Diary of a Dysfunctional Relationship

I slept ok last night, and had a real job waking up this morning, probably from lying up late reading. When I came downstairs I found that Steve had texted my mobile at six minutes past midnight - all he'd put was X.

I still don't know what I feel, but I am more settled. I don't think I need an 'end' any more. As I was putting on my make-up, something happened that showed me that. From my sofa I can see my driveway reflected in the fish tank. I saw a fluorescent work jacket walk down my drive, and I guessed it was Steve coming to pick up his toolbox. So I hid out of sight of the front door or the kitchen window.

It turned out to be the milkman! But it showed me that I don't want to talk to Steve or see him. Don't need an ending then, do I? I think the unsettled was fear of what he's going to do, fear of a messy ending, and fear I'll take him back.

His toolbox is still here. Sites open about 8.30 latest. Looks like he's not working.

I've just watched the film, and it was a bit unsettling. The rows they had were like mine and Steve's 'normal' rows (the ones where he didn't hit me). Lots of things to think about, but mostly I was grateful that thank goodness I could concentrate.

It was only when the back gate banged and I jumped out of my skin that I realised I was still on edge. It was only the wind.

I was chatting to Little Sis earlier (her ex-husband's funeral is Friday) and someone came knocking on the door. We both thought it might be Steve, but it was some bloke wondering where he was because he's supposed to be starting a job tomorrow and he's not answering his phone. I told the bloke where he is living, but thought 'best of luck', cos I dread to think what state he's in by now after a day on heroin and other nefarious pharmaceuticals.

I latched the gate after it banged, but realised he's left his tool box and level here. I've not locked the gate, so I'll know if he's gone to work, though I shouldn't care. I can't help it though. I need him out of my life, but I don't want him to screw up his own.

It's sunny here, but I can't seem to settle. It's not that I'm upset even, not as such. I'm more.... restless. It's as though I'm waiting for something to happen - and I still feel like something will happen. Steve's sister has told me off on facebook about slagging him there - not in a nasty way, but she's his sister, naturally. I'm not even angry now, so I apologised. She said we'd be back together again soon, we always are. But I told her I don't think that's true now - too much bad feeling on both sides.

In the past I've always loved him enough to eventually be swayed by his pleading. I'm not sure if that is true any more, otherwise why aren't I upset?

I just wish whatever was going to happen would happen, because I can't even read, or watch a film properly. A strange feeling.

I think I'm waiting for a definitive end.

Friday actually seemed to get off to a good start, Steve came over and I'd been to the Anne Summers sale, so all my new stuff got lots of use. Then we had a barbecue, which is always a laugh because Steve's idea of a barbecue consists of flames, flames and more flames. Waiting for the colas to go white is an alien concept to him, so we always end up with about five newspapers alight in the barbie, flames everywhere, and massive black ashes in the breeze.

Then later, he got really annoyed at me because Little Sis phoned and we chatted all through the last ten minutes of Big Brother, about the programme. He decided to get his own back by trashing my family, and most especially my Ex (well, so what, but he doesn't deserve the racist rant Steve unleashed) and Small Child.

Small Child has to go to Occupational Therapy because physically he is a slow developer, and because he shows certain signs of Asberger's Syndrome, though I really resist the label because he is very intuitive to people's moods, is very understanding of people, very appropriately communicative, and very loving. However, he can't cope with noisy situations, people he doesn't know well being close to him, crowds and being touched by others (he is fine with family and close friends). He can also be obsessive about things, writing lists, and memorising strings of facts about dinosaurs, Dr Who, moon landings etc. I prefer to think of him as a sensitive child, who has a bit of his Dad's OCD. He tests intellectually as three years older than he is, but physically as two years younger than he is. Which in my head makes him an overall average.

So when Steve set about a complete character assassination of him, I had enough. Small Child is loving and compassionate and puts everyone before himself, and is thus the complete opposite of Steve, I told him. Then I told him to get out, because he'd had his last chance.

He phoned me a couple of times before 2am trying to get me to let him in, but I didn't. He'd only have hit me or something, was what was in the back of my mind.

The next morning there was a hammering on the door, but I didn't answer, assuming it was Steve. It was actuallly the postman, as I found out when I let Steve in that afternoon and he handed me two packages. One was a new gypsy top I'd been wanting, and would have been really pleased to get any ordinary Saturday, because I could have gone out wearing it. This Saturday wasn't going to be like that though.

I could see the minute I clapped eyes on him that he'd been taking something. Two diazepam, he said, and he was certainly vile enough to believe. He'd bought a Sonic the Hedgehog T-shirt for me(!) and some megadrive games for Small Child that he'd found in a skip. He collected some of his crap that has been in my loft for ages, but said he was really sorry, and could he come to see me that evening? I said yes, but said he needed to clean up before he saw me.

