My love of books is no secret. I learned to read when I was 2, and never stopped. I remember in year 4 being made to read the first line of every reading book they had to try and find something I couldn't easily read, and stopping at a year 6 book. I read every children's book in the house, and then moved on to my mum's books. I read the backs of cereal packets eating breakfast, and shampoo bottles in the bath. The idea of nothing to read still distresses me. I'm currently on bedrest with concussion and am not allowed to read much. I am so fed up.
We had very little spare money when I was growing up. I have six siblings, and with the mortgage and bills, we cost more than my parents earned. There was no spare cash for books. I used the school library constantly once I started high school. When I left, I began using the town library every week. I would go with my sister in her pushchair and fill the bottom of the pushchair with books.
I had a difficult few years in my mid teens. I was bullied, lonely, poor and bored. I babysat my sister as a job during the week and spent the money I got on visiting my boyfriend at weekends. My friends were still in sixth form. I didn't really belong anywhere. The books I got from the library were travel books; reading them sent me somewhere that wasn't a dead-end Lincolnshire town, where I was miserable.
And that is the value of libraries that is too often ignored by politicians and councillors trying to make cuts where privileged people won't notice. A book is a mental passport away from a situation. A book can provide the education needed to liberate oneself from inescapable difficulty. It can be a source of hope. Just the simple act of leaving the house to return books and fetch more can be a catalyst for independence.
I grew up in Lincolnshire and the way the library system is being systematically dismantled upsets me terribly. A library is far more than a simple repository of books. It can be a lifeline, and source of great pleasure for those who are less fortunate. The internet and Kindle have not removed the need for community libraries, and those who need them most are often the ones most excluded from the ebook revolution.
Save Lincolnshire libraries.
@savelincslibraries
8 Jul 2014
9 Jun 2014
Exams
My history exam was...fun. I got bitten on the hand by an insect on the Sunday, woke up very early Monday with a septic trail to my elbow and spent the day being prodded by a doctor, sleeping, taking head-fuzzing medicine, and then panicking about the exam. The exam, on Tuesday morning, was full of questions I didn't know the answer to. But I did my best, despite illness and hand-cramp.
The problem with doing two exams, two days apart, is that I didn't want to then go home and revise biology. So I didn't. I had an afternoon off. The afternoon stretched into the next afternoon.
Then I panicked and started reading through the notes, the books, everything. I spent the following morning panic-revising the essay question, and was just going through the practice questions in the text books when there was a sonic boom which scared the living crap out of the whole city and totally removed any ability I had left to cram.
I actually, and perversely, enjoyed doing a science exam. It made a nice change from endless three-hour, three-essay exams. The only thing I'd do differently (if I have a resit, which could happen), is to do the data handling question last. I realised, as I shaded in my beautiful bar chart, that I really didn't want to then sit and write a thousand word essay on sleep. I wanted to go and gad about in the sunshine, I was idly thinking about some gossip, I was not in exam-mode anymore. So, yes, a valuable lesson.
There is nothing more satisfying than putting away books and revision notes, but I do feel slightly lost now. However, I've signed up for various MOOCs and I'm getting married in eight and a half weeks, so there's that!
23 May 2014
Level 2 draws to a close
It's finally, almost over.
This year has been HARD, for several reasons that were not apparent when I signed up last year.
1. Biology and history of medicine SOUND like they might be similar. One is human biology, one is how we got as far as acquiring that knowledge. Well, nope. Doing a science course is so utterly different to an essay based course, it utterly threw me to begin with. I also didn't realise how much chemistry content would be in biology, which was my own stupid naivety.
2. I got WAY less free time than I was expecting as my eldest didn't start full time school until Easter.
3. The spacing of TMAs was more of a struggle than I thought. I ended up spending several weeks on history, then two weeks on biology, frantically trying to catch up.
However, I'm done and these are my results:
I'm a bit disappointed with that 72%, but it doesn't alter my OCAS, so I shall HOPE FOR THE BEST in my exam. SK277 doesn't care what my TMA scores are, it's all on the exam, which is...annoying.
My exams are on 3rd and 5th June, which is alarmingly close. It's easier to revise science than history, coz in history I'm going to have to reason and argue why I think things happened. At least science doesn't argue with you...often. So wish me luck!
ETA: My last TMA has been regraded to 77%, bringing my OCAS up to 80%. HUZZAH!
