Pain and its Place

American road racing cyclist and seven times winner of the Tour de France Lance Armstrong once said, “Pain is temporary, it may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or even a year but eventually it will subside and something will take its place.  If I quit, however, it lasts forever” and despite a substantial helping of painfully damaging cyber bullying this week, giving up, although tempting, has never been an option.

In the last twenty four hours I have,

·        Sent three hundred and forty six emails explaining my hotmail account has not only been hacked but had my contact list hijacked as well.

·        Contacted Hotmail Abuse to report the distress I have endured at the hands of a cyber bully and supplied my tormentor’s message source code.

·        Spoken to the Headmaster at my children’s school to warn him of the potential for fallout from the offensive spam reaching both him and my children.

In addition I have,

·        Co-ordinated and ordered beverages to stock a bar for 150 people at the Friends Summer ball.

·        Compiled, commissioned and printed, 150 tickets, along with menus, bar lists and table names.

·        Encouraged, cajoled and begged inordinate numbers of parents, staff and hangers on to assist in the transforming of a speech day marquee into and tasteful venue for a summer ball.

·        Observed both  my older daughters and my mother try on every ball gown available on our high streets, dress agency rails and within the wardrobes of generous friends.

·        Altered and reworked a beautiful ball gown my thirteen year old daughter was given into something she is now happy with.

·        At no extra cost, completely redesigned and reworked a ball gown for myself which I originally paid the princely sum of £2.00 for in a sale.

I have also,

·        Written yet more letters to Lloyds Banking Group's debt collection agency explaining it is against regulatory guidelines to threaten court action and the instruction of doorstep collectors when a case is the subject of a Financial Ombudsman Service complaint.

·        Written to the previous Community President and the apartment complex administrators to point out sending abusive spam, which includes their own correspondence, to everyone on a debtors contact list is inappropriate behaviour for someone elected to hold this position

·        Scoured the Internet and picked the brains of anyone would listen for information on what constitutes cyber crime.

On top of this I have ,

·        Packed four suit cases for a ten day break which will start immediately after I've cleared the marque of all things associated with our Friends event

·        Cleaned the house and restocked the fridge for my seventeen year son who wishes to be left behind

·        Assembled mattresses and prepared bedding and for nine extra overnight guests who wish to crash at my house after the summer ball.

Although frenetic activity at this level has left me little time to read or write anything on the subject of Libor rate manipulation, Farepak victims or HBOS skulduggery, it has meant,

·        The arrangements are now finalised for the best attended fund raising summer ball the school has enjoyed in years.

·        All the women folk in my family will be resplendent in their affordable ball gowns regardless of the individuals respective personal budgets.

·        My husband, my youngest two children and I will be able to take up my father in laws generous “all expenses paid” offer of a holiday in his Spanish apartment 24 hours after the ball

And,

·        According to Hotmail, cyber bullying may actually have a consequence for those who choose to practise it.

While it is evident my One Angry Man will never appreciate I am without concern at being publically exposed as financially bereft, it is clear he is also unable to comprehend both I, and Hotmail Customer Services, wish to avoid judgemental and inappropriate comments hurting my children. However, my short lived but none the less excruciating discomfort has brought the very welcome support of friends, family and an ever increasing number of sympathetic Life After Debt readers while their encouragement has allowed me to hope that, one day, I will finally celebrate a financial future free from both the wrath of cyber bullies and the avarice of Lloyds and HBOS.

In the words of Lance Armstrong, “When you think about it, what other choice is there but hope? We have two options, medically and emotionally: give up, or Fight Like Hell”.

I know which road I plan to take.

Tears and Fears

It is said, "Tears are the words the heart cannot express" but after three long years in my role of one woman debt fighter, tears alone could no longer express the way I felt about the position I found myself in. Consumed with a passion to keep my family whole while covertly facing hundreds of thousands of pounds of my husbands business debt regularly left me void of a means with which to express my grief, my fear and my frustration. When I started my blog, I had no ingenious plan for what I would write nor had I a clearly defined objective.  I was purely driven by an over whelming desire to express words from the heart in a way which had proved impossible to relay by any other method.  

