Date: 12.10.2021 Location: Manchester, UK Age: 41 Weight: Just kill me now Marital Status: Divorcing Dear Diary, My name is Lei Lawson. I am a 41-year-old, soon to be divorcee, single Mum of a 4-year-old child of Satan (or Turk in my case). It’s been quite some time since I put pen to paper (or, typed and blogged). I most certainly have another diary in me, alas, now is not the time. So, for now, a blog post it shall be. You may wonder why you are hearing from me now, instead of say, when I have the motivation to start an actual diary? Well, I feel compelled to get certain things off my chest you see. The time has come to unburden and offload, and then, maybe – just maybe, I won’t feel the need to kill someone on a daily basis. What is it they say, the truth shall set you free? Fucking hope so because I’m being made out to be the biggest villain in the history of women. Should my ex have his way, I would be burnt at the stake, along with the rest of my kind. My kind being cheating whore British bitches. Oh yeah…. I’m not going to lie, it’s been a hard old slog. I won’t go as far to say that I have been to hell and back, but in the last 2 years it has come pretty damn close. But, nothing can keep a good woman down, and that dear diary, is exactly what I am - no matter what shit comes out of the Turks mouth. Obviously, I know I can be a bit of a cunt on occasion, can’t we all? But on this particular occasion, I think I have been pretty fucking tolerant. Now, there are always 3 sides to every story, mine, his, and somewhere in the middle therein lies the truth. But as this is my blog, my truth goes something like this: Having a baby does something to even the most fucked up of human. Shit the bed, learning how to be a brand-new parent was literally NOTHING like I thought it would be. Not one thing other people said prepared me for it, and oh how they tried. 1, 3 and 5am feeds were the norm. As was looking like I had got dressed in a skip. Thankfully, at 7 months, Lennie Mai slept through when I stopped giving in to her milk whims, and she realised that water was shit and not worth waking up for. Bravo – water weening does actually work! Getting out on time anywhere was a thing of the past. I would rock up to meet friends a good hour and a half late because I forgot to factor in getting the baby ready. FML, no one warns you about babies on changing tables, do they? For one, you can’t leave it up there alone, and for two they like to piss 3 foot in the air while up there naked, spraying everything in sight. So timekeeping tends to go right out of the window when you have to do a wardrobe change, mop up a puddle of piss, wipe down your pissy baby, then battle with the fucker to bend their knees to get into an outfit. Oh the life of a Mum. A Mum. Not a Dad. Well, not Lennie’s Dad anyway… Don’t get me wrong, he would do the occasional early morning feed if he could hear her crying through his gaming earphones in the lounge. And he would also change a shitty nappy. And once in a blue moon he would have a go at feeding her, all the while shouting from the rooftops what a ‘hands on’ Dad he was. My arse. Obviously, the vast majority was left to me, as I knew it would be, and do you know what? I was fine with that. Of course, I missed sleeping a full 8 hours, and I kinda missed my old party girl lifestyle, but hey – I had me a baby, and a smiley one at that. Yes, when she was good, she was bloody golden. Her laugh was, and still is, infectious. These days, her chubby baby cheeks may have gone, but her sassitude is on a whole other level. I sometimes wonder if I actually miss the first 6 months of parenthood? Hard to fucking say. She developed the terrible twos at 11 months old. And that’s what I’ve been dealing with ever since. Nothing at all wrong with a spirited kid, in fact, its kids like mine that are the future leaders of the world – but fuck me, meltdowns and me do not mix. I had no idea back then how to deal with them, and I’ve still no idea now. I’ve googled the living shit out of how-to sooth a kid in full on demon mode, but nothing worked. Super Nanny I am not. I mean what are you supposed to do with a possessed little toddler when they are following you around trying bite, scratch and kick you? Shout, cuddle, make soothing cooing noises, walk away and ignore them? Nope – because none of the above helps. In fact, fuck all helps. Especially not the onlooking public casting judgments left right and centre when a meltdown occurs in a supermarket. All because you are trying to be a good Mum and not give in to every item that Satan has thrown in the trolley. Who needs a pack of adult nappies anyway? Oh me, cos I still leak when I sneeze. Or laugh. Or cough. Or its cold. Fair play Lennie, I’ll let you off with that one. So, lets fast forward to April 2019 when me, the terrorist and the Turk moved from Marmaris to the UK, something I never ever thought would happen, yet it did. I