A Court Date, A DCFS Case, And A Cry For Help

"Do you know what makes you special, in a different way than the baby in mommy's tummy?" The Guy asked The Boy Child as he pulled him onto his lap.

"I'm better at building with Legos" The Boy Child replied, apparently confident in his six-year-old understanding of how the world works.

"Well, yes" The Guy replied, trying not to laugh, before asking "but do you know what makes me love you so much?"

"Because I'm your best buddy!" The Boy Child exclaimed, throwing his arms around The Guy's neck.

Hugging him back, The Guy explained "yes you are! You are my buddy, and what makes you so special to me, is that your brother is being born into our family, but I picked you to be mine. I met you, and I took a good long look at everything that makes you who you are, and I said to myself  'I want to be his daddy, because that's how much I love him.' Forever, and ever, and ever, you're mine, because out of all the little boys in the whole wide world, I picked you."

With The Boy Child in is arms, The Guy is showing him how to hold his candle during the Christmas church service.

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A couple weeks before Christmas, The Boy Child was injured, intentionally, by a respite care worker we had hired to keep him safe. And due to a pending investigation of her, I can't go into details, but this woman had worked for us for a couple months, had gone through a background check, interview, drug test, and CPR class, all through a respite care agency. Yet still, she harbored an anger streak that none of us knew about.

I'm Not There Anymore

It’s 6:30am. My husband just left for work, and the kids are sleeping. It’s been raining on and off, so it’s still dark out, and the cars driving on the road outside, are making a whizzing noise on the wet pavement as people rush off to work. A chill hangs in the air and fog has settled so thick outside, that I can’t see the cornfields right outside my front door. It’s exactly the kind of morning where you pull the covers up under your chin and relish the last few minutes you have before your alarm goes off, but I can’t sleep.

It actually feels a lot like the night several years ago when I found myself in bed, opening my laptop, and starting this blog.

I woke up this morning crying, and I’m not sure why. Tears clung to my cheeks as the pillowcase clung to my face, and my nose was running. Maybe I had been dreaming, but the more likely scenario is that even in sleep, I’m still decompressing from the events of yesterday.

On Going To Court This Week, Pregnant

Not long ago, The Guy, the kids, and I were in the car. I can’t remember what we were talking about, but at some point I looked into the backseat, and saw that The Girl Child’s eyes were welling up with tears. When I asked her what was wrong, she didn’t answer me. Confused, The Guy repeated my question, and her response to him caught me completely off guard.

“You’re not my real daddy!”

She was visibly upset and by the quiver in her voice as well as the emotion packed behind her words, it was clear that her statement was something that she had been thinking about for a very long time.

Not wanting to jump the wrong way in the conversation, I asked her what she meant by that, and she surprised me with the simplicity of her answer.

I Don't Want My Ex To Move Back Into My House

Well, to jump right into it, last week’s post stuck with me more than I was expecting. (If you haven’t read it yet, I’d suggest doing that before you continue on, but for the TL;DR, I've found my feelings of anger towards my ex, reignited as I watch The Guy with my children.)

Anyway, it’s been interesting for me to reflect on last week’s post. Although I stand-by everything I said in terms of not letting my negative emotions consume me, as with any source of anxiety, sometimes it takes a while to figure out where it stems from.

Then sometimes, you figure it out and it just clicks.

I was married to my ex for twice the time that I’ve been divorced, and although I hate to admit it, I still feel more like the wife that was left behind by her first husband, than the wife I am now. 

I Got Into A Physical Fight With My New Husband

I woke up kicking him and shoving him away from me.

“Eden, it’s me! It’s just me, and you’re safe. You are safe, wake up!”

The voice, it sounded familiar.

It was Friday night, or rather, now early Saturday morning. The Guy and I were unwinding after the kids had gone to bed, by watching a movie and having a drink. We weren’t drinking excessively — not even close — but I was tired, and so was he, and at some point we had both fallen asleep in a pile of pillows that we had been using to cushion the floor; which was a much better option than our ridiculously uncomfortable sofa.

When the TV shut itself off and The Guy awoke just after 2am and realized what time it was, he gently shook me by the shoulders and tried to wake me up so that we could both make our way upstairs, and into a bed that would be much kinder to our backs than the floor was.

