A synopsis of the father of my child, respectfully, Part I: How We Met

(Warning: NOT FOR THE WEAK, and most certainly not for the insecure.)

While attempting to do the right thing, a whole lot of things have gone wrong. There’s a reason why the first blog is called “Millennial Mother/Problematic, but Rehabilitated.” The slip and slide journey had me floundering like a seal escaping a ravenous orca. Welcome to problematic dissection 101.

(Apple music: Karma by Summer Walker)

Sitting next to a plethora of court documents that’s been stashed over the decade, with which I’ve been back and forth with the baby daddy, I’m trying to find the best way to go about this long overdue excerpt. From restraining orders, court ordered documents, ex parte…etc., I studied all of them to remain unbiased and objective as possible. I will base his perspective off of his communication via text or lack thereof. As of a year ago, the father of my child and I spent every holiday, birthday, dance recital, and school event together as a unit. Even after surviving the quicksand he shoved me into.

We will name baby daddy Sudan. Maybe because it rhymes a little bit like the late dictator Saddam Hussein but mostly because Sudan means ‘great donation’ in India… and you already know what I’m gonna say about his sperm. He gave it up willingly, and happily. We were absolutely and positively in love. My daughter is an enchanting love child born into turmoil. Let’s start at the top and sweep through the creeks of this lost love story. I will try to be as compassionate and fair as I can be.

2009: Around the time I had to desperately hoard money to cover my tuition at Biola University as I was transferring from a junior college. I became a finalist for the Ford Family Foundation scholarship. On top of having 2-3 jobs during the semesters, I was able to keep my grades up and still be part of multiple humanitarian, environmental, sustainable, and theater clubs. The sweat and tears paid off. A team of interviewers flew in from Oregon to have a-one-on one with me.

I was counting on this scholarship and was 100 percent certain it was mine. They would have paid for EVERY single college necessity. Now, I had been double majoring in theatrical arts and biological anthropology. The three interviewers sat me down and attempted to convince me to focus on Theatrical Arts. “Wouldn’t it be ideal to focus on theater? How are you going to go to a Christian University and study science at the same time? Biola teaches Creationism, how would you go about that? Theatrical Arts is the best option.”

If I were to enter Biola with two majors, I would end up triple majoring because Christian Studies is a required minor. When they found out I was adamant about studying stem cell research and genetics, I received a letter that they weren’t going to grant me the full scholarship. They gave it to one of my dorm mates instead. She was well deserving; a mathematical genius. I was floored. I read the letter over and over “being a finalist is just as honorable” it said. It took me MONTHS to digest what happened and years to acknowledge the loss. Fortunately, I already had $22,000 in grants and other scholarships; I just had to figure out how to cover the rest of the $34,000 that school year. My on-campus job was used for my personal bills, so I took out a $5,000 student loan. Sure, I could’ve taken out more, but I refused to be deep into debt and was fixated to do it on my own. My parents had given me too many chances by then. I know what you’re thinking, so you would rather strip? That wasn’t my immediate solution but in short, YES. I had to find a flexible, generous schedule during the night that was legal, fast, and easy. I barely climbed out of my strenuous school schedule alive. There were days I was staying up until 10 am studying and that was just for New Testaments studies, not bio Anthro, or Communications (their theater program was under Comm Studies, don’t ask me why.) The interviewers were right; I was drowning, flapping around rapid waters. Triple majoring, working a day job, and on top of that, we were obligated to attend chapel a couple of times a week. Now I was on the search for $7,000.
My ex-boyfriend that I dated from 8th grade up until the beginning of 12th grade and was going to Biola as well. Coincidentally, his dorm building was right next to mine. We will call him Cisco. Cisco cheated on me the last couple of years we were together in high school with Tanner, someone I thought was a close friend. Tanner ended up going to…take a guess: BIOLA. How the universe grinds my gears.
Cisco and I remained close friends, even after the scandal. * blog to come* We were co-dependent. That’s what happens when you date as kids and well into young adult life. He actually cosigned a Sallie Mae loan for $45,000 before I arrived at Biola, but my mom convinced me to mail it back after she lectured me about the annual percentage rate (after which was the main reason I took a much smaller loan out). I’m actually cringing at the thought of being in debt with Sallie Mae.
Anyway, he would sneak me into his dorm where we would eat Lucky Charms and watch Arthur…you know, the aardvark cartoon who wears glasses. Tanner lived in the Hope dorm clear across campus.
So, as we were eating cereal on Cisco’s living room floor, I asked him if there were any evening or night jobs around that could help me come up with some fast cash. He laughs, “Yeah, Imperial Showgirls.”
I was curious. Mind you, up until this point in my life, I’d never been to a club before, and maybe been to a bar 3 times. This bar was in Dunsmuir, population: 1,572. My life had been dominated by “ethics and morals” and apparently bars and clubs can’t co-exist with ethics in such an uncivilized place. (Not to say I never went to a party; I had my days when I turned 18).
Unexpectedly, there was a loud KNOCK on Cisco’s dorm door. His face turned chalk white and he practically stuffed me into his small shower to hide. I heard Tanner walk in and ask him why his face was sweaty and if he was unwell. SLAM… he rushed her out. I sat in the shower in confused silence. I had no direction. Was I to leave or wait it out? Every minute grew longer than the next. I snuck out and went to the financial aid office to see how much I needed to pay for next semester. Tanner and Cisco passed me; she gave us the same look I would give THEM when I had to sit behind them all through 11th grade AP English. Something was STRANGE but no evidence. *Sigh*

