Sunny Day

Today is a sunny day in Perth. The grass in my front yard is drying out. It is a sparse array of long and spindly grass heads. The place looks neglected. Out the back weeds are growing between the paving stones. A breeze is buffeting one leafy tree. My clothesline is beginning to be engulfed by the new growth of this tree. I don't have the mental energy to tackle the task of pruning or cutting, sorting, or any household clearing. I'm worn out. Just being here for my children is all I can muster the energy for. Inside I'm parched of love. I need of a kind word, a pat on the back, some loving understanding, a friend. That particular luxury is not going to come my way I don't think. I must keep trudging forward though. Each step is a test of endurance.
I'm at home again by myself and like it that way, sheltered from the unintentional blows of indifference, unkindness and malicious gossip. My car is in for a service.
I'm wounded, hurting. My boyfriend rings up with a whole new mouthful of lies about who he has recently been overseas with and who he is now with interstate, and expects me to believe him. He knows that I know what he says are lies. Yet I'm supposed to accept lies.
Is this a good thing? If I could feel less bound to my mothering role, I'd do something about it by actively going out and finding another lover. As it is I don't want to desert the home. His dissatisfaction at the amount of time I can give him makes him moody, yet he declines to discuss how we can make more time to be together. He wants me in his home, control over my home and my money, and no kids. This seems very unfair from my personal point of view.
So he's making do with my girlfriend, though I don't think he loves her. But if he works under the assumption that I will accept anything given time, he is wrong. I'm not going to get used to the idea that he has two women. Nor will I be one of the women. It's only because I'm in my self-inflicted trap and he is my only chance of affection from someone I know, right now when he gets back, that I'm giving him head space at all. Once I'm freer on the weekends again I'll be able to go out and meet someone else.
I don't accept that he can have two women. I will not live with that. When he rings next week I'll tell him so. He'll deny that he has had anything to do with my girlfriend, and say that it is all in my head and I should get counselling. That is when I'll have to break it off with him. I am convinced I feel love for him though. I understand and like the way he is. Though he seems very influenced by his close family who don't love me. Some of his nasty strategies regarding bullying and intimidation, getting me to abandon mothering in favour of him, come from his family I feel. But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he really is that selfishly monstrous spoilt child, destructively driving to have what he wants at the expense of others.
My 'ex' friends all know. I sense my exclusion, but because I'm used to that, put it down to being 'their problem'. Now I realise that some of those friends had been getting together socially with my ex-girlfriend and ex-boyfriend even though I was not aware that we had 'broken up', and certainly we weren't 'broken up' in the bedroom three or so times a week.

I'm attractive, intelligent, kind, responsible, aware, selfless in the face of duty to my offspring. Many people don't value or understand these traits. No friends understand me. New friends who seek to, I back away from. "Come along to tennis open day." says one girl who I admire. She is married with kids, active in clubs and around school. I'm flattered and honoured and say I'll try. Don't think I can do it, too sick at heart, too used to being at home in case someone needs something. I'm too afraid to get out there and be a part of a club, be normal. Not only that, I love tennis but the self-discipline I need to make me go, is lacking.
Deep inside I'm still that neglected little girl who never knew guidelines, boundaries, encouragement or approval. Inside if a could just be the person I have outwardly become, I wouldn't be the enigma and disappointment to so many who would befriend me. Perhaps people view me with suspicion when I don't open up and join in with things.
Actually, all that is not quite true. I have been active in canteen at school and committees to organise events for children. I was once in a book club, a karaoke singing group. I'm not an outcast. I swim and walk. Tennis, I'd always have to stop to wipe my running nose. I'd get puffed too easily. I've only had a few lessons and then played with the children. So in actual fact, tennis is not really for me.
What is true is that I'm worn out emotionally. I can't find the energy to get out and try any more. The betrayals of friends, the nasty social dishonesty and jealousy of people or of their childrens achievements, have slain me. I give up due to lack of strength.
My major pride and joy is seeing and hearing the achievements of my children. One said to me that he feels happy when he is striving for something, and that always takes hard work, which caused him a moments unhappiness at the thought of all the hard work he puts in to get happy. That means he is always working hard, but not fanatically at either sport or his studies. He regulates himself under the watchful yet non-judgemental eye of me who is mostly always upbeat, silly and irrelevant. No wonder they seldom feel the need to be demonstrative. I know they love me. Sometimes I even get thanked for a meal, or the chocolate I bought for a treat.

