What price love?

Because I needed to know how my monetary situation would change if, as planned, Bing accepts his next contract down south and moves in with us in January, I did some sums recently.

I'm the very person politicians mean when they talk about personal debt. I've been too mentally screwed up to work properly since my first breakdown and too locked into the poverty trap to do so since my divorce. Much as I love my landlord and he loves me (so much so that I'm very aware we'd have a completely different relationship if he weren't married to a very lovely and very formidable woman) renting in the private sector is financially crippling.

This didn't stop me being offered and accepting positively v a s t amounts of credit during my time as a non-earner. I saw it all as a long-term loan that enabled me, as a lone parent, to be available to my children during their (and my) most vulnerable years. School uniforms, trainers, car costs, christmas presents - groceries, even - you name it, it was all within my reach so long as I had a valid piece of oblong plastic at point of purchase.

Bank, store, platinum, gold. The name or colour that dressed it really didn't matter, as long as there was numerical space between the current transaction and the credit limit. Limits that were extended, upwards, on a scarily regular basis. Never on my request but always because the carefully ordered algorithms of some anonymous data processor deemed it a good (also spelled p r o f i t a b l e) risk.

Not that I ever refused of course. In my pathetic defence I was far too busy surviving myself and attempting to bring my children up as best I could to write thanks, but no thanks letters to rich institutions. It doesn't help that said institutions are still unable to process email for general correspondence this early in the 21st century, nor that I'm really bad at phone calls to family or friends, let alone to call centres somewhere on the planet staffed by minimum wage numpties.

Sis has been on at me for ages to go for an IVA. I balk every time we have the conversation, my overwhelming feeling being it's only fair to eventually pay back every penny lent to me rather than taking what I see as the easy way out and having even a small part of my double figure debt written off in exchange for my previously good credit rating.

The most recent time I see her subtly shift in the chair, unconsciously slipping into her counselling position. All open body language and non-threatening gestures, she questions...

"Would you have wanted to stay at home full time with the children if you'd not had the childhood you did?"

"No" I reply, a little surprised at the depth of conviction my voice has found. "Obviously it's all hypothetical but I think working part time would've been my choice. Time out of the house being a grown up role model and time to be a parent"

"Ok, so let's say that this situation has arisen as a direct result of your abuse"

"Er, ok..." I can kind of see the sense in that and it's 'I'll stick up to Ange cos no-one else does' Sis saying it so I'll run with it for now.

"Would you tell any other survivor that it was 'only fair' that they pay for something resulting solely from their abuse?"

"Of course not!"

"Exactly, you'd quite rightly rage at the unfairness then go on to fight their corner if they couldn't do it for themselves. Why, then, do you feel it's different for you?"

"That's simple. Because I refuse to be a victim of it anymore or use it as an excuse. I'll take responsibility for my situation because that's what makes me a survivor. Ha!"

She laughs softly before saying "Too much responsibility is mostly why you're where you are. Give yourself a break for a change - the sky won't fall down, chicken-licken!"

I join in the laughter, throw something at her for taking the piss out of my earnestness but finally I hear what she's been trying to tell me for so long and start looking into the practicalities of it.

I discover that, even with my finances reorganised I still can't afford for Bing to move in with me next year but actually, that's probably best. Right now I'm more space-craving than ever before and it's not pretty. Truth be told I'm positively fucking feral whenever anyone that isn't my dog demands my attention.

Going from a life alone to three days at college combined with four nights of sharing my bed with a man, bolted on to my usual minimum two karate sessions a week has, apparently, proven to be more of a psychological leap than I was ready for.

Ick. Eep. And other three letter representations that downplay strong emotions and present them in a humorous fashion. My head in a vice and can't breathe, cant breathe! feeling of suffocation has even manifested physically in the form of the worst head cold I've ever had, which now feels horribly like a chest infection has joined in.

But. The really stupid thing is that, amongst all this, I'm horny as all hot hell!

Bing's not a cuddly sleeper so there's no chucking a leg over to wake him gently with my filthy intentions. I fart in the general direction of this problem - he's only a man, after all! I, conversely, am woman which means I have plan B.

Unfortunately plan B (go straight to the source, use previously warmed hand and wake him from dick up/outwards) was met with the kind of reaction that made me check myself for the type of buzzing devices they don't sell at lovehoney.

Ouch. For someone that always felt her place of control was in bed this was a proper slap in the face.

My reply to this perceived 'rejection' wasn't clever, after checking the window and ceiling for Bing shaped holes I withdrew even more. Ach! Much as I hate it I just know I'm walking round giving everyone that look. You, dear reader, may or may not know what I mean so I'll describe it for nice people. It's a very quick, ultimately dismissive glance that nonetheless still manages to translate to the receiver as 'you, sputnik, have exactly two nanoseconds to explain just why the fiery fuck you are breathing in my personal space you useless, smelly product of a yorkshire terriers anal gland'

I'm reminded of those stupid government information ads during the '80s, warning against heroin use...

'Normal life. I thought I could handle it...'