I know that like my partner before that gave rise to this blog, NG is getting on with her life whilst I sit here and extract my soul and play Russian Roulette with my physical being. Until my heart gives out or even worse, keeps going, pushing the limits for a few years to come. I always need to push the boundaries. I can take enough drugs to kill a horse. And not get high. But I’m not immortal. My chances of popping off at any moment are rather high, all things considered. It’s not rocket science. But it is my choosing. I know she is probably cuddling up to him right now on this cold winter night whilst I bare all here to nobody. That’s her choosing. Smart girl. Born survivor. Alley cat instincts that I admire and lack equally. War Child.
But It’s not all my fault. I hope not anyway. It probably is.
My own flavour of mental illness and subsequent addiction is triggered and originates in the combined rejection and loss of a loved female at an early age. The shattering of a bond I thought and should be unconditional. My useless Mother – and where that took me. Literally. She taught me a warped version of love that has followed me to this day. And been inadvertently dished out to the innocent and the good to this day. But in those early days in the unfamiliar surroundings of the shithole that is the Welsh Valleys in the late 70s, I was a displaced and confused cockney boy lost with no friends and an English accent. The Welsh hate the English. The only ‘family’ I ever knew were Welsh, apart from my Grandad. Now I recreate it whenever and wherever I need to. In my head. Until it becomes real. And then the plates collide. That displaced and confused sniffed glue then. This is just the updated model. I understand it now better than I did thanks to counselling. NG, as most other partners, suffered the unresolved anger I will always have for my mother. Whilst she is far more complicated, I set off, amongst other things, the same unresolved issues she had with her parents during the havoc, heartbreak and madness of The Balkan War as 12 year old white Muslim. She has never dared open that can of worms. I spent most of my counselling sessions analysing her and passed on as much as I could when it was possible. I should have told him more about me. God knows if he ever read this blog. God forbid I might enable him to do his job finally. Can’t have that.
NG is not looking at her phone waiting to hear from me. I know she is having sex, cooking meals, taking trips to the country, planning holidays and sharing all the intimate moments we did with her new man. She has replaced me and moved on. She is the opposite of stuck.I known she is not breaking down. I know she is forming an exciting new life in a great city and health permitting will go on to get the life I didn’t listen enough to give her, and that she deserves. I always wanted it my way on the big stuff. If I had known I would have folded. I called her bluff and she took me to the cleaners. She plays to win and has an impenetrable poker face. I pity the next man that fucks her around. She will run rings around him. The Masterplan must be achieved and is transferable and comes with no guarantees. I’d have lived in a cardboard box with her. I failed entirely to give her a base even though I own a modest portfolio of properties. And I could have. Women need security. As much as I miss her in my life, as my best friend and yes, as my lover, I do honestly think she is better off where she is and who she is with. The fact I’m alone now is not her responsibility. It’s mine. I wish she could come up with another way to keep what she has but not to see me as a threat. Like all mammals I would have adapted or become extinct. When it ends like this and I am no longer even a distant contact it makes me question love itself. Because if love is more than lip service how could this be happening? I have resisted giving myself previously for this reason. Perhaps they why I almost always fail, This is my worst terrors come true.. Totally alone and questioning my very existence, let alone the last 4 years. To not be acknowledged or to be of any use just reinforces my worthlessness. As she said, she doesn’t need me any more. I’m no more than an old shoe slung under the bed now. Best forgotten. I feel thst I served a purpose to her. Like a tool. A temporary enabler to run away from when it suited. Like the pawn my parents used me as. It erases me. Just wipes my data.
And the older I get the more sure I am that I do need to be alone like Dad. Not inflict myself on another good soul. I was always inspired to achieve the few good things I did manage by not wanting to end up like my mentally ill and stunted Dad. It drove me on. I’m now thinking he was probably cool too in his earlier life. His illness got worse in middle age as it does. It wears you down. The House always wins in the end. Some things are in our genes and preordained before we are even born.
I wish she knew that I do love her enough to let her go to a better life. To want the best for her. I wish she would trust me with that.