High Level moments

Dear Gill,

It's been so long since I've spoken to you either in person or on the phone and longer still since I've written to you. So much has happened over the last few years it's hard to know where to begin. One of our favorite sayings to each other at the start of our marathon Friday night phone conversations, "I've got loads to tell you" has never been more true.

I suppose a good place to start would be the last time I saw you to speak to in person, the funeral. That funeral. Not Dad's funeral, not Freddie's funeral, the joint funeral of my father and my brother. The funeral of Fred and Freddie. The funeral of Messrs Eaton. The funeral. I've never really grieved properly over dad and Freddie, I've never had the opportunity. There were other things troubling me that took over my daily life, believe me Gill you'll be shocked when I tell you, or maybe you won't. Maybe you knew.

I can't exactly say when things started to go wrong but then I suppose these things never can be pinpointed. They happen gradually, stealthily creeping up on you until one day you realise that you don't want your life to continue like this. Nigel, or rather Nigel's drinking was making a misery of my life and had been for quite a while. Perhaps you're surprised, I'd never talked to you about it, and really you are were the one person who I should have confided in. You would have understood the despondency I was feeling, I was married to a man who was addicted to alcohol and you of all people know how it feels to live with an addict. Maybe that's why I said nothing to you, I'd kept a brave face, everything was alright, after all, you had had enough with your own problems. I didn't want to let you down, you seemed to look to Nigel and myself as the ultimate happy couple and take comfort from that idea. We had been happy in the past but I certainly wasn't happy at that point in time. I kept trying to kid myself that things were going to get better but I think deep down I knew they wouldn't, I found myself making excuses for him and defending him out of some kind of misplaced loyalty so as not to spoil the illusion.

Nigel seemed to think that life should be one long holiday come drinking spree. He had taken voluntary redundancy from his job at the Rover car factory earlier in the year. He had been off sick from work and was taking anti depressants prescribed by our GP who had also arranged some counselling sessions for him. Undoubtedly something was bothering him but I never got to the bottom of it. I'll probably never know what was making behave the way he did. I'd been concerned for a while. He'd been drinking before going to work on the night shift for months. I pleaded with him not to, I was scared he would be sacked. He brushed my concerns aside saying,

"The other blokes do it"

I didn't care what the others did and told him so, and besides the amount he was drinking before work had increased from one or two cans of lager to an amount where he was visibly drunk. One night he came home from work, he had just walked out. It was then that he went to the doctor, I went with him. I was glad that he was finally going to get some help to sort things out with himself and I wanted to support him in doing this. A couple of weeks later the Human Resources manager and the Occupational Health nurse came to the house for a meeting with Nigel to discuss his illness. I took the day off work to be there with him. Before they arrived he was sitting on the sofa with his trusty bottle of cider by his side. I asked him not to drink it while they were there.

"I don't care, this is my house" was the response I got. When they asked him why he had walked out of work he told them that he had had a phone call saying that my brother Freddie was dying. This was a lie, a cruel cruel lie. Freddie had been in hospital recently and was ill but not at the time when Nigel had walked out of work. How could he do this? How could he use Freddie in this way to get himself out of a tight spot? I was too shocked to say anything, I couldn't believe my ears. I should have realised at this stage how ruthless he could be. To tell a lie of that kind just to get out of trouble, well it made me feel sick and to this day still does.

Not long after this Rover were offering voluntary redundancy packages. Nigel took up this offer and so was never again to return to the factory. Picture the scene Gill, here we have an alcoholic with money in the bank and time on his hands. Oh, what a dangerous cocktail!! He didn't go back to the doctors surgery either. He cancelled his counselling appointments and threw the Prozac in the bin. He insisted he could sort himself out, he would take a couple of months to rest and start doing things to the house and then would look for another job. Why on earth did I believe him?

The trip to Gateshead for the funeral was seen by Nigel as just that. A trip, an excursion a few days away, part of his extended vacation. I remember we were walking to the Trafalgar to meet Rob who had just been to the registry office to sort out dad's death certificate.

"This is great, I can go out on the piss every day" he happily announced.

"We're not on holiday, my dad's just died" I informed him.

