In for a penny... (have I exhausted all the clichés yet?!)

I had no idea that my New Year’s Eve offload onto my blog (usually strictly reserved for my humorous take on everyday situations) would prove so cathartic. The three-day retreat on which I took myself to clear my mind after the intensity of Christmas cost the same as three sessions of counselling, but proved so much more effective. And after five years’ counselling and psychotherapy (on and off), I should know. My partner appreciated the space, too!

Such a success was the sublimation that I’ve decided to give it another go. I expressed my frustration towards my ex and his overbearing position in our relationship; now for some context. It’s only fair, after all. To this day I am still trying to make sense of it all and toggle between my feelings of sadness, anger, disappointment, failure and guilt. I did what I thought was the right thing at every turn and it still turned out messing up both my life and his.

I met Jon when I was 16 on a night out – my then boyfriend’s 18^th birthday, at which he didn’t want me present. I found out why later when I saw him kissing someone else. Jon was more than happy to be the salve on that wound as I turned to him for comfort. We exchanged email addresses (how very postmodern!) and he very shyly asked if we could meet up again sometime. He seemed so sweet and self-deprecating. I had patched things up with Phil in the meantime, but it was nice to make a new friend. Not only that, but Jon’s degree subject was the same as my A-level, so he turned out to be a very useful revision partner!

Phil was a bit of a mess. He was already undergoing treatment by a psychiatrist and I naively thought I could help fix him. He had severe depression and self-harmed regularly. I just wanted to love him better. But being as mentally unstable as he was, he couldn’t return that love and instead used the term of affection as and when it suited him to fulfil his needs. He also couldn’t keep it to himself as I suspected – and later confirmed – that he was also involved with someone else (underage) who became jealous of our relationship and sent me torrents of spiteful messages on MSN messenger (remember those days?). Phil also held me responsible for his self-harming, saying that I had to make sure he didn’t have access to knives, be available on the phone at all hours of the day and night, and threatening between desperate sobs to end his life when I found it too much to bear and suggested that I might be better off without him.

All the while, Jon stuck by my side, listened to my struggles and was a shoulder to cry on. After eight months, I finally gathered the courage to end things with Phil once and for all. Jon tried his best to convince me he would make a much better boyfriend and always treat me as I deserved, but I told him that my feelings for him were purely platonic.

I might have turned to my parents for advice and comfort, but ours was not a relationship in which we communicated about our feelings, nor even the fact that I was beginning to get depressed and desperate myself. Besides, they had their own problems. They didn’t notice that it had been months since I smiled. Jon supported me through this.

I might have turned to my best friend, but she was becoming increasingly distant until one day I had a phone call to say that she had attempted suicide and was being treated in hospital. I read her suicide note which I can pretty much recall to this day. I felt like such a terrible friend for being so wrapped up in my own problems that I hadn’t noticed the extent of hers. Jon supported me through this. (Thankfully, she made a full recovery.)

I might have turned to my lifelong childhood playmate and next door neighbour, who was one of those people about whom you would say was so close it was like having a brother. We made dens, built go-karts and camped together in the garden. But one day on a bike ride, there was a collision between him and a lorry. He was broken and brain damaged and in a coma before he died a week later. Jon supported me through this.

I had my own unfortunate RTA that year, too. Just four days into owning my first moped, I was on my way to college when a school bus decided not to give way at a junction to the main road on which I was travelling, and knocked me off and into the middle of the road into the path of an oncoming car, which thankfully stopped in time. Physically, I was fine (the moped was a write-off though), but the shock and trauma left me with an anxiety around roads and traffic that lasted for years later. Jon supported me through this.

My anxiety extended to being around people and crowds after I left my friends on a night out to go home early. Walking alone through a dark alleyway in Nottingham (stupid, I know), I was pinned against a wall by a man and my money was demanded. (Call me stubborn, but my sense of justice overtook my sense of fear and rather than yield to him, I called over the help of a passer-by, and while my assailant was momentarily distracted, I managed to pull away and run as fast as I could…to Jon’s house, where he eventually managed to calm my hyperventilating panic.)

