocked when I show up looking fantastic and fine at family events, like the recent funeral of my Grandfather.
Everyone was shocked to see me.
I know that because they told me that.
“Oh, I didn’t expect you to be here.”
That’s what I heard over and over and over.
Why?
Well, because they EXPECT me to be sticking needles in my arms in a back alley somewhere, probably while doing some disgusting sexual thing they made up in their heads that I never did (I say that because my sister actually told this to me, that I gave men oral sex–which she said in a much more filthy, disgusting way–for drugs, which was news to me, because that has never happened in my lifetime, but that’s what she likes to say about me), and NOT attending my beloved Grandfather’s funeral.
No one was shocked to see my sister, though, who is the ACTUAL alcoholic, who showed up looking bleary-eyed, bloated, and hung-over, at the funeral, which is what alcoholics usually look like.
You know why people WEREN’T surprised to see her?
Because I usually DON’T spend my time making up stories about my family and spreading them around like wildfire, because I think it’s fun to tear people’s lives apart, and lie under oath, in a courtroom, and then laugh about it later, and call it a “bloodbath,” when they’re children get ripped out of their families, because of what I said.
For fun.
For sport.
In my family, it’s a blood sport.
Well, I’ll just continue to tell the fucking truth, and maybe someday it’ll do me some fucking good.
How about that?
