Authors: Barbara Copperthwaite
It
isn’t my fault. Daryl’s responsible for his own actions.
Friday
21
When
I woke up today I looked round the house and decided I’d had enough of these
four walls. The journalists outside the house have thinned out now, and only
the odd stubborn one still remains (see how quickly they’ve forgotten me and
moved on to the next victim) so I sneaked out the back and went jogging.
It
felt good pounding the streets, even though I could only manage a couple of
minutes before having to stop, puffed out. A bit of a walk, then I pushed on
with the jogging, alternating between the two when I had to, and all the time I
repeated in time to the pounding of my feet:
It’s
not my fault.
It’s
not my fault.
It’s
not my fault.
I
repeat it again and again, trying to make myself believe in my core that it’s
true. I hope it’s true. That’s how far Marsha’s brought me already, in just one
session though; I have hope again.
Thursday
27
For
the first time today I found myself looking forward to something: my therapy
session. As soon as I got to Marsha’s I kicked my shoes off and made myself
comfy in the armchair by sitting cross-legged.
We
talked some more about Daryl. The conviction I’d felt from the last session had
quickly faded and I feel weighed down with guilt again.
‘If
I could just find out why it happened,’ I said. Tears wobbled on the edge of my
eyes and I looked up, blinking furiously, trying to keep them in.
‘Would
you understand if he explained to you?’ Marsha asked patiently.
I
didn’t get what she meant by that. If someone explains the reasoning behind
their actions then you understand. What isn’t there to understand? There had to
be a trigger for all this.
‘Maybe
I did put too much pressure on him to have a baby and it did send him over the
edge…but there has to be a reason why it did, like something that happened in
his own childhood that scarred him emotionally so much that the thought of
being a parent made him lose control. God, I don’t know, I’m not the expert
here…’ I babbled to the ceiling, still blinking.
Marsha
seemed to consider what I’d said for a moment. ‘Tell me a good memory from your
relationship,’ she asked.
What
did that have to do with what we were talking about? Confusion made the tears
disappear slowly as I spoke, describing the time Daryl arrived at the house as
a surprise, only a few weeks before his arrest, and I pulled a sickie from work
so we could spend the whole day together.
But
as I told the story, instead of feeling happy at the memory, or sickened
because I now know that he was in such a good mood because he’d raped someone
the night before, I started to feel something else.
Angry.
It was Marsha’s clever
questioning that did it. She didn’t lead me to any conclusions, didn’t put
words in my mouth or thoughts in my head, but as I answered her, describing the
day and emotions in greater detail I suddenly saw the whole thing from a
different perspective, like looking at one of those posters that’s all crazy coloured
dots, and then something shifts and suddenly you can clearly see a picture.
Daryl totally manipulated
and managed me that day. I’d thought it was really romantic the way he’d just
turned up, but actually he’d just expected me to drop everything for him. The
really annoying thing is I’d thought it myself for a fraction of a second that
day, then dismissed it, thinking I was being silly.
I always did that, always
told myself that any negative emotions I had were my problem. I never had the
confidence to say them out loud or to say no to Daryl. Or anyone else for that
matter, because now I’m home and still thinking about the session, I can see
it’s what I was like with friends too, especially Hannah.
All through school I
followed her round like a sheep, doing things I didn’t really want to do simply
because to say no would cause an argument. It was never anything major, just
silly things like which film we’d go see, which clothes to wear (if we both
wanted to wear a red top for a night out, or something, she’d always be the one
to wear it while I’d put something else on), even which boys to chat up. I’ve
spent my whole life placating, smoothing things over, keeping the peace, making
sure everyone around me is happy, while forgetting about my own happiness.
While
at Marsha’s though, the whole revelation took my breath away.
I
sat there, open-mouthed, trying to get my head around it.
‘Oh my God, Daryl did stuff
like that to me all the time,’ I gasped, furious. ‘He managed me. Even when
Daryl was in a good mood, he’d make sure everything was done if and when he
felt like it, in the way he felt like. Even that time he surprised me outside
work.’ Marsha had no idea what incident I was referring to but didn’t interrupt
me. ‘I thought it was really romantic, but thinking about it now, it was
totally controlling! He’d never, ever have given up time at work for me. In
fact, he’d have kicked off about it.’
My
eyes darted around the room, unseeing, as memories raced through my mind. ‘Rows
were always blamed on me, tension was always my fault, somehow it was always me
who was manipulated into apologising even when I knew I’d done nothing wrong,’ I
added, conviction building now as my fists clenched and unclenched. ‘Sometimes
when I was with him I felt like I was going mad because he’d so often convince
me that black was white. He had a hold over me like he was Rasputin or
something!’
Suddenly
I looked up at Marsha, triumphant. ‘You’re right. When he said “It’s your
fault” he just didn’t want to take responsibility for his own actions. Part of
his unique way of torturing people is to make them feel guilty. It’s something
he’s always done to me, and he even did to the women he attacked too.’
It’s
one thing to be told something by someone and accept it, as I had done at the last
session when Marsha had pretty much told me the same thing. It’s a whole other
feeling to come to that same conclusion yourself. I could have screamed in
frustration at my old self for not being able to see – but also felt overjoyed
because now I can see, and one of the chains tying me to Daryl has been
snapped. I can feel it like a physical lightening of my being.
‘He’s a high-functioning
psychopath and sociopath,’ Marsha explained. ‘They are charming, manipulative,
and lack any emotional empathy, which is why when they want something they go
after it without concern for
who
might get hurt along
the way.’
Yep,
that sounds like my husband.
I’m
going to get away from that bastard. It’s going to take a while, but one day
I’m going to be free of him once and for all.