"I know but at least I can go to the pub instead of just drinking in the house"

Once again I was sickened by his remarks and his cold , uncaring attitude towards my family, and yet I still would speak in favour of him to other people. I did this the morning of the funeral to Linda. We had stayed in Linda's flat the night before as Rob didn't have room in his to put everyone up. My sister Dorothy and her husband, Cess stayed with Rob whilst myself, Nigel and my niece Clare spent the night at Linda's. Linda as you know is a neighbour and good friend of Rob's. I was in the kitchen with Linda having a coffee when she said to me,

"Hey Karen , I'm not being funny but has Nigel got a drink problem?"

"Well, yes and no" I said

" Seven o' clock this morning he started with a can of lager. I don't mind, it's up to him, but seven o'clock......." she continued.

"He's got problems just now, what with not working , being ill and so on"

I'd done it again. I'd made excuses for him.

In my head and in my heart I didn't agree with myself when I would do this. More and more often I was unable to explain or give reasons to myself to justify Nigel's behavior.

Dad died on the Wednesday, it was the 27th of December as you know. He was shortly followed on Sunday by his eldest son and namesake, of course you know this as well. The funeral went as well funerals can go. It wasn't a pleasant day but it wasn't horrendous either. Having said that I was glad when it was over. After a funeral comes the time to start trying to carry on with life without the departed person, or in this case people. It is the time to grieve for a while and then try to get over the pain of loss, after all life goes on and the passing of time should eventually make it easier to bear. However,as I said earlier, I didn't really get the opportunity to go through that grieving process.

The next day was Thursday and we planned to return to Birmingham on Friday. On Saturday my friend Francis was having a get together at his house to celebrate his birthday. I wasn't sure if we would go or not, Rob advised me to go saying it would be a relief or at least a distraction from what we had just been through. Rob suggested going to the pub on Thursday night but I didn't want to because of travelling the next day. Nigel on the other was not going to miss his last opportunity of going out on the piss. I welcomed an evening alone. I'd had enough of him these past few days. He'd been permanently drunk and was really getting on my nerves. When they came home Nigel literally couldn't stand up. He fell over in the hallway. Rob picked him up. He went to the living room and fell asleep on the sofa for about an hour. Rob and I were talking , I can't remember what about exactly, some book or film I think. Nigel got to his feet and glared at us.

"What are you talking about?" his voice was menacing.

He stared at us a few minutes more and then went to bed swearing under his breath as he stumbled his way along the corridor to the bedroom.

The tears spilled over by bottom eyelids and ran down my cheeks. Rob hugged me

"Come on , I hate to see you cry" he gently said.

"He's his own worst enemy" I sobbed.

Rob made some coffee and we talked a little more before I went to bed. Apparently Nigel had met someone in the pub who had a few things in common with him, ex forces, Falklands veteran and from what I gather a fellow alcoholic. This explained the situation to me. Swapping war stories is a recipe for disaster.

The next morning, as was the norm Nigel cracked open a can to take the edge off his hangover. He was feeling rough and so he didn't want to catch the train home that day. Based on that logic we would never have left Gateshead so I insisted that we go home. A few cans later we were boarding the train from Newcastle Central Station bound for Birmingham. It was a Friday and the train was packed. Nigel was already drunk but nevertheless had a carrier bag full of lager to keep him going for the journey. Seats were few and far between but I managed to find one about halfway down the carriage. Nigel was quite happy to stand in the corridor, he had the company of his best friend. I was glad to be away from him. Out of my sight was the best place for him. I settled myself in my seat and I could feel the stinging behind my eyes so I closed them. I pretended to sleep but I was silently crying. Occasionally bitter droplets of water would escape from between my eyelashes. The man sitting next to me must have thought he'd sat next to a madwoman. Out of sight Nigel may have been but he was not out of mind. The first two hours of the journey were accompanied by the soundtrack of of constant belching, laughing and a muttering of under the breath courtesy of my husband. I was so pleased not to be near him. Hopefully no one would suspect that this creature was my travelling companion. Eventually he fell silent. Thank God, he's fallen asleep I thought to myself. Presently we arrived at New Street, I went to get the suitcase but it was gone. Nigel must have taken it, but where was he? I got of the train and looked for him in the station. He was nowhere to be found. After about twenty minutes of waiting for him I came to the conclusion that he had taken the huff and gone home alone. I took a taxi home and was surprised to find that Nigel wasn't there. Where was he? What was he doing? I couldn't imagine him coming home on the bus. Maybe he was looking for me at New Street. I tried not to worry but couldn't stop myself. He'd eventually realise and get a taxi home. At least now I was alone and could cry freely. So I did, but why was I crying? I should have been crying for dad and for Freddie, I was entitled to, but my tears were of utter despair and frustration at the way Nigel was behaving. After about an hour I heard the key opening the front door. Nigel and suitcase had arrived.