This year has been HARD, for several reasons that were not apparent when I signed up last year.
1. Biology and history of medicine SOUND like they might be similar. One is human biology, one is how we got as far as acquiring that knowledge. Well, nope. Doing a science course is so utterly different to an essay based course, it utterly threw me to begin with. I also didn't realise how much chemistry content would be in biology, which was my own stupid naivety.
2. I got WAY less free time than I was expecting as my eldest didn't start full time school until Easter.
3. The spacing of TMAs was more of a struggle than I thought. I ended up spending several weeks on history, then two weeks on biology, frantically trying to catch up.
However, I'm done and these are my results:
 |
| SK277 A218 |
My exams are on 3rd and 5th June, which is alarmingly close. It's easier to revise science than history, coz in history I'm going to have to reason and argue why I think things happened. At least science doesn't argue with you...often. So wish me luck!
ETA: My last TMA has been regraded to 77%, bringing my OCAS up to 80%. HUZZAH!
8 May 2014
How To Save A Life - UPDATED
When I was five, I fell through a window and lacerated my arm really badly. I still have some problems with it, and have always been grateful to the wonderful NHS for preserving my hand function. However, when discussing the accident yesterday, I realised I should be equally, if not more, grateful to my dad and neighbour for the first aid they administered immediately afterwards. They held my arm up, to stop the blood pumping out, then carefully put the skin back and bandaged it in place, without disturbing all the glass in it. If my dad hadn't had industrial first aid training, or my neighbour not known how to dress a wound, the glass in the wound could have severed my artery and killed me, or irreversibly damaged the mechanics of my arm and hand requiring amputation. The use of sterile cloths and bandages probably stopped any infection getting in. As it is, my ulnar nerve is has some impairment and I get a lot of weakness, but I can use my hand and arm without noticeable disability.
On a less severe note, when my eldest son was 18 months old, he pulled a freshly poured cup of boiling water onto his head. I got him out of his clothes, straight under cold water and he didn't get a single blister.
First aid saves lives. I have been to a lot of first aid training courses, because they are mandatory when you work in a doctor's surgery, even for administrative staff. The first aid courses I have been on have focused on getting professional help as fast as possible, and CPR. As parents, you hope you will never have to perform CPR on your infant or child, but it is useful to know how to do it, in the awful event that it happens. Simpler first aid such as burn management, wound management, head injury management, knowing what to do in the case of a sudden collapse or seizure, is not generally taught. If I had my way, it'd be part of PSE development in secondary school, but I am not yet the leader of the free world.
As parents, we rarely plan to have to deal with a serious incident. We deal with small lacerations, bumps and bruises, superficial burns, occasional choking, and hope A&E can help if something worse happens. In our first aid kit at home, we have plasters of all shapes and sizes, rolls of bandage, micropore surgical tape, antibacterial wipes, a thermometer, some piriton (as my eldest occasionally comes out in hives for no reason), and all manner of painkillers. But having a well stocked first aid kit isn't enough if you don't know what to do with it.
If you don't know what you would do if your child was bleeding severely, unconscious, having a seizure, or not breathing, the NCT, St John's Ambulance, and The Red Cross all offer first aid information and courses for parents.
St John's Ambulance have also introduced a new campaign on choking. You can find information here.
On a less severe note, when my eldest son was 18 months old, he pulled a freshly poured cup of boiling water onto his head. I got him out of his clothes, straight under cold water and he didn't get a single blister.
First aid saves lives. I have been to a lot of first aid training courses, because they are mandatory when you work in a doctor's surgery, even for administrative staff. The first aid courses I have been on have focused on getting professional help as fast as possible, and CPR. As parents, you hope you will never have to perform CPR on your infant or child, but it is useful to know how to do it, in the awful event that it happens. Simpler first aid such as burn management, wound management, head injury management, knowing what to do in the case of a sudden collapse or seizure, is not generally taught. If I had my way, it'd be part of PSE development in secondary school, but I am not yet the leader of the free world.
As parents, we rarely plan to have to deal with a serious incident. We deal with small lacerations, bumps and bruises, superficial burns, occasional choking, and hope A&E can help if something worse happens. In our first aid kit at home, we have plasters of all shapes and sizes, rolls of bandage, micropore surgical tape, antibacterial wipes, a thermometer, some piriton (as my eldest occasionally comes out in hives for no reason), and all manner of painkillers. But having a well stocked first aid kit isn't enough if you don't know what to do with it.