Mopping

While mopping the kitchen floor today I thought of a friend I'd made when we lived in the Pilbara. We had babies not far apart, like about six months, her one came before mine, but before the babies arrived we would often spend time together.
She came from central Europe where she had run a ski chalet. Cleaning and cooking were her fortes, but she once ran over a flock of birds outide the flats because she didn't think she should slow down for them. You don't slow down for things, they must get out of a drivers way, she explained. Another thing, was that she used a great amount of salt in her cooking. Sometimes her rigidity bothered me, especially when she couldn't help but point out the flaws in my cleaning techniques. "Your home is dirty" she would tell me and grab a scourer from the sink to scrub a mark off the floor then put it back. She would catch a look of contempt on my face sometimes. I regret allowing her to see that. But one thing that I found unacceptable about her was putting floor germs onto the sink. She wasn't the sort of person I could argue with though. But if I only washed the floors every few weeks then it was my business, and I certainly didn't use the dishes scourers for the job.
Then in the bathroom today, I pictured her pointing to the toilet brush and saying "You haven't cleaned that, its obvious." We drifted apart over time. Rigid, proud yet free of arrogance and likable is how I fondly remember her. Pity I didn't learn more while I had the chance.

I like to keep my hands clean and I like to shower frequently. I can't bear stickiness on me or on surfaces. I really dislike that 'animal' smell people get when they haven't washed. My house sometimes smells when the kitty litter needs changing. All the ceiling fans need cleaning. I hardly ever wipe the walls or doors, or clean the windows. Papers build up on the table surfaces. I'm a slob maybe, and don't welcomc visitors because I don't like being judged on it.

My Story - Between months of hitchiking and working in out-of -the-way places I would be at home with Mum and Stephen in Newcastle. During those times I tried to be good to Stephen but ended up always screaming at him in frustration. Then I'd hate myself and remember that I was behaving just like the way Dad had always behaved towards us. He always acted like he hated us while Mum always acted like she felt sorry for us. In passing that is, because they were busy with their own lives. One thing we learnt from them was that you look after 'number one'.

My uterus was pointing backward. Perhaps I had never fallen pregnant because of that, apart from my periods only coming every few months. I had a funny discharge and was given four tablets to take and another four to give to the boyfriend who was fast drifting out of my life without me understanding why.
I had a drinking problem. Once a week I'd have to get drunk.
I met a guy. He asked my to marry him. I'd only known him a week. He'd stay at my mothers house sometimes, sleeping with me, but could never please me. The more he tried to the more I hated him. Mum liked him and would ask me why I treated him so badly. I didn't have an answer. He stopped coming by. I tried to hound him but he avoided me.

During that time with him I heard a voice in the night in my head that asked me if I wanted to get pregnant and have the baby adopted out. I said yes, if it would help. The guy had already gone when I discovered that I was pregnant. I so wanted to 'get him' that I went to a legal-aide lawyer, but nothing could be done.
Via outpatients, I was given the oportunity to visit with a psychaitrist. Every few weeks I flooded her office with tears. I'd go away broken, but I lived for those visits.
"There is something wrong with me" I told her. "I don't know what it is or even how to begin to fix it." The aching hurt, the shame at admitting that, brought out a lot of sobbing from me and she put the tissue box within reach.
"Maybe if the baby was a girl I'd consider keeping it, but I don't want to keep it."
"You have a lot of tears." She said, then continued.
"What will you do once the baby has been born and adopted out?"
"I might move back to Melbourne." I paused, "I might commit suicide." I said. It wasn't the first time I'd thought of it. I'd stood next to a seventh storey window wondering if I could make myself jump out. Only the memory of my love of sunday school in the Dandenong Ranges caused pause to think what a sin I'd be committing.
Going forward was beginning to look increasingly difficult though, I told the psychaitrist. I was afraid of reaching that place where I could no longer find a way to keep going. I'd been reading self-help books, travelling, trying to be different, to evolve, to learn the truth about myself and the world. But me was with me the whole time. I couldn't run away from me. I couldn't change because I didn't know how to.
I couldn't bring up a baby, I told her. I wouldn't know how. Nor could I take a pristine, beautiful baby into my mother's filthy environment.
She listens to me. I talk. I cry. She listens.
Then she says that after the baby is born maybe I'd like to engage in a course of psychotherapy. She has a student in need of a client.
This is my lifeline I realise. I can live and not die. She is saving me. So I say yes I would like that very much.
I keep seeing that wonderful woman right up until the baby is born. She even visits me in hospital. She asks me if it made a difference to me whether I had a boy or a girl once the baby was born. I told her no. I hadn't changed my mind.
I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. An ex-boyfirned and the current boyfriend I started going out with at six months pregnant both brought flowers. I re-assured the ex-boyfriend that he wasn't the father. My mother visited and tried to convince me to keep the baby, that she would look after the baby for two years then I could have her back. I couldn't send this poor baby away. Mum was feeling sorry for the baby. I lay down on the bed and turned my back on her.

