She`s had a very bad day

In the weeks after my Father`s passing I was inevitably involved with the tying up of loose ends from my Fathers affairs, if you could call them that. Mother veered from randomly off loading things she had no interest in or did not benefit her onto me but with other things, such as his pension funds, she was secretive and the only update I was given was that some staff member at the end of the phone had been very very helpful or that she was pleased to report there were plenty of funds available to ensure her comfort, the announcement made with a self-satisfied look and mysterious raise of the eyebrows. I wasn`t interested in how much she had been left, just relieved that she was satisfied, for a while at least. She told me she had to go to the local bank to close my Fathers account and have the remaining funds transferred to her, which would involve her opening an account with them. Mother`s money was held in building societies and post office accounts and the odd wad of cash hidden away in some ancient handbag, a velvet one I particularly remember having a savage snap shut clasp that would rival `Arkwright`s Till !! And so she reported back at some point that she had been, Fathers account was now closed and she had a new cheque book and cash card which she doubted she would need but was impressed with owning them nonetheless, especially as she had `qualified` for a gold card. It was all a bit confusing really she commented vaguely. I asked if she wanted me to help in any way or go back to the bank to have things explained more clearly with her but she refused and said it was all wearing her out. So some months later I get an irate call from her telling me they are taking £20 per month from her account and why didn`t I warn her she had to pay for an account, she didn`t know anything about banks after all. She was implying I had left her to their mercy, conveniently forgetting she was insistent on going alone. When I called next she presented me with statements detailing the monthly fees she was incurring as they had opened her an account with lots of added extras as she had an impressive balance. She was agitated and again implied I should of been looking out for her. If only dad was here to help her. And at that time I had been making silent promises to my dead Father that I would step up and make sure Mother was OK, I was still in denial about his true character and even when dead I was still on a mission to be finally good enough in his eyes. So her words stung and the guilt coursed through me as I promised to contact the bank. Which is exactly what I did. I was calm and measured but was clear I was making a complaint and suggested to them they had taken advantage of my Mothers lack of knowledge and encouraged her to open a premium account which incurred a monthly fee when a basic chequing account for one of my Fathers pensions to be paid into would of been more than adequate, I also mentioned how upset my Mother was when discovering the charges. Had I not been processing the whole thing through guilt and bereavement it may have dawned on me Mother had probably swanned in dressed to the nines and bragging about her finances and was no doubt delighted to be offered a special account with a gold card. But unable to read between the lines I was an obedient flying monkey and gladly accepted my mission. I reported back that they were transferring her account to a basic no charge one and were very apologetic though certain Mother would of had the details explained to her. By that point I could almost hear her grandiose actress voice drawling..."Oh yeesss, that will be lovely" while she glazed over and tuned out, no doubt admiring how well her gloves went with her coat while they gave her the account details. She seemed placated and commented she liked the gold card but "I ain`t got the money for all them bloody charges ". So next visit I call and she's had her hair done, won at bingo and is clearly riding a high. She tells me her new card has arrived and also that the nice man from the bank phoned her...Oh yes ? I say...."Yes" she says wrinkling up her nose to imply her disinterest with the topic "He said he was very sorry about it all and said he was sorry you were disappointed with how they had handled it, and I said oh you were OK about it, he says you were quite cross actually and so I told him I thought you`d just had a VERY bad day"...she shakes her tragically while I stand there incredulous at her words. Glancing up and seeing my face she quickly says "Don`t worry I put it all right for you" implying she had graciously got me out of a fix.... "forget about it now" she added firmly to ensure the topic was closed leaving me to ruminate and stew on my own stupidity for days after.

Loss

Before I met the man I would marry I was in a relationship with another lad. He lived quite far away and so I went to his house after work before my day off, stayed the night and spent the next day there and the same after work on Saturday. We both saw our mates on the days in between so it worked out fine and I particularly liked his Mom who I was close to, she was easy going and likeable and his home had a very different atmosphere to my own. I was happy. And because I was trained to be of use to the significant people in my life, I was oblivious to the fact he seemed unable to hold down a job and I paid for almost everything. He did casual work on building sites and though his Dad was in the trade and on occasion found him a regular job he never managed to keep it for long. His timekeeping was poor, even on the days be bothered to turn up. He preferred an odd few days here and there rather than full time employment and with me subsidising him I suppose he didn`t really need the money. I worked full time and as a department manager earned a reasonable wage. What money he earned he saved up and spent on himself and the odd old banger of a car that he then struggled to afford to run. It was me who paid for our evenings in the pub, meals out or takeaways. I also treated him to clothes and shoes with my staff discount, paid for taxis or petrol to cover lifts from his brother and left him money to spend when I went back to my house. It never once crossed my mind I was being leached off or to wonder why he never bought me anything in return apart from a silver eternity ring from Argos with cubic zirconia`s in which I asked for as a Birthday present. He lay in bed and dossed about and I worked full time to cover our expenses. I then foolishly allowed myself to get pregnant when there was a few days gap between running out of my pill before I could get to the Dr`s for another prescription. I never imagined I would ever write about all this, it`s been pushed to the corner of my memory due to shame and guilt but I`ve addressed so much here and this was a time when I needed support, guidance, love and understanding, a time when yet again I found myself abandoned to cope alone, full of guilt and fear and as ever, unable to register just how poorly I was treated as I had no higher bench mark to measure it by. 

