The first time back in Court

Well, the first shot has been fired, so to speak. Mark and I went to Court this morning and faced Simon and his solicitor. We had to wait ages. I fairly quickly found my fear was giving way to boredom. Have you noticed how difficult it is to be scared and bored at the same time? Trust me, it is. I finally realized I recognised one of those waiting with us. It was Ron, erstwhile Vicar of Simon’s last Parish. He looked bored as well – and uncomfortable. I found it vaguely amusing that Simon needed his companionship – again. Ron tagged along at the last Court hearing in Eastbourne too. Poor Ron. If he only knew the contempt Simon has always felt for him. He doesn’t, of course. So he sifted through the old magazines in the waiting room and then fell asleep. At least he didn’t snore! Finally we were called. I saw the Judge raise a slight eyebrow when Simon gave as his reason for denying me all contact the fact that Mark had lost his temper with Flavia on one occasion. Simon’s solicitor (not Roger The Shark) gave their reasons as to why the case needs to be moved to Eastbourne. The Judge kindly pointed out that the argument regarding expense would be equally valid for Mark and myself if the case were moved to Eastbourne. i have to admit to feeling hopeful at that. The solicitor also stated that there was no basis for Mark being part of the application since he has no parental responsibility. Well, stop using him as an excuse for being difficult and spiteful then! Obviously we didn’t have a solicitor. Can’t afford one. I tried speaking on our behalf, countering a timeline the solicitor gave the Judge which included the fact that I had agreed to every other weekend with Flavia. The Judge didn’t look terribly impressed with Simon’s argument regarding Flavia being ‘condemned to a state education' if I moved her with me to Surrey. However, the end result was that the case is being moved to Eastbourne. That’s a 30 minute journey for Simon and a 3-4 hour one for us. If the next hearing is at 10.00 in Eastbourne it means we have to leave the house at 6.15. Six fifteen! My stamina needs to improve, that’s for certain. The Judge was not impressed by Simon’s claim that, because Mark had shouted at her that once, he did not feel he should make her come to our house. Instead he said we should have contact and, if we couldn’t come to an agreement, he would make an Order. Simon argued it, claiming I had never tried to have contact with her (liar, liar pants on fire – as a certain person would say). Out of the Court Simon’s solicitor was running around, back and fore. I suggested meeting in Guildford – Mark is, obviously, to be nowhere around. Too violent, vicious and scary. Looking in the mirror again? Simon refused, suggesting Eastbourne. What? He expects me to travel 7 hours for a three-hour meeting? Yes, she’s my daughter but I don’t need to go south for all that time, especially when one considers he lives 25 miles to the north of Eastbourne!! He then suggested we alternate. Two Saturdays we meet in Guildford (40 minutes travelling for me, 60 for him) and two Saturdays we meet in Uckfield (5 minutes for him, 3 hours for me). No. If he wants me to travel all the way to Uckfield then he comes closer to me. So, we agreed two times in Uckfield, two times in Woking. Uckfield is going to be fun for me, anyway. A forty-minute wait before they turn up and a forty minute wait after they leave. I will be frozen. Trust me on this one. Moreover, there’s nothing to DO in Uckfield. Check out the few shops and spend some time in the Tesco café I suspect. However, I half expect to find Flavia will be too traumatized to make the meeting anyway. Amazingly. I’m feeling rather low. I miss her, I’m worrying about what it will be like to see her again after all the claims Simon has made regarding not wanting to see me or speak to me. I’m worrying about the money regarding journeying to Eastbourne and the need for a solicitor. We need one. Desperately. Even Mark says Roger will eat us alive without one. Yet how do we pay? All the websites say one should hire a solicitor immediately. How without money? And even if we had the cash, how do we find one that won’t roll over and beg when Roger sends his first salvo? That requires interviews and we are too far away. Arghhhh. I have Parent’s Consultation this evening (four interviews…there are advantages to teaching a subject no parent cares about) and then my worst day tomorrow, including the Class from Hell. And Mark has been very naughty (again) and not won the lottery. I don’t know. Can’t trust anyone. Social Services still haven't been in touch. Two 'phone calls and one email later. There's power in that there collar. Note to the gullible. Miracles DON'T happen and the good will not inherit the earth. They will just be booted around until they give in. Just thought I'd share that with you.

