The early hours of this morning I spoke to the lawyer. I was so drained and anxious I actually hoped he’d cancel. I couldn’t keep my eyes open so had to set my alarm for the 2am call.
In fact the call was very constructive. He laid out the time frames so I’m not bumbling around in the dark anymore. I know what’s going on and what everyone is doing. I also understand that the offenders current bail conditions are that he is restricted to his own residence and that he must return there each night. Although the defence argued against this. My legal team won that victory. Showing how seriously the judge was taking the charges. How must he feel having restrictions placed on his freedom? The loss of control? It goes a little way to showing what I’ve experienced when I’ve been too scared to leave my home. When I’ve not had control, when I’ve been ruled by fear. But it also makes me think of a caged bear and how much anger must be there and I fear for those around him.
The work over the coming months will be handled by my legal team. In November I will know if I need to return to the UK.
As I’ve lost my passport I’ve begun the process of the application, which is really arduous from NZ as they no longer process them here, all applications need to go back to the UK. Which means if there’s a mistake (and they’re notoriously strict) it can take ages). But I’m still focussed on my goal of Cambodia.
I’ve got my criminal security check paperwork ready to go and I feel emotionally and mentally ready. And now I’m up with the dates in the UK, it’s even more feesible.
My husband are I on unknown ground. I have no idea what he’s thinking or feeling. Sometimes it’s like he can’t stand me. I feel I’m in the way. And when I push for some answers or some clarification he seems irritated. I can’t read him anymore. I feel like a pathetic meek housewife, no purpose aside taking care of the kids, which he pretty much said himself, I have no passion, no interests. I am not the person I used to be.
He understands my need to go to Cambodia. To find myself again, to be me, to test myself, but alas, the housewife won’t be there. I’ve told him he can hire a nanny. It’s not like I’m good company for him.
Sometimes I see my father in him. The look of disappointment. The look of embarrassment. The wish to say, she’s not with me! Often I feel patronised. Mostly I feel lonely.
I did this myself. It’s what I do. I have taken him and twisted him up. Made him bitter. Made him angry.
I don’t deserve to be loved.
I am damaged. And I damage people.
I hate that I am the product of a dysfunctional family, I hate that I couldn’t rise above it. I hate that I was raped. And I hate that unlike true, inspiring survivors, I let it kill a part of me.
I hate that a part of me is so dead inside and this insidious disgusting part reaches out and destroys everything in its path. And that I’m weak.