A follow-up to “A distant daddys battle with depression” — 9 years on
(Part 1 first)
This is my first
SteemHive post and the first time I have written anything in detail regarding the past decade of my life.
At 25, I was content. I'd visited a good few places, some I never dreamed I would as a child. Watching the rising sun at Angkor Wat, and snorkelling in the beautiful waters of the Perhentian islands of Malaysia just two amazing experiences I'll never forget.
I had a good job, a close friend group, read a lot, exercised and participated in sports and social events as often as possible. And, although not ending well at times, I'd had my share of women both in relationships and single time.
Life was good, good enough for me.
It was new year 2004, I was at a house party and met a girl who would turn out to be the mother of my only child. 6 months later she was pregnant, the pill hadn't done its job, but other precautions should of course have been taken to be in no doubt. Anyway, that's how it was to be, and I'd always wanted to be a younger father than my own, who had turned 46 when I was born and was already 50 when I wanted to kick a football around all day.
Soon after we found out the news things obviously began to change, not least my child's mother. Early into this time she confirmed that she'd deferred university and stopped taking the pill. A shock but too late for it to make any difference going forward. So we moved in together, I worked 9-5, washed, cooked, cleaned while she steadily became tougher to live with. If I was 20 minutes 'late' home from work, I'd find clothes on the path outside and have to answer many questions and beg to be let in. Any photos I had with a girl present were destroyed one day, I found 'fucking wanker' written in conditioner on the kitchen counter one evening (I did laugh at that one, still no idea why), I even had a pint of water, with the glass, thrown at me one day. I had to pin her down as she went for a shard whilst I called the police.
I was a prisoner in my own home, no longer allowed to go see friends. Everything came with a similar threat.. You won't see this child and you'll end up like your dad. She knew where to attack, and I just kept taking the punches, I wanted to live with my daughter and be a part of her upbringing, so I'd back down and bottle it. One day I got home to face a heavily pregnant girl and a kitchen knife, I had nothing to offer her, I just left and called her Grandma.
March 25th 2006, my daughter arrived, healthy and requiring a 'bit of sunshine' on top of the usual eat, play, change, sleep rota. The first 3 months I loved, being a dad and learning how to keep a young child content was really great fun.
However, someone was not having fun. Tired of hearing of her friends parties that lasted all weekend, I was again to blame for 'the disappearance of her childhood' - another lie to suit the people present, oh there were so many of those.
We lasted another 3 months, until she finally got what she wanted -Retaliation from myself in the form of physical force. It was my first day off after paternity leave, I woke to my daughter stirring, fed her, changed her, and played with her on her interactive mat. Looking content, I left her to play, went upstairs and checked in to see if any food or drink was required. Only got a moan so assumed not and went into the spare room. The moment I switched the PC on, she was there, 'what are you doing?', 'err, just checking emails n stuff?' And so another argument began - who starts their daily hate campaign from bed?
After another round of verbal abuse, along with a few kicks and punches I decided enough was enough. I grabbed her by the hair, pulled her back into the bedroom, and put a chair in front of the handle. I went downstairs, sat in front of my child and cried my eyes out - I knew what was coming. I received a warning for this crime, sat and answered many questions while the tape was running, but never once said a negative word about my child's mother, until the tape was stopped and the female officer asked if there was anything else - she received many of the details above, but didn't seem to care much.
So there I was, sat alone in this house, a criminal record, with no contact with my child. Although one of the low points of my life, time was not to heal and things became tougher in the years following....
With no idea how this will be taken, I've decided to split the post out into two parts. The second post will follow in a few days. Thanks for listening thus far.
Asher
Firstly, I should say that I can read that back with much more mental space and emotional control today. Of course, 19 years have passed. But I think there are other reasons as to why this is so, and I'll try to get to that — if I don't get too deep in thought quicksand whilst thinking about the years that made me a father, and almost unmade me as a man.
I'll aim to get up to date, without too much on the most recent health/relationship happenings, which have been the topic in recent posts.
Healing, hiding, reaching, retreating — some of the words that spring to mind when I look back on the years following the split from my child's mother. That short time spent with her and then with my daughter too, as I see more clearly now, has influenced my words, actions, decisions, and every woman I met — which provided times of solid connection, but also fear of being split open again.