As the months passed, my writing began to focus on the trials and tribulations of living in the aftermath of our outstanding financial obligations and the impact it had on every facet of my life. Publishing my posts in the public domain, although daunting at first, has been a wholly uplifting experience with moments of pure glee if someone new signs up “to follow” or something I have written evokes a comment. I have even received valuable snippets of information aiding my cause and these small votes of confidence have not only supported my resolve but also encouraged me to persevere with my battle. For this I am truly grateful.  

Knowing obstacles are only observed by those who take their eyes off the goal, writing about my desire to keep my family together has kept this vital objective firmly fixed in my sights while blogging about issues with our creditors has not only helped me remain focused on the tasks ahead but aided my understanding that being happy does not mean life is perfect. It simply means you’ve decided to look beyond the imperfections. However, blogging about the effects of debt on my marriage has been completely different.

Constructing sentences which describe how I feel has been an outlet for a grief I have been unable to express even with tears. My reaction to my husband's deceit has been the mother of all elephants in our room for the past three years and blogging about our lives together has helped create a picture of clarity for me while enjoying the observational detachment of a writer.  It has also enabled me to realise that, as well as battling the banks and refusing to allow my children’s lives to be contaminated by debt, I have also been fighting to save my marriage. However, what I have been completely unaware of is, my husband now knows this because he too has been reading my posts and, just as my writing has helped with so many other aspects of my life, I believe reading my words from the heart have done him, and us, nothing but good.

I believe one should never give up on something which is impossible to go a whole day without thinking about. This has certainly proved the case for me with respect to my children, my marriage and my writing and, because of the immense challenges I now have to face on a daily basis, I have also discovered, in the words of Oscar Wilde, “Ordinary riches can be stolen; real riches cannot because in your soul there are infinitely more precious things that cannot be taken from you”. Because of my blog and in spite of the ongoing persecution I am still subject to from Halifax Bank Of Scotland and Lloyds TSB Banking Group, I now find, not only do I have an elephant free marriage, but I also have something infinitely more precious.

The riches I now enjoy can never be stolen.

Kitchen Chaos

I am told chaos results when the world changes faster than the people in it and, whilst the uneasiness caused by global chaos is reputed to allow the opportunity for creativity and growth, chaos in my kitchen seems to be causing nothing but confusion and angst.

It is mid morning and my grandson and daughter are attempting to make a crumble with fruit they have picked from the garden while calling on my expertise, constantly, to help them.

My youngest son, furious to find someone has been using his Uno cards again, communicates his indignation by way of a walky talky at full volume that picks up passing police transmissions at the same time.

My husband who was, until summoned by our eldest son, mid point of yet another Internet based job application, stands silent and hovering in the doorway in readiness to fulfill a “no notice” request for a lift to the cinema.

The same sixteen year old son is attempting to procure the Orange Wednesday code from my phone whilst telling me to chill at my handbag invasion and show more respect when conversing with him.

I, on the other hand, while doing my best to both relay cooking instructions and referee the Uno card dispute,  am endeavouring to communicate to my sixteen year old son the benefits of  being less demanding of instantaneous social gratification and more responsive to the numerous tasks of educational importance that he has seen fit to neglect.

Getting nowhere with anything, but still with all eyes on me I decide to,

·        ask my daughter and grandson to take a break from prepping the crumble and play Uno,

·        ask my youngest son to switch the walky talky off and join in with the  Uno game,

·        tell my eldest son it is too short notice to go to the cinema and suggest he crack on with his list of more pressing issues.

This leaves my husband free to return to his CV and me exhausted, but with some semblance of order and an empty kitchen.

“Miracle Mum,”, some might say?