I had no intentions of karma using me as her lead in this play. Cisco and I had simply remained friends. OKAY, we slept with each other once in his dorm but that was it, just an ol’ friendly poke for old times’ sake. Remember this was old Angie: problematic with an unrehabilitated train of thought. Karma repaid me as you have seen and will continue to see if you read on. (Previous blog post).

So, Cisco and I regrouped that night. It didn’t take much convincing; I was eager for anything. I lusted to discover the forbidden crevices of California. My pupils desired lights, glitz, and socially shady business. My free spirit was all for the theatrics and entertainment. My thought was, “okay, climb up onto a stage, shake around, have hundreds of dollars thrown at you, then go home. No human contact, right? I genuinely thought I would wear a full set of clothes and strip down to my undies like a walk on the beach wearing a bikini, right? NEGATIVE! But I was already there, and you already know my motto by this time: FUCK IT.
The burgundy couches around the large triangular stage looked questionable. I did my best to keep it classy and not scrunch my face at the grungy carpet. Come on! I was looking for this! But my prissy nature stretched through the excitement. I wanted to be there, but I also wanted to sprint my way back to the double bunk in my suite, open my Osteology study guide and pretend like I was never there.

Nope, not backing down.

I walked to the front door and asked for an application.

Bouncer: “you got dance experience?”

“I was a hot box girl in Guys and Dolls last summer for my theater program, took dance in college and I have jazz experience,” I responded.

He looked me up and down, “I meant exotic dancer experience…look just pay your bills and get the hell out of here. Don’t get stuck here like most of these girls.” He passed me the application almost resentfully, but definitely exhaustedly. His puffy frog-like eyes looked worn, as though they carried unwanted bags of secrets.
FUCK IT! I plopped onto the chair and began to fill it out.
“ANG, are you SERIOUS? You CAN’T be serious. I brought you here JOKINGLY,” Cisco was obviously concerned as if he hadn’t known my ambition for years. I told him I wouldn’t turn in the application. I did later that week.

Back on campus, my job position was called an “Ambassador”. We were the spokes models of the campus. Out of those 25 ambassadors they chose 10 to blog and write about college life to encourage the qualified Christian students from around the world to come to our school. Imagine seeing my picture, my entire face on hundreds and hundreds of Biola Spring catalogues only to find out this model for the university was driving a few miles away to work at gentleman’s club a few times a night. Unsophisticated, I know. But a good old-fashioned rebellious spree was craved, and the loss of the Ford Family Foundation Scholarship had me tired of always trying to do everything the “right way”.

After being hired at the club, I’m sure the management immediately regretted it when I had the DJ play Toxic by Britney Spears and danced around like Paris Hilton circa 2005. I didn’t know how to twerk. Never learned. *laughhhing out loud * But, I was living my pretend music video dreams with my own real life-audience.

Within a month, I learned the ropes. I never took the sweetened promises made by men too seriously. I would stay a few hours and then head back to my dorm in my gym clothes. Why did I have to keep it a secret? (Other than the fact that it would have gotten me kicked out of Biola). I adore the art (yes ART). I appreciate the work. I would never be where I am now if I didn’t learn how to flip my income from the hundreds of successful businessmen I met, and if I didn’t grow the thick ass skin that developed and equipped me for the real world. It turned me into a great white shark. Of course, I didn’t want to hurt my very religious and good family. But at the time, I figured I would be in and out under the nose of my family, so no harm done.
That is until I met Sudan.

