Lies, Damned Lies

I'm trying to decide whether to use this blog as a sort of blowing-off-steam, getting-it-off-my-chest space in which I tell all about the demise of my marriage or as a space to talk about getting my new life off the ground. Perhaps a bit of both.

So much has happened in the months since I last blogged. Not much of it positive. I could blog on and on about Hubby and the lies he's told (and probably continues to tell). Small lies. Big lies. Needless lies. And I know them all. How? The man who sneeringly told me I should never write anything down wrote everything down himself. Then threw it in the bin. Passwords for www.match.com. Passwords for his email account. Passwords for his googlemail account he opened to send me a fake email from my paramour. Passwords for the real list of assets (as opposed to the one he showed me). Did he not know that years of doing jigsaw puzzles with my children made me a dab hand at piecing together his rubbish? And then there was his diary. He felt compelled to write everything in it too. When my daughter texted him to tell him she saw me coming out of his study (I don't remember why I was in there -- either to read the diary or to get a copy of a utility bill so I could open a bank account in my own name). When he told our son's cross-country coach that we were splitting up (in October, but he lied about it in December). I got quite obsessed with all the subterfuge for a while. Then, I decided I was better off not knowing. I just assume now that he comes in my room and goes through my stuff (and every now and again I find telltale signs). I just assume that he continues to lie. I believe nothing he tells me. If he says it's dark outside, I go outside just to check it's true. But I don't go through bins. I don't read his diary. I don't go in his study. I don't care anymore.

He's always been a liar, but I used to have nicer words for it. He embellished the truth. He exaggerated. I used to find excuses for his lying. Not anymore.

One of his acquaintances used to read this blog and told him about it. Zoe P, if you still read this, and I hope you don't, I hope you realise there is more than one side to the story of every marital breakdown. I noticed today that I have one less follower. Was it Zoe? Was it Hubby? Was it Hubby's sister?

Here's another lie I heard Hubby tell someone on the phone. According to him, my first marriage broke down when I got caught red-handed by first hubby having a one-night stand. Pure fiction. The one-night stand happened AFTER the marriage ended. First hubby never caught me red-handed at anything. And how do you think Hubby found out that there ever was a one-night stand? He read a diary I kept nearly 20 years ago. He read that diary 11 years ago but kept quiet about it. Till he read a diary I kept for about a week in September before he took it out of my handbag, read it, and made photocopies of it. I wrote private things that I never wanted anyone to read. I was trying to organise my thoughts and feelings, hoping against hope that I would "come to my senses" about staying in my marriage. More fool I for writing them down.

Hubby bragged to his friend that he would destroy me. He emailed my parents to say they would never see their grandchildren again because he had no intention of ever going on holiday to the US again (did he think I wouldn't take the kids to see their grandparents?). My mother had chest pains all night after reading that. He told Daughter he was going to take her and her brother on a Caribbean holiday, then told her "the lawyers" said he couldn't do it till the divorce was final. I don't know who "the lawyers" were, but my lawyer never said a word about it and I doubt his did either.

Sometimes marriages break down and the people involved don't have a clue why until the divorce proceedings start and it gets down and dirty. And that's what has happened in my case. I realise now that my marriage was in trouble before I even started this blog. It was in trouble before it even started. Hubby lied and I chose to believe his lies. I lied too, to myself mostly, because I didn't want to admit to myself that I'd given up so much for such an unsatisfactory relationship. I used to believe that we could tell each other anything, but the truth is we never told each other much of anything at all. For example, Hubby had a MAN problem that I didn't even know about. He went to the dr. and told me later that it was for something else. I think the dr. gave him some blue pills, which I think he took the night before he discovered the infamous draft email. I think that's why he reacted so extremely bad. I think all of his behaviour since then has been a result of his hurt manhood.

I can understand being hurt and being angry. But vowing to "destroy" me? Involving my family and telling them they won't see their grandchildren again? Lying to me and about me? That's just downright cruel. I didn't set out to deliberately hurt him or destroy him. I should feel guilty. But I don't. I did feel enormously bad for the kids, but after Christmas -- when I tried so hard to make it as pleasant as possible and they tried equally hard to hurt me -- I didn't feel so bad about them anymore. After all, I haven't run off with another man. I'm still here living in an extremely difficult situation. I still wash their clothes, cook their meals, give them money, take them places. I'm the same mother I was. I just don't love their father anymore. They don't know how hateful he's been to me. And I won't tell them either.

