Email I didn’t send

Hi Mom-

I know you probably won’t want to hear my problems, but I’m feeling quite down and just need to talk to someone, I guess. I hope you don’t mind to much.

The money problem has gotten out of hand. I submitted a new claim for my tax credits back in February, they won’t give you an update for 3 weeks, so after the 3 weeks went by, I called to see what was happening. They told me a letter had been sent out, and I’d have to wait to receive that, so I waited. A full seven days after it was posted, I received it. Apparently I had done something on the claim to indicate to them that Lizzy is not a real person, and they wanted her birth certificate and passport. So, I sent that off, even overnighted it to them. They got it over two weeks ago, and I called them every day for over a week trying to get an update, which they wouldn’t give me. I received her documents back on Saturday, but still no word on the benefit.

Of course, I was relying on this benefit to pay the rent last month, and when it didn’t come through, I couldn’t pay the rent. The landlord turned up two days after the rent was due and was a complete prick, demanding to know where *his* money was! I explained to him what the problem was and that I was sure it would be sorted out within the week, as this was the guidance given to John when he went into one of the walk in centers to ask. I was in full panic mode last week and called the land lords office and spoke to one of the ladies there, told her what the problem was and as far as I knew it was just a case of verifying my daughter was a real person and then putting the claim through, but that they would not tell me anything else. I also told her when my housing benefit payments come through and that I was expecting one imminently, and would forward it to the landlord bank account as soon as I received it. She agreed, and as luck would have it, the payment came through the next day, so I went straight over to their bank and deposited it into their account. I told her the second payment for April would be made when the next housing benefit payment came through (I get two a month), and that the whole of Marchs rent would be paid as soon as the tax credit thing went through. She agreed this would be ok. (I havent had any other problems paying the rent the entire two years we’ve lived here!)

What’s worse is that everyone keeps asking me what I’ve done with Marchs housing benefit money. “Well, thats supposed to pay your rent, not the tax credit!”, and acting like I’m drinking it or putting it in my arm or something. The housing benefit comes in as two separate payments, I pay the rent as one payment. All the money goes in from the various sources throughout the month and it all goes out again. Do they think I’ve got fecking jars sitting around labelled with what the various bits of money are for?!

Well, the damn landlord turned up again today! Practically barged his way into the house and shouted at me, with the kids in the front room, that if I didn’t pay him by the end of the week, I’d be out! I was furious, what a jerk!!!! I told him I felt that was incredibly harsh, given I’d lived here two years and hadn’t had this trouble before, that I’d explained to him and the secretary what was happening, and I was doing everything I could to sort it out and that I had just made an agreed payment to him not 4 days ago! After that he stopped acting like such an evil little jerk, bit he was still being awful “We’re a business, we’ve got mortgages to pay!” So, what- throwing my family out and making us homeless over this issue is going to get you where? You’ll have to pay to get a court order to evict us, then redecorate the house, clean the carpets, buy new appliances, plus put it on the market and get what? In this market, probably much less than what we are paying for it! How much are you going to be making off of it during that wait? What a jerk.

So, midnight has come and gone, all our money is gone and we are in the negatives again. Bank charges, groceries, etc. There wasn’t much there, anyway. If the tax credit money was going through today, it would have hit the account at midnight. (The tax credit money is about £1k a month, and is usually backdated three months, so if it ever comes through, it will be… very helpful) I’m so worried and scared and so out of options. John appealed losing his job and they are investigating, officially he is no longer with the company, but apparently he should be getting paid while the investigation is being completed. That would help, but no guarantee of anything. I just can’t believe it’s gotten to this point.

I feel like such a worthless individual. I’ve worked so hard, have tried so hard to do the right things and provide for my kids and I just can’t seem to get it right. Nothing is ever right, it’s like the story of my life. I feel like walking into the sea and just letting it swallow me. These children are better off without me, surely I’m just destroying their lives? I keep trying to have faith in the universe, and tell myself that it will provide, but… it’s not providing, or at least I can’t see it.

I know it’s all self pity and stupidity, but I don’t even care anymore.

As a last ditch effort to save us from becoming homeless I’ve decided I have no option left but to advertise myself as an escort. If I get any decent business, it would be cash in hand & help immensely. Tomorrow is my first official day, so hopefully the phone rings.

