broken family

His Mum. A can of worms?

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Catch up

I recently apologised for being MIA and neglecting my blogging, trust me when I say this isn’t because I haven’t had anything to say in fact quite the opposite is true but being a working single mum is hard and I literally haven’t had time.

So I want to fill you in… let’s go back to just before the Christmas holidays…

Dec 15th, the run up to Christmas and my heart started to ache thinking about “His” mum. If I’m honest she’s not really my kind of woman- way too needy and pathetic for my liking- (maybe that explains a lot about him?) but she has always been nice to me and we do get along. Anyway her birthday was approaching as was Christmas and I couldn’t help feel sorry that she was missing out on so much with A. After all, none of what’s happened has anything to do with her so why should she suffer as a consequence of his actions, especially when so many others are already suffering as a result of his dirty hands?

*As a bit of context to this tale her other son, has two children that he allowed her to get close to, only to then walk away from them leaving her reeling in the pain of missing her grandchildren. Seeing her struggle with the injustice of that situation first hand for 11 years plays on my conscience. I’m not sure that I can do that to her again.

So after a number of long pep talks to myself…literally out loud…I found the courage to call her. Not knowing how she would respond had me anxious and nervous, pacing the room and chain smoking. I hadn’t spoken to her since Christmas 2014 when I took A to meet her for the first time. That meeting was awkward and unsettling to say the least. There was the largest pink elephant in the room that she did not want to acknowledge- to the point that she never even mentioned that fact that I was at least half the size that I was the last time we saw one another. Stoic and aloof she sat making small talk until we were done.

And that was that.

Things then between him and I took a nasty turn with all the threats, criminal charges, the lies, my job, the move back home, my breakdown. All of which fed into my fear of not speaking to her.

Too afraid to contact her to tell her what was happening for the risk that he would twist it in to some kind of harassment, stalking or slander accusation. So I didn’t. I stayed silent. She in turn NEVER contacted me either- not once. – her excuse was she had no contact detail for me which isn’t true, I had the same mobile number until Christmas, the same email address and she had my mums address… if she wanted to get in touch she could have.

Anyway I digress, but the fact that she hadn’t been in touch led me to contemplate what stories he had told her.

Honestly this one had, and still has me baffled. I swing from left to right like a child’s ball aimlessly rolling around in the wind. One day I’m sure he hasn’t told her a thing, maybe just that I won’t let him see the baby or I’m not returning his calls or messages… to the next day when I’m convinced that he has told her I’m some wild crazy woman stalking and blackmailing him all over Germany and she needs to stay away.

So all this was swilling around my mind as I picked up the phone and called her number. Sweaty palms, pounding heart. Would she welcome me? Would she hang up after delivering a barrage of abuse at me? Would he answer?

Then the ringing stopped and there she was. It took every ounce of energy in me to control the tremble in my throat as I said who I was. A held breath; a pause just long enough to assess her reaction… thankfully she seemed genuinely pleased to hear from me. Her voice soft and calm, she asked how I was.

After the niceties were done I explained my position; I’m happy for her to see the boys if she wants to, but I would also understand if she would rather not given the situation. She immediately jumped at the opportunity.

Surprisingly though, she requested that we do it after the holidays. Huh, that had me stumped. Her birthday was only a couple of days away and Christmas just after that, so I would have though she would like to see them as a little treat to herself during this time of love and forgiveness. Later that one all became clear when I found out that he had been home for the entire festive period and well in to January. It was clear she didn’t want him to know we were speaking!! That was good news for me.

We left the call with the agreement that I would contact her after Christmas to arrange a time and date, but not before she questioned me on why I had blocked her from Facebook. I strategically chose my words; “the situation between him and I was that sever and volatile that I had to remove all contact for mine and the boys’ safety” pause for reaction.

None came.

Strange… maybe he had said something? Maybe she felt as much? Maybe she just didn’t want to know?

I left it alone and tried where I could to have a great Christmas with my babies and family.

Then I started work in January, we all got ill. One after another for (I’m not joking on and off for two whole months) then came the last round of Narc manipulation and control; the threats he made on the run up to the court date. Then mine and O’s trip to Germany- which as you will note from my blog Sky’s Above caused me a large amount of anxiety, so all said and done contacting her just didn’t feel right. Dangerous. And simply put I just wasn’t ready for another battle or to expose myself and the boys to more pain and sadness.