I breastfed that baby in hospital for ten days because I wanted to give her anti-bodies and make sure she had the best start with mother's milk. I had her at feeding times and not before or in between. The thought of the baby screaming in the nursery for its mum didn't cross my mind.

I have to say that my next three babies were never allowed by me to cry. They cried and I picked them up and fed them or otherwise made them comfortable.

But back then, with that baby, I had no concept of the baby being a human being that I should give everything I can to to make her happy.

After ten days I left the hospital without the baby. My milk was in, and my boyfriend asked if I was alright when I suddenly broke down into tears because my breasts were sore, full and leaking and the baby wasn't getting the milk. My boyfriend always was quite aloof. He didn't expect much from my body. He left me alone unless a pushed myself onto him for sex. Then it was just that, no foreplay. I recovered quietly from the ordeal by myself.
I saw the baby again six weeks later and my mother nursed the baby through most of the interview until at the very end I took the baby from her for a short hug before giving her back. I believe she went to a good home and I'm so glad about that.

Holidays

Its school holidays in Perth. I'm going to a party tonight. yesterday a bought flowers and wine. some of the flowers are for me, and the wine too; My birthday and my friends birthday. I packaged up some soap and some cards, both made by me. I'm looking forward to tonight.

If my ex-boyfriend rings I should say " You and her are a match made in heaven. Here is my blessing."

I should say this and not be taunted by them being together and him denying it.
Anyway, I'll always be involved with my kids. I care about them and would run to them if they need me when they are grown-up. I like being with them, making sure they are ok.

Maybe I should consider life without a partner.



I have been cleaning. I picked up tips on how to clean from womens chat and books, since it wasn't done very much at home when I was growing up. I drizzle bleach around the rim of the toilet and onto the tiles in the bath/shower. The toilet is old and some brown stains never go away. I use bleach to clean the white lino of the kitchen floor. Then I mop it with water.

From one ex-boyfriend, of Greek descent, I learnt a really good way of doing the dishes. I put washing-up liquid onto a sponge, and using it I soap up all the plates and glasses and cutlery. Then I rinse them under hot water and fill the sink at the same time. Then I soak more dishes in there, rinse them under running water over the adjoining, smaller sink. Then I get sick of that job and leave the rest to soak until I make a cup of tea later, then I do a few more while the kettle is boiling.

The sink is always full of water gone cold with scum on the top and the smaller sink has dishes piled in that too, the plug hole is slimy with old food and the stainless steel is dull with grime.

I wash some dishes at least once a day, more times usually, but can never get to the end of it. If we have a party though, I clean up the place. The vents high up in a long wall facing the kitchen and lounge are very dark with dust. I must clean them if we ever have a party again.


We have an intantaneous , small gas heater outside the bathroom. I don't turn the kitchen taps on when someone is in the shower, or allow the washing machine to run. The cold or the hot water pressure can't cope with two outlets at once going.





My story - Back in my twenties, while working, I suffered from huge, chronic anxiety and never ending feelings of inadequacy. Going to work at any job I'd bluff out some confidence though. I would either verbally attack fellow workers, especially if they tried to 'boss' me, or I would keep very quiet and not relate with anyone. I would try to work to the best of my ability, even if my hands were shaking as I served people in a restaurant, and I'd quickly re-wash the sheets if I dropped them in the red sand of the outback. But I always took pride in the fact that I had a job. After a few months each time I'd move on. I'd always find another job in another town then plan my next move.