So here I am at 50, about to be single again and a lot poorer. Unable so far to find employment. I should be scared, so scared I don't want to leave my marriage. But I'm not. Instead, I'm excited by my pending independence. My mother has warned me that some of my friends might dump me along the way. Let them. If they do, they weren't very good friends in the first place and I'm better off not having to carry that baggage around.

Well, Here's All the Gossip

I was going to create a new blog and start over. And make sure hubby and his two friends and five acquaintances couldn't have access. And then I thought, "Fuck it." This is my blog, now three years old. I've enjoyed writing it. I've met great people through it. Hubby may mock my blog name, but he is ignorant of its origins. And of many other things as well.

So what is happening in my life? What isn't happening in my life? I am getting divorced, selling my house, searching in vain for a job, putting up with two very stroppy, self-absorbed teen-agers, taking a computer course, trying to finish up my massage coursework. Wow, I'm out of breath just writing that. I never pictured my life at the half-century mark as being like this.

And what about Hubby? Still hasn't found a job. Has been absolutely horrible to me at times and feels quite justified in that. I keep trying to put myself in his shoes. Would I treat him the same way if he had fallen for someone else? Nope, don't think so. He is incapable of discussing his feelings with me or in acknowledging that I might feel and think differently to him. And so we come to this chapter in our lives. I've sprouted quite a few grey hairs in the last few months. I can't trust anyone in my house. My personal papers have been gone through. Money my mother sent me for my birthday was stolen by someone in this house. I can't leave my laptop unattended. Do I deserve this? Hubby seems to think so. So does Daughter, for she has shown quite clearly whose side she is on. Hers, of course, but she favours whichever parent can give her something.

Do I cry? Oh yes. Usually in the morning. Then I buck up and get on with another day. I always have something to do. And what makes me happy? My friends, my cats, singing (I now belong to two choirs). Of course, I can't entertain my friends in my house at the moment. Hubby has said none of my friends are welcome here. I could say the same for him but he doesn't have any friends. Well, he has two. And some acquaintances. Don't come to this house, any of you. If my friends aren't welcome, neither are you.

I was seeing a counsellor but Hubby was noting down each time I went and how much money was being spent. So I stopped going. Money seems to be his main focus. The last time I dared to assert myself as being the mother of our two children and still having a right to a say in what they do or don't do, he sneeringly called me a spendthrift and said all my family are spendthrifts, bankrupts, and divorcees. And that our children would be inheriting quite a bit of money from his family. Now that surprises me because he's always told me what a mess his parents' finances are in. And his sister and brother are now unemployed as well. But I don't place the same emphasis on inheritance as he does. Yes, it's nice to inherit money, but isn't it nicer to earn your own? As for me being a spendthrift, well, that made me laugh -- it was much later on, but still I did laugh. He married me because SALE is my favourite four-letter word.

People, the man is pathetic in his cluelessness. I want to hate him, and sometimes I do, but really I feel sorry for him. First of all, he thinks he's given me a gold-plated lifestyle, but it's only brass. Comfortable, yes. But not luxurious. Never that. I drive a 9-year-old car. It's a good reliable car and I like it. But it's not a late-model Mercedes or Range Rover. Our house has been done up, but on the cheap. I haven't had to work, but I haven't had designer clothes like my friends who work can afford. I don't even have Marks and Spencer clothes. I have supermarket chic clothes.

Hubby has said he has no respect for me. He's called me a bitch and said our two children "fucking hate" my guts. Well, they probably do at times. And truth be told, there are times I'm not too fond of them. I've considered walking out on the lot of them (have I mentioned that we're all still living under the same roof?). But then my children would have only their father as the parental influence in their lives. And I can't allow that. They NEED me. They may not realise they do but in time they might. I can't allow a man whose sole motivation in life is money to be the only influence in my children's lives. Not that they want to be influenced by me. But deep, deep down, it will leave a mark on them. And when they turn 50, perhaps they will forgive me. And understand me.

Or perhaps not.

