Technically, I’m not his wife. Let us be honest straight away. I am, however, his life partner, his baby mama, his longest relationship blah blah blah, I raise his kids, he pays my credit card and we pretend to live happily ever after and forsake all others. The status-quo for most millennials these days.
Background information that may deem itself relevant to this particular bunch of rambling brain farts….
- I am probably suffering from Post Natal Depression/Anxiety/Alcoholism…long story short; I was given anti-depressants without actually receiving a diagnosis so who the fuck knows what is actually going on. Thanks NHS!
- My fella is aware of this and is therefore completely aware of my irrationalities, my obsessive false thoughts that I will convince myself to be true and the fact that I become the typical ‘psycho-girlfriend’ if he gives me reason to
- HE HAS GIVEN ME REASON TO….repeatedly
- Every man I’ve known before and since him has lied and screwed me over.
- I went from 21 year old hottie at university with 100 friends to pregnant drop-out with no one, alone in one bedroom of a shared house with illegal immigrants and drug dealers almost overnight.
So yeah, life is a wee bit confusing for me. I can’t pretend that it’s hard. My fella works his arse off with a 5 hour round trip every day so that he can earn and provide the best for us. He pays my credit card bill, he pays for my car, my phone, my JustEat account! Basically, I’m everything Destiny’s Child hated. BUT I do raise our children pretty much singlehandedly (due to his ridiculous work commitments) and cook his dinner and do his laundry. (Sorry Beyonce!)
We live on a coastal peninsula on the south coast. He has decided that the only way for us to get ahead and beat the shitty situation that most 20-30 year olds find themselves in these days is to work in London. Where we do not live. Not even close. So leaves at 5am every morning, drives for a couple of hours, walks for a while, tubes for a while, walks a bit more and then does it all over again in reverse. But he earns about 3 times what he would around here so in his mind, it’s justified and all good….because providing financially is his primary concern. I do not concur with this but my objections have proven to be futile.
So after a few of these London contracts he quit for a few months because he was worried about MY mental health. The time he took off, however, was spent working on his own solo projects and practicing for new jobs….basically on the computer telling us to be quiet for 10 hours a day.
Back to present day. His latest contract. It is, of course, in London working for Dixons/PC World fixing up their websites or something.
How do all these things relate? I hear you ask. Well, he sprung a work trip, a MANDATORY work trip to the Czech Republic, on me approximately 4 days before his flight was due to take off. Lets just recap and remind ourselves of my anxious, depressive and outright unstable mental state. He insists that he told me about this before his first interview but rest assured, there is no way in hell that I would have agreed to this.
So he leaves, I cry. I call him, he ignores. He FaceTimes the kids, ignores my evening calls. 1+1= fucking 100 in the anxious mind. In the bloody stag capital of Europe with strip clubs on every corner. He’s AWOL from 9pm every night. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Week 2 of this shit and I’m struggling. I’m drinking wine, by the bottle, every night. I try to see a Dr. about my mental health and I’m basically brushed off and told to exercise and loose weight. The kids are misbehaving and playing up because he’s not here.
And he’s still unavailable when I call. Calls me back 30 mins later with a probably plausible reason but all I can think is that he’s given himself time to get back to his hotel from wherever he didn’t want me to see.
Even as I type he says he’s out for dinner and I shouldn’t expect a call for 4/5 hours. Rationally, I know this is probably fine and normal but as soon as I feel the tightened chest of anxiety approaching and the pounding of my own heartbeat inside my head all I can think of is what does the girl he’s fucking look like? Did he pay for her? Did she come on to him? How much of our money has he blown on this night? Does he prefer me not being around? (DUH!) How long will he put up with me for? Is she better than me?
ARGHHHHHHHHH another sleepless night.
Then he’ll come home with some airport chocolates for me. He’ll answer none of my questions and we’ll pretend we’re okay again until my next break down.