I don’t believe in coincidences.

Wise words from a wise man greeted me this morning as I rolled into one of my favorite coffee shops to write. I’ve wanted to restart the blog for a few months, but I’ve struggled mightily with how, exactly, to do so. So much has happened that catching you up on the last year-and-change would take several thousand words that, truthfully, I don’t care to write; the story of my grief and pain is the story of other people. But then, yesterday, I received messages from two friends from entirely different spheres of my old life. Their messages were very different, but, as I read them, I realized both were asking me, essentially, the same questions.

How did you survive it?

One had already survived it herself, but the other asked

Do you think I can survive it?

Tell me how to do it.

And, suddenly, I knew what to write.

No coincidences.

They are far from the first women to ask me those questions, but, before, I never knew quite what to say – I hadn’t yet healed enough to figure out how to incorporate tragedy and grief into my life story. And, frankly, it’s an extremely weird and dramatic story. I went from serving on the Board of the Junior League in Shreveport to living as a lesbian in New Orleans. That’s a hell of a story.

It’s mine. And I’m going to tell it.

Not all at once, of course – if you came here hoping to read a comprehensive document containing every last drop of tea, you will be disappointed. Number one, my story is about rising from the dead, not the events and people who put me in the grave and then danced upon it. Number two, although I own my whole life story (and there are more than a few people experiencing intense nausea, heartburn and anxiety right now at the thought of me telling it, specifically their parts in it), the story of my divorce and recovery from it is inextricably tied to those of my children. Harper and Truman are 13 and 9 now, and Harper is on the Internet to some extent. Let me be perfectly clear about this: There are parts of the story I will never write, not even to defend myself in the court of public opinion, because to do so would violate my children’s privacy. I have nothing to be ashamed of where my divorce and custody case are concerned.

Many other adults do, and I will not hesitate to name names and post receipts when and where it’s appropriate. Please refrain from wasting either of our time by issuing impotent threats containing the words “libel” and “slander”; I know what both mean, AND I live with an attorney. The absolute defense for slander is the truth, and, thus, everything I write about others will be provably true unless I clearly state it’s an opinion, and, for the moment, at least, the First Amendment is still in effect in the U.S. In short, if you have the immense privilege of making a cameo here and you don’t like it, a) you should’ve behaved better and b) take it up with your attorney.

I’ve said it hundreds of times, but what happened to me was beyond my worst nightmares. Charlotte and I started dating soon after everything went down, so I cried in her arms a lot. I used to sob, “I know I’m luckier than lots of other people. My children are still alive. There’s still hope.” Finally, in frustration (and Charlotte does not frustrate easily), she said, “But it’s not the same. If your kids had died, everyone in your community would be rallied around you. They’d be showing up for you in ways you can’t even imagine and propping you up when you can’t stand on your own. Everyone would know, and most people would understand that you’re grieving. But this is different. He lied, publicly humiliated you, metaphorically slapped you with a scarlet letter and made you a pariah in your own hometown. You can’t even talk about it publicly for legal reasons, you have former family members literally rooting for your downfall, and, at the same time, everyone expects you to prove yourself. It is not the same.”

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, here is the shortest possible version of events: My ex-husband began abusing prescription drugs sometime after 2016 (as far as I know). Based on one of the kids’ therapist’s notes, I believe he began planning to divorce me in early 2022. In May of that year, we experienced a family crisis for which he blamed me entirely. We decided then to divorce. About a month later, he left Truman and me at our former home and took Harper with him. A few days later, in what my attorney said was a custody grab and a way to avoid accountability for his drug abuse, he filed a fraudulent petition for a temporary restraining order against me that included both children and himself; in it, he falsely accused me of abusing Harper and said they all had reason to fear for their physical safety. A few days later, he withdrew it, but the judge in our case nevertheless dismissed his petition with prejudice. The Department of Children & Family Services (DCFS) in Caddo Parish determined the abuse allegations against me were invalid. It’s obvious why I decided to move to New Orleans, and I did so in July 2023. My ex-husband has domiciliary custody of both kids, but we share joint custody of them and have since the day he left me in June of 2022. Though far from perfect (from my perspective), our custody situation works well for me at the moment.