My first divorce was so much easier. No kids, no house to sell. Just split the possessions down the middle. First ex, I forgive you for I realise now that you actually behaved quite honourably. Unlike this one, who wants to know what I did with £40 I made in an attic sale (like a garage sale). For the record, I gave £13 to each of the children and kept £14 for myself since I did all the work. He also wanted to know what I did with £175 he gave me in lieu of going on a trip with him and the kids. For the record, I deposited it and haven't spent it. In 2008 I bought my family's Christmas presents at charity shops because Hubby had me thinking we were practically on the bread line. He went and spent the same amount of money on his family that he always has. In 2009 I paid for my family's Christmas presents with the credit card. He paid for his family's out of our joint account. He tried to make that credit card debt all mine and couldn't understand how unfair that is. He wanted to know what three cheques I wrote for the amounts of £300, £300, and £210 were for. For the record, two were paid to the courts and one was a deposit to my solicitor. Meanwhile, he opened a savings account in his name and promptly deposited £42,000 from our joint account into it. It now has £1000 in it and he appears to have returned the rest of the money.

Or maybe not.

He wants to know if I plan to remarry. For the record, none of your fucking business, bub. But not for five years at least.

I still believe in the institution of marriage. I just don't seem to be very good at it.

I've come up with several career path ideas, which I will write about further at another time. In fact I'm full of ideas. This split seems to have unlocked all my creativity. I can't wait to get on with the next chapter in my life.

Wakeup has gone to sleep

But she may reawaken one day with a new invitation-only blog. Look out for your invites, and let me know if you want one.

The Power Game

People thought they were the perfect couple. He the big hitter in the financial world. She the little housewife and mother. He brought home the modestly big bucks. She tried not to spend them because it upset him so much. They had two golden children whom she ferried round to piano lessons, beavers, brownies, dancing, acting, tutoring, swimming. And then he came home when it was all over. And basked in their reflected glory.

He spent every evening locked away in his study, a room so sacrosanct it wasn't cleaned in 11 years, counting his money and dreaming of ways to make more. He would bring a bottle of wine or two up with him. Or he would be on the phone all night to colleagues. She would read to the children after their baths and put them to bed. Then she would watch TV. Alone. Till he got off the phone to come in and tell her all the wonderful things the colleagues had said about him. All conversation was about him.

She was lonely so she developed hobbies. Singing. Amateur dramatics. Sewing. Exercise. He did not ask about these nor share her interest in them. He counted his money and compliments instead.

He got a job offer in London. This would be a great way to build my career, he said. And she encouraged him. For she no longer had a career, having given it and her country up to be with him. Her home and children became her career. While he was in London she raised the children. He would come home at weekends, demand all homelife revolve around him for 48 hours, then return. She would breathe a sigh of relief when he left. But she was lonely. There was no conversation -- not with him nor anyone.

Then tragedy struck. He lost his job because his fund wasn't performing. He came home and immediately set about upsetting her domestic routine. Any routines she had with the children were overturned immediately by him without a second thought. He demeaned her and undermined her each and every day. She tried to smile through it but was so sad inside. He drank and drank and drank. The children would cry at night because they hated seeing their father like this. He kept getting turned down for jobs so they decided to buy a business. The first sale fell through when he inappropriately tried to contact employees. The second sale fell through as well. Secretly, she was relieved for she knew what life would be like running a business with him. It wouldn't be a partnership, but him making all the decisions and her making the tea.

Then someone old but new came into her life, and the Power Game began. She enjoyed the attention. She enjoyed finding someone she could converse with about anything. She allowed her imagination and fantasies to go wild. And unfortunately wrote a draft email about them. He found the draft email and behaved as though he'd found her in bed with someone else. He sent her sister an email exhorting her to make his wife behave. He behaved like a Victorian husband. And the stricter he was the more rebellious she became.

The Power Game soon took on a life of its own, neither he nor she thinking its conclusion through clearly. And her fascination with her newfound friend continued. She wanted to see him in the flesh, to talk about books and ideas. And her husband found out. He thought that spying on her would be the answer to their marital woes. Instead it flamed the fires of a foolish passion in her, a passion for privacy and freedom. The stricter he was, the more she struggled against the chains. He started to do strange things like send anonymous emails to her friends about her or steal her journal, read it and copy the pages. He put a keylogger on the computer to record each and every keystroke she made. He read her email and kept a diary of all her so-called bad behaviour. She found this diary and was outraged. He felt justified because of her long-distance friendship. He wrote her parents, her friends. He engaged their children in the battle against her. The more he fought to control her, the more she wanted out. Her friendship fell by the wayside, finally the victim of all the stress.