After my trip to Germany and it seemingly all being quiet I felt that the time was right. So I called her again, March 24th and we arranged to meet on Easter Monday at her home.

I arrived with the plan that his name would not be spoken from lips.

Upon arrival I was bright and breezy, chipper as my southern counterparts would say.

My tone set the tone of the day as she in return was sweet and pleasant. The conversation was all around A & O, general chit chat you know. As I left I firmly told her that I was happy for her to see the boys as often as she liked. She had my number and to let me know when she wants to see them again. So that was that. Another fear faced.

Maybe I’ve done the wrong thing, maybe this will come to bite me in the ass when he finds out we are speaking, or maybe this will give him another source of supply, feeling like I’m doing this to be close to him… that couldn’t be further from the truth. Who knows. One thing I will say is I’m not going to waste my precious time and energy thinking about it. What will be will be… lets just see how long it takes for her to get in touch, that’s of course if she does…

The Gavel Fell

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I realise that I have not yet posted an update following my post day of reckoning so here it is.

The night before court

Wed Feb 10th 2016. Baby asleep, O doing his homework and me soaking in the bath. My head spinning with sickness. I flit (as I so often do) between tears of fear and of anger, but today more anger. The bath, my only solitude, washing away the signs of my sorrow. The vacuous sound of the taps flooding my surroundings with steaming hot water drowning out the deafening noise of my sobs.

The words still jumping from the page, replaying over and over in my mind as they have done since I first heard them through my lawyers’ voice on Monday.

“If your client refuses to settle out of court and agree to my clients demands he will move ahead with his legal right to raise a civil case against her for the illegal obtaining of his personal data”

Yes, I had access to his data. Access that he gave me when he begged to come home after D-day. It was one of my many conditions in allowing him home, and one he agreed to freely. And I have emails to prove it. But given my past brush with the German law (thanks to his mucky hands), it’s guilty until proven innocent and I simply don’t have anything else left in me to draw on if needed to fight.

I’m scared. Really scared. My O wants so desperately to return to his adopted home. To see his friends. The friends who carried him through things that no child should ever see or hear. Friends that he won’t ever see again if he makes good on his threat.  Right or wrong how can I do that to my boo? My principles and stubbornness don’t count any more, as much as I hate it, I have to agree… you all know as a parent its engrained on us to protect our children. An innate desire to see them happy. My boo is not happy. And god only knows how that kills me each and every day. If I don’t agree we won’t ever be able to return to our beloved Germany without the dread and embarrassment of being arrested as a result of his lies. His desperation. His cowardliness.

Anger sets in

I lie, still in the tub… my sobs quieten… my breathing quickens.

How dare he threaten me again after all he had already done! How dare he harass me again! How dare he try in his typical narcissistic bullying style to manipulate me so he can get his own way! How dare he dictate to me what I must do!!

Then the thought strikes, he doesn’t have any control here, he is the scared one not me!

I am prepared to stand in that court room and answer whatever is thrown at me. To have every last transaction for the past 12 months scrutinised. After all I have been honest. A trait that simply escapes him, a word he will never know the meaning of.

I had to ask myself;

“What was it that was holding him back?”

Seeing me? Maybe…It’s possible that I am the mirror he just cannot face; I am the reality that he is running from. Out of sight and out of mind for so long, now due to stand face to face and he cannot bear the thought.

No that’s not it.

It’s the fraud. Yes, THAT’S it.

You see, I showed my hand in the questions I raised on his, well, fictional financial documents. Documents that not only demonstrated, yet again, how little he thought of my intelligence whilst ironically proving his own lack of intellect.

Did he not think that I would spot the four police fines for solicitation? The interest hitting his account from a USA trust company- an account he failed to declare! The gaps in rental payments, the lack of utility payments and the transfers in and out to Gabi… (One of the MANY Other Women, whom, as a side note has a surname which literally translates to Limp-leg… Or as I prefer Lame ass! he he), would I not realise that he was living with her? Nor did he think I wouldn’t see the bailiff payments for his failure to pay council tax, or the blatant TAX evasion.  Oh what about the 54,000-euro loan that he claimed to have! The one he somehow managed to get on his 80K salary without any asset to secure it on. One for which there is no evidence of anywhere in his accounts never mind any repayments being made…

The penny has dropped…He cannot stand in a court room and answer questions on these so called “facts” without either being charged with perjury or fraud.

