It Truly Is an Enigma
There's a special kind of confusion that comes with co-parenting alongside a high-conflict person. It's not the confusion of a crossword puzzle, where you know an answer exists. It's more like assembling furniture with instructions written by someone who wants you to fail. You follow every step, and somehow there's still a screw left over and the drawer won't close.
I know this feeling personally. And if you're reading this, I suspect you do too.
The Setup
Here's a scenario many of my clients will recognize. Your child is overdue for a routine physical, so you take the initiative and book it. Your child has always been on the smaller side, and as they get older, the doctor takes a closer look at their growth pattern and orders some routine labs to be thorough. Nothing alarming, nothing new. You take notes and send a clear, dated update to the other parent through your court-ordered co-parenting app. A few days later, your child goes in for the follow-up blood work the doctor ordered. Needles are not their favorite thing, and they have a brief panic reaction during the draw, but they get through it. You send another update covering exactly that, with the visit summary and lab orders attached. The app shows the other parent opened every message.
Then, days later, the other parent writes directly to the doctor. The message is polite, even pleasant. It says they're trying to get more information. It mentions that "the other parent shared" there was a visit, as if it were secondhand gossip overheard at the grocery store. It suggests they can't find the after-visit notes, as if you never shared any details at all.
The notes they opened. With a timestamp. And here's the fun part: they also have access to the patient portal, where they can see every lab that was ordered and every result that came back. But somehow, the story is that they've been left in the dark.
And then there's the panic attack. The message to the doctor mentions it, and that's all. No needle. No blood draw. No "days after the appointment." Just the words "panic attack," dropped in right next to the concerns and left there to do their work. Without the context you previously shared, it reads like your child is struggling and there's a much bigger health issue than anyone's letting on. In the version you actually wrote, your child went in for routine blood work, saw a needle, and got scared. That's it. No crisis. No trauma. Just a kid who, like a lot of adults I know, is not a fan of needles.
Same event, very different story. Leave out the context, and a routine checkup starts to look like a health scare, with you cast as the parent who didn't share anything.
You read it three times. You check the app. Still opened. You check it again, just in case the laws of physics changed overnight. Still opened.
It truly is an enigma.
Why They Do It
I've stopped trying to understand exactly why high-conflict people do what they do. I don't mean that in a bitter way. I mean I've learned it's not my job, and chasing that answer costs more energy than it returns.
What I do understand is the pattern. High-conflict behavior often shows up as creating confusion where none exists, then positioning themselves as the one trying to clear it up. It can be a bid for control, a bid for attention, or a way to reshape the story for a new audience. Sometimes it's all three before breakfast.
The goal, whether conscious or not, is usually to pull you into a reaction. Because once you react, the conversation stops being about the facts and starts being about the conflict. And conflict is their home field.
What Not Taking the Bait Looks Like
When I read that message to the doctor, my first instinct was to write a detailed, airtight rebuttal. I wanted timestamps. I wanted exhibits. I wanted a mic drop.
Instead, I sent three sentences. I confirmed the date I shared the visit summary and lab orders, attached proof, and clarified that the panic reaction was to the needle during the blood draw. No commentary about the other parent. No history lesson. No mention of the word "again," even though it was right there, begging to be used.
The doctor replied with the test results, thanked me for the clarification, and moved on to what mattered: my child's care.
And the other parent? Silence.
That's the part I want you to notice. When you respond with calm facts instead of emotion, there's nothing left to argue with. The drama runs out of fuel. You don't have to win the exchange. You just have to be the most credible person in it.
A Few Things That Help
If you're living some version of this, here's what I've found works, both in my own life and with the people I support:
Keep your communication in one documented place. Co-parenting apps exist for a reason, and "first viewed" timestamps are a quiet superpower.
Write to be read by a stranger. Assume a judge, a minor's counsel, or your child's doctor may one day read every word. If it would make you wince, rewrite it.
Keep providers out of the conflict. Doctors, teachers, and therapists are there for your child. Give them facts when needed, and leave the backstory at home.
Keep a simple log. Date, what happened, what the record shows. You'll be amazed how much clearer a pattern becomes when it's written down instead of replaying in your head at 2 a.m.
And finally, protect your peace. You don't need the other parent to admit they were wrong. The record already knows.
You Don't Have to Solve the Enigma
Here's what I've finally come to realize. They're not a mystery. It's their misery. And misery loves company, especially the kind that shows up angry, defensive, and ready to argue.
So don't RSVP. Your job isn't to crack the code or carry their misery for them. Your job is to keep your child at the center, keep your communication clean, and keep your energy for the things that actually deserve it.
If you're navigating a high-conflict co-parent and feel like you're the only one holding things together, you don't have to figure it out alone. I offer confidential consultations for parents who want a clearer strategy, calmer communication, and a little less 2 a.m. replaying.
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