Lightning Strikes Twice In The Same Place

Let me, first of all, make it clear that I am no expert on the condition of narcissism. Indeed, it was really only after I had been subject to narcissistic abuse, twice over, which almost cost me my life, that I set about trying to understand the condition. And so I spent a lot of time delving into the background history which lead to it.

Case study number one.

In her youth, my first ex was a star student who achieved great exam results and went to university, the only one to do so in her family. For this, she was her father's favourite child. Her mother got the idea that such an intelligent girl was worthy of marrying a man of substance, a high-ranking doctor, or a judge. 

So the girl had a lot to live up to. And to be fair, although she ended up marrying a simple working-class man of humble means, as a couple we thrived and prospered.

Of course, due to my background, I was never going to be good enough for my wife's mother. Throughout the entirety of our marriage, my mother-in-law never lost the opportunity to put me down. I was such a disappoint ment to the insufferable woman.

Well, in the end, inspired by my first ex-wife, I worked very hard and managed to recover my lost early education. I did lots of night classes and went to university to get my first degree. Still it was not good enough for my ex-wife's mother.

"Ahhhh, but it's not a proper degree is it Liam?" she spat spitefully.

"So what exactly is a 'proper degree' then?" I said.

"Well, it's not a degree from Oxford or Cambridge is it?" allofly said the woman who could barely read or write. 

In truth, she was a stupid working-class, two-bit millionaire who only got on in life on the back of her husband's job. Now when I say 'Got on' I mean only in as much as they lived in a private semi-detached house in suburbia rather than in a slum in the ghetto or on a trailer park.

After university, I prospered and started to earn ridiculous amounts of money as a writer and moved up the property ladder to a beautiful five-bedroom detached house in one of the better parts of town. At the height of the nineteen eighties property boom, the house was valued at about 250,000 pounds. 

Primarily I worked in advertising, marketing, and public relations and business was booming. in 1984 we lived in a very modest three-floor terraced weavers house worth about 7,000 pounds, By 1986 we had moved three times to get to a house worth a quarter of a million pounds! We had two cars, a live-in nanny, and an excellent standard of living. Then, through no fault of mine, it all went to pot.

In 1990 the UK went into a deep economic recession as a result of which I lost all my work and ultimately my successful career. One of the very first things to suffer was advertising budgets which got slashed by just about every company in the country to save enough money to survive the new hard times. 

In the London inner city area alone twenty advertising businesses a day were going out of business almost overnight. Some big companies, like Heinz, were actually totally eliminating their advertising spend. They reasoned that their hero product had become such a household name that there was no need to spend millions on advertising it. 

"A million housewives every day, pick up a tin of beans and say, Beans means Heinz." 

Ask anybody of my generation to sing that tv tune and they will give you a word and note-perfect rendition.

For a solid year I tried so hard to find a new job, any job, and it was impossible. And so, unable to service the mortgage, we had to downscale to a smaller semi-detached property, a house that was so similar to her parent's house that she hated it.

Worse still, even though we were solvent due to having decent equity in our five-bed detached, we were seen by my parents-in-law as having failed. And all the blame was put on me. I cannot find a job became "Liam Can't work? No Liam won't work!" In fact, in the early nineties I did have work and to improve my prospects I went to university once again for a second degree in Education, from 1992 to 1994 and I graduated with honours.

However we no longer had the nanny, money was a lot tighter than in the eighties and our standard of living had dropped dramatically. They do say that "When hard times come to a knocking at the front door, love flies out the back window."

I do believe that my wife had become resentful and embittered and decided to break free. And that was the beginning of her perverse narcissist period.

As a woman who had always been seen by her parents as a successful go-getter (very much on the back of my career success I might add) I do believe that she was encouraged by, among others, her parents to get out of our marriage and take me to the cleaners. 

Not for the last time did I hear the words "The one whose fault it is gets nothing." Do you see how easily they shift blame? It's the childish "He made me do it", a total non acceptance of responsibility for their own bad behaviour. 

However, more than that, I now feel that she also felt that since in her diseased mind I was to blame, I had to be punished harshly, and that is where all of the narcissistic nastiness came from.

What was more, my first ex visited my house when I was at work to fill my second ex's head with malicious lies about me, the objective being to destroy my new relationship as revenge for my having ruined hers with her extra marital lover.