So the boyfriend was unimpressed at my news and naturally it never crossed my mind I may have had the right to decide to keep the baby, my parents wrath, being dumped, probably homeless and unable to support myself and a child, were all highly probable obstacles in the way of that happening. I felt my unplanned pregnancy was proof I was bad and considered it wholly my fault alone, after all I was trained in blame and the `Two to Tango` argument never entered my head. In the days when our situation was sinking in, me 20 and him 19, or so I thought, I went to work as normal and tried hard to conceal my morning sickness. But one night, home alone, while my parents were at bingo, I began to suffer with crippling stomach cramps and heavy bleeding. Scared out of my mind, both from the physical trauma and how I could keep my secret, I spent three hours either sitting on the loo or rolling on the floor in agony and sobbing with terror as I passed clots and bled endlessly. By the time they arrived home I was in such a state it was impossible to hide and I blurted out that I was having a miscarriage. It makes my blood run cold still, all these years on, that I had to give them just the sort of ammunition they loved and so were able to take the moral high ground and then had tangible proof of what a wicked, wilful girl I was. The embarrassment of the neighbours seeing an ambulance and questions being asked meant I was bundled into the car and there was a heated row about the quickest route to take and where to park. Whilst my Father was shouting, desperate to hear a few comforting words, I spitefully said that I would give him the petrol money with a hope of hearing a "don`t be ridiculous, my only concern is you and the baby".... I got stoney silence for an answer. I spent 2 nights in hospital, a scan told me the loss had been so severe there was nothing left in my womb that needed removing so I was not in need of a scrap as it was called. I was deathly pale and shocked to the core. Boyfriend and his Mom came to see me, she was full of concern and he was full of himself, seeming not to grasp the situation, either that or his relief that our little problem was solved was written all over his inanely grinning face. I went home to a frosty reception, there were lectures and accusations, words such as, disgraceful, irresponsibility, sordid, illegitimate and disappointment were bandied about though I was still so shaken after what had happened I took little of their preaching in. Neither one of them once put an arm around me, asked why I felt I could not tell them, or showed me the slightest morsel of love. I took to my room and lay on the bed staring at the wall hour after hour, day after day as it slowly dawned on me that the boyfriend was a no show. Mother had not long had our phone disconnected for the umpteenth time so he could not call and any hope or expectation I had of him turning up to comfort me and be by my side to face the music with my Parents slowly slipped away in those long long hours I spent forever listening for a car to pull up, forever longing to hear the doorbell. I really was in the depths of despair, I had lost my baby who I had never even felt I was allowed to consider having the right to bring into the world, it seemed I had lost my relationship too and without a doubt I knew soon enough Mother would use this whole saga as a tool to make sure I yet again lost a place to lay my head as well. And so as the days slipped away I would watch the dusk fall and the lights from the busy road that we lived by would flicker against the walls of my room, as I hoped and prayed one of them just may be him turning into our road. My heart ached with the pain of loss and need and shame and I pulled my sadness around me like a damp cold cloak as I waited for the one who never came. After a few days I decided to walk to the phone box and call him, I was weak and shaky and had eaten little after hiding away in my room for so long and feeling sick at the thought of food. My heart pounded at the thought of calling, would he be there, would he even want to speak to me, was it over ? And then fate dealt me another blow. Unknown to me there had been some sort of system failure in our area and so the phone in the nearest call box was dead. Damn it, I shook slightly and steadied myself, thinking of the quickest walk to the next call box. I got there to find this was dead too, I choked a few tears back and walked to another. I tried 6 or 7 before feeling so woozy I had not choice but to go home. I was greeted with a terse "What did e say then" from Mother. The next day I tried again, all the same boxes and a few more, still all dead. I`ll add here that for years after I would have nightmares where I would be desperate to call someone but every phone I tried to use was broken. Mother again was eager for an update, it was quite the soap opera to her. "What, all of em?!" she questioned in disbelief and disappointment when I informed I could not find one pay phone working and so had no announcement I had been dumped to delight her or news that it was `back on` to enrage her. That night I heard her whispering to my Father and I was then told that he would drive me to find a box with a working phone. I knew this was more out of my Mothers need for the next chapter of my sorry story rather than any care for my distress. And so I left Father sitting in the car and heaved the heavy door open, it creaked and I was greeted with that awful musty and faintly dirty smell from call boxes of the time. My heart pounded as I picked up the receiver and heard a dial tone. I could not dial the number quick enough. He answered. He was as casual and cheerful as can be, he offered no real reason why he had not been in touch but all I cared about was that it seemed we were still an item, however neglectful he had been in my hour of need. We made arrangements for me to go to his house over the weekend and things picked up where they left off much to my Mothers disgust. Over the next few months I got promoted and so spent even more money on our courtship in the hopes all would be well and I would have someone to validate me in some feeble way and Mother would not have the satisfaction and fun of gloating over my heartbreak. My periods were irregular and leaving my pills at his house one time and possibly being more fertile after my miscarriage I foolishly yet again fell pregnant. I knew I dare not let my parents find out and he was instantly adamant I needed to get a termination. Again I went along with it all, never once allowing myself to believe there may have been a chance to have this child alone without any of them. I was not someone who thought a generous welfare system would be an option for me, I was programmed to give not to take. An odd thing had happened a while back also. We had been walking in his village and bumped into a local lad who smirked and nodded at me, saying "different girlfriend?" when I questioned this it was dismissed as his mates stupid humour. I also noted he had began working a little more regularly, was constantly counting his stash of money, even though I still paid while he saved and he had mentioned a new crowd he was hanging out with during the days we did not see each other. I was never introduced to any of them. So....and I struggle with how I could of been so meek and down trodden I had allowed this to come about....but this was the arrangement. I would take two days off work, I would travel alone, by two trains and a taxi, have a termination around midday and then get discharged late afternoon, catch two trains and a taxi back, lie to my parents about staff training at head office and then rest at home the next day then back to work. He was not coming with me as he had to work, surprisingly, for a change. He would pay half to the termination, only it would be in instalments as he didn`t have it all at the moment, I would pay the rest and the cost of travel. The clinic gave me strict instructions I must be there by 11am to be booked in and have the procedure that same day and be allowed home. And here fate lends a hand yet again. Up at the crack of dawn and not allowed to eat or drink I waited for my second train, there was an announcement and I was puzzled as the train behind me was going to my destination, I double checked with a guard and was assured this train would take me where I needed to go and so I walked away from the platform side that I thought my train left from and mistakenly took the the other train which stopped at every station on the way and arrived 45mins later then my correct fast train. I was sick with panic and rang the clinic explaining in tears my mistake but it was no good, I was too late and so had to go home and dream up some cancellation lie to my Parents who thankfully were as disinterested as ever, unaware there was a new development with their Jezebel of a Daughter. The boyfriend was horrified to hear my tale, so horrified he told me to re-book it and he would take me in his newly acquired car, whenever, whatever day it was, no question. Relieved he was putting himself out for me, naive fool that I was, I was truly grateful and dutifully paid for a tank of petrol. He was very jolly all that day, joking and chatting with everyone despite the circumstances, his mood quite at odds with mine. I was subdued, hearing a whispering voice in the back of my head asking why had I done that, it was so wrong, everything felt wrong that day. I remember Almaz by Randy Crawford being on the radio as we drove home. It had rained and there were grey clouds and white clouds jostling to block out the weak sun which made futile attempts to spotlight our car with a splash of warmth as we raced home, job done. I spent two days at his house where everyone seemed very quiet, which I took as judgement for the choice we made. His Brother was particularly nasty to him and could not look me in the eye at all, it was months later before the real reason for his behaviour dawned on me. He dropped me off saying he didn`t want me to come and stay mid week as was the usual arrangement but would pick me up on the evening of my day off for a `drink`, I questioned why I couldn`t come to stay at his but he made excuses. I sensed this was the end and went into my house, up to my bedroom and lay on the bed, allowing the realisation he was probably already seeing another girl to sink in, as I numbly joined the dots of all the tell tale signs I had chosen to ignore.