I’m sorry to lay this on you, I know it’s all dark and horrid. I just, can’t keep it bottled up, I keep bursting into tears all the time and just really attacking John with it, and he is so weak and fucked up already, he can’t deal with it. I can’t eat and can’t sleep and I’m so on edge and terribly impatient with the children. I just needed someone to talk to, someone I could be open and honest with.

Please don’t tell anyone about this, especially anyone in the family. Love you and hope you’re well, thanks for reading this.

Me

start up

Wow. So, I guess I’m really doing this escort thing. Not exactly the business I’ve ever pictured myself starting…Bought a special pay as you go phone yesterday and a fair amount of “sexy” underwear. I just think it’s awful, I feel fat and disgusting in it.

But, there are apparently men out there who like that sort of thing. Who am I to judge? I just need the money.

I’ve resigned myself to this course of action, it’s my only option, so no point in getting worked up about it anymore. I guess my biggest fear is that I’ll get up and running, start a website, advertise and nothing will happen.

That would suck.

 

Though, maybe I’d be a tiny bit grateful as well…

Fuck That.

We argued today, he and I. It doesnt much matter what it was about. Only that I suggested he try something, he told me he didn’t think it would work, and I pointed out that his statement was wrong, that he was, perhaps over thinking it.

He didn’t want to listen and so he offered his opinion again. I thought about it, turned it over in my head and came to the same conclusion. Tried to explain it a different way. We both became frustrated. The worst part is that he always ends up angry, emotional. I always turn into the bad guy. If I tell him that I feel he is completely discounting my knowledge and my opinion, even patronizing me, he will tell me that I do nothing but tell him he’s wrong. That all I ever do is ask him his opinion, just so I can shoot it down. I told him during this argument that he was wrong. Not in a horrible, nasty way. Not as a means of putting him down, it was more just matter of fact.  “Oh, no- that’s wrong, actually it’s this.” That sort of thing.

For this I was punished. He ended up sobbing on the couch, head in hands. Accused me of being “uppity”, and then said “Well, if I wasn’t suicidal before, after talking to you I sure am now!” I don’t know why this hurt me so much. This is fairly standard stuff with him. He is passive aggressive and can’t deal with any confrontation, so whenever things get tense, he turns into a ball of tears that simply lashes out.

But, these words hurt. He said that talking to me made him feel suicidal. He called me uppity.  I’m not uppity. But, I was badly bullied as a kid. I’m terrified of people, and so I don’t make friends easily. When I do make friends, I usually screw it up because I am so awkward and never know what to say or do.  I use “big words”, and it puts people off, I like to talk about politics and books and interesting stuff and it seems that nobody else wants to talk about this stuff.  So, I am as terrified of being seen as uppity as I am of just talking to people. It just seemed like a really mean thing to say. I won’t even get into the suicidal stuff. Can you just imagine being told that by your spouse, who professes their love for you regularly?

I’m not mean to him. I get frustrated and I have said things once or twice that I’ve regretted. But, I am never just so flat out mean to him. He destroyed me. I’ve got a social services planning meeting next week, with all those fucking important people, who know the worst possible secret you could have, and some see me every day.  People who look at me and judge me, because of what he did and my decision to stay married to him. People who are just waiting for me to fuck up, waiting for me to just fall apart completely so they can snatch my children away. I still cry over what he did. Not just occasionally, frequently. He destroyed me, but yet I spent the better part of a year, being there for him, comforting him, sorting things out for him.

And he calls me uppity? Says that shit about suicide? Because I pointed out that his assessment was incorrect. How is that right? How is that fair? I don’t deserve that kind of bullshit. Do you know what, though? I didn’t cry. I wanted to, I thought for sure I was going to, but I didn’t. I just felt really angry instead. Remember what I said about being bullied as a kid? Well, that instilled in me a tremendous amount of self doubt. Which means that every time we have one of these arguments, and he starts laying all this shit on me about not wanting to hear his opinion, etc. I immediately worry that I have been a jerk, that maybe I really have discounted his viewpoint. To the point that even when I’m fairly sure I havent done anything wrong, if I find anything I could have done better, I apologize to him.

