Category Archives: Divorce

October blues

16 Tuesday Oct 2018

Posted by in Divorce, mental health, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Parenting

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It’s been a funny old month, October. For a number of reasons.

The light is going. And the twinkly Christmas ones to replace it are still a long way off. Dark days often breed dark thoughts…

It was, of course, mental health awareness day, an issue close to my heart (and head), but that I’ve struggled to write about, because I’m… struggling.

It’s also baby loss awareness month (and day earlier this week) and like so many others I’m remembering, keenly, my miscarriage. Perhaps because my Big baby turns 7 this month, perhaps because my Small baby is losing her squidge, perhaps because of the increasing certainty she is indeed my last baby – perhaps because it’s the birthday month of the baby inbetween, that never was.

But perhaps mostly because I can trace the rot in my marriage back to this loss… Which meant everything to me, maybe too much. And not enough to him.

This is also the month Dadoffthenetherege officially left, a year ago. It has been the very fastest and tortuously slow year of my life. And things are currently more uncertain than ever. I still don’t know where we’ll live, how to make it all work, how to support the kids through it, how I’ll support us going forward, or what to do for the best.

The common theme that draws all of this October stuff together is the loss of a vision for the future.

I didn’t lose a baby, you see. I lost an empty egg sac. But it was real to me – I yearned for it, I invested in it. And when it was gone, I grieved it. The same for my rotten relationship. I lost a future – and a family I wanted so badly that I hung on to the false vision for far too damn long. I still pine for it.

This loss of future vision is the crux of mental ill-health, for me. The source of the very darkest days. As a child, my OCD left me without being able to see a future for myself that didn’t include debilitating rituals – where I could only see the gloom and falling doom of not completing them. Similarly my depression and anxiety are all about interrupted vision – not being able to see clearly through the fog, the wood for the trees – or only being able to see potential disaster, and choking on it daily.

I have never yet reached a stage where my vision for the future is so distorted or obscured that it looks better without me in it. But I can feel and understand how that pathway unfolds. And that is frightening enough.

People are built on their visions for themselves, their families, and their futures. And when something rocks that, blocks that – whether it’s loss or life or something else – that’s when we struggle. That’s when the dark creeps in round the edges, or rushes in all at once.

The thing I’ve learned, I suppose, is that your vision can’t always be trusted. What you see or can’t see, in front of your face or into your future, isn’t always real.

Sometimes it’s idealistic, and just isn’t true or achievable.
Sometimes it’s catastrophic, and that isn’t true either.
Sometimes it’s just blurred, and you need to give your eyes a good rub and your glasses a good clean.
Sometimes it’s a dream, and you need to wake up.
Sometimes it’s a mirage, an hallucination, and you need medical intervention – or at the very least a bit of a lie down.
Sometimes you’re just looking at it from the wrong angle, so you can’t see it properly.
Sometimes everything you can see really IS completely awful and empty and black – but it’s not really everything. There are still some good bits underneath the big bad bits.

The point is, you can’t always believe what you see. And you can’t always see what you believe. Vision changes. And if you can wait it out you will see things differently. There will be a new vision. Always. You just have to live through the loss of the old one. And be brave enough to look again.

Right now, I am between visions. And I’m not going to lie to you, it is a scary place. I daren’t look at anything in too much detail, or look too far around or down – in case I fall.

So I’m going from day to day hoping for the best, refusing to worry about the worst, and trusting it will all work out in the end – or that someone will catch me before I hit the bottom. I’m living for the light days. And there are more of them.

And one day, I know there will be enough light to see a new future, and enough stability to build it.

It just probably won’t be a day in October.

On Jessica

16 Tuesday Oct 2018

Posted by in Divorce, Motherhood

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I’ve spent a long time trying to identify why the *Jessica* thing has been so damned hard.

And this weekend I think I’ve cracked it.

Part of it is that it’s just so awful watching someone else play Mum to my children. Watching her step into the Me shaped hole in my family, and carry on, with so many of my ex-friends and ex-family barely batting an eyelid. Going to the same places. Doing the same things. In my place. Instead of me.

It hurts.

