I was very surprised to see them as I had not seen or heard from any DSS social worker in a couple of months, so I didn’t even think that we were still involved with DSS. The two women, in deadly serious tones, told me that I had to pack a few things in a bag, and that I and my children would have to go with them to an “undisclosed location.”

After the shock wore off, I believe I burst out laughing.

I felt as if I had just slipped into a “B” spy movie. The two women would not elaborate on their request, but kept adamantly insisting that I leave my home with them. They informed me that I would not be able to contact anybody or allow anyone to know where I was. I kept asking them why they were here, but I didn’t get an answer.

They said that if I didn’t go with them, they would have to consult with their legal department about removing the children. My 16-year old son told them that they were ludicrous and there was absolutely no reason for them to be there. He also told them that our daughter was very close to us and clingy, and that it would deeply traumatize her to take her away from us and her home.

By this time the little one was home from school. She was very frightened and hid behind me. Eventually, I became angry and ordered them off my property, suggesting that they go down to a well-known crack neighborhood where they were needed.

Our daughter was too frightened to go to school the next day. We sat her down and told her that we loved her and would never, ever allow anyone to take her away. The following day they snatched her from her classroom. It was weeks before we saw her again.

It was four months before we were able to get a hearing before a judge in Barnstable Juvenile Court. We had 29 continuances before our case was heard. It was 13 months before our daughter returned to her home.

A Year of Snooping

It had all started the previous spring after my husband spent a night of drinking with a buddy and assaulted me outside of our home. A passerby called 911 on their car phone.

Our children weren’t present or involved, one being away on a trip; and the youngest, our seven-year-old daughter, was asleep in her bedroom at the upstairs back of our large, old captain’s house. It is the practice of the police now to call DSS whenever they are called to a house where underage children reside.

Neither of us minimized or denied the seriousness of the incident, and we immediately took steps to ensure that this would never happen again. I made it clear to my husband that I would not accept a chaotic lifestyle, and he could not remain in the home if he chose to continue drinking. Of his own accord, he entered counseling and became active in AA. He stopped consorting with drinking friends and has not set foot in a bar since that night. I was clear about what I wanted for myself and quite in charge of my own life.

When the young, ditsy (there truly is no other adjective I can use) social worker from DSS showed up, we allowed her in and were civil. I explained clearly that as two intelligent, mature adults we were quite capable of managing our own lives, marriage, and problems. If I needed help, I knew how to dial 911. For several months she kept pushing me to attend “Independence House.” Over and over, I explained in simple language that I did not feel myself to be a battered woman, and I adamantly did not want to go to Independence House.

I am not weak, dependent, nor in need of the government’s services. I was hardly the profile of a dependent, beaten-down, battered woman being controlled by her domineering husband. I explained that my husband didn’t control me, didn’t control my money, and I was free to come and go as I pleased, have whatever friends I chose, and could say or do what I wished. [She wrote down that I was a textbook case of a battered woman “in denial.”]

“Protecting My Abuser”

I explained to her that I had the life of my dreams, was happy and fulfilled, and that, outside of that isolated incident, my husband treated me like a princess. I told her, not that it was any of her business, my husband and I loved each other and were committed to our marriage. [She wrote that I was “protecting my abuser.”] She would complain about her ex-husband (not that I had any interest in hearing) and condescendingly say to me, “I know how you feel. My husband was abusive, too.” I would look at her like she had two heads and tell her that I never said any such thing. I do not feel that way.

When I told her that my husband was very sweet to me and we had a great time together, she gave me a “service plan” on which one of the tasks was to go to Independence House for treatment to help me “lower my denial.” [When I told her I was happy and fulfilled in life, she wrote down that I needed treatment to raise my self-esteem. Anyone who knows me will get a good guffaw from that one!]

If I said I didn’t want to go to Independence House, she reported that as a sign that my husband was controlling and isolating me. She would tell me that we could meet away from my house where I could speak freely, if I could get away without fear of repercussions. I looked at her like she had three heads.

No matter how many times I, or the children, would tell her that we were fine, there was no violence or abuse, we weren’t afraid of my husband, and there was no cause for her to be involved with us, it made no difference. She would continue to write down that the whole family was “in denial,” and we were protecting my husband out of fear.

I attempted to use logic by pointing out to her that our house is on the main street of a quaint, little historical village, across the street from the court house, the fire station, the sheriff’s office, a few doors down from a Senator’s office, and surrounded by antique shops and lawyers’ offices.