Gumption

I rise from my hide away tub and go to the office, wrapped in a towel but still dripping, my skin prickling as the cold air hits. Lifting a pen and a piece of paper I begin to weigh up the pros and cons of what’s on the table. The “agreement” I must abide by to avoid prosecution was nothing more than a joke. Obviously it’s stacked in his favour. If I agree, as it stands then I walk away with little more than a week’s childcare worth of money as my son’s maintenance.

Nope. That’s not how this was going to go. I turned my pen to making a different list. A list of my demands. My gumption was on the rise. I spill all that anger, all that pain on to the stark white A4 paper positioned square in front of me.

All of a sudden I feel light. Warm, despite my now chattering teeth.

The day of reckoning

I rise early. I prepare to look my best. I’m prepared to go in there and fight but more importantly I’m prepared to walk away with nothing and that gives me strength. It gives me power to overcome his attempts at intimidation. After all I’m secure in the belief that truth will prevail, and if nothing else, I stood up for what I believed in.

My thoughts are disturbed by the sound of my ringing phone. The name highlighted, illuminating the inevitable conversation with my lawyer.

She, in her usual forceful way launches in to her “Right now what we need to do is… blah blah”.

“Stop Christine! I have made some decisions and I wont be changed. I need you to take these down and tell him it’s this or court.”

“Ah ok”

I start to talk, after each point she intervenes “but a court wont agree to that” or “That’s more than he would have to pay if…”

Again I stop her.

“This isn’t about what a court would agree, this is about seeing exactly how scared he is of facing his judgement day, of seeing me, of risking prison.” “it’s this or court!”

“Ok” the line goes quiet. I dry my hair, smoke another cigarette.

I arrive at my mums’ house two hours before the time we are due in court, 45 minutes before I meet my lawyer. My phone buzzes with the dulcet tones of her calling me. I answer with trepidation.

“Its done!” “he agreed it all” she goes on “I tell you, you are one smart cookie, I cannot believe that you have managed to get all that from him!”

I’m speechless. I’m elated. Yet I’m weirdly empty. I had prepared myself for yet another “worse day of my life” moment. It’s gone, it’s over… I won!!! No court, well at least not for me. She and his (and again I use this term loosely, lawyer- (£500 all in lawyer)) go and have it all legally agreed so it’s binding. No wriggle room here big boy. And that’s it.

I go in to mums house, and I cry. Sob in fact. I hear mum, upon hearing me cry “what’s happened, what’s wrong?” All I could muster was “I WON”   She held me tight as she has done ‘oh so many times and I feel her shake in her embrace.

A couple of weeks have now past and the thought that he just wouldn’t sign, wouldn’t follow through continued to plague me throughout. But sign he has. The money has, well for A’s support at least, hit my account- so far so good.

So that’s it. I now choose when to make the divorce final, but I have one last condition that needs to be settled, but once it is I’m out. He is someone else’s problem. Or in his case many other people’s problem as from what I see there are still many more outside of “LAME ASS” … buying what he’s selling.

I’d like to end this post on a note. To all you ladies fighting with this system, these disgusting cowardly men, stand strong. Know yourselves and what you are worth. Don’t be bullied or scared by Narcissistic tactics and know when they hit out like this its because you called them on their bull shit. They’ve lost control and they hate it.

Who knows he may have already plotted my demise, I certainly don’t think I’m going to get away with this long term. he will strike again. But I won once and I will again. So too shall you!

 

Another milestone

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A couple of weeks ago one of my followers commented on one of my previous posts asking why I hadn’t or if I ever planned to write about “D Day”.  My reply was that it was just too painful to do so at this time but yes I eventually would.  Then last week this photo appeared in my Facebook memories feed…The announcement of my second pregnancy. Posted two years ago to the day, Feb 28th.

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It took me right back. To that place. You see I posted that picture tagging him in, strategically. And, as expected, within moments my news feed notifications sprung alive with messages of congratulations and love for me and my husband from friends and family near and far. I sat alone in my big cold German home with tears gushing down my sullen face watching the tally rise into the hundreds, comment, like, comment, like. I honestly don’t think there was anyone in our network who hadn’t seen it. Good.

You see what most people didn’t realise was that on this day, one of the two happiest days of my life, or what should have been was actually the worst. Known forever more as D Day…

My husband had left me for another woman only a matter of hours previous. Me 10 weeks pregnant. My posting of that picture- when the only other person in the world who knew at that time was Oliver, was not in celebration, to share my joy with the world, it was out of anger. If he was going to walk out on me I was going to make sure everyone knew that he had left me pregnant.