A group of college kids walked into the 18 and over club and settled themselves along the corner couch. I was drawn to this 6’2”, strong-built, beautiful, dark-haired guy. I sat next to him, I never experienced such a gaze. It was static shock. His dark eyes were something I had never seen before. They were the widest, most curious, almost anime-like shaped eyes. If I ever experienced love at first sight for the first time, it was that night. That night I wore a neon pink bikini top, black bottoms and some amateur black high heels. I sat on his lap and it was like maple sap, we were glued together. As my arms were around his neck, he told me he was a college football player, a linebacker. That’s all I remembered, I just watched the movement of his mouth and was distracted by his perfectly straight white smile shine through the dark.
At that time, I began dating this UFC fighter. We will call him Jordan. Jordan was a beast, but I couldn’t resist myself when Sudan asked for my number. Jordan and I weren’t official anyway, and how did I know this? Let me tell you about ALL of our Valentine’s Day that year.
Jordan asked me if I would spend the morning of Valentine’s Day with him because he needed to be with his friend in the evening during trying times. I thought perfect, he wants to give me Valentine’s Day crumbs; I can spend the entire evening with Sudan. I showed up to the house Jordan was staying at and he was in the living room watching his own UFC fight in slow motion. He asked me to follow the rose petals. I looked down and there were multi-colored rose petals leading to different gifts. We rushed through our Valentine’s Day “day” and I hopped into my white Ford Escape and burned rubber to my dorm to get ready for the evening. I threw on my red pea coat and went to the Irvine Spectrum where Sudan and I decided to spend our very first Valentine’s Day together. The evening went romantically…that was until we went to the valet to wait for my car. We walked up to hand in our valet ticket and behold, Jordan and a woman in a mini skirt and high heels were right next to us. RIGHT-NEXT-TO-US. We both stammered as we introduced each other’s dates to one another. Sudan opened the door for me, and I flew into my seat. Immediately, I received text messages from Jordan, “how could you…how dare you…why would you…” You know, the same old double standard deflects. That day they became archenemies.
Fast forward to 2020, Kamille’s 10th birthday party. Sudan and I estranged, and Jordan and I reconnected (and now not to mention a self-made millionaire). Sudan introduced himself without realizing they had already met 11 years earlier at the valet. It was the trusty universe playing tit-for-tat once again. I pinky promise I didn’t orchestrate that, but it was pretty cathartic to say the least.

Back to 2009, the Valentine’s valet incident made it simple to choose Sudan, not like I hadn’t already fallen for this Greek god-built man.
I realized he loved me when his mom took his family to vacation in Acapulco and he escaped her grip (TIGHT, TIGHT, TIIIIGHT GRIP – I am not exaggerating) to find a taxi and search for a phone card to call my dorm phone. You see, Sudan was the prized firstborn out of three boys and allegedly was almost kidnapped as a toddler. Which put his already overly protective mother over the top. And now, after knowing his family for over a decade, I can’t help but to think that this poor ”kidnapper” man possibly nudged him by accident. I mean with them; everything is on edge. They are extremely calculated when it comes to interacting with outsiders. You can’t trust ANYONE. Everyone is against you. They will smile a gorgeous toothy smile to your face only to turn around to say you are not to be trusted. I get that, be precautious, sure, don’t just allow anyone in your life. I mean for years I thought it was comical. Sudan taught me a lot about mistrusting people. When we would enter a restaurant, he would take note of every single exit sign, study everyone’s face and have an escape strategy in case of an emergency. Every single movement was noted and controlled. There were friends and places he wanted me to stay away from. When I say dictatorship, I mean North Korea. But it wasn’t always like that, these things never are. There will be time to expand on this topic, as there are many more blogs to come.

Let’s get back to business.

By May 2009, even though I had broken every rule on Biola’s contract, which was no sex, drinking, partying, dancing…etc., I still paid off my tuition in cash. I was swept off my heels by the entertainment industry, and seduced by the unaccepted lifestyle. And Sudan and I were two neutron stars sucked into each other’s orbit; a dazzling supernova collision. Although people confused us for siblings, we were infatuated and were ready to plant each other juicy kisses to prove that we weren’t.
In and out of trouble that year, I needed some time to reconnect with my old high school friends in Rosamond 2 hours away. When I arrived, we all began to drink a well amount, but the night remained tedious. My friend who invited me was having relationship issues and it turned into a dramatic drag. Vowing to never return to the tiny hometown, I had escaped right after high school. I jumped in my car, drove to a parking lot and called Sudan crying.
“I can’t drive home and I just want to go back to Orange County! I don’t want to be here!”
He proceeded to tell me not to move, and to just sit in my car and wait for him. He rushed to his car and raced 130 miles south out of the city at 90 miles per hour. I fell asleep in my tears. An unknown amount of time passed and a knock on my window woke me. It was two bored Kern County policemen. They continue to question me about my whereabouts and asked for my license. “My boyfriend is on his way to pick me up, I’m waiting for him!” I pleaded but they already made up their minds. They knew I was intoxicated.
Sudan arrived and yelled out of nowhere, “WAIT! I’m here to pick her up! Officer she wasn’t driving! She was waiting for me!”
The officer wasted no time taking out his taser and threatening him. Sudan and I both left Orange County in vain and were now terrified in rural California. They arrested, booked and took me to a holding cell. Sudan called his entire family to join him and wait for me to be released the next day. His WHOLE family! Everything is a family affair with him. I was grateful but I wished it was kept low key. However, I’ve recovered.