I don’t get that same respect. Ever. Fuck that. I was angry. I’m sick of crying because he hurts me. Sometimes I almost wish that he would hurt me physically as well, because at least then it would be real. Not this fake nicey nicey shit he feeds me.  One minute he’s tucking me into bed and fetching me drinks and slobbering all over my tits and the next he’s telling me I’m fucking uppity and talking to me makes him feel suicidal? Fuck that. Be a scumbag or be a sweetheart, you can’t be both.

Fuck That. Fuck That. Fuck That.

penny drop

I’m so sick of crying. I seem to spend most of my time either worrying or crying or snapping at the children because I’m exhausted after spending the majority of the day worrying or crying.

I was laying in bed masturbating and listening to this song and fantasising about laying naked on a hot sandy beach with only the sea for company and not a single person for hundreds of miles around me.  Once I had finished and my hand fell away and my leg slid back down onto the bed, I found myself staring at my husbands cd collection. I started to think about that beach. How one day I would finally be successful and rich and I would simply say to my children (who will be grown by then, I’m sure) “I’m off on holiday! Here is the number of the hotel I will be staying at.” And I will give my husband many dollars/pounds/euros whatever and tell him to go on holiday wherever he’d like because I was going on holiday by myself. Also, I am always skinny in these fantasies.

This was such a lovely, perfect thought. Until I sadly realized that I am the only one who would like this. I would hop on a plane, fly to Jamaica and spend two weeks lying  on a beach, drinking cocktails and being pampered. He would drive to some campground and spend a week in a tent, probably being miserable. Additionally, he would be deeply hurt that I would not want to be with him, because he would only want to go on holiday with me.

This made me cry. For a new reason. Not for anger at what he’d done, not out of fear of the future, not out of frustration or pain. I cried because I’ve lost that. The person I loved, the person who I wanted to always be with, who I would never have wanted to go anywhere without, he is gone to me now. I cried because I no longer have love. It seems so silly and stupid given everything else, but in that moment, it was such a cold, empty feeling. He may love me, he may always love me, but I have no love left for him. That is heartbreaking to me. I loved him so much, people.  He was quirky and difficult but he was funny and creative and put me on a pedestal and nothing made me happier, more comforted, more safe than enveloping myself into his arms, into his self and being part of him.  Now, that is the last place I ever want to be. And I grieve for it, I suppose.

Hate & Loathing, and me without any drugs.

I used to love him. He is much older than me, but that never bothered me. He went grey long before I met him, early, in his twenties. That never bothered me, either. I loved his hair, I thought it suited him. I’ve never talked about his attractiveness with anyone else, but I always thought he was very handsome. I still do. His blue eyes are like icicles and their coolness melts me.  He has the most wonderful cheekbones, and I have always loved his arms, of all things.

I didn’t know how I felt about him anymore, only that out of necessity I was not divorcing him, not out of love. Did that mean I no longer loved him? As he spends more time with us, gearing up toward coming home permanently, I find that more and more I think “I hate him”.  I hate his dishevelled hair that he never brushes, and only cuts when I insist and do it for him. I hate how trying to correct a simple misunderstanding, or ask a simple question becomes a task on par with climbing everest with no guide and no oxygen.  I hate how he kept secrets from me, that I only ever knew about because I had stumbled upon them at first and later went looking for. I hate how when all I want is simple sex, love making if you will, he needs me to cater for some stupid fetish that disgusts me. I hate how he crawls into the bed that has been mine alone for over a year and takes over the majority of it, unintentionally confining me to a small pocket with half my ass hanging over the side. I hate how he sweats profusely at night, soaking the pillows and making the whole room smell of it. I hate how he will bitch if the dishes don’t get washed for three days in a row- yet for three days in a row he will sit on his ass watching tv after dinner, not washing dishes. I hate how I do a million things every day, and still don’t get through everything and feel guilty, yet he can hardly manage a 5 item to do list and even then it’s only with me hassling him about it.  All I can think is “I hate, I hate”, when previously these things were barely on my radar, with the worst being a slight annoyance. I loved him before and perhaps that made up for his flaws? Or did it simply mean I couldn’t see his them?