An open letter to my daughter

Dear Flavia I don’t know if you will ever get this, but I have to try. I’m so confused. in August Daddy told me on the ‘phone that you don’t want to speak to me or see me again. I don’t understand. He also said you were scared of Mark, that he shouted at you. He did. Once. I remember. He opened that packet of sweets and pretended to eat them. You know he was only pretending because there was no way he could actually chew them. You saw what he was doing, got up off the sofa, snatched them off him, screaming, threw a handful in his face before running in to your bedroom. You then climbed out of your bedroom window. That’s when Mark raised his voice to you. He sat you on the sofa, told you off for a few minutes then went in to the garden. We sat on the sofa together and you said you understood. That you knew we were worried about what might happen if you made a habit of climbing out of your bedroom window. Daddy has told the Court that you hated coming to us, that you used to cry and he had to force you to come. I don’t understand. I thought you liked seeing us, liked being with us. You said you did. You were always telling Mark you loved him. You bought him presents for his birthday and Father’s Day. You used to cuddle up next to him to watch films or wrestling and wanted to help him in the garden. When we were on the ‘phone you always asked me to pass you over to Mark. Sometimes I felt you wanted to speak to him more than me. The day Daddy ‘phoned and said you never wanted to be in our home again was a terrible day. My heart – it shattered. We had bought you three new Barbie’s to welcome you home and Mark had just opened the post – he had bought three Sims 2 extension packs for you and I was on the computer booking tickets for the pantomime in Woking for Christmas. Then Daddy ‘phoned and my world fell apart. I told Mark what Daddy said about always shouting at you and he sat on the sofa for ages. He just kept saying, ‘she said she loved me. She sat here, right here, and said she loved me.’ Then he got up, went to the French window and opened it. Just before he went in to the garden he looked at me and said, ‘I should never have cared about her. If you don’t care, you don’t get hurt. All I tried to do is make her happy.’ Then he went in to the garden. He spent a long time there. Pacing. Back and fore. That’s what I don’t understand, you see. You’ve made Mark out to be this terrible person, this bully. This is the man who asked you what meals you wanted and then cooked them. Who spent hours making your book for you; who made you your pearl necklace. Who let you play his computer games; who tried to make our last Christmas together magical; who bought fireworks for you last Guy Fawkes; who went shopping for Barbie with you when I was ill; who refused to take the climbing frame down when the neighbours complained and built a den in the garden for you when Lizzie and Rhys came to visit. Who was happy to let you take his DVDs and play them, even take them to Daddys; who told you that you were family and he would protect you. I miss you. I wake up in the early hours of the morning and cry. I remember how soft your hair is, the way you used to want me to wake you up at seven in the morning so we had time together before I went to work. How you used to scream, ‘Mummee’ and race towards me to give me a hug. The softness of your cheek. The way you used to try on all the clothes we bought you, preening as you performed a fashion show. I know we didn’t do wildly exciting things together but you knew money was tight. I thought you understood. We were trying to make a better life for the three of us. I cry in work you know. Sometimes I manage to hide it and sometimes my friends comfort me. I’ve even cried in front of a class. Can you imagine one of your teachers doing that? We had plans for when you got back to us in the summer. Sounds silly, but we were saving collecting cherry tomatoes from the garden in case you wanted to do it. Mark wanted to take you fishing and we were going to go ice skating in Guildford – okay, not Mark since he hates ice. We were going to go fruit picking, try out a few activity days nearby and go for picnics along the canal. I even had the telephone number of a riding stable and we were going to go to the cinema a few times. Mark and I never did see Pirates of the Caribbean 2. We were going to see it with you and somehow, without you there we couldn’t. Even though The Black Pearl is one of Mark’s favourite films. I sometimes wonder if I will ever see you again, ever hear your voice again. We sent you a birthday card and a present. I used to ‘phone but Daddy would hang up. I text you every week but don’t hear anything from you. Is that because you don’t get the messages or because you don’t care? If Daddy is right then it is because you don’t care. I count the days since I last saw you. Even now, as I’m typing this I’m crying. I see the bottle of dandelion and burdock we bought just for you still in the kitchen and my heart lurches. Silly, isn’t it? So many things make me think of you. Yellow cars, my backpack, the drinks machine in work, Spongebob Squarepants. Even the Boogeyman on Raw. So many times I think or say to Mark, ‘Flavia would like that,’ and then remember Flavia doesn’t want to be with us anymore. And it hurts all over again. We’re going back to Court. I don’t know whether Daddy told you, but Mark and I have applied. Sometimes I think we’re doing the right thing and then, in the middle of the night I start having my doubts. Maybe Daddy was telling the truth and, if the Court suggest you see us again you refuse and tell them you hate us. Can I bear that? How will I cope if that happens? I don’t know. What if my daughter, whom I would die for, doesn’t want to see me or speak to me ever again? If it’s true, if that’s what you want, I’ll have to accept it. I just hope you know how much I love you. How much I will always love you. Mummy

