There is a Greek myth that speaks of a Titan being chained to a rock while his liver is perpetually eaten by an eagle. Since he is immortal, his body regenerates at night and the torture begins anew the next day.
This is the closest allegory a mother can use to describe shared child custody.
It is the fresh hell of knowing that the smell of bubblegum toothpaste and strawberry bubble bath laying next to me will vanish within 12 hours.
It is the ceaseless horror of knowing that every five days of giggles, kisses, adventures and grown centimeters will be followed by the dull grief of a waking nightmare.
It is the feeling of a phantom limb.
It is a repeated Promethean mantra: "No, no. There is nothing left to take."
It is the realization that you are wrong. Once your meat is gone, the eagle will peck at your protons, electrons and neutrons. There is no end to this agony.
On nights like this, I doubt my sanity. My marriage was doomed, and staying would have spelled decades of misery, but...this...my god, this.
There is no rationalizing when that last hug hits your shoulders, all skinny limbs and inexplicable fierceness. There is no consolation in knowing that her life with daddy is equally as good but happening without you. There is no balance to the cognitive dissonance of hearing her voice on a phone from only 8 blocks away.
This is the most inhumane form of torture I can possibly think of.