But my back was already screaming in pain, and I was disoriented just enough by the darkness of the room, my position on the floor, and a man leaning over me, that my half asleep, wine relaxed brain, didn’t immediately piece the entire scenario together.

Instead, it pulled what little information it knew, and it flashed me back to a time when I was 19, and I found myself groggy, in the dark, in pain, and with my ex-husband pushing my shoulders down into his futon.

And right then and there I "realized" that I was about to be raped again.

So I fought.

There's Something I Need To Tell You (Part Two)

If you haven't read Part One of this post, I highly, highly suggest clicking here and doing so first, as this is the second half of a story that really needs the first half in order to make sense!

If that just seems like much too much work, the super quick synopsis is that shortly after my ex left, another man came into my life and "married" me in a wedding that was not even legal.

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A week later, after he had “married" me, he moved in; something that he had wanted to do for a really long time, and something that I had been very resistant to since we hadn't been married. Yet upon his arrival as my co-dweller, to my horror, he proclaimed that he wouldn’t be paying any bills, or helping to clean (since it was my house and not his), that I would be doing most of the cooking since I was his wife, and that although he was excited to start working on fathering another "genetic offspring," that he would no longer be helping to raise my kids since they weren't his.

And I, maybe for the first time, truly found my voice, when I put my foot down and said “no.”

The next night, while I was at work, I got a call from my babysitter who was concerned because The Helper was “moving a lot of stuff out of your house.” I raced home to find him loading his car with not only his belongings, but also mine, my children’s, and the wedding gifts that we had received the week before.

I fell to the grass on my knees and begged him not to go.

It’s one of the most shameful moments of my life, and one that haunted my dreams for years to come; the moment I graveled at the feet of the man who had been scamming me.

There's Something I Need To Tell You

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“Um… hey. So I know this is a weird question but do you know a good divorce attorney? Did you like whoever you used?” was basically the Facebook message that I was sending a former friend’s, former boyfriend.

I say “former friend,” because life had been drifting us apart until new babies and new jobs had widened the gap far enough, that although on good terms, we hadn’t spoken in several years. And I say former boyfriend because he was her ex.

He was also the only divorced person I knew at the time, and my ex had just left.

Messaging me back only a few minutes later to ask what was going on, I was fairly brief but blunt about my situation, and what came next was what I can only describe as “overwhelmingly helpful.”

Within an hour he had set up consultations with several local attorneys, given me instructions on how to freeze my bank account, and offered to come over and talk me through a plan.

At this point my parents were the only other people who knew that my ex had left a week prior, and they weren’t too keen on doing anything other than waiting around to see if he came back. But I knew that not only was this my chance to finally “escape,"  but that I couldn’t wait any longer after some things that I had found out shortly after my ex left… and everything he had done that had led us to this point.

I needed to be free, but I was completely falling apart, and a week after my ex had left, I still had absolutely no idea what my first steps should be.

But this guy, “the Helper” if you will, well he knew exactly how to take care of the situation, and he wasn’t shy about stepping in to “help.” Repeatedly asking me if he could come over, calling me every hour to see how I was doing, and messaging me more information than I knew how to handle, it left me feeling both smothered and relieved at the same time.

I didn’t trust myself to do anything right after I had spent so many years living life where every decision that I had made turned out to be wrong, and suddenly when I was the most lost that I had ever been, here was someone who seemed to know what he was doing, and was going to make sure that this time, I was going to do everything “right.”

Looking back, I can see exactly what was going on, but back then, I was just too unaware. So when the Helper kept asking me if he could come over so we could talk about this in person, I said no as many times as I could before he eventually wore me down and I said “yes.” And when he offered to take a few days off work to watch my kids so that I could get some appointments lined up with social services and handle things with the bank, I said “yes” again, because I had no other help.

Several months later and before I even knew what was happening, the Helper had become completely ingrained into every single aspect of my life. He would come to my house directly after work, and sometimes stay through the weekend. If I had something come up and needed a babysitter, he would take the day off work. If I was tired and the baby was fussy, he would run errands for me so that I didn’t need to go. If something in the house needed fixing, he made it a priority to work on it in his very next free second.

But even though I was drowning in life, I spent most of that time attempting to resist his insisting assistance, yet I always gave in at the end because I was too tired to fight every battle that life seemed to keep throwing at me, and in all honesty, I did need the help. And at night when the sun went down and the lights went out, he would fill the room with his promises for our future, and the reasons why no one else had ever deserved me like he did.