Worried, scared and crying jags

I'm feeling low, for a variety of reasons. Yesterday I was in work, obviously. Louise, my colleague was ill, so I tried to ensure everything was okay with her side of things. Didn't stop one of those covering her classes complaining because she had to move the textbooks from the desk behind her to the desk in front of her and (horror of horrors) she had to put the video in the video recorder! She was unable to do her own work for 20 minutes!! Oh, hell. When one thinks of the number of lessons I've covered where there is no work and you're constantly checking on the kids - you're not supposed to ignore them and do your own work in cover lessons - you are supposed to engage with them.

At lunchtime I had some detainees tidy my room and Louise's. One lesson to go, but it was on loss and suddenly it all got too much. They sat in silence as Miss cried in front of them. I could only think of Flavia. I miss her so much and sometimes it overwhelms me. Yesterday I lost it. If I could have made it wait 70 minutes I would but I couldn't control the tears. It took me almost ten minutes to take the register! Ten minutes! It was actually a relief when Ravinder, the Cover Supervisor, came in to say Louise's room had been trashed. Something else to think about.

I managed to get through the lesson - I think the kids were glad to get out! Ravinder had had a hellish time, including being hit in the face with a projectile. Louise has had terrible trouble with that class. I just wanted to get home. Sanctuary. Security. Unfortunately G and her pals were lying in wait. It was the story as before and poor Mark was confronted by a sobbing wife as I walked through the door. It wasn't the silly little idiots, not really. It was Flavia and Simon. I managed to stop him going off in search of them (although I have to admit to a deep and rather secret wish to see them with bloodied noses). I then had to 'phone the Police to report a verbal assault - second one in a week. Wow. I get all the fun.

Then, this morning, a letter from Simon's solicitor. They want the venue changed to Eastbourne since travelling to Guildford will cause him unnecessary expenditure. And what about Mark and I travelling to Eastbourne? He lives an hour from Guildford, as opposed to the three hours for us to get to Eastbourne. He also accuses me of 'ganging' up on Flavia and that Mark shouts at her. He raised his voice. Once. When she threw a tantrum, hit him, flung sweets in his face and climbed out of her bedroom window. The resultant confrontation lasted less than 5 minutes. She's scared, apparently and suffers enormous distress when Simon collects her. Maybe, but only because she was leaving us. They also ingored the fact that Mark and I are applying together. He can use Mark as a reason for denying me access but not acknowledge him as Plaintiff. He also accused us of not trying to have any contact with Flavia since July AND that I told her I wanted nothing more to do with her. Thank heavens we have the evidence to disprove all that.