‘I
just wish I could have seen it at the time,’ I hissed, shaking my head
furiously. ‘I was so judgemental of my friend Kim’s relationship and couldn’t
understand why she didn’t realise how awful her boyfriend was. Yet there was I,
with someone a hundred times worse, but I was blinded for some reason.’
‘Did
she realise something was wrong with your relationship?’ asked Marsha, before
taking a sip of water.
‘She
tried to subtly tell me once but I didn’t listen. In fact I felt annoyed,
hurt.’
‘So
she could see what was wrong in your relationship but not in her own,’ Marsha
said. ‘Why do you think that was?’
I
shrugged. ‘I suppose she was just too close to her own relationship.
Couldn’t see the wood for the trees and all that.
But she
had the distance from my marriage to be able to see it clearly.’
Marsha
nodded, and I waited expectantly for her to say more. She just looked on me.
Then realisation dawned. Oh, I get it now – that’s exactly why I could see what
a scumbag Psycho Sam was, but couldn’t see Daryl for what he was.
‘The
other thing, I suppose,’ I said slowly, thinking aloud, ‘is that…well, if he’d
been hitting me it would have been easier to see I was in an abusive
relationship. Not easier to get out of, just easier to…comprehend. But…manipulation
and psychological games are harder to identify somehow.’
‘A
lot of women would agree with that, definitely.’
Hmm,
lots more for me to think about…
Friday
28
I actually slept a bit
better last night. Between the therapy, and the exercising I’m forcing myself
to do now, I’m feeling stronger. Not strong, definitely not strong; I am still
broken and pathetic, but now I am at least trying to pull myself together.
The jogging is boring as
hell but gives me time alone that somehow clears my head instead of filling it
with more crap. And I’m doing yoga. So much yoga it’s coming out of my ears.
That
dvd
Kim bought me has
been a real God-send. I tried it one night in desperation when I couldn’t sleep
and now I’m addicted. I mean literally addicted. I do it in the morning, in
place of my missed sleep. I do it in the evenings, when I can’t face watching
more telly, and I can’t sleep...
Why? Why? Why? That’s the question
that keeps me awake; yes, I’m still driving myself mad with that. It’s whirling
round and round my head and there doesn’t seem to be any escape from it. I’m
exhausted by it. I come up with theories and shoot them down just as quickly.
I’ve got to know the reason, I’ve got to understand. It’s fine to say that
Daryl is responsible for his actions, and I do know it wasn’t my fault but…What
if there was something I could have done to stop it? What if I could have
spotted it earlier?
But more than anything, I just need to
understand why the man I loved was a violent manipulative monster.
Saturday
29
More
red bills are landing on my doormat. I’m in big trouble. I’ve started scouring
the local paper for jobs, even though I can’t imagine anyone wanting to employ
me round here, but really I need to get rid of this house.
Kim
and Peter came over for dinner tonight. I know it sounds pathetic but I’m still
not up to much; I get exhausted very quickly and have trouble concentrating on
things, so I just did a huge vat of
spag
bol.
They didn’t seem to mind though, and even brought over
some wine to share.
‘Not
for me, thanks,’ I said, putting a hand over my glass when Peter poured for
everyone. Kim pulled a face, amazed. ‘Oh, I just don’t like the thought of
drinking since the trial. I’m too on edge all the
time,
and I’m scared I’ll lose control and fall apart if I have any booze,’ I
explained.
She
nodded, understanding immediately. Peter looked sympathetic too. ‘How are you
doing?’ he asked gently.
‘I’m
okay,’ I nodded, the lie tripping off my tongue lightly, because what else
could I say? ‘But I did have something I wanted to ask you. I know you’re not a
divorce lawyer, but I wondered if you knew…can I divorce Daryl even if he
doesn’t want me
to?
’
Peter
frowned and bit his lip.
Then ran over his hands through his
black hair, which always seems to point in different directions.
Clearly
the answer wasn’t going to be the straightforward ‘of course!’ I’d been hoping
for. Kim gave him a look before taking another mouthful of food.
‘You’ve
had a conversation with Daryl about this, I take it?’ he checked.
‘Wrote
to him,’ I confirmed, nodding. ‘He wrote back saying he’d never agree,
basically.
Though he did put some nonsense in about being
willing to discuss it if I visit him.’
Peter
looked thunderstruck for a second,
then
swallowed hard.
‘Well, it might be worth considering…’ Before Kim or I could argue he ploughed
on. ‘The only way you can get a divorce without your husband’s consent is for
you to have lived separately for five years or more. He won’t be able to defend
your divorce petition then, although he can ask the court not to grant the
final decree because of major financial or other type of hardship – but I don’t
see how that could be applied in this case.’
I pushed
my plate away and doubled over, leaning on the dining table, head in hands,
suddenly weak. ‘Five years?’ I croaked into the glass surface. ‘Are you sure
there’s no emergency rule for cases like this, you know, extenuating
circumstances where you discover your spouse is a murdering psycho?’
I
heard someone
stand,
a rustle of movement, then felt a
hand rest on my shoulder. ‘I’m really sorry,’ Peter apologised.
‘Is
it worth you checking with someone? This isn’t your area of expertise…’ I said
desperately, hauling myself upright to look him in the eye. His hand dropped
uselessly to his side, and he stood awkwardly, clearly not knowing what to do
with himself.
Finally
he shrugged helplessly. ‘I can check but I know you have to wait five years,
unless he agrees to the divorce.’
Kim leaned over the table and grabbed my
hand, squeezing it. Her brow furrowed into a frill and she sighed. ‘Maybe it’s
worth talking to Daryl?’