“Did you have a good weekend?” they ask me. “Not bad, not as productive as I’d hoped though”. Is what I usually say. I don’t tell them about my weekend. It starts on Thursday night because I “work from home” on a Friday. When he lets me.
Thursday Evening
Thursday night his depression kicks in. After tea I went out the back to find him sobbing uncontrollably because he misses his son Alex so much. He saw him Monday morning and the boys will be here again on Friday night. I don’t get it, but I don’t say anything because I know his feelings about his children are more profound than mine. I never had a break from my kids until they grew up and left home.
I help him into bed and he is distraught. Choked with regret and sorrow because of how much of their childhood he’s missed, insisting they are completely messed up because of what happened between him and their mother 15 years ago. This has been going on for nearly half an hour now and, wrongly I know, I am losing patience. I said that I had “messed up” my own kids as well. He took that to mean that I saw it as a competition instead of empathy (my tone of voice was probably not as soft as I’d hoped) and he stormed out of the front door and sat on the concrete porch outside the bedroom window.
Ten minutes later I’d had a smoke out the back and go to coax him inside but he’s gone. I dress again so I can go out looking for him because earlier he’d talked about deliberately walking into the traffic. I find him staggering in the park across the road, barely able to walk. When I approach he collapses onto the cold damp ground; he has no beanie on and is freezing. It took me about 15 minutes to get him back up again and in the house where I once again put him to bed. This time I take and hide all the keys to the front door.
A bit later when he wants to go out – on foot or in the car – he can’t get out and I’m in trouble. At that point he can be as angry as he likes with me because I need to keep him safe. It’s getting quite late and I’m exhausted. All the good work done by my Bowen therapist trying to de-stress my knotted body that evening is undone and I wish I could go to sleep and not wake up again. I camp out in the boy’s room in the hope he will just fall asleep and leave me alone.
I wake up for pee and pain killer sometime after midnight and there’s a light coming from the bedroom so I pop my head in the door to see if he is ok. He is furious with me for “storming” into the bedroom unannounced and never giving him privacy. It used to be my bedroom back when it was my house. Sometimes it’s “ours” but it’s usually “his” room now. I hear him get up again and start stomping around inside and out the back. My heart is racing, my head is pounding, my stomach is in knots and I try to go back to sleep again. At least in the boy’s room I can put the radio on as a distraction.
Friday
I get the cold shoulder for a while on Friday morning but I just turn on the computer (in the bedroom) and commence work at 7:45. It’s a little later than I prefer to start but it is better than 11:30 which is how long it took before he let me in the bedroom a couple of Fridays ago. Three out of the last four Fridays there has been a problem with me getting access to my work things and if it keeps up I won’t be allowed to work from home any more. I keep an emergency kit packed now so that at least I can shower, dress and go to the office if things go wrong. The day when it was nearly lunchtime I was locked out with no bra or shoes so I couldn’t even go into work in dirty clothes.
Anyway, 7:45 and all seems ok again. He’s gone out to the garden and I’m getting some stuff done. An hour later and it’s on for young and old because his son Max has text to say he won’t be able to come around for the weekend again this weekend. He has a school assignment to do with a friend on Saturday and wants to go up the coast on Sunday. Mark is furious and hurt and I’m none too pleased, as I GAVE him a car of mine so that he could come here, not to drive his mates around Southeast Queensland. There was about a half an hour of heated text exchanges between Max and I culminating in me telling him, at Mark’s request (with my assent) that the car comes back tonight and we don’t care how he gets home or to the Sunshine Coast on the weekend.
Mark is leaving voicemail for Max which he can’t listen to or answer as he is in class. He’s not supposed to have his phone with him at all but is, apparently, texting in his pencil case. Mark demands that I “tell him not ask him” to excuse himself from class and call his father. He does not. Mark is furious, spitting anger and spewing insults to all concerned and calls Linda (ex-wife) to “voice his concerns”. He’s out in the back garden but I can hear him shouting from the front bedroom. I am told to text Max again to tell him to call home and this time I refuse.
I tell Mark I’m invoking his Dr’s suggested “safe word” concept. I believe that things are out of hand, that he is not acting appropriately, not making any headway, and that we need to take a step back for a few moments to maybe resolve this a little later. He’s not buying it and if I won’t text Max he is going to get in the car and drive to the school. He is not out of control and I’m to do as I’m told.
I don’t. He calls the school and tells them Max is texting in class, and that he needs his son to call him immediately. Now I’m concerned because if Mark is effing and c-ing and name calling while the school admin staff are listening it could prove very damaging. I warn him and he listens. Max is taken out of class and calls his father from the office. I can’t hear what’s being said which is a very good thing, it means he’s heeded my warning. Mark is calmer. Max is bringing Alex around after school and leaving the car here.
The rest of the day is relatively calm. I am a bundle of nerves, can’t concentrate, head pounding, not enough work being done because I am completely spent again by his explosion.
Max drives Alex around after school and I let him keep the car on the proviso that he is back at my place for Saturday dinner and goes flying Sunday morning. All is agreed.
