Part #29

I wasn't going to post for a while, as I am feeling a bit raw at the moment, but there are some things burning inside me which need to be put down on 'paper'.

I have been in hospital for three days. I discharged myself, against medical advice, but to be perfectly frank, I am making better progress away from that filthy hell-hole stuck in a six-bay ward with four men (all wards are mixed, but despite there being space in a more female-dominated ward, they kept me with the men) where you get no sleep;  the bathrooms are shared with the men (and the toilet doors didn't lock properly); the nurses are foul-mouthed, lazy, and 'forget' your drips: I was left for 15 minutes, gasping for breath before they could be bothered bringing me oxygen when I had an enormous reaction to the stuff they were pumping into me. What a place.

The nurses hammered me so hard with canulas that I have suffered bruising across each wrist, so bad, it is wholly purple and yellow. The pharmacist agreed that it may be the start of phlebitis, the veins have been so battered, but it is subsiding now, as is the pain. There were four attempts to insert a canula as veins were not forthcoming due to my low blood pressure. The liquids they filled me with have caused veins to stand out across each arm so I could now easily give Madonna a run for her money...or, slightly less glamorously, some Wicked Stepmother from a fairy tale.

I hate hospital with a vengeance - at least, I hate that hospital which is Beelzebub's Holiday Cottage. Considering I was on a cardiac ward, it was incredible that the patients were fed greasy fish and chips, peas boiled into submission and a thick, clarty rhubarb crumble covered by custard with which you could have rendered the outside of your house. 

No, I didn't eat any of it...

I discharged myself on Saturday and came home to two very subdued young ladies who had attempted to go up to Yorkshire with their father and The Other Woman (who shall hereon in be abbreviated to TOW as I can't be fagged writing it all out all the time). Beth lasted two minutes in the house before bursting into tears, watching TOW walk around the kitchen, helping herself to 'snackettes' and ordering her son to dry his hair, using Beth's drier, in Beth's bedroom where he had slept the night before. TOW couldn't have made Beth feel more like a stranger in her own home. She ran out to Ian who had promised to wait for a few minutes, 'just in case', and Rosemary followed closely on her heel.

I was so proud of the three of them. Beth tried to do something which had filled her with so much insecurity, uncertainty, fear and confusion. But she tried it. Rosemary, despite desperately wanting to go to the pantomime, and spending an eternity on getting herself ready, stood by her sister without any conditions or guilt-trips, and Ian gave them the support, encouragement, listening ear and comfort that they so desperately needed at that time. I hated myself for not being there for them.

On Saturday evening, I noticed a strange answer machine message from a mobile number which I didn't recognise - nor did anyone else in the house. The message, according to our service provider, couldn't be delivered. This, in itself, was odd. So, I called the number and the phone had been turned off. There is only one person I know who uses Tesco mobile services and that is my mother. Sure enough, when I checked through my blocked numbers, hers came up and it was the same as the number on my phone.

She, or my father, called on Thursday night. The night I was taken to hospital, and also the night my father called the ex, crying, purportedly, that he missed his grandchildren. There are only two reasons why they would call here. First, they want to know why I am in hospital OR, the ex has told them to sort out Christmas (which my father is trying to organise) with me. Either way, I am not interested in communicating with them. Beth feels that her grandmother now despises her. My mother refuses to talk to either girl - it is only my father who is making the effort. Beth has told my mother to stop this nonsense and my mother, as I have written before, has taken umbrage at being told off by an 11-year old. That is how petty she is. A child gets 'sent to Coventry' for speaking her mind.

Since then, there have been no further calls.

And also since then, I have done a lot of thinking about my life and my family. Ian and I have talked long and hard about events which led me to the hospital's A & E. There is a shift in my thought patterns. There is resolve about certain aspects of my life - I have no doubt that the resolve will falter from time to time as I am human, but for the moment, it is very strong. To this end, I have ditched the alcohol, am throwing myself into writing and work, laughing more, and accepting that where my parents and my ex are concerned, I simply cannot do anything about them and there is no point worrying myself sick about their actions. The only things I can do, from now on, are to ignore them, talk things through thoroughly with Ian, accept that they cannot and will not change, but also accept that they do not have to spoil my day. With this realisation has come a happier, marginally calmer, more trusting Annie.

