In October 2010 I started this blog as outlet for my emotions and a place to practice writing. I called it Searching for the Light as I was in a very dark place and could see no end to my despair and was hoping that it would provide some release. For several years I wrote regularly and gained quite a few followers. My writing became more sporadic as I embarked on a roller coaster of a journey that brings me to where I am today.
I am happier now than I have ever been and can say that I have indeed found THE LIGHT. I will write more about that soon but for those of you still following me and those joining me on this new phase of my journey I have written a synopsis of what brought me here today. Throughout my blog you will find many snapshots of my childhood, my relationship and my life which will paint a more complete picture should you need it.
Suffering from severe clinical depression, I left my job in October 2010. This was my dream, to be a teacher and I had failed. I couldn’t cope with the pressures of the job and bringing up a young family. My youngest also had chronic asthma and was being investigated for leukaemia.
My husband was far from supportive, in fact he seemed to derive pleasure from watching me struggle and fail, until of course I was no longer contributing financially to the household. Then he spent hours encouraging me to go back to work.
When I told him, I had been diagnosed with depression his reaction was to tell me he didn’t believe in depression that if I wasn’t so fat and frumpy I would feel better about myself and to go and buy new clothes and have my haircut. I was slimmer at the time than I had been in our entire relationship! I couldn’t afford haircuts or fashionable clothes even when I was earning because once I’d paid my share of household bills, all the child care costs and for everything else the children needed there was nothing left. He contributed to the household bills but maintained that the rest of money he earned was his to spend as he saw fit, meaning drinking with his colleagues, motorbikes and endless boys only weekends away.
I started counselling, but that only made me feel worse as my counsellor kept telling me that the problem was the way in which I communicated with my husband. She was Catholic and to her the sanctity of marriage came first and foremost and her advice did nothing for my self-esteem.
During this period, I discovered yoga, and started going to classes regularly. I am deeply indebted to my teachers and owners of the studio as they saw something in me that I could not and allowed me to pay a reduced rate, so I could attend classes twice a week. In time a job became available at the studio and they offered it to me. It was in this haven that I learnt to recognise and deal with my emotions, in fact I spent many hours on my mat crying. I began to rediscover the person I had lost and to once again read and listen to music.
At home, I mostly hid, the children were old enough to see that I was different with them. We had so much fun together, especially during the school holidays, inventing games, singing, dancing and just being generally silly. Entertaining them while spending as little as possible, I tried to give them a childhood of freedom and independence, to allow them to use their imaginations, to find their own uniqueness. But deep down they knew, as soon as their father came home the atmosphere changed. We never knew what mood he would be in, if he would be happy drunk or angry drunk. If he would be in the mood to play silly games with them or if he was going to scream and shout about the mess and throw or kick toys etc that got in his way.
He hated the fact that I was changing, that I had made a few friends and was making arrangements to go out socially. I could rely on him to interfere with any plans I had by either not coming home in time for me to go out or by deliberately upsetting or annoying the children, so they came to dread being left alone with him. On the rare occasions he did look after his own children for any length of time I knew I could expect punishment for weeks to follow in the form of either silent treatment or him going out every evening after work and disappearing at weekends without letting anyone know where he was gong or how long he would be.
I struggled with his behaviour and tried again and again to have reasonable discussions about it and to request that I had the same freedom and privileges as he did but each time I was told that because he worked and was the main earner evenings and weekends were his to spend as he pleased. I worked too and took care of the house and the children with no input from him but that apparently didn’t count. His drinking and socialising took priority over anything the kids or I might need.
My marriage was miserable, we didn’t have a relationship as such, he wasn’t prepared to listen to me, to acknowledge my feelings yet I spent endless hours listening to him complain about his job and the daily stresses he was under. He moaned endlessly about the state of the house but rarely did anything about it except to occasionally gather up thing that weren’t his and bin them. If I stood my ground he would walk out of the room, refusing to hear what I was saying. He would then proceed to ignore me for weeks on end, breaking the wall of silence only when he would come home drunk and demand his conjugal rights. I quickly learned to wear as many layers as feasible in bed so that he would give up and fall into a drunken stupor. Thankfully, after several years we had an extension built and gained a spare room to which I would retire on the nights he was really late home and I knew he would be worse for the wear and possibly aggressive.
As time went on, I began to give up on the marriage, working only at keeping the peace, thinking long and hard before saying anything, going along with his plans whether I liked them or not, including going on holidays I hated, days out to places I would never in a million years dreamed of going. The children too learnt not to argue, not to express an opinion or preference for fear of being shot down. They learnt that nothing they could do would ever earn them their father’s approval. Anxiety spread through the house like a disease, we were constantly on edge. Despite my yoga and new-found confidence outside the house, I was a shadow of my former self, actually more than that, a ghost in my own home.