“Dictator and control freak,” they cry,  while during all this, my husband stands silently by.

Despicable Me

Buddha said, “Thousands of candles can be lit from a single candle yet the life of this candle will not be shortened”, and by the same token, “happiness never decreases by being shared”.  It saddens me to hear these words because although I believe them to be true, it is not how married life is for me.

My husband’s monotones seep into every crevice of our lives and his overall lack of enthusiasm is only punctuated by occasional self-amusement at a play on words that comes to mind from listening, but not engaging, in the conversation of others.  Perfectly able to speak with animation about a new piece of information he has acquired, he sees no need to offer even a hint of a smile when conversing in other ways.  To him it is excessive and unnecessary to crease his dead pan facade as he either enters a room or sees a familiar face across a crowd, even when it’s me.

My daughter, now almost thirteen, calls him “Daddy glum face” as she teases him about his expressionless demeanour.  He replies, without offence, that it would be uncomfortable if he smiled any more than he already does and, as he sits blanked faced throughout every meal, every car journey and what seems like every moment, I regularly wonder how many hours of silence I have spent with him to date and consider, with sadness, how many more I still have to come.

“Move on,” I tell myself in moments of desperation only to have my resolve falter at the price my children will pay for my inability to cope with the man they love.

“Get help”, say my friends when I tell them, in tears, about his mood swings of indifference to rage, only to find I shrink from the task of broaching the subject with him, let alone finding the money to fund it.

“Keep trying,” is the voice that persists, in spite of his wagging finger declaring the fault lies entirely with me. For this is a broken man I speak of who once was my closest friend in a time gone by, before bereavement, before debt and before financial despair. 

They say that sometimes being a friend means knowing when to exercise the art of timing, with a time for silence, a time to let go and a time to leave well alone for people to hurl themselves at their own destiny.

·        I have been silent while he built a business on what proved to be foundations of sand

·        I have let go so he could seek his own destiny and achieve great things in his own right 

However, it is also said a friend should be prepared to pick up the pieces when it’s all over.

“But how” I ask, “do you pick up a man in pieces when he believes himself to be whole with no part of the problem lieing with him?”

I end today knowing there is no delight for me in a life unshared and sadly, all too often these days it is my computer, not my husband, that is my closest friend.

End of terms

My husband never speaks of what he sees, does or feels but only of what he knows. While hovering patiently on the edge of every conversation he listens with intent, void of any expression waiting for a prompt on which to hang his factual download. On finding his mark he pounces with a carefully assembled nugget of information and in an instant, the conversational flow is altered and his audience scrabbles to politely cover the seams.

If asked he would say he is good at social interaction.

I find it both isolating and frustrating that conversing in any other way is alien to him. He continues to treat any question as an effrontery to his integrity leaving me to struggle to understand why how far the airport parking is from the terminal is as an insult simply because he does not know the answer, or why enquiring as to the delivery date of the roaming simcard he has ordered is so contentious.

If asked, he would say that is I who am unable to solicit information without antagonism.

However, it is not his inclination to anger I struggle with most but his frequent and extended periods of silence along with his refusal to engage with any warmth at any time. Last night, at our children’s end of term school concert, was no exception.

The hot and humid summers evening promised to turn the school hall into a sauna but the discomfort that lay ahead did not deter the number of proud parents who decided to attend. Throughout an hour and half of musical recitals I repeatedly turned to my husband to share a smile at the remarkable expertise of the young artists. Not once did he return my glance in acknowledgement let alone reveal a flicker of a smile in return. It is this way I am continually denied the opportunity to share any mutual enjoyment. 

If asked why he behaved in this way he would simply reply that it was not the case and merely my perception.

So, this morning, I sit alone at my kitchen table while my husband occupies another room. My task today is to prepare the papers to wind up our insolvent property development company. Heritable Bank's administrators have now sold all our company assets and thankfully plan to write off our £209,000 company mortgage shortfall. This leaves me at liberty to finally put an end to our company's trading days without creditor objection. While folding the paperwork I consider what is to become of my marriage when my HBOS battle, our last remaining adversary, eventually reaches its conclusion in however many more years to come.