And I know intellectually she’s not their Mum and never will be etc etc, and that it’s great she’s nice to them. I KNOW. And it genuinely does make me happy that she makes them happy. But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

Part of it is also watching him play the Dad he never was at home, for me. I begged him. Literally. To get off his phone, to join in, to put us first. And now he is. He’s a new man. Re-moulded. For her.

And that hurts too. Why couldn’t he do that for me? What’s wrong with me?

Part of it is that the kids don’t hold him to the same standards as they hold me. They love him unconditionally. I’m the boring everyday one. I put someone on the naughty step and get all the ‘I hate you’ ‘You’re the worst mummy ever’ ‘I don’t want to be part of this family’ stuff.

And I understand that it’s because I’m their safe space, that they can act out with me without consequences, that this is actually love in motion.

But it still hurts.

Part of it is the speed with which I was replaced (or crossover), the lack of consideration with which it was done (on Facebook), and lack of respect for the 20 years which had gone before. Like none of it mattered. Like my whole life meant nothing to him, or to her.

That hurts too. That waste. Of me.

Part of it, of course, is also that she was the age the Big Small is now when Dadonthenetheredge and I met. Her breasts are in the right place and I’m pretty sure she can trampoline without a pantyliner.

Being replaced by a younger fully-functioning model has hurt women since caveman times.

But most of it, I realise, is actually about me.

And my fear that when it comes down to it, MY CHILDREN WILL LIKE HER BETTER THAN THEY LIKE ME.

There. I said it.

And it hurts.

Intellectually, again, I know this insecurity comes from years of being told that I’m not enough. Or too much. Both at the same time.

Not ambitious enough, too intense, too lazy, too controlling, not good enough, not stable, not coping, too emotional, too stupid, not able to understand. And more. So much more I still can’t think about it too hard too often.

And I got so stuck in the middle of that, second guessing myself, losing my instincts, my sense of self, of right and wrong. And I’m still struggling to put that right now I’m out of that situation.

The dark voice in my head is still not my own. It’s his. Even now.

The fear is still here. Right in my gut. That he’s right. That I’m not enough. That I am too much. That I always will be.

But every day I am better. I am surer. I am more connected to myself. And I am more connected to my children as a result.

Everyday, I hurt slightly less.

I am enough.

I am enough.

I am enough.

And so are you.

Let’s talk about sex

23 Sunday Sep 2018

Posted by in Divorce, Love and sex, mental health, Motherhood

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So, let’s talk about sex, baby!

Let’s talk about all the good things, all the bad things, that, well, make me… ME.

The advice I’ve had from many different places, on breaking up with my partner of 20 years, has been to rebuild me, spend time on me, learn who I am again, be on my own for a bit – that I don’t need a man to make me happy.

Etc.

I struggle with advice.

Mostly because I want to take ALL of it, because I’ve learned over a number of years that I’m wrong and stupid and unstable, and should therefore cede to a higher authority.

But advice is like new clothes. You have to hold it up to a mirror to see if it suits you, maybe try it on, but be careful not to remove the tags and commit to buying it (or into it) until you’re sure it’s really for you.

And this advice just didn’t… sit quite right across the shoulders.

One of the things that most upset me about the split, was the overwhelming fear that it meant that part of my life was over. For good. That I wouldn’t get that chance again – of love, of connection.. of SEX.

Some part of me knew this was catastrophising. But it FELT real.

The plain fact is that being a c40 year old mum is very different to being a c40 year old dad. Parenthood simply does not take the same toll on the body, mind or day-to-day life of men as it does on women. It just doesn’t. It can’t.

And I genuinely thought that no one would ever want what was left of me after all that – the saggy, empty bits. The mad, angsty bits. The scarred, broken bits.

The unfairness and loss of that was part of the black hole that at one point threatened to suck those broken bits in for good.

But it turns out that part of my life isn’t over, after all.

And what I’ve come to realise is that sex is one of the things I needed to help stick the broken bits back together.

Sensuality and physicality are part of my GLUE. They’re part of what makes me feel like ME. A part that had been missing for a long, long time.

My relationship with sex has been – let’s go with screwed – but not in the good way. Look, if you need connection to have sex, and that connection erodes, what you end up with is… wrong. Really wrong. And that’s gonna mess with your head. (And other parts of your anatomy).

Putting that right again is an important – and ongoing – part of healing. Or at least it is for me.