I have gained a bit of weight - a few pounds. It doesn't sit well with me, at all and I am not, deep down, happy about it, but I am also not doing anything about it. I haven't restricted myself stupidly, I haven't stepped up the laxative intake, and I haven't gone exercising as though I was training for a marathon. I am just ticking over, trying not to upset the equilibrium. 

The atmosphere in this house has changed perceptibly. Although there have been 'challenges' from the daughters, and external worries which, last week, would have tipped me over the edge, this week, I am attempting to remain calm and take things in my stride. I don't know if it is my imagination, but it seems to have infected Ian, too, who is handling parenting issues with the wisdom of an old hand, which helps me inordinately in many different ways.

I am tired of punishing myself and, by default, punishing my family. Everyone has a right to be happy in this life, so why shouldn't we take our cut of it? There's still a nugget of self-doubt in me...which is akin to self-hatred. From time to time, during the day, a thought will flit across my mind that I am doing everything wrong; I'm rubbish at this life and I yearn to be a different person. 

Each day, since 'escaping' the hospital, I have felt glad I am home and alive. I almost wasn't, from what I can gather.

It's now time for a change and one for the better. The gremlin still talks to me on an hourly basis, but mentally, I am walking away from him, raising my hand to him and saying, Enough - you bore me. Sometimes I am unable to get away from him, particularly late at night when I am tired and at my most fretful/agitated, but I am coping much better during the day than I have for about six months.

I feel fear about the future from the ED point of view, paradoxically. I really, really dread gaining weight. I dread losing what I deem my own control, but I also see that I am controlling other aspects of my life more efficiently than ever before, so perhaps one will substitute for the other? I want to see my ribs still, yet I want my breasts to return. I want to keep my thin thighs, but I don't want the sagging empty skin on my buttocks. I want to keep boney legs but I don't want the concomitant bruises. I don't want to take my bigger clothes down from storage, but I don't want to undermine my daughter's self-esteem by being in a size smaller than her.

I just want it all, don't I?

Part # 28

My blogging buddy, Melissa, who authors Balancing the Scales has written a new post in which she explains that it is her ED talking, and not her rational self. I found that admission incredibly brave. Or was it that the fact that she could 'realise and acknowledge' that I envied?

There are a number of arguments, harsh words, worries, anxieties and fears which are borne from the ED for me. My husband differentiates between 'me' and 'Annie-under-the-influence'. He can see that when I am not consumed (if you will pardon the weak pun) by anorexia and its concomitant neuroses, I am loving towards him, pro-active, hard-working and (relatively - I am a woman) reasonable. But when I am listening to that Gremlin, I weaken, turn vituperous, malificent and vindictive. I must be a horror to live with. Although he acknowledges this difference, it isn't always easy for him to remain objective, which is perfectly understandable whilst under attack.

The ED spoke to me quite loudly tonight - not for long, admittedly, and I was strong enough to not react verbally - but upon my return from taking my daughter to the Orthodontist, Ian informed me that he had his first counselling session booked, for December, through our Doctor's surgery. He has had to wait for approximately six weeks. I was informed, right from the outset, that I could be waiting six months, and thus, it would be better for me to go private. So, scrimping and saving, we have done. I have a 15 mile round trip; Ian has less than a mile round trip. I have 16 years of ED problems and its side-effects; Ian is screwed up by me, my behaviour and my tempers.

It broke my heart. I felt let down by my GP, whom I have always revered, and also, very, very jealous and bitter. My ED wanted to spit at Ian: What the hell is wrong with you? You frigging left me! You wanted me back in your life! I did so and NOW you can't cope! Get a grip!!

I am also eaten away inside by anxiety over the forthcoming weekend. 'The Other Woman' is finally getting to meet Beth. Beth has succumbed/acquisced/agreed because she wants to see her cousins performing in a pantomime. The ex informed her, unceremoniously, on the back of a placatory email from me, that 'The Other Woman' would also be accompanying them in the two-hour drive. So, the first time in five years that Beth meets her will be in the claustrophobic environment of the car.

I'm probably, in all honesty, more wound up than she is. I feel so bitter that, over the last five years, I have been made out to be 'The Evil One'. Many a time and oft, without evidence, the ex has claimed that I had affairs which led him to stray towards my 'friend'. It could not be further from the truth. I sought out friends when he wasn't, or wouldn't make himself, available; yes, one was 'her' husband, but he was as lonely and disillusioned as me and we found that we laughed long and hard together, shared the same interests, could talk to each other without recrimination, commitment or condition.

