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Archive for August 28th, 2008

Matt Sesow. Supervised Visitation (Oil)

Matt Sesow. Supervised Visitation (Oil)

My first supervised visitation with my girls took place in October 10, 2002. As for many fathers with a trial on child abuse pending, supervised visitations were supposed to be temporary. Also, I thought they would be at my place, in West Harlem, New York City, where I was then living and where my girls used to see me on weekends, from August 1999, after my separation with my ex-wife to May 10, 2002, my last “unsupervised”, normal, encounter with my girls. But normalcy never resumed: my girls said they were uncomfortable to come at my place and sicko ex-wife made sure that they remained so. As some thirty five of these supervised visits had taken place, my best friend from France visited me. When he saw their bikes, their scooters, their dolls that populated the room where they slept, he told me that I could not keep staying in this “museum of early childhood.” They had move on, they were no toddlers anymore – they certainly were into Shakira, Harry Potter, smart phones- and so should I. But even if I wanted, it was not in my hands. Supervised visitations is a dead-end unless the family Court, the supervising agency, the law guardian do keep mother’s nocuous brainwashing from poisoning the so-called transition. The truth is that these folks do not have the will to so so. Some forty supervised visitations after, including therapeutic visitations and supervised visitations by my girlfriend (!) , I was behind the starting point. My girls were hostile to me, Judge Sturm and… my girlfriend .

When I think about it, I should not even have accepted the first one. On principle. Fathers accused of child abuse, rightly or wrongly, are the only suspects who do time before a court decision is reached. Supervised visitations might be conceivable for somebody who has been proved to be dangerous, not for somebody who is presumed to be innocent. I guess I coped because I was not accustomed to have two cops knocking at my door with an order of protection. After that, the Swedish-Olof Palme syndrome kicks in: you do what your torturer – the justice system- wants you to do to please him…

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