I should of known he was a seasoned liar. When we met I was just turned 20 and he told me he was 19, we would joke about me being the older woman. I had my 21st Birthday whilst seeing him {it was his parents who took us all out for the evening and made it special for me, my own barely acknowledged it was my Birthday let alone my 21st. "Don`t ya think you ought to be goin out with out us Amanda??" my Mother barked, full of jealousy and resentment when she heard about it, the fact they had not suggested a thing to mark the day escaped her} So when his Birthday was approaching I mentioned his 21st several times. It was then he sat me down and told me he had lied when we met and he 18 not 19 then so this was his 20th not his 21st.

 So I was again alone, I no longer had the company of the baby I was too conditioned to admit I wanted so badly and the bleeding from the termination served as a reminder of that. A termination I had ended up footing the bill for. He called for me as agreed. We went for a `drink`. I cannot remember the words he used, or the reasons he gave but I was told with a casual conviction that he didn`t want to be with me anymore and he would rather hang out with his mates. I was devastated. I tried to negotiate a more casual arrangement but he would not be swayed. He drove me back to my house with Stand By Me playing on the radio, tears streaming down my face. Doesn`t it make you sad I sobbed, "No, it`s just a song" he laughed back. And so I found myself yet again laying on my bed, still bleeding though no longer waiting for him to call by. Of course I realise now I was nothing more than a source of ready cash and easy sex to him and he no doubt lived like a single bloke in the days I was too far away to have any clue what he was doing. 

Some weeks later he came to my place of work to see me, he informed me he was seeing someone and smiled happily as he told me he had just treated her to a weekend away as `he thought she was in need of a little holiday`. I quietly asked him if he had the money he owed me for the termination, he did not. I already knew he was seeing someone as one evening, on my way home from work, when my bus was nearing my stop, I was shocked to see him, in his car, over take the bus with his new love beside him. They parked on the pub car park across the main road and I was aware they were watching me as, head down, I walked quickly towards my house, wondering what the hell he was playing at. I never did work that out but I think he was stupid enough to have stopped and tried to introduce us to each other had he had a chance. I wondered if she had any idea he had still been seeing me when he had met her or about the termination and how easy it was to get rid of both his child and me when he wanted to move on.

 It was his cheap ring that my Mother plucked from the bin a few days later and decided to wear herself while I was nursing a broken heart and feeling guilt and loss about the choice I allowed myself to make.

That guilt haunts me still.

Lies and Illusions

"Do you want a scratching ?" my friend held out a bag of salty and delicious looking pork rind. "No thanks" I replied without thinking, "I`m not allowed them, I`ve got fragile teeth" there was a pause while I was gazed at with surprise and then amusement which gave way with to uncontrollable laughter at my reply. I stood blushing and feeling silly until the moment was gone and we carried on with whatever else we were amusing ourselves with. They were not bullying me with their laughter, it was not done in a mean way but for me it underlined my inability to self edit before I spoke and save myself embarrassment. 