It feels, in all wallowing self-pity, that they have come up trumps again. My faults towards my first marriage included nurturing my own life: getting a highly-paid, respected job for the government; being a freelancer for international mags; running a charitable theatre group; acting in a semi-pro drama troupe...and making good friends outside of the ex's work colleagues' wives. I was told, by Expats International, before I expatriated, that to do so took a 'Pioneering Spirit'. I took that statement to heart and swore that NOTHING would stop me throwing myself into my new life and environment wholeheartedly. So I did. And even after the ex had told me to 'Get A Life', it didn't sit well when I took him up on the offer.

What does a cornered rat do? It bites back. Anal was cornered; threatened by me, so it would seem from his bullying, aggression, belittling and threats. Unfortunately, although outwardly I would fight tooth and nail, inside it killed a little more of me.

When we divorced, in December 2005, I naively assumed that was it: I would never have to tolerate any more of his bullying, control or dictat. I have never been more wrong in the whole of my life. Divorce has led to the most inordinate amount of manipulation, twisting, coercion, demands and unhappiness than I could ever have envisaged. He plays the girls as pawns, constantly. I attempt, so hard, NOT to play these stupid mind games, but when he garbs my 13-year old daughter in a hooker's outfit (low-cut, clingy black satin, barely skimming her backside, coupled with 'f*ck-me' patent leather 5" heels) and I protest; he puts the phone down...I just bang my head against the brick wall with frustration, bewilderment and desperation.

And what does it make me do? 

It makes me obssess about food. It makes me ponder cutting, purely for release. It makes me feel low, sometimes almost suicidal, as I feel such a frigging failure, and so bloody impotent that I wonder if it will make any difference me being here or not (and that is NOT a statement to engender sympathy: it is purely what goes through my head). It also makes me regret so much, feel so weary, so defeated, and so desperate to escape.

I don't feel particularly strong at the moment, to be honest. I feel very, very turmoiled; as though my stomach has partaken of a salmonella bug: it is rumbling, hurting and annoying me. Just like my head and my thoughts. 

I want to be alone for some time, to think, ponder, assimilate and get my head around everything. I rarely have this solitude. Even now, as I write this blog, I am being asked about spellings, mathematical equations, English translations for métier, and I would like to get this out. But that is just bloody-minded selfishness. Because they need me and I must be there.

I want to lose more weight. That's the simple and honest truth. Because I feel like my grip is going. I need some grip. I am not doing well, am I? 

Part #27

I seem to be making a habit of this. On Monday, I passed out again in the bathroom, after engaging in a massive purging session. I fell against the chrome toilet roll holder attached to the wall, cut my upper eyelid and am now sporting a marvellous purple and black egg there. It hurts immensely - as though I have a toothache which will not stop niggling. All I remember is crawling off to bed and waking about four hours later feeling like I had been partying non-stop. It didn't go down very well. I was very disoriented, very out of the game and just 'not there'.

Things are getting me down immensely. Ten days ago, my GP prescribed me anti-depressants. I am normally loathe to take these things but I acquiesced. So far, they don't seem to be agreeing with me very well, but I have been told by a number of people, that the initial side-effects abate after 2-3 weeks. Side-effects at the moment involve constant 'jiggling' and agitation of the buttock and thigh muscles which cause horrific aches and pains; nausea; tiredness; paranoia and wild nightmares. I have another 4-11 days, potentially, of riding these things out before I throw in the towel and say, Enough! if necessary...

I haven't been near the scales for two days now. I refuse to countenance them. I don't like how they affect my mood for the whole day: so out of sight; out of mind. I am still eating one healthy meal each day. 

On Monday night, I succumbed to an old, negative behaviour. All I can remember is feeling so bloody weary, so bloody fed up of this carousel and desperate to rid my head of the screaming voices. I felt very furtive, duplicitous, ashamed and guilty as I tried to get five minutes alone. But I did, and I took a carving knife and sharpening steel into the outhouse toilet and in the semi-dark, with only spiders and cobwebs for company, I honed the knife and sliced myself on the arm, upper thigh and across my breast.

Just writing that has sent a cold belt of steel across my heart, if you can sort of understand that. A belt of utter shame and disgust.