Yet I never wavered from the fact that I did not want to date him.

No, I had repeatedly told him that I was not ready to date so quickly after my husband's departure, and that I was only looking for a friendship. And while I remained firm on my end, I could tell that to him, we just weren’t there “yet.”

The Most Shocking Post I've Ever Written

A few weeks ago I was at the YMCA gym, working hard to tone my butt on the ARC trainer (because why not), and thinking about how nervous I was that it was the first time that my now eight-year-old daughter wasn’t in the kid’s area of the YMCA childcare center. I was nervous as all get-out to have her move up with the older kids (overprotective much?), but she was nothing short of EXCITED.

In fact, the only reason we were at the gym that night was because she had begged me to take her. She knew that in the “big kids room” there was a large TV with bean bag chair viewing, a ping pong table, computers, arts and crafts, and the most fun part to her, was that the kids could check out tablets to play games on.

So, after hearing her beg, whine, and plead for several days on end, we made our way to the YMCA so that she could finally experience the Disneyland version of YMCA childcare; big kid style.

Sweating to death on the ARC trainer, I cursed the timer that seemed to be moving incredibly slow, and then found myself looking around the gym to see if anyone else appeared to be feeling the same level of physical fitness failure that I seemed to be suffering from that night. But what caught my eye was not some random person falling off of a stair climber, but rather the face of my daughter who was standing in the hallway.

She was crying

Well, crying would be putting it mildly, because she was actually at the point where she was hyperventilating. I jumped off the ARC trainer mid stride, and when I met her in the hallway she threw her arms around me and buried her tear streaked face into my side.

When she had calmed down enough for me to talk to the childcare worker who was with her, the story unfolded that when she tried to check out a tablet, she realized that she didn’t have her ID card with her. A childcare worker volunteered to take her to find me so she could get her card, and off they went, to the “gym” where I had said I was going.

But, I wasn’t technically in the gym, I was in the fitness center.

When she didn’t find me in the actual gym, she decided that I must be in a dance class, so they looked there. When I wasn’t there, they checked the spin class, locker rooms, bathroom, and then made their way back to the gym. The track in the gym runs around the enclosed basketball courts, and because of that you can’t see the entire track from the door. So I guess, as the story goes, she thought that I must just be where she couldn’t see me and she started to walk around the track. When she still didn’t see me, she panicked, and before the childcare worker knew what was going on, my tiny eight-year-old girl, wearing braces on her legs and with panic in her heart, started running around the track crying and calling out for me.

When the childcare worker managed to get her off of the track, she told her “my daddy left me, and now my mommy left me too.”

Hearing that CRUSHED me, because it made me realize that after four and a half years, countless hours of trauma therapy, and all the reassurance in the world that I would never leave her, she still harbors the realization that parents aren’t always permanent, and love is not always unconditional.

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On Friday morning I went to court for the dramatic situation that is the unpaid child support that I am owed. Not to beat a dead horse here, but as a SUPER quick recap (click here for the full story) I will remind you that my ex owes me a great deal of money in unpaid support, and after many, many court dates, was finally found guilty in court, and was sentenced to jail. Then the judge decided that jail was too harsh and he would give my ex time to pay me half of what I was owed, in order stay out of jail. My ex said he could pay it in 60 days, and the judge said he would give him 90 days, but here we were, over 90 days later and he still had not paid me.

Per the judge’s order of “Mr. Strong, if you don’t show up with a check you had better show up with a toothbrush,” Mr. Attorney Man assured me that we had a decent shot at my ex being thrown in jail.

Feelings Are Not Facts

I was waiting for him to come back inside after taking the dog out, and I was starting to get impatient. I had already gotten the pizza out of the oven, I had the movie ready to go and placed on pause, and he had been outside for at least 15 minutes.

Finally, I hauled myself off the couch, peeked out the window, and just around the corner — almost out of my sight but not completely — I could see my husband smoking.

I knew he was smoking again!

For weeks I had been asking him why he smelled like smoke, why I could taste it on his breath, and why he was spending so much time outside. I had repeatedly and outright said "I know you started smoking again," but as usual he would just tell me that I was crazy.