Afterwards I pondered what I had replied quickly and with conviction, without a second thought. I wasn`t allowed scratching`s because I had fragile teeth. I ran my tongue over my teeth and tried to wobble them with my finger, they felt pretty secure. Were they fragile ?
 I`d never been told they were, not by a dentist because I was never taken to one. Not until I get to my teens when my teeth showed signs of protruding and she took me once to get braces. It was two buses and a short walk, two buses and a short walk for me, not her. Needless to say she never took me again. At 13 I was instructed to catch the bus to town and then another to the dentist and when I panicked and pleaded I did not know where the 2nd bus stop was or where to get off and which way to walk to the surgery she grew quiet and her mean, calculating dark eyes darted about as she weighed up the cost of a taxi to enable me to go alone to the appointment against the inconvenience of having to take me herself. Taxi it was then. 

 So at that stage there was nothing to indicate my teeth were in anyway fragile, especially considering I was not encouraged to brush them regularly and often I had to resort to squeezing and squeezing the very last traces of toothpaste from a rolled up tube as it was rarely remembered to be repurchased as it was only me who used it, my parents both had dentures. She also had a habit of commenting that my teeth had always been cream, this absolved her of any responsibility as to why they were not sparkling white. Looking back I realise it was a classic move from my Mother. She hated scratching`s and anyone enjoying something which she disliked she viewed as an affront to herself and so if she was able to she either discouraged it or banned it completely. Or, as was the case here, made up some dramatic lie to ensure she was obeyed. So it was instilled in me my teeth were fragile to stop me eating scratching`s because she did not like them. Is it any wonder I have had such a fractured sense of self identity for so very long....
I clearly remember my mouthwatering as I watched my Father chobble his way through a bag whilst my Mother tutted and sighed. If she was not about I was allowed to sneak one but instructed to not let ya Mother find out.

I was fed other fantasies too. When she came upon me playing by myself and chattering to my dolls as part of a game or reading out loud, I was warned with great gravity...."Amanda, ya musn`t talk to yourself because it encourages spirits" she nodded her head once and looked at me menacingly as if sharing some dark secret that only grownups knew of. I remember my tummy going over with fear. And so with one bizarre lie she was successful in eliciting fear in me for talking to my dolls. Whenever I forgot and did I would suddenly remember her words and become still, listening and wondering if there was some ghost or demon present because I had spoken to it without meaning to. Now I recognise this as one of many examples where she silenced me because so often any tangible sight or sound of my existence seemed to grate on her. The quieter I was, the more invisible, the happier she was. She seemed to be pre programmed to erase any proof of my presence, perhaps to ensure the spotlight was only ever on her. 
And then we have the Every seven years lie. As I grew and my body changed and I had aliments, went through puberty etc, rather than offer reassurance coupled with simple explanations designed to educate and not terrify she was always dramatic and theatrical. Things were spoke of in hushed tones as if everything was secretive, she told me odd facts but always implied there was more, much more but I was far too young to be told such things. 

Naturally my imagination ran riot and therefore I terrified myself with all it conjured up...all these dark things that only older people knew of as I in turn would when I was old enough to deal whatever it was I was too young to know now. She often warned me "every seven years ya body changes" she never expanded on how or why, it was just said as a warning. Which led me to worry and count forward to how old I would be then and fret over what would happen. The only clue I had was anything I happened to overhear about bodies and sex and boys at school which naturally only served to confuse and scare me more. Should I ever comment or ask anything regarding something I had noticed about myself, as all young girls do, I was told mysteriously "well, every seven years ya body changes" and that shut down any further discussion and saved her the irritation of speaking to me about me, which she clearly was not interested in doing. When I mentioned my chronically dry skin I was told eating more butter would solve the problem.  

 My Father was old school and left all delicate matters to my Mother but I clearly remember this..... When my periods started I was told Go an tell ya Dad , she glowed with excitement over the announcement and dispatched me to find him and share the news as if I had won a prize at school or something like, except if I had won a prize it would of been minimised. I found him planting seeds in pots and I stood to attention in front of him and announced quietly "Mom says I`ve got to tell you that I`ve started my periods" he looked flustered for a second and then turned and told me gravely "Well you are a Woman now then" and he turned back to his potting. "Oh" I replied and sensing that was the end of the exchange turned and left, thinking to myself....am I ? Am I a woman ? I didn`t feel like a woman, apart from when I was doing all the housework. I looked down at my body for signs of my womanhood but saw only a child with slight hint of a bust about to show. I was 11 years old. On reflection I think my Mother sensed the usefulness of this tangible proof I was no longer a child, therefore no longer in need of nurturing and much attention not that I had ever had a lot and she began to use the line you`re not a little girl anymore when berating me for some misdemeanour or instructing me on how to tackle some new responsibility she was off loading on to me. In truth the only thing I clearly remember about my being a little girl was that it wasn`t really allowed. 

 When she gave me my medical card which showed what Dr I was registered with and had my NHS number on I was informed to NEVER EVER lose it because I wouldn`t be able to see a Dr if I needed to. She implied I could be left to die...literally ! And I believed her ! I was paranoid about loosing this card, why she didn`t keep it with hers I don`t know, perhaps she was secretly hoping I would lose it, oh what a telling off that would of been ! In my 20`s when I re-registered for a new Dr after yet another new place to live she barked at me "I ope ya`ve got ya card" No I replied with glee, I`ve lost it twice and just as she drew breath to launch a tirade I interrupted her and told her it was no big deal as I can just apply for another, it`s easy, lots of people lose them. Her mouth set into a mean line as she smarted silently from being over ruled. By this stage it was all about small wins ! 