I cannot help but wonder if my husband's retreat into his emotionally impervious shell might have been halted had it not been for the heartless and negligent actions of the HBOS.  Unlike Heritable Banks administrators, HBOS have been unable to show compassion at anytime. Perhaps, my husband's demeanor might have been very different if they had at least allowed us to salvage our home when the economic crisis  turned our property portfolio of 4.5m with equity of £1,200,000 into an overall shortfall of £500,000.

It is during these episodes of loneliness that I begin to doubt my ability to keep my marriage alive and our family together throughout more years of HBOS harassment.  It has become clear to me that if I am unable to save my relationship and our family life, HBOS will have succeeded in taking all that we ever had and all that we had  ever hoped for, and not just our money.

Father's Day

Yesterday I took my children to shop for Father’s Day gifts and guided them towards three suitable purchases within our budget.  Feeling no resentment towards the penny watching regime which has become second nature to us all, I took pride in making sure they understood the value of a thoughtful gift, however small.  We came away with a bargain priced family DVD, a bag of popcorn and a New Scientist magazine. I knew all these item prove more than acceptable to my husband who, since our financial demise, would not dream of buying anything for himself.  I delighted in the joy and the excitement on my children’s faces in their anticipation of the act of giving and the pleasure their gifts would bring to the recipient. 

As with any celebratory day in our household, the children were unable to contain themselves and arrived at our bedroom door bright and early.  I watched my husband carefully unwrap his gifts and discuss its merits with each child without any outward signs of his pleasure and while the children were unphased by his reserve, I struggled to suppress an overwhelming sense of grief for the absence of warmth in his actions towards us.  Oblivious to his inanimate facade, the children quickly moved onto other things secure in the familiarity of family life.  I, on the other hand, was left to talk myself out of the anti climax which always goes hand in hand with my husband’s lack of emotive reaction to anything.

I have attempted to rectify this obstacle in our relationship many times by.

· Explaining how difficult it is for me to live without engagement of this nature, His response has been either, it is just my perception and not at all how he is or I am an excessively needy person and this is a failing in me not him.

· Asking for a smile or a verbal response but in these instances I am told that either my questions are rhetorical and require no answer or he has no inclination to grin like a banshee at my behest.

· Trying to ignore this trait. However, I often feel resentful and deprived of what I perceive as his side of what should be two way communication within our marriage.

On days when I am sure I am deserving of a smile or some warmth, I grieve silently for the lack of it. These days, my face will often mirror the inanimate nature of his as we go about our lives in silence and, on occasion, when my grief turns to anger, I demand to know if he has heard me say how brightly the sun is shining or how well the children have settled at school but my outburst are not pleasant for either of us.

I know my husband does not refuse engagement with me out of malice but his ignorance of his actions and his refusal to consider the long term consequences of this lack of intimacy regularly renders my heart heavy and while I understand the impact of our ongoing precarious financial position has already taken its toll on the fragile ego of this shy and sensitive man, I can see behind his deadpan expression that the three year battering at the hands of our creditors has left him a legacy of shame for his part in it.

Sadly, despite my best efforts, it is on days like these I realise the task of rebuilding our marriage is likely to outstrip the difficulties I am currently experiencing trying to rebuild our lives financially and although I have always subscribed to the, "Whether you think you can or whether you think you can’t, either way you are right" fraternity, today, on our seventeenth Father Days together, 

I simply don’t know what to think or what to do.

Health wealth and happiness

I read recently "the true measure of a man is what he would do if he would never be caught” and having always operated with a totally different moral outlook myself, I struggle to comprehend a life code of this kind.  For me it has always been about whether or not a proposed action is beneficial for all those concerned and, for the last thirty three years, every one of my decisions has, by necessity, taken into account the impact it would have on my children.