There is a thrift shop attached to our house and a realty office. We are highly visible in the community and well liked. No one had ever seen or heard anything amiss. There were no police calls to the house, not so much as a noise complaint. I pointed out that this was not a location where disruption would go unnoticed. It would be impossible to hide. [So she wrote down that there was “ongoing domestic violence.”] It was about this time that I began to feel like Alice going down the rabbit hole.

At that time I was unaware that all the considerable funding to “combat domestic violence” was channeled through DSS. To the tune of $13 million a year.

The DSS social worker brought a “domestic violence expert,” Sue Ash, to my home a couple of times. (What are the qualifications to be a “domestic violence expert”?) I reiterated my story, over and over. I felt like I was being subjected to an inquisition, and was down to reciting name, rank, and serial number. They insisted that I meet them for coffee at a diner. [Maybe I’d crack.] The expert also met Tommy and me together.

She appeared more intelligent than the social worker so I, again, tried reason and logic. I brought to her attention that all their battered women’s literature said that trying to control someone was a form of abuse; as is telling someone what to think, or controlling where they go or who they see; or using the threat to take a woman’s children, or trying to convince a woman that her feelings are wrong. Yet these were all the things that the employees of DSS were doing to me. Evidently, it’s only abusive if done by a husband or partner. I showed her the Independence House motto, which is: “Independence: the Freedom to make your own choices.”

Yet here I was, having all my choices taken away from me and being told that I must feel the way they wanted me to feel. I told Sue Ash that it was up to me to decide how I felt; and if I didn’t feel myself to be controlled, abused, and battered, then I wasn’t. She concluded that I wasn’t a battered woman, there was no danger, and I shouldn’t be forced to go to Independence House.

In an effort to make the DSS worker stop stalking and harassing me, I agreed to go for one intake/assessment appointment to Independence House. The social worker insisted on taking me and waiting. The counselor at Independence House also concurred that I did not need services.

Threatened to Take Children

DSS then threatened to take the children if I did not get a restraining order against my husband. However, they said that I could get a non-vacate restraining order, meaning that he could continue to reside at the house. They harassed me with almost daily calls to get it. I confess that, to this day, I can’t understand the purpose of a non-vacate restraining order. [By a show of hands please, everyone on the planet… does anyone believe that this piece of paper would stop a man in a homicidal rage if he were intent on killing his wife?] Because the issue was so ridiculous, I kept forgetting to walk across the street and get it.

The social worker came to the house one day, unannounced, and insisted on pulling me out of my garden and accompanying me to the court to get it. She waited in her car, with my daughter, while I went in to get it. I remember the day clearly because I felt very awkward being in a courtroom in shorts and flip-flops, covered with garden dirt. I remember the courtroom because it was a small one, rather than the main courtroom, and the judge was not a local man. We talked about fishing worms. I was terribly embarrassed because two court officers were standing behind me and one of them made a comment to the other about, “How could someone come into court dressed like that?”

The other officer replied that, obviously I’d been working in the garden and everyone in town knew us because of the garden restoration.

So, I got the restraining order after explaining to the judge the circumstances, and that I was being forced to get the order against my will. The social worker dropped me and my daughter off at our house. I believed at this point that I had done everything I could possibly do to make DSS happy, without knowing why I should have to do so. My children had never been abused or neglected by any stretch of the imagination, so why was my life being micro-managed by strangers?

Harassment Starts Again

After a few weeks the social worker and supervisor started harassing me again, this time claiming that they had lost their copy of the restraining order and the court couldn’t find it in their files either. I had lost all patience at this point and told them that it wasn’t my problem and to stop harassing me.

They continued to threaten to take the children unless I got another restraining order. Later on, in court hearings and in the DSS case file, they claimed that I had gone into the court building and just pretended to get the restraining order. My husband and I went over to court together to get another one. The judge this time was a village resident, Judge Gerald O’Neil.

When we told the judge that we wanted a restraining order against my husband, he quipped that he’d never had a husband and wife come together to get a restraining order. We said that we were being forced to get it by DSS even though there was no violence in our home, and that neither the children nor I were in fear. Judge O’Neil said that he didn’t like DSS dictating to him in his court room, but if not getting the order would put our family at risk with DSS, then he would issue it. We got a restraining order for one year.

But it didn’t stop them from taking our children. The fact that I had applied for a restraining order helped them. That’s why they wanted it.

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