If you don't know what you would do if your child was bleeding severely, unconscious, having a seizure, or not breathing, the NCT, St John's Ambulance, and The Red Cross all offer first aid information and courses for parents.
St John's Ambulance have also introduced a new campaign on choking. You can find information here.
23 Apr 2014
Autism
Jimmy, my five year old eldest child, has Aspergers syndrome. Probably. He's definitely on the autistic spectrum, but needs to see the neurodevelopment team to have this made official and them to decide what to do next, in terms of school support and occupational therapy to teach him to deal with auditory processing problems.
We have been waiting for three months for an appointment, and it will probably be another three months before we get one. Meanwhile, we sit in limbo, waiting for the next thing to blow up.
This is Jimmy on his birthday:
He has the temerity to look normal.
And it's the normality that causes the problems.
See, mostly when people think of disabled children, the automatic thought is physical disability. It's very easy when dealing with an autistic child to forget they can't help it, to forget they aren't just throwing a fit to get their own way. I'll come back to this in a minute.
Until Jimmy started primary school last September, I convinced myself that it was my parenting that was the problem. I wasn't strict enough. I was too strict. I shouted too often. I gave in too easily. I wasn't good enough at maintaining a routine. He demonstrated problems at preschool, but they preferred to concentrate on what he could do rather than what he couldn't, which was GREAT because they had facilities and staff to have him on a one to one basis for as many hours as he needed. They never suggested he had autism, just asked me to get his hearing checked to make sure he wasn't ignoring them for no reason. The GP who did his hearing referral said he thought he had behavioural problems and I should bring him back for a referral to child development if his hearing test was normal. His hearing test was normal, and to my shame, I didn't take him back. I was sure it was me who was the problem, not him.
Fast-forward six months, and his first three weeks at school were hell. The first week, he kicked staff and was banned from having his dinner at school. The second week was no better, with added exhaustion from coming home for lunch. By the third week, he was on mornings only, and I took him to the doctors to get a referral. It was only at the very end of last term that he was able to start having full days at school, because they finally secured informal one to one support three days a week. The school managed to get an educational psychologist without formal referral, who has done a lot of work with his main teachers recently, and things have improved. But it's not been easy. I've formally complained once about their management, and had repeated meetings where I've tried to explain it from his point of view, and come away upset and angry that my little boy is perceived as such a monster.
Finally, at the end of January, I took him to see the paediatrician. The first words she said to me were "that's not normal" pointing at him, completely ignoring both of us. I explained him, she nodded and said he fit the diagnostic criteria for Aspergers, but the formal assessment would be made by the neurodevs. And therein we sit, in limbo, waiting.
His main problems are a total lack of social and emotional awareness, a frequent lack of spatial awareness - he does not realise people/things are there- very broken sleep and dysregulation. Dysregulation is one of my favourite words, and the reason we've been able to get him through the system relatively quickly. When something happens that deviates from Jimmy's internal plan, he goes NUTS. He screams. He fights. He kicks. He goes THROUGH people like they're not there. He cries huge tears. It is intensely annoying for most people to experience, and intensely upsetting for me to see him in such distress over so little. His default state is one of faint confusion and bewilderment.
But because he LOOKS normal, it is hard to explain to those who don't know him very well that...
He ISN'T your average child.
It is hard to explain that he has almost no empathy, that he doesn't care why you want him to do something, that he doesn't even realise you're there most of the time. It is hard to explain that although he's been asking to see you for the last 48 hours, he doesn't actually care once you're there. Or, that he cares too much and won't leave you alone. If you don't want him to repeatedly jump on you, he won't understand that without you physically removing him and explaining, and even then it's 50/50. He doesn't know when he's hurt you. He can't interpret your facial expression. He can sometimes tell from your tone of voice, but his expression-recognition is limited to happy, sad and cross. He won't look in your eye, unless he knows you really well. He sees no need for standard social convention.