"Give me some money" he demanded, "I haven't got enough to pay the taxi driver"

Somewhat stunned I handed over a ten pound note.

" I want more than that, I had to get a taxi from Wakefield" he snarled at me. Before I could ask why Wakefield he added,

" I got chucked off the train"

I handed over some coins, everything that I had in my purse. Good, I thought as he stormed out to pay for the taxi, you deserved it. He came back into the house, he was full of hell. The driver had accepted £120 or thereabouts from him even though the cost of his journey had been more like £140.

"What the fuck are you crying for?" he said.

What a question. Anyone who had just suffered a double bereavement of two close family members you would surely expect to see crying unless you knew in yourself that were other reasons for those tears. He knew, he must have. He must have known that it was him who was making me so miserable otherwise why ask that question?.

The months that followed were hard. My daily routine consisted of getting up and going to work and then coming home to a drunk who had done nothing all day other than watch television, sleep and of course, drink. The options of what I would find when I got home from work varied a little but fell into four basic categories.

1. Nigel would be drunk and in a good mood, babbling on about some tripe he had watched on TV that day.

2 Nigel would be drunk and in a bad mood, swearing at me and calling me abusive names.

3. The living room would be in darkness and Nigel would be in a drunken sleep on the sofa.

4. Nigel would have just woken up from a drunken sleep and be in a foul mood.

I think number three was my favorite. At least I got a couple of hours of peace, although this did have it's down side as well. Nigel's body clock was completely erratic. Sometimes he would wake up during the evening and torment me with his verbal abuse. Other times he would wake up later and then watch TV and drink all night making it very difficult for me to get a proper nights sleep as he would have the volume so loud. Sometimes he would still be up drinking when I left for work in the morning. I wonder sometimes if he waited up for me deliberately just so he could call me some nasty name before I went out.

I felt hopeless. Nothing I said or did would make him realise what he was doing. He was obviously damaging himself. He made no real effort to find a job. I would buy the Thursday Evening Mail for him to look at the jobs pages and it would lie unopened until Tuesday of the following week when it was too late to apply for anything that had been advertised in that issue. Trying to talk to him usually ended in an argument or if not he would make promises to do things, which of course never came to anything.

I kept telling him how unhappy I was and how I hated what our lives had turned into, how miserable he was making me.

"That's your fucking problem" was his stock answer.

I felt trapped. I threatened to leave, he would say,

"Do it"

I wanted to do it and had done for a long time, but how? Where could I go?

One morning I was on my way to work, as I walked past the ramp leading up to New Street Station I thought of getting on a train to Newcastle and when I arrived I would walk to the middle of the High Level Bridge and jump into the Tyne. No one would know, the river would take me down, I'd never be found. I would be free. I thought back to a time when I was perhaps five years old walking across the High Level with my mam. I was frightened of that bridge. It was so big, so dark and dingy, so depressing. Quite fitting then that this place should come into my mind when I myself was feeling so dismal.

I didn't do it, not then, nor will I ever but there have been times when my mind has gone back to that big old bridge and the river flowing beneath it. High Level moments I call them to myself.

