Life after a narc

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!

 

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?!