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.
No comments:
Post a Comment