During 2014, I met with someone whom I barely knew though our paths crossed on a regular basis we had never actually sat down and had a one to one conversation. My husband generally made sure that at social events I either sat with the children or was never in a position where I could converse freely with others and on the rare occasions I got sat next to a possibly sympathetic woman he would find a reason to move me or would take my seat if I left it for any reason.
She was part of his extended family and had asked me to meet her after a family gathering. She was having problems in her relationship but didn’t have anyone else she felt comfortable confiding in as she was too embarrassed to admit to her own family and friends what was occurring. I listened to her speak and after about an hour she asked why I wasn’t horrified by what I was hearing. My explanation was that what she had just described was my life, my relationship, my marriage. She told me that what I was living with was abuse, financial and emotional abuse. I had never come across those terms before. Yes, I knew about domestic violence, but my husband had never hit me. Whenever I broached any problems with him I was told that I expected too much of him, of the relationship and that all marriages were like this. I didn’t know any difference as this had been my one and only long-term relationship.
This conversation led me to research and read many books on abuse. The more I read the more convinced I was that this was indeed what was happening in my relationship. The realisation sent me into a tailspin leading to what I now know were panic attacks. At the time I thought I was having several heart attacks a day. I couldn’t think, eat or sleep, my heart was permanently racing. I was sent for ECGs and blood tests and my then GP told me I was fine and prescribed antacids. I continued to write, mostly journaling trying to sort through my feelings. I was scared of what I had become, of what would happen if I rocked the boat, I knew I couldn’t continue like this but has no idea what to do or where to go for help.
My youngest began to refuse school due to anxiety so I made an appointment with the GP for her. I was told that our GP had retired and been replaced new one, so it was with some trepidation we turned up that day. My daughter asked to speak to him alone, and to this day I have no idea what she said to him and she said she was so upset and anxious that she can’t remember, but whatever it was it triggered him to request that I make an appointment to come and discuss my relationship with him.
It took me a few months to see him and even then, I had to write out the problem, I couldn’t speak about how I felt. I was so confused, so angry, with myself more than anyone else. Angry that I had gotten myself into this situation, that I hadn’t been able to stand up for myself or my children. Disbelieving of the fact that someone who supposedly loved me could treat me so badly and not seem to care that I was hurting.
Once again, I was referred to counselling but this time it really helped. I felt believed and validated. She understood what I was going through, she confirmed my beliefs that I was a victim of emotional and financial abuse. She referred me to the appropriate authorities and a solicitor, and I started to think about leaving, about divorce.
Three years ago, I finally plucked up the courage to tell my husband that I wanted a divorce. I wanted him out of the house. He fought it, not for me though but, because he didn’t want to lose his home comforts and half his assets. However, within a few months he had left, rented a flat nearby and begun another relationship.
Surprisingly, it was at this point that I really fell apart. My friends seemed to withdraw, feeling I guess that the hard bit was over, he was gone, so they thought I no longer needed them as much. The truth was I was struggling to come to terms with being a victim of abuse, I really couldn’t understand how someone I loved had moved on so quickly, had shown no desire to try and fix things yet had bad-mouthed me to all and sundry, making out that I had kicked him out for no reason. He spread rumours that I was having a fling and that as soon as it was over I would be begging him to come back. This was not true and really upset me as throughout our twenty plus years relationship I had never so much as glanced at another man let alone had an affair.
He told the children that I had broken his heart and destroyed his life and that I was taking him for every penny he had. Within weeks of moving out he had introduced them to another woman. They were confused as his actions did not match his words. They weren’t ready to have someone new in their lives, they were still trying to understand the break up and its implications. The girls seemed permanently on the brink of tears and my son was incredibly angry. It seemed I hadn’t achieved anything, I was still walking on eggshells in my own home, afraid of provoking aggression or tears. The children didn’t feel able to discuss their feelings with me, in part because they didn’t want to upset me and because I had been the cause of some of those feelings.
I had begun the divorce process, but he stalled every step of the way. We hadn’t even got to discussing finances, this was merely the initial stages, but he wouldn’t agree to the petition. It felt as if I was going backwards I and one day I stepped out in front of a car, intentionally, but also impulsively, I just wanted the pain to end. There was no joy in anything, just tears, darkness and fear.
The driver managed to brake and barely touched me. He started yelling at me, swearing and calling me names that I can’t bring myself to type. I was mortified. I apologised to him for my absentmindedness and continued to walk home. By now the tears were flowing and I was torn between what could have been and what I was going home to. The peace I could have known and the hurt I would have caused those who loved me, and my children were already hurting enough.
I went to the GP once again. The man deserves a medal, he has listened to me, supported me, even when I refused medication or his advice. This time I decided maybe he was right, and I should take anti-depressants and I accepted a prescription from him. I still had it in my pocket a few days later as I walked to work, and I had the most astonishing experience which set me on my current path. I quite literally saw the light, felt the light, was the light.
The last two years have been extraordinary, many many downs but also countless moments of pure sheer joy. I am compelled to share my story and hope you will join me on the journey and that what I write will resonate with you.
Searching for the light. 