Too Little Too Late

I will admit to being sporadic when it comes to writing, but generally, when I start an idea, I run with it until I finish. It has to be completed. Yet I am having the most difficult of times even starting this one. "Then why write?" you ask. Because I feel I have to. A good friend of mine (and thank fuck for good friends recently ... more on that later) recently stated that they just needed to put pen to paper and vomit out all the bile inside. What follows is my case of the verbal exorcism of devils that needs to escape and run free over a page or screen for others to pick apart, listen to, find comparison with or just have a laugh at (because as tragic or pathetic as parts may seem, it all really boils down to just one life ... mine ... and the insignificance it plays in the grand scheme of things).

It all started with a "you're a great guy, but ..." almost four years ago. Let's go back, shall we? I was once a married man with a young daughter, house, well-paid job and 4 cats. Sounds ideological, right (except to you dog people)? Let us dig into the details a bit. I was once entwined with a woman of stunning beauty and limitless intelligence, who was also that greatest gift you could wish for ... my friend. But I began to ignore her because of a job in a travel agency that kept me on the road 6 out of 12 months a year. She sat at home with our child, raising her whilst I convinced myself that the job was about all the money I brought in and contributed. I didn't like the town we lived in, but the house was a grand idea ... and needed work. So I rationalised ... the time away was for the cash to make things better. I completely ignored the damage I was doing by not being there during the most important parts of my young child's life and the strain it was inflicting upon my wife, who was learning the hard way how to be a lone parent. Over time, when my daughter began to communicate and not just be a crying bag of flesh that kept us up at nights, I began to see the joy in her more than I had. Yes, that is a crappy thing to say, but it was the truth. So, as my head started to finally come round to wanting to be home more with my now talkative, interactive daughter, I found that my wife no longer wanted to be talkative or interactive. By running around the globe trying to skirt my responsibilities, I may have found a way to come to terms with the stress of being a new, slightly reluctant, father ... but I had broken apart the reason for all of this world in the process. My best friend, lover, wife, mother of my child had been left alone for far too long to deal with all the daily issues (which, I must say, are a hell of a lot harder to handle than any job in the world) without any help from me, and she reverted to her own means and sank inside herself. I was shut out, and I couldn't find a way back in. I was never where I was needed ... when I was needed. I did love, I did care, I did what I could to make amends, but my actions (or lack of) stirred up another ghost from the past of my wife ... that of a long-standing depression that reared its ugly head and came back with a vengeance. And there was no way I could fix it ... Yes, we had other issues, and I can say that I am not to blame for how the depression of my wife cut through our relations like a scythe in the fields, but I was the one who summoned that daemon back into her soul at a time when she had no strength left to fight. To close this point, even though she knew her depression was paramount, in a spark of kindness, and I hope in the sight of me attempting my hardest to save all that was possibly left, she said to me: "Ian, you are a great guy and a good man, but I just can't right now." And so began my time in exile. It was too late ... I was too late. I could have, and quite possibly would have, become such a better person given half the chance, but there was absolutely nothing I could do to help her struggle with the feelings and turmoil inside her. And even being round her was just a reminder of all the darkness piled up inside. So I had to go ... for the sake of my child, for the space my wife needed away from me to find herself again, for my own sanity.