However, I don't know whether he can get the hearings moved to Eastbourne. I hope not. It will be so difficult for us and when I think I used to have an 11 hour round trip each time we had a hearing last time around whilst all he had to do was drive 30 minutes! Hell, I think I deserve a little consideration this time. He also says in his application that he no longer thinks I should have contact with Flavia. I'm sorry, but he is a bastard.

I've tried marking and getting a scheme of work together today but throughout it I keep thinking of Flavia - and Simon. Will he get his own way, again? We wrote a letter to the Court refuting every argument they made but I don't know. I'm worried and a bit scared and really, really want to do my ostrich impersonation. But I know I can't. I just have a strong desire to maintain the status quo, to not make waves to keep everything safe. The same. I am a coward - and self knowledge does me no good whatsoever!

Wish me luck. I know I'll need it.

Shakespeare got it wrong!

Sorry, but. I'm right. I know I am. I tell the kids I'm always right (which is a slight exaggeration) but in this instance I KNOW I am.

The Bard stated that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Okay, I'm probably paraphrasing because I'm too lazy to check and anyway my Complete works of Shakespeare went the way of the rest of my stuff (the tip). However, that is beside the point. He was so off base it is incredible.

As previously mentioned, my colleague is pregnant - and her maternity leave is, to my mind, frighteningly close. At her last scan she was reliably informed Junior is male. Being a teacher, names have specific meaning for her and I've been gently teasing her by suggesting various names. Hence my title. Shakespeare got it wrong.

So many names are verbotten. Jack, Jake, Connor, Joe, Sam, Ben, Liam, Damien (obviously), Sean, Shane, Tom to name but a few. It's odd but Toms have a tendency to be silly whereas Thomases do not. It's the same with Sam and Samuel. Jamies of both sexes (but especially male) beg for trouble. It's true. I've been on supply and, before meeting the students I've looked at the register and seen the name Jamie and known that the first person in the room to cause trouble will be the owner of that name! Jacks are, to a boy, lads, Shanes think they know everything and Joes are cocky. Georges can be excitable and as for Bradleys! Get them off the ceiling if you can.

On the reverse, Richards tend to be quiet and Johns are downright studious. James and Andrew tend to be slightly more obvious, but only slightly.

I could write long and hard about girls names as well, but I think I've made my point. Names do maketh the man (and woman) and my poor colleague is having the devils own job in finding a name that both she and her partner (who has no such hangups, not being a teacher) like.

I have also suggested Zebedee (okay, I was only joking), Zachariah, Zacheus, Jude, Malachi and Micah (I have to admit to a liking for the latter). If Flavia had been a boy I would have liked to call her Theodosius, although the name was disapproved of. The jury is out for the time being but it will be interesting to see what they choose - and whether Junior lives up (or down) to his name!

Heavens, I'm tired

Not only do both Mark and I have colds but his is exacerbated by toothache – and I’m talking major pain. With no money for dental care for myself, let alone Mark (a non-EU citizen) he self-treats. Sometimes this involves actually extracting his own tooth. The pain is intense but there is nothing we can do about it at present. He’s been suffering with this one tooth for a while and last night – or, more precisely, this morning was a time of intense pain. He tried removing it, but to no avail. So, between 2.30 and 4.00 this morning I tried sitting with him. It’s amazingly frustrating. I sit there, holding his hand, watching him as he battles with the pain. I’m amazed at how quiet he is. Me, I have great difficulty coping with pain, especially tooth pain and the sight of Mark sitting stoically, subduing the intensity with his will. The only comment he ever makes is, ‘it hurt’. I feel overwhelmed and horribly helpless when I watch him.

So, I’m tired. However I had good news yesterday. Because of the impending Court case CSA are suspending Simon’s claim to Child Support. Mark’s comment was that it was about time someone supported me as opposed to Simon.

