The Background

It’s never been right, you see. Even in the beginning, I said that I didn’t know if he was ‘the one’, but that he was the kind of person I wanted to be with. Kind, generous, loves his family, honest, hardworking. All of those things made the risk worthwhile to jump into marriage to find out.

But I was wrong, so wrong. Even before we talked about what to do about our mismatched nationalities, his insecurities caused arguments and hurt feelings. He was naïve enough to think that total honesty and disclosure was ‘the right thing.’ So he’d tell me that he was worried about introducing me to his friends, in case they thought I was fat, or not pretty. His relative lack of experience in relationships led him to regularly question my morality and occasionally ponder, ‘what was the point of us being together at all. He seemed to assume that I had sex with every person I ever met. I don’t know why none of this put me off, or even flashed as a warning sign.

I’ll admit that our problems were not all down to him. That’s not fair and there are always two people involved in a relationship. After the wedding, I was miserable. Living in the suburbs, with the in-laws, with no job, no friends and no money, I didn’t know what to do with myself and probably resented him for tricking me into my situation. But he didn’t trick me, I jumped in without thinking of the consequences.

I’d finally had enough, when following one of our screaming matches, I’d suggested couples counselling. He emphatically and absolutely said ‘no’, because a counsellor would dredge things up from the past and ‘we need to focus on the future.’ While I agree that focusing on the future is a good thing, his rejection bothered me for two reasons. One, because I hate to talk about my feelings, but was willing to do so to find a way through our mess of a history to move forward and he wasn’t, or maybe just afraid of how he’d look. And two, because I hold eight years of anger, resentment and hurt feelings inside of me that I need to get out and he should know about as I’ve always held back to not increase his stress or anxiety.

The past eight years weren’t all bad times and most definitely not all good. But I feel like the good times were when I put my feelings aside and do what was right for him, which I don’t feel he’s ever done for me.

Like he says, there is no point in dredging up the past, this is a summary of the low points.

Our first Christmas
He sat in the bath crying all morning. I spent the rest of the afternoon weeping after my mother interrupted dinner with a phone call, reminding me of home. He had a massive go at me when I said that something we’d watched on television was trite, and he thought I’d hurt his family’s feelings with my opinion.

Our first summer
He told me that I was getting fat and wasn’t sure if he still loved me. I know it was eight years ago, but his words still ring in my ears and hurt my feelings every time the memory slips through. He told me his counsellor thought I was the root of all of his anxiety issues. And apparently, my struggle to make friends was down to my advanced education and snobbish attitude.

2008/09
His best friend broke up with his girlfriend of ten years around Christmas and essentially lived with us for a year. Every weekend, they went out with my husband playing wingman. And I stayed at home. Fortunately at this point, I was working in London and had started to make friends. So it didn’t bother me much, but we grew further and further apart. Our lives, separating slowly, until we became like oil and water.

Maybe that’s a bit extreme, but nonetheless, the summer of 2009 was the worst it’s ever been for me. The two of us were living completely separate lives, more or less just sharing a flat. He’ll never know how close I came to leaving that summer. If his grandmother hadn’t passed away that autumn, and I wouldn’t have put my needs on hold for him (again) while he grieved, somehow patching over the cracks while he and his family healed.

And things were okay. We were still leading separate lives, but I excused his lack of interest in me as part of the grieving process.

My decreasing interest in him stemmed from that and actually having a life of my own and friends. Why would I need to talk about my feelings to a man, when I had girlfriends who actually listened? I can’t excuse my own lack of interest like I so easily forgave his. Of course the failure of a relationship takes two.

Summer 2011 – My Crisis
We’d been getting on reasonably well, living separate lives and sharing living space. But I kept asking myself, is this it. I didn’t expect sunshine and romance every day after eight years of marriage, but really, is this what the rest of my life was going to be like? It was a horrible summer for me. Everyday asking myself if I was satisfied and happy. Everyday trying to convince myself to focus on what I had instead of what I didn’t. But deep down, I knew that our relationship had disintegrated and that I was giving him as little as he was giving me. But I decided to carry on as I quite liked the life I led. I have friends, I have hobbies and interests that keep me busy and occupied.

Autumn 2011 – The Tantrum
On an evening in September, we were bickering over stupid things, like when we would leave to visit friends at the weekend and I reminded him that I had to be on an early train to London on the Sunday morning. When you asked why, I replied smartly that my writing class was starting on Sunday AS I HAD MENTIONED AT LEAST A DOZEN TIMES SINCE JULY. And he flipped out. His eyes bugged out of his head. He sprang to his feet, effing and blinding. He threw things across the lounge in his rage. Calling me every name in the book, he stormed to the bedroom and slammed the door and carried on with the ranting and swearing.

Like a fool, I followed him to the bedroom to ask why he was over reacting so badly. And while telling me that I am a patronising fucking cunt bitch, he threw what was in his hand at me. It was a pair of dirty pants, but it could have been anything, a shoe, a lamp, a book.

I was so shocked that I froze. I didn’t know how to react. But I took my ‘patronising mother’ tone and told him that I didn’t care anymore what his problem was and that it was completely unacceptable for him to throw anything at me. And that he was going to clean up the mess he’d made. I walked away, made my lunch and went to bed in the spare room. Then I essentially disappeared for three days.

When we finally talked about it, he apologised and grovelled. He said he’d change, but it would take time. He didn’t want to lose me. So I agreed to give him time. One doesn’t just throw away eight years of marriage. But in my heart I knew we were done. I felt like every last bit of affection had been stomped on and broken. That even if I could put up with being ignored, I would not put up with feeling unsafe. Over the next couple of months, he had good days and bad, but the bad far outweighed the good. He regularly got fed up and told me that I was hurting him and that he was finding things difficult and stressful. Somehow making it all about him, and manipulating me into feeling sorry for him.

The beginning of the end
So here I am. It’s a new year and I know what I should do and have set myself a timeline for my escape plan. And I’m scared. I’ve not been on my own for nine years. I’m sure I’ll be able to work out who I am again and will adjust to living on a single income, but it’s a huge change. It’s going to be hard, probably one of the hardest things I’ll ever do. But I’m up for it.