The following day also happened to be another significant day. Feb 29th. A leap year. 11 years ago to the day we got engaged. I’m not sure if it’s poetry in motion or an evil twist of fate that these two things coincided the way that they did, the beginning and the end of something wonderful nestled next to each other, hand in hand like sleeping twins… so close and yet so far. 11 years of a love cherished, memories made, traditions created, dreams realised, hopes shared, pain halved, struggles survived, successes celebrated and a child raised. Gone in the blink of an eye.

I sit today thinking about these two dates, the significance of yet another couple of milestones achieved, anniversaries past and rather than be sad about it, I’m celebrating. I’m celebrating because these dates just crept up on me. Without warning or notice. Bang there they were. Telling me that I’m done, at last; I was no longer dreading events, counting the days- forever looking back, I didn’t even notice that these dates were here already until they appeared on my feed.

Does this mean I’m healed? Well I wouldn’t go that far i clearly have a lot of issues to deal with (you’ll hear more about those soon) but one thing is for sure I am on my way. And that makes me smile. So today  I smile signing my divorce papers, knowing that i won. I won Financially, Emotionally and Physically, and i have my boys to celebrate with.

For those of you waiting to hear about D day you will. I’m ready. So watch this space over the coming weeks!

Sunday Mornings

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Our churchToday I’m in a funk. Actually I’ve been in this funk for a few days now. Maybe it’s just the time of year, dark gloomy weather combined with the memories of the past Christmas, my first alone in oh, such a long time. My first with Albert. Or possibly it’s just sheer exhaustion gained from a gregarious baby who is simply refusing to sleep! Either way I’m feeling low.

I shouldn’t really be sad, I mean I sit here today cosy in my warm home, the wind blowing a gale outside my window. Albert’s snuggled in under my chin watching Christmas movies both of us in our pj’s and Oliver still in bed… He is a teenager after all. What could be better?

Well it’s Sunday morning. Which for as long as I can remember was my time. Prior to our moved to DE “he” would take Oli out for an adventure and give me an extra hour or two in bed. Bliss! We playfully called it “daddily duddly” time! The “adventure” itself may have only been going for a hair cut or a trip to the supermarket but let’s face it, time alone with daddy to a little boy is always exciting.

Oli loved their mornings together. On their return he would babble away about the games they played whilst driving; who won at eye spy and that daddy cheated, as always! Him beaming at his happy boy and the fun they had. A proud daddy for sure! Me happy with the love in my home. Life was good!

Then we moved to DE and the ritual of me time continued. The only difference being without the sleep. I would potter on in to town to meet my ladies. Two amazing ladies might I add!

Sunday morning breakfast became our church. We complained about the kids, the husbands, the other mum’s, chevron stripes, work etc but we always laughed. God we laughed! Especially when it came to ordering (in our broken German) which often went something like this…
“drei Omelettes mit Schinken und Käse bitte”
“drei?”
“Ja.”
“mit Schinken und Käse?”
“Ja!!!”
“Omelettes?”
“JA!”

Her-Huffs gets stress, cannot understand three women ordering three breakfasts.

Us- roll eyes, giggle- why doesn’t she get this? Every week it’s the same ritual?? Seriously even our German isn’t that bad!

During the summer we would sit outside basking in the sun for way too long; batting off calls from the kids fighting back home, or texts from the hubby asking where we put whatever unimportant object he couldn’t find, because it’s not right under his nose.
We would plan our next outing – generally a beer festival of some kind, or just a good old drinking session! During the winter we moved inside drowning in layer upon layer of German winter protection!

We would reminisce of times past, friends absent – still missed, but we always laughed. Regardless of the seriousness of the topic of the day these ladies knew just how to take any situation and take the piss. Even surviving cancer didn’t escape our gentle teasing!

On the occasions my ladies and I didn’t meet, “he”, Oli and I would do something together. Go to a flomarkt, visit a new town, go for a bike ride or simply go for breakfast together in one of the hundreds of cafes on our doorstep. It was great family time. Once again I felt so blessed for the joy and love in my home. Life in my eyes couldn’t have been better. Clearly he and I were not on the same page…he took advantage of my “me time” to get some “him” time  and the second I left the house he dashed off to shag his slutty mistress of the day!

