Part #18

Just been to see my GP, Dr R. I wish I could have him preserved. I dread the day he retires; he is such a marvel. I have never encountered a GP as empathetic, pro-active and caring as he is, in this country.

We had a good long chat and I probably really annoyed the person due in after me as I must have taken up way more than my allotted ten minutes.

With all the bruising on my body, Dr R suggested that I may be suffering with scurvy. We had a small chuckle about it and indeed, Ian suggested I wrote a bit of a nautical, whimsical post for HME about it. Yes, Seaman Staines, Master Bates and Cap'n Annie Rexia. I can see it now!

So, I am off for coagulation tests on Thursday morning. With reference to a very droll comment by Linda as to how much the womb weighs, I wonder how much a syringe of blood weighs. (I am being sardonic, here!)

I am being referred 'urgently' to a specialist due to rectal bleeding. About 7-8 years ago, I had a haemorrhoidectomy and during the investigations, pre-cancerous Adenomatous polyps were discovered. They were subsequently removed via colonoscopy. I did explain in this post that it was suggested to me by the surgeon that anal sex could be a contributing factor in the cause of these things - but I cannot be sure as I also smoke, drink alcohol and have eaten fatty foods in my past. I was also advised to have 3-yearly checks. And I haven't. Why? Because I have been dreading what might be found; dreading the prospect of a further haemorrhoidectomy (which was more agonising than giving birth to quintuplets) and dreading having to go to Leighton Hospital, which is Satan's own personal Shop of Horrors in Cheshire.

Thank God, Ian now has me covered under his private medical, so I can go to a clean hospital, where there isn't vomit drying on the floor next to your bed for days; old ladies aren't left soaking in their own excrement, sobbing for a nurse; where asking for a bed pan isn't seen as a bother and chore.

Leighton Hospital terrifies me. I was taken there for the first time ever in November 2006. It's not a day I want to remember but it appears to be seared into my memory. I shan't go into the ins and outs of why I had taken an overdose, and why I was then badly with the ED: but it was living hell. And it never got better for a long time.

When I finally got my discharge, three days later, having seen a psychotherapist who asked me why on earth I had attempted suicide using such an unreliable method (a question which beggars belief, even to this day, especially as he asked it in such a jovial manner), I attempted to get access to my house.

I had been taken in by the police and paramedics. I was taken as found - comatose, lying in blood and vomit. They had broken into my house after receiving a phone call from my ex-partner. All my clothes were cut off me, my jewellery was never to be seen again, and I had no money or mobile phone. I asked a kind lady if she would mind 'giving' me £1.00 - there was little way I could pay her back; and she did. So, I rang my Mother and asked if she had my spare keys.

She spewed venom at me and told me Anal had them. So I rang off quickly, asked him if this was the case and he denied it with such conviction that I knew he was telling me the truth. So I called her back and then she told me the Police had them and that there was no way she was trekking to the police station (30 minutes away) to get them for me. I informed her that without my keys, I had nowhere to go, had no access to my house and the hospital didn't want me any more. After some further questioning, she admitted that she had them.

I begged her to leave them in a safe place for me for my return at 3pm. And I asked her NOT to be waiting for me as I was so depleted there was no way I could stand further tirades from her.

I returned to a bitterly cold house. Upstairs, it looked like the rooms had been ransacked by burglars. Books were scattered all over the floor, the bookcase had been shunted into the bathroom with no access to the toilet, so that the paramedics could stretcher me out down the narrow staircase into the ambulance; and there was blood all over the bed and vomit up the walls.

And downstairs, propped up on the mantlepiece, was a letter in very familiar handwriting.

So, she had acquiesced to my request not to be there in person but she left her stamp. The letter went on for about eight pages, both sides, denegrating me; calling me a 'useless bastard'; an evil woman; a woman not deserving of living; hardly surprising that I was now single...and on, and on, it went. I sat here, on the living room floor, in hospital cast-offs, walls devoid of paintings because they had gone with my now non-existent partner, the place cold and damp, smelly and dirty. It was a hard home-coming. I rang my brother who promptly told me to 'Piss Off' and at that point I knew I had little left.

I called Anal and asked him to return the girls to me. He refused and thus started one of the most bitter court cases I can imagine wherein he made me out to be worse than a paedophile; a danger to society; told the most dreadful lies about things the girls allegedly said (and I know these to be lies because they have confirmed it since); supervised the hourly contact I had with Beth each week; and had me condemned as a criminal.

I attended court more times than I care to mention in 2006/07. I was represented by a Barrister who couldn't be fagged to make it on time and got chastised by the Judge. I had medical evidence to disprove some of the lies Anal was levying at me, but nothing got through. Every day was an ordeal. I wrote about it - had a piece published at one point. It was unpaid, but it just helped me get through things.

