I Won't Forgive What You Did (33 page)

I opened my eyes. It was Warren.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It was a stupid argument. You just wound me up. I didn’t mean to hurt you – I just saw red and wanted to shut you up.’ He stroked my hand some more. ‘I really didn’t mean to hurt you.’

I was wide awake now – I felt such fear when I saw him, and I couldn’t help but jump at his touch. I watched him in silence for some time.

‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘You
arrived home
wound up. You were angry and just wanted to dump your mess on me.’

He shook his head.
‘No
, Faith, that wasn’t how it was.’ He looked down then. ‘But I’m going to move out.’

I would learn later that I wasn’t the only one shocked. Seeing the extent of my injuries was a big shock for Warren too. It was this that had prompted the spur of the moment decision to tell me he was going to move out. He really had thought I’d been making a big fuss about nothing – well, if not nothing, not terribly much. I knew this already, because Jennifer told me. The previous night – the night after the operation – when she’d gone home, he’d sat downstairs watching TV late into the evening. She could hear him from her bedroom, and he was laughing really hard. In the end, she’d gone down, unable to contain her fury at his lack of concern. ‘Mum’s in hospital!’ she’d shouted at him. ‘She’s had a big operation!’

But he’d just looked at her. ‘Oh, is she?’ he’d said, his voice indifferent. He then went back to his programme and resumed laughing.

Looking back, his reaction in the hospital makes sense – despite maintaining the blame still lay with me for making him angry, he still couldn’t bear to look at what he’d done.

I felt a range of emotions as he sat and spoke those words, but my principal one was of huge relief. This meant it was a decision I didn’t have to make. It was over, at last it was over. I didn’t need to be in this nightmare any longer. I felt so worn down, depleted, so tired of trying to make sense of it, that I felt genuinely relieved.

Just at that moment, Jennifer arrived. ‘Get out!’ she screamed immediately, her anger voluble and intense. ‘Get out! Stay away from her, you hear me?!’ She threw herself across the bed, forming a barrier between us. ‘Just get out!’ she said again, arms tightly around me, now sobbing. ‘Just get out and stay away. Right away!’

I tried to soothe her, reassure her that he wasn’t going to hurt me, while he just stood there impassively, with a slight smile on his face, which I couldn’t quite read. Did he think it was funny or was it just anxiety?

Whatever he felt, Warren, true to his word, moved out the next day and moved into the other house we hadn’t managed to sell yet. He took plenty with him, too, including pot plants and pictures. And, naturally, the television.

My period of reflection following my return from hospital and Warren's leaving turned out to be quite a short one. I was still, at this point, regularly seeing the therapist I’d been with since 1989, and it was to her, having told all the medical staff otherwise, that I told the whole truth. She was horrified. She told me that if I didn’t stop Warren it would happen again, and next time how did I know he wouldn’t kill me?

At this time I trusted my therapist completely, and it was she who informed many of my decisions. When I finished telling my story, she told me I must tell the police, and that I should also get legal advice. It was at her suggestion that I finally called the police and told them I needed to speak to someone about an incident in my home in which I had been hurt. I also got in touch with a female solicitor, who was kind and very helpful, and very shocked about what she also termed Warren’s domestic violence, and keen to start proceedings against him.

But to me it didn’t feel quite so straightforward as it appeared to my therapist. We’d also talked about the problem of Warren’s extreme temper. She pointed out he clearly had severe problems of his own, which was what was leading him to behave as he did. And, in contrast to what she’d said to me about informing the police, she also speculated that perhaps it was more my duty to
help
him – to make him better, and so heal our relationship. Having him arrested, in that case, could actually be seen as a way to help him, by calling a halt to any escalation of his violence. After all, she said, you wouldn’t treat an animal like that, would you? If it was lashing out because it was wounded, you’d try to help it. And because it was so ingrained in me to help other people before myself, her words really stuck. So though I felt dread at having to go back to him, and fear that in having him back there was no longer a way out, I essentially did what I was told. I also felt some relief that our lives weren’t going to separate completely, and there was at least a chance of putting everything right.

So it was that by the time the police officer called round to obtain further facts, Warren had already moved back in, and we’d begun the process of trying to move on. Which meant I didn’t
want
him arrested. I still felt unsure – a part of me wanted him to take responsibility, and to be made to see what he’d done; for him to hurt as he’d hurt me. But with no support I just didn’t have the strength to see it through – I was too afraid of the consequences. Warren was so credible, so charming, so quietly spoken, so respected and liked by everyone who knew him superficially and professionally – if I told the truth, who on earth was going to believe me? And what else might come out if I opened this can of worms? What impact might it have on my career? I was also afraid for
him –
I didn’t want to get him into so much trouble that it wrecked his whole life. Quite apart from anything else, he had children to consider, too – would it be right for me to do this to
them?

Thus I sat with him as he patiently explained to the officer there was absolutely nothing to worry about; it had all been a mistake; it had just been an argument that had gone too far. In fairness, the officer did press me; he needed my firm confirmation that I absolutely did not want to press charges. I gave it. He left. That was that.

And that really
was
that, for a time. We settled back into a routine, as before, without anything having really changed. Warren found a job in the city that meant he left home very early in the morning and didn’t return home till late at night. I was still committed to us making a go of things – what choice did I have? – but with my ongoing wrist problems, and still being in the huge plaster, I was finding day-to-day life hard. I was left-handed, so losing the use of that arm wasn’t just inconvenient, it was really debilitating. I couldn’t perform even the simplest of tasks, like making a sandwich, or doing up my bra; every tiny thing was really hard.