Dad

In the post `The Armageddon Phone Call` I spoke of how my Mother, in a full blown Narcissistic rage, told me that I put my Father up on a pedestal, this then prompted her to say something that was the final straw in our toxic relationship, triggering a complete withdrawal from me, going grey rock and then no contact. It had been a long time coming and had I done it sooner, as in decades earlier, it may have saved my mental and physical health....but then hindsight is a wonderful thing isn`t it...

I sometimes wonder how long this whole processing process will go on for. To some extent I will admit it is rumination which is not a healthy thing to make a habit out of. Thankfully though I do far less of this now, this Blog has been instrumental in allowing that to happen. But what I have reprocessed of late is what sort of Father I had. My Mother and I do not say this often was right, I did put my Father up on a pedestal. For a very long time, long after his death in fact. Then came the revelation of my Mother`s NPD and that my Father was her enabler. That was almost a decade ago and I have been on a long journey of discovery since then. First I ticked all the enabling boxes off next to his behaviour and responses over the years. And in doing so I yet again gave him a `get out of jail free card` because he was her Enabler and that`s what enablers did, it was all rooted in his enmeshment to her. Still, at that time, I persisted in balancing him, however precariously, up on his pedestal. You see compared to my Mother...soulless, detached and seemingly unable to listen, see me or connect in any meaningful way, my Father was the one person in my day to day life that I actually managed to engage with, however fleetingly. Indeed he himself probably was able to have a real conversation with me, about everything and anything in a way that would of never have been possible with my Mother. And in those brief moments I got validation, I was seen and heard, something every young person deserves and needs to be. It felt so wonderful, it soothed all my raging, worthless thoughts and feelings that coursed through me continually. It was addictive and my need for his attention and approval caused me to conventionality forgive and forget his spontaneous abandonment, in fact at times, his savagery, as he leapt to do my Mothers bidding and prove his allegiance to her by discarding me in anyway needed to appease her. I simply refused to see the type of Father he again and again showed me he was. Perhaps because if I saw and accepted that then who, what, did I have...... 

And so I tried, on repeat, to be good enough, good enough for him to one day love me enough to not discard me instantly on her command, good enough that he may challenge her opinion of me and find a morsel of worth in me to defiantly present her with..... sad to say that day never came. 

And after all these years, 18 years after his death in fact, I can allow myself to admit he was neither good, nice or kind at his very core, despite the gentle smile, soft voice, gracious manners and twinkling blue eyes he showed the world. They were just part of the facade he acted out whilst choosing to forget he had perhaps hours earlier slapped his little girls legs so hard and repeatedly that she wet herself in fear of him and his temper or that he heard her quietly sobbing herself to sleep and stayed silent as his wife screeched for her to stop that snivelling. What heightens my un-blinkered understanding of him is having my own children. So often something crosses my mind, as is the way with all true Mothers, and I feel such empathy, care and concern for my children, knowing that it would be impossible for me to stay so utterly detached from their needs and well being. And so it is as a parent myself I can put into context what a poor uncaring Father he was to me. He really was an unfeeling bully, in fact a bit of an arsehole. Edited to add; No Amanda, he wasn`t a bit of an arsehole, he was a complete and utter arsehole, a cruel and at times violent Father and a wife beater too. He was not worthy of my love, the love he refused to acknowledge or reciprocate.  There I`ve said it. And so through my feelings for my own children I have at last faced up to the true personality of the man I called Dad. My Son is 19 nearly 20, my Daughter 16 nearly 17. I simply cannot compute how he could sit and eat his tea every evening with an 18 year old daughter across town in a shabby room and not wonder and worry if she got home safe, had some food to eat, money for the meter to have a little warmth, but then given the good hidings he readily dished out why would he? He chose to offer his arm to and escort his wife to his only Daughter`s wedding and suggested that I, his Daughter, ask the Best Man to take me. He commented that my crying at my baby Son`s funeral was for attention, ignoring that I was feeling any grief or despair at all, simply because Mother had felt over looked on the day. He remained icily aloof at all of the most distressing times of my life, during experiences that I cannot bear to comprehend my own children having to suffer whilst knowing there would be nothing I would not do for them or sacrifice, to in any way ease their pain and offer all the comfort and care I could. 

I have felt angry with myself for caring so deeply for him, trying so hard to prove myself deserving of a crumb of approval, to win his love. It was him who was not deserving of my love and attention. I see that clearly now, just as I see him, in all his blinding true colours. And I also am going to forgive myself for living in constant hope for so long, for pouring so much time and energy into a relationship that only I was striving for or thought was worth nurturing. My Father`s nurturing was reserved solely for his Wife. 

And that`s OK. I`m letting it all go now, I`m not going to feel hurt or anger over him anymore. I`m not going to feel anything regarding Him, I am spent. A while ago I found his Bingo membership card, his photo on it, smiling away with his blue eyes so like mine. I had kept it, as at the time I viewed it as something precious, it was his, a remnant of his life and something he enjoyed. But with healing and with fresh eyes I saw the man who looked out from that photo for who he really was, he was no longer on a pedestal, and so I tossed it into the bin, registering that he had never kept anything of mine nor would he have remembered anything I enjoyed doing. 

