Practical
I got up, walked to the shop and bought some cigarettes. I haven’t smoked in years due to Spreadsheet Man’s decision to quit, and was feeling rebellious. I then spent the afternoon turning the summerhouse into my own personal zen-den. Hauled out all the leftover crap and moved in a shelving unit from the garage, my patio furniture, and all my plants. I finally have a place for my seedlings and propagations.
I managed to get a locksmith to come out; he charged extra as it’s a Sunday but at least the house is now secure.
Whilst tidying the side living room which was previously Spreadsheet Man’s ‘office’, I found a bottle of champagne from our wedding day. We were saving it for our 25th anniversary, had kept it all these years through numerous milestones, house moves, life events. I thought fuck it, and smashed it in a neighbours skip.
Emotional
Indescribable. I found out tonight that our adult daughter text him on his birthday (Tuesday) sending well wishes and asked how he’s doing. He responded “yeah” and hasn’t messaged since. Didn’t reassure her, didn’t offer to make plans to celebrate at a later date, just said “yeah” and ignored her subsequent messages. He’s read them, but not responded.
She’s mentally ill. Severely mentally ill. Schizophrenic with suicidal ideations that she’s acted upon in the past, the kind where I’ve sat beside her hospital bed at 3am not knowing if she’ll make it past dawn.
I just can’t believe it.
He’s no longer Spreadsheet Man.
He’s a psychopath.
Loading comments...