Holidays

Good

My story is good. I'm perfectly entitled to tell my story. If I'm arguing with myself well then that's ok. I need to write it. That is the truth.
My life is filled with good fortune. I have healthy kids who take me for granted but don't overstep. They know what I expect from them - to reach their full potential - if they keep striving they know I am here for them. I don't take my eyes off them. Childrearing being like tending a garden. You have to keep at it. Turn your head and the weeds are growing and the sappling trees without a stake for support bend, maybe even break. The potential for beautiful flowers gets choked away by nutrient sucking creepers.
I have a home and kids to nurture. I am blessed. I tell them I'm going to live to be one hundred and three. That is what I want to do because I would like to be around for them forever. The last thing I want to see is them being hurt by my passing.
I pray and pray all the time to be allowed to do that.
My periods have stopped. They do that when I'm underweight. When I get happy, like if I have a boyfriend and I have someone to dream about, I put weight back on and the periods come back. This time its different because I only have my ex-boyfriend to think about, and those thoughts are linked to the pain of his duplicity. Yet I understand. Only, what if it carries on once he gets back. What if he keeps seeing her while expecting to see me at the same time, when I'm free. That's going to cause me alot of anguish. Perhaps the whole thing will come to its natural conclusion, and I'll be able to move on, eventually.
I'm not eating much. I'm yearning and hiding my tears when we watch any movie that tugs on any of my emotions. Its school holidays so we've been watching movies on tv late into the night. My insides ache with a longing that I can't see what to do about.
My periods have stopped. But at my age, maybe they won't come back this time. Not that I have any other symptoms. Not alot of sex-drive, that could be a sign, or it could be that I've buried the drive for love. I really think it has waned though.
My story :- From age sixteen to age twenty-six I slept with many men. At first it just happened. Then I started saying no. I was a teaser sometimes, easy the next. With some men, I couldn't sleep with them. Something inside warned me that I had no understanding of their expectations of me. Others just knew how to take and then abandon me. Relationships never lasted more than about three months. I never cared for the person. They could never please me no matter what they did. On one occasion when I was taken out to dinner I hardly touched the food. On another I made myself puke in the bathroom after eating. My main aim was to save money and that miserly attitude overrode any considerations of the individual I was relating with at the time. I spent alot of time hitch-hiking, staying in youth hostels, getting hotel work or hospital work in remote places. A person threatened me with a knife but I didn't give in to him then the next night I all but gave in to a guy because I happened to be stuck in a hotel room with him. He let me stay with him after giving me a lift. I couldn't give in totally on account of having my period. He didn't ask for anything else. I never did anything else anyway, unless I was forced. Sometimes boyfriends insisted on other things. Sometimes they were smelly and I'd dry-retch. I drove all my boyfriends away with nastiness. The normal guys who were prepared to like me, I drove away. Not that I knew it at the time. At the time I'd feel the heartbreak and put it down to him being just another bastard. I travelled overseas and survived on my own, scrimping and hitchhiking. My goal was to go to every county. I knew how to save, how to be poor.
I came home to Newcastle for respite. Mum and Dad had split up. Dad stayed in the Dandenong Ranges house. They sold the Williamstown house and Mum bought a house in Newcastle. Stephen moved with her. Later Sebastion, my older brother moved from Melbourne too, to be closer to Mum. He was married with kids.
I moved home, and fought with Stephen for the best available bedroom in the house. I won. He had to sleep on the closed in verandah. The dog always barked. I don't think we kept its water bowl filled. It harassed the postman who reported the dog. I blamed Stephen for not keeping its bowl filled. Stephen didn't wash or change his clothes. Sometimes he soiled his pants and didn't care. His piano thumping grew less. Once he scared some chilren when they discovered him curled up under a bush during a local festival we went to.
He was diagnosed schizophrenic. As outpatient at Watt Street he was supposed to take medication. He was quiet and docile but Mum told me that when I was away once he threw a sugar basin at her that smashed against a wall.
I took him on a drive once, before one of his appointments. We drove along fire tracks in the mountains. The track wouldn't come to an end and eventually I had to turn around and drive back. I dropped him for his appointment half an hour late. He didn't complain or react.
My children are getting up so I can't keep writing. Time to cut up some fresh apple and banana and put out the bowls for cereal. I'll nibble on some leftover chips from last night and have a cup of tea. Maybe I should make some toast. Farewell for now.