Our eyes may be the same shade of blue but I am determined to be mindful and ensure my soul never becomes as dark as his was. 

Sunday Sufferance

So during my first bedsit years I was asked over on a Sunday for a roast dinner. It was so they could say they had a least seen me and so knew I was still alive or had only been dead by a week at the most ! No mobile phones back then. She also got to fill me in on how things were for her and give me a sweeping appraisal to see if I was wearing something new, looking well groomed with my face made up, though it never seemed to cheer her if I was. I was also asked to pay for and bring the joint of meat with me as they had squandered all the money Mother had inherited so far, and Fathers redundancy payout too, on endless Bingo trips and were now rather short as my Mother used to phrase it. Father now struggled to find and keep work as he was older and puffing and blowing from a lifetime of heavy smoking and what he did earn was less than he was used to. So they graciously provided the veg and I was encouraged to fork out for a nice big joint of meat out of my wage which also had to cover my rent, electric, bus-fare to work, food, clothes, the cost of laundry and anything else I needed.

I also did a few chores when I was over their house while the meat was roasting and as a treat I was allowed to have a bath while I was there, so I didn`t have to have one in that place as my Mother called it. The place where I had tried to make myself a little home because apparently I made hers unhappy, save for Sundays when I arrived with a food parcel. I`m sure I could of bought tinned food to last me several days with the money I spent on the meat, meat which they easily managed to get another meal or two out of for themselves. I should of said no, I should of stayed in my bedsit and relaxed all day after a hectic Saturday on my feet at work in a busy shop. But such was their control over me I seemed to have little independent thinking and though deep down I knew they were taking advantage I also knew they were pretty much all I had in the way of family that I ever saw, other than my dearly loved though aged Nan, and to be completely alone at 18 years of age and always one payslip away from being homeless is a scary situation, I simply did not have the courage to cut all ties. Late afternoon, when she was settling down for her nap in front of the fire, my Father was allowed to drive me into town. Only into town. "You won`t be too long will ya Geoff" Mother would bark, which was code for `don`t drive her all the way home, just to town, she can get the bus from there`.

After all the cost of their petrol must be considered and the risk of me actually spending some time with my Father which was as carefully rationed and controlled by my Mother as always. Oddly enough I was picked up by him in the morning as they wanted the meat asap to get it in the oven, me getting home though was not as important and waiting in the dark, lonely town centre wasn`t considered a problem...after all..."it was er who wanted to leave eh Geoff ?" In the summer it wasn`t so bad waiting for the bus if it was pleasantly warm even if they only ran once an hour but the dark cold winter evenings were another matter.

 Bus drivers varied a lot. Some pulled straight up to the stop and allowed you on to sit in the warm with the engine running and the heaters blowing, even if they were not leaving for 30 or 40 minutes. But some would park up away from the stop and no matter how early they were they would not pull up and allow you on until just before they were due to depart. I remember being dropped off by my Father one bitterly cold evening. As he pulled away in his warm car it began to rain. The bus was there but not up to the stop and the driver sat in his cab reading his newspaper and drinking tea from a flask, I could see him clearly as he could me.

The rain turned to sleet and the wind was icy cold. There was no shelter and my umbrella didn`t do much with the wind blowing this way and that. My feet were like ice and ached painfully from standing still. I was there for 45 mins and my fingers were nearly blue as I had forgotten my gloves. I have just searched the journey from the town centre to my bedsit on google maps, it takes 8 mins by car. 8 mins extra my Father was unable to spare me to drop my outside my door. When I got back to my room it too was bitterly cold from having no heat all day and my breath streamed out in the air. I eyed the electric meter and then my handful of change to gauge how long I could have one bar of the fire on. I feel so frustrated with the girl I was then, especially as a Mom myself now and being able to recognise how little they offered me and how very much they took in return. I really should of refused their calculated invitation and spent my money on crusty bread and soup, hot chocolate and biscuits and spent Sunday cuddled up with hot water bottles, reading and watching TV with my fur coat around my shoulders for good measure ! But I was always driven to do what was expected of me, ever in search of being needed and a place to belong, however fleeting.

It`s A Lemon

One of the things my Mother loved most was to be invited over to my house for a roast dinner, or a teatime buffet perhaps. I catered to her every whim, all her dietary needs, her likes and dislikes. I made sure everything was just so and would get quite anxious inside over doing just that.

One day, with her perfectly prepared lunch on a tray on her knees, because she wanted to watch TV, the second I sat down with mine she sweetly said, in her little girl voice "Was there any salt?" as she couldn`t enjoy her salad without it. "But I put it right next to your tray for you to use"  I said, exasperated I had to get up again. "I didn`t see it" she smirks, happy she had irritated me. It was a classic move, she hated people to be able to anticipate her game playing tactics and no matter how carefully I aimed, the goalposts were always moved at the last moment. During one visit when the house was particularly busy with comings and goings she commented it was worth coming, if only for the food. That says it all really. Ironic when I consider how food provided by them for me was so monitored and controlled by her, not least by her mood swings. By contrast the times that me and my Husband, were ever invited to hers for any type of meal, well they could be counted on one hand.

