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.
