Is this love, p.13
Is This Love?, page 13
You know that J has problems. I’ve told you about how controlled I’ve felt, and you’ve seen J lose it with me. Remember that time when we went away for the weekend? How awful it was, and you had that argument and J smashed a glass? I know you thought you’d seen then how bad things could be, but you hadn’t, not really.
You were the first person who said you thought J was controlling and abusive. At the time I was really shocked because I hadn’t thought of using those words before. You were right, J is really controlling, but no one else sees it. Everyone thinks I’m really uptight and neurotic, and J has spent years making it look like I’m a pain. And you too: everyone thinks you’re too loud and too annoying, because J has said these things about you and people are seduced by how charming and fun and attentive they think J is.
J’s always been mean about you. I’ve tried to keep it from you as I knew it would really upset you. But we’ve had loads of arguments about it. J has called you thick because you’ve got your words muddled or said something oppositional. I said it was outrageous, especially because of your dyslexia, to be so judgey and spiteful. That only ever made it worse. J’s been mean about the way you talk, what you do, where you live… I’ve had to walk on eggshells the whole time we’ve been with you and Tom.
I’m telling you all this now because I want you to understand that I’ve been protecting you from the real J. And I’m not going to do it any more, I’ve had enough. At least if I tell you the truth, I’ll feel a bit safer and I know you’ll believe me, even if no one else does. I’ve tried to speak to a couple of our friends over the holidays about what’s been going on, but no one wants to hear it.
The reality is that J is more than just controlling. The abuse isn’t just the shouting and the put-downs. It’s physical too. I haven’t told you before because I was scared it would make things worse at home, I knew you’d want to say something. I didn’t know if J would hurt you too.
It’s only happened a few times, but I was scared of it becoming a habit, and that’s why I had to leave. I should have spoken to you about it this week, and I nearly did, but it is just so huge a thing to open up. And I was freaked out anyway, because of J phoning you and Tom to try to get through to me. I thought that by blocking my number I would be able to create a bit of a safe space. I should have guessed J wouldn’t care about dragging you both into it. I can’t believe we had to spend so much time on New Year’s Eve – which I’d been so looking forward to – dealing with J’s madness. It was really good of Tom to answer, but I wish he hadn’t. I don’t want anyone else speaking to J any more – I don’t trust what will be said. I don’t want you to have to deal with it.
Anyway, I told my solicitor about the phone calls too, and she’s made a note. She says it’s all part of the wider picture of J’s abuse and I should keep a record of everything that happens, as we might need to produce evidence later on. You should do the same, actually, if J rings again. Make a note of the time and what is said, and the tone of voice, all that sort of stuff. My solicitor says that J’s line at New Year, about not being responsible for what happens if I didn’t take the call, is classic behaviour for an abuser. They find it very difficult to see that they’re responsible for the things that go wrong in their lives, and when things begin to spiral the behaviour always gets worse. That’s what’s happening now.
I’ve told you about all this before, but I’ve never mentioned the physical stuff. So here goes…
It started pretty soon after we got married. It’s as though being married meant that J could relax, let down the guard a bit. I was snagged, so there was no need to be on best behaviour any more. You know we’ve always argued, and you know J can be a bully. I’ve often felt completely overruled and ignored, and I’ve spoken to Mum about it a bit as well as you. She was worried, and said I should speak to you more but you’re so busy and I knew you’d worry too.
At first it wasn’t directed at me. It would start with door slamming and kicking furniture and stuff like that, which would frighten me. It was always so aggressive. But it only happened when J really lost it, if we’d had a big fight about something. Looking back now, I think it was all meant to make me feel scared, so that I’d back down. I never knew when it would happen, and I never knew where it would end.