On a broader family level, it's hard to explain to friends why you can't just pop round for a cup of tea with him, or why you can't have them round in the evening. It's hard to plan days out. It's hard when the school holidays come and he doesn't know what he's doing anymore. It's hard to go on the bus, and to go for a walk, and to nip to the shops. It's hard to go to parties, to plan for weddings and other social occasions, when you have to decide who'll be the one to take him out when he kicks off. It's hard to go on holiday, knowing he won't settle into the rhythm until it's nearly time to go home. It sucks when you can't even tell him he's going to his nanny's that afternoon because he will be angry and strange at school all day.
There's a glitch in our Jimmy, and it happens when we change something. And we can't give him medicine or an operation to make it better, like we could when he had chronic tonsillitis. This is him.
He is autism, and autism is him. There is no part of his personality that is separate from it. It is how his brain is wired, it is who he is, and without it he would not be the son I know and adore.
25 Mar 2014
How To Write a TMA
I have written, in the last 25 months of OU study, nineteen TMAs, each once at least a thousand words.
Here is a brief guide to tackling them when you are horribly stuck:
1. Submit it. Even if it is the most terrible, horrendous, rambling shit in the world, submit it. You will definitely get 0 if you submit nothing, but you might get more than you think if you submit something. If your module has substitution applied, then so much the better, but something is better than nothing.
2. Read the question. This sounds so obvious, but many's the time I've skimmed the question, and think I've got it, only to realise I've missed two tiny vital words like "two sources" or "after 1800". So read it, and grasp what you're being asked even before you do the reading.
3. Read the guidance. Unless you're in an exam, the guidance tells you pretty much exactly what you're being asked, where to find the information and how to write it. Got to write a report and you've never done one before? Guidance! Source analysis? Guidance! The guidance will also tell you things like whether you need to include references (almost always yes, but check anyway), or diagrams.
4. Gather up your materials. There is nothing worse than being halfway through answering a question, realising you've left the relevant information upstairs, going to get it and then utterly going blank when you sit back down. The guidance should tell you what you need, as should your own common sense.
5. Answer the question. The way I approach TMAs is to read the question, and then give a short answer in my head. "Did the introduction of the Whatever Act of 2000 change things?" it might ask, to which I say "NO!" And then I have to decide why I've said no, and that's the basis of the essay. Tie every single point you make to the question.
6. Obey the word count. The word count is not an arbitrary sum the course writers have put in to annoy you; it's a very important clue to what to write. Give 10% of your word count to both your intro and conclusion. What's left is enough to cover everything. If you massively exceed it, you're either waffling, repeating yourself or going off on a tangent. If you come massively under, you're missing something.
7. Edit with extreme prejudice. If you can't bring yourself to, get someone to read through it and point out repetition, spelling mistakes and lost threads of argument. Leave it a few days, unless it's very last minute, so you're looking at it with fresh eyes.
8. Reference as you go along. I wrote a guide to referencing here, and do not understand why you would EVER wait to the end of an essay to reference it.
9. This is very basic, but check your full name, personal identifying number,the course code and TMA number are on every page. I set up TMA answer sheets at the beginning of the year and stick all identifying information in a header, and then never worry about it again.
10. Know when to stop. If it is 11:55pm on deadline day, and you're still staring at it blankly, hoping for errors to jump out, stop. If you are convinced you're going to fail and you haven't submitted because you're hoping for inspiration, stop. Submit it. Be kind to yourself. IF you get so it's two days before submission and something horrible happens, don't be afraid to ask your tutor for an extension. Just make sure you submit something before the extension expires.
11. SUBMIT! DO NOT FORGET TO SUBMIT! Check your deadlines, write them down EVERYWHERE, and do not forget to submit!
12. Relax. Even if you're so behind it makes you want to weep, and your next TMA is due two hours later. Give yourself a pat on the back, and a small treat (mine is usually a day stuck in a book unrelated to biology or medical history).
Here is a brief guide to tackling them when you are horribly stuck:
1. Submit it. Even if it is the most terrible, horrendous, rambling shit in the world, submit it. You will definitely get 0 if you submit nothing, but you might get more than you think if you submit something. If your module has substitution applied, then so much the better, but something is better than nothing.
2. Read the question. This sounds so obvious, but many's the time I've skimmed the question, and think I've got it, only to realise I've missed two tiny vital words like "two sources" or "after 1800". So read it, and grasp what you're being asked even before you do the reading.