For a while after it all ended, I stayed distracted. Booze, weed, tobacco/vapes, mushrooms... (yeah, I'll stop that list now), and girls. A lot of girls — not relationships, not intimacy. Sex, honestly. And, I think at the time, I was clear. I didn’t lie, but I was emotionally absent — I wasn’t offering anything beyond “dating.” I found a chat program a safe place to laugh, joke, and be 'virtually' intimate. The risk of someone sharing a photo was easily offset by the lack of risk in physical attachment — and children.
I lived in a shared house, surrounded by people, always busy. But it was all just distraction. Distraction from loss, from shame, from the rage I couldn’t fully let out. I did have football and the gym and could do enough at work, even though I was living without clarity — fractured, and not being the best version of myself. My boss at that time was helpful, and I saw him as a father figure for that part of my life. He knew something wasn’t right and pulled me aside (took me for multiple Guinness) a few times just as a human being, not a manager. That helped more than I ever told him. (And for this reason, I should send on today’s effort — thanks, F.)
As my daughter got a little older, a routine of visits, overnight stays at my place, and sometimes two nights in succession — monthly trips to my mum’s house, two or three hours away on the train.
It was hard work. Partly due to me, as I didn’t drive at the time — the car would only be used once a week, if that. So I’d take trains with games and snacks and try to make it fun. She was young. Sometimes tired, sometimes bored. But I showed up. I kept showing up, and to my recollection, never once failed to meet prior arrangements. Her mum's words, "you're going to end up like your father," provided fuel — even if just horribly said in the tone she spoke and meant them, as she knew he had made that boy wait in the window for hours in vain, numerous times.
When she was three, I took her to Portugal for a week where we stayed with an old flatmate who’d known her as a baby. That was a good trip, and one where I would say there was a joy and happiness in me that I'd not felt consistently, day by day, for years.
As things got more stable with my daughter, I started dating again. There was one girl from work — kind, nice — who casually mentioned wanting kids one day, and although I didn't feel pressure from her at that moment, the distancing likely started almost immediately.
I regret how I handled it, because the truth is I wasn’t over what had happened. This girl knew the story and probably understood better than me my reaction — we're still friends and she's usually right in her predictions, and ahead of my thoughts. The word “children” didn’t bring me joyful thoughts — it sounded like risk. Not a fear of parenting, but a fear of loss. A risk of being shut out again.
Following that, another relationship — and my longest to date: 4 whole years. The girl was kind, thoughtful, peaceful, and she wanted children but didn’t push for them at first.
For a while I considered them — or trying. I felt safe with her. But there were always excuses from me — more funds required, a nicer house — excuses really. I believed, and still believe, that she would have handled co-parenting with maturity if it ever came to that. I'm pretty sure she wouldn’t have weaponized a child or erased me.
And still, the idea didn’t sit. The latter part of the relationship included the death of my father, who had written me out of his will because I wouldn't (and couldn't, without a fight I would lose anyway) change my surname — and my daughter’s surname — to his. I was low, and dealing with “pre-deep-sleep nightmares” in which my daughter and I would die horribly together. That admission to a psychologist earned additional checks regarding how safe she was around me. I wasn't forthcoming to that professional, and completely stopped any process of opening up after that day.
The relationship ended with the elephant in the room becoming too big to ignore. We were both unhappy, and I'm glad she is now married with children.
And so, with the weight of my dad’s passing — which I would now define as unresolved trauma that I am finally starting to process with my virtual psychologist — I also had to work around my daughter’s increasingly busy calendar. She had school, parties, church, a social life, and the rhythm we’d created was starting to slip. As I mentioned, I wasn’t sleeping well (and although my sleep is still fractured at present, at least those nightmares/thoughts are not around anymore). Injuries stopped me playing football, and in the winter of 2014 I left work after informing my boss, “I just can't do this at the moment.”
Counselling wasn't touching the right spots, and I felt I needed to escape and make a fresh start. I told the psychologist I wanted to sit on a beach, listen to music, and read. This is happening a lot at present, in Mallorca where I again live, and is very much appreciated — time and space to sort some of my shit out.