I also had a telephone call from the CAFCASS office. The man there had read my comments regarding Flavia’s allegations about Simon and his actions and was concerned. Had I contacted Social Services. I felt awfully foolish as I tried to explain that I had not because apparently no-one would believe me due to Simon’s occupation. He was shocked at the thought and begged me to contact them. To his mind the things Flavia alleged were disturbing, some of the most disturbing he had read and he was insistent that I contact Social Services. As he spoke I realized he was right. Even if no-one listened to me, at least I could say I had reported Flavia’s comments.

So, I did. I got in touch with Eastbourne Social Services and told them what Flavia has been saying. I actually heard the woman at the other end of the line take a step back when I told them Simon’s job. She quickly told me that someone would ‘phone me in the next twenty-four hours'. So, that’s that. We shall see. Mark has heard Flavia’s comments as well and will let them know what was said if they ‘phone whilst I’m in work but I doubt it. I certainly can’t see anyone taking it seriously.

Why do people think clergymen are perfect? They are men, just like all the others. Some of them are good, some are not and some are indifferent. I was asked the other day if I could give information regarding kindnesses and acts of generosity Simon had performed whilst we were married. I spent 24 hours trying to think of something. I couldn’t. It was funny, really. I kept on trying and trying – nothing. There were things he had done for others, yes, but they were all in expectation of reward. Something done for someone else merely out of kindness? Finally (and it was with a huge sense of relief) I thought of something. One thing. I knew him for 19 years before the divorce and I could only think of one thing. I laughed, but it was also rather sad.

Got home and telephoned Social Services again. They took my details, Flavia's details and Simon's. Why hadn't I reported it before. Well, answer above. I suspect it will be thought I'm a vicious ex-wife but, honestly, I'd like them just to be stories she's said for effect. The thought of something actually HAPPENING to her doesn't bear thinking about. Anyway, my opposite on the 'phone is going to discuss it with her superior and get back to me tomorrow (again). We shall see. She kept checking about his apparent habit of insisting on putting cream on her genitals himself rather than following my idea of giving her a couple of tumblers of water to drink when her urine burns. I'll keep you posted.

Wimp time in school. Tetanus jabs, I gather. I thought they were BCG but, no. Boys were going down like flies from what I heard - even claiming they couldn't write due to the trauma. Hah! Work, boy, work. I have also had to try to explain one of my quotes. I love them. Put them everywhere, even on my ceiling. One in particular has caught their attention: 'If Barbie is so popular why do you have to buy her friends?' I think it highly amusing but some of my kinds spend ages trying to make sense of it. However, since I have had many an earnest child trying to explain that dark is the absence of light (in response to my quote of, 'OK so what's the speed of dark,') I think I'm allowed some fun. Don't you?

I did it!!