He is still the same devoted husband, but now he is less my loyal prince and more a desperate, needy puppy dog. One that I want to kick. (And I’d never kick a puppy.) I find myself snapping at him constantly, hardly able to keep the annoyance from creeping into my voice. I wonder how long I will be able to keep this act up? How many times will I be able to say “I love you, don’t worry”, when he is feeling sad and miserable for himself? If he had not lost his job, and were still able to support the family financially, would I feel the same way as I do, now?

 

Taking matters into my own hands

When I was forced to leave my job last year because of my husbands insanely stupid actions, I turned to the public purse to help me support my children. That’s why it’s there isn’t it? I tried not to feel guilty, but never quite got there. I’ve been working full time since I was 14 year old, after all. Even though I knew I wasn’t wrong to accept welfare, that I’d paid my dues and my reasons were legitimate, I still felt like trash.

My husband moved out, I left my job and then the shit storm hit and it was bad, very very bad. I cried and ate and cried.  Eventually I had to start working on course work again, and I started painting the inside of my house and we got through it. Being here for my kids, day in and day out was the only way we could have gotten through it. They had constant love and support and their school work never suffered, their friendships never suffered, they continued with their after school activities and did wonderfully. I wish the same were true for me, but they were the ones who mattered the most.

In December the police investigation finished. My husband was cautioned and put on the register, but not charged with anything. Social Services gave us the all clear to bring him home, slowly but surely. I was relieved that all this was going to finally be over. Except it isn’t. The whole time I spent supporting the kids, and supporting my husband, who at one point was threatening suicide regularly, I never got the chance to support me. I became fat from comfort eating in an effort to simply push the feelings away and in my heart, resentful.  What I thought was going to be the end of the whole miserable affair, turned out to be just another chapter.

My husband lost his job. Then I had to reapply for some of my benefits. I made a mistake on the application and they flagged it, and requested I send in documents. The day I got their letter, I overnighted the documents. I had to wait a week for the letter, even though by calling to check on the application, I knew the letter had been sent only a day or so after they had sent it. Nonetheless I had to wait for it, they wouldn’t tell me over the phone what they needed or where to send it. Now I wait for them to process it. It has been a week since they received the documents, and I call every day to check the status. They never tell me anything new, only that it is “pending” and they have no idea how long it will be. I tell them I can’t pay my rent, that I could be evicted. Still, nothing. The landlord has sent a letter about reknewing the lease, putting a note on the bottom about it can only be renewed if there are no rent arrears. Effectively telling me to pay up within 7 days or get out. I don’t think it’s right, or fair, I’ve never struggled with paying the rent before and I will call up tomorrow to complain. But, at the same time, it scares me.

But all I can do is wait. On someone else, the state, to get through the red tape just so I can pay my rent.

I am tired. Money is the first thing on my mind when I wake up, the last thing to slip out of it when I fall asleep at night. I spend most of my days worrying about it. I think about going back to work, and I wonder- what would I do? Work in a shop? Making minimum wage? How would I work around getting the kids to and from school? My husband hasn’t moved back in yet, and he’s not even allowed on the grounds of my youngest child’s school.

I see it as this, I need to pay my rent, I need to put food on the table, my children need clothes, they also need decent furniture for their rooms,I need to be able to fund my expensive studies, I need to be able to buy gas, keep the electricity and heating on. My kids rightfully expect to be able to continue with their extracurriculars. I expect to be able to buy them birthday and christmas gifts and taken them places and do things with them. Yet, I won’t even be able pay the rent each month on a crappy minimum wage job.

But what if I were making more than that? What if I were making £150 an hour? Working hours that I choose? What then? Is it possible? Is sure seems that way. There are thousands of women doing it in this country alone. Making ends meet and even plowing a bit into savings at the end of the month. Is it time I take off the rose coloured glasses? Accept the harsh realities? Welfare isn’t saving me, and until I get that degree and get into a career, work isn’t going to save me either.  If I rely on either of those options, I’m going to see my family on the fucking streets.

I told my husband in bed one evening, I was facing away from him, we’d had some small talk and were close to drifting off. I tried not to sound weak when I said it, tried not to let my voice break.  “I’m thinking of becoming an escort.”

There was no outrage, not even any questions. Mostly silence as he tried to work it through. After some tense discussion, in which he admitted having the desire to give me his wedding band and telling me to do what ever I wanted, he agreed he could see no other options and  finally asked what he could do to support me. I told him I’d need pictures for a website, and he was best placed to do them. He  agreed, and after a few seconds, asked if I thought he could use it as a way of getting more photography jobs from web designers.

