Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Separate























It was a week ago that he had his first visit with Lilli. I was nervous. Very, very nervous.

The afternoon the police marched me, under escort, out of our home: The afternoon I had to arrange for someone to pickup my baby from school (and keep her) because I was being taken to the police station: They told us to stay with friends whose address he wouldn't know, not to go home under any circumstances. A neighbor took the dog and I retrieved my Lilli from more kind friends who had fed and amused her for two hours. Friends we couldn't stay with because knew where they lived.

Well late that night there was a text from him: saying he was going to pick Lilli up from school the next day.

This was a few hours after his agreeing with the doctors that he'd take a few days away from us (and they'd advised us the same)
I discovered he'd been to the house looking for us. Through the night and at daybreak.
The next morning, I also discovered, he'd been hunting for her passport.

Soon after I got an email  from his lawyers at 2pm demanding I return Lilli's passport to their offices by 4pm or they would apply to family court for an injunction.  I didn't see the email until 6pm after I'd cooked Lilli's dinner. We'd not been back home long, after the doctor called me and said he had been sectioned under the Mental Health Act and we could safely return. I served Lilli's dinner and shot off a reply briefly explaining the situation and where he was. I asked them not to exacerbate an already difficult situation for our family.

My family is here; His is in Europe. I don't need a passport to make a run for my family.

So that was why I was nervous the first time he came to 'take her out'.

When he'd picked her up, 45minutes late he looked awful. Lilli stood and stared a moment before she gave him a hesitant hug. Immediately empathy spilled from me like larva from a volcano.

Nevertheless, I was in the car, engine running ready to follow him (I'd told him I was going grocery shopping), and he shot off with our baby like a rocket - I didn't have a chance in hell of catching him.

I cruised around, went by the cafe he said he was taking her to, the park she asked to go to - nothing. No sign of them.

But he did bring her back, thank God. Along with an ugly new dent in the car.

He still looked quite ill when he brought her home and I felt the urge to bring him inside, wrap him in a blanket and take care of him.  What was this new medication doing to him?  I wondered.


The way he'd looked haunted me all week. I asked him later what he thought about coming home and he said "I need more time."

Two days ago, checking the bank accounts, as I do regularly now, I found several transactions processed in a nightclub on the same date.

I felt like a complete fool; he wasn't wiped out on meds he was severely hung-over.  Likely still a bit drunk by the way he moved. What is it with me, that I'm always so ready to take pity and take care?

Well he's looked better in following visits. I still don't like her being in the car with him - he was never the best driver, distracted, fond of reading his blackberry, not fond of using indicators and he's always had lead in his boots.

But it does seem this separation suits him fine. He gets to take out our baby, toileted and dressed, have fun for as long as he wants then bring her home to be bathed, fed, helped with her homework and put to bed.

Then he's free to go clubbing, I guess. That is something we never did together in eight years of being DINKs. But now he's in his forties, that's when the fun starts, apparently.

I wonder how well his recovery is doing. Looking at our bank statements he's only a little less extravagant on himself, he's taken up smoking and drinking again and he's still driving like a maniac.

I am going to have to work hard with Polyanna, my shrink, on toughening up, holding back on my gushing empathy and burning my nurses uniform.

Who died and made me Florence flipping Nightingale? 

As for his needing more more time; I say, take all the time you want, honey; take years.

Take decades.







2 comments:

  1. You care because you love, and that can't be switched off like a light. But remember all this when he wants to come back. I admire your courage in writing it all down, it's such a valuable record of a time that is all too easy to forget (I've been there) - I'm glad Pollyanna is helping you through and developing your personal strength. That, too, is hard.

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    Replies
    1. Thank you Tara, Polyanna actually told me to keep a diary. She said one day he might even read it and that it would be good for him. It's just a kind of therapy for me.
      I wrote one over the time he was depressed and I destroyed it when he got happy. I wish I hadn't now.
      I'm going to head on over to your place now and what's happening - thanks for connecting and for the support x

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