I read a book. A book about a father who is suddenly –by the mother– refused the right to be with his two children, and what follows has me frustrated to pieces.
One reason for my frustration is that I have two friends who’ve gone through more or less the same thing, where the system(s) just seems totally inadequate and incapable of actually doing what the Swedish systems claim to do: Put the welfare of the children first. This is (supposed to be) valid for the school system, the social services, the police, the courts, all of the Swedish systems put in place to serve its citizens.
When I read the last page, I grabbed my computer and started to write. And was surprised at what I wrote, because it wasn’t the frustration from witnessing my two friends getting stuck in the quagmire of custody hearings, meetings with the schools and the social services, and what not that started to pour out…
No. What came out was my own frustration from my experiences of an adoption process, taking place in 2008-2009, when my second husband adopted my firstborn, with the blessing of the biological father, my first husband.
It surprised me. I wasn’t aware that this is at the root of why I am drawn to try to aid my friends, or really, anyone, getting caught and entwined in the barbed wire of the system. Because it can truly be detrimental. And I don’t see that it’s actually benefitting anyone.
So once more, putting fingers to keyboard informs me, greatly. I see me. Discover more, of me. Pieces hidden. Forgotten. Deliberately shunned. And… perhaps also pieces of me that are so brand-new, they are like a minuscule fetus, well-protected deep within the flesh of my body, my psyche, my being?
(The book’s in Swedish, and the post as well, but I might translate it. If you want to read it?)