The fact is I DON’T need a man/partner to validate me. I DO need to learn how to re-establish boundaries so I don’t get eroded again.

But I also need to be me.

And sex is part of me FEELING like me.

(Or at least – now that instinct has resurfaced – of feeling like a teenage boy with ZERO CONTROL over his libido. One of the two).

At the end of the day, it’s about balance. Or rebalancing. Picking up ALL of the threads that made and make me myself, and weaving them back into something whole.

A rag rug, by the hearth.
Scraps of memory, beauty, and colour.
Tied tight again.
Glued at the edges for good measure.

Hinder

08 Wednesday Aug 2018

Posted by in Divorce, Humour, Love and sex

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After my husband left at the end of October, things were basically as dry as a desert down below for at least 6 months. Probably dryer.

In fact you could package that sort of dryness up and put it in little paper sachets at the bottom of new handbags.

(Now I come to think of it, we’ve actually got no idea what’s REALLY in those packets, or how it’s harvested… Just saying).

More recently, however, I have begun to feel the first stirrings of my dormant libido.

Female sexual desire is something that’s still a bit taboo, isn’t it?

I mean we’re all supposed to be porn stars in the bedroom (plus perfect housewives, dedicated mothers and successful career women, obvs), but we’re not actually supposed to talk about it, advertise it, or actually enjoy ourselves too much.

And we should never, EVER mention all of the squelchy wet bits.

Personally I do not consider this a good example to set.

Sex isn’t when a mummy and daddy love each other very much. People do it because it feels GOOD.

Or at least it should…

A bit more honesty about that (and around safety, and consent and respect) should be part of decent sex education.

I’ve been in a relationship for nigh on 20 years, and despite brief high-risk pregnancy/small baby pauses, my body is basically used to having sex pretty regularly – at least a couple of times a month (or suffer the epic sulks). And after that sort of training, it’s definitely now suffering withdrawal symptoms.

I can of course see to this manually or electronically. But the bits I’ve always really liked about sex are the fleshy, sweaty, squelchy wet bits. So it’s not really the same thing.

Trouble is, I’m not sure I’m ready.

Or if I ever will be.

I generally don’t go around getting a wet-on for a lot of people. I’m obsessive compulsive, have a thing about germs, and I mostly don’t really like to be touched by strangers. (Or you know – people I actually know).

I’ve never done casual sex. I wouldn’t have clue how to go about it, frankly, and it all seems a bit icky, sordid and unhygienic.

I’m socially anxious, and a billion times more entertaining online/in text than in person – so I don’t rate my chances of reeling somebody in particularly highly.

Plus I’ve slept with just one person for a really long time and for all I know, I MIGHT BE DOING IT WRONG.

Then I’ve had 2 kids. My body was never great (ditto my face) – and it’s even less so now. There’s sag. There’s stretch marks. There’s loose skin. There’s full-on FURROWS. Plus I can’t really be bothered to get it all dressed up or have to shave all the hairy bits into submission (body not face – but it’s probably only a matter of time).

AND, I’m really not into any of the fancy stuff. I’m too damn tired for tantric. I don’t want semen in my hair/face. I may never have actually given birth but the two pregnancies/c-sections were enough to pulverise the pelvic floor and more importantly hammer the hemorrhoids – so there will never, ever be any back door action. Ever.

Finally – and probably most importantly – I don’t think I actually want a relationship. I am still reeling from the last one.

I was not supposed to be here.

I was supposed to grow into my aging body with someone who would love every battle scar and wrinkle and know their stories. I’m still so broken after that. And so eroded by the awfulness that came before… I’m not sure there’s enough of me left to stand upright in a couple – and I don’t want to bring yet another person into my kids’ lives. It’s not fair.

So basically what I want is a nice, clean, single man, who I actually fancy, who isn’t overly promiscuous (or indeed terribly fussy), who doesn’t have a MILF fetish or cougar fantasies I can’t live up to, likes early nights, neurosis and slightly used breasts heading south, and is up for no-strings, largely monogamous, casual-but-not-too-casual, basic missionary or doggy style quickie-sex, on an every other weekend basis.

IS THAT REALLY TOO MUCH TO ASK?

I think I’ve just invented really crap middle-aged/single-parent Tinder.