3. Read the guidance. Unless you're in an exam, the guidance tells you pretty much exactly what you're being asked, where to find the information and how to write it. Got to write a report and you've never done one before? Guidance! Source analysis? Guidance! The guidance will also tell you things like whether you need to include references (almost always yes, but check anyway), or diagrams.
4. Gather up your materials. There is nothing worse than being halfway through answering a question, realising you've left the relevant information upstairs, going to get it and then utterly going blank when you sit back down. The guidance should tell you what you need, as should your own common sense.
5. Answer the question. The way I approach TMAs is to read the question, and then give a short answer in my head. "Did the introduction of the Whatever Act of 2000 change things?" it might ask, to which I say "NO!" And then I have to decide why I've said no, and that's the basis of the essay. Tie every single point you make to the question.
6. Obey the word count. The word count is not an arbitrary sum the course writers have put in to annoy you; it's a very important clue to what to write. Give 10% of your word count to both your intro and conclusion. What's left is enough to cover everything. If you massively exceed it, you're either waffling, repeating yourself or going off on a tangent. If you come massively under, you're missing something.
7. Edit with extreme prejudice. If you can't bring yourself to, get someone to read through it and point out repetition, spelling mistakes and lost threads of argument. Leave it a few days, unless it's very last minute, so you're looking at it with fresh eyes.
8. Reference as you go along. I wrote a guide to referencing here, and do not understand why you would EVER wait to the end of an essay to reference it.
9. This is very basic, but check your full name, personal identifying number,the course code and TMA number are on every page. I set up TMA answer sheets at the beginning of the year and stick all identifying information in a header, and then never worry about it again.
10. Know when to stop. If it is 11:55pm on deadline day, and you're still staring at it blankly, hoping for errors to jump out, stop. If you are convinced you're going to fail and you haven't submitted because you're hoping for inspiration, stop. Submit it. Be kind to yourself. IF you get so it's two days before submission and something horrible happens, don't be afraid to ask your tutor for an extension. Just make sure you submit something before the extension expires.
11. SUBMIT! DO NOT FORGET TO SUBMIT! Check your deadlines, write them down EVERYWHERE, and do not forget to submit!
12. Relax. Even if you're so behind it makes you want to weep, and your next TMA is due two hours later. Give yourself a pat on the back, and a small treat (mine is usually a day stuck in a book unrelated to biology or medical history).
19 Feb 2014
Divorce
Since my divorce was finalised a few weeks ago, I've been trying to write an entry about the whole experience. This is my ham-fisted attempt at putting the last three and a half years into words.
My marriage ended due to adultery. There is no way to make it less stark. He cheated on me, repeatedly, over several weeks, and when I found out, something inside me snapped. I knew immediately that I could not remain with someone who could do that. It explained much of his foulness towards me, which I had been willing to live with for the sake of our marriage and children, but adultery was the final straw. So, off I went to hide at my mother's.
Our son was 18 months old, and I was 15 weeks pregnant. Both our children were planned, which made the rejection much harder to bear. For the first twelve hours, I went silent. I tried to cry, but nothing came out. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I smashed some pictures up. I stayed awake all night. I didn't eat or drink. I am eternally grateful to my parents, who put me on suicide watch, and my siblings who simply rallied round without question. The first twelve hours passed, and then came a difficult and painful phone call which I cried throughout. I asked all the horrible questions that I didn't want the answers to, to try and get the extent of the pain out in one go. When did it start? How long? How often? How did you meet her? Why her? How could you?
Why? Why? Why?
Funnily enough, I never really got an answer to the last one.
I was left with no real income (£500 a month from my job), and more than double that in outgoings a month. I had to go and see a solicitor, to make him pay the mortgage and give me money to live on. I couldn't increase my working hours because I had no recourse for childcare outside what I already had. Phoning the tax credit office to explain that I was now a single parent was horrible. Phoning the council tax office to say the same, equally awful. Not being able to tell them where he was living because I simply had no idea...awful. Somehow, I found the energy to do all the practical bits, to tidy up and make order out of chaos and at least guarantee me and my son had somewhere to live and something to eat.
Emotionally, I was a mess. For three days, I was simply convinced I would die. How could I survive pain like that? I couldn't. I would have to die. That was the easy bit.