Sunny

Sunny today. I've been into town. I'm tired and low on energy; tired of this blocked nose and the coughing. It's surprising how many steps one can walk up and down taking public transport; so many steps in railway stations. I visited two shops. They kindly take my cards on consignment. I swapped a few of the items over for fresh ones but came away without any money. That's because the right contacts weren't there. Yesterday I drove to two outlets and came home with seventy-five dollars. Three hours yesterday by car and three hours today by car, train and bus.

My ex-boyfriend has sent a message of love from Europe by sms, plus the international numbers prefixing his telephone number, saying his phone will collect the charge. I'm not going to ring him.
My Date from a few weeks back has disappeared into history. Nobody else is pursuing me. I have thoughts only for my ex-boyfriend.
What to do though. He'll eventually be back and maybe he'll never give up my girlfriend. Maybe he'll want to see her and see me too. That is not something I'll tolerate. I've told him so. If he dumps her I'm bound to hear about it. Surely she wouldn't give him up without a public fight. I just can't see how he could give her up and expect the details of his duplicity to stay hidden. That is why I think he can't give her up. If he can't give her up then I'll have to give him up.
Two years more in my mothering role. I can't hope to keep him. I understand his impatience. He wants to 'live'. My kids are not his kids. Maybe I shouldn't even bother trying to have a boyfriend or look forward to a future with someone.
All there is is sickness anyway. I'll just have reached a position when I have plenty of time on my hands, when the partner who has settled with me will start getting sick and I'll have to nurse him. When my time eventually comes to be free, I'll be stuck looking after someone and won't be able to travel.
I don't understand the love I feel for him. Nor do I trust it. Maybe its not love at all. He is not good for me. He drinks every day. I only drink when I'm with someone, out of nerves possibly. We talk alot and just sit around enjoying each others company. We go out to pubs and dance. He buys me dinner sometimes. I cook alot at his place. That was months ago now.
Of all the boyfriends I've had since the marriage broke up, he has lasted the longest.

Many boyfriends. But I've always gone into a relationship with the best of intentions. If I can sleep with a guy, I reason, then I'll sleep with him for the rest of my life. If I can't even start something then I let them know I'm not ready for a relationship. My mantra is 'kindness'. I shrivel at the thought of hurting anybody. There were many boyfriends before psychotherapy, there have been alot after my marriage broke up too. Not that I wanted it that way. My situation; three young children and me boasting about how I'm so proud to be able to devote my life to them. No man wants to hear it. Then, the army of married men looking for regular mistresses or regular 'one night stands', knowing just how to take advantage of lonely, deserted mothers. They say soothing words, lies, anything to start something up that doesn't go beyond the next day.
The constant rejection, the pain of being dumped and deceived, that I thought had been left behind in my youth, is a constant companion. I'm getting dumped, deceived, used, for reasons other than being a 'sitting duck'. Atleast I don't do it back. I take it, stick to my ideals. I know what is important; doing my duty to my kids, and being kind. I don't find life easy though, that constant rejection. I get knocked over and I get up and try again, to get rejected after a few months or a night. I never give up hope though, just get a bit sad sometimes.

Boring Story

It all seems so boring now, my story. Thank you for reading whatever I'm writing, whoever reads. Does it really matter that this forum is public? What can anybody do to me? Should I be afraid of anything? I am anonymous aren't I? The worst I see happening is me boring any would-be readers away to a more interesting blog.
I have millipedes curled up on my walls. When they fall to the floor and I accidentally stand on them they crunch. One cat is curled up on the washing in the backroom. The garden is a jungle. Washing needs hanging out. It is a drizzly day in Perth.