I shall call it Hinder, create an anti-logo with a snuffed out candle instead of a flame, and clearly MAKE MY FORTUNE!!!!

If you are interested in Hinder’s services, or know someone who would be, please let me know below.

Let’s see if I can put together a viable business case for NatWest…

Either that or I’ll just have to screw my courage to the sticking place, try and take a picture in which I don’t look like a wrecked husk of womanhood, join Tinder and see what happens.

Wish me luck.

Mumonthenetheredge
Xx

The other family

31 Tuesday Jul 2018

Posted by in Divorce, Motherhood

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So how does it feel to have another woman start being the family that you wanted, with your husband and kids?

Tonight they’re out for a family meal, with the kids and my ex in-laws of the last 20 years.

So I’m going to go with, well, pretty rubbish, actually.

I should be zenning my way through it. But I’m just so frustrated about the SILENCES in my life – which have shaped it for the worse since the Smalls came along.

You know. The things we’re all not supposed to talk about out loud.

Things like birth.
The awfulness of new motherhood.
Mental health, depression and anxiety.
Incontinence.
Prolapses.
Fissures.
The complications of relationships after children – sex after children – careers after children… All of it.

Because so much of it is about minimising and dismissing women’s emotional or physical pain as somehow unseemly.

In this case, talking about your break-up and how awful it feels really isn’t the Done Thing.

It may be the subject of 90% of all pop songs, but in real life, it tends to feed straight into the narrative of all ex-husbands all over the world – that the woman they left is ‘a bit of a psycho’, possibly ‘wild with jealousy’, has certainly ‘lost the plot,’ and definitely needs to ‘get over it’ by now.

One of the most terribly unfair things about what’s a terrible and unfair thing in general, is that the only route really deemed acceptable for an ex-wife is the high road. You basically have to sit back with as much dignity as you can muster and watch – pretending it all doesn’t hurt like buggerooney.

Or you’re just cast as the madwoman in the attic.

The only exception to this rule is indeed the world of pop, so if you’re lucky enough to be Pink, or Rihanna, or Adele, you suddenly get a free pass to sing out your pain from the rooftops (which have traditionally, and coincidentally, always been ABOVE the attic – go figure).

But unless you have a two octave range and a forthcoming album to fill, forget it, love. Shut up and put up.

The thing is, it DOES hurt. And I don’t WANT to have to pretend otherwise.

I have to do that for my kids, every day, because they’re 6 and 3 and they don’t need to know anything but that Mummy and Daddy love them very much but don’t live together any more.

But that’s not the tale I have to tell the rest of the world. Why should I?

Because I’m not over it. Not by a long shot. (I mean, it happened 8 months ago). You don’t get over this sort of thing – you get through it. And I am getting through it.

I AM also jealous – but not of her, or of him. I’m jealous of the family unit I worked for and tried to achieve, and begged him to join in on. The one currently out to dinner.

For their very first meeting, he took *Jessica* and the kids to a play centre and restaurant we used to frequent as a family. Slotting her right into role, but playing his counterpart far better than he ever did for me. For us.

How is that not supposed to hurt?

How could any human being feel otherwise?

That’s why I don’t think that any of this makes me a psycho. Or the madwoman in the attic. (Nor, sadly, Pink, as I’m tone deaf).

Feeling emotional about the demise of your long term relationship, the break up of your family, and being away from your kids is NORMAL.

Boringly normal.

Not feeling emotional about it would be kind of, well, abnormal, surely?

I would have liked to have met her, first, though. And I think that’s normal, too.

But they didn’t want to do that unless they could do it together. When Dadoffthenetheredge and I are already not communicating well, I just couldn’t see that working. I still just can’t imagine how it would have looked – the three of us sat there opposite each other, in a bizarre interview situation. Gah! It’s just too awful.

Now, I COULD see a coffee shop or a pub in which she and I could have spent a slightly awkward 10 minute conversation about each other and the kids. (This is how other people I know seem to have done it).

I’d like to know the woman they come home talking about – just a bit. What she does for a living. For hobbies. That sort of thing. (Just like I like to have a cursory conversation with the new key worker at nursery, or the new teacher, or the folk who run Catonthenetheredge’s cattery).