kissed goodbye to 22 years of life in Turkey and boarded the plane into the unknown. I mean, not entirely unknown, I am British ffs, but with 22 years out of ye ole British life, it was an adjustment to say the least. We ‘back doored’ it for the Turk to move here. Basically, he got a tourist visa and never went back. That’s all well and good until you realise that said Turk is not able to work on a tourist visa and is under your feet 24/7. And that, dear diary, is when the seed of rot began. I started to pick up on all his little nuances that once were never an issue because he was always out at work, but now began to grate on my every last nerve. Who knew that my husbando was such a lazy, unwilling, unmotivated shit house? Well, me, had I have paid more attention to him than my new born, but that’s hindsight for you. I was going to leave him before now you know. On more than one occasion. Why didn’t I before having the baby? Because I wanted that baby, but if I had, Lennie Mai wouldn’t be here, and I would still be in Turkey, married to the wrong man. As it turns out, Lennie Mai is here, and that’s what its all about. What’s the ‘it’ that I’m referring to? Well, if you remember back to my very last diary, I may have mentioned that she is the prophesy. That has not changed. Maybe my meds need to, but that vision has not. She is the John to my Sarah Connor, and that is the only way I can explain it. But can I just ask, how the fuck do I have a 4-year-old? Seriously, does time turbo charge when you pop a sprog as I don’t remember it speeding by this quickly pre-sprog? Anyway, I digress, something else that hasn’t changed. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought the Turk to the UK and perhaps continued living through those rose tinted glassed in Marmaris, but just as in ‘Lost’ – it only ends once, and the ending probably would only have happened here. One thing about them rose tinted glasses, they have a smashing ability to get smacked right off one’s face. And they did. With the full force of the UK. I can’t explain it. All I can say is this: Yes, we were chalk and cheese in Turkey, but moving to the UK really highlighted everything about our toxic relationship. And toxic is exactly what it was. I see that now. Not that this is a great example, but he never wanted to do anything. You would think that he would want to get out and explore his new surroundings, and be excited by it, yet it was a job to get him out of the house and over to Chester for a half hour on the pedalos. And even when on the pedalos, all he would do is moan, so much so that we would simply go home again. It got to the point where I would take Lennie out with friends instead, while he sat in the house and gamed. Just the way he liked it. But was that the way I liked it? Somewhere within all of this, sex started becoming a chore, and that very same chore started to become unbearable. I did not wish to have his hand on my leg let alone his penis in my mouth. Gross, just gross. So our ‘planned’ regular twice a week jump became a ‘planned’ once a week duty, that became once every 2 weeks, then once a month, and so on and so forth. I say ‘planned’ as it wasn’t a spontaneous session of lust and passion. Oh no. He didn’t even sleep in bed with me. Nope, that stopped years ago as he said he didn’t want to wake me up when he couldn’t sleep, so, since before even Lennie was born, he’s slept on the sofa, both back in Marmaris and here in the UK. If I’m honest, I don’t for one minute think it was so that I wasn’t disturbed. I think it was because he was addicted to his bastard gaming, and nothing and no one could shift him once he sat his lazy crack on his gaming chair. It didn’t start off like this of course. When we were dating, he was still working in the bar so if he was coming to my house, he would jump straight in bed and jump my bones. It was only when we first moved in together that I saw the first glimpse of the gaming addition. But even then, it was not a ‘red flag’ as such, because he was more interested in me than the games. Alas, I clearly lost my shine. At first, I didn’t think I minded him not sleeping in bed, after all, who doesn’t love to be spread starfish on a bed all to themselves - but looking back now, it really took its toll. ***Shit, emotion alert *** Was that just a twinge of sadness I felt? Fuck me, I suppose that writing about this is bringing back old feelings that should have been dealt with by now, especially since it’s been one full year since he moved out. Alas… I think it’s pretty fair to say I have not processed my emotions well. Not. At. All. In fact, before, during and after the move out, I didn’t cry, not even once. This could be because I gave him so many opportunities to be the man that he should have been, telling him what would happen if he didn’t pull his big boy socks up, having my parents come in to mediate one evening and him losing his shit in front of