 

fear and rent

At some point, a county court judgment was issued against me. This is never a good thing. I am fuzzy about the details, apparently it is to do with my most recent company paying me even after I quit. I never got around to calling them and telling them to stop, and eventually they stopped by themselves.  I figured they’d send me a letter and I’d make some arrangements to pay it back. To be honest, this was naieve and stupid. I should have called them up the second I realized what was happening. Except I had other, much more serious things on my mind. Every month they’d pay me, and I’d fret about it for a few days, and then I’d forget it, thinking that surely it was ok, they wouldn’t do it again the next month.

The payments stopped, I breathed a sigh of relief, and expected a letter to drop through the door. It did. I put it aside to deal with. Another letter dropped through the door a week or so later, I didn’t even open it. I put it aside and added a few exclamation marks to that item on my to do list. This was also a mistake. This turned out to be the letter telling me if I didn’t pay with them within seven days they were taking me to court. I then got the notification from the court, demanding payment in full or a defense. I panicked. I had no money to pay them, I had no access to a lawyer for advice. In the 7 days they gave me to reply, I did nothing.

The next time I heard about it was when a high court representative with a warrant was standing on my doorstep. Make me a significant payment, he said, or I will come in your house and take all your things. You can’t do that!, I said. I can, he said, I’ve got a warrant.

I had no choice but to pay him a large chunk of our rent money, £500 worth. Now, I can’t pay the rent. The landlord came over yesterday and wasn’t very nice about it. I told him I’d pay it by the end of the week, I hope I’ll be able to, but I’m not convinced. I’m worried about what will happen if I can’t pay. We’ve lived here two years, have always paid the rent on time and he is being a total prick about it. I’m terrified we will be evicted. What will we do? Where will we go?

I lay in bed last night, trying to calm myself by telling myself that the universe will provide. The money I’ve been waiting on for over a month will come in, we will pay the rent, everything will be fine. But when I checked my account this morning,still nothing. Still nothing. I push the fear down.

Part of me is in denial. How can this be happening? Surely, it isn’t happening. I am not facing eviction with my kids. I am not so dirt poor as this. This just can NOT be happening. Yet, it is. Because I made a stupid mistake. Because my husband made a bigger, stupider, more costly mistake years ago and lost his job now. This is happening.

I look around at our belongings and try to imagine what will happen to them. Will they go in boxes? Will we be able to afford a storage container for them or will my husbands family take them? Will we live in our car?  Will I lose my children? I am afraid. Every day, I am afraid. I am working as fast and as hard as I can to get my degree, so I can pull us out of this horrible hole, yet I can’t seem to work hard or fast enough. It is soul destroying, and more and more frequently I wonder if there is a point? I seem not to be able to do this, to manage this, to do anything properly. I should not be in this place. My kids should not have to live their lives under a cloud of uncertainty, which is invisible to them, but there all the same. I wonder what would happen if I died. My parents would take them in, or my siblings. Even my husbands parents would take him and them in while he got on his feet. They wouldn’t suffer or go into foster care. Perhaps they would even be better off, without me and my chronic fear and depression. My crying, and not being able to buy them anything they need.

This is stupid I know, I could never leave them like that, how horrible. But, in the depths of night, when I am terrified and gripped by self pity, it is sometimes the option that seems best for everyone.

I miss my counsellor, who is so good at making me realize how silly I’m being, at giving me perspective.

a great game of pretend.

We had an interim meeting about two months ago. All the professionals associated with our case were there, kids teachers, husbands offender manager, our social worker and her boss. The purpose was to decide what would happen next, whether my husband would come home.

I spent the entire meeting holding my shit together. Never once did I let a tear slip down a cheek, even when the details of my husbands crime were spoken out loud in front of the room. In front of the very people I needed desperately to believe, to know I am a good mother, fighting so hard for my children, my family, who has nothing but their welfare at heart. I did so well, laid out my “plans” for what I wanted to happen. Answered all their questions, looked them in the eye, even reassured my fucking husband when he faltered and couldn’t find the words. I even wrote a statement for him to read at the end.