I’d like to see her as a human being, and for her to see me as the same. I actually think it would have helped all of us – mostly the kids.

Also, it would have avoided what will now be an excruciating first meeting – probably in front of the kids – as they play happy families at the local park/farm, and I ill-time a walk or run. Or a trip to Tesco. Oooooof. I get palpitations just thinking about it – rounding the bread aisle and walking slap-bang into them… My family minus me. And I’ve got no idea how the kids would react.

Anyway, for now what I get to do is smile and coo when the tales of *Jessica* come home with the Smalls – this stranger living the life I wanted, if only part time.

It’s weird.

And then I get to mop up the Smalls’ wobbles and tears and bad dreams, which come inevitably with more change, all without letting my mask slip.

So here it’s slipping.

Here, in this space, I want to be able to say: Ouch.

Ouch.

Ouch.

OUCH.

Sometimes I do read these stories online, from women further down the line, grateful for the other woman loving their kids as her own when they’re away from her. Maybe one day I’ll be there.

I’m already grateful, in some ways, that she’s inspiring him to be better than he could be for me. Because that’s good for the kids, in the long run, isn’t it?

And then I think about my still pudgy-round-the-edges smallest Small waking up in the morning and climbing into bed for cuddles with a woman who isn’t me, and my whole soul weeps. Very much like it did when the Big Small first came home from her first full day of nursery smelling of Another Woman.

That got better fast.

I’m sure this will, too.

Until then, though, I’m going to give myself – and anyone else who needs it – permission to feel emotion about quite clearly emotional things.

Channel your inner Pink/Rihanna/Adele.

It’s okay to acknowledge things suck. And you don’t even have to sing about it in order to let it out!!!!! No, really. (But hell, if it helps, go for it).

It’s okay to feel weird.

It’s okay to feel sad.

It’s okay.

We’ll be okay, too.

We’re still rock stars.

Or at least Mums.

And sometimes that’s the same difference, right?

Who am I?

31 Tuesday Jul 2018

Posted by in Divorce, mental health, Motherhood

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I’m somebody, I’m somebody, who am I?

This is a game we used to pay in the car when I was a kid. So you pick a character, action or thing and others have to guess it while you say just ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

Are you a human?

Yes.

Are you a boy?

No.

Etc.

Today the game appears to be called ‘What’s Up?’ and is flipped so you wear a crown with a mystery card in, and have to guess the character/activity others have chosen for you. (Same difference inside out).

For me, the phrase ‘I’m somebody, I’m somebody, who am I?’ has an addictive rhythm I keep returning to. Because the truth of the matter is; I don’t know.

I can answer the first two questions I’ve posed above, and then I’m basically stumped.

I was somebody, once. But I really can’t remember much about her.

The bits I liked best about her are faded or fuzzy. And I don’t really know what happend.

I suppose I got muddled by motherhood.

I got broken by work.

A bad relationship eroded me, piece by piece, a frog in a pot. Suffocating without realising.

There has been so much loss in general – and bits of me came away with each one. I didn’t stop to pick them up.

I have continued to run on momentum, necessity, and adrenaline – for years.

I’m so used to battening down the hatches, rolling with the punches, getting through, making it to the end of a day – that my brain can’t do long-term thinking anymore. It’s stuck in panic mode.

Or maybe I’ve just learned to think my brain is crap and that I’m rubbish and lazy. I don’t know. One of the many things I’ve lost is the truth.

I DO know that I have been surviving, not living. For a long time.

I have been terrified of change because the line I’ve been walking is so fine. A nether edge…

It has been easier to say No, to everything, because No is safe. No is the status quo. No is not more to overwhelm me, to cope with, to upset a very precarious balance.

And when I haven’t even been able to say No, it has been easier to say nothing at all. At first I thought I was picking my battles. I ended up losing my voice.

But like it or not, change is happening – and I have to learn how to live again. And how to do my own narration.

I mean, survival is good, but even Bear Grylls doesn’t want to live on nettles and yak wee ALL the time, right? (And he always, ALWAYS does his own narration).

Time to jump out of the pot, frog. And hop off into the sunset!

So I’m on a mission to ask myself more Yes and No questions about who the hell I am, and what the hell I like to do. And if – no WHAT – I’m actually good at.