Then something else happened and I started to see that we were in a really destructive pattern, that would start with J getting angry and end with something violent happening. We went for dinner at a friend’s house, just after Christmas last year, and we had an argument when we got home which ended up with us sort of wrestling on the sofa and J pushing me really hard, gripping me on both shoulders and shoving me backwards. It was shocking. I remember thinking that there was a wild look in J’s eyes, and I was scared. It felt like anything could happen, like J was really out of control.
We sort of laughed it off the next morning. J said we must have looked absolutely mad, scrapping like that, blamed it on too much alcohol and not enough sleep. I agreed. It just felt sort of ridiculous and I didn’t really want to think about it again because I felt a bit ashamed. But I knew we’d stepped over a line, and I wanted to talk to someone else about it, to get someone else’s perspective. I wish I had done, now.
Of course that wasn’t the end of it at all. It kept on happening, J kept losing it, I kept on being scared. The punching was the worst. J would get really wound up, and say it was my fault that things got so heated. Do you remember that saying J used: that I could start an argument in an empty room? There was so much belittling like that. I hated it, and J would do it around our friends to make me look like the mad one. Not around you so much – although even with you and Tom, sometimes you all laughed along with it.
Anyway, there was one time I’d been out somewhere and I was a bit late back for dinner. J made a massive fuss about it, because I hadn’t seen the messages and calls on my phone – I’d been round to Jane’s to pick up a yoga mat that was going spare, and had got chatting. J went on and on about how I never put us first, I’d ruined dinner, I was so selfish, the usual ranting. I’d seen all the missed calls when I looked at my phone on the bus on the way home, so I’d been bracing myself for something from the minute I put my key in the front door. Sure enough, J stormed out of the kitchen, chucking food all over the place, and when I went upstairs a few minutes later to see if things had calmed down, I knew something bad was going to happen. J kept on shouting at me, and then suddenly came across the bedroom with a clenched fist, and punched the wall next to my head. I was scared shitless. I ran out of the room and told J to stay upstairs, I didn’t want to be in the same room for the rest of the night. I slept on the sofa in the end, and then just went to work as if everything was normal in the morning. How awful is that? I didn’t really know what else to do about it, and J just never mentioned it again, so I sort of let myself forget about it. It made me feel like I was losing myself, so I buried it.
And then all this year there have been more and more incidents where J has lashed out. Whenever we’ve had an argument J has done something threatening, like blocking my way out of a room or out of the flat. It’s just got worse and worse. I should have said something to you ages ago but I didn’t really have the will. I feel broken.
When I got back today there was blood on the floor in the kitchen. God knows how it got there, but I think J left it there deliberately, as a warning. I’m really worried now that things will get out of control, and so I wanted to tell you everything, write it all down, so that you understand what J is like. And so that there’s a record of it in case anything really bad does happen to me.
I don’t think you’ve ever understood who J is. I don’t think anyone has, except me. I’m not going to keep this horrible secret any more. Being honest about it now will help me get my head straight and get out of this mess in one piece.
Thanks, sis, let’s talk it over on the phone once you’re back in later on. There’s lots more I can tell you and I want to explain what it all means in terms of the divorce and the flat and everything. You’re a massive help, I love you loads. Thanks for being there for me. And thanks for having me over for Christmas and New Year. It was fun, wasn’t it?
Talk to you in a bit. Love ya xxxx
On 2 Jan, at 09:34,
Hello, sis, hope you get home OK and everything’s all right when you get there. Thanks for a tip-top Christmas and New Year – so much more fun without J! You made the right decision you know.
I know it’s tough but you’ve got to just think of yourself from now on. You’re single now, put yourself first. J just wasn’t right for you, it’s no one’s fault – definitely not yours.
Let me know if you need anything. I’ll do anything to help you get what you want out of this. You deserve it.
Love ya xxxxx
February
I was going to turn forty at the end of the month. A terrible thought. My mind wandered frequently to the many milestone birthdays I’d been involved in organising: the bands, the speeches, the long long nights of consumption and the subsequent days in recovery that followed. I loved a good party. You were always more reticent, often disparaging the behaviour of the crowd: too reckless, too indulgent, too old. The idea of celebrating my own mid-life was laughable: what the fuck would I be celebrating? I’d lost my marriage, my home; I was feeling estranged from friends; most days I felt pretty close to losing my mind, and to top all of it off: the fucking cat ran away.