them – well, my tears were cried inwardly and for a long time. And I was simply done. I had got to my breaking point. Actually, I was probably there 3 years ago, it just takes me a little longer to action it than most. What was so bad I hear you ask? Surly you don’t need to go out with your hubby all the time. No, you’re right, I don’t, but once would be nice. I guess you can say it was an amalgamation of many things. Once he finally started work, the choice of what he spent his money on was questionable. He spent it on the same in Turkey, yet it wasn’t so much of an issue there. So why here? Well, it was supposed to be a fresh start. After all, it was him that suggested moving and living a better life on the gold paved streets of the United Kingdom. You know, the country that hands out cash to foreigners like its going out of fashion. He blamed Turkey for his depression when we were there. Inflation and shit wages are absolutely enough to make a man depressed. But then, on coming here, he blamed me instead. That does something to a gal. Can you imagine being ‘the cause’ of someone else’s depression? I hope you never will. You start to question yourself and everything you have ever said and done. Unfortunately, everything is taken literally with a Turk because they don’t have that grasp of UK chat. And why should they? I don’t have that grasp of Turkish chat either, so it leaves you stuck in between a rock and a hard place. Or, was it manipulation on a grand master scale all along...? Either way, the paranoia and accusations of cheating were becoming a bind that I didn’t wish to be a part of any longer, and I told him so. As did my parents when they were round for mediation, when he finally showed them his true colours. His sheer rage came out that he usually only saved for me, and I know it sounds selfish, but I’m glad they got to see it. Don’t get me wrong, the dude is not a wife beater. A narcissist yes, but a wife beater no. Had he have been a wife beater; I would have been up and out years before. Anyway, my Dad walked out of mediation. He couldn’t take it anymore. The fist smacking on the kitchen table, the brazen disrespect for me, plus the absolute ridiculous shit coming out of the Turks mouth was simply too much for him. He gave me a hug with his eyes and I knew then that he finally understood what I was going through. Sweet relief. It had been suggested, not just on this particular evening, that the Turk perhaps go and seek help from the doctor in the form of anti-depressants. Can you imagine how that went down? Like a shit fucking sandwich let me tell you. God forbid the suggestion that he was not always right and needed to seek medical help! I mean, who on earth did we think we were? No pal, you picked the wrong woman and the wrong family. We can not and will not be manipulated. Well, not anymore anyway. So, the evening resulted in me announcing divorce if he didn’t visit the doctor, and him telling me he would never ever divorce me, nor would he ever go to the doctor as it wasn’t him that had issues. Clever little cunts, narcissists. He did in fact go to the doctor when he realised I wasn’t joking, and was put on anti-depressants. Hallelujah! Finally, life may become more tolerable, I thought. Short lived unfortunately as frankly he had no intention of staying on the meds, it was all for show, because again, it wasn’t him that had the issue… So, back to a shitty little life for me. Personally, I don’t see the shame in taking anti-depressants. In fact, 3 months after Lennie was born, I started taking them. At his suggestion too may I add. I know, the injustice of it all! I’m glad I did to be fair, as it made life just a tad easier for a while. I let his shit slide and played at being a good wife. But shit can’t be hidden forever when it’s not meant to be. Not even the fucking tablets could help me tolerate the intolerable for the foreseeable. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when me and my Mum were walking through town one day and she said how sad she was to see me stuck in a loveless marriage. Loveless marriage, say what? That, dear diary, was like a smack in the face because, right up until that very moment, I didn’t realise that I was not in love with the Turk anymore. But that’s Mums for you, they see everything, especially the things we don’t. The Mother had also said that I had made my bed, and as sad as it was, that was my life now. But it didn’t have to be, did it? Surly there must be another option? There must be a way I could find my path back to being me again? And that my friends, is where I shall leave it for today. Its time for a coffee and a fag, and binging 'The Real Housewives of Cheshire'. Always a good reality escape for an hour or so. Love Always, Lei xx ***New to my blog? Wanna know where it all began? Catch up right here with my first book 'The Final Summer of Vodka'***
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