We had to return to CAFCASS who 'put children first'. We had the most arrogant male officer known to man whom, I swear, was a misogynist. He despised me and fawned over Anal. He wouldn't listen to Beth who was 'for' me; would only listen to Rosemary who was 'against' me - she didn't speak to me for six months. I was harangued and lied about. In the end, I actually started to analyse all the reports and check facts. They were sorely lacking. So, I started reading Human Rights and Childrens Acts reports, looked up guardian ad litem facts and set about fighting with a zeal. I lobbied my local MP for assistance - and he was marvellous and utterly galvanised things. CAFCASS suddenly had to answer to their errors. There was an investigation into malpractise and mis-information...and unfortunately, it all suddenly went belly-up because it was due to the initial reportage from the Police.

Things actually turned around of their own accord, despite all the warring and fighting. One gets used to being alone and the visits from the girls were wonderful and welcome. But I threw myself into work with a gusto - working 12 hour days and often at the weekends. My house was pristine; I went out dating with morons (which is all written about, in gory detail on HexMyEx) and after about eight months or so, the broken heart which I held for my ex-partner, (not Anal!) had mended resolutely. Then Ian came back into my life, which was the most wonderful thing to happen, and the girls, still fighting to return to me, took matters into their own hands...

Rosemary, by this stage, needed Mum. She wanted 'gurlie things' to discuss with a female; not her hunch-backed father. She started to play up dreadfully. Accusations of abuse were flung around and Ian and I set off at 10pm to collect her more times than either of us care to remember. One particular night, she was exceptionally sensitive to everything - she was to return to her father's house the next day (I was the non-residential parent at this stage). She and I argued about something, and suddenly, she had taken an overdose.

Life just seemed to go into a pale drag. I recall ringing NHS Direct; I recall Ian trying to calm her down; I recall her face, smeared with mascara, bright red with her dreadful urticaria which was flaring terribly due to stress; her pink fluffy dressing gown; the utter panic from Beth...and then we were in the ambulance, and off to The Shop of Horrors.

It was a rough night. It took me an hour or so to pluck up the courage to call Anal. In the meantime, I sat with her while she had her bloods taken, helped the lady in the next bed whose son had suffered concussion and was vomiting endlessly and needed more 'kidney' bowls, and legged it outside for furtive cigarettes.

Anal arrived at 2am. We both decided it was time to go at 4am and I asked for a lift home. Thankfully, he agreed. I walked back to the house (I asked him to drop me on the main road) to the birds coming awake and felt sick to my pit.

Next day, I phoned my boss and told him what had happened. He was good to me. I then awaited a phone call from the hospital to tell me when we were needed for the psycotherapy team, CAMH. I didn't have the energy to return beforehand, and also had an 11 year old to sort out. So Ian and I went when called. And Anal was there, too. And to my utter, retrospective anger, I didn't bring Ian in to the meeting - we weren't married then.

Anal and I were asked to listen to what Rosemary had been saying about her sadness and desire to self-harm. I said nothing at all. Anal attempted to shout down the psychotherapist, D, repeatedly. It was embarrassing for him, as he came across so arrogant and foolish. Rosemary was wan, tired, and had impressed upon D that all she wanted was to return, full-time, to her mother.

And she did, thank God. 5 March 2008. Anal gave up his fight - not graciously, at all! He made out to all and sundry who cared to listen that he was only 'doing it for the girls' and believed that a return to him would be best all round in the end. But, for once, nobody was listening TO him.

Rosemary and I still have bitter rows. She is almost 14 and exploring avenues which I am not too happy about. Intrinsically, she is a very good girl, but gets very distracted. She has a long-standing boyfriend and I know certain things have happened which destroyed me, but I have to support her and be open with her - otherwise, where can she turn?

Out of all that battle, last year, there were a lot of people I despised: the ex-partner for letting me down when I needed him most; the ex-husband for stepping up his campaign of destruction; and my parents for all the reasons I have divulged.

I no longer despise my ex-partner: he is a character long gone out of my life and I hope to God he never returns. The ex is unfortunately a necessary evil while the girls are under the age of majority; but my parents...

I am revolted by my mother. I had a dream about two weeks ago wherein I turned to her and said, Aren't you dead yet? That must sound horrible, but in some ways, I feel the only release from her bitterness, twistedness, and that osmosis of 'Annie-hating' to my father (who claimed, only 18 months ago that he had a 'stake in my life' due to the monies he had given me to purchase this house) will only be cleansed once she has gone.

I dreamed last night that my father had come to the house to talk. I offered him my homemade cakes, sat him down in our new conservatory where he wondered and complimented. We sat and chatted amiably while he tickled the kitten (he adores cats) and then he broached my mother. And I told him I never wanted anything to do with her, ever again. In response, he told me that she was dying.

To my 'detriment'(?), my response was the same: I want nothing further to do with her.

Now I am awake, I can reaffirm, this is STILL the case...