March 2005

I took a shitload of insulin to cover my sky-high blood sugar, and of course, my intended further intake of low-quality, low-cost, multi-pack, 2-for-1 deal sugared products. Then I got in the car and I drove. Not fast. The roads were empty. There seemed no need. My anger had gone, just loneliness and pain remained. The rain had stopped. I took off. Sainsbury beckoned.

It was a self-denial technique - I tried to be polite to all that I saw. I smiled at passers-by. I ignored the vagaries of the typical night-time road-user. I gave the languid, apathetic checkout lady my broadest smile and a cheery “hello” Why was it that most of the stuff I ended up buying was for the children? It often seems that way. I am derailed from ultimate selfishness by guilt. It’s just a cocktail of soul-rotting emotion, none of it is helpful. So Maltesers for my youngest, Lion Bars for the eldest and lots, lots, lots more. Of course, I was not entirely selfless. It hurts when I pick up something for the girls. It hurts because they are not there. And I don’t get to see them smile. I don’t know when I’ll see them again, or even speak to them again. And Mehnaz enjoys it thoroughly because this is what she wanted. Still, I bought myself doritos, drinks, salsa, galaxy and dairy milk. Supersized, naturally.

I drove to the “mosque”. On the way, I demolished a 200g bar of Galaxy in short order and began the Dairy Milk. I had planned to sit outside the “mosque” and eat the Doritos and Salsa. The gates were locked and I would have got arrested - there’s not really anywhere to stop. I had hoped to perhaps hand over a lion bar and pack of maltesers to a security guard to hand over to my kids in the morning. Nobody seemed there, and I thought it best not to make a gesture that my daughter’s momma (Eminen, I so understand you now) would pervert in some way. So I drove back, stopping to take a picture of Morden tube, deserted.

I got back after a leisurely drive, no stupid antics at all, seemed no point. I’d hurt myself enough. I’d taken the insulin, I’d eaten the chocolate, I’d pounded at the gates of my dignity by waiting so close to where my girls were sleeping, unreachable, covered by the putrid, stinking blanket of their over-perfurmed, over-bearing mother. Oh and as you can see, my parking technique is utterly immense.

And shortly after arrival, right on cue, my blood sugar dropped to hypo. Great excuse to eat more chocolate and punish myself just a little bit harder. If my children are hurting, I need to hurt too.

I have heard nothing from my daughters. There has been total radio silence since the curt sentences delivered on Monday evening by my eldest, notifying me that I could not be granted an audience with my children that evening for the half hour that had previously been hinted at. My daughters, for whom I had been waiting all day and night for and for whom I sat patiently by the phone, in my flat, hoping, praying, willing.

Some will ask “but why don’t you call them?”. That’s a stupid question. Don’t you think if I had a way of getting through to them, that I would? This isn’t about pride! Fathers lose all that once they’re no longer living with their children. Custody of a man’s pride goes to the mother too, didn’t you know that?

Their mother screens all calls to her mobile. This time last year, when they went to a similar function, talking to them was next to impossible thanks to their mother. She of course, leaves them unattended for hours at a time, so God knows what is going on anyway, it’s not as if they’d ever be accessible when I called. I usually get voicemail when I call. Unless she’s after something of course.

This time, it’s different. Their mother has become even more evil. She turns on the charm when she needs something done. Then it’s done, and she turns into a lying, twisted, evil sack of repulsive shit. If you’re a first-time reader, you’ll be shocked at my vitriol. If you’re a regular, you’ll wonder at my restraint.

There’s no way either I or the children can win. If I don’t call, she tells them that I am not interested. If I do call, she tells them that I’m saying that I’m not interested. I make myself available at a moment’s notice and it is often taken advantage of. It makes it impossible for me to plan anything at all. So I have an extremely lonely life. And on those odd occasions when it is literally impossible for me to see them at zero notice, she tells them that I am not interested in them. Every action and non-action is used by her to reinforce the stupid idea that I, their loving and doting father, am somehow, not interested.

If I stay away, they will think I’ve abandoned them. They think I’ve deserted them anyway. I can’t build any hope for them. Nothing. Not with their mother so evil and twisted. The great thing from her point of view is that she manages to shield this so effectively from people. The good thing for my sanity is that enough people know what she’s really like now.

It still leaves my children without their father. If you don’t have a child, I cannot describe to you the pain that I feel in not speaking with my children, knowing that they hate me right now because they think it’s all my fault. I understand now, why men commit violence towards women. And I believe now that in some cases, it is totally understandable, if not justifiable. This comes from a man who has a history of having women commit violence against him. I wonder what the useless family therapist would make of that?

Right now - I have feelings of wanting to seriously harm myself - and Mehnaz knows this - she knows what my daughters mean to me - and she was playing with that the other night - teasing me - mocking me - trying to get me to beg to speak to my children. And I’m sorry you modern fuckwits, women like Mehnaz need a slap. Women like her are too protected. She is not a typical human being I have to say. I don’t know anyone who is so utterly devious, two-faced or deranged.

I wonder what my children are doing right now? What are they thinking? Perhaps I should drive outside the temple they’re staying at and honk my car horn for a minute to wake those infidels up - and cause a commotion - and then wake my girls up - so that they know it’s their father somehow. Would they think me a hero? No. They would think me an embarrassment.

