I had kept a diary for about 5 or 6 years…until it became part of the reason I left. And up until now, this blog, I had stopped documenting my feelings, or my goals, or my insights, or my recollections. I just stopped. I used to write all the time, poetry, stories, feelings…
I had been trying to get ‘us’ to work and it wasn’t working. We had moved houses, again. And I was drinking, and going out, and drinking, whenever I could. Whenever I could. I was still writing down what I was feeling, but I had mainly left it for the ‘biggies’.
On my ventures out to get blind drunk, I had met a guy…who liked me. Now I say that in the most loosest of terms. At the time…it seemed awesome…flowery and lovely…gave me warm fuzzys, just knowing someone was actually interested in me. Hmmmm. I know better now…but then, the desperate need for attention, something, warmth…that I was exuding…was picked up by this terd. He knew I was married, but it didn’t dissuade him from trying. And he promised warm hugs, and sunshine, and love, and walks along sandy beaches, and hand holding, and cuddles, and conversation…and all that other bullshit.
And there was another guy. The husbands friend…who picked up the scent of my desperation as well…but I didn’t like the way he leached on…I didn’t like the way he treated his wife and his kid…that was enough to put me off him…but he still tried…terd.
And then there was another guy. Another of the husbands friends…loser friends I might add…and he picked up the scent too…he was a bit more subtle…to me..but the husband picked it up. Him and I became great friends…he wasn’t much younger than me…and we had more in common than the husband and I. But that was all I was interested in…abit naïve of me really.
So I was getting attention alright…just not from where it was supposed to be coming from. And on my 23rd birthday…I decided I was out. I was over pleading and begging and whining and pleading some more. I was over scheduling conversations, and chats and conversations. I was over being a wife of someone who didn’t give a shit about me.
I announced my departure. And he announced he had read my diary and was kicking me out.
Oh Kay. What part did you read, I asked.
The part that talks about subject a), b) and c).
Alright…’did you happen to read the preceding bits’ I asked?…’or the proceeding bits’??
This was all the evidence he needed to call his mother, the pastor and his wife, and tell them what a slut I was. They had come round and were evicting me from the home, without the children, without any money, without the car, without my clothes, without my shoes, without anything…
but have you read the rest? I lamely protested!! I haven’t done anything!
“You kissed one, you whore!”
…ahhh, no…he kissed me…I moved him away…came home and told you…you said I must have misunderstood his intentions!
But it was on from there…battle zone. I was forced out of the house…physically, and told to come back for a ‘meeting’ with him, his mother and the pastor and his wife, the following day. My kids were crying, I was crying…my oldest girl has told me about what she remembers from that day. She remembers more than me…she says, she kept saying, ‘that’s my mum’…and ‘mum where are you going’…but I didn’t reply. I walked into town and rang my mother collect. To her credit, she came pretty much straight away.
The following day I sat down with my accusers and tried to relay how I saw it. But they weren’t having a bar of it. Slut, whore, fornicator, back slider, bad mother, horrible wife…on it went. I stopped defending myself after a while and just nodded. They decided I should stay with the pastor and his wife for the week, and come back and look after the children from 730am till 530pm. During which time I’d clean up, make their food, do the washing etc and then go back to the pastors place when the husband had finished work. Sweet I said. I was allowed, yes allowed, to go and pack 1 bag of clothing for myself and say good-bye to my girls. I wiped my tears and went and did as I was told.
My mother took me to the pastors house. We had a very pleasant little dinner and he preached on about wifely duties and what I had ‘done’ to get myself to this place. That I’d have to repent and seek forgiveness from God and then from my husband. That if I left my husband I’d be doomed to hell so that wasn’t an option. I nodded…all the while watching his wife.
She was a little lady. Tiny frame. Tiny voice. Tiny movements. And as her twat of a husband waffled on, she’d look at the ground, then at me, then at the ground, then at him, then back at me. And every time her twatty husband talked about being ‘wifely’ and ‘subservient’ and ‘minding the wifely biblical duties’, there was a little flicky twitch in her eyes. She hated him! She hated the whole routine! She just wasn’t saying anything.
We stayed in their spare room. That night I told my mother that I couldn’t live like this…not at all. She actually agreed with me.
In the morning, we had breakfast, my mother got herself ready, so did I. I threw my 1 bag out the window and as we left at 725am to go the husband’s house, I picked it up from under the window and put it in the car. We got to my old home, the husband left, taking the car and the car seats with him. I gave my girls a cuddle. I rang my friend for a car seat. I took 2 rubbish bags and filled them with the girls clothes and blankets…we got in my mothers car, and we left. I left him a note to say we had gone to the park so he wouldn’t come looking for us until after 530pm. I’d be long gone by then.
For me…I was out. There was no way in hell I was putting up with anymore of that bullshit.
This was the end of that chapter for me. But it was the start of another…of being all-mighty-ly fucked off…with everyone and everything…and not giving a fuck about any type of consequence…at all.
It was also another chapter for my girls…as they watched me spiral into some sort of shitty dismal despair that I wasn’t able to pull myself out of for a long time. They wore the brunt of most of it…as children do in fucked up adult situations.
I spent months going to lawyers and councellors…begging their father, my now non-husband…to come and get them on time…to just come and see them…to let me get their stuff…and my stuff…
I get now that he was angry…hurt. And that hurt turned into bitterness and that bitterness turned into hatred…of me. And the girls wore that too…as they do in fucked up adult situations.
It was all fucked up.
I was diagnosed with Chronic Depression by the end of that year.
I didn’t give a fuck. I didn’t take my pills.
And I drank.