After “D day” breakfast with my bitches continued but now we had a new team member in Albert!
Loved and pamper by my girls the poor kid was swapped between them a million times during those few hours together.
The laughing had slowed as they listened sympathetically to whatever new piece of information I had to share on the state of my once happy life and marriage. Even after weeks and months of story’s of his disgraceful behaviour they still sat and listened to my endless whining. Always offering support, words of love, of strength.
Often shocked at the new revelation but yet not surprised. Even back then, with the little we knew of exactly what he had been doing, we wouldn’t have put anything past him. He was capable of anything! And has proven as such a million times over.

Those breakfasts were my sanctuary, my safety, my sanity! And today they are still so precious to me, so much so, as I sit here today I miss it so much it hurts.

God bless you ladies and the memories you’ve given me. I hope and pray that this Devine universe will one day give us all Sunday morning breakfast together once again!

xxx

It still hurts

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On this exact day 12 months ago I visited my estranged husband in his new flat. At this point he had been gone just over two months and we hadn’t spoken a word in over a month.

He just went AWOL in typical narc style he just shut me out, totally and completely. Like I never existed, we – he and I, our children and I never existed.

He was shocked to see me there, understandably so, as he never expected that I would find out where he live. Find out I did. And so there we were. Dead of night, snow on the ground and over an hours drive from where I lived, we lived. Standing face to face.

On the drive over I was terrified what I would find there, how I would react actually seeing him. What he may say. Would she be there? But when the moment came it was clear he was more petrified than I.

Calmly I told him I only wanted a few moments of his time, that I had a few things to say and then I’d go.    He stepped aside and let me in. Observant as always I couldn’t help but notice his pitiful existence, our old garden furniture as his dining room table (actually there wasn’t a dining room just a kitchen and living room, no bigger than out old family bathroom). No niceties, no photos. Just his books and DVDs adorning the nasty ikea shelving.

Big shot Director hey?!

Sitting in the corner I spy a pair of Dr Martin boots. The rebel in him, of course he knew I hated them; we used to joke about him “not being allowed” them, so it’s not a shock to me that the second he is “free” he goes right out and buys a pair… #midlifecrisis!

Anyway I make my way in and start my well rehearsed speech. Me perched on the window sill, him on the edge of the old sofa bed from Oliver’s bedroom, his  eyes firmly set on the floor. I tell him that I forgive him. That he is a good man. I don’t care who he is with or what he is doing but I can’t allow him to make the mistakes he is making without at least trying to make him see sense. That the only people who really matter in all this mess are the boys. Our boys. All we need to do is to pull together; communicate and we can make it work without hostility or conflict. We didn’t have to be “one of those couples”

Albert is in the car seat in the floor. He hasn’t even looked at him. I remove him gently from his harness and place him smiles beaming on his knee. I tell him that he loves to sing “if your happy and you know it”. To my surprise he starts singing it, clapping Albert’s hands with the rhythm. Albert of course giggles and charms in his special little way. My heart melts.

For a moment, he is smiling, engaging, I see the old him. The him I fell in love with, not this shadow of a man who is now no more than a stranger to me. But it’s over as quickly as it began, as he takes to his feet and hands Albert back to me. And he’s gone.. Retreated back in to his new cold hard emotionless shell. Never to be seen again!

And so we are done.  I leave but not before I see him hide his tears. The mother in me wants to make it better, I’m compelled to. I place Albert down and I hold him. At first it’s awkward. He just stands there, then slowly he let’s go and holds me back as he cries. I tell him everything will be ok, to let it go.

Ops..I hit a nerve. He pushes me away and paces up and down the room, animatedly telling me I don’t understand; he’s done so many terrible things, he had so much to deal with. I offer to help. I’m refused.

I leave to take the long, cold and frankly dangerous drive home but I feel calm. Hopeful. There’s a part of me that feels like I’ve reached him. Now I’ll give him space and when he is ready we can then move forward.

A couple of weeks later. My optimism is shattered. Divorce papers. Filed on Nov 2nd. He had already filed when I saw him and yet he never even mentioned it, and his reasoning…such lies. I mean not slight exaggerations just out and out lies.
Here’s a snippet! ” he was trapped in our marriage due to me being totally and utterly dependant on him for everything” “I treated him like a Slave” “I never took any responsibility for the home or the raising of my son from a previous relationship!”