Anxiety has plagued me from my very earliest memories. I have no difficulty whatsoever imagining worst-case scenarios, but I’ll admit I never saw it coming. I got knocked flat on my ass and then sucker-punched in both tits. Actually, no, that’s not true; that makes it sound funny and cute. I died – I’m struggling to describe it beyond that. Every belief I had about everything important – myself, my kids, my motherhood, my family, my friends, my marriage, my religion, my morals, my ambitions, my talent, my place in the world, my beliefs, not to mention my sexuality – everything, literally everything, was, all at once, an open question that I had to figure out how to answer while trying to process the most intense grief and trauma I ever hope to experience. Meanwhile, my ex-husband, the court and all our former family expected me to somehow prove I’m not a child abuser – how do you prove a negative? – as if they all didn’t just spend the previous 12 years complimenting what a wonderful mother and wife I was, saying how devoted I was to my children, husband and home (and benefitting from thousands of hours of unpaid domestic labor).

So how did I do it?

Well, the thing about the worst happening to you is that, after that, you have nothing to fear.

Hyperbole is an essential component of my personality, but I’m not bragging or exaggerating when I say I’m not scared of anything anymore. Every single one of my worst fears happened.

–Losing my kids: check.
–Losing my spouse, the person I thought was my best friend: check.
–Losing (what I thought was) our happy little family: check.
–Coming out as gay and my friends and family heading for the exits: check.
–Having to deal with the death of a pet alone: check (Cassidy, the Guinea pig).
–Losing Steve (my Boston Terrier): check. I had to re-home him when I moved. He’s doing great; he went to live with an older woman who dotes on him.
–Being hopelessly, desperately poor: check.

Now, don’t misunderstand: I’m not saying things can’t suddenly go downhill and somehow get worse than ever before, but now I know I can get through it. Like, I know. The night after Caddo Parish Sheriff’s deputies took Truman away from me and the only home he’d ever known, I literally did not know if I would survive it. I can’t really tell you how I did it except a decision every single day to simply do one day more. One day more. One day more. Well, that and pettiness.

A few days after he took Harper and left, my ex-husband and I were arguing via text, and I said something like, “You’re trying to isolate me because you’re hoping I’ll commit suicide,” and he replied, “If I wanted you to kill yourself, I would pursue full custody of Truman, too.” Couple days later, there were cops on my doorstep holding a restraining order and asking for the boy. Message received. Well, I hope by now you know the Kelly Phelan answer to that.

To the extent I have anything to say about the matter, I’ll be damned if I let that man outlive me.

Caitlin Seida was right: Hope isn’t a bird, it’s a sewer rat. Big surprise, sewer rats shit the bed, both literally and figuratively. Many days, maybe most days, I woke up with hope nowhere to be found, and then I had two choices: die or find something else to get me through the day. Quit ridin’ the bench, Pettiness, and suit up. You’re in the game.

The other thing that helped me get through may surprise you a little: I remember every single person who checked on me during that time. Even though I often (read: usually) didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to return their calls, texts and messages, the people who checked in on me saved my life several times over. There were days upon days when I would break down and sob hopelessly at the thought that I’d lost my family, but I remembered there was this little list of people who cared. Not all of them are close friends or anything, but they formed this group I guess I thought of as People Who Care If I Live or Die, and, at times, they felt like all I had. Checking on me probably seemed pretty insignificant to some of them at the time, but sometimes, it was everything.

And then there’s sweet Charlotte, still among my very most steadfast family. We live together happily in New Orleans, although the nature of our relationship has changed, and we’re now best friends and roommates. She’s one of the few people who had a front-row seat to my pain, and she bravely and lovingly faced it with me when I couldn’t do it by myself. She deserves her own novel about selfless love and friendship.

I have no advice, but here’s what I would go back in time and tell 2022 Kelly, the poor little sucker.

–Call an attorney the moment you decide to divorce. There’s no reason to wait. Both custody-wise and financially, she can tell you where you have exposure and what to do about it.
–Get your finances in order, and, if you don’t have one, get a job as soon as possible.
–Always, always, always hold your cards close to your vest. You owe absolutely NOTHING to anyone other than your kids.
–Begin getting your house in shape to sell, even if you’re not yet sure you’re going to sell it. There is literally no downside to this. You don’t have to start repainting or anything, but start making all those repairs you’ve been putting off.
–Don’t bother trying to tell anyone your side of the story; if you’re a woman, they won’t believe you anyway. In six months, one of you will have an incredible glow-up while the other ages 15 years. Sooner or later, it will be obvious to EVERYONE – and I do mean EVERYONE – which one of you was the problem.

Here’s the other thing I’ll tell you: If I could’ve somehow seen the life that awaited me on the other side of that enormous gulf of grief and strife, it would have propelled me through it. My life now is entirely different. I’m not sure it’s happier, but it’s richer. More vibrant and authentic. To use a clothing metaphor (who, me?), it’s not just that it feels better, it actually fits better and allows me to do more than I ever thought possible.

You’ve got this, but I’ll be glad to hold the flashlight for you.