Tuesday 27 January 2009

Events

'Kiss-Ass'...

It's a fairly new term to the British Isles, I find, (or am I just not 'with it'?!) but frequents our current teenagers' common parlance.

'Kiss-Ass'! To me, it's 'bum-licker'; 'creep'...or if we are being more eloquent: 'sycophant'.

And 'Kiss-Ass' is the term my youngest daughter used, only 30 minutes ago, to describe her grandmother - my mother, for those of you still in doubt.

I am furious: with my ex; with my oldest daughter; and with my so-called parents.

'Parent': One who begets, gives birth to, or nurtures and raises a child; a father or mother.

'Nurture': to support and encourage, as during the period of training or development

Makes me laugh...sardonically.

My mother, on Sunday, having been invited around to the ex's house for a cuppa and to see the girls, took him both a birthday cake and card...and then offered to clean his house for him.

This is the woman who, only 18 months ago, told me that if she had the money, she would hire a mercenary and have him snuffed out like a candle because she despised him so much.

We have had to ask Rosemary to leave this house and return to her father's. Three times she has raised her fist to me: every night she is belligerent, obnoxious, trouble-making, and refuses to kow-tow to the most basic rules of discipline - e.g. wash up your dirty dishes; put your dirty laundry into the basket; let us know where you are and when you will be home...not a lot to ask...my rules were those you would ask of any normal, civilised human being, but she chose to abhor them, raised her hand to me and enough was enough. Whenever she dislikes the rules in this house, she calls her father immediately, who comes running, cajoling and caressing. He has never told her to 'listen to your mother' - he has set up opposition with me consistently.

'Good Cop; Bad Cop'

Or, as he used to term it:

'Dragon; Fun Daddy'.

Ian and I had fun and games with him on the doorstep on Sunday morning. Saturday night, we had been texting him repeatedly, asking when we could drop belongings off for the girls who needed them for Monday morning. No reply. At 9am, Sunday, I was called and told that he would be at our house, 'shortly' and needed X, Y and Z. Our Sunday morning, wherein we were lying in bed, dreaming of having won the lottery and being ordered around to find stuff. I explained that this was NOT convenient and that we would bring the items over later.

But no. No. He has to take control and tells me that Rosemary has a key and they will let themselves in and find what they need.

Well, I am sorry, but that bastard is not getting into my house again - he did it last May...Ian was away at a conference; Rosemary fell out with me, stalked over to her pal's house and, while I was asleep, allowed him access to this house with her key. He told me on the phone he came into my room and saw me pushing out the zeds.

I felt violated. Somebody, totally uninvited, and whom I despise, loathe and detest, came into my house. And he still feels as though he can, even to this day.

Ian called the Police. The laws in the UK state that he couldn't have been done for anything: trespass - nope: he didn't wreck anything...breaking and entering: nope: he had a key...he didn't violate a single law apart from my sanity and peace of mind.

We asked him on Sunday for the return of Rosemary's keys...We are still waiting for them, so it is time to get those locks changed. I don't trust that bastard as far as I can spit him.

This is not helping in any way, to be honest with you. I thought I was putting on weight. After four days of abstaining from the scales, I now discover I have lost five pounds and, once again, those size 6s are feeling a bit loose around the thigh region.

Maybe I felt so heavy due to all the guilt which is resting in my heart, head and upon my shoulders? Because it is weighing me down like a ton of bricks.

I am terrified I am treating Rosemary in the same way that my mother treats me. I discussed this, at length, with my counsellor, yesterday. She believes my treatment is very different because I keep in touch with Rosemary, have spoken to her at length about her behaviour, have given her many opportunities and still tell her that I love her greatly. But the ex sticks his knife in and twists it, slowly, with his 'ever-so-caring-considerate-let's-all-think-of-her-feelings-here...' approach to us and our stance.

During his Sunday Sermon, the ex told us that he was going to ask Rosemary to keep us informed of whenever she wanted to visit - she appears to think that she has to punish us at the moment, which is fair enough...so, I was furious that she pitched up, with undisguised arrogance, unexpectedly, after school yesterday, expecting to be fed, watered and cossetted. I don't believe it is wholly her fault - I believe the ex still thinks of me as 'his property' wherein he can treat me how he pleases. I left a rather snarly voicemail on his phone, asking for a bit of courtesy. It broke me that Rosemary ran out of the house and started walking the streets.

I drove all over our village trying to find her and when I did, I brought her home, made her a hot drink and gave her something to eat. She stayed in her room, but when the time came for her to go and see her boyfriend, I caught a glimpse of my daughter - the nice girl who loves people, cares for them and wants to be pleasant. And I didn't want her to go. But she did, and I fell to pieces over the following hours.

I have been advised by two medical professionals that I have done the 'right thing' for me, my marriage and my relationship with my daughter. My doctor told me that if I hadn't taken her back to her father's already, he would have been strongly urging me to, anyway, as she is a Force of Destruction in this house.