He wasn't here by 7.30 so I phoned to see if he remembered he'd said he was coming. He said he'd be about an hour. I said he didn't need to bother if he didn't want to, and he said he'd be round as soon as possible. There were then a couple of really vile phonecalls between us because I realised he was getting heroin, and I ended up telling him not to come round because he's boring when he's skanked.

He said he was coming around anyway, and he wouldn't be taking any of the heroin. When he got here I could see he was totally wasted, so I put his xbox and games outside the door, and told him I never wanted to see him again.

I was a bit upset, but mostly angry and annoyed. I calmed down by trashing him on Facebook, which led his sister to text me. We were texting back and forth when there was a knock on my kitchen window. I put the light on, and Batman was looking through the window at me.

I had to laugh, it was Steve in a Batman mask of course. I opened the window and he asked me to let him in. When he was in, he was obviously even more trashed than earlier, could hardly stand. He was talking crap about what a beautiful face I have and how much he loves me. It became obvious he'd not make it home anyway, so we went to sleep together, and again he was being really trashed-affectionate, saying how it had been so long since we'd slept together and how much he'd missed it.

This morning he slept until 11.30, by which time I'd listened to the Archers and had a bath. As I was getting out of the bath he came in and said he was going to get his methadone, and what was I doing? I said I was getting on with my life. He then stormed off, so I phoned him and asked what last night had been all about, and what was going on. He was evasive and refusing to say anything except that he loved me. But that isn't enough. I told him he knows where I am, but to not think he can just pick me up and put me down as it suits him, because as far as I am concerned I am a single woman, and he's certainly never coming in here again when he's wasted. Then I put the phone down.

So that's that. I've not changed my blog title yet because I think it will be a messy and drawn-out ending, not least because he's back on heroin, and I suspect he has been since two weekends ago. Unlike last year, I'm not crying, and not unable to eat. It might be different if I saw him with someone else, but I'm not planning on going out much in the near future, I have a few family things to do the next couple of weekends. I think I'm ready to move on - at least that's what I think today. Compared to coping with him on heroin (and looking a complete embarrassing mess), being alone has many attractions.

Steve came round tonight, got here about 7, and has just gone home 'cause he's completely worn out after working outside all week in this heat. It was a really lovely night, he is damned sexy and recent blogland posts have made me appreciate how lucky I am to have passion in my life 'at my age' and 'this far down the line' (ok, I'll stop bragging now).

Nothing unusual about that, but he didn't smell of beer, and didn't drink the whole time. This IS very unusual behaviour for him.

He was talking about how his wrists were aching, and he was sniffing, so I asked him if he'd got hayfever. He said maybe, he was feeling really weird as though he was rattling. I asked him if he'd forgotten to take his methadone, which he laughed at (but which wouldn't be the first time), so I asked him if he'd been doing heroin and messing up his dosages. He said he hadn't.

So I don't know what to think. I know that after last time he hit me I told him that he had to sort himself out and that I wasn't going to be around forever if he didn't start making an effort. But then why suddenly today? He hasn't seemed like he's doing heroin. But maybe he waits til he goes home?

It's just so unheard of for him not to drink. He'll be here all weekend, so we'll see.

Here's my go, the instructions are:

Make three statements about yourself - two true and one false and see how many people can guess the untruth.

1. I was once a member of the Labour Party and used to get lifts to meetings from Kim Howells.

2. Amongst my various boyfriends have been three Johns, three Adrians and three Daves (not all at the same time!)

3. Whilst in Tahiti, I met Mel Gibson when he was on a drinking bender, but I didn't manage to get a snog.

Well, more like them talking to me.

At the Carnival there was a psychic fair, so I went in and had a reading done by a clairvoyant, who was quite definite that he didn't do 'telling fortumes', just spoke to dead people - or rather, 'those who have passed over.'

It was lovely. My grandad was first up, and he had a surprising amount to say for someone who's been dead since the 70s. He shocked me quite a bit by saying that the changes of the last three years are the best thing I've ever done (I'd have thought he'd be pissed off by the divorce, being of the older generation), and that I'm being myself again instead of being what other people want me to be. He said there's one last little bit of confidence that needs to come back, and not to rush into anything, or let anyone put pressure on me, just let things happen at their own pace and everything will be sorted by October. Which made me feel a lot better about not letting Steve move in and not getting married to him. He also said I took after him in organising people, and he was really pleased at my career, because it was getting lots of people's lives back on track.