Saturday
I rarely initiate intimacy anymore. Sometimes when I try he doesn’t even realise, but keeping track I have learnt that if I start things they always ends in tears, but when Mark starts it we have a 50% chance of it ending well. Last time it didn’t end well so I’m already very nervous and this morning it doesn’t end well either.
At least we don’t waste precious time on me. There’s a greater chance of success when he gets straight on with it – but today there is a cramp in his leg at a critical moment. A painful and persistent cramp so he rolls back over and starts dressing. “I’ve done everything I can think of” he tells me, “the ball is in your court now”. I have no idea what he means. I ask, and I’m stupid for not knowing. I’m told that even trying to have sex with me is a waste of time and he’s not going to bother any more. I get on with the housework.
I am angry and hurt and very confused as to what I could possibly have done differently this morning. I was responsive and accommodating, I did not chastise him nor voice any disappointment when it went pear shaped and yet I’m spoken to as if I’m the one who’d had the hissy fit and stormed out of the room.
Later he is contrite and I pretend I am ok.
I remember that Thursday I spoke to him about having a weekend away to myself. At the time he was in full agreement, but I wonder if that is what sparked the Thursday night depressive episode. I re-check the date that we’d agreed on and find it’s in the school holidays so that won’t do. The weekend prior is his mother’s birthday. She lives in northern NSW so we can’t go down, but the date is out of the question so between that and the all the flying club days I have no choices for months again. I need it now, immediately, I don’t think I can hang on until October.
Take a deep breath and try to calm down, just ignore it and get on with my day, on tenterhooks waiting for the next episode. The next one simmered slowly most of the afternoon with an email from Malcolm about COVID numbers on the flying field. Nothing too dramatic but I feel that at any stage it could all go awry.
10pm and with a 3am alarm looming I go to bed with Mark still trying to repair the plane that was damaged six weeks ago.
I wake up twice, for pee and Panadol, he’s not in bed the first time but is later. I don’t check the time because I don’t want to know. On the third wake-up its 2:45 so I get up anyway. Fifteen minutes to myself before I have to start getting them all ready to fly. The knot in my stomach tightens as I remember the 5am rant in the driveway last month which would surely have woken all my neighbours.
Sunday
At 3am I begin. Making up thermos flasks and sandwiches, packing the baking I’d done the night before and assembling their picnic. I go into Mark every five minutes and finally, at 3:25 he puts his feet to the floor. With 30 minutes lost I know it will be nearly 5 before they are on the road and he will not be best pleased.
He’s making progress though, electing to shower first to help wake up. This is a good thing because often I have the boys ready and then he decides to shower and they are waiting around for him. No packing was done the previous evening as it was, I am told, nearly midnight before the plane repairs were finished.
4am and my work is done. He gives his boys their first wake up call and starts packing but in haste, drops his greased up long rubber bands (the motors) on the floor. They are covered in grit and fluff and he explodes in frustration. For the next half hour or so he shouts and stomps and throws things. He calls the boys terrible, terrible names because they are not up and helping, but everything I suggest that they do to help is wrong. He has a set order he likes things done in. There’s nothing wrong with that but it does make helping awkward. I pull the house apart looking for the particular beanie that he wants but can’t find it. Later it will turn up in his car.
He rants and berates them for not showing enough enthusiasm. Like me, they are finding it increasingly difficult to show enthusiasm while they wait for the next explosion. I am of the opinion that they are not interested in flying model aeroplanes, but they are interested in doing something with dad, which is why they go. He is awful to us all, threatening Alex if he is not ready in five minutes that he won’t be able to go.
I made the mistake of pointing out that maybe what was happening this morning wasn’t Linda’s fault. I did so for the sake of his children, but really I have to learn to keep my mouth shut even more than I already do.
We all know that no one is leaving in five minutes. I leave the boys in bed longer these days because I don’t want them to resent having to get up at 3:30am, be ready to leave by 4:00, and then sit around until dad gets his act together for another hour. I know I hate it when that happens.
5am and he has exhausted himself. There has been nothing I could do or say to calm or placate him and he turns off all the lights in the house and goes back to bed. The rest of us have no idea what to do now. Are they going or not? I have about my fifth cigarette for the day and I’ve only been up for 2 hours. I feel sick and my head is pounding. I have nowhere to go. Thank goodness the tantrum was inside the house this week.
5:15 and he’s packing the car so I guess flying back on again. They leave about 5:30. I’ve been up for two and a half hours now and I’m so keyed up, so stressed and so angry and upset that I can’t get back to sleep, so I begin processing vegetables for the dydrator. At 7am,satisfied that they didn’t turn around half way there and come back again, I nod off for half an hour. A nightmare wakes me and can feel my pulse whooshing in my ears, head pounding. This is the new normal.
What exhausts me the most is not being able to react. If I show fear, or anger, or frustration or, heaven forbid, sadness to him he gets even angrier; or he gets suicidal. If I show that he has upset me, or try to talk about it with him afterwards, then I get a variation the “I’m not worthy, I’m a useless human being, I should just end it all now” speech. I don’t believe he is gaslighting me with this because his grief is so profound, and so uncontrollable if I let on that he has distressed me. Twenty minutes after I’ve been called a stupid c-word I have to let him feel up my breasts in the backyard or he doesn’t understand what is wrong with me.