Oh my God, I've done it. This afternoon after work. All the time a voice keeps going around and around in my head, 'he's going to be so angry, he's going to be so angry.' It's scary. I don't know what's worse, my fear or my anger at myself because of the fear. Throughout the residency battle I kept thinking one thing, 'don't rock the boat.' Whatever I did, I had to make sure I didn't do that. I was terrified of upsetting him, of doing or saying something that would annoy him. Probably helps to explain why I only got joint residency. That and his collar, of course. Now I've really upset him; he just doesn't know it yet. When he does...Oh my God. I'm dreading it. He's going to be so angry...there I go again. The fear, the terror, the dread. Only someone who has been there knows how paralysing it is. I feel sick just thinking about it. I want to hide. Forever. Of course, I haven't said what I've done. I've applied to the Court. He doesn't expect that. I don't have rights, I've known that for years, but I also know he doesn't expect me to challenge his decision to abduct Flavia. I should be a good (ex) wife and submit to his decision - as I did so often during the first Court case. I can count on the fingers of one hand how many times I've said 'no' to him and challenged his authority - and that includes this time. I sent it this afternoon - the next few days are going to be hell. I'm dreading it. His reaction. Actually, angry is far too weak a word. He'll be furious. Murderous. Possibly literally. Especially since I'm not only asking to have the initial Court order upheld, I'm applying (with Mark) for sole residency. Oh my God. I have to. I'm worried about Flavia. He's abusive. She's already told us on more than one occasion that he intentionally shows her his genitals, insists on smearing her own with cream himself and also demands she share a double bed with him whilst on holiday - and his own single bed from time to time too. He punches her, too. This, coupled with his decision to isolate her from me, scares me. What is he preparing to do with or to her? She's ten. Beautiful. His. He was always convinced he owned me and, when she was born, that she was a possession too. What the hell is going on there? I know I could get social services involved but, when I mentioned my concerns to the solicitor two years ago he told me just what Mark said. No-one will believe me. He's a clergyman. Untouchable. Inviolate. Only when he has actually, obviously, abused her can I do anything. Can you believe it? I have to wait and, despite my concerns, can do nothing until he sexually abuses my darling daughter. All because of his collar. No wonder I sometimes feel the world is going mad. And, despite this, all the time that damned voice is whispering in my ear, 'he's going to be so angry.' I lived for so long with only one consideration. Will this anger Simon. Is the food hot enough? Is the lavatory paper soft enough? Is the room immaculate enough (the answer to the latter was always 'no')? I used to watch people talking to him, especially Parishioners and hold my breath. Please, don't say anything that will annoy him, please don't upset him in any way. Please. I wanted to go down on my knees before them and beg. They never knew how terrified I was. Sometimes I didn't know how much I had stiffened until they moved away and I could relax - until the next person. It's exhausting living with that sort of pressure, those fears, that stress. They rarely knew they had annoyed him though. That pleasure was left to me, when we got home. Then the recriminations, the shouts, the abuse would start. He couldn't let outsiders know how he felt. He needed their approbation, their approval, possibly their influence at a later date. I knew, though. The hate, the loathing, the distaste he had for them was visited on me. Sometimes it felt as though it were a hundredfold. Please God don't let him be visiting that on my baby

Without my daughter

18 November 2006 Damn, blast and botheration

I texted her (sounds weird to say 'texting'. Wrong somehow but, being mobile semi-illiterate I'm assuming it's correct) again today. Every week. No more. I've learnt I can save texts and don't want to run out of space. Just a short message. I've stopped keeping the dratted thing on for ages incase she texts back. I know it won't happen now. I wonder what she's doing. Sometimes I get really low and suspect she doesn't miss me at all. My ex, darling that he is, has been firing poison darts for so long - hence her telling Mark he's common and the suggestion now and again that I'm not good enough for her, or that where we live isn't 'good' enough. Maybe this is what she wants? Maybe she prefers to have no contact with me? I don't know. I worry about it. Is this really her not him? Okay, partially him because he is so good at twisting the truth, whispering lies and half lies in to ones ears but maybe she prefers being with him. Coming out of my marriage with him with just a suitcase full of clothes and, of course, £15,000 of household debts makes money tight. I can't afford all the money he throws at her, and she likes money spent on her. I have a terrible fear that, if I ever see her again she will turn around and tell me to get stuffed. That will crucify me. Again.

I had her school report today. They still refer to me by my old married name, ignoring my husband of over two years. She's fine apparently. Mind you, it's something of a victory getting them to acknowledge my existence. For over a year they ignored my rights, supporting her father who works for them. I don't know whether to be happy or not that the separation isn't affecting her. It's been 4 months now.

Not only that, but I got papers from the CSA today, demanding money from me. How they can do that I don't know. She's been abducted. They know that, they know he's in violation of the Court order yet they want £300 a month from me. Would that I had that sort of money. I haven't been to a hairdresser or dentist for three years and don't own a car - don't even own a bed, actually. Goes with the rented house.