He started to used the money in the Power Game, warning her she would die in dire poverty if she left him. He wanted her back, he made that clear. But on his own controlling terms and without having to make any changes to his now very odd personality. He told her he had complete control over all the money, even that in her name, and there was nothing she could do. She went to the bank, who advised her otherwise. She took money out to pay her solicitor. He threatened her with an injunction.

He started to put around that she would get nothing, that he would get the house and the children because he had the moral upper hand. How could I have ever loved such a person, she thought. She despaired at losing her children and thought of drowning herself or slitting her wrists. But no, she thought, I can't do that. For then he wins the Power Game. And he cannot win.

The Spy Who Thought He Loved Me

I keep thinking I must write more. And then something happens to zap my creativity. Suffice it to say that my life is pretty turbulent at the moment. And full of intrigue. Who knew I was married to a wannabe spy? Certainly not me. Or maybe it was all those detective stories he devoured as a boy. A sort of James Bond/Philip Marlowe wannabe.

And I'm Nancy Drew. Coming soon on www.powderroomgraffiti.com: an enlightening article on how to spy on your loved ones.

Know Your Friends

To blog or not to blog. To update my wall on Facebook or not to. One can't be too careful these days on the internet. You never know who is watching or reading or reporting back to spouses. Or mothers.

When I joined Facebook, in my sad quest for more friends, I asked my daughter to be my friend. She refused. After months of badgering, she finally relented. Then I made a comment on her wall and she immediately defriended me. Then she refriended me. Then one of her boyfriends sent me a friend request, which I accepted. Bad move.

My daughter accused me, jokingly I hope, of being a pedophile. I never visited her boyfriend's wall. Until one day when the head teacher at my son's school got suspended. I got the bright idea of visiting the friend's wall to see if there was any gossip about it. There wasn't, but there were pictures from my daughter's "Fab 15 Birthday Party," which had been held at me house while I was home.

I knew there was drinking, but couldn't find the bottles. I didn't know that one of the bedrooms was "the makeout room." I didn't plan to tell daughter I'd seen the photos because I knew she'd get angry. Also, I thought they were funny. And I laughed so loud my son came in to see what I was laughing at. He told daughter I'd seen the photos. Daughter got on the phone to boyfriend in tears telling him he had to choose between her or me.

And the next day I had one less friend. But I understand. For my mother is my friend on Facebook. And she queries everything I put on my wall.

50 Dinner Parties, Part 1

Well, 50 might be a bit of an exaggeration. When I moved into this house 11 years ago, I decided to make use of the beautiful Victorian dining room as much as possible.

It was the first room I saw when we came to view the house, and the first room I fell in love with. I haven't changed much in it, other than install my own furniture. The walls were papered in a cranberry-coloured, star-patterned paper. The Victorian fireplace and mantle were intact. The floors had been shellaced to a high sheen. They still are though these days the lights are rarely on in that room.

One of my early dinner parties involved much red wine and then the inevitable flood. I'd invited my next door neighbour, newly separated, and the neighbours across the street. One other couple came as well. I served roast lamb, as I recall, but the rest of the menu is lost to me. Probably some vegetables, possibly my pear-apple pie. Or maybe something from my Delia cookbook. I used to follow her recipes avidly before I moved on.

As I said before, the red wine flowed freely that night, some onto the tablecloth. As I cleared up afterwards, I noticed a huge stain and took the cloth up to my bathroom to soak in the tub for a while. Then I came downstairs to help hubby do his compulsive cleaning. Seeing I was of no use, I went and sat on the couch for a while. And dozed. Then I roused myself and went up to bed. Hubby was already up there, up to his ankles in water. Oh yes, I said I left the tablecloth in the bathtub to soak. I didn't say I turned off the water.

Hubby ran downstairs to the room below to check the water hadn't seeped through. Too late. Part of the ceiling had collapsed. To say hubby was unhappy is just a bit of an understatement. He slept on the couch that night. The next day I gathered our still-young children and took them shopping so as to make myself as scarce as possible during the cleanup. I ran into my next-door neighbour and told her how the evening had ended. She laughed so hard she wet herself, particularly at the thought of hubby being so mad he slept on the couch.

The ceiling was repaired and replastered. I learned a valuable lesson about red wine stains and the bathtub. For the record, though, the stain came out.