Days 0758 & 0759

Do you know that moment when you’re talking to someone and they suddenly take a deeper look at you and say ‘are you all right?’? And the tears just burst out of you?

Well I had one of those today, except what the person said to me was: you know what? I reckon you’re furious.

And it was like having someone smooth the dirt away from my surface and see me for real. And I could feel fresh air hit my skin and, well, it brought tears to my eyes.

And the next thing she said was: and I’m so pleased for you. I think it means you’re recovering.

For the first time in 16 years I feel safe enough to be furious.

Where anger didn’t help with He Who Shall Not Be Named … Where my anger in fact escalated the danger level, I’ve now crossed a line or built a wall or hit some other metaphor that makes it ok.

And the anger is strong. Furious is the only word that comes close.

And where Halfman-related anger twists me up and makes me feel powerless’ this fury … Well it warms me and makes me feel stronger and safer. It makes me see that I don’t ‘have to’ anymore. That I don’t need to fix and avoid and work around to survive.

I can just be me.

And I can wear my anger with happiness – another rung climbed out of that pit I sat in for too long. 

I have never been so pleased to be angry. 

Days 0672 & 0673

I can feel a niggling descent coming on.

I was feeling strong – strong enough to cut the happy pills down.

And it is so much nicer not to feel over-padded.

But now strong feelings are rushing in to fill the gap.

And I’m angry. And pissed off.

A child is not something to be manipulated.

How do people claim to love someone who they cause so much pain?

Love isn’t pain? And if it is, then fuck that. I don’t want it. I’d rather have someone be kind to me.

And, just by the way, the next person I barely know who feels the need to explain to me that men are treated as less than women in family court – persons who know nothing of me or my situation – can just go tell it to a plant or a shrub. Because really.

Day 0663

What do you see in a person’s smile?

Do you see what you want to see — a lover, delighted to come across you unexpectedly? 

 Can you trust that what you see is true? 

That a twinkle in the eye is theirs and not something you placed there? 

 There are awkward smiles. And gassy smiles. Ones that can’t be helped. Reluctant smiles that burst out at you from the edges first.

There are frustrated smiles and frozen grins.

Polite smiles. 

And huge ones that rip the clouds away and sweep you off the ground. 

 But never before have I seen a smile that is so wrong and misplaced: so irrelevant to the person it was delivered to.

It was the same smile — from eyes to lips — that was given to me at the height of infatuation. And yet there it was on that same face today: the one that thinks I’m a big meanie, the same face that has been convinced by its owner that I am somehow bad for not being compliant and quiet. The same face that turned red and railed away at me in absentia and tried to belittle me to others because his wrong couldn’t be admitted and owned.

That smile — today’s version of the Love Grin — creeped me out.

Bullet dodged indeed.

Days 0661 & 0662

Woof!

That’s me. Pavlov’s dog here salivating when my bell rings.

I find nothing more frustrating than realising He Who Shall Not Be Named’s delightful presence in my life has modified the way I am, the way I react, the way I breathe.

I don’t take responsibility for it; it’s not my fault. But it does make me decidedly grumpy.

Apparently, every time I am asked about him in therapy I change completely. I sit differently, breathe differently, speak differently.

Like a dog who has been hit with a stick every time it opened its mouth.

Afraid of Him is now part of my body, my organs, my soul.

That seems so unfair.

Is it possible to slough it all off all at once somehow?

Or do I have to go through all that continuum: aware of it, notice it, stomp on it?

That’s hard bloody work.

But work for which my grumpiness motivates me.

I will not give him the unrealized pleasure of frightening me in spirit. I. will. not.

Next time I hit that place, I am going to force myself to relax, to be myself. To stop letting him influence me.

Fuck the way he treated me. I did not deserve it. I do not deserve the hangover.

Days 0651 & 0652

Life just keeps serving up the laughs.

When The Angriest Man Ever advises that ‘you don’t need to be so angry all the time’! you know life is just checking that you’re paying attention.

I love the utter lack of self awareness on his part that allows my 99% polite:1% frustrated ‘yes’ to be classified as ‘angry’. By him!

I realise life is not literature – it is random, not plotted etc.

But sometimes the absurdities just feel so well written.

Day 0576

How do I describe the feeling of just plain having had enough?

A bit empty? Devoid of anger? Beyond anger?

A friend told me the other day of how she had split from her husband the day before and she had found herself wandering through the house, collecting photos of him and dropping them onto the driveway below so they could all smash in a pile.

She wasn’t angry. Not at all. She had that feeling — the one that says to your whole body: I am finished with this.

It’s the feeling I had when, after two+ years of trying so hard to fix things and support him and protect myself and my child, it was one fairly simple act of his that left me hollow. Done. Finished.

Not angry. And not numb, though you might expect that. Just plain finished.

I feel like that today. Not angry. Not anything really other than tired. Not a feeling intense enough to be passionate. A completion of something.

Nothing big has happened. It’s simply the fourth Christmas of being hounded and yelled at (although that now comes via lawyer’s letters but it is still his words and ‘logic’ that they hurl at me). Of having my son involved in things that aren’t his worry but make him wonder if I’m the person he knows I am. Things that make him feel disloyal to his dad if he doesn’t give me a hard time. And he is nine.

Maybe I have reached that point where I have nothing left to hollow out of me. The point where he can’t tie in me in such knots any more. Because it’s gone. Totally gone. That sense of care I once had for what he does. That concern for how he acts towards me.