Case study number two

What caught my attention with my second ex-wife was her physical beauty, and that was my downfall. What I discovered as I got to know her more was that she was in fact the relative failure in the family. All of her brothers and sisters, especially her eldest brother and younger sister, did very well in life. And by whatever means, even if it meant robbing me blind (blinded by love) she was going to emulate them.

Her brother had gone into business and ended up doing exceptionally well. Her sister married a guy who was also very successful in business. And so I think she felt almost obliged to at the very least equal her siblings' success. However, she did not seem to have the mental capacity to be able to rise to the occasion. The only way she was ever going to get anywhere was by marrying a man of means.

About two years before I met her she hooked up with a guy who seemed to be the perfect candidate for making all her dreams come true. He came across as a young, wealthy man of substance and was very handsome to boot. It was only when she moved country to be with him that she discovered the disappointing truth of the matter.

The man was in fact a lazy, immature boy inside a man's body. His family, who he still lived with, were relatively well off. They had their own business and lived out in the suburbs, a small area of beautiful mansions where the upper middle class lived.

Bruno, as he was called, was a kept man with his family keeping a very tight rein on his spending. During the working day, he simply sat around his father's office at home reading newspapers and magazines, dreaming of one day being a writer. Yet he showed no signs of even starting to write so much as a single sentence.

For my ex, finally seeing the situation for what it really was, with little chance of her ever getting her hands on the family fortune, she upped sticks and went to live on her own. And shortly after breaking free, she met me.

I was everything Bruno wasn't. I had for some years been a successful writer for newspapers and magazines, and I lived on my own in my own house answerable to nobody but myself. It did not take long for her to see the advantages of becoming attached to me, and so she made her move.

My problem was I had this underlying lifelong issue of undervaluing myself. That's what comes of being constantly told that you are useless by an ignorant education system and its teaching staff. Anyway, flattered by the attention of such a pretty, sexy woman I went along with the idea.

I have to add that at this point I was a year fresh out of a failed marriage and acrimonious divorce from somebody who had become a perverse narcissist. And so I guess I was still very vulnerable from the overtures of a fine-looking woman.

Just to add one other significant part of my intimate history, sex. My ex-first wife was of the close your eyes and think of England variety. A Victorian prude is what you might call it. It was a case of the missionary position or nothing, "Oh, and don't forget to wake me up and tell me when you are finished."

My new, second wife, was an animal between the sheets. All of a sudden a lifetime of sexual frustration was relieved as I embarked upon an amazing sexual journey. Two things I was slow to realize; one, I mistook a condition known colloquially, if somewhat crudely, as 'cock happy', for love. In a nutshell, I loved the sex rather than the woman. 

Two, a Latin temperament is all very well between the sheets, but it can be a bloody nightmare in a kitchen full of sharp knives and hard steel kitchenware.

Having convinced me to move to live in Spain I sold my house and off I went. And it was there that the beast was unleashed with all its fury. Yes, back in the UK I had seen signs that in all honesty were not good, were in fact early signs of what was to come. However, I somewhat generously put her behaviour in the UK down to the stresses of living in a foreign country. I was trying to think the best of her. I reasoned that once we got to Spain she would flourish in her own backyard. Oh boy was I ever wrong with that one?

Back in the UK, I had expressed concerns about maintaining contact with my three children from my first failed marriage. She reassured me that the children would be able to visit us for long periods anytime we felt like it.

However, once in Spain one of the first things she told me was that she would not tolerate my children coming over for any period of time. I was gutted.

After about a year my wonderful mother gifted me a thousand pounds, for no particular reason than motherly love. Rather than spend the money on myself I decided to buy three return tickets for my children, costing 750 pounds, with 250 pounds to cover the cost of their meals and outings. That was not at all well received.

My second ex became very angry stating that I should have spent the money on her! Anyway, when the children arrived she did everything she could to make their time as miserable as she could, even chastising my eldest daughter for damaging the bathroom door, the damage I knew was already there long before my children came.

In time we moved into a rented apartment which she said she would pay for using her unemployment benefit. However, one day I realised that the rent was going out of my bank account, which I had stupidly allowed her access to, and her unemployment benefit was going into a secret bank account in her name only.

On this discovery, I simply decided to open a new account, at another bank, in my name only and paid in an amount equal to her unemployment benefit from my wages. I reasoned that what was good for the goose was good for the gander. When she discovered what I had done she went ballistic with me.

Also in that apartment, other matters were coming to a head. Apart from unforeseen vicious physical attacks, for no good reason (is there ever a good reason for throwing boiling hot water all over somebody?) other things began to concern me.