This is not conditional love - I love her without question, but I do not love her behaviour. There is no excuse for physical violence and for treating people like scum because you are allowed to get away with it by others.

It still hurts like I have been beaten by a brick-bat, though...

Tuesday 13 January 2009

All is Well

Thanks to those of you who have written to me personally and on the blog asking if all is OK.

It is, thanks. And normal service will be resumed shortly!

Tuesday 6 January 2009

Guilty Conscience?

Guilt is an ever-pervasive feeling in the life of Annie T. The amount of times I feel guilt over things is inordinate. If I was able to list each guilt with a number and then submit those numbers to the National Lottery, I feel pretty damned sure I would win in the very near future. Yes, I am being fascetious. Don't ask me for the winning streak. I would be inclined to be rude to you!

I thoroughly read a blog today by Lola Snow. She is in recovery and is doing marvellously - I admire her from the tip of her toes to the top of her head. She writes with such wit, honesty, candidness and humour. I love to read Lola's blog - so should you! And this is not a commercial plug because, as yet, she has not agreed to pay me any English Pounds whatsoever!

Where am I? I went back to see my therapist today, for the first time in about four weeks...maybe more. We are now seeing each other under the NHS and at my local GP surgery, so there is no excuse for me to blob. And, by God, I really, really wanted to see her - there was no question of me blobbing from this engagement. And, as usual, she was marvellous - she really ought to be preserved. I wish, in some ways, that I knew her outside of our client-therapist relationship, as she has a great sense of humour, and I truly like her...

We talked about many different things, not dwelling too hard on too many. We talked about the rows between me and Ian, which are becoming way too frequent to bear; the rows between me and Rosemary, my eldest, which are just designed to assassinate; my lack of self-worth; my lack of self-esteem; my feelings of total ugliness since the hair-chopping episode (I still feel like some butch, ugly thing); and...my complete and utter anger towards my Mother.

OK. So, there are things I haven't written about recently - I published a post about seeing her in the pub and then pulled it. But, since then, she has been in touch with MY daughters (whom she calls, 'my girls') and explained to them that, when she snuffs it (which I ardently hope will be soon) they will be in for a grand fortune. I guess I have been cut out of the will, and thus, Rosemary, Bethan and my brother, Paul, are in for a fair few bob...as long as they don't drink, smoke or take drugs. Ever. There are so many caveats to this will (and I have read it, so I know) that those girls are not going to be allowed to experience any normal processes of growing-up.

I smoke, I drink and I was first introduced to drugs (pot, only) when I went to University. I have sporadically smoked dope since; continued to smoke cigarettes, and thoroughly enjoy a glass of vin rouge. I also help old ladies with their shopping bags; take lost kiddies home when they are crying outside of Tesco, knowing their mother is in the Ring O'Bells playing darts; take the poorly priest a roast dinner; and help the disabled pharmacy assistant with the rubbish to the bin at the back of the shop. I'm not a bad bugger, deep down.

Things are eating me up inside today. I discovered the so-called reason for my mother's refusal to speak to me yesterday. Although, when I told her of my engagement to Ian, her only words were, Dear God!, and then a slamming down of the phone and total silence from thereon in.

It would appear that she is not speaking to me due to the way I treated her prior to announcing the engagment. Back in early October 2007, they let themselves into my house at 9am on a Sunday morning. I had treated myself to a bottle of red wine on the Saturday night - my first in many, many months and it had gone to my head. I called her out of duty - if I missed a night's call, there was trouble. She went ballistic at the fact I had drunk red wine. She has a massive problem with people drinking as her brother died of alcoholism whilst in the Royal Navy. His body was found in a ditch when he was on active service, three days after he had actually died.

And so, they hauled me out of my bed, screamed abuse at me, calling me 'a dirty fucking bitch', 'filthy', 'scum' and 'worthless'. Saturday night. One bottle of cheap red plonk, what I deemed would be a usually boring telecon...and then the aftermath. I was actually termed bone idle for being in my bed at 9am on Sunday. I wonder if this is why I ended up having so much trouble enjoying a lie-in for so many months?

Consequently, although I had to apologise profusely, I felt very, very angry about the whole set-up. 37 years of age and being treated like a naughty teenager. The fact that they let themselves into the house grated me no end. Yes, I had given them a key, but it was not to be used abusively. And so, I did speak to them with caution, and conservatively. But I was never, ever rude or belligerent. They deemed it their duty to come here every Monday evening to 'mind' the girls before I returned from work. I dreaded every Monday night. I would only have to clack my heels along the pathway and my mother was waiting for me in the kitchen to berate me over one thing or another. One night, I actually teetered on the frame of the door, attempting to get into my home, while she shook her finger at me, criticising me for the food I had left for the girls - home-made chilli and garlic bread. She didn't know how to bake the garlic bread. But there were instructions on the cellophane? She didn't have her glasses with her. But Rosemary can read them out for you?