In the early days, within the first few months of the Grand Opening, I was desperate to understand the motivating values on which my husband based the decisions which ultimately led to our family to its complete financial demise.   It was a chance meeting which gave me the first tiny insightful fragment into what may have happened to my husband’s decision making processes.

According to my source there are two completely separate elements to making every decision, namely the cerebral and the emotional. The emotional component works out the impact of a proposed actions success or failure while the cerebral component does the calculations necessary for its implementation and measures the chance of  its success. I am told neither process should rule the other but instead they should work in partnership to give a balance of risk verses return for every decision. 

It is clear to me  my husband’s withdrawal following the grief he suffered on diagnosis of his aunt, his mother and his brother from Motor Neurone disease, followed by their sad, painful and terrifying deaths only weeks apart, promoted an emotional shut down which had a catastrophic affect on my husband’s business acumen. However, whilst I can explain and understand these circumstances in a single, heart- broken man, I cannot for the life of me understand the logic of an almost identical decision making process which appears to have guided HBOS bankers down a similar path of ditruction. Surely when it comes to an corporate strategy, the chances of making responsible business decisions are improved by the numbers of those involved in rolling out these commercial initiatives. That is, of course, unless the banking industry has been brought to its knees by what the men at the top were prepared to do believing they would not be caught.

While  I can see irresponsible lending along with banking executive greed has undoubtedly brought our financial industry to its knees, sadly it is not the culprits of this crime who are destined to suffer the cost. Instead, it is my family’s health, wealth and happiness which appears to be the price they are only to happy to pay. French mathematician Blaise Pascal once said," Justice and power must be brought together so that whatever is powerful is just and whatever is just is powerful."

I live in hope.

Childish things

Today my husband said there is nothing better than watching things grow in our garden and holding me in his arms. However, in truth there is in another love he holds even dearer and thankfully it is a love we both unreservedly share. 

The love for our children.

An all consuming determination to keep my family together throughout the trials and tribulations of our financial circumstances has been driven by the belief that it is what is best for my children and the sense of responsibility I feel for them has provided me with the resolve to continue battling with the Bank of Scotland and Lloyds TSB for an unencumbered future for us all.

Thankfully no longer racked with grief for the life we had it did not take to feel the impact of our circumstances. Life without money is a life with less choice but equally I have a great deal to be thankful of. For example, I remain indebted to our landlords for the compassion and understanding they showed when they offered us our tenancy without references, reduced the rent to something we could afford and allowed us to take a lodger to make ends meet.   However, this benevolence comes at a price.  Inadequate heating, leaky windows and pipes go unchecked and without money I have no choice but to stay put.

A similar situation exists when it comes to my children’s prep school.  I am truly grateful to the Headmaster for the bursaries we now have for our children but if there are any issues, I know I will be paralysed out of gratitude for his generosity.  

My nine year old son is a loving child with an inquiring mind, an open smile and a kind, polite disposition. He is rarely naughty and is generally very keen to please. He has grown up in the shadow of two older siblings both of which are exceptionally able academically while sadly my youngest son is dyslexic and often really struggles in the classroom. To my great relief the staff at his independent school have been working very hard on building his confidence by using every opportunity to praise both his creative abilities and his sporting prowess and because of this after years of limited confidence, he is now beginning to show signs of some self belief. 

However, yesterday this was far from the case.

Distraught at being told by his teacher she was ashamed of him for not producing the standard of work she anticipated, I find my son, once again, convinced he is the most "stupidest person in our family". While I, impoverished and powerless thanks to a financial position HBOS have done their best to compound, I remain hindered from coming to my son's defense out of gratitude for his private education without charge. 

Money is most definitely not everything, it does buy choice and I have discovered to my extreme frustration, accepting the benevolence of others can uncomfortable impair the voice.

Today, my heart bleeds for my son.