No mention of his affairs, his illegitimate child – 6 weeks older than Albert, or the fact that I was the higher earner and supported him out of work on three occasions, that he moved in with me in to my home, I did all the running around with Oliver, we had a cleaner in the home and I did all the cooking and shopping, paying bills etc

So I ask, define slave please? define dependant! No let’s go with an easy one-define trapped!

Little did I know at that point exactly how much of a liar he really was, a real fantasist. But it wouldn’t take long for that story to be told..and sadly it’s not done yet!

Day after day more information comes to me. Most of which I ignore. But I can’t help but wonder where did he go wrong. Where did we go wrong? What could I have done to help.. I mean I know this isn’t my fault but maybe if I had seen the signs earlier it might not have got this far.

Then today, 12 months on I receive yet another surprise package of delightfulness. Videos (of the xxx nature), messages between him and maybe another 6-7 women, lots of photos of more women, new ones, some have children. More innocent lives in the process of being ruined.

My stomach turns. My hands shake and I light a cigarette.

It still hurts!

For Fuck’s sake! It still hurts!

I hate that it gets to me and I’m choking on my own words even saying it, but it’s true. I don’t love him that I know, and I’ll never ever have him in my life again but it hurts to see this.

The sweet photos quotes he used to send me now go elsewhere – in multiples! He plays with someone else’s child yet ignores ours… Where’s the logic in that?  He clearly likes being a dad or maybe it’s just easier to get a single mum for a fat, overly hairy yet balding middle-aged man wearing Dr Martins, the kids just part of the deal.

That aside and back to me; Degraded, stupid, embarrassed and sad. That’s what this does to me, still 12 months on. Will it ever stop?!

Friends are the best!

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I talk a lot about the women who helped me through my dark, desperate hours. Women, ladies – friends who have often call me inspirational without realising the irony in that small statement.

Irony?

Yes indeed, you see, those women; no friends, were my strength, my inspiration!! Despite the miles between us, to this day they pop up from time to time with words of comfort, joy and silliness all of which mean so much to me that words simply fail me!

Case in point…

This morning I woke, logged on to Facebook and found a message from one of those ladies that literally bought me to tears… Happy tears!
A darling lady, an ex colleague and an amazing friend from Germany- someone who just appeared by my side and has not left it- albeit in spirit now we have a sea between us, posted a song to my timeline with the comment;   “this is your anthem”!

It’s a beautiful song about strength and power. Continuing to fight on despite the size of the battle. It’s just lovely and I have to say I did get a kick of empowerment to continue on – not just for myself but for all the other women out there still grafting to survive yet another day.

So today my darling friend, this post is for you. Little do you know that YOU are my inspiration! You are a tower of sheer steel wrapped in a perfect package of giggles, sarcasm and gossip (all my best features reflected in you!) a truly selfless person who has done more for me than I could ever repay. You took time away from your children, your work? your life just to hold me up. It didn’t go unnoticed!

So to you beautiful lady – thank you… You know who you are!

And.. To pass the baton…To every other woman out there needing a spot of inspiration for your weekend… Listen, enjoy, embrace x

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=e8qDOGLCSFo&feature=youtu.be

 

 

Stranger Danger

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As children we are warned of the boogie man, the stranger offering sweets on the streets, the man alone in the park. We are taught to protect ourselves from the dangers of the unknown. The dark side of society, portrayed as the big bad wolf hiding, lurking in the shadows. We are armed with knowledge and we tighten our defences.

Then we grow up. We dream of love. We imagine our own fantasy fairy tale. The picture perfect partner to share our lives with. Someone to cherish, challenge, support and respect. We long for butterflies in the tummy; a passion that leaves our mouths dry and palms sweaty. We live for that racing heart and trembling legs euphoria of real unfiltered love. Of course we kiss a few frogs along the way, and we all suffer from soul sucking heart-break somewhere down the road. And it changes us. We learn, we grown, we go back to protection mode as taught to us in our youth. But then, there he is…your person. The other side of you. Your complete; in perfect harmony together. We open ourselves up. We give ourselves freely. You trust him with your heart, your soul, your secrets, your dreams, your deepest desires…your fears. You are at your most vulnerable. But that’s ok, those lessons mamma taught you don’t apply here.

Right?

After all you know him. You know everything about him. Don’t you?

So what happens when these two opposing worlds collide?

When evil resides behind the mask of Prince Charming… your perfect partner is the stranger. The con man, the opportunist, the master manipulator, liar, thief, adulterer, pervert… Narcissist! An unrecognisable person whom the very thought of chills you to the bone, leaving your once rampant hot blood running cold. What do you do?