Then I realised that I wouldn't actually just die. I would have to live or I would have to kill myself. This became a constant circular chorus in my head. "If I live, I'm not good enough to raise two children by myself, I should die. If I die, I fuck them up for life - I should live." Equally, I had the constant chorus of "I cannot take care of two children, I should have an abortion. If I have an abortion, I will not be able to live with the decision."
I chose to live. I chose to keep my baby. These were the most difficult decisions I have ever had to make, indeed it never really felt like I was the one making the decision.
I spent a week crying. I spent another week crying, with occasional smiles. In those weeks, I met up with my ex, which ripped me open. A pattern was established. Very light healing, and then dramatic ripping open of scabs. Eventually, I scarred up over the pain. It became part of me, something in my history that I cannot erase, but must live with.
After two weeks, I went back to work, couldn't hack it and took another week off. Certain members of staff were wonderful, and have my lifelong love and respect. Others could not understand my decision to continue to talk to my ex, or why I was keeping my child, or why I chose to move away from the area. Work became something I did to get me out of the house, and to bury myself in. At home, I was surrounded by 'our' things. It stopped feeling like home without him. I did small things like put up new pictures, and buy new bed linen, but it was a ghost of a home.
Pregnancy was awful. I didn't want the baby. I just didn't. I didn't want to be pregnant, I didn't want to have to give birth, I didn't want to find out what happened next. His 20 week scan was an utter blur, brightened by the sonographer assuming me and my best friend were lovers. After I hit 24 weeks, the cut off for legal termination, I became increasingly depressed and suicidal. My ex's family lived far closer to me than my family. They struggled, understandably, with the elephant in the room that was the unwanted foetus - the literal elephant as I got bigger and bigger. My ex disengaged completely from the pregnancy. He felt the baby kick once, and that was the sum total of his post-separation involvement. My pregnancy did not stop him causing me huge amounts of stress. We saw each other regularly, and it was horrible.
In March 2011, I went for a regular antenatal check. My midwifery team knew how I was feeling, and were supportive and kind to me. The baby, however, was a bit too small and apparently breech, so I went for a checkup. I saw him for the first time since the unhappy scan in November, and he was beautiful and looked like his brother and I wanted him. It took me five months to want him. Six weeks later, he was born (two weeks late) in the middle of the night, at home and completely naturally. When he was born, his cord had two knots. One knot is frequently fatal. My little boy had somehow survived all the stress, plus this murderous cord. I don't know how he did it.
However, life continued to be difficult. My ex was awol during the birth, and finally caught up with us some ten hours later. His contact was erratic and brief. I moved house when the baby was six weeks old, and had copious support from my family and friends, and felt free. Birth itself was tremendously cathartic. I felt like I was pushing out the pain, and the agony, and the grief.
I filed for divorce when my baby turned a year old. I felt it was time.
There was two shining lights throughout the whole experience. The first was my eldest son. My clingy, silly, giggly little mummy's boy, who stayed glued to my side throughout the whole thing, and who accepted his baby brother without flinching. He was very brave himself. It must be terrifying to see your mother go through such hell at such a young age. I had to be strong for him in turn. He gave me purpose where there was none.
The second was my Tom. I went to school with Tom, and he lost his job as I lost my husband. We connected over this shared life-ruinery. Our first date was four weeks after my ex left. FILTHY HASTE according to some, but I was on the rebound, and twanging around the dating possibilities like a pinball. He lived two hundred miles away for the first two and a half years: a safe distance. But he was a constant source of comfort, laughter and distraction. He made me laugh, continuously, when nobody else could. We are getting married in August, by which time we will have been together almost four years. These have been simultaneously the best and worst years of my life. I hope the years we have together from now on are solely the best.
Losing your husband (or indeed, wife) abruptly breaks you. My husband didn't die, but it felt like he had. I didn't recognise him anymore. We had been together for nine years, and literally grown up together. All our shared memories and experiences were gone. All our in-jokes, gone. Our friends didn't exactly take sides, but it was difficult for them to remain neutral.
As time has gone on, we've forged a relationship that works for the children, but it is nothing like our marriage. We are like distant cousins. It's not always a smooth relationship, but arguments are rare. We have to be in each other's lives for as long as our children need their parents, and that is more important than bellowing at each other over old bitterness.
When he left, my entire life up to that point dissolved. I had to find a new one, and that is impossibly hard. He went directly into a co-habiting relationship, straight into a life not dissimilar to the one he left behind. I could not. I had to learn independence, something I'd never required until that point.