OK. back to my story. I bare my all to a computer screen, confident in the hope that nobody knows who I am.
I was with my brother Stephen in the back of a postal collection van and had wet my pants. That spoiled our trip around with our father on his shift.
Dad collected me from a musical at school in that van, and he must have had the job for years because he gave me a lift home from a nursing job many years later in it as well.
He wasn't a member of the communist party in Melbourne, as far as I know. That didn't stop him from maintaining his strong views on subjects like 'the moneyless society' and black holes. Every waking hour was spent arguing his point. He was always right and seemed to pick on us constantly for our views so he could argue us down. The newspapers were treated to a constant supply of letters to the editor. Once he was invited to defend his stance on communism on a radio show. He declined, telling us that he was probably being 'set-up'.
Dad retired at around sixty. He and Mum lived in the Williamstown house. They sold the Box Hill house to pay out the Williamstown house loan. Dad kept the Dandenong Ranges house because it was his War Service home. Which meant that the loan repayments were at a very low interest rate.
For a while his Mum, my Grandma lived with them until Mum couldn't take Grandma waiting for her at the front gate, watching her walk up the street from the train station after work.
Grandma moved on to another relatives home.
Mum and Dad towed a caravan to Western Australia. they visited my half-brother Jason in the north-west town of Dampier, and were gone a couple of months.
Stephen and I smoked a lot of dope while they were away.
Jason had married a Singaporean woman. They lived in a flat. She wanted Jason to help her daughter get citizenship in Australia. Jason insisted that the daughter should just 'disappear' when she come over, and that they don't need him to help her. The marriage broke up eventually and his wife went back to live in Singapore.
Mum and Dad came back to Melbourne and hosted three hitch-hikers they had collected along the way. Stephen and I felt even more neglected when these two men and a woman came into the house and all we wanted was some parenting, even at our late ages of about seventeen and nineteen. Poor Stephen. I was always mad at him. I would work and he wouldn't. I cook a meal and he wouldn't eat it. "What is this anyway?" He'd say, pointing at the food.
I'd fly into a fury and seek out passages of the bible that he should read so to understand the error of his ways.
Our dog was always staring at me and I thought that even the dog wanted to have sex with me. Everyone else did, so why not the dog. Not Stephen of course. The dog probably just wanted a drink of water and some food. Stephen, also had normal urges I'm sure, because a number of years later he was reported and the police came to the house. Apparently he had been exposing himself to female passersby, inside the front screen door. But they could see what he was doing.

While Mum and Dad were away, every day Stephen would pound furiously on the piano for hours on end, tuneless raging notes, slamming the keys. I could hardly bare it. then the hictch-hikers were in the house and then living in the caravan now returned to the side driveway. One of the guys made a move on me which I rebuffed because they were in our home and I didn't like it. Mum had to find them somewhere to live to get them off our property. She paid the bond money and helped them move into their own flat. We didn't see them again after that.

Stephen left school early for an apprenticeship in the painting trade. We were living at the Box Hill house. He would try to wash his overalls in the copper in our rickety, weatherboard laundry shed. He also bleached some new Lee jeans there and ended up burning holes in them. I think that he stopped turning up for work which is why he lost that apprenticship. Nobody helped him or looked after him. He didn't have the capacity for doing his own washing, getting himself up and there on time.
After Mum and Dad came back from Western Australia, Stephen went to Tasmania. He lived for months in Youth hostels and came back with a wide-eyed girlfriend who stayed at our house for a week or so. She maintained that Stephen was just a 'friend'. When she moved on we never saw her again.
I would drag Stephen along to my favourite pubs on my times off even if he didn't want to go. He could hardly withstand my vicious onslaughts and so would give in to me. He was known and accepted by my nursing friends.
My sexual encounters happened and weren't repeated with the same person most of the time. I didn't want to be used so wouldn't let the same person use me again. I also thought that maybe I was using myself, that maybe I could salvage some pride by telling myslef that I was notching up a tally that I could be proud of.
One evening coming home from work I met a decent young man and invited him home to my bedroom. It was late and my parents were in the room across the hall.
We had sex and when it was over I told him to get out. "Get out" I said in my nastiest style.
He pleaded with me "Give me another chance!"
Cold and icelike I repeated "Get out." I followed him to the front door and slammed it on his back.
Soon after that I came into my room during the day and Dad was lounging on my bed, hands behind his head, ankles crossed. I remained standing in the doorway, hand on the door knob.
What to do; nowhere to sit on that side of the bed. I'd have to walk to the other side. I had a double bed. He just wanted to talk to me. I'm sure he left eventually, without anything bad happening.
I have screamed and brow-beaten Stephen to get my way. I have had sex with people and thrown them out. I have found myself thrown out on the street after sex. I've been taken advantage of in cars, forced into having sex then put out. Too many examples to remember. All I know is that I escaped. Ten years of selfish, abusive behaviour returned with abuse enforced on me ended when I fell pregnant and decided to have the baby adopted.