Sometimes I really miss my things. I get so bored with the handful of jewellery I have and long to wear something different, maybe the presents my family gave me before I married him. Can't, of course. He's got them. I miss my shoes, too. Oh, I hoarded them. Okay some were 20 years old but I loved them. Show me a woman who doesn't love shoes and I'll be amazed. I had some nice shoes.

I carried my red backpack to the shops today to get some groceries. I associate it with Flavia. Going to collect her, little things and gifts for her inside. And, more recently, clothes and things since her father wouldn't let her bring anything, even shoes, with her. I miss her hand in mine as we walk along, chatting and giggling together. Sometimes I cannot believe that all the love, affection, delight in each other that we shared can be wiped out, obliterated. Other times it seems all too likely. At the back of my mind is the belief that he will win. He always wins. He's stolen from Parishes, defamed other clerics and Parishioners who disagreed with him, yet he always emerged on top. Deep down I believe he will this time, too. As he said, if people have to choose between himself, a Priest, or me, they'll believe him. He, after all, wears the collar.

The Bishop supports him (mind you, being male, I'm not surprised. This is the Church, after all). Why won't people listen to me? Why won't they accept that clerics can be men too. Some are good, some are not. The collar is only a piece of plastic - nothing else. It does not confer holiness. The fact that my ex doesn't even believe in God is beside the point. For years he inflicted pain on myself and others and yet he is rewarded. Mark believes in karma. I don't. It's hogwash. One thing I have learnt in this life. You get ahead by hurting others. Doing good is for suckers. I'm tired of being one.

16 November 2006 Ai, what a day and a half!

Phew. There's nothing like events at work to stop you thinking too much of your own problems. In the past 24 hours I have been accused of calling a student a 'slapper' (not my sort of terminology, but if the cap fits). All this because, when I pointed out to a class that an employer looks for a good attitude to work she argued that prostitution was a good way for a girl to make money! However, I am also reliably informed that my fashion sense sucks (thank heavens for that! If she had approved I would have been horrified) and promised that the girl, G, would get me in to trouble for my alleged remark. Well, it's nice to know one is appreciated! After that, it's counselling two of my students and teaching a full day - including the Class from Hell. The number of times I've wished they had a volume control - also that they could actually sit still. The fact that others have huge sympathy for me having them at the end of the day doesn't help. I'd much prefer to swap, but suffer Very Bravely. However, I did manage to arrange a trip to the Imperial War Museum - not, however, with That Class. Credit me with some sense. Thus, I have that to look forward to...if one can look forward to a trip to the Holocaust Exhibition. The things one does to get out of school.... This morning I found out G had been permanently excluded - although that was my first experience of her I gather her fame well and truly preceeds her. I was aware of my standing in the school increasing - my popularity amongst the staff, too. No really, it was nothing. Flowers and cards of appreciation to my office, please! Today my timetable encompased death, euthanasia, equality and, finally, death. I find it amusing that self-professed cool children enjoy The Lion King (death, if you're wondering). I always used to find an excuse to leave the room for a few minutes when I watched it with my daughter. Can't do that in school, though. Those few minutes are a rather nice way to end the school day, and you learn things about kids. One of the boys has the Platinum edition of the DVD. I didn't even know there was such a thing! All this without milk for my coffee - and I can't stomach it black. I have tried, I promise but black, it is almost as horrible as tea. Ghastly. After the Faculty and Departmental meeting I and my colleague, the latter fairly big with child, left together and, outside the school gates was G with some male companions. Please note, it is now official that I am, 'a fucking dyke,' 'a fucking bitch,' and a 'fat slag'. Deep in conversation and shaking with laughter we ignored them, the bellows followed us down the road, complete with various projectiles bouncing off the windows of the houses. They were such terrible shots! If the lads had spent more time on the cricket field rather than (I suspect) skiving behind the metaphorical bikeshed smoking they would have had more chance of hitting us! Shows that delinquency doesn't pay. I made the mistake of mentioning it to Mark once I got home (only some five minutes walk from school). Whoops! I've never known him get changed so fast, me trailing behind him, trying to calm him down. Ostensibly we were going out to buy milk but he was simmering. Oh, boy. I suspected he wouldn't be delighted but, used to spousal indifference and contempt, didn't realize how angry Mark would be. It's this 'protect my family' attitude I find so alien. Sweet, though. G and her pals were still there and, after we walked through them a comment was made. Mark turned on his heel and marched back, me trying to discreetly discourage him. How does one deal with an alpha male protecting his wife? Answers on a postcard please. Bloodshed was averted, however, since the tough yoof of today hung their heads and refused to meet his eyes when he challenged them. Thank Goodness. I'll be more circumspect myself from now on. I have no doubt he can handle himself, being a former US Marine Sergeant but I have difficulty with confrontation. Probably from having been on the receiving end so long. Anyway, it might rebound on us. Not from the school point of view - although that is possible - but the Home Office. They are still dubious about Mark being here since he came over to visit me and then decided to stay. The fact that he stayed because it was highly likely I would lose my daughter if I went to live in the US doesn't matter to them. Neither is the fact that I am in fear - and danger from - my ex-husband. Mark is, at present, here on sufferance and we cannot appeal the HO's decision to deny him leave to stay until they come to deport him. Yet another worry for a convicted worrier. Mind you, it does give me a variety of options. Do I worry about Mark, worry about my daughter, worry about what my ex-husband is planning, worry about work, worry about money (since Mark is not permitted to work), or worry about half a dozen other things...........decisions, decisions.