By that time, I knew it, I was unfit for Biola; I wasn’t the model citizen who belonged there. By the end of the school year, I planned to transfer to a more accepting university and in order to do that, I had to take particular units at a junior college once again because the curriculum qualifications differed. But that was to be put on hold.
My priorities became disheveled. I scheduled a breast augmentation operation, which I wanted since puberty, and was determined to have ONE good thing happen that year. Sudan took care of me after the operation and inexplicably I was deathly ill. I couldn’t keep the medication my surgeon prescribed me down. I was vomiting all over the place. We thought they were post-surgery symptoms. After weeks of confusion, Sudan suggests that I take a pregnancy test.
“A WHAT? There’s no way…there’s no way, no way. I just had surgery!”
We got a pregnancy test and before my very eyes I see a sign that tested positive for pregnancy, I collapsed on the toilet. I was sure I was barren since Cisco and I never had scares. How on earth did this little bundle survive anesthetics? We went to the doctor who confirmed my pregnancy, we did the math and I had been one month pregnant during surgery. Sudan’s mom was furious; we stormed in my surgeon’s office and threatened him with a lawsuit. Every surgeon is required by law to give a urine exam to every patient right before surgery, his staff didn’t. Obviously, caught off guard by the pregnancy, we were troubled. Sudan took me to a clinic to explore my options and didn’t realize it was a prolife medical center. They sat me down and had me listen to the baby’s perfect heartbeat. They sent me away with a basket of baby gifts. I still have one of the books that sat in the basket. Mind you, I was a prolife advocate throughout my first three years of college. I actually wore a pin on my sweater that said, “PROLIFE” with a heart next to it.
Hysterical, I called my sister Melissa, who was living in Germany at the time, and told her the situation. “The baby is already a Pineda, it has our blood. I will take the baby as soon as it’s born. We will figure out the adoption process and keep the baby until you’re done with school.”
She and her husband were enthralled with the idea of having another child.
I tell Sudan the proposition over dinner, and still uneasy he realized he had no say anymore.

I can’t say that I had the easiest pregnancy. During the first trimester of my pregnancy, Sudan and I attended the same junior college. The Saddleback College parking lot was impossible. Rarely could I find a spot to park my car.
It was raining, and Sudan told me to sit in his car so he could find a spot for me. I sat in the driver’s seat and next to me was his phone, and a text message from a girl. “I had fun last night” and a picture of them embraced. I looked at him through the window and he immediately knew that I knew. He ran to me and yanked his phone out of my hand. I didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. I ran to my car holding my tiny pregnant belly. Sudan jumped in the passenger seat and attempted to explain himself. I pushed him out of my car and raced back to my apartment in Irvine. He chased me in his car. We both run up the stairs of my apartment to meet my distress. I was crying and he was on the floor begging for forgiveness. In came the promises of dedication and loyalty. Taking advantage of his vulnerable state, I asked to see his phone. He hesitated but handed it over. He deleted everything but forgot to delete sent out messages on Facebook. A string of messages was sent out to these Persian women. During that year, Sudan oddly grew a serious passion for Persian culture to the point of learning Farsi. He was in these messages flexing his newly learned language skill to these beautiful women. If I have learned one thing about men, it’s that a woman can’t change them, not even with a baby.

From there on out, Sudan was on lockdown. We were miserable. The arguments became increasingly toxic. I had driven him mad, to the point where he had taken a knife and carved an “A” on his arm to scare me-a teeny, tiny, little “A”. (I’m chuckling)

All that love talk of when I met him, this beautiful, Greek-built man with a perfect smile began to deteriorate. The supernova had collapsed into a black hole. This handsome football player never looked the same to me ever again.
On top of the betrayal, Sudan had his mom call my mom and tell her that I had been working at the club. He was desperate for me to leave. Everyone wants to date a dancer until it’s time to fall in love with her. My family was in complete chaos. My sister Anita was pregnant with her first child and couldn’t eat when she heard the news. I was a disgrace to the family.