Then my Auntie came and said that I need to talk about my problems more, and that again, in the last three years I've been a bit better at that, because of having friends I trust, but that I still hid too much, and that I shouldn't assume that family were too fragile to cope with knowing about my problems.

My brother was next, and it was very spooky, the description of him was spot on, and the psychic was saying that although in life he'd kept himself apart from other people, now he was dead he was constantly trying to be seen by the living. I've said here before that I often 'feel' him in a room, and I see movement out of the corner of my eye, which I'd always suspected was him, so it was nice to have that confirmed. My brother said that he knew how much I liked to run other people's lives for them, and try to save them (haha, he knows from personal experience!), and that I'm very good at it too, but that I need to realise that not everyone can be saved, and it's not always a good idea to even try. I know he thinks that, and I've been trying not to (I know who he's referring to as well!). He then gave the reader loads of images of where we used to walk the dog, and of my parent's house (all things that are pretty specific).

Then my godmother came and said how proud she was of me, and how amazed she was at how brave I'd turned out - 'we didn't think you had it in you!' She gave the psychic the names of her husband and our neighbours. Now what is really spooky here is that I know from the description of her and what she said that it definitely was her (my sister recognised her too when I gave the same info to her), but this woman is still alive, as far as I know. She's in a home for people with dementia.

Lastly the psychic said, 'I have a younger man here now, he's not for you, he's for someone very close to you. He's a suicide, and he says to please tell everyone it wasn't an accident, he'd been planning it for a long time. He was under too much pressure, for too long and he couldn't cope. He says he's sorry for what he put that person through, he knows now how wrong he was, and he wants to thank you for looking after them.' This was really shocking, because (as I posted Friday) my sister's ex-husband committed suicide last week.

There were a couple of people that I didn't recognise, but he was spot on with the ones I did know, and I didn't know my Mum's parents or older relatives. Mostly it was comforting, and a lovely feeling that my dead relatives know what's going on and approve of the things I've done - bloody few enough of my living relatives do!

No work today, so I've spent the morning in the garden and tidying the house, and have just put on some lovely black cherry nail varnish. All the time I'm aware that my back, stomach and jaw are really aching. Still from last week, for some reason everything is aching more today, must be the weather. Or the bruising coming out or something.

Then Little Sis phones. Her ex-husband has killed himself - she's just heard he hung himself last Saturday. My first instinct is to laugh, because he was an idiot and she should never have married him. He did drugs and beat her up. Then I feel desperately sorry for him. I tell her those thoughts, 'because even though he was an idiot, he was fun, and he never meant any harm, and we always had a good time - when we weren't arguing about him hitting you, obviously.'

Oooooh, who does that remind me of?

She is in Germany and needs someone to go to the funeral for her, but doesn't feel she can ask Mum and Dad (they couldn't stand him or his family). I offered - I'd want to go anyway. His body isn't being released yet, so don't know when it will be.

I'm getting to the age where it's always funerals. Most of them people too young to believe they are dead.

This weekend is Carnival. The first time I've seen Sue in ages too - we're meeting up to watch the parade, might go to the psychic fair - or I might go before she's in town. Steve is moving into a permanent room in a local B and B, so I might even have a few hours' freedom. I feel optimistic.

On Tuesdays I have to wear a sleeveless uniform and visit a school and a residential home. I have circlets of black, blue and yellow bruises around each wrist, and multicoloured arms. For some reason these bruises are worse this week, whereas the marks on my face and neck have faded.

Everyone notices - it's impossible not to. I'm grateful to those who suspect: you know who they are because they don't ask. My boss, the girls who do hydro with me, they know stories from last year. Strangely two male care workers just seem to guess, as does the head of the school. Their eyes slide over the evidence then return to my face. They are probably grateful too - that I'm not making a scene or crying on their shoulders.

The younger care workers are the problem. It's just part of their chat as we work, 'bloody hell, what have you done to yourself?' I tell them I fell down the stairs whilst drunk. Better to be a lush than to be thought utterly stupid. How we laugh.

Worst of all is the earnest interrogation from the pastoral worker at the school. Everything else I can deal with, but sympathy makes me cry.

I'd expected Steve to come around, but it was still strange when he did. He'd phoned when I finished work, 'just to see if you're ok.' I was.

I act quite normally, but he doesn't know what to do. We end up sitting next to eachother watching 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button' - the sort of film I'd never usually watch when Steve was there, because he's more gritty realism drama. I cry buckets, but it's more because of the parallels than the story. Steve falls asleep three quarters of the way through, and I use the opportunity to go to bed when the film ends.

I'm not sure how much later it is that I feel him get into bed and put his arms around me. I know it shouldn't feel right, but it does. Where last night he was all anger and hate, tonight he is regretfully gentle and loving. He is a child in a man's body.