Maybe this is the point where I know I’m out?

I have most certainly grown utterly, unambiguously, weary.

Days 0543 & 0544

Bugger you, Halfman. That you’re shit covered fingers can still stretch into my memory and make me so unspeakably angry with myself. And with you. Just that same event — didn’t bother me last year. But this year … the same kind of day, the throngs, the buses, the ducks on the grass.

That memory of thinking – feeling – that you stayed overnight on a Sunday signalled something. That being that clear in front of my child meant something. Because that was serious stuff — to anyone who has the capacity to see from another’s point of view.

But it turned out of course that she wasn’t even in town. That your lie about having to rush off in the morning was less about parents and more about where she expected you to be and about picking her up from the airport so you could play loyal husband.

For so long I’ve always given you and my ego the benefit of the doubt: I was an anomaly in your life and your relationship. I was so great that you couldn’t help yourself. But I’m pretty sure now the experts are right — and my ingrown sense of uncharitableness where you’re concerned makes it seem right as well: you’ve always done this kind of thing.

Your ‘well, I’ve kissed someone before I’ve broken up with another person … but we all do that’ statement was such an out and out lie.

When I asked your wife: Has he done this before?

And you replied with “No, N—, I’ve never done this before.’

I didn’t really believe you. The very fact that you were the one answering made me think it wasn’t true.

Five out of five experts – and one really frickin angry Woman – agree: You will have done this before – often – and will do it again if you haven’t already.

Dirtbag.

Day 0529

Clarity is a beautiful thing: it simplifies my thoughts and makes me feel like I am moving Ever Onwards.
A very dear friend gave me clarity today along with making me guffaw – you can see why she’s a good friend.
This lovely, classy lady not only joined the list of people (not just myself) who think I should be impressed with my restraint on not mowing down Halfman when our worlds nudged each other two days ago.
Clearly, as angry as I’ve been I still have the elegance and style to provide him with some clemency.
The clarity came with this revelation: I am no longer angry at Me with respect to Halfman’s legacy. I am angry at him and that is not only healthier but so much more fair and just.
And I remain committed to trusting people unless they give me reason to do otherwise.
Halfman did not break me.
Nyah. Nyah.

Days 0526 & 0527

So, the opportunity to run his spindly, balding Halfman body and bike over with my car finally presented itself.
It’s only a fantasy of course so I obeyed all traffic rules.
But the anger that spiked through me and has made my hands shake and my heart pound is most decidedly not fantasy.
In some ways it’s a good thing to be confronted by him looking exactly like he always has. I’ve left him far behind – I can literally see that. Especially when my first impression of him visually is that of someone rumpled and unwashed. It wasn’t until I noted the silver and orange bespoke helmet that I recognised him for my ex lover; for that person I let in to me so deeply.
I’m pretty sure he saw me: he’s that kind of person. I had to stop for a red light. He jumped onto the sidewalk rather than pass me, couldn’t cross at the lights so took a turn and peddled for the hills.
Along with the anger – that’s going to remain with me all morning – I thought: I used to think I knew you. How wrong. How wrong.

Day 0503

It’s nice how little I think of this now. But I had one of those dreams last night. If I was being flippant I would characterise it as a ‘bad conscience dream’, though I have little to have a bad conscience about with regard to Halfman. I don’t know what it’s about really, but I have it once in a while: a dream where I meet the ball-less one somewhere and his wife talks to me and I realise she has gone mad because of what he did to her, how he treated her and the lies he wove that involved me. I woke up feeling terrible about it. And powerless.

Of course, though, as the day wore on pleasantly, I started to think about how much I wish the final moment where Halfman and I shared a piece of earth as two people who had once had an intimate relationship was a moment in which I had spoken aloud what I was thinking.

As is often my wont, I chose to be silent.  But my head was full of thoughts.

I had met with him in a certain park on a cold, damp, grey day, having discovered his betrayal, his lies and his psychopathic scheme. I couldn’t bring myself to yell at him, but he knew I was angry.

He was frightened to speak to me. And then he cried. Poor, pathetic thing.

Eventually I ended the conversation, pretended to be ‘just fine, thank you very much’, and popped off to my car to grab a box of things I wanted to donate to the place he was working, but which I didn’t want to bring in because I’d have to see him. (Ugh)

So I stood behind him as he sat on the grass, his legs folded under him, his shoulders curved forwards, his head down. He was either continuing to boo hoo or just waiting for this to be over so he could go away and solidify whatever lying excuses he’d made to his wife about me at that point.

I gave him the box. I tried to explain to him what was in it. He cut me off with his sharp tongue — as if to say: don’t be so frivolous, I’ve had enough. (I now think he was just grumpy that I had ensured what he’d done was now known to his wife and that he’d felt he had to appease me to make sure I left him to weave his lies to her from there on out.)

So I stopped explaining the box’s contents and I put my left hand on his left shoulder – just for a second.

I reckon he thought I was being wistful, sighing with the weight of having to let him go.

But here is what I was thinking – for the record (the record only I really care about, I’m sure). I was thinking: You are a liar. You shit allllll over me. I hate you.

Of course, I didn’t hate him. And I don’t hate him now. I’m not very prolific at the Hate Thing. I seem to default to hating the action, not the person. As much as I’d love to hate him, I don’t. But, my goodness, it would have felt good to say that to him out loud and make sure he knew he had killed off all the loveliness that had once been there.

Arsehat.