It was becoming quite clear to me that this world was a shitty and dangerous one in which turning to Jon seemed to be my only means of survival. Jon reinforced this point and promised to always look after me. I wanted to end my life to end the continual and recurring pain for quite some time, but Jon somehow made it seem worth living. I grew dependent on him, which he encouraged, drawing me away from friends and family until he became my all. How could I ever be angry with him when he saved my life, asking for nothing in return?

And after all that, surely finally becoming his girlfriend was the least he deserved. Not once had he let me down, but instead cared for me with patience, maturity and dignity. I was in awe and in debt. What could this noble young man, three years my senior, want with poor, helpless, foolish little me? I was honoured and flattered by his attention, and months of wooing finally paid off. He gave me an ultimatum – that this friendship could no longer continue due to his feelings for me, and it must be all or nothing, so – not being able to bear the thought of losing him and the friendship I had come to rely upon – I agreed to be his girlfriend.

With Jon’s help, I got my life back on track, managed to pass my A-levels and go to university. I was so happy there, and loved living by the seaside and gaining my independence. It wasn’t all plain sailing – we did break up for a few months after a discussion in which I shared the uncomfortable truth that I felt that, in some ways, we were too dissimilar for a long-term relationship to be successful (me – “Variety is the spice of life!” Jon – “All change is bad!”), but we soon got back together after having missed each other so much. I couldn’t picture a life without him, difficult though it was at times.

We spent most weekends together during my four years at university. I didn’t really have any friends – in lectures I found myself sitting with the mature students all twice my age, and, well, weekends were spent with Jon, so I didn’t need anybody else. Besides, as Jon frequently reminded me, I was not capable of making or maintaining friendships because I was “socially retarded” – an observation that over the years transgressed into “autistic” – which, of course, I believed, and became a self-fulfilling prophecy for many years.

Jon was my mentor and my best friend. My confidence was so broken that I felt incapable of making decisions without him. I consulted him on everything. When our opinions differed, he could always persuade me with logic that his was the correct one. He was so much more wise and intelligent than I. Even when, again, I suggested that our relationship would not last due to some fundamental personality differences (and besides, I had begun to get very close to and fall for someone else much more similar to myself), Jon used logic to explain that he was absolutely the best partner for me. I couldn’t argue with such impenetrable logic. Even when I overstepped the boundaries with my new ‘soulmate’, my remorse was sufficient that incredibly, Jon forgave me, took me back and never mentioned it again. How could I ever repay him, and where else would I ever find someone who loved me so much he could tolerate my indiscretion with such dignity and absolution, especially after all he had done for me? I never forgave myself for hurting him, and vowed to spend the rest of my life making it up to him and being the girlfriend he deserved.

I only realised after we split up that this was probably the cause of a great deal of insecurity for Jon (I always thought he was so composed and confident), which explains a lot of his domineering behaviour towards me after we moved in together, a natural and inevitable progression once I had graduated. He kept my confidence at a manageable level and ensured the perfect balance between making me feel special and loved versus keeping me modest and in my place. It suited us both that I should avoid repeating mistakes and subdue my appearance in order that I wouldn’t attract unwanted attention. I didn’t mind wearing baggy clothes and cutting my hair unattractively short. In fact, it seemed the worse I looked, the more Jon praised my rare and mature disregard of society’s expectations of attractiveness and femininity. He was proud of me being a tomboy, and I craved his praise and affirmation. He encouraged my appearance with such comments as:

“You look like mutton dressed as lamb in that outfit.”

“You should get rid of your going-out clothes – you’re not going to have an opportunity to wear them again after all, are you?!”

“That leather jacket makes you look really scummy and working class.”

“Your shorts are too short…it’s not very classy, is it?”

“You look like a tart dressed up with those earrings and make-up on; that’s not the girl I married.”

“If you wanted to go on the Gok Wan ‘What not to wear’ show, I would forbid you, because it’s just not you, and if you insisted, then I couldn’t be with you anymore, because it’s not the person I married – you wouldn’t be you anymore.”

I couldn’t fail to see the error of my ways and feel ashamed of my superficial desire to look nice.

He also helped me to elevate my position in society in order that I could integrate better with his upper-middle-class family with its ancestry of manor houses and ‘old money’. Encouragements included:

“You should try to speak with a more Southern accent, it sounds much better; you don’t want to sound common, do you?”