It’s tempting to build a wall of protection that could rival Berlin around your very being, to crumple like your once sweaty sex sheets on the floor, to gather your army of bitterness and fire killer words without aim, or simply to retreat. Hide away licking your wounds of shame, despair and sorrow.

Then what? You live alone, to afraid to move on, to be vulnerable again, scared to be happy because you know – you just know it’s gonna happen again!!! Nope not me, I remember the lessons that mama taught me. This time I may go a little slower, I place my feet with a touch more caution, but I get up. Over, and over again. After all you can’t keep a good woman down.

Despite the new knowledge of his continued and deepening disgraceful behaviour now in my possession I feel strangely calm. I’m no longer shocked. I feel no shame. No hurt. No fear. No hatred. No self-pity. I’ve cleansed myself, literally and figuratively. I’m Shiny and new. Not the same person in any way shape or form, but I love that. The fear of the unknown, the anticipation of the life that is waiting for me forces my heart to beat faster and stronger than it ever did before. Any pain or hurt I may feel in the future will be embraced as it simply tells me I’m still alive, I’m taking risks and I’m living really living!

Now I’m forearmed and protected after all I now know the stranger once in my bed.

A year of firsts

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I sit here this morning, this bright yet chilly September morning, reflecting. I’m melancholy, I’m confused. Honestly I’m a disaster zone, a mass of war-torn wreckage scattered with the landmines that are my pent-up emotions; poised to explode at any given moment often with no trigger other than a flash of memory. A momentary lapse of concentration allows my mind to veer, accessing the part of my brain that I have done so much to lock away. Pulling forward the lovely comforting warm memories of what life was like precisely one year ago.

Sept 24th 2014 I was smitten head over heels in love. Drugged with happiness holding my new baba Albert close to my overwhelmed, ready to burst heart, surrounded by my little family; Oliver the doting big brother and him… My “husband”
Things were at last perfect. I couldn’t have been happier.
I watched as my big strong yet often silent husband tended to our fragile, shiny baby boy.
So gentle, so loving. And all the pain from the past year was gone. This was our time. This was going to be the making of us. We were so happy at last.

We had already had a tough year. No a shitty fucked up year. A year in which “he” turned my world upside down. His selfishness, his fear of truth, his lack of morals or respect drove me to the brink of insanity over and over again. Little did I know that things were about to get much, much worse.

A year of discovery, of firsts eagerly awaited my arrival. The first affair I discovered, the first illegitimate child to another woman, the second the third. The gambling, the lost jobs, the many married women, the prostitutes, the divorce papers, the loss of my job, the criminal charges he claimed against me, the lies he told… All to keep his secrets safe.

Now one year on I’m still holding my babe in my shaking arms whilst I read the complexed documentation
that landed on my doorstep this morning from my lawyer. My divorce lawyer.
The documentation which picks over the bones of what I believed to be our once happy marriage. 11 years with a man whom I loved unconditionally. The man I put on a pedestal, only to watch him fall. Try as I did to catch him he was, and still is determined to hit the self destruct button whilst all I can do I stand by and watch.
And there, right there lies the source of my confusion.

This is the fate he chose for himself. This is the result of his choices not mistakes, conscious decisions. He took all I had, everything I built for us and threw it away with such vengeance, such disregard for the consequences, not just for him and I but for those around us but especially our children.

For that I hate him. Yet conversely I see his fate, I see the darkness that is heading his way, the shadow that he will forever live under is slowly wrapping itself around him and he is oblivious. His sad existence consumes me. I pity him. He does not deserve my pity but nonetheless I do.
I have spent months-12 to be clear trying to understand my part in all this and now I do. I see it clearly. He was, no is, intimidated by me. My success, my friendships, my ability to love, to show empathy. To live a clean regret free life and he hates me for it.

Now I’m happy with my boys. I’m celebrating all I have, and every single day I feel blessed to have these two amazing characters by my side. I no longer love “him” and I no longer think about “him” and I know for sure that I never want him in my life ever again. So as we teeter on the edge of the one year mark I can’t help but to reflect on this past year of firsts. But now I look back and I see this year of firsts differently. I see a year of watching Oliver turn into a beautiful young gentleman, of Albert, babbling, smiling, crawling, walking, eating solids. I see all those amazing moments that we created together and most importantly I see a new year of firsts on our horizon. One in which he won’t feature.
So in this new year of first I will stand strong, I will smile at your craziness, I will pity your sad existence and I embrace all you have to throw at me good bad and indifferent. I will continue to celebrate the joys of my life and I will love my boys enough for both of us!