Telling my daughter was one of the hardest conversations I’ve ever had. We both cried — a lot. She was 9 — old enough to understand I was sad, and I believe old enough to know it wasn’t about her. At least now, as we’re currently organising a visit for next month 😌
I fought in court for access and holidays — which were declined. But I felt I'd done all I could with that situation and tried to focus on myself more frequently and positively — to become happier, and a better future dad.
I dated a French girl who was not shy with her words. She had her own past (dad and brother troubles), and I hadn’t finished — barely started — learning my lessons either. I struggled with sleep during that time also, absorbing some relentless and cutting outbursts on a level I'd not heard before or since, and was likely back in survival mode.
I still followed her — to Réunion Island as it was where her next job was offered — and stuck around for months later as that role fell through. Still chasing fear, and leaving apparent calm...
I returned to the UK just before Covid. Got a new job and three months in I was furloughed — I am so thankful for this time, which I know may sound strange and even cause anger and upset in others.
But that year gave me something I hadn’t had in a long time: time with my daughter.
School was closed and I bought a bike — the last one in the shop my size, and not at all suitable for road trips. I used it frequently though and made numerous trips to see my daughter and speak to her as she was then, a young teen.
We talked, and I felt brave enough to ask her — years later — how she felt about me living abroad. And I believe what she told me wasn’t just said to make me feel better. She could see that England — and the distinct lack of sunlight over many months — was hindering my happiness. And as I've learned in recent years, not helping my kidney and digestion issues either.
There was a day and a night I remember, in which my daughter turned to me first when scared about something at school. That was big for me. I wrote about the event at the time. Having just read that post back, I think what it lacks most is the emotion I felt about being chosen first — as the parent less likely to blow a fuse and more likely to be accepting.
I knew then our bond existed, and would continue to grow steadily, even if we didn’t live in the same country.
In the years since, I’ve moved back to Mallorca (thanks again, Covid) and had other relationships — and not all of them reflect well on me. I’ve tried to be honest in words, but the actions didn’t always arrive.
The BPD girl — remember her and those blogs? I think some will (the text I removed for fear of legal ramifications). That hurt me. Not because of her diagnosis — but because it lit up something in me. I wanted to help her, to save her, to be her calm. My subconscious desire to fix and heal was through the roof.
But as my psychologist friend said: You’re not qualified for that. That’s not yours to fix.
She also thought about children in her future — I'm so glad she saved that future path from me.
During this time my daughter visited, flying for the first time on her own. She’s since been a couple of times, and the next visit is just a month away. Other life events have happened in between, and again I’ve been chosen at times as the first port of call. We are good — and of all my relationships with family, this is my priority to have right.
I think back to those words her mother said to me and can confidently say that I did not abandon fatherhood. I'm at least some of the father I never had.
I'm pretty sure no woman in a relationship would like to be described as an “open goal,” but with regards to bringing more children into the world in a loving and financially secure environment, my last — and likeliest — hope of that came next.
A Mallorquina woman with a large, welcoming family — including two babysitter-ready sisters who were friendly and generous, and all seemingly happy with the idea of being mums or aunts!
There was property, land, stability, and even mentions of moving my mother close — she saw smartly and had planned ahead of me, as my mother’s health now steadily unwinds.
And yes, she wanted children. A ready-made family and a warm community. The opposite of what I’d known before.
And in the end, I still said no.
Looking back, it wasn’t fair of me to be in these relationships without a clearer understanding of what I wanted, or didn’t want. I hadn’t done the emotional work to give me a clearer picture of that.
Six months after we split, I had a vasectomy — effectively settling my indecision.
I haven’t regretted that decision thus far. At the time, it felt like the decision would welcome women who wanted me — without extras.
Well, that’s not quite gone to plan, as recent readers will know — but the child is still present, and playing with a different box of matches. I guess that’s an additional element to why stuff has hit me so hard recently — I was chosen for me alone, and let go again. And there are fewer excuses to hide behind hide now.
I’ve been chasing what I can’t have, and distancing from the less familiar — almost unknown — safe places. This obviously needs to change. And it’s what I’m working on now: looking after my human.
So, a ‘happy ever after’ Part 3, perhaps?
Don’t hold your breath!
It’s taken me much of the afternoon to put this together, and I’ve been in tears on and off throughout.
I feel lighter now.
Thanks for this space.
— Asher