I think I’d half expected it. I’d thought about what to do with him during those dark few days when I was packing up the flat. I didn’t trust you not to steal him, to install him in someone else’s house – your sister’s, most likely – and to tell me I wasn’t getting him back.
I wasn’t going to let that happen.
He was the most beautiful little animal. We’d collected him from the boot of a hatchback in a car park in Stratford, under cover of darkness one winter’s evening. We’d laughed about the sordid pick-up plan, the black marketeering: it felt like we were collecting a firearm, or a human organ. Not a tiny harmless ball of ginger fur.
The breeder assured us that he’d had a good start in life, staying with his mother and siblings until he was handed over to us. He fitted neatly in the palm of my hand. I loved him immediately. We gave him a tough name so he wouldn’t be a victim to the other, rough neighbourhood cats. We thought Rambo was hilarious. Remember when we made jokes like that together?
I loved those first few months with him, when we were still living in my old flat. When I wasn’t in my office on campus, he would badger me while I tried to work at home, sitting on my knee while I sat at the computer. More problematically, sitting on my keyboard.
He was the most affectionate animal I’d ever met. He kept us awake night after night, crawling onto our faces to sleep or trying to burrow under our bodies, getting as close as he could. We’d shut him out of the bedroom, but he’d shunt his tiny body against the door for hours, trying to be let back in. Eventually we devised an elaborate bedtime routine, locking him downstairs in the kitchen with pillows pulled back against the door as we closed it behind us: there to both muffle the sound of him hurling himself against it, and to mitigate against him hurting himself in the process.
He was always desperate to be as close to me as he could.
What a contrast to you.
I could tell, these last few weeks, that he was really unhappy. I’d said so to Zed, sounding stupid even to myself: I think the cat is depressed. I had a nagging feeling that something was going to happen with him. He hated being on his own for long periods of time, and I had no idea what happened to him on the days you had possession of the flat. When I had it, I barely went out, and we would huddle together under the duvet while I mainlined boxsets on my laptop.
And then one day, he wasn’t there. I got in from work, and I knew straight away that he’d gone. I didn’t blame him. It was fucking horrible coming back to that stripped-out space. Even he knew it. I went out into the street and walked slowly up and down, calling out to him. I heard nothing. I knocked on doors and spoke to people I vaguely recognised, and some I’d never seen before. In the morning I did it again, then went to work to make flyers and buy tape so I could paste them across the neighbourhood. I was furious with you for taking yet another thing from me. One less thing now anchored me to my former life. I wondered if you’d taken him, and realised I wouldn’t put anything past you. But somehow I knew he’d just wandered off by himself. I was devastated not to even get a goodbye.
I knew you’d be upset he was gone, and that pleased me. I wanted you to be in pain. If it wasn’t because of me – and you’d made it crystal clear it wasn’t – then well done little cat for penetrating your icy fucking exterior. Either way, I’d never know. I hadn’t heard from you in weeks. Not even your lawyers had been in touch.
The cat’s departure helped me make my mind up about my birthday. Since I didn’t need to be back at the flat now for him – and being there was so depressing I tried to avoid it even while insisting on my rightful days of occupation – I decided I would go away. Far away. Away from all this chaos and the shredded life I was now trying to live. And on my own. I was really tired of making the effort to talk to people, to try to help them understand what was happening when I did not. Your behaviour was so extreme, so shocking, that it wasn’t only me that was struggling. I’d had to explain over and over to my friends and family that you wouldn’t talk to me, you were going through lawyers, and I didn’t know why. I’d held my tongue as they mulled over the reasons, biting back the fucking obvious: you were damaged, and you were damaging, and it was simply my turn.