14 November 2006

A bad day

Today is a bad day. There are three types in my experience: acceptable, middling and bad. On acceptable days the mask doesn’t slip – I am ‘normal’ and, although my laughter has to my ears a slightly hysterical tinge I am still able to laugh and my performance in work is reasonable. Middling days are harder, colours muted and my control harder to maintain, but maintain it I do. The bad days are desperate to multiply and anything can set them off. The sight of a yellow car, a young girl in an Hallowe’en mask, the sound of a child’s television programme. On these days I hang on to a semblance of normality with an air of desperation and am amazed no-one can hear my screams. The tears threaten to engulf me and I long to be home, to curl up in a ball and howl. Today was a bad day. The cause of all this? My ex-husband. Pillar of the community, Perfect Priest and a man who raised abuse to an art form. A man who, even now, over three years after I escaped can have me cowering at the other end of the ‘phone. His present form of torture is masterful and not totally unexpected. Ninety-two days ago he announced, regretfully and in violation of a Court Order for Joint Residency, that he had decided to stop all contact between our then nine year old daughter and myself. His need for control had become too great, too pressing. Since then, silence. Nothing. I’ve tried. ‘Phone calls are disconnected as soon as I announce myself, my texts to our daughter are ignored although I suspect her ‘phone has been confiscated. My aunt, with whom he has had contact for the first time in two years has been told I have never really been interested in keeping in touch with her and didn’t even send her a birthday card. The latter made me want to knee him in the groin. I had not thought that even he would deny her my birthday card and present. I know why all this is happening, of course. I used to be punished regularly for sins I had never committed and this is merely an extension of it, although now my offence is obvious. He used to claim I could never hold down a job but have been employed for over a year (and promoted), he told me no man would be interested in me yet I am blissfully re-married and have been for the past two years. Three years ago he promised he would destroy me and is still trying. It is exhausting. How is my daughter? Is she alright? Does she believe him when he tells her I’ve abandoned her? Does she miss me as much as I miss her? Does she miss the sound of my voice, the smell of my hair, my kiss on her cheek, my love, my adoration? I hope so. I know his technique. Separate, isolate. Then subjugate. I am scared for her. Scared for me. If it weren't for my husband I would be a jibbering wreck - or at least even more than I am at present. Mark looks after me, cares for me, boosts me. He also protects me. We both know that dangerous times are coming. Shortly we will have to be even more cautious than we are now. Disobedience requires punishment and considerable disobedience necessitates extreme punishment. We must be careful.