I feel like everything is like this. I spend every minute trying to hold my shit together, just keeping on. Getting on with the business at hand.  When I finally was able to see a counsellor, I just cried and cried. sobbed. It was as if , finally, I could just let it out, with no judgement. No repercussions. I saw her six times. Each time, I sobbed. Not always exclusively about what my stupid husband did, sometimes even just about things in my past that were still holding me. It was the first time in my life I’ve been able to just let go like that. Which isn’t to say I never break down and cry or feel sorry for myself, I do. This was just different. It was  a controlled burn. I was starting to feel like even when I was feeling down, I could still just focus and carryon and not let it swallow me- because I’d see her on Wednesday, I could cry on Wednesday, I could let it swallow me on Wednesday.

I could only have  6 sessions with her. It’s now been a week and a half since my last session and I feel myself slipping. I can cry to my husband, to an extent. But if it’s about him, or what he did, or anything that even relates to that, I can’t. Becuase it makes him feel horrible, he retreats, he starts to cry and the guilt makes him feel like throwing himself off a bridge. So, I’m careful with him. I can’t unload to the social worker. She’s like a vulture. Poised, waiting for me to slip up, to fuck up so she can swoop in and carry my kids away. I don’t know why she’s like this. I don’t think I’ve done anything to make her  think badly of me. But, maybe she just thinks of me as the enemy, her concern is the kids, after all. Perhaps she thinks if she stops being a bitch long enough to actually feel for me,  she might miss some sort of horrible abuse I’m afflicting on my kids. Who knows- either way, I have to be careful with her. My mother, in addition to going through her own serious health concerns, has never really been interested in my problems. Her favorite thing to say when I’m upset, crying down the phone to her is ” ****, I can’t tell you what to do.” With an air of impatient annoyance. So, I go back to being encased in what feels like my own, cut off, little universe. Interacting through a strange film with the rest of the world, always feeling like nothing is quite real. If you met me, you might think I was a bit overweight. Though I’d be dressed in clean, matching clothes, possibly wearing makeup, I’d smile and say hello, or excuse me, or apologise if in my normal daily distractions I had run into you. If my kids were with me, you’d probably comment on how polite they were, you’d tell me how cute my littlest one is. I’d agree, offer some amusing remark about how it’s just an act, he’s really a terror, and we’d laugh and part ways. Underneath it, I’d be terrified. What if you thought I’d been rude to bump into you? What if you thought I was fat? Ugly? What if my kids were clamoring for ice cream- would you think I was a fatso who just fed her (very slim) kids junk? The self loathing would creep in. I’d be afraid to look at anyone. I’d just want to get out of there. Go home and hide.

This is the person I am now. I feel powerless, I have control over nothing. When things happen, I want nothing but to go to bed. To cry. Having a counselling session every week was helping with that, helping me feel more in control, giving me back some of the perspective I lost over the last year. Now, I feel like I’m falling backwards. Things are moving fast around me, I have to pretend to be in control of them, to be keeping up with them, to be guiding them. In reality I feel worse than ever. A year ago I couldn’t even look people in the eye, couldn’t speak to them, couldn’t even go into a sandwich shop and order without bursting into tears. I feel like I’m falling back into that. I’m beginning to think I’ll never be able to pull myself out of it again.

resentment

We are out of money again. I am expecting some money to come in soon, well, desperately hoping is probably better than “expecting”. But, until then, every day I log into online banking and my stomach sinks as I see the balance has dropped further into the red. Whats worse is that our bank was recently swallowed up by a big greed mega bank, and gone are the days of simply being charged 5 a day for being overdrawn. We are now charged 25 for anything that’s paid while overdrawn and 25 for any unpaid, as well as 5 per day. I’m facing something around 200 in bank charges next month.

Whats actually bothering me though, besides the fairly usual and mundane money crisis, is that I’m struggling not to blame my husband for this. I seem to have fallen into this trap of unconsciously blaming him for everything that goes wrong. It’s his fault the house is a mess. His fault we have no money. His fault I’m stressed and worried all the time. His fault I’m on the verge of failing out of my degree program. HIS FAULT.

I guess for awhile, a lot of it was his fault. But, whats done is done. It’s been a year since my discovery, our separation. The police have finished their investigation and elected not to file formal charges and social services have decreed that he may come home once again.