From my former cutting days, I have arms like trellises. My right leg sports a gash which you would presume came from a car crash. It became infected at the time so that I was unable to walk for a few days and was given antibiotics. It was never stitched, hence why it is so noticeable to this day. The day Ian left, I carved his name into my left thigh. For some unearthly reason, that disappeared, but none of the others have. My friend, Rebecca, joked to me at the time, that I could turn it into the phrase, 'I've been to Spain', until I pointed out that '-ain' and '-ian' are different...so we decided that I could purport to have dyslexia. Light-hearted banter about heavy-hearted things. We need to do that from time to time.

That gash on my right leg featured in my dream of Monday night. I dreamed that I had it across the breast I had cut and it was ugly, gaping and repugnant. When I awoke yesterday morning, my fear was how to disguise it during any love-making between Ian and me. I resolved to refrain from intimacy for a few days until the rawness had abated. That's not a good thing, or a solution, though, is it? And unbeknownst to me, Ian had observed spatters of blood and put two and two together. When we think we are being so clever as to conceal things, we always miss dead give-aways...such as the blood on the top of my jeans: the blood on my nightdress which I didn't notice until much later. 

Before I expatriated to Oman I was an Autumn Child. I loved the nights drawing in; the cosiness by the fire; the smell of bonfires in the air; snuggling up in bed, watching crappy black and white movies on telly; wearing thick, heavy jumpers and embracing the cold, crisp days. I hate them nowadays. This darkness only reflects my moods. It is depressing that the sky is black at 4pm, the rain soaks, chills me to the marrow and I rarely feel warm. I long for the sun on my face. I don't like all the anniversaries which bombard us at this time of year, either. There are too many of them. These memories stir up different emotions, none of them positive. They imbue me with guilt, sadness, concern and fear for the future.

I live in the past; too much for my own good. I have mentioned 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' before. I so wish I could gain that - obliterate my mind of the painful memories - be selective, too, in holding on to the good ones. I am asking for way too much, I know that - I sound like a spoiled Verruca Salt (of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory!) who wants it all: Daddy! Daddy! Get Me That Unsullied Memory, NOW!

What a complex organ the brain is. How can it hold so many abstract and intangible things? No wonder scientists claim they can only fully understand about a 1/3 of its workings. How can those electrical impulses which constantly fire off cause elation, sadness, euphoria, desperation, hunger, warmth, irritation, love, affection, anxiety...ad infinitum...What an amazing creation we have, sitting in our 'shell-likes'. And I am rambling...

Things aren't all bad in Annie's World, though, so I apologise for being so morose. In my last post, I described my current worries. One of those, as Ian predicted, has now gone. He finally 'sold' his house yesterday - all the legalities are now in place and it is time to clear the property. When we first got back together, over a year ago, he told me he was going to do things properly this time and before I agreed to a future together, he was discussing placing his house on the market. The Global Economy Crisis is taking its toll everywhere and it has taken a year for his house to sell. Believe it or not, that's not too bad here - my neighbour split with his wife in 2006 and the house is still for sale. We have been lucky to a degree.

Ian's ardent desire was to start afresh. Get rid of his property, feel part of this household, 100%, and make a go of it. The economy has been against us, materially. Before we realised how bad the credit crunch was getting, we started looking at properties for ourselves - a new life, together. We found a fantastic house which was formerly a Scottish Manse house. It was in a fair state, but needed a lot of work. It had been on the market for two years and had depreciated by £100,000. We knew we would have to bust a gut to get it fit for the four of us. But everything is corrolated. My property, where once I had a hell of a lot of equity in it, is now not worth as much; Ian's house has been dropped by 17% to sell. So we must hold on. 

I have always seen Ian's house as his bolt-hole: somewhere to run when the going gets tough. It has left me foundationless, insecure and feeling like a cat on a hot tin roof. I abhor the arguments where the bags are packed, the doors are slammed and silence reigns in the house. I need some form of safety net and security which is unconditional. I hope that this house sale goes some way to affording me some sanctuary from my fears.

Most dreams I have these days are about being lost and not being able to find my way back. I beg people for assistance but I am always let down. There are obstacles in my path; there are obstreperous characters to handle; there are problems to overcome...but I just don't seem to get there, ever. Strangely, Ian rarely features in any of my dreams - I am always begging my parents to help me, and they never do. What does that mean, I wonder?

