Here I am, in France (I have been here for almost half a year), drinking the most wonderful champagne (it’s like candyfloss – it just melts away – none of that gassy stuff we’re used to) and I remember living in this horrible little town in the Free State (post graduation) with my loving wife and her telling me that she had just gotten off the phone with one of our varsity pals (a doctor living in Simonstown).
She said he was feeling so lonely and depressed, sitting on his balcony, having good wine and looking out over False Bay. I remember thinking: “say what!” this guy was flush with money and work, lived in the Cape and was single – what more could a guy want? I was married, my wife and I got our degrees in ’94 and against all good judgement, did not immigrate, but decided to stay in the little town where she grew up (close to mom).
There was no work for a white graduate in ’95, ’96, ’97 and so on – I had to do all crazy things to survive… Skip a few pages of “misery and hardship” (haha – we had a huge house, two maids a full time gardener and a driver – jup true…) and we end up with me walking out of a company that I had started at 26 (I think) and owning almost half of a very nice farm in the mountains close to Clarens.
I started working for my brother at some time – he was in a big corporate environment and needed my “skills” to get one step ahead. Later on he started his own company and employed me in a similar fashion. One day he phoned me to ask whether I could work in his office for two weeks (previously I had emailed him “whatever”) – this turned out to be a very long two weeks. (To date, it has been 10 years and a bit if I am not mistaken…)
So my wife and lovely children stayed on the farm (very safe – electric fence, “farm guy to look after her” etc.) and I drove home every weekend - 600km round trip (more or less). Jup-jup lots of work over weekends on the farm to carry on from where I stopped at the office (very much “I’m Henery the Eighth I am…) and this carried on for seven years. In between there had been many overseas trips (work, always work…) and I became a control freak, always wanting to know whether my wife and children were safe (wharha wharha etc). It came to a break point when my wife decided to move to Pretoria to be with me. (and so the end draws near…ominous hoehahahahah)
Okay, so what is this guy on about, drinking fluid candyfloss in France and feeling sorry for himself? A year or so (okay I missed most of the last year, so it must be two years ago) I read an article of men being abused by their wives, actually being too afraid to go to sleep (the ice pick in the bed thing you know…), and me thinking: “at least my situation is not like this” and discarding the article…
I am now divorced from my lovely wife (whom I adored and loved). In the past I never allowed anyone to utter a bad word about her, cutting off anyone who did (I became very lonely, without friends and distant to family). The asshole with whom she had an affair (he is a professional conman, is obese, reeks, drinks, smokes, has very low moral values, has actually murdered people in “the course of duty as a police officer” and, did I mention “he does not small so nice”…), now controls my children and therefore my life.
I decided (earlier on – who cares about dates) to end my misery, only to find that if you plan to do such a thing, you should at least do your homework (not like me thinking that if I need to have my shoelaces untied when drinking one of these pills otherwise I would end up sleeping with my shoes on (huge gulp of air) then 60 plus 60 serious sedatives should do the trick… (good grief, you need to be really mental to do this type of thing scientifically)). Unfortunately, I was not brave enough to do this thing sober, consuming a couple of bottles of wine (I was definitely not going to leave my wine to that bastard, and I did not think I was going to contend with a hangover the next day…), resulting (apparently) to me being dehydrated to the point that the pills did not dissolve(?!!!- phuck!!!) and being rescued two hours later (and my sister-in-law seeing me naked (in the hospital, when my clothes had been cut from my lifeless body, you bunch of freak shows…)).
Okay, so here I end up being rescued, but… the asshole whom she is having this sordid affair with is an ex-cop (and need I remind you, a professional conman)…, she is a lecturer in psychology… (oh, and she’s a psychopath), her mother is a lecturer in psychology… (oh, and she’s an even worse psychopath), and so on and so on (okay let’s keep moving). I end up having a court order against me (why? – because she can – if she can lie about everything else…) and I have to ask her boyfriend permission to see my children (what more could a father ask for…).
The moral of the story (“moral” or lack off) is (and now I have to think hard because too much candyfloss)… The midlife crises is really scary (doooodum, dooodum, doodum, dodum scary) – (ominous) beware.
(This is a true life story, Bobbie Ewing will not take a shower and remember that this year had been a bad dream, my children will be scarred for life, I will be (contents censored..) for life and last, but not the least, my wife, will also need to contend with the life she had chosen…)
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