It still hurts. I still get upset, because it is hard work parenting in this manner. It is hard work ensuring they get enough time with their dad and his family to build a lasting attachment. It is hard work assuming most of the responsibility for two other lives, and making sure they understand the concept of step-parenting. I expect many more issues will arise as they get older.
Am I a better person for having gone through this? Unquestionably. One thing you learn very quickly when something like this happens is who your friends are. I am a lot pickier about who I keep close to me now, and more ruthless about cutting people out if necessary. I discovered that I can live by myself, that I do not need a boyfriend or husband to make me whole. I also discovered that not all relationships are poisoned by inequality. I can say, without doubt, that I would not being two thirds through a degree if I hadn't been divorced. My ex would not have supported me studying. It is due to all these things that I do not regret the end of my marriage. Neither do I regret it happening in the first place.
However, I lost everything. I lost my home, my community, my job, my sense of personal security, my financial security, many friends, memories, and feeling like I belonged. I have gradually built all that back up again, but in a way that cannot be taken away from me on a capricious whim.
I have not lost my faith in marriage.
Should anyone read this, going through something similar, wondering if they will ever feel whole again, I can assure you that you will. It takes time, but you will.
My marriage ended due to adultery. There is no way to make it less stark. He cheated on me, repeatedly, over several weeks, and when I found out, something inside me snapped. I knew immediately that I could not remain with someone who could do that. It explained much of his foulness towards me, which I had been willing to live with for the sake of our marriage and children, but adultery was the final straw. So, off I went to hide at my mother's.
Our son was 18 months old, and I was 15 weeks pregnant. Both our children were planned, which made the rejection much harder to bear. For the first twelve hours, I went silent. I tried to cry, but nothing came out. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I smashed some pictures up. I stayed awake all night. I didn't eat or drink. I am eternally grateful to my parents, who put me on suicide watch, and my siblings who simply rallied round without question. The first twelve hours passed, and then came a difficult and painful phone call which I cried throughout. I asked all the horrible questions that I didn't want the answers to, to try and get the extent of the pain out in one go. When did it start? How long? How often? How did you meet her? Why her? How could you?
Why? Why? Why?
Funnily enough, I never really got an answer to the last one.
I was left with no real income (£500 a month from my job), and more than double that in outgoings a month. I had to go and see a solicitor, to make him pay the mortgage and give me money to live on. I couldn't increase my working hours because I had no recourse for childcare outside what I already had. Phoning the tax credit office to explain that I was now a single parent was horrible. Phoning the council tax office to say the same, equally awful. Not being able to tell them where he was living because I simply had no idea...awful. Somehow, I found the energy to do all the practical bits, to tidy up and make order out of chaos and at least guarantee me and my son had somewhere to live and something to eat.
Emotionally, I was a mess. For three days, I was simply convinced I would die. How could I survive pain like that? I couldn't. I would have to die. That was the easy bit.
Then I realised that I wouldn't actually just die. I would have to live or I would have to kill myself. This became a constant circular chorus in my head. "If I live, I'm not good enough to raise two children by myself, I should die. If I die, I fuck them up for life - I should live." Equally, I had the constant chorus of "I cannot take care of two children, I should have an abortion. If I have an abortion, I will not be able to live with the decision."
I chose to live. I chose to keep my baby. These were the most difficult decisions I have ever had to make, indeed it never really felt like I was the one making the decision.
I spent a week crying. I spent another week crying, with occasional smiles. In those weeks, I met up with my ex, which ripped me open. A pattern was established. Very light healing, and then dramatic ripping open of scabs. Eventually, I scarred up over the pain. It became part of me, something in my history that I cannot erase, but must live with.
After two weeks, I went back to work, couldn't hack it and took another week off. Certain members of staff were wonderful, and have my lifelong love and respect. Others could not understand my decision to continue to talk to my ex, or why I was keeping my child, or why I chose to move away from the area. Work became something I did to get me out of the house, and to bury myself in. At home, I was surrounded by 'our' things. It stopped feeling like home without him. I did small things like put up new pictures, and buy new bed linen, but it was a ghost of a home.