What a rambling mess! 

Part # 26

Blogging has taken a back seat for me just recently. I have been urged and encouraged by a number of people to attempt to put this account down in book form, and so I made a start last week. I am not so vain as to think that it will ever go anywhere, but what I have noticed is that blogging contains superficial details, on the whole; whereas writing a book requires more attention, minuteness, background and concise information. Only nine pages have been written so far. But they were nine pages of so many early childhood memories. So many of them had either been pushed aside, forgotten or blocked off that it was strange to relive them so vividly. I have an incredible long-term memory (short-term is rubbish!) and can recall smells, shapes, colours, clothes, sensations as if they were happening to me in the here and now.

Ian can tell me something and hours later I will have forgotten and ask him about it again. He sighs wearily and I apologise. Bizarrely, though, months later, I would be able to recall it with vivid detail - and that is where he will have forgotten! I wonder if it is the medication I have been prescribed which provides that 'comfortable numbness'?

I have to hold my hands up in submission now and state, quite honestly, that I don't think I am improving. One meal each day, keeping it in and down is bugger all, in truth. If you are only eating grilled/baked/steamed fish/seafood with steamed veg, you aren't exactly having a Hog Fest, are you? I guess I am kidding myself, really. 

There are so many things which are either irritating the hell out of me or worrying me sick at the moment that I cannot seem to drop them and concentrate on me. For the purposes of catharsis, I am going to list them. Just to see them in black and white and potentially be able to reason with them at a later date today or tomorrow.

 

• Ian will get sick and tired of me struggling with this bastard disorder and leave
• I am way too sensitive for my own good and any perceived slight affects me so much as to cause a row
• I dread confrontation with either my family or Ian's family - Ian calls these 'missiles' and they come in the form of texts, letters, emails, phone calls. Each time his own mobile phone beeps or rings, my heart sinks. Each time our home phone rings, my heart sinks. For six months, I have been given an easy life. I wonder how much longer I can 'enjoy' that as there have been no missiles recently...
• Will Ian's house finally sell? Will we have less financial worries? Paying two mortgages isn't much fun. An empty house, acting like a money pit, down south, is a millstone around our necks. We are always 'so close' to completion of the sale, and then the purchasers' solicitor gets his teeth into a silly issue which has to be thrown back and forth until Ian's solicitor gives them a rap across the knuckles and tells them to behave. But it's long, slow and arduous.
• Am I about to be usurped? Beth has finally relented and agreed to meet with 'The Other Woman'. Recalling 'The Other Woman's' campaign of 'Being The Most Popular Mother in Oman' is not something I can forget easily. Remembering her telling me she adored Rosemary as if she were her own daughter, seeing the presentation of very expensive diamond earrings to Rosemary for birthdays, and the oppositional attitude of attending to every cut, bruise, fall by fussing and falling over them makes me quail. Although I am a firm believer in unconditional love and affection, I do not believe that a paper cut on the finger requires Calpol, a hot water bottle and a Band Aid. She did...And the girls revelled in that at one time...
• I worry that I have lost my way. I was once such an ambitious woman. I was the only person in the organisation who understood my job. Everyone else listened to me and heard what I was saying. I was both self-taught, on-the-job-taught, and passed exams with high 80 percentages. I knew what I was delivering and in my first month of taking over the role, I turned over more stock from my online nicotine replacement sales than the whole of the 500 branches across the UK. That is vanity more than anything. I increased turnover by 1500% in three months but I don't ever feel I can go back to it as I am terrified of my colleagues. A former worker, K, suffered with bulimia (I never met her). She had been gone for a good 12 months by the time I started work. They still tore her to pieces for it. Anybody, with any 'mental health' problem, was annihilated. Considering it is a health industry, they ought to hang their heads in shame...
• I worry about my position in this family. Reputedly, I am the 'Figure Head': the one who holds us together, mediates, softens, delegates, and acts as diplomat. I don't want to do it any more in some ways. I am weary of having to flit between one set of hurt to another. I want hurt people to talk to each other openly, which is what I would do, on the whole. Being a mediator is a hard task. But, at the same time, I know that it is hard for the other three and they DO need a mediator. We had a social worker at one point who said that being a step-parent was the hardest job in the world. I agree, implicitly. But I also think that being the natural parent on a new marriage is pretty tough, too, due to divided loyalties and attempting to maintain some form of equilibrium

So, don't get me wrong. Things 'chez Annie' are not awful - far from it. There has just passed a lovely, gentle, interesting weekend. Nary a cross word passed (apart from the general bickering between Rosemary and Bethan, to which I have selective deafness!) between any of us, and it has been notable in its unremarkability. I give thanks for that. 