I worked almost every day until the belly began to really show and that was at 7 months. I had gotten myself into financial situations that really didn’t allow me to quit. Of course I had so much family willing to help me, but my pride simply wouldn’t allow it.

At 4 months pregnant, Sudan couldn’t bare me anymore. The hormones were racing throughout my body, throwing attitude at his every move.
His words were “I’m sorry Angie, I can’t do this anymore” and hung up.
I sat on my living room floor in turmoil. I never once called him to beg for him. He texted me ONCE and asked me if I was ok. I sat in the back of the locker room at Imperial Showgirls and stared at the text in disbelief. Am I ok? Was he joking? I never responded.

At 5 months, my friends convinced me to go out. “Ang, pregnant people can still go out and have a good time! Please! You need to get OUT!”

During my free time, I spent countless hours on my couch reading the news to find reasons why my life wasn’t so terrible. Even the slightest gust of wind had me running to see if Sudan had decided to come back to me. Every time it wasn’t him, the tears would reset and flow. (I actually cried on stage when I was working one time).

Determined not to be depressed another night on my couch by myself, my friends dragged me to Banana Split Sunday at LAX (not the airport) to watch Steve Aoki and DJ AM’s set (right before he passed). It went beautifully.
This gorgeous gent who looked uncannily like a young Tyson Ritter from All American Rejects invited me to his VIP section. I felt a ting of guilt but: fuck it, he had an English accent, so naturally I couldn’t object . We exchanged contact information and I went home mildly sad but not so depressed. Jason, as we’ll name him, had been visiting from London to visit his godmother. After speaking to him for a couple weeks, we decided to meet up and hang. PREGNANT and all. Obviously, I didn’t tell him that major detail. Tricky tricky, but I refused to let Sudan have all the fun.
Jason proceeded to tell me that he was staying at his godmother Carrie Fisher’s home in Beverly Hills. You know…THEE PRINCESS LEIA. Okay, now my pregnant ass REALLY wasn’t going to stay home. I put on my big girl panties and headed on back over to LA. I arrived at this large gated estate, and he opened the front gate so I can drive my crusty ol’ tin right in. Carrie Fisher was on a book tour for Wishful Drinking, so I wasn’t too nervous to be there. I hopped out of my car and he walked me to the main house. It was like a fairyland; flowers and plants covering the entire front entrance. To the right of the house was a classic phone booth with a human-sized cardboard cutout of Princess Leia standing in it. We walked through the front door and there’s a man sitting in the very dim lighting playing the piano so wonderfully.
What the fuck am I doing here?
He gets up from the piano seat and it’s none other than the talented James Blunt. I kid you not. He introduced himself and went back to the piano. Jason took me to his godmother’s very large movie collection, and we picked a film out. We went to the guesthouse where he was staying and put the DVD in. He went off from tangent to tangent about working with HBO and a show series he created, the usual LA banter.
What am I doing here, what am I doing hereeeeee?
He reached over to embrace me, and I popped up like a whack-a-mole, “I’m sorry, I have to go!”
I scurried to my car, and right then and there I cried in my Ford. Not entirely too sure, but I cried out Sudan’s name, dramatically and loudly. It was the hormones I presume.
That was my first and last date while being pregnant. Sudan didn’t think so.

During the end of December, I was 7 months pregnant and had gone to Carson City to a family gathering for Christmas vacation. We were gathered at my aunt and uncle’s Villa Basque Deli restaurant. We were enjoying each other when my phone began to ring. It was Sudan. My family were in quite a state of shock because by that time he had been entirely absent. They convinced me to answer. I heard a loud banging, “Ang! Open your door! I need to see you! I know you’re in there!” 464 miles away, Sudan was pounding his fist on the front door of my apartment all the way in California.
“What are you doing? What are you talking about?” I asked. I looked up at my family and my sister Anita mouths, “WHAT is he saying?” I whacked the air with my hand to shut her up.
“I’m right here at your place Ang, open the door! Who are you with? I know you’re with somebody else!”
Folks, I was ready to give birth while being accused of being laid up in my apartment with another man. My stress levels bursted through the already busted seams. My empathetic tendencies matched his emotions. The second I felt his panic, my daughter began to kick from inside my belly. By this time, I couldn’t tie my own shoelace, wash my own legs, or carry my groceries home. I had fallen down my stairs attempting to carry loads of groceries into my home, so yea I could use the help. I allowed Sudan to pick me up from LAX when I arrived from Nevada. He hovered over me, like the alpha male he is and by 8 months he was sitting at my baby shower like the king of Spermlandia.
Sudan handed me a card with baby feet on the front. Inside the card he wrote, “Our patitas will make the world go around. We are a family now whether we are mad at each other sometimes. We will always have our special love babies (plural because we are expecting). I love you babe, -Monster”
I’ve said this before, once I’m betrayed, things can never be the same. I knew that as soon as we had our daughter, I would shed the weight and blossom like a badass rose. In my mind, he and I were finished, and I was ready to live my best life without him.