Even when I found a pack of cigarettes in his pockets as I was getting ready to throw his pants in the laundry, he still held steadfast to the story that they weren't his.

When nicotine showed up on his life insurance blood test and caused his rate to skyrocket, he emailed me some crazy article written by some crazy doctor about false positive nicotine tests.

And when I walked into his work and saw him standing there with a lit cigarette between his fingers, he went above and beyond to "assure" me that he was just holding it for a co-worker who was in the bathroom.

It was absolutely maddening. 

Not because I cared if he were smoking or not (hey, if he wanted to die faster, I was not going to try and stop him), but it was maddening because of how easily he was lying to me. It didn't bother him a bit and it scared me to think about everything else that might be lying about (and oh boy, as I learned later, it was a lot!)

But then that night, with the movie on pause and a pizza quickly getting cold, I finally saw with my own two eyes that he was indeed, actually smoking. From roughly 25 feet away I watched as he went through the cycles of lifting the cigarette to his lips, inhaling, and then exhaling smoke into the crisp night air.

Validation.

I'd Like To Officially Welcome My Parents And My Extended Family To My Readership Base (Yep, they are here)

So…. I’ve gotten a lot of emails asking me how the party went for my grandmother. You guys remember what I’m talking about, right? The 90th birthday party that was being thrown for my grandmother, the one I wanted to attend because I wanted to be there for her, but it was going to be incredibly awkward because I hadn’t seen much of my family in years?

Well, I didn’t go.

I was planning to go, but I literally couldn’t go because I was uninvited and told not to come.

Yep, that happened.

Why did that happen you may ask?

Because just days before the party, my family found this blog.

Yep, that happened too.

*GASP*

I know.

My Friend Was Murdered

My friend was murdered last week.

I'm in complete shock.

Several years ago my friend's husband died of a drug overdose, leaving her as a single mother to her young son. Looking back, her situation reminds me very much of the one I was in, except that in the end, my drug addicted husband left, and her's died. I always thought mine would die.

Not long after he died, she met someone and got pregnant. She was so happy — that is until her new boyfriend hit her. So while still pregnant, she left him.

I took care of her son on the day the baby was born. I'll never forget him asking me every five minutes to call his mom and see if his sibling was born yet.

My friend had a little girl and thus became a single mother to two children without fathers.

My friend changed her life. She recognized the pattern she was in and she decided to put an end to it. She became an advocate for taking charge of your life and an ambassador of self-respect; a loud, outspoken, caring woman who spent her time teaching teenagers that you create the life you want to lead, and that you are worth more than the people who try to bring you down.

She lived for others and exuded everything that I've always aspired to be.

Last year, 9 years after her 1st husband died, 8 years after she left her abusive boyfriend and gave birth to her daughter, she got married. She thought she had found the life she was always looking for; the same life that so many single mothers and DV survivors hope to one day find. She had a complete family and she was thrilled.

But then just a couple months later, she was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.

Not one to back down from a challenge, she kicked cancer's ass.

Two weeks after getting a clean bill of health, last week, her brand new husband, her chance at a fresh start, murdered her.

I Didn't Even See It Coming

Two days after a catastrophic break-up with my boyfriend of two years, I wandered into a pet store looking to purchase a larger cage for the bunny my now ex-boyfriend had bought me for my birthday.

I asked to speak with the manager, telling the store employee that I was in need of a larger cage and that I expected them to deduct the price of the smaller cage I had already purchased, a cage that I had been talked into buying only a month before, a cage that the employee should have known would be way too small.

The manager came out, I argued my case, he offered me a job, and then I asked him out on a date.

It was the chance meeting of a lifetime, the chance meeting that changed my lifetime.

It was an explosive combination of a girl with daddy issues and a guy with an affinity for underage girls.

It was the night I met my ex.

On our first date he asked if our age difference bothered me, if I was ok with the fact that when I had been in fifth grade, he was already in his second year of college. He wanted to know if I was ok that now, being barely out of high school, he had been living in his own apartment for 8 years.

I thought about what he said, but only momentarily because he was quick to tell me how much he admired me. To tell me that he knew I had lived so much in my short lifetime that I had the maturity it took to be with someone nearly a decade older than myself.

He told me that he knew I was mature enough to handle all of this. 

I, being too young to see what was going on, felt very "adult-like" under the praises he was bestowing upon me. I thought that maybe for the first time, someone really saw me.