There was a Sunday lunch invite one time when I think she was trying to compete with her neighbour Ruby. My parents had a hushed but savage row which we over heard whilst sat in the garden. It seemed the Pork joint was still bloody and pink inside when Father came to carve it. I diplomatically suggested it go in the microwave as both us and the veg had been waiting for a while by now. It had an interesting texture when it finally made it to the plate. If we did ever eat at their house it was usually a chip shop tea and even buttering some bread, warming plates and providing condiments turned into a bit of a bun-fight. And so one day they rang out of the blue and asked us rather grandly over for tea. We had been not long been married and I was picking up on my Mother playing close attention to how well things were going for me. She observed my neat little home and coveted all the things I bought for it.

She kept tally of meals out and weekends away she heard of and in particular they were frosty when we bought a fairly new car, afforded by working long hours and a new, better paid job I had managed to get. And so we were invited to Tea, be there at 5 was the instruction. It all seemed quite odd and we anticipated some sort of announcement though what it could be we couldn`t imagine. When we arrived they both behaved oddly, there was a smugness about them and the atmosphere felt very strange. Small talk was made and then Mother said she would put Tea out, help was refused and she pointedly said "OK then Geoff" as she left the room. "We`ve got something to tell you" my Father said, looking very self satisfied. "We`ve bought a car" he announced. OK we said, puzzled as to why we were being informed in this bizarre way. "It`s in the garage", he waits for our reaction. We glance at each other and resist the temptation to laugh and say oh thats nice instead. We are told we can see it after Tea and then we go into the kitchen and sit at the table. It was quite surreal, not in the least easy or normal and it got even more weird when the plates were put in front of us.

There were a couple of slices of ham, a tomato and lettuce, a slice of bread and butter and a bottle of salad cream on the table. it could not have been more meagre. Cottoning on that this was a thinly veiled attempt to some how take us down a peg or two husband played along saying what a lovely tea, nice ham, where were the tomatoes from...? Really ? I glanced around the table and felt like I had fallen down a rabbit hole. After a small slice of cake Father was instructed to Get it out the garage and show them. We made suitable noises and I was pleased for them but was also trying to work out why we had to be told in such a contrived way and severed a paltry Tea in the bargain. Arriving back home we did a postmortem, in between laughing whenever we made eye contact and a few "What the actual ****.....? moments. We work out that Mother must of slowly been wound up to breaking point as she watched me apparently thrive and worse still seem to be living a grander life than she was. So a plan was hatched to keep up with us, rooted in petty jealousy and resentment, hence the spitefully frugal smoke screen Tea invitation. Honestly, you couldn`t make it up. All this took place a few months after they sold their last car which was beyond repair and they both had come to realise that driving was too demanding a task for my ailing Father now.

But then Husband reveals he has his concerns about the car. It has 3 keys....Why 3 I ask. Its what they call a lemon I think Husband informs me and goes on to explain Father showed him one key for the ignition, one for the doors and another for the boot. He tells me he is worried it is an insurance right off and quite possibly 2 cars welded together and resold. He says he cannot believe Father, a car mechanic all his life, had not cottoned on. Alarm bells were ringing and we were quite worried but when he had commented on the keys Father shut him down. We saw and heard little from them for a few months while Mother was ferried around town by her reinstated chauffeur. That was until we get a fraught call from Father who said the Police had been in touch about a paperwork issue and had, on inspection, impounded the car as it was indeed a Lemon. They lost their money and their car and naturally Father shouldered most of the blame from Mother as well as feeling like a fool he had not realised. So it all blew up spectacularly in their faces. And despite it all I felt so sorry for him.

Aunt Iris

I wrote extensively about my Aunt Iris in the post The Nanny. I covered how she was part of my early life and how I put her up on a pedestal, she had so many qualities I admired and was so many things I hoped to be. And yet because of her lecherous husband, nothing less than a dirty old man with an eye for underage girls, I was unable to stay in close contact with her and so lost someone who was so valued by me, I recognised this at the time in my very early teens and through the following years. The incident of abuse was the catalyst that drove us apart and then my being forced from my home at the tender age of just 18, when all of my focus was on simply getting by, alone and of course I am certain my Mother had a hand in keeping the estrangement going in later years. She was always quite jealous of the bond between my Aunt and myself.

She would of spun a tale or two and would not want my Aunt and I to compare notes and find her version and reality to be greatly different. But just like Uncle Jack I mourned her absence from my life. It was never at the forefront of my mind until I had my own family. My Husband came from a large family, not emotionally close or supportive, other than his Parents, but in contact at least, whereas I just had my two toxic Parents. I was so thrilled to be a Mom and so longed to share my children with some part of my own family. After that day when I called my Father, begging to be picked up to go home, I did not see my Aunt for about 4 years, until I was 16. Even the fact I told my Mother about what happened is not prevalent in my memory of those years. It was swept under the carpet and never mentioned. I can remember being very nervous about visiting again and yet longing to see my Aunt. Thankfully he, Uncle X, had made himself scarce. I had grown and changed a lot since my Aunt had seen me last, I had started work and looked far more grown up. She was never affectionate in a hugs and kisses way but I clearly remember her suddenly reaching out and touching my face, exclaiming how different I looked and her expression was full of affection for me, I could tell she had missed me though she did not say the words. And that was the last time I saw her I`m pretty sure.

