The Easter Rebellion

The kids make their feelings known. They are NOT too old for an Easter egg hunt, apparently.

Remember that year when you wrapped huge long pieces of string all over the house and we had to follow it and it led to our eggs? Can you do that again?

Remember that year when you wrote all those clues and we had like a treasure hunt to find our eggs? Can we do that again?

“Can’t I just buy Easter eggs from the shops and give them to you like any other normal person?”

NO!

They tell me I did an indoor egg hunt last year. I have no memory of it, having been caught up in the ongoing court case with Simon at the time, but I’m glad to hear I was still capable of making an effort. A small bell starts to ring somewhere in the dim recesses of my mind as they go on to remind me that one of the eggs was hidden in a mug in the kitchen and it took ages to find… ah, yes. It did happen, after all. I remind Lily that when she came home that long ago Easter to find string wound everywhere, she burst into tears, threw a massive tantrum, and refused to play. The joy of Aspergers; it’s only taken about six years for her to come to terms with that idea. I also remind them that it took them about three hours to solve my evidently more cryptic than intended clues in the year of the treasure hunt, and that this year I don’t have enough brain left over to attempt it.

This year Ivy can’t have dairy, so I had to resort to getting dark chocolate eggs, and a few small packets of Haribos. The rain stayed away long enough for me to quickly hide everything in the garden. Ivy bounced about like a toddler and demanded a proper basket to carry her stash in, then they both shot off outside like fireworks. Lily, as usual, rocketing past all of the eggs and sweets in a bid to be fastest, while Ivy gathered up packet after packet into her basket and examined places that I’d never thought of hiding anything in. I had to point out that it was not very likely that I’d risk life and limb climbing through the large patch of rosebush trimmings and brambles, but Ivy was determined to search there. We marvelled at how Lily had managed to run straight past the packet of Haribos dangling from the washing line without hitting herself in the fac, while Ivy unpegged it and dropped it into her basket. The last couple of eggs required a few hints, then they were back inside, giggling and ripping into their chocolate while I retreated to the kitchen sink.

I’d intended to leave the kids to their egg hunt while I cracked on with the chores, but instead found myself standing watching them, laughing. There hasn’t been enough laughter recently, and so a few moments in the sunshine watching while the kids ran about and everyone was happy and joking… it was well worth the extra bit of effort, and the slight delay to the washing up. Easter egg hunts weren’t that common when I was growing up. My Mum occasionally apologises for what must have been an incredibly boring childhood when she sees me frantically trying to make events like this happen – yet things like egg hunts just weren’t part of the culture at the time. At times I question whether I’ve made a rod for my own back when I’m making Halloween costumes or planning treasure hunts, but when everyone is laughing and enjoying themselves, it’s all worthwhile.

This is recovery too. Taking time out to celebrate, to create new, positive memories together. Picking and choosing so as not to overburden myself (no string, no treasure hunt) while still making enough effort to delight the kids. In many ways, it’s an act of defiance, a chocolate-based rebellion; we will be happy, no matter what.

Home Safe

My anxiety levels have been through the roof. An out-of-the-blue letter came for Ivy from Simon a few weeks ago, inviting her to come on holiday with him, Lily and Astrid.

Ivy lay on the kitchen floor sobbing for a full hour, crying “Why? Why would he think I’d want to do that?” while I sat holding her, trying to soothe her. Trying also to ignore how much the kitchen rug needed hoovering, and trying not to panic about the fact that I should be cooking the dinner and so everyone was about to get hangry.

Simon insisted in his letter that “We think it’s time to move forward.” Ah yes, the erroneous belief that the abuser gets to set the timescale for the victim’s healing. It’s very easy to move on when you’re the perpetrator, not so much when you’re still suffering the devastating effects of their actions. Of course Ivy was also upset because yes, she very much would like a holiday – just not with Simon and Astrid. She knows it’s impossible for me to provide the same holiday during the peak season. It’s unlikely that I’ll be able to take the kids on holiday at all this year – or any year – with the insane price hikes during school holidays. Even back when Simon and I were together, there were no holidays during peak season, other than very basic camping.

To put this into perspective, Simon hasn’t taken the children on holiday once in the four years since we separated, other than two nights camping back in 2014. So I was suspicious. Officially court was supposed to be over, but a small window was left open in case either of us wanted to reopen the proceedings and the deadline for this was rapidly approaching. Knowing Simon the way I do, the timing seemed suspicious. Why send this letter now? And so the Easter holidays were spent fretting about the arrival of a large white envelope yet again bearing the seal of the Family Court, the fear that yet another year would be wiped out by a malicious court case.

I can’t do this again.

Like a song running through my head, a constant ear worm. I can’t do this again. Insomnia again. Constantly running through the arguments I would need to make to the Judge, my frantic mind playing out what was said last time, what I should have said differently, what I would say if I had to do it again. Knowing that this time around I wouldn’t be able to afford a lawyer. Remembering the dirty tricks played by Simon’s lawyers last time, and the lie, the absolute lie that court will not discriminate against you if you can’t afford representation. The entire system is set up for lawyers – as a private citizen you can’t even get hold of the evidence you need in the form of letters and reports from professionals unless you have a solicitor.

Fear is isolating. This is what domestic abuse looks like. Long after the original situation is over, the same patterns and fears keep playing out in your head. Your abuser can continue to control you and play out his games long after he’s left the room, all the while claiming that he’s the innocent victim of your behaviour. And still you question; was I? Did I? Was it my fault? as he has long since convinced you that you’re to blame. There are moments that I have to hold on to, as if desperately cramming my fingers into fissures in the rock face, particular lies that he has told, particular actions that scream of his wrongdoing, just to cling to my sanity against his lies. Remember. Remember he lied about entering the home behind your back, remember that he lied about bringing Astrid into your home. Remember that Astrid was photographing your private documents. Remember they threw out yours and the children’s possessions, dumped food waste and wallpaper strippings and rubble into the same bin bags to ruin everything. Remember how he refused to tell you how much maintenance you’d be left with after his latest round of “cuts”, and that you ended up on Diazepam as the stress was giving you palpitations? Remember.

I have to remember these things, while also trying to let go of the past. Remember Astrid kicking your car with the kids inside it, while Simon stood by and watched. Remember Astrid sending abusive texts to Ivy. Remember that he has got away with lying to court, with his malicious accusations, with breaking court orders, that there will be no justice for what he has done. Remember that just because he got away with it doesn’t mean that he is right.

Remember also that I want to be happy again.

Anxiety dancing a jig in my belly as I drive home from spending a week at my parents’ house. Will there be a large white envelope waiting on the doormat? I didn’t sleep during my last night away, a now familiar pattern – coming home means returning to a whole heap of trouble. The race to unpack the car before the grumpy old lady comes out and yells at me for blocking the shared driveway, hustling the kids to get a move on, stumbling up the steps with too many bags, eyeing up the pile of mail on the kitchen table, desperate to know. The large white envelope isn’t there. I send a text to Mum. Home safe. No court summons.

When I wake the next morning, it seems that life is possible again. That maybe now it really is over. That maybe I can finally start to move on. Given our circumstances, life will probably never be easy or straightforward, but for now at least I can start to hope. Not hope for – that’s far too advanced a concept given what we’ve been through, but hope itself. When you realise that you have lost hope, that’s the darkest time; the fear that this is it now, life will never get better, you are condemned to spend the rest of your days in fear and despair. Awakening to hope, like the Spring bulbs returning into flower despite the harshness of Winter – that is strong magic indeed.