I considered my options. Somewhere hot, that was a no-brainer. The endless grey days in London were making everything feel worse. I thought about the places we’d said we’d go to together, plans we’d sketched out over long Sunday mornings in bed. I faltered. Could I really do this on my own? How miserable would I be making a trip of a lifetime when my own life was in tatters?
Then I considered how annoyed you’d be if I did, and it spurred me on. I had the freedom to do this, while you were tied to your job. I knew I’d be able to take as much time off as I needed – my boss had said so, and was pushing for me to do it. Why look a gift horse in the mouth? Get away for a bit, and revel in the contrast between your shitty life and mine.
So I chose Cambodia. I announced my plans to Nancy and Zed over dinner, a couple of weeks before my birthday. They’d arranged to take me out so they could check in on me, and check that the plans they were making for my party were OK. It was fun to watch them as they took in my news. A mixture of panic and encouragement, like a parent observing their child’s first attempt to ride a bike. Are you sure that’s a good idea? It’s a really long way away if you realise you’re not going to be OK on your own, you know?
I knew. But I wasn’t OK on my own now. It didn’t really matter where I was in the world, I hadn’t been OK for a long time. I had better just get used to it.
I want to go somewhere where I can consider my insignificance in an infinite universe, I announced. If I’m immersed in an ancient culture that’s lasted through millennia, how can I still think that what’s happening to me is so bad? And at least I’ll have the sun on my face, and the beer is cheap – and I can’t bear to be here for my birthday. At this, my voice cracked, and I knew I’d won the argument.
Zed and Nancy understood, I think. They knew I’d been dreading my birthday, and I suspect they also thought that having a party for the world’s most miserable forty-year-old would be a bit of a downer. They made a half-hearted effort to talk me out of it, but by the end of the night I knew I was going to do it. And so did they.
At work the next morning I started making proper arrangements. My colleagues thought it was a great idea, and those of them that had heard about what was happening with us told me it was the best thing I could do. Get away from her and her controlling bullshit, they said. Give yourself a good time. None of them knew you, they’d met you only a couple of times, so it was really easy for them to position you as the arsehole. I gladly let them. It was nice not to worry about nuance.
One of the interns said she’d been planning to visit Cambodia too, part of a bigger trip she was taking around Vietnam, Laos and Thailand. She asked what dates I’d be there and, feeling momentarily enthusiastic and upbeat, I told her and said we should hook up if our plans overlapped. She was keen, but by the time I left the office that evening, I really hoped she’d change her mind.
There wasn’t much time to arrange everything. Zed had a friend who lived near Siem Reap, and told me to just sort out my flights, and they’d come up with a plan for my accommodation. Then I got an email from Briony – a friendship you’d always been jealous of – who told me she had booked me in for two nights at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club in Phnom Penh: a soft landing while I got my head around the rest of my plans. I replied with a half-hearted refusal – it was too expensive, too generous – but was glad when she insisted. I knew it was good that the first part of the trip was sorted: I was a bit overwhelmed by the idea of going away. I didn’t know what you would do in my absence. I didn’t want to relinquish what little control you’d left me, so I insisted no one talk about what I was planning. You weren’t speaking to me, but there were people that we both knew who you must be seeing. I was really clear with my friends: don’t tell her. I don’t want her to fuck this up for me.
At the end of the week, Briony insisted I go round for dinner, a final farewell to me, and to my thirties. My flight was leaving at the start of the following week. It had all come round really quickly.
Zed answered the door when I got to Briony’s and led me through to the kitchen. There was my gang of four, my best friends: Nancy and Zed and Briony and Gav. I hadn’t seen much of them since you’d left, and it was good, really good, to see them now. I’d forgotten how much I loved to entertain, to command an audience, crack jokes, play the clown. I settled in with a drink and let myself be fussed over, fed. These were my people and they’d been in my life since long before you were, and would be long after this was all over.