I am almost always distressed right now. My muscles scream in pain and my head pounds, I feel a constant low-grade nausea my mind races and my heart beats faster when I hear him approach or wake up in the night. When the boys are there it is even more important to behave as if things are, or will be, ok. Hoping that my deliberate body language and patience will reassure them that things are normal and that this too shall pass.
I ask Max to text me when they’re leaving the flying field. That way, perhaps I can relax until I get the 2 hour warning. By midday and I haven’t heard anything I figure he’s forgotten so I start to panic again. 1pm and they are home.
The plane flew well I’m told, much to my relief. There were no punch ups on the field as he’d been threatening. Alex didn’t get out of the car the whole time though, poor lamb, who can blame him? I just want to hide under a blanket most of the time too. Mark is exhausted. He tells me he’s going for a nap but faffs around in the garden instead.
I fall asleep about 2 and wake up just before 4 because I really needed some sleep. I always wake up with a knot in my stomach now, it’s the first response to awareness – what will Mark be like? He obviously didn’t come to bed and I find him still faffing in the garden. I start dinner about 5:30 and he takes himself off to bed with a face like thunder. I hope it is simply fatigue.
He cannot be woken for dinner. I tried twice and hope that it will be enough because sometimes he will wake up furious because “you could have told me it was ready” even if I’ve tried several times. Today was ok, he wakes about 8:30 to use the toilet and asks me to bring him food to the bedroom. By 10’oclock (late for me) I really need to go to bed.
I whisper a silent prayer that I can get into bed without disturbing him. Stacked up on my side of the bed are two half eaten packets of biscuits, half a block of chocolate, some of his medication, several used tissues, the remote control for the ceiling fan (which is on), what remains of the meal I brought him and his jumper. By the dim light of my mobile I slowly and quietly relocate each object to where I think he would have put them if I’d already been in bed. All within reach and in a place where he’s put them in the past. My fear is the beanie. It has slipped off his head but is wedged between his head and the pillow. I can’t retrieve it without waking him so I’ll just have to do my best to keep track of it through the night. If anything is a “given” it’s that we will be searching for his beanie in the middle of the night.
I slide in onto the edge of my side of the bed, make myself as small as I can and hold my breath. He is still snoring. The tears fall quietly. Every time I start to nod off he will roll over, or cough or snore and I am ripped awake again with my heart racing with anxiety. The tears continue.
12:30am and I’m again woken by a nightmare, blood whooshing and head absolutely pounding. I assume it was a nightmare, but he could have yelled out at me for real. He has done so before. Anyway I’m awake and I’m in pain. Because I know he is awake I tell him that I’m going to get some Panadol. If I get out of bed or leave the room without telling him I know I’ll be in trouble. No tricks to be taken tonight though. “I don’t know why you don’t keep some on the bedside table” he snarls at me, “but what would I know?!”.
I don’t keep them beside the bed because the act of getting up and walking around for a few minutes will help loosen the muscles that cause the headache in the first place. Sometimes getting up for ten minutes will fix it without tablets. I know from bitter experience that having a good reason that justifies my actions only makes him angrier.
I gather a few more pillows so that I can sleep sitting up. It helps my head. I know that propping up on the couch is out of the question tonight. I can only get away with leaving the bedroom to sleep elsewhere when he’s in a good mood. The Panadol start to kick in and I’m dozing, sitting upright when the light is snapped on. It’s 2:30am and… drum roll please…. He can’t find his beanie.
He is freezing, still in his lightweight gardening clothes, on top of the quilt with the ceiling fan on. I’m treated to 5 minutes of stomping and throwing and muttering before the light is turned off…. Whoops… no… can’t turn off the fan in the dark…. I’ve been told that if he wakes me up during the night I’m supposed to pretend to still be asleep. If I can’t understand why then I must be stupid. That is a conversation we’ve had more than once so I usually play along but tonight I have a pretty good idea where the beanie is so I find it for him.
I have another crack at horizontal as I seem to be relatively pain free. The silent tears are back though and I pay for them at 4am when I’m back into the analgesics. I seem to have gotten away with this lot without stirring him, but just as I’m getting comfortable again (sitting up) he starts pushing me in the thigh. I admit I take up more room like this than when I’m on my side perched at the very edge of the bed.
“You’ve put that pillow in my face again, you always put your pillow in my face, MOVE IT!”.
A bit of background:
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away when this was my bedroom in my house ….. to alleviate the discomfort I feel when my TMJ locks up my shoulders I used to have a pillow beside me that I would lean forward into to take some of my weight. I haven’t done this in over a year because it’s in his way.
“There is a fold in your quilt” I reply. I straighten it out. “I haven’t used a side pillow in a long time”. He is snoring again and I thank my lucky stars that he didn’t hear me talking back to him. If it wasn’t the middle of the night and I wasn’t exhausted I would remember not to contradict him.
This is not a work of fiction, this was the last weekend in August. I am blessed with the ability to write reasonably well, but I assure you none of this came from my imagination.
