Divorcing a narcissistic abuser is a war fought on multiple fronts.
The stakes are high, the resources few, and the enemy is everywhere —
sometimes even in your own camp.
I went to file the motion —
three printed copies in my hand —
and I slipped into court unseen,
by all except the clerk
who told the judge:
“It’s an emergency travel order for the next case.”
Betrayal hit before I’d even fired a shot —
friendly fire ripping into my flank.
My lawyer abandoned his side,
refused to go into battle,
left me alone.
Worse than alone —
he betrayed my position to the enemy.
He called me a bad soldier for ignoring his orders.
Damn right.
I will not lay one child on the altar of this court,
just to free the other three.
He sulked.
Failed in his duty of care.
Didn’t bring the reinforcements —
the emergency motion — to the front.
Left me exposed.
But not defenseless.
Then my lawyer said,
“We cannot advance on this front today.
No battle plans.
No intelligence reports.
No orders from command.
I have no coordinates,
no operational direction.
I cannot engage on behalf of my unit.
Apologies, Your Honor.”
My lawyer opened fire at the judge:
“Lack of direction.
Poor communication.
Conflicts with counsel.”
The judge turned,
steady aim,
and returned fire:
“You do realise your client is sat in court?”
Direct hit.
On my own lawyer.
My lawyer tried again:
“No information. Poor communication.”
Lies.
I had every briefing sent.
Every intel report forwarded.
He just didn’t like the orders.
I spoke up gently.
“Your Honour… I have everything here.”
The summons came without warning.
The judge called me to the very front line.
My lawyer sniped, “Enter the chaos.”
I had no briefing.
I had no strategy.
I was just shoved — defenseless — into the killing field of the court.
Words scattered from my head like
maps and orders torn from my hands.
I staggered.
Shrapnel of doubt rattled in my chest.
But I’ve fought this war too long to fall now.
The fog of war lifted.
I knew this battlefield.
Every inch.
Every trench.
Every mine in the ground.
Every strand of razor wire laid before me.
I know this enemy well.
I’ve lived under the tyrannical wrath.
I’ve lived under the unrelenting siege of the enemy.
Because divorcing a narcissist who is an abuser
is like fighting a war on multiple fronts at the same time.
You have limited resources.
You are outgunned.
And usually… outmanoeuvred.
Eight months of planning,
eight months of begging my so-called commander to move.
Eight months of him refusing.
But I had prepared for this.
I’d stockpiled the ammunition:
friends behind me as a shield,
my dossier of exhibits loaded with bullet points of facts.
I stepped forward.
“Your honor, I have it all here. I came this morning to file for an order for an emergency travel consent.”
The judge pulled me front and center.
I was calm.
Still.
Focused.
The enemy —
they couldn’t rock me.
They didn’t shake me.
They didn’t make me react.
I opened my war chest:
Travel itineraries.
Safety protocols.
Medical clearance.
Police arrest records.
Bail conditions for child assault.
Threats of death and harm.
Motions. Exhibits. Cover letters. Orders ready for signature.
Even the father’s own affidavit admitting estrangement.
The enemy made his move and launched a counterattack —
fired off salvos of self-harm, suicide, PTSD.
I cut them down one by one:
He’s not in the home.
She’s completed treatment.
PTSD? Wrong child.
No diagnosis without a pediatric psychiatrist.
Pediatrician says she’s fit to fly.
And he’s already agreed to a nine-month overseas deployment before.
They tried to flank me through her brother.
And the judge shot back: “Is he on overseas deployment with his sister?”
Radio silence from the Zoom calls.
My lawyer laughed over the comms:
“Apologies, Your Honor, my soldier doesn’t know how to negotiate a ceasefire.”
The judge reloaded: “These are two separate battlefronts.
They cannot be fought on the same field at the same time.”
The father’s lawyer requested permission to enter the field.
The judge slammed the gates: “Access denied.”
Another combatant attempted to breach the line.
Shot down before they could advance.
The father stumbled forward:
“I’d love for my daughter to go. Nothing would make me happier…”
Yet his pen had been idle for eight months.
Then he fired wildly —
“My son doesn’t want to go home.
He often says he doesn’t want to live with his mother.”
His own lawyer moved to muzzle him.
Too late.
The judge raised his pen.
Was going to force the father to sign.
Paused.
Changed aim.
One clean shot:
Granted consent himself.
The father had no say.
Overruled.
Stripped of his weapon.
The twist of the knife —
the motion was his own.
The judge used his filing to shoot him down.
The pen is mightier than the sword —
and it cut deep today.
On the battle of rights of visitation,
the judge asked about terms of engagement.
My lawyer lied again.
I cut across him —
bayonet between the ribs:
“I agreed to once-a-week supervised visits — not at his house, not overnight — until the reports are back from independent committees.
The safety of key personnel in war is not negotiable.”
The judge gave the order: “Stand down — no rush.”
Operation adjourned for five weeks.
I did not retreat from the battlefield.
I blew it up.
And when the smoke cleared,
I was still standing.
In the war of divorce,
as generals, we usually say what we want to happen,
then sit back and let the commanders — the lawyers on the ground — lead the fight.
They know the war.
They fight it every day.
But this is not a game.
The stakes are high.
The war is not over — not by far.
It’s going to be a war of attrition — one I live, I fight, I feed, I breathe, I dream.
But I got this.
Because today,
I destroyed everyone in battle.
Even my own counsel.