Though Jennifer helped when she could, Warren, of course, avoided the whole issue. Where he could easily have done a few things before leaving in the mornings that would have helped, it was as if he couldn’t face even accepting what had happened. I was desperate to talk about it, but he was adamant – and became angry every time I brought it up – that the only way forward was to put it behind us, and how could we do that while I kept going on?

So once again it became
my
problem. My problem emotionally, because I kept wanting to talk about what happened, and my problem, how to cope with the day-to-day chaos. All I wanted was for him to apologize, like he really meant it, but I soon realized that wasn’t going to happen.

I had to arrange my own transport to the hospital for my initial daily check-ups and ongoing physiotherapy – even when he was at home and could have taken me. Everything was my problem, as though what had happened to me wasn’t really anything to do with him.

The one really hard time in the early days following my surgery was when I had to have the plaster off so my stitches could be removed, after which they would put it back on. This was one appointment I really didn’t want to face without him – I was terrified of coming face to face with just how bad the injury was.

But he wouldn’t come, and when I saw my hand the trauma of the whole thing came crashing back, and while the nurse looked on, bemused – she obviously didn’t know the circumstances – I burst into tears of real distress that I found very hard to stop.

It was awful not being able to talk about what had really happened, though I think the physiotherapist assigned to me might have had an inkling, as there was no logic to the state I found myself in when she sat and manipulated my fingers.

They say life begins at forty, but my fortieth birthday was the biggest hint possible that mine wasn’t about to. My lovely daughter had arranged a surprise party, arranging beautiful food – an incredible spread – that she’d organized through a part-time job she had at a local caterers and deli. All Warren had to do was get me out of the house on the day so she could set everything up. As it was, he made such a fuss about how difficult this would be that she had to tell me.

She’d also invited some of my family, and they’d all said they’d be coming, meaning there was little room to invite many more. Needless to say, on the day, none of them showed up, leaving just six guests to share in my birthday celebrations, and a lot of magnificent food wasted.

It wasn’t long after this debacle when Warren arrived home from work and announced that we should marry. He had spoken before about this over the past couple of years, but understandably with my experience of marriage so far – not to mention our tempestuous relationship and his temper – I’d naturally been reluctant. Now, however, he also added an ultimatum. We were ‘going nowhere’ apparently, and unless we got married should call it a day.

To this day, I don’t understand what prompted this. Was it control? He was, after all, a very controlling person, used to getting women to do as he told them. Was it that he needed me? If so, I had no indication. Loved me? Did he even understand the concept? All I knew was this made everything between us different. This was a declaration of commitment. Faced with an alternative scenario – us splitting up – I felt I had no choice but to say yes. I was on antidepressants, and feeling so low already, life without him didn’t bear thinking about. I looked into a future on my own and all I could see was, well, nothing. I certainly didn’t feel any of the things I thought I should feel; when I thought about Warren I felt fear and uncertainty. I didn’t trust him and I felt completely mixed up. But then, I’d spent my entire life in damaged and damaging relationships so this was nothing new. But neither did I agree to it blindly.

By now I had an ally. My therapist had originally suggested that I write to the hospital and tell them the truth, and confide in my GP. My GP became my confidant – he was so kind when I went to him, and so angry when he read the notes about the injury sent by the hospital. He said it was a horrific injury and, unknown to me, contacted a respected psychiatrist, begging him to see me, because he thought I was in danger and needed help to realize how important it was that I get out. Unfortunately, the psychiatrist had a conflict of interests at that point, and because of this had to refuse. (I would find him again a decade later, when he’d come into, and remain central to my life.)

At this time I had a revelation. I was attending meetings of the group Al-Anon, who counsel families and loved ones of alcoholics. I began to go because I’d become increasingly concerned about Jennifer’s relationship with alcohol. From the age of sixteen – not surprisingly, given the nature of our home life – she had been drinking at dangerous levels. She’d be drunk at weekends, and sometimes even during college, and she’d been left by her friends in my car after a Saturday night out, unconscious, with a blanket over her. Sometimes, she wouldn’t come home for two or three days. I had joined Al-Anon so that I could deal with being ‘co-dependent’ and help her deal with her problems. At that point I had little understanding of what that meant, only that I felt responsible, frightened and guilty. My life was apparently so consumed with trying to please Warren – particularly now – I’d neglected my own flesh and blood.

During my visits, I wouldn’t speak – I would just listen to others’ stories, and became upset to the point of crying. I cried through almost every meeting I attended – and these were tears I didn’t feel safe enough to cry anywhere else. Being in such a caring, non-judgemental environment gave me hope that, in time, my life could be better, that I’d finally find somewhere to belong.

But I was beginning to notice something odd happening. I would listen to people’s stories and all the time think not about Jennifer but, ‘That’s Warren. That’s what Warren does. That sounds like Warren.’ It wasn’t long before a huge revelation came to light. It was around four in the morning when I awoke to the plain fact. It wasn’t Jennifer who was the alcoholic, I realized. It was
Warren.
Suddenly everything became clear. Why hadn’t I seen this before? It had never occurred to me that Warren might be an alcoholic. Yet he so obviously was. All those bottles he brought home, the fact that he drank every night – and sometimes at lunchtimes too. The way he knew the location of every pub for miles, the way his mood changed and he’d become so aggressive. The way I’d behave too – it was all so blindingly obvious – how I would be so anxious around him and also around alcohol, keeping an eye on how much was in bottles, and pouring alcohol down the sink when he wasn’t looking. It was clear. It wasn’t Warren that was the problem – it was drink. If I could help him get free of it then I could help
him.

But even in this I felt guilty. Because when I ventured to suggest that drink might be his problem, he, of course, ridiculed me. ‘Oh, it’s never
you
, is it?’ he said. ‘It’s always somebody else, me. It’s always Little Miss Perfect with you.’