Pregnancy was awful. I didn't want the baby. I just didn't. I didn't want to be pregnant, I didn't want to have to give birth, I didn't want to find out what happened next. His 20 week scan was an utter blur, brightened by the sonographer assuming me and my best friend were lovers. After I hit 24 weeks, the cut off for legal termination, I became increasingly depressed and suicidal. My ex's family lived far closer to me than my family. They struggled, understandably, with the elephant in the room that was the unwanted foetus - the literal elephant as I got bigger and bigger. My ex disengaged completely from the pregnancy. He felt the baby kick once, and that was the sum total of his post-separation involvement. My pregnancy did not stop him causing me huge amounts of stress. We saw each other regularly, and it was horrible.
In March 2011, I went for a regular antenatal check. My midwifery team knew how I was feeling, and were supportive and kind to me. The baby, however, was a bit too small and apparently breech, so I went for a checkup. I saw him for the first time since the unhappy scan in November, and he was beautiful and looked like his brother and I wanted him. It took me five months to want him. Six weeks later, he was born (two weeks late) in the middle of the night, at home and completely naturally. When he was born, his cord had two knots. One knot is frequently fatal. My little boy had somehow survived all the stress, plus this murderous cord. I don't know how he did it.
However, life continued to be difficult. My ex was awol during the birth, and finally caught up with us some ten hours later. His contact was erratic and brief. I moved house when the baby was six weeks old, and had copious support from my family and friends, and felt free. Birth itself was tremendously cathartic. I felt like I was pushing out the pain, and the agony, and the grief.
I filed for divorce when my baby turned a year old. I felt it was time.
There was two shining lights throughout the whole experience. The first was my eldest son. My clingy, silly, giggly little mummy's boy, who stayed glued to my side throughout the whole thing, and who accepted his baby brother without flinching. He was very brave himself. It must be terrifying to see your mother go through such hell at such a young age. I had to be strong for him in turn. He gave me purpose where there was none.
The second was my Tom. I went to school with Tom, and he lost his job as I lost my husband. We connected over this shared life-ruinery. Our first date was four weeks after my ex left. FILTHY HASTE according to some, but I was on the rebound, and twanging around the dating possibilities like a pinball. He lived two hundred miles away for the first two and a half years: a safe distance. But he was a constant source of comfort, laughter and distraction. He made me laugh, continuously, when nobody else could. We are getting married in August, by which time we will have been together almost four years. These have been simultaneously the best and worst years of my life. I hope the years we have together from now on are solely the best.
Losing your husband (or indeed, wife) abruptly breaks you. My husband didn't die, but it felt like he had. I didn't recognise him anymore. We had been together for nine years, and literally grown up together. All our shared memories and experiences were gone. All our in-jokes, gone. Our friends didn't exactly take sides, but it was difficult for them to remain neutral.
As time has gone on, we've forged a relationship that works for the children, but it is nothing like our marriage. We are like distant cousins. It's not always a smooth relationship, but arguments are rare. We have to be in each other's lives for as long as our children need their parents, and that is more important than bellowing at each other over old bitterness.
When he left, my entire life up to that point dissolved. I had to find a new one, and that is impossibly hard. He went directly into a co-habiting relationship, straight into a life not dissimilar to the one he left behind. I could not. I had to learn independence, something I'd never required until that point.
It still hurts. I still get upset, because it is hard work parenting in this manner. It is hard work ensuring they get enough time with their dad and his family to build a lasting attachment. It is hard work assuming most of the responsibility for two other lives, and making sure they understand the concept of step-parenting. I expect many more issues will arise as they get older.
Am I a better person for having gone through this? Unquestionably. One thing you learn very quickly when something like this happens is who your friends are. I am a lot pickier about who I keep close to me now, and more ruthless about cutting people out if necessary. I discovered that I can live by myself, that I do not need a boyfriend or husband to make me whole. I also discovered that not all relationships are poisoned by inequality. I can say, without doubt, that I would not being two thirds through a degree if I hadn't been divorced. My ex would not have supported me studying. It is due to all these things that I do not regret the end of my marriage. Neither do I regret it happening in the first place.
However, I lost everything. I lost my home, my community, my job, my sense of personal security, my financial security, many friends, memories, and feeling like I belonged. I have gradually built all that back up again, but in a way that cannot be taken away from me on a capricious whim.
I have not lost my faith in marriage.
Should anyone read this, going through something similar, wondering if they will ever feel whole again, I can assure you that you will. It takes time, but you will.
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