One Saturday morning I walked past our bedroom door which was closed. As I approached the door I could hear a buzzing noise. I opened the door and went in only to realize that she was pleasuring herself with a sex toy.

"Oh, are we up for some fun then darling?" I asked softly.

Without stopping she told me to piss off she was busy and she did not need me. I exited the room with my tail well and truly between my legs.

In a short time, her father passed away and I agreed to move in with her mother so that she would not be all alone. OK, one word of advice here, never, ever move in with your wife's mother. I can guarantee you it will not end well.

About a week after the funeral the family had a BBQ to celebrate her father's life. As we all sat at a table on the patio my ex's sister suddenly reached over her and grabbed my hand. She then placed her hand on my ex's left breast, placed her hand on top of mine, and squeezed. "What's up Liam, you don't want to have sex with my sister anymore?"

I was totally dumbfounded. A week or so before, and not for the first time, she was very nastily refusing to have sex with me. And here it was quite clear that she was telling her sister at least that it was me who didn't want sex with her! Talk about manipulative behaviour.

So, ensconced in her mother's house, I did my best to fit in. One major problem was the total lack of privacy. Her mother insisted on having all internal doors open, no doubt so she could keep tabs on what everybody was up to.

And if I dared to suggest a weekend away in the family's holiday apartment on the coast her mother would suddenly invite herself along. There really was no escaping the woman. And if my ex ever had a go at me for any trivial thing, her mother would take her side and join in.

To get away from that sort of nonsense I paid for the build of a big office-like room in their enormous garage. That was somewhere I could escape to and play my guitar or keyboard or teach English to my private students. 

One day, since my father-in-law was no longer with us, I went out to buy a new garden rake and set to gather up all the leaves from the autumn fall. My ex came home and saw me and demanded "What the hell do you think you are doing? Who told you to do that?"

"Well nobody told me to do it, but it needed doing or all of those leaves are going to get inside the house as your mother keeps the front door open all day long."

"It is not your house, stop now."

So I stopped and went inside my new office to play my keyboard. In less than five minutes she came out of the kitchen to cross the garage floor and enter my new office.

"Now what are you doing? Why don't you do something useful and go outside to gather up all those leaves before they get in the house?"

At that moment her mother crossed the garage floor to see what was going on and my ex said "It's him, he doesn't want to work or do anything around here. He thinks we should all look after him, mama. He's a lazy bastard." Talk about gaslighting.

Can you imagine for one moment having to live with this sort of bloody madness? I was living a life of abject bloody misery, and I did not know where to go or who I could speak to. It really was a living hell. This was not what I had signed up for, not the wonderful life in the sun I had envisioned back in the UK.

Since we had moved into her mother's home the physical abuse at least had abated, no doubt due to the fact that there were always plenty of witnesses around. However this was only to be replaced by verbal abuse, threats and deliberate provocation. Also, she always maliciously mis-translated anything I said to her family to make me look bad. The living nightmare continued unabated. The last miniscule vestiges of anything akin to love for the woman had long since been dead and buried a long time ago. I hated her with a vengeance equal to her hatred for me, but it all started with her.

There was a suffocating degree of neglect even for my most basic human needs, a total lack of respect for my human rights and not even the slightest hint of empathy or affection. It really was the most debilitating, beastial situation and, at the time, I couldn't think of any painless type of way out. I was totally, consummately destroyed and fearful for my future.

I had a full-time job at an English academy in the city, extra part-time teaching with private students at the farm to get more money to furnish the new apartment I had paid a 30k deposit on, helping to clean the dishes and mop the floors, doing various jobs around the farm outside in the field...I was totally worn out with it all, tired of being treated worse than a bleeding dog. I must have had the patience of a saint.

How little did I know how much worse things were going to get in the future, even long after I left her. I will skate over the affair she was having with a gypsy thief at her aunty's business on the farm next door whilst I was busting a gut at home and in the city.

However, one last thing worthy of mention here is how she was when we immediately split up regarding our son.

The boy was at a local school and whenever I had time I would go to the school to see how he was doing.

One weekend I had him for two days and we went to a family bar to eat.

Inside the bar, I realised that some woman didn't recognise was looking rather intently at me. Eventually the woman came over to our table and asked if I was the boy's father, to which I replied yes.

"Ok, well I am one of his teachers and I have been observing you with the boy. You look close if you don't mind me saying so.