Hurting Heart

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06.59am, Sunday morning. A simple Sunday morning just like every other. The sun is just peeking through the crack of my cheap velour Ikea curtains. Through the damp haze which blurs the usually sharp outline I can tell there is a chill in the air. The kind of chill that signals the start of September, a change is a foot.

Yet today I don’t welcome the morning. I feel heavy. So, so heavy. I glance across at my Albie. My beautiful precious baby boy. He’s still. Not his usual babbling self, climbing and grabbing at me in an effort to wake me from my blissful slumber. He feels the weight. The pressure of the day that is to come. He lies still, watching me. His ever evolving eyes bearing deep inside me. Eyes that have so much soul, so deep for a baby not yet 12 months old, too deep for one so young.

Our eyes connect and I feel his sadness, my sadness reflected. My glance is distracted by a black mark on the silk pillow. The evidence of what transpired last night. The mark of my turmoil. The stains of my tears leaving a physical mark for all to see, unlike the ones hidden; buried deep inside me, locked away for eternity. Those tears, all those heavy heartfelt tears, the tears I cried for him and his betrayal. The tears I cried for a love lost, a life forgotten and memories never made. Now stained, no – tattooed deep on to my core. But these tear stains are not for him. I won’t cry any more tears for him. I can’t.

Those stains were made crying for another heart, a hurting heart, an angry heart. The broken heart of my innocent Oliver. Too old to be sheltered too young to understand, nevertheless he feels the pain, the grief, he mourns a life that will never be. All those emotions too complicated to express a vocab not yet mature enough to articulate the complexities of thoughts rolling around his mind. As if puberty wasn’t enough to handle he now has a whole new life to navigate. A life he didn’t ask for, a life he doesn’t want, but yet this is the life he has.

So it’s not surprising, I guess, that today I wake to the aftermath of his wroth. An anger derived from hurt, a burden carried for so long that it finally exploded like a disturbed volcano. Molten larva sprayed all over me, yet I’m frozen to the spot. All I can do is watch as my freckled-face boy breaks his heart. His tears gushing like burst dams down his face. Teeth clenched and fists balled as his shouts and screams that this is all my fault. I’m ruining his life. I’ve ruined his life!! After all I married that man, so by default I did this, I caused it. I’m the root of his turmoil.

In the heat of the moment, the rawness of emotion over comes me and so we stand, fighting fire with fire. Words are spoken, words that will never be forgotten, words that can never be undone. Another line in the tattoo permanently left deep on the soul. This time his soul. An innocent soul. The real victim in all this.

He goads me to hit him as I stand holding Albie, his physical touch shocks me. Shoving me and pushing me, a sight I thought I would never see. That’s not him. That’s not my sweet gentle boy. I’m scared, angry and ashamed. Ashamed that I failed him. I failed him on every level. I failed to teach him how to express himself without violence, I failed to teach him right from wrong, I failed to make him feel safe. Surely  that’s every basic human’s right.; to feel safe? To know you’re loved? Yet standing here right now reflecting on what has been, I know he doesn’t. He feels let down, disappointed in me. The one person in the world a boy should be able to rely on is his mother. I failed to protect him from the harsh reality of life, from the cruelness this world has to offer.

Eventually we go to our corners, him crying in his solitude, me in mine. I can’t stand it. The echo of his sobs consume the house. A house not yet a home. Sure it has our “stuff” in it. But there’s no joy – no laughter -no memories to recall in times of need. Only sadness and fear fills this house.

Despite my anger, my tears, I go to him. To my baby boy. I hold him. I make him feel my love. He doesn’t want it. I feel his resistance, his defences are up. He bristles as I touch him. But I am stronger in my embrace. Eventually he weakens and he holds me back. It’s a small gesture. It’s my apology it’s my silent way of saying, “I’ll do better tomorrow”. ” I’ll try again to steal away your pain”. Then to sleep.

Now here, in the mist of daybreak I’ll collect myself. Try to gather some strength, some words of comfort, someway to heal the wounds of a mindless senseless war in which my child is the victim and I pray for peace. Not quiet peace but peace of mind for my baby boy. My boo.

Until then I will carry your hurting heart. x