I look back now and realize I was being groomed.

The Perfect Victim

Did you know that according to Popular Science, roughly 5% of women who are raped experience an orgasm during the assault? And that’s actually a pretty low statistic because I’ve read other studies that that statistic at a much higher percentage.

I personally know for a fact that it does happen simply because I've worked with some very confused women in my groups that have suffered through that experience. These women have had a really difficult time being able to deal with the trauma of their assault, due to the confusion that comes along with experiencing what is usually perceived to be a pleasurable thing during such a traumatic experience.

These women typically take longer to move past their trauma because they are even more unsure of the roll they played in the situation than the women that didn’t orgasm. Even in the most violent of attacks, the cases that 99% of society would call a "clear cut rape case," if that women experienced an orgasm during the attack there is a high probability that she will carry more shame about the attack than if she didn't orgasm and the rape was less clearly defined.

That right there is incredibly sad because studies have proven that an orgasm during rape is due to the brain confusing the adrenaline rush of fear with the adrenaline rush of pleasure, and when you add in the fact that there is manual nerve stimulation taking place, sometimes the body just does what it’s designed to do regardless of what we want it to do.

So if a woman has an orgasm during a rape event, does that make her any less of a victim? Does that make her trauma any less real?

The New Government Conspiracy

After nearly two decades of hard drug use, my ex's brain started to cook. I feel fairly confident in giving him that medical diagnosis despite the fact that I myself have never personally attended medical school, simply based on the fact that I was around him long enough to watch his brains actually start to cook.

(I also feel like I'm semi-qualified to diagnose people with various ailments because I've watched enough Discovery Health Channel that I'm basically a doctor now.)

So what does it look like when someones brains start to fry?

Think schizophrenia brought on by drug addiction.

When the delusions brought on by his drug use started to interfere with his everyday life, my quasi-medical school degree clued me into the fact that his brain was cooking. When no one around him was able to verify that what he was seeing was real, he did the most logical thing that someone in his position would do and he saw a doctor  stopped using drugs  did anything logical at all  decided that the rest of the human race was in on a giant conspiracy theory and he was the one we were out to get.

Yep, fun times.

**I feel like I should add in a disclaimer that I myself eventually made an appointment with a doctor who specializes in addictions to make sure that my ex didn't have an untreated mental illness, and the doctor agreed that it was most likely "just" the drugs.**

Abuse aside, living with someone who is paranoid 100% of the time is really freaking hard. I was the target of many of his conspiracy theories and as his brain continued to cook itself (I'm deeming that an actual medical term based upon the fact that I've watched like 30 TV marathons of "Mystery Diagnosis" and as I said, I'm pretty much a doctor now), he even progressed into sleepwalking.

The Chicken And The Egg Theory (If You Push Her, You Will Break Her)

As you know, I work with a lot of abused women. At this point I would say that the hours I dedicate to my girls add up to being another full time job outside of the work I do with the nonprofit. I can't even begin to tell you how many hours I've spent running support groups, giving presentations to the community, sitting through court hearings with women who need nothing more than a supportive friend, meeting with women who need help navigating the public aid benefits system, answering late night phone calls that run into the early hours of the morning, and more.

What takes the most time though?

Just listening to them.

And it's hard.

It's really hard.

Abused women have a method of thinking that is very distinctive to the life that they have lived. Typically when I first become involved with them they are fresh out of an abusive situation. While it's easy to think that they should feel free, in reality they don't. They don't feel free because all they feel is terror. Terror at the long road ahead of them and terrified because they no longer trust themselves. They feel ashamed that they let someone do this to them and they feel angry that it went on for so long. Angry at their abuser and angry at themselves. So although "free" they may be, truly free they are not.

While they may have won the battle to stay alive, for many of them a new battle is just beginning; the battle to really live. Because although they are no longer fighting to free themselves from their abuser, they are now fighting to free themselves from what their abuser has done to them.

What Is Sex Like After Rape?

As you guys know I’ve been a support group leader for sexual assault and domestic abuse victims for a while now. Aside from running general groups, I specialize in assisting sexual assault victims with regaining their sexuality.