But I won’t. I will probably just drive somewhere else dangerously fast. The roads are wet. At least the slip-control on my car will get a workout. I’ll buy £10 worth of sweets and chocolate (I have some money left over from selling my classical guitar so that I could buy my younger daughter a Nintendo DS with games for her recent birthday) and just stuffing my face silly - causing a major blood sugar crisis. Yes that’s what I shall do. Because no counsellor, no psychologist, no friend, no foe, no-fucking-body can take this pain away or make it better. I am filled with anger, rage, pain and fury and the only place I can direct it is inwards. Not even my friends can contain me at a time like this. I don’t have time for that, don’t have time for making myself understood. It doesn’t change a thing anyway. Let my friends sleep. Best do the chocolates.

Oh I believe in God. But God for whatever reason He sees fit, is deciding to test me right now. And I’m not too great at dealing with a test that causes the suffering of my children - and more selfishly, perpetuates my loneliness and pain. Do I blame God? Of course note. I blame Mehnaz. And I blame myself for not having the patience or strength to turn this most painful episode of my life into something more positive, the way I know I could if I was the best I could be.

Because I’m not the best I could be. That is a pipe-dream. And though my patience has been inexhaaustible as far as my kids have been concerned, right now, when I haven’t spoken with them, when their mother is happy at the deception and lies that have caused this pointless waste of contact - that has cost time that will never be made up, right now, I want to hurt myself.

Now - where was that 24-hour supermarket?

Easter Holidays began last Friday. Cue total silence from ex about contact arrangements. Regular readers will know that:

• My ex has agreed to the Statement of Arrangements for Children which gives me half holiday time
• I am adult and try to discuss arrangements for holidays well ahead of time
• Mehnaz stalls and stalls, never tells me, then takes my kids wherever she wants without talking to me
• Mehnaz puts my eldest on the front line, forcing her into negotiation, knowing that I will minimise upset to my child and therefore cave into all demands
• I got to spend 3.5 days with my daughters over the entire Christmas period
• Mehnaz has made it clear that she will never let me have the children for their birthdays or for Eids

So it happened again. She disappeared for a week without ever having given me prior notice. Not unless you call my daughters calling me the night before at 10:30 prior notice. Mehnaz orchestrated a hideous fight. I for the most part remained calm, and repeatedly asked her why, as their father I had not been given the courtesy of notice, consultation, or discussion. Her loud answer to these questions were a mocking “so I take it you don’t want to see them”. I realised this was a staged monologue for the kids, designed to enrage me. I asked again “why was I not consulted, as their father, when I had asked you as an adult some weeks ago about arrangements? Why do you put our eldest in the firing line?” to which her haughty answer was “so I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then”.

I hung up. My heart was racing. I remembered my mother and father fighting. Different. Completely different. But absolutely, totally the same. I called back. And something inside me finally snapped. My patience fell out of my shoes. My blood shattered the glass of the thermometer, causing mercury to spill into my eyes.

“Put me onto my children. You fat fuck!”

Who knows why a father is pushed to this extreme? Who knows what a father feels? Who gives a solitary flying fuck?

She hung up on me. I called back over and over. Calm each time this time. She demanded that I say “please” to speak with my children. When I re-iterated that I didn’t need her permission to speak to my children (recall she has just denied me the right to see my children as she promised the courts and has put my daughter in the firing line and is making her believe that I don’t want to see them, beecause they don’t get to hear my side of the conversation) - she hung up again and again.

I persisted. Eventually, I got through. I won’t say how. But put it this way. I reminded her of what she had done that she won’t tell anyone about, but likes to imagine never happened. Oh and by the way, I heard the tell-tale pips of a frenzied recording device activation procedure. She was too late. I’d said the worst. And she didn’t want to record what I had repeated about her.

My eldest was now in tears. She wanted to see me alone. She emphasised that. She was broken. And she had lost. I had lost. Peace had lost. Love had lost. Patience had lost. Sanity had lost. Parenthood had lost. Life had lost. Even the useless cunting family therapist threw her hands up in the air an said she could no longer help. She told me to contact a solicitor. I told her I couldn’t afford one. She told me to try CAFCAS. I told her that the figures show that regardless of the situation, this organisation serves to protect the mother at all costs. Not the children. And never, ever, ever the father.

So yesterday came, the day they were going away, and their mother had eventually hinted, after denying having ANY idea when she would be taking the girls to brainwashing school, that I could see them for half an hour at about 6p.m., possibly sooner.

I waited for the girls to call.
I cancelled all my appointments.
They were supposed to call at 6p.m. Nobody called.
I held both phones close.
I watched from the balcony for hours.
Finally, at 20:11, I got a call from their home. My eldese had a few very short sentences. They were running late. They had been tumble drying. They were getting a lift. So they could not see me. That was all.

I am the outsider. The enemy. The culprit. The deserter. I had thrown away my whole day to see them for half an hour - cancelled all possible options, holding out the hope at Mehnaz’s insistence that I hang myself out to fucking dry so that I might suffer for her sins.

And today? I waited inside every moment. I ate a solitary, one-week old reheated meal. I held the phones close. It is 23:48.

And hope has now left the building.

My heart is cold. My blood is cold. My body is cold. My love spills out of me into the gutter, wasted forever, my veins slit deliberately by Mehnaz’s evil, twisted, distorted actions. And as that love goes to waste, my children miss another day when they might benefit from it.