For a lot of the time I’m a Mum. And that has to take precedence still. I need to help the Smalls process THEIR change. And mostly, for the first time in a long time – I’m pretty confident I’m doing a good job of that bit. I’m a better Mum than I’ve ever been, and finding more joy in it than I ever have.

While there is fulfilment there, it is not the sum total of who I am. It can’t be. As much for their sake as for mine.

Now I have pockets of time now every other weekend where I get to be me. Just me.

Just somebody I don’t know.

What I CAN tell you already, is that this mystery woman does NOT like cleaning the house, making the beds, sorting all the washing, and pining for the children all weekend.

So it’s high time to find out what sort of somebody I am.

Am I a walker? A runner? An artist? A yogini? A gym bunny? A writer? A lover? A friend? A performer? A career girl? A dancer? A fashionista? All of the above? Something I’ve never thought of – or tried – before?

I’m somebody, I’m somebody, who am I?

For a start, I’m somebody who is starting to say Yes.

And I am somebody who is open to suggestions…

So if you’ve got an activity, a club, a self-help book, a Me Time ritual that works for you, ANYTHING YOU WANT TO SUGGEST, I’d love to hear about it – and give it a go.

What makes you feel like you? What makes you the somebody you are?

I want to try new stuff. And old stuff. And I’ll write about it on here.

(Just please note I already know I can’t stand heights, so I’m not throwing myself off any high shit, K?)

Thoughts on a postcard. Or comment. (That’s probably easiest).

xxx

Thank you, Village.

22 Sunday Apr 2018

Posted by in Divorce

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I lost my village for a while.

Okay, I didn’t lose it – I hid from it.

I hid because I didn’t want to confront them, or rather them to confront me.

I had my metaphorical fingers in my ears and was singling “La La La” over how awful things were. I didn’t want to go out and see anyone, or call, or text, or visit, because I couldn’t talk about my life out loud – even to myself.

Instead I went to bed early. And tried to regroup. And to get up the next day with more energy to plough into my family, and to try harder to make everyone happy.

Perhaps the most hurtful thing that has been said during my break-up, is that he saw me do that. He saw me grab hold of the new day and determine to give it my everything. To make it work.

It was not enough.

His last straw, apparently, was three years ago. That’s a long, long time to watch somebody try.

Anyway, since then I have finally taken my fingers out of my ears, unburied my head from the sand, and looked around. And to my surprise, my village had not packed up and resettled elsewhere.

They were waiting at the borders, for me to reopen the gates.

And I literally can’t describe how grateful I am for that.

So this is a thank you. To the village. The friends, family, and perfect strangers who have been there.

Thank you to the friends who have listened.

Thank you to the friends who have checked me when I have needed it.

Thank you to the friends who have told me the things I don’t want to hear.

Thank you to the friends who have held me while I’ve howled. It has not been pretty.

Thank you to the friends who’ve forgiven me when I’ve erred.

Thank you to the friend who lent me her home office when I had no broadband.

Thank you to the family who lent me money when I had no credit card.

(Thank you also for replacing the broken washer and dryer so I can do less loads and set timers and try and keep on top of the house).

Thank you to the friend who helped me get a permanent job, when I really, really, really needed it.

Thank you to the colleagues bearing with me.

Thank you to the work-mate for the inconsequential chatter that helped me keep it together after something landed during a work conference.

Thank you to the friend who sorted out my tech. (Ongoing).

Thank you to the friends feeding me because I sometimes can’t face cooking for one.

Thank you to the friend who helped me get to grip with my personal finances, because I was that stupid woman who had never involved herself in them before.

Thank you to the family who paid my council tax in a hurry – because I didn’t know they don’t send you a bill until I got the angry letters (yes, I’m that clueless, and yes, this is apparently a Thing they happens to lots of folks on separation).

Thank you also for lending me money for things like solicitors fees and car insurance, until I got my arse in gear and got to my savings.

Thank you to the friend who fixed my inexplicably online heating (why is this a thing??), and my music streaming systems. (I had no idea how much music meant to us until it wasn’t there any more! #Firstworldproblems. #ImissCDs).

Thank you to the friend who gave me a lift to the Small Small’s hospital appointment in the worst of the snow.