"Of course we are, we are each others hero." I said with a proud smile.

"Well not according to his mother. She has been around to the school speaking very badly about you and in fact demanded that we erase your name from all his records. She said he hasn't got a dad. She said we had to remove your name even from his school reports. 

Of course we refused, you're his dad and are entitled to know how he is doing. Then she marched to the head's office and said that if we did not remove your name she would report the school to the authorities. The head told her in no uncertain terms to get out before she called the police.

I have to say, I see you two together and it's lovely to see how much you love each other."

That I must say, made me feel good, even if it was only for a few moments with a stranger.

Not too long after that it was time for my son's baptism, and despite all the shit my ex was continuing to cause me, I still did my best for my son. I paid for his Baptism party, the food and drink for thirty adults (mostly her family) my son's church clothes and shoes and a very big expensive Baptism cake. 

With lots of misgivings, not without cause, I went to the Baptism party at the farm they lived on. Tentatively I entered the garage to see all his relatives who all stood to shake my hand, all except for her immediate family. 

I saw her younger brother drinking my beer whilst he BBQ'd my food and went over to him to shake his hand. He refused to take my hand and instead started shouting at the top of his voice "You're not that boy's father, do you understand?" My worst fears had come true.

This wasn't about me and his sister, nor him and me, it was about the children present, and the swine ruined it for me and them with his stupid unwarranted insults. And to cap it all they were all feasting on the food and drink I paid for! The room went deadly silent as all turned to look at me and all I could do was turn, walk out to my car and leave. I felt shit.

Throughout those years I took my son to England twice, I paid for all of his karate and after school English lessons, his karate clothes, his scout fees and trips. his school books.....it was all down to me. I have absolutely no doubt my ex told everybody a completely different story. And I guess that was why her drunken brother insulted me.

Ok, so back to the narcissism. Having left the farm my ex took me to court to try to get my entire salary. Apparently I could easily live without food and shelter. That got thrown out of court.

Then she told me that since I was the one to blame for everything that had gone wrong, I should get nothing, not my new apartment, not all my personal possessions back at the farm, not my brand new car, not my valuable musical instruments nor my very expensive custom built professional business computer, not my clothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

She told me that in Spain the woman gets everything, as long as she can justify it on the basis that it was needed for the child.

Well, that battle went on for fifteen years, and indeed, not because of the law, but because of her shitty behaviour, I did end up getting nothing, nothing except for my musical instruments which I needed for my other part time job as a professional musician.

She went on to steal and sell my new car and even tried to get the new apartment off me. One day I went to the bank who where financing the part of the cost of the apartment I hadn't paid for. 

I had paid a thirty thousand pound deposit on the apartment. After walking out on the hell I was being subject to I went to the builder and instructed them to send any correspondence about the purchase to my new address. I also popped into the bank to check what the mortgage situation was for what remained to be paid to complete the purchase.

The bank clerk responsible gave me a shitty look and said "I cannot discuss that with you, it's not your apartment." He looked down at some papers and traced his finger down the list until he came to my apartment. 

I had long ago developed the ability to read upside down and I could see that my name had been erased and a comment had been added in a margin stating....

"The woman cannot at the moment go ahead with the purchase as she is having problems with her ex husband."

I was furious. I told him the reverse was true, that it was in fact my apartment and I could prove it. So I had to go back to the builder next door and demand a copy of the contract showing my name. I then went back into the bank and showed the clerk the contract." He looked shocked.

The clerk amended his notes, deleted the comment in the margin and then I reported him to his boss. His boss said she was sorry they could only go off what my ex had told them.

I was furious. I told him the reverse was true, that it was in fact my apartment and I could prove it. So I had to go back to the builder next door and demand a copy of the contract showing my name. I then went back into the bank and showed the clerk the contract." He looked shocked.

The clerk amended his notes, deleted the comment in the margin and then I reported him to his boss. His boss said she was sorry they could only go off what my ex had told them. My ex, thinking she was being crafty, had told the bank manager that she had won the apartment off me due to being a mother with a young son and that she would bring the court papers with her in a few days to prove it.

Well, to a degree, it is true that Spanish courts do tend to award the family home to the wife. However, in my case the apartment still had not yet been built, in which case it was most definitely not an apartment, it was nothing more than an architectural drawing on a piece of paper. And since the law of physics has not yet advanced to the stage that you can now move into a drawing of a house on a piece of paper, it is nothing more than an investment, which is a whole different matter.