Maybe that is the problem. Instead of being the bad guy in all this, he seems to be coming home like a bloody conquering hero. The kids greet him with open arms every time he comes through the door, and the baby cries when daddy isn’t here and I suppose I’m bitter about this. He moved back in with his parents for a year! I was forced to become a single mother, endure the humiliation of the schools knowing exactly what was happening and still having to do the school run and chat to teachers and principles like normal, as well as having social services in my home twice a month. And I didn’t do anything wrong!

I know I’m possibly being unfair. Being away from me and the kids was hell for him. His parents didn’t want him there, and now he’s on the register and lost his job. So, the whole vicious cycle starts again, I feel bad for blaming him for everything, then I think- “wait a minute!”….

What to do? What to do.

I am home all the time, so really- it’s my fault the house is a mess. I manage the money (not happily and under protest), and I’m historically bad with money, so it’s probably my fault we have no money. I am in control of my own feelings, so if I’m anxious or worried, that’s my fault as well. And of course, it’s my degree and nobody’s fault but my own if I’m failing.

All of that makes sense, right? But, when I take all that on and acknowledge it, it leaves me feeling more alone and bitter than ever. HE did this awful thing and it just about destroyed me. Yet, I’m paying the price for it. Still. I didn’t even get  a proper separation because he couldn’t be alone with the kids. I wasn’t going to refuse to let him see the kids (even social services said they wouldn’t like that), so even when we were supposed to be separated, it never even felt like we were. Not to mention he used my address, the same joint account and wore his ring the entire time.

I guess I know that not every stupid crappy thing that happens is his fault. But, just knowing that isn’t enough. I am angry and bitter and  even though it seems like the right time to just forgive and move on.. I’m not sure I can. I want to hate him. I want to cry and hit him and rip that engraved wedding ring off his finger and throw him out in the street and never see him again.

But I can’t do any of those things. So, instead I just harbour the resentment and blame inside me. For how long? I don’t know, forever perhaps. How long can a marriage like that last? And, what is it doing to me? Will having money fix it?

Finding Faith

I try to have faith in the universe. When I stumble and fall and feel like the world is closing in on me, I lose myself in feelings of powerlessness, self loathing and fear. Yet, fortunately (or unfortunately?) I am not a person that can abide those feelings for long. Eventually I get sick of feeling so pathetic. I start to notice the small things again, the good things, the ways in which the universe provides for me. I get back up on my feet and resolve to just keep on keepin’ on.

Sometimes I think this is an excercise in futility, after all what is the point of getting up if I’m just going to be kicked down again? But, the other option is not getting back up. Just laying there and accepting your fate, waiting for an end. That is simply not who I am.

It’s a hard time, currently. I am fat, poor, have kids to support, a marriage to rebuild and a husband to tolerate, if not learn to love again. I still have faith in the universe to provide for me. Sometimes though, I wonder if the universe has ever only provided me with one thing- a tenacious spirit, that never knows when to quit, and refuses to be crushed. The spirit to withstand all the bullshit that will be thrown at me in my short time in this life.

Sometimes, I resent that spirit. It does not always seem like a gift, more like a curse. No mater how bad things get, I am still here. I do not have a nervous breakdown, or faint from the stress, I do not become very sick or weak, I do not hold grudges, or take my anger and intense pain out on people. Instead, I just get on with the business at hand. But, really- what I’d like is to just be one of those frail little women, who needs someone to take care of her. I’m tired of being “strong”, I’m tired of being everyone elses rock while inside I feel as if I’m coming apart at the seams. I want to fall apart and be taken care of.

Is that sad? An affront to the feminist movement? I don’t know.I just know that it’s how I feel, after I’ve made it through to the other side of one disaster and while the next is tearing it’s way into my life. Like, this will be the last thing I can stand, my strength seems to run out of my legs, the energy out of my body,and for a while I feel like nothing more than a hollowed out shell. I try to find my faith and hold onto it, but blow after blow has done its damage, and I’m not really sure how much is left to hold onto. Or what it will mean for my life when it finally runs out althogether.

Is there a point at which suicide will no longer feel abhorrent? Or when the thought of just leaving, abandoning my life and my children, won’t shock me and fill me with guilt?  I hope I never find out, that my faith in the universe holds out.