I cannot remember a time after that. I do remember me being reluctant to get my hair styled when I was about 15, Mother ridiculed the way it looked and hung over my face and spitefully told me that on discussing it, Aunt Iris had told her that I liked to hide behind it. She informed me of that with pure delight and savoured my obvious embarrassment and hurt over her choice of words. As an adult I would ask them both who they imagined I was hiding from....wouldn`t that of been interesting to hear their replies ! Then came the years where I grew and carved a life for myself, my Fathers health and employment capabilities both declined and my Mother grew to a new level of evil in her resentment of me as she absorbed that her high life days were behind her now and mine were just beginning. She slyly demanded I leave my home as I made the house unhappy and when that demand was secretly enforced and I had no choice but to do just that, she then orchestrated a false united front with my Enabling spineless Father that they were shocked to the core and distraught about my departure. What lies she spun Aunt Iris about all this I dread to imagine.

In a feeble attempt to connect with her I sent an odd Christmas card though never received one back, unless they went to my Parents house in which case its entirely probable that my toxic Mother threw them away rather than pass them to me. And as I write it also occurs to me she may well have told my Aunt she had given them to me, in fact who knows if my Aunt had written a line or two for me in them. She must of slandered me to my Aunt though because I remember one time in my 20`s I called in and she was buzzing with manic energy and all smiles as she rode a high.The phone rang and it was my Aunt Iris. Mother giddily announced that I was there and did she want to say Hello to me ? As I was standing nearby I clearly over heard my Aunt snap loudly "NO, I do NOT!", Mother, in the voice of a scolded, sulky child replied "Ohhh...well alright then". The call then came abruptly to an end with Mother struggling to make eye contact with me and her mood nose diving fast. She often forgot the nasty things she said of people when she was later in a more upbeat mood and was then taken aback when she found someone still with the mindset she had previously manipulated them into. In my 30`s when I had my 5th miscarriage I remember my Mother giving me a card from Aunt Iris. Why it had to reach me through her rather than Mother just giving her my address I could say I don`t know but naturally I do, it would be a sly way of triangulating and controlling our interaction.The card simply said `Thinking Of You` and was signed Aunt iris X. And it meant a lot to me, though it was a little tainted when I proudly showed my sister-in-law to which she replied sneeringly "Er`s put a lot in it ain`t er?!" I still told Mother to thank her very much for it. I later asked if she had passed on my thanks and she gave the familiar fast nod of the head with a very quiet Yes. Just as she did when I asked about giving the photo to Uncle Jack and if she`d told my Father of the abuse. Oh how I wish I had taken matters into my own hands and responded directly to my Aunt.

But I was grieving, striving to carry a child, hold on to my errant, alcoholic, emotionally unavailable Husband, hold down a demanding job despite losing time after each miscarriage, helping to pay a mortgage and still continue to deal with my Narcissistic Mother and Enabling treacherous Father all whilst being oblivious to and uneducated in the ways of the utterly toxic people closest to me and still striving to meet their expectations of me, as a Daughter, Wife and a `unable to carry` Mom.... It`s so very easy to see what we should of done with hindsight isn`t it ?
And so the chance to reconnect with my Aunt slipped away from me, as did my pregnancies, happiness and any self respect I had. And next I had my baby boy who died, nothing from my Aunt reached me during that time, who knows if something was intercepted by my Mother, given her rage at his funeral.....
My Mother was born in 1927 and so would be 93 and Aunt Iris was at least 5 or so years older so I imagine that she too is passed. I wonder if we could of navigated contact without ever broaching the subject of what her Husband did and if we might have been able to rekindle the closeness of the early years. She never had children of her own. In fact I had even wondered if she was my Mother given the inconsistencies and uncertainties regarding my birth. Though deep down I don`t think so. For a long time I thought I lost her because of her Husband and because of my Mother, both are true. Yet I suppose I also lost her because she could not face that she married a man who could do that. I had wondered if she believed me but she had witnessed him telling me I had come to bed eyes when I was only 12. It was never discussed that she had even been told of what happened but I`m certain she would of been, if only as a tool by Mother to get the upper hand in some disagreement. Perhaps she feared her standing in the community would be tarnished, she was well known and respected in the village where she lived. Perhaps my Mother would of falsely had her believe, that she thought I was out to rack it all up again when I got upset about her trying to elicit sympathy from me for Uncle X`s poor health, and so maybe she felt I was best kept at arms length. I imagine she would of been quite wealthy when she passed away. So lets be crass for a moment and ponder money. I, unlike my Mother did, do not have a longing for money, I simply am glad for well stocked cupboards and my bills being paid. But it has crossed my mind that my children may have also suffered from my Mothers meddling ways.

My Aunt was the main beneficiary when her two bachelor brothers passed and so would, I think, have left a healthy estate. I suppose it went to my cousins in Australia and to the woman she was Nanny to as a child, I heard they maintained a close bond over the years, and she was naturally from a monied family herself. So had she seen fit to bequeath me a little something it in turn would of been passed onto my children, for I would have had no wish to squander it as my Mother would have. But thanks to my Mother and a series of unfortunate events it seems I was not considered. It does not bother me in the least, my only regret is I lost my Aunt, because of wickedness and family secrets. I have to smile and shake my head when I remember how my Mother forever had her hand out for a handout even when it was not even needed and yet she managed to rob me and my children of so very much more than money in so many ways. As the saying goes, having a Narcissistic Mother is the gift that keeps on giving ! 
 I will be forever fond of my Aunt, remembering her thick dark hair, deep red lipstick, perfect diction and her easy air of confidence and kindness. I think we were both alike in settling for less in a Husband than we deserved, perhaps both tainted by our childhoods and never seeing our true self worth. One day when we meet again in a better place I would like to sit beside the river on a Summers day once again and eat ice cream and chatter about anything and everything..... just like we used to do.

With my Love X