I just wish I could escape from my thoughts. My dreams last night were full of angst. They were actually filled with 'missiles'. I awoke at 4.30am with severe heartburn, got up for ten minutes, swilled down a load of water and some peppermint, and then returned to bed where I fell into a deep sleep. My final dream was that all my eyebrow hairs had fallen out due to the anorexia. I checked them out this morning, after my husband had complained that his face was a mess due to me picking a spot on his cheek. 

Such is life, eh?!

Part #25

I felt very confused on Sunday evening. Confused by my conflicting emotions and how I was going to cope through the rest of the night.

I tend to get more morose and low, late evening, as the nights draw in earlier. I am not one who is scared of the dark, but that blackness appears to enhance my moods at times and so if any arguments are going to occur within the family, it is generally at this time of the day.

I have been making a concerted effort to eat at least one healthy meal each day and keep it in/down. And I am not referring to one dry crispbread as a meal here! I am attempting to eat a small piece of baked fish with steamed vegetables every day, or a home-made vegetable soup, or a seafood salad (I no longer eat meat other than fish as it screws my digestion up terribly - I am not a tree-hugging, animal liberator...but my colon is!). I am actually, quietly, very proud of myself. For the last 7-10 days, I have managed it. With success. OK...possibly during the day I may have binged or simply starved, but there has been some nutrition going into me. Although I still lose weight daily.

Ian and I hadn't been out together of an evening for a long time and we decided to visit a restaurant which is close to our hearts as it is where we announced our engagement and forthcoming wedding to the girls. It is a small family-run Italian restaurant in a neighbouring village and the staff know us very well as we celebrate every special occasion there. As the weekends around Bonfire Night (November 5th) have people out at firework displays, the restaurant was suprisingly empty - only one other couple occupied a table. And I was able to order off the menu and asked for a seafood salad. It was out of this world. No heavy, 'threatening' dressings - just citrus juice - no carbs, just succulent, beautiful squid, prawns, octopus and mussels with fantastically colourful leaves. Delicious!

I left this house somewhat perturbed. Shortly before we left, I had called the girls at their father's house where they were staying for the weekend, to see how things were for them. Beth advised me that my mother had written them a letter.

The letter stated that they missed them immensely, the girls were always in their thoughts and just because she and I weren't talking any more, it didn't mean that they couldn't still speak.

I listened very hard to Beth and then asked her if she intended to respond, and how she felt. She was very dismissive - blasé, almost. Nope, not replying, she told me. If she can't make friends with you, why should I? 

Rosemary's tone this evening was exactly the same.

Rosemary asked me in a tentative way, if it was wrong of her to feel that her Nanna was playing games with her feelings and emotionally blackmailing her. That was a very difficult question to answer. Thing is, without even seeing that letter, I can almost hear the tone of voice in it. The smell of burning martyr is strong once that envelope is opened. I explained that I couldn't fairly comment as I hadn't read the letter for myself but that her feelings were as valid as anyone's. And that was it, basically.

I was torn between two trains of thought: how awful; how sad, that a grandmother does not feel able to speak to her grand-daughters and imposes that restriction upon them by snail mail. How would I feel? I'd feel empty, saddened, depleted and desperate to sort things out.

The flip-side was, You stupid, ignorant woman. You have been told by four people to sort this out as it is ridiculous and you are cutting off your own nose to spite your face, but still you will not get down from your high pedestal of omniscience and self-righteousness.

I don't want to get involved with her ever again - and Ian supports me 100% on this, having been on the receiving end of her poison himself. But, I don't particularly want to sully a grandparent relationship when it is not necessary. Ian had a totally different take on it all. He explained how he was in the first-hand position of seeing how her control had affected me and the last thing he wanted was for the girls to succumb to it, too. I had to agree. His stance was that if the girls wanted to respond to her letter, they would; if not, he wouldn't push it.

So I have agreed as that is sensible.

If she weren't my mother, I would still feel that pang of pity for her. It's a person destroying themselves for their own arrogant pride and ignorance. What a life?