My labor room was a madhouse. His entire family (of course) and best friend were around my bed. My mom was sitting next to me reading her Bible, while his Atheist best friend taunted her with his beliefs. My doctor had been preoccupied with another patient so by the time he showed up, I was ready to push her all the way out. It wasn’t like the movies where the expectant mother is screaming bloody murder. It was quite peaceful. Up until the labor, I didn’t know what I would name her. But as soon as I saw her perfect, beautiful baby face, I just knew. Kamille.
By mid pregnancy, the idea of my sister adopting the baby was simply out of the question. I knew I was going to keep her. The bond for her and I was undeniable. I had dreamt of her before I even met her. And frankly, I always wanted a daughter. You know how saps daydream about their weddings? Unorthodoxly, I would constantly daydream about having a daughter. I would breastfeed my stuffed animals for crying out loud. Never had a pretend wedding with them. I never really imagined getting married.
When Sudan realized that I had gone rogue, he pledged that he would never get married unless it was to me. Which is comical considering Sudan is what we would call a machista, and I being the independent, hardworking, eager for individuality woman. Our worlds would implode. He needed someone home cooking and cleaning after him. Who knows, maybe things have changed for him, but at the time, that was his idea of marriage.
Fast forward, 2018, he insisted on bringing his “girlfriend” to Kamille’s ballet recital. I asked him to wait for another appropriate day. We had work so hard all year until that performance. I figured he would respect the fact that I had paid for ballet, dresses, recitals, and everything else her entire life. I never once asked him to contribute to the payments. In fact, I bought him and his family tickets to that particular recital. In turn, they bought one single ticket for his “girlfriend” that he introduced as his fiancé. Feeling disrespected, I went with the flow per usual.
Sudan had never told my family or me that he had a girlfriend, or that he even got engaged. They must’ve met earlier that year because I have pictures of Sudan and I holding hands during Christmas 2017; it was the holiday that had me in my feelings. He had attempted to kiss me but instinctually I pulled back. At times I would regret that I pulled back because I wonder, could that kiss have ignited unification for our daughter’s sake? Even if it made me completely miserable? She had wanted us to be together so badly. She would cry and ask my mom why we weren’t together. She never asked me. Mistakenly, I had believed that if we raised her separately, she wouldn’t be impacted like divorce children. And maybe she wasn’t as much.
Now, imagine my mom’s shock when Sudan got married 9 years later. She was in pure disbelief when she received the news. “He promised you! He promised ME that he would wait for you!”
I just sat in my thoughts thinking “well fucking finally” perhaps this wife of his will give him a child and he’ll be distracted from dictating our daughters every single move. NEGATIVE. It made him worse actually. For example, since our daughter turned 1, I had thrown every single birthday party. Sudan never even bought her a birthday cake. I never asked for help from him. I did everything on my own. Every crazy themed party, I never asked for one single penny from Sudan, and once again he never contributed. When she was about to turn 10, his new wife attempted to throw Kamille a party. I was fumed. I snapped at my daughter and asked her, “has anyone other than YOUR MOTHER EVER thrown you a party?”
She responded, “This is why I didn’t want to tell you.” I was convicted.
In order for her to remain trusting with me, I couldn’t snap. Kamille went to jazz class and I called my sister hyperventilating. “Sudan has NEVER once thrown her a party! And now he’s married so he wants to act involved with her birthday? His wife has only been in Kam’s life for barely a year and now this?” My sister smacked me with the hard reality, “Ang, you have to deal with doing separate parties now, in fact, you should be happy that his wife loves Kamille and that she’s doing her best to celebrate her.”
I nodded in agreement as much as I didn’t want to. The truth is, my daughter didn’t want to have a party. She made me promise her that next year we would watch TV and eat pizza. But I was so caught up with going all out and showing her how much I love and celebrate her. Now folks, this was only one of the many situations that blew my mind.