Support groups are fantastic, amazing, wonderful places, but unfortunately they are oftentimes filled with women who have been so beaten down that they are too shy to speak up. They are feeling shame for what happened, shame for their bodies, and embarrassment for a crime that involved such a private act. Compound that with the fact that the leaders of the groups certainly don’t want trigger anyone by bringing up the whole “penis in vagina” topic that brought most of the women there in the first place, it leads to the fact that oftentimes sex after rape is just simply not talked about in many groups.

These women got forced into a sexual act and then no one wants to talk about what the next sexual encounter might be like. How scary to have the most terrifying event in your life take place and then have no one prep you for what might happen the next time you encounter a situation that while totally different, is kind of the same?

It occurred to me one day, while teaching strip class to assault survivors, that here I was assisting these women while they reclaimed their sexuality, and then I was sending them back out into their lives afraid to use that sexuality.

I let all the women know that I would be holding a special group specifically to talk about sex after rape and then left it up to them to decide if it was something they felt like they could benefit from.

They all showed up and then some.

Since this is a subject rarely talked about in most support groups, I’ll ask you, do you know what sex is like after rape?

Because No One Ever Told Me

The first time I found myself standing in a courtroom was when I was 18 years old. 

Several months earlier I had broken up with a guy that I had been dating for two years. The break up was bad; so bad in fact that the next morning when the police showed up at my parent’s house looking for me, I realized how bad it had really been.

The night prior I had kicked my way out of the boyfriend’s locked car and run into a Walgreens for help. I left before the police showed up and then ran all the way home.

Standing there that morning with the police at my parent’s front door, I remember looking to my parents for help. I was terrified and embarrassed. I desperately wanted them to step in and save me.

The officer went on to explain that they had received a call that morning from the mother of the boy I had broken up with, stating that her son’s car was damaged. The now ex boyfriend had told his mother that I had damaged it during our break-up and the mother wanted to press charges. The police were suspicious because all the damage to the vehicle was on the inside of the car and in their words “typically the damage done in a nasty break-up is to the outside of a vehicle.”

I'm Not What You Were Expecting

It's Domestic Violence Awareness Month!!!

Let's pretend for a minute that you guys don't know me and allow me to take a minute to introduce myself:

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I already know what you are thinking, "I don't need to hear anymore about domestic violence because I already know what it is!!"

 Trust me, you don't. Do me and the millions of other women needing your help a favor and see this article through to the end.

I promise, I'm about to shatter your world.

As domestic abuse becomes more of a socially accepted issue, more and more women are coming out of the shadows to share their stories. As these women come forward, the picture that we previously had of what a domestic violence victim looks like has been shattering down around us.

Now I might not know a lot about a lot of things, I'll fully fess up to that, but what I do know, is domestic violence. I know domestic violence from my own story and I know it from the women that on a daily basis come and go from my house as if I have a revolving door out front.

Because of that there is one thing that I can tell you with all the certainty in the world; what some of you picture when you think of a domestic victim is seriously outdated.

You see, the thing that most people have failed to realize up until this point is that domestic violence victims are the best actresses you will ever meet in your entire life.

The Entire Neighborhood Found Out

The Girl Child's new window finally went in!!

When they were taking it out they showed me the spot where the BB bullet had hit the window.

Can you see the big bowed crack? I kept waiting for the glass to fall out because when the wind would blow, the two broken halves would flex independently of each other.

You have to look a little harder to see the crack from this angle

There were about 15 of these BB bullet holes in the screen

The point of impact

To The Woman Who Isn't Yet Free

To the woman who isn’t yet free,

You are someone.

I don’t care what he tells you or what he tries to make you believe, you are someone. You aren’t a failure. You aren’t worthless, stupid, a burden, or anything else that he tries to make you believe.

You are amazing and he knows it. He controls you because he doesn’t want you to know that you are better than him. He tears apart every detail of your being because if you could see how amazing you are, he knows you would leave him. He silences you not because you can’t live without him, but because he can’t live without you. If he allows you to think for yourself, he knows you will realize that you deserve better.

You don’t deserve what he is doing to you. Nothing that is going on is your fault and things will not get better because of anything that you can change. I don’t even care if you talked back or spoke up, there is a reason you have a voice and you are allowed to use it. He may scream louder and hit harder, but that’s only because he can’t deal with the fact that you have your own thoughts. To steal your voice is to silence your soul; if he can’t hear you, then you aren't human, and what he is doing, then it's not wrong.