Thank you to the friend walking the Big Small into school through the snow when the Small Small was too sick to be out in the cold.

Thank you to the friend who gave me her old bras, for putting my weight-loss saggy boobs back in approximately the right location (or at least up from around my waist).

Thank you to the friend who invited me on their mini-break, because the kids haven’t had a holiday for forever, and to her lovely husband, who drove to fetch me when I had a meltdown about the journey. It’s literally the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. (And they didn’t let me pay for a thing).

Thank you to the friends sharing their weekend and holiday time with me.

Thank you to the family who sourced and financed Catonthenetheredge – she has brightened our lives already.

Thank you to the friend who came to help me clean when it really was just all too much – and for de-furring my hoover. (Please come again soon).

Thank you the friends who have kept me company when I have struggled to be alone in the house.

Thank you to the friends being friends to my kids – they need all the support and love they can get.

Thank you to the friends who keep checking in, stick with me when I’m slow to respond, and bear with me when I go back over old ground, again. I am moving forwards, slowly. Honest. It’s just hard.

Thank you to the friend keeping me in comfort-fudge.

Thank you to the various people at various services/organisations who have helped me get to grips with Stuff. (There is so much damn Stuff to sort, while trying to keep it together and keep everything going).

Thank you to the strangers on here who have made me feel less alone. I started the blog because I was so lonely in motherhood – and it’s never been more of a lifeline.

There are a million thank yous I have missed. But I am grateful for each and every kindness – in fact I’m teary thinking about them, which is largely why I have to stop here.

I still find kindness kind of surprising. And that’s sad in itself, isn’t it?

Anyway. Thank you village. I’m not sure I deserve you. I’ll try to.

And when the brown stuff hits another fan, I promise I will step up to be someone else’s village back.

Because that’s how villages work.

Xxx

The Pussy Junction

22 Sunday Apr 2018

Posted by in Divorce, Humour

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There comes a time in every girl’s break-up where she has to choose between channelling her thwarted love into random, meaningless sexual encounters – or get a cat.

I call this the Pussy Junction.

I call THIS Catonthenetheredge.

Only I don’t, obvs, as I’d look a right twat yelling that in the back garden.

😻

Contemplating my toes

25 Sunday Mar 2018

Posted by in Divorce, Love and sex, Motherhood

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On nights when I don’t have the kids, I get to have Me Time. I’m very out of practice at Me Time (about 6 years rusty – the age of a Big Small) and basically I suck at it.

Tonight I tried for Self Care 101, and decided to cut my toe nails. This was overdue.

And I realised I am still wearing the nail polish I was wearing the last time I had sex with my husband.

I don’t know whether this is a sign of how fast he moved on, how woefully neglected my grooming regime is, or just how toe-curlingly awful the toe-covering months have been.

Definitely though, it felt like a sign.

I think when I applied it that I thought I was ‘making an effort’. I didn’t know it was already too late.

And so I have spent a long time this evening doing nothing productive, staring at my toes.

And thinking.

I could of course break out the nail polish remover and scrub off every last vestige of chipped red.

I could pick out a new bright and shiny colour to replace it. Hot pink, perhaps. Maybe add a layer of glitter?

But I can’t quite bring myself to do it. And I don’t really know why.

I suppose the truth is that I’m not ready.

I don’t want my feet, or any other bit of me, to look attractive for anyone.

What I want is the reminder.

My new reality is still so painful and the future is so very unknown. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever have sex again. If l’ll ever want to. If anyone will ever want me. Want us. I don’t know where I’m going to live, where the Smalls will live, what school they will go to, what our lives will look like or who will still be in them. I don’t know much.

It’s like I still need an anchor, a connection with the past – which whatever else it lacked was at least consistent.

And it’s there, right at the end of my toes, in a thin smear of old scarlet.

So I’m leaving it. The last half centimetre of my old life. To grow slowly out, to be snipped off bit by bit over the next few weeks, in appropriately grotesque curls (why ARE nails so much more offensive when removed from the body?)

It’s not long left to wallow.

And when it is gone it will be nearly summer and surely everything will look better and sunnier.

And maybe then I will be ready for pink and sparkly.

(Or at the very least be forced by the prospect of sandals into better podiatry maintenance).