“I insist that our children go to private school like I did…you’d be a much better person if you had, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re such a malco [mal-coordinated], you would have done more sports if you’d have gone to private school.”

“You need to learn the value of money.”

“You don’t know the difference between poor- and high-quality products because of your upbringing.”

I desperately wanted to please him; I tried to become the person he could love even more, and the person I felt he deserved. I loved being a part of his family and became more and more distant from my own (Jon helped me to screen calls).

My confidence was also carefully regulated in other ways:

“When I get home after talking with intelligent people all day, it’s nice to come home to you and switch off.”

“I don’t enjoy running or cycling with you because you’re not good enough to keep up. I don’t want to do it with you, and when we have children, I won’t want to do it with them either.”

“You’re crazy and no-one else would put up with you.”

“You need me. I’ll always look after you.”

“You’re just rebelling; you need to grow up.”

I absorbed everything he said without question and humbly tried to better myself and prove myself worthy of his love and attention – which, when it came, was so good it was addictive.

Clearly there came a point when I started to question his doctrines and think for myself. I felt I had become brainwashed into turning myself into his idea of a perfect woman – I wanted to be perfect, and I wanted him to have perfection. I loved hearing his praise and how he would proudly tell his colleagues he had the perfect wife who always kept the house clean and tidy, had the dinner on the table, behaved with decorum at all times, had quirky and interesting hobbies and was such fun to be around. Jon didn’t change me; I changed myself. After six years of living together it became second nature until I didn’t really know who I was anymore, or why. All I knew was, deep down, something felt a bit wrong.

After a year of distance growing between us through him working on his PhD, I began to realise that actually, I didn’t NEED him anymore. My confidence was growing and I could survive without him. I could cope running the house and looking after the dog all by myself, as well as supporting myself emotionally. I realised it would be healthy for me to begin to make friends to fill the voids when he was absent, and join me in the many activities that I yearned to do but for which Jon refused to accompany me – little things like going on a day trip, excursion, bike ride, funfair, to the beach, a party, local events. I also realised that if we were going to start a family soon, I had better make the most of the time I had left before the responsibility of children. However, as I begun to branch out, Jon began to panic.

I had never been to the local funfair and asked Jon to accompany me. I had long since given up on even asking Jon these sorts of questions – he always said no – but I thought it was only fair. Of course, he said no, so I informed him (for the first time ever – rather than requested his permission) that I was going to go, and I had a couple of friends to go with. I imagine he didn’t think I’d actually go through with it. When I did, he was so upset with me on my return that he wouldn’t speak to me. The next morning, he was desperate to make me realise how much I had upset him. I didn’t feel I had done anything wrong, but Jon felt differently, and would not let me leave the house for work until I had acknowledged how much my childish pursuit of fun had upset and unnerved him, and moreover, apologised for upsetting him. I was so used to yielding and apologising, but for the first time in years, I stood up to him. I stood my ground and reasoned that while it was a shame that he was upset, I didn’t feel I had done anything wrong nor had anything to apologise for. But Jon couldn’t cope with this. He needed an apology and for me to admit that I was wrong, otherwise I couldn’t go to work. In the end, I had to apologise, because a class of children waits for no-one, but I was very upset when I got to school and felt that something about the whole exchange was very wrong.

The rest is history. We unravelled, I moved out, and he refused to see me or speak to me ever again. It was like losing a limb. After having relied upon him for half my life, he was suddenly gone – it was a huge shock, from which I’m still not sure I’ve recovered, five years on. He gave me so much, and I repaid him by stringing him along for a decade and breaking his heart. Obviously we can only do what we think is best in the circumstances, but that doesn’t stop me examining my actions at every turn and trying to work out at what point I went so very wrong. I don’t know if I need to forgive him for making me abandon my sense of self, or if I need him to forgive me for following my head when I should have listened to my heart. At least I have learned some lessons along the way. Despite a rubbish couple of years during my teens, life, on the whole, is actually ok, and it is what you make of it. I have learned to be myself, speak my mind and follow my heart. And we all know where that has led me!