My early 40s. Chapter 10

From Warm Blanket to War Zone

1. The Rebound

When J left me, I’m ashamed to admit I fell apart.
Everything I’d hoped for — for me and my family — was suddenly gone.

The next ten years became a blur of broken promises and temporary fixes. I dated four different men, and each relationship lasted no more than three years. The first was SJ. I met him straight after J, when the grief was still raw and unprocessed. He filled the void — or at least numbed it. For a while, he stopped me from thinking, from crying, from feeling.

My children absolutely adored him. That, more than anything, was why I stayed as long as I did.

We moved in together, and SJ was keen to marry. I got swept up in planning the wedding — the colours, the dress, the illusion of stability — without really thinking about what life would be like after. SJ was a gentle man. Brawn with not much brain, if I’m honest, but kind. He would’ve done anything for me. And I lapped it up — the attention, the devotion, the quiet adoration.

He was like a warm blanket around me when I was frozen inside.

But in time, I realised the truth: I didn’t love him.
I was just running — like I always had.

---

2. The Spiral

Then I did something I still regret.
I cheated.

His name was PJ — or at least, that’s what we’ll call him.
He was dark. Dangerous. The kind of serious and emotionally withheld that made me crave his attention even more. I met him while I was out shopping in town with my kids. He followed me to the front of Superdrug, grinned through the window, and I laughed. That grin — it pulled me in. He had a strange charm, even with all his brooding intensity.

He never promised me anything, but I didn’t care.
He was the escape I thought I needed to feel again.

It was awful — SJ meeting a car crash of a woman like me, one still lost in her own pain. But I can’t change the past.
If I had the chance, I’d say sorry — because I’ve broken hearts in my pursuit of happiness too.
More than once.

PJ started coming around every few days. By then, I’d moved house — the old one was too big for just me and the kids. I was settling into a new rhythm. We weren’t official, and I kept him away from the children. I was still chatting to friends online — male and female — on an app called Meet Me. It gave me a little companionship, a little distraction from everything I was carrying.

Then one day, there was a knock at the door.
PJ pushed his way past me.

“What are you doing on that website?” he snapped. “You shouldn’t even be on there.”

I told him the truth — that I’d made some online friends, that I had nothing to hide. But he didn’t want truth. He wanted control. His face grew dark, angry. He shoved me across the room. My head hit the wall. And before I could even register what was happening, he had me by the neck — shaking me, spitting vile names I won’t repeat.

Then, Kai walked in. My son.

PJ paused. Muttered something under his breath. Then stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

I stood there in shock. My head pounding. But my child was there — so I pulled myself together.

What the hell had I done?
I’d left a man who would’ve done anything for me… for this.
A jealous, controlling man with a temper like gasoline.

That night, the landline rang again and again.
Voicemails. Apologies. Declarations of love.

I turned my phone off. Took the landline off the hook. I was gutted. Devastated. But I knew this was a mess of my own making.

Still… he wore me down.
He turned up at the school run. He chased me in his car. He was relentless.

I gave in.

---

3. The War Zone

For the next three years, PJ shadowed every part of my life.
Every night out — rare as they were — he was waiting in the car outside the pub. Sometimes he’d come in, scan the room to make sure I wasn’t sitting near a man, then walk straight back out. My best friend told me to get rid of him. But I didn’t.

Because, shamefully, I had feelings for him.
Because deep down, the violence and control felt… familiar.
And I believed that’s what I deserved.

I know better now.

In our second year together, we had another row — over me going out, again. I asked him to stop the car. He refused. So I opened the door to get out. He yanked me back in by the hair — then shoved me out of the moving car.

I hit the kerb hard. My head slammed onto the ground.

But I wasn’t going to let him finish me off.

I got up and ran. Through the housing estate. Toward the beach.

He followed.

A woman walking her dog told him to fuck off. He didn’t listen. He just kept coming — screaming like a banshee, completely unhinged. I made it to the local chip shop and ran inside. He stood outside, staring through the window with murder in his eyes.

The police were called. I was taken to a friend’s house nearby.
Blood was running down my forehead.
And for a moment, I genuinely thought I was going to die.

PJ was held overnight. They let him out the next day.

After that, it became the norm.
Him chasing me. Ambushing me outside the school.
Ruining every Christmas and birthday that wasn’t about him.
Telling me to let my daughter walk home from college in the rain because we had plans — then blocking me for five days as punishment.

I was at breaking point.

The dishes had to be done when he walked in. The TV in the living room was his. He didn’t like Emma watching it — said she should use her own room.
And there I was, paying the bills in my own house, being told how to live, how to speak, who to see.
Being shouted at and belittled in front of my children.

It got too heavy.
So I ended it.

---

4. The Final Blow

But life, in all its twisted glory, had one more curveball waiting for me.
At 45 years old — just as I thought I might finally get free — I found out I was pregnant.

Because of course.
The fun was just beginning.

Reflection

Looking back now, I don’t know how I survived those years without completely losing myself.
Maybe I did lose parts of myself. Maybe that’s the price of chasing love when you’re still bleeding.

I see it clearly now — SJ wasn’t the problem.
I was.
Not because I was cruel or careless, but because I was broken. I was desperate for distraction, for affection, for anything that made me feel alive again after J. I didn’t know then that rebounding isn’t healing — it’s hiding. And eventually, all the pain you bury will claw its way back up.

And PJ?
He was never love.
He was punishment.
And somewhere deep inside, I thought I deserved it.

But I didn’t.

No one does.

That’s the part that took me the longest to learn — that I was allowed to say enough. That I could leave the chaos behind, not just the man. That being a survivor wasn’t something to be ashamed of — it was something to build from.

I may have left a gentle man for a dangerous one. I may have broken hearts and made reckless choices.
But I’ve also clawed my way back from rock bottom.
And now? I own every scar. Every mistake. Every red flag I ran through like a woman on fire.

Because healing isn’t pretty.
But it’s mine.

And I’m still standing.