Currently, Sudan has her quarantined away from me during this Coronavirus situation. I was on my way to pick her up, and he refused to let her out. He said he didn’t feel comfortable with her going back and forth during the pandemic. I lost it. Attempting to remain composed, I told him I would take her for the entire quarantine. But he refused. I called my lawyers and they encouraged me to take an officer to his house. Now, the old Angie, would have made a scene and dragged an officer to his house, adding a traumatic experience for my child. But current Zen Angie listened to Winston Churchill who said, “Tact is the ability to tell someone to go to hell in such a way that they look forward to the trip.”
You see, Sudan claimed that he’s not trying to keep our daughter away from me, but our history would suggest otherwise. When our daughter was 2, I had reached my breaking point with how controlling he was with me, asking me not to post our child on social media and condemning me for posting any revealing “sexy” picture. During that time she was primarily with me, I had 100% custody.
Sudan had come back from playing college football in the east coast and had issues with his mother. He asked if he could stay at my apartment. I agreed, this meant that I could go to work without using a sitter. When I was at work he would send me messages that my daughter was asking for me. (I still have these text messages as I had to copy them for the court.) Nervous and anxious that he was at my place, I began to drink beer at a local bar. I got a ride home, and there was this random good-looking guy standing in the hallway of my apartment complex. We began talking. I knew our daughter was in her room asleep. So Problematic Angie invited “the random” in for a drink. I wanted to hurt Sudan. I had harbored so much anger for Sudan, I wanted him to feel the same. When Sudan saw him shit hit the fan. He kicked the guy out, and I started yelling that we weren’t together and I could do whatever I wanted to do. “LEAVE! I don’t want you here! Leave my apartment!”
We could have handled it in the living room, but he ran to our daughter’s room to use her as a shield. He locked her door so I stumbled to the kitchen and reached for a butter knife to unlock the door. All the utensils fell to the floor, and I began to bang on the door and yelled at him to leave repetitively. He called the police, and ladies and gentlemen, that was the second time I was arrested. They gave me a drunk in public, IN MY OWN APARTMENT. The charges were dropped for obvious reasons. But when I got out of custody, Sudan had taken pictures of the “scene” and had gotten a restraining order against me because “he feared for his life.”
I was driven into panic mode, not being able to see my daughter made me feel like ripping my skin off. I sat in front of my bathroom mirror with a bottle of pills and a razor. I wanted it all to just end. Until this day, I still have the suicide note I wrote to my daughter.
But I flaked on my death appointment. PLEASE! I’m a fat chicken. (I’ve received loads of therapy since then).
This was the beginning of a long battle between two lovers who became nemesis. Well then, not killing myself meant that I had to go to court and fight for custody. (I had police serve him custody papers at his job on purpose).
So now, his entire family was standing behind his lawyer and my family behind mine. We were prepared to mutilate one another. My lawyer convinced him to settle things out of court. We both agreed on the arrangements and were granted 50/50 custody. My mom was so excited she invited his whole family to lunch. And guess who’s forgiving ass let them join? ME.
The highs were high, and the lows were an abyss. There were many laughs, Disneyland trips, and family gatherings. Sometimes he was my best friend. I would bite my pride so we could remain cordial. As time went by, I had gotten into media and reported for a local news station called The Patch. I let him use my press pass to enter agriculture conventions that were expensive to attend and with the press pass it was free. You see, he had gotten into the produce exporting and importing business. It could have gotten me fired, or even jailed but I wanted him to be successful. So he took a copy of my press pass and replaced my photo with his, and changed my name to his. As much as I wanted to hate him, that’s my daughter’s father. I couldn’t.
And so between the mutual encouragements, there was war.

In one of my other blogs I mention a mental breakdown (which that blog will make its way here soon.) 2017, when I had recovered from the devastation of losing everything, I had found a room I could rent via craigslist. It was like a boarding house. The house owner found random people who needed housing. There were 3 rooms upstairs, and 2 rooms downstairs. I would end up throwing Kamille’s 7^th birthday party there.
Sudan and I had another disagreement. Might have been about not allowing her to paint her nails, because that triggers him as well as it’s toxic * rolls eyes* but I cant really remember exactly what this argument was about. I received a phone call from him hours later. “I MOTION TO FILE AN EX PARTE FOR IMMIDIATE CUSTODY! Be at court TOMORROW!”
I sit on my bed, looked around my room, “what did I do?”
I had literally lived life by the BOOK. I didn’t inch toward wrongness. I was marketing for charities for heavens sake! Completely unprepared and puzzled, I showed up to court wondering what the fuck I did. The bailiff handed me the court documents and there in black and white was a picture of my downstairs roommate, apparently a convicted sex offender. He had been living under the roof with an alias. Living with his girlfriend at the time, I saw that he has changed his name multiple times. I was in utter shock. In the documents, Sudan claimed that I left my daughter with the sex offender and his girlfriend once, which was completely untrue. I responded in humility as angry as I was and explained to the judge that I had no idea. If Sudan had been so concerned with this man who was living under the same roof as me, wouldn’t he have told me this information immediately instead of holding this blackmail card in the back of his pocket? Wouldn’t any father storm in and fix the problem STAT? His spite was confirmed through this.
The judge practically scoffed and told me to handle the issue. The roommate was kicked out immediately. Sudan had always been obsessed with keeping tabs on my every move. How he got the roommate information? I don’t really care to know.
Things have never been easy, but it has turned me into a fierce fighter. Even when I took Kamille to an Ariana Grande concert when she turned 9, he had run out of blackmail cards, and resulted to insults. “WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU? Taking her to a concert ON A SCHOOL NIGHT? What will she think of YOU? She’s getting older! How are you going to explain to her about the knife (you know the butter knife I used to unlock her door) situation and about the club?!” He went from one random thing to the next. Zen Angie simply responded with, “I will never lie to her, when she is old enough to understand, I will be honest.”
I won’t lie; I drank Vodka a little later that night and sent another text message saying, “YOU MET ME AT THE CLUB and rubbed my foot!” Yeah, he has a foot fetish, which now freaks me the fuck out, and now I wont even accept foot rubs from people. (Later that week, my daughter asked me what I had texted her dad that made him sit abruptly on the chair and smack his hand to his head while his wife comforted him).
Imagine his anger when he found out I let her sleep in 1 hour the next day after the concert. He was mortified. Strangely enough, his wife took our daughter to IHOP (out of all places) for her birthday, allowing her to miss the beginning of that school day. But when I do it: THE AUDACITY.