A big part of the problem is that nowadays everybody considers themselves experts in law. We call these type of people 'bar room lawers'. It's the same with that other old chestnut that possession is nine tenths of the law, absolute bollocks.

During my fifteen years being dragged through one trial after another I learnt a great deal about the law. And I found that on certain subjects I actually knew more about the bloody law than a few whizz kid prep school attorneys.

I remember one particular jackass who looked like a Hollywood movie star with his shock of blond hair and chiselled good looks. He was going to wipe the floor with me he reckoned. I soon sent him scuttling out of the court room with his embarrassed face glued to the floor. And I am still no expert on the law!

In the end the builder sent a letter only to my ex offering a return of all money plus seven percent interest, to compensate for a long delay in construction, but the offer ended at the end of that month. She failed to send me a copy of the letter and by the time I got a copy from her solicitor it was too late, two years out of time. Then the builder went into liquidation and all the money was lost. How bloody well infuriating.

As for my brand new car, I took the woman to court as she sold the car and kept the money. She thought that as the car was in her name it was hers, not so. Back when I bought the car she craftily persuaded me to put in her name to prove that I trusted and loved her, and I foolishly fell for it.

However, a property in your name does NOT mean that you own it, it merely shows that you are the registered keeper. The person who owns the car is the person who paid for it, and that is what I proved.

Her attorney laughingly brought in a car salesman from the dealership to say that she had visited the dealership many times window shopping, a dealership where her brother worked.

So she thought that on the basis of proven window shopping, the car was hers! The court disagreed with her and awarded me the value of the car. I won, but I lost really since I never ever saw a single dime of that money.

All the money from the sale of my house back in the UK and the new apartment and car, etc, all gone. I got well and truly cleaned out by the woman. In 2014, she even left the country and took my son who I have not heard from since, some eight years.

Am I bitter? Well I guess from my writing of it, it does seem that way. And yet.......These days apart from writing about those historic events here on Medium, I never ever mention it. I certainly do not discuss it with my lovely new Japanese wife. This woman would give me her last breath, so I refuse to infect our wonderful relationship with that crap. 

Also, I did learn among very many other lessons, why not to speak too much about how your previous ex abused you. I did tell my second ex all what the first did to me, not realising that I was effectively teaching her how to hurt me, behaviour which she then went on to copy.

Thankfully I can choose when to talk about this and stop at the drop of a hat. I have found that I can speak about it in a detached way, like it all happened to somebody else. I do not have any more bad feelings when I speak about it. It happened, it was shitty, it's all gone and buried in the deep, dark past.

So why do I speak about it here? Good question. I do so for various reasons.

I only write about it here to enlighten others and hopefully help them to avoid what I went through. It really was a truly horrendous situation I found myself in. I sincerely hope this can help others to recognise the signs and act accordingly upon them.

I also write about it here on the off chance that one day, maybe long after I am gone, somehow my children will come across this story, will read it and will know the truth about how they did have a dad that loved them more than my own life and who fought tooth and nail to keep the contact. I would want them, especially my younger son, to know that instead of the poisonous crap he has been fed all of his young life by a vicious and sick mother.

Final observations

Reflecting back on both of these two cases I have been struck by both their similarities as well as their differences.

In terms of similarities, the most striking thing was the level of nastiness each was capable of. I tried to understand what that was all about in terms of the reasoning behind it all.

One comment my first ex made which sticks in my mind was when, some years after it all, she actually apologised and said "I'm sorry, it was just that I wasn't very happy at that time."

Well for me that was too little too late. 'Sorry', is for when you accidentally bump into me in the street or in an elevator. If you were to ask any criminal serving time for murder, to man they would tell you that it was just that they were not happy at that time. (Just to mention in passing, my first ex also confessed that she was on Prozac at that time, for whatever indication as to her state of mind or effect that that medication might have had on her behaviour).

Anyway, her lack of happiness was not for me to resolve. Yes I will do my best to make you happy, but ultimately that is not my responsibility. And in addition, that is not an adequate explanation for what happened. And it is certainly no excuse for killing somebody. However, for them it is the closest you will get to a reason.

Having said all of that, it is clear that both were coming from a place of deep seated unhappiness. The next step that follows on from that, at least in their twisted way of thinking, is the apportioning of blame for that lack of happiness. And once blame has been apportioned, then it follows that some form of punishment is due to the guilty party. And the more severe the lack of happiness, the more severe the punishment to be administered.