My language classes gave me some relief from all of this. How I looked forward to my Spanish classes on a Monday evening. Apart from the enjoyment I got from studying this wonderful language it kept me away from home for a couple of extra hours. Wednesday night German was slightly different. It was good to go the class and meet up with the friends I had made there. We would always go for a drink after class, we still meet every Wednesday even though the German classes are now a thing of the past for all of us. The thing that sometimes spoiled Wednesday nights was Nigel. Previously he had always been welcome to join us on Wednesdays but now I was uncomfortable with this. If he wasn't too drunk it wasn't too bad but more and more often this wasn't the case. He would turn up too drunk to join in the conversations most of the time and I just felt so awkward and embarrassed that at times I would miss the German class to avoid these situations.

Towards the end of 2003 Nigel's redundancy money had ran out, as I knew it would. Most of it had been spent on cider and he now found himself in a position where he had to go out and himself some more cider money. At this time my mother in law was ill. She had lung cancer and didn't have much longer to live.

Nigel got a temporary Christmas job in the menswear department of Marks and Spencer and sadly shortly after this his mother died. This was hard for him but his way of dealing with it was to carry on drinking more and more. His temporary contract ended in January but he was given another part time temporary job at the end of February. This time he was working in the food hall. On Easter Monday he set out for work, already drunk. He came home two hours later. He had been sent home. Marks and Spencer were quite good with him and had offered him an appointment with their occupational health department. They knew he had recently lost his mother and were obviously aware that he had a problem and to me it seemed as if they were trying to help him, but Nigel wouldn't be helped. He preferred drinking. He never returned to M&S and never worked again.

Things were getting worse. The drinking, sleeping TV routine returned. I had moved myself into the spare bedroom and spent most of my time in there to avoid being in Nigel's presence. I would read or listen to the radio in my little sanctuary, which I have to say at times felt like a prison cell. Nigel stayed downstairs in the living room. I felt as if it was out of bounds for me. I couldn't go in there whilst he was asleep for fear of waking him and facing a vicious verbal attack from him. If I needed to use the computer I did so silently and in darkness so as not to disturb him.

By summertime Wednesday evenings with the German crew had become intolerable not just for me but now the others had had enough as well. One Wednesday at the end of August, as usual we left class and headed for the pub.

"Lets go here tonight for a change" said Paul.

The change of venue was for a reason. They wanted to talk to me about Nigel. They didn't like what he had become and didn't want him there on Wednesdays anymore. How did I feel about this? The sense of relief was unbelievable. It wasn't just me who couldn't stand anymore more of Nigel's appalling behavior. They had been worried about upsetting me, but I felt supported. Many times I had argued with Nigel over the Wednesday night situations but he had ignored me. So many times I had said that if he wanted to come to the pub he should behave himself, but to no avail, my opinion didn't count, well, it was no longer just my opinion. I now had back up.

I told him and he swore a lot. He said he didn't want to go out with that lot anyway. Nevertheless a few weeks later he was waiting for us outside the language school. I had refused to tell him what pub we were now going to on Wednesdays. That evening he was alright so he came again the next week, again the passed by quite well and for a couple weeks this was the case. Then one night after Paul and Helen had gone he started arguing with Francis for no reason. Francis had been talking abut his travels and all of a sudden Nigel turned on him, accusing him of lecturing him. Francis had had enough and so had I. That was the last Wednesday night he ever spent with us.

Soon after this Nigel received his inheritance from the sale of his mothers house. Once again there was no urgency for him to look for work or do anything other than sit at home and drink all day or night, depending on when he was awake. I was coming to the end of my tether.

I always used to look at the notice board at the language school before going into class and one Monday night I saw my escape tunnel. There was a room to rent in Bearwood at £200 per month. I wrote the contact number down. I got home that night and he hadn't even put the rubbish out for collection that morning. This seemingly insignificant little thing was the last straw.Next day during my lunch break I called the number. The phone was answered by Cissy a Chinese girl. I arranged to go and look at the rooms available at the house in St Mary's Road. Cissy was here studying law and was renting this large house and then sub letting rooms out to six other people. I looked around, although it was a bit tatty it seemed like paradise. I asked myself,

"Could I live here ?"

"Yes" was the answer.

And so a new era of my life began there. Just wait until you get my next letter, you'll never believe it!!!

Love from Karen, take care of yourself