So, that is where I am today. 

I spoke to a dear friend, N, last night. I have known him since I was 15 and he is married to my good friend whom I have known since I was 16. I adore the pair of them but we aren't great at keeping in touch, unfortunately. I sent him an email with this blog URL and asked him to read it. And he did! It often astonishes me that my friends bother to read it - one, Z, keeps in touch with it regularly to find out how things are going. It's heart-warming to know I have mates like these, and like my commenters who never cease to say such wonderful, kind things.

N emailed me back, having read all the posts last night, from #1 to #19. And he wrote this little message, which made me giggle, made Ian querulous, and may make you think, too!

"Each blog is like you sitting talking in front of me as your strong (if dubious at times!) sense of humour is streaked through each one. (I am thinking now of the young lady who would so easily do unspeakable things with my cantaloupes on the patio in Warrington :)"**

I have to keep telling myself that with friends like N, R, Z and a wonderful husband like Ian, I don't need my mother. And that is it.

**If you really want to know what I did with those cantaloupes, you'll have to email me. And, when I have told you, I'll have to kill you...

Thursday 1 January 2009

Happy New Year

Happy New Year, all of you - I hope 2009 is a marvellous one for all of us.

I occasionally write a more light-hearted blog and was re-reading some posts tonight from 18 months ago. I know that on Annie's Rexia I describe the slights and criticisms from my parents and the ex with sadness, hurt and bitterness, but I have attempted to inject some levity into them, too. I therefore thought I would be bone idle and copy an old Hex My Ex post into this blog just so that we can remind ourselves from time to time that we can try our damnedest to laugh at things.

I hope it raises a small smile...

I have recently been thinking about the veiled insults, back-handed compliments and the insecurity springboards which I have received over my colourful life.

Most of them have come from my dear family members, mainly from Mother Dearest who wouldn’t know how to give an unconditional compliment if it came on a silver platter and garnished with parsley. And so, dear reader, I shall share some of these with you and then you in turn might wish to employ them in order to screw with the heads of your foes.

On getting a C grade in Human Biology A Level at night school:
Father: Couldn’t you have got a B?

On getting 83% in a Health & Social Care assignment:
Father: That’s what you got last time. Couldn’t you have got 84%?

On having my hair cut into a new style:
Mother: That style really suits you. I wish you’d stop dying your hair that dark colour, though, it looks trashy.

On losing weight:
Mother: You’re getting too thin.

On subsequently gaining weight:
Mother: You look like a Sumo wrestler.

On my figure:
Mother: You’ve got a smashing figure. It’s a pity you’ve got that belly, though. Have you tried sit-ups?

On dressing up for a family meal:
Mother: I’m glad to see you are smartening up these days. You look really nice when you go out. But don’t wear that awful black thing tonight. You look like a witch.

On commenting whether I needed to lose weight or not:
The Ex: I’ll give you a stone either way. Put on a stone and you’re dumped; lose a stone and you’re dumped.

On commenting how romantic candle-lit meals were:
The Ex: Don’t expect me to be making soppy remarks to you over the dining table. I’ll have me head down eating me nosebag.

On making a three course birthday meal for my Mother:
Mother: Is there garlic in this? Urgh, I hate garlic.

On playing the baddy in a pantomime:
All my 'friends': You're very natural as a witch.

On getting the principal boy part in a panto with lots of singing:
The Ex: The only people in the audience who'll appreciate your singing will be the handicapped kids.

On asking why a (then) boyfriend had stayed so long with his psychopathic exgirlfriend:
Ex-boyfriend: Because it was the best sex I have ever had in my life.

Me as a cleaner
On being offered a dream job as a writer:
Mother: You'll be home later than usual? You can't do that. What about the children? Why don't you go cleaning? Cleaners get well paid and you can choose your own hours.
[Obviously, this is why I am studying an English degree, as there is a high demand for well-read cleaners]

On being offered a dream job as a writer #2:
Daughter No.1: So you'll be home later than before? So all you care about is the money and not me? You just don't care about me, do you? [I turned the job down, eventually]

On losing quite a lot of weight and fancying a bit of hanky-panky that night:
The Ex: You look like a road traffic accident.

On going on a diet after repeated remarks from Mother that I was huge:
Mother: Have some apple pie and cream. Go on, I made it especially for you.
Me: I told you I was on a diet.
Mother: That won’t kill you.
Me: No, but it will put weight on me.
Mother: You’re obsessed, you are…

On taking my driving test after 12 lessons:
Mother: You’ll not pass. It took me 25 lessons before I passed. Waste of good money.
Ha! I passed!

Me on a good dayAll I can say is that it’s a jolly good job I am thick-skinned and have oodles of self-esteem. But, I have to end it here - I must go now as I have an appointment with my psychotherapist…