Might I point out that at the time that these two very similar situations occured there was a certain amount of financial difficulties. Yes, we were highly solvent, but we were probably on our limits in terms of the amount of what is called disposable income.

I should also mention that in each case they had both suffered a loss of a close relative; my first ex her favourite aunty and my second ex her father. Again, that is no excuse, but maybe, just maybe, it reminded them of their own mortality and rammed home the need to get the most out of life whilst you still could, even if it meant destroying your spouse.

Having said all of that, long before those family bereavements, in both cases, there had been plenty of early signs of what would transpire long before the passing of an aunty and a father.

Maybe both women had lost faith in my ability to provide for a better life. Or perhaps they were both just bored with me. Whatever the reason, they both simply decided to cut and run and to grab as much of what there was, preferably everything there was.

However, I am mindful of a day many years ago when a very good friend of mine at that time said "Don't beat yourself up too much about it all Liam, you don't have to have done anything wrong."

Where I have a problem is not so much the narcissism, but the Perverse Narcissism, ie, they both seemed to want me dead! (Please read my article 'An Unhealthy Family Affair' to discover what I deemed an attempted murder of me by my first ex wife). And of course, the level of violence directed at me by my second ex wife more than justifies the belief that she wanted me dead (please follow the story links below).

One other curiosity of the above two stories is that in each case a great contributing factor to the problems suffered was due to an extra marital affair with somebody at work. Lightning did, indeed, strike twice in the same place. And doubling up on that I got shafted by an evil narcissist twice over too.

The more I think about it the more I realise why an affair at work is all too common. For work we always dress well and have lots of energy and time to sparkle. Back home we are tired after a long day at work and we perhaps get a little bored with the same old thing. At work we meet exciting new attractive people and it is all too easy to fall for the charms of the boss or a colleague.

Whatever the reasons for what happened, what they did, I personally did my best to love and support my ex wives and in no way deserved the appalling treatment I had dished out to me, and neither did my children deserve to lose an innocent loving father. Alack alas, it was what it was and it's all over now.

On deeper reflection, I did make lots of mistakes of one sort or another, and I have beat myself up about those mistakes endlessly. I have been harder on myself that anybody else. I paid for those mistakes dearly.

In the end, I won and lost everything that ever meant anything to me. I had four children between the two ex wives and have contact with only one of them, my eldest son, who I have only just recently managed to re-establish contact with. And that contact involves me treading on a lot of eggshells to avoid discussing the past.

My son and his siblings simply do not want to know. My two daughters have very much taken their mother's side and will not hear a word about how awful she was, even though her behaviour at times put them, as innocent young children, at risk of serious harm.

They have indicated that they do not even want so much as a Christmas card from me and have refused to pass on their postal addresses. Amazing, as young children I doted on them and would have died for them.I did everything I could to protect them from their mother's madness, of which they know very little thanks to me keeping schtum all of their lives into adulthood.

My other, youngest, son I lost when he was just thirteen. In 2014 he was kidnapped by his mother and I have never heard from him since. He will be twenty two this year and I have not got the slightest clue where he is nor what he is doing.

I gave up looking for him, it was all to no avail anyway. If he has been so poisoned about me by his mother that he does not want contact with me, I don't see what more I can do about that. It would be a great waste of time and energy for me to even try.

Eight years ago I met my present wife and it is she that I dedicate my time and energy to, she really is one in a million. Life is good, if you want it, so go and make it happen. If I can get over it and make myself a marvellous new life, anybody can.

These days I live a very quiet, peaceful life. The only money I have is a small state pension and whatever small supplements I can earn here on Medium. Fortunately my lovely young wife is in full time work and so we get by, but nothing more.

I have learned to value what is really important, things which money cannot buy, like peace of mind, your health, the love of a good woman.

I am not really too sure how much longer I have to live. At almost seventy I certainly have more years behind me than I have ahead of me.

In terms of getting enough money together again to buy a car or a house, I fear it is too late for that. That is a shame since I would dearly have loved to get those things, not for me but for my lovely wife, she truly deserves them more than any other woman I have ever known. Well, it is what it is and there doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it.

Sometimes I tell my wife about how inadequate I feel in terms of providing for us, and she tells me she loves me and not to worry about those things, that she can be strong enough for both of us. What more could I ask for.

Peace and love to you all and have a great life.