Lots of questions going around and around in my head:
-How can he have pulled out of our relationship yet still be in my life, in our house, sitting on the same sofa as me? I feel like a mere possession. How could he treat me like this?
-Why hasn't he tried harder? Why won't he seek a diagnosis? Why won't he go back to relationship counselling?
-Why does he not seem to desire a sexual, intimate relationship?
-How can he just carry on as if all is normal? Seemingly content with the situation, offering me cups of tea?
A Cassandras list of questions always goes on and I guess most of us will never really know or understand the answers to anything.
Last night, he acknowledged that he'd noticed a depletion in my mental health and wellbeing and said it had concerned him. I used this as my springboard and asked him that when he comes home after going away in a couple of days time, to not come back to the house. To move his things to his parents' house before he leaves and return there.
I can't quite believe it, but he agreed. It took things to get to this point though for me to be debilitated and stuggling in a hopeless depression. But that's Peter, he'll wait until the last minute, before he has to do anything.
I feel sick to my stomach.
But I know this has to happen.
Frustratingly, I know that even after all his heel dragging throughout these tumultuous years together, he will fall back into his parents' controlling care with contentment and ease. I saw this in our trial separation 18 months ago. My daughters and I will be suffering emotionally; we'll be upset, it will affect our sense of wellbeing, our grounding and stability, but he will just merge back into family life as he once knew it, before me and the kids. His parents will help smooth this transition for him and other than to make arrangements around the children, I'll never hear from his parents again.
I'm glad we had the trial separation during covid times to put this to the test. I learned a lot last time and I know what to expect, but it doesn't make it hurt any less.
I know that his parents won't bother with me again; I know that he'll be just as content there as he is with us; I know that my Dad will question my decision to separate from him and tell me what a "good bloke" he is; I know that his friends won't miss me because I never got to know them; I know that people will talk about what a pain in the ass I must be to let go of such a good, decent, family man.
Part of me just wants to hibernate in my car, where I am now, in my usual spot at the back of a pub carpark underneath a tree, surrounded by fields. Another big part of me wants to announce this separation on social media and tell everyone what I've been living with all these years; maybe I could share my blog.
But it won't bring any good. As someone on the Cassandra group quite rightly pointed out, part of our cassandra complex is that we're just not believed, because what others see and what we endure in these relationships are poles apart.
I worry that the pain I'm feeling will kill me; I worry that I'll never meet a nice man again and that I'll be alone forever. Will I ever love again? Do I know how to? The Annie Lennox cover "no more I love yous" resonates with me so much; losing the ability to love through experience and trauma. "The language is leaving me" as she so beautifully puts it.
One day at a time.
The next few are about my girls as he is away and I intend on enjoying as much of their play, love and sillies as I can. I know what is to come for them in a week's time when we finally sit down to tell them that Daddy is leaving. How can he do this to THEM? I keep thinking. They love him. He's a good Dad, although not always a responsible Dad, but their innocence doesn't see that. We're about to break their hearts, which breaks mine.
As for Peter's heart, who knows?
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