So the last blog, I rushed through it not writing about how I was able to move past what my ex Nick had done to me and forgive him. Two words: Bikram Yoga aka HOT yoga. As we willingly enter the pit of hell yoga room, the steam alone teaches us tolerance. 90 minutes of 26 excruciating poses in 105-degree heat. ANYTHING is better than the self-induced torture. And as I challenged my endurance through Ustrasana aka camel pose, I meditated on all the things I’m grateful for after the Nick cheating scandal was revealed.
“I am grateful that Nick taught me patience, I am grateful that he fixed my car, I’m grateful for the laughs, I’m grateful that he sold his car for me when times were tough…” As I am upside down, and sweat trickles down my nose turning my brain into fire, this exercise was bound to rehabilitate my anger. It worked.
Now, whenever Sudan pulls another dictating move, like quarantining my daughter away from me, all I can do is resort to this mental exercise during yoga, going in the triangle pose and sweat is dripping from my eyelids, burning my eyes (we are discouraged from rubbing our eyes or making any movement that isn’t part of the pose). “I am grateful that he gave me Kamille, I am grateful that he gave her huge anime-like eyes, I am grateful that he gave her long thick lashes, I am grateful that he isn’t an absent father, I am grateful that he gave her a big perfect white smile, I am grateful that he gave her beautiful brown skin (in which I contributed as well)…and so on.
It helped.

Now, every year I give myself a challenge. The year before last was the fight against the ego. Last year it was the challenge of self-love. I realized that I liked how I looked, but there were many things I hated about myself, inside my mind. I was utterly ashamed of my past and Sudan had made feel like I was a lunatic, always asking me if I had seen a psychiatrist, and the truth is I began to believe him. I would be paranoid about the craziest things like: what if I am actually one of those people on the street talking to themselves living in an alternate reality? What if I’m actually a 90-year-old woman experiencing delirium, and living in a convalescent home? What if I’m in coma and this isn’t real?
There’s this room where we can take the garbage and recyclables.
Every time I go, I get anxiety thinking, “what if I get trapped in here and can’t escape? What if that’s my personal hell as punishment for the things I’ve done? I would think of these things redundantly and I wholly believe that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. So when things get repetitive, I get anxiety and start to lose it. If my daughter begins to sing, “this is the song that never ends…” (The song is meant to actually never end) my palms get sweaty and my face gets hot.
As much as these concepts seem crazy, I refused to allow Sudan to push me into thinking I’m actually crazy. I have done some crazy things, but no, I don’t accept what he thinks of me. Self-love was/is the name of the game, and this year I gave myself the “face your fears” challenge. Face the fear of who I thought I was. Face my fear of failure. Face my fear of who I am and loving every single particle, ugly or not.
And that’s my love letter to you. There is nothing more important than your mental health, and self-love. If I can manage to love this person, who had a DUI, arrested for “drunk in public”, this person who had a restraining order against her, disallowing her from seeing her own child, this person who had made questionable career choices, and had done countless mistakes, surely you can most certainly love yourself. Rewire the brain, and indulge in everything that you are. But all in all, do everything with good intention. I promise, the karma payment is glorious.
Now, time for some yoga.

(Apple Music: Samson by Regina Spektor)