Missing me

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

Missed call

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February 25th 2015 was the last time I spoke to my narc ex. I’d like to say the conversation was a good one but that would be a lie. Having said that, given the context it went as well as could be expected. It was calm, no shouting or name calling, no anger, which in all honesty is what I was prepared for. You see this was the day I sat with him holding in my hands his deepest darkest secrets. Exposing all he has worked so hard to hide for an entire life time.  I stood with him pitifully crying right in front of me as I told him of my discoveries; the tens of affairs, the prostitutes, the children, the grandmothers, the married women, the escorting, the gambling… All of which I had factual information on-names, dates, emails, photos you name it I had it all. Evidence so strong even he couldn’t deny it. He didn’t even try.  I had uncovered the real person in him.  Of course I had every right to be angry. To be upset. After all our marriage was a joke. Nothing more than sheer fantasy, a cover story for his depravity. Yet as I listened to his “I’m sorries” and “I’m going to make it right’s” all I could feel was compassion. I actually felt sorry for him. I mean who lives like that?  He is clearly Ill. He needs help. I wanted to help him. Maybe it was the maternal instinct in me but I wanted to hold him in my arms, rock him gently to a peaceful sleep, the kind of sleep that had escaped him for years under the weight of his dual life. He seemed almost relived that it was out. He was shocked, shocked that he had underestimated me and my ability to see the truth, of that I’m sure. Mortified that he had been de-masked, but relived none the less.

We parted ways. He left with my words of promise that I would never reveal the real him to a single soul. That I would help him through this. After all he was my best friend for 11 years and that’s what friends do. Right?

A few text messages passed between us over the following week. All nice, supportive messages, me telling him not be overwhelmed, for him to forgive himself, for him to remember that he is a good man. Just a man who made mistakes! Nothing out of the ordinary and certainly nothing that would suggest the plot he had hatched to silence me. that was heading my way. I had no idea the lengths he would go to in order to keep his front in tact. I had in fact underestimated him… Massively.

Then the messages stopped. Just like that. Then came the police.

Blackmail?

5 months of terror followed. Stress so sever that I lost my hair…along with almost half my body weight and my entire bank balance (and some) to lawyers! All to defend myself against his lies.

But not one more word from him.

Until now.

A missed call. It came almost two weeks ago now. And it’s played on my mind every day since. What could he possibly want now, after all this time, after all he had done?

Nothing im guessing. Nothing but to mess with my head. His narcissism will be craving the attention, he’s looking to feed the beast within.

I ignored the call. I had no intentions of responding in any way shape or form. But then the dreams started. Well nightmares actually. Night after night the same scenario played out during the dark wee hours…I’m in a flat, I don’t recognise it but I know it’s his. I discover recording devices in every room I enter. I’ve been set up. I start to run for the door, remembering to wipe my finger prints as I go. Then there he is. He is running from me. Scrambling in his dressing gown up the grassy verge outside the kitchen window. His face flushed with panic. Then I’m alone. Outside. It’s dark. I have no idea where I am and the Barron landscape is cruel not allowing me any signs of familiarity. I wake. Dazed upset confused.

For the past two weeks I’ve tried to figure this out. Until yesterday when I remembered something my therapist said to me when all this started. He told me that before I react to any situation – or make any decisions to step back and think of my future self. To see her stood in front of a mirror thinking of this moment. Will that lady be regretful or happy about the choice she made? He always told me that I have a surprisingly strong moral compass, and that despite the bs that has been thrown my way I have stayed true to my values and beliefs.

As I sit and think about that, let it resonate within, I ponder my choices and one keeps coming back as my real only choice. I have to respond. Not for him but for me, for the future me. Even if it is a game and all he wants is to see if he can get a reaction I don’t care. His motives are of no importance to me, my promises and values are. I always said that I would be there if he wanted to contact me, and I told myself that I would do whatever it took to bring this nonsense to an end. Promises men nothing to him but they do to me, so in the spirit of holding my end of the bargain I replied. Simply saying ” I’m assuming this was a mistake? But wanted to extend you the courtesy of double checking”

No emotion. No fluff.

He read it immediately but still hasn’t replied. I didn’t expect him to, deep down I know he wanted to see if I would reply, and I did. I have fed his ego. But that’s fine, I have silenced my mind. And slept well. that’s what matters. My future self would be proud..