Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (42 page)

The fact was that Gerry couldn’t commit to offering Paul a contract, and I couldn’t commit to moving without one. I convinced him of the folly of the family relocating under these circumstances, but he became bitter at my refusal to move. So he returned to Melbourne in mid ’97; he then suffered long periods of unemployment and depression.

Unexpectedly, Saskia called to say that Omoe had died in Montreal. Omoe had been Paul’s surrogate mother when he was growing up, so this was devastating news. She had been the one constant in his troubled existence and the only person of whom he never spoke ill.

Shortly afterwards, we received further tragic news: Saskia herself was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer. Presumably exacerbated by her lifelong habit of chain-smoking Dutch cigars, her prognosis was poor. Paul visited her in Amsterdam; he forgave her all her faults and returned with a long letter, a
mea culpa
of sorts, in which she apologised unreservedly for her role in his dysfunctional upbringing and the beatings he suffered at Vlad’s hands.

Paul reacted to both these events by cross-dressing and enemising with gusto. He refused to seek detox treatment for his alcohol abuse but, eventually, I convinced him to see a psychiatrist.

‘Well, Dr Roth doesn’t think I’m mentally ill,’ Paul informed me with assurance after several visits, as if vindicated. ‘He says I might have some mild personality disorder, but I’m certainly not schizophrenic. I’m far too grounded in reality.’

I was surprised by this diagnosis; I felt Paul probably did have some non-specific psychiatric illness. ‘Just make sure you’re completely honest with the doctor. Tell him
everything
—the cross-dressing, the enemising . . . and your compulsive inability to discard anything. That’s not normal.’

Paul ignored me. ‘And he reckons I’m definitely not a psychopath,’ he hissed angrily, alluding to my labelling him as such.

‘Yeah, well, that’s the thing about psychopaths,’ I said, calmly. ‘They’re very good at hiding it.’

‘Anyway, he wants to meet you for a session.’

‘Me? I’ve never had any psychological problems or addictions.’

‘No, it’s so he can get a handle on things. He reckons I’m the most complex case he’s ever had,’ said Paul arrogantly, wearing the doctor’s comments as a badge of honour. ‘He needs to see
you
to shed light on
me
.’

So I visited Dr Roth twice and poured out what I knew while he sat scrawling notes. Indeed, there was much Paul had omitted. In the end, the doctor confessed that Paul’s unspecified disorder might be untreatable; nonetheless, he continued to prescribe anti-depressants.

One evening, we were watching a deeply disturbing doco about Marc Dutroux, the Belgian psychopath who had kidnapped, tortured and sexually abused six young girls in a dungeon. Suddenly Paul left the room. I ran out after him and found him sitting on the stairs, his head in his hands. Seeing tears streaming down his cheeks, I consoled him.

‘You know, pet, I think I was abused as a child. I can’t remember any specific incident, but I’ve got this feeling . . . a
déjà vu
.’

‘Oh, my God, that’s horrendous.’ I tenderly put my arm around his shoulders.

Paul continued, saying he couldn’t explain it, but was sure it had happened—when Saskia dumped him in Canada for a year.

‘So can you remember anything?’ I was hoping for a speck of recollection; a scintilla of . . . something.

‘No, nothing. But I know I returned with a paralysed anal sphincter.’ I thought there could be other explanations for that but Paul was emphatic, saying he knew who did this.

‘Uncle Klaas,’ Paul announced. ‘He certainly had the opportunity.’

I remembered the pleasant afternoon tea we attended in Montreal with Paul’s uncle and his family in 1983. Sitting in their living room, surrounded by Dutch lace curtains and Delft pottery, Paul had showed no antipathy towards Klaas, a rotund man with a ruddy complexion who looked like a peasant in a Breugel painting.

‘But when we visited him in Canada, you never said a thing . . . or when he died.’ I knew he wasn’t Paul’s favourite uncle, but presumably seeing him would have triggered
something
.

Paul strenuously disagreed, saying he’d buried this extremely deeply. ‘It’s that repressed memory syndrome.’ Paul’s sobs became more persistent. ‘It was so traumatic I’ve blocked out all conscious memories.’

When I mentioned I’d read about this phenomenon, but that many psychiatrists had discredited it, he instantly became furious. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’

‘I’m just not sure . . .’ This was so out of left field and he’d never mentioned anything about it,
ever
. ‘You need counselling. I can sympathise with you, but you need professional help.’

Paul sank deeper into depression. I was reeling from his revelations, although still not totally convinced that these alleged events had actually occurred. I thought it exceedingly odd that he had remembered
nothing
up to now, but he became irate if challenged. Nor was he averse to using the ‘I’ve been molested’ line to excuse irascible behaviour, thus trumping my legitimate criticisms.

He had always been grossly melodramatic; believing now that he’d been sexually abused when he was young suited his victim mentality. Dory had been right: he always sought sympathy, but it was possible that there was some truth to his claims. It might explain his dysfunctional personality and anal predilections. He combatively reported back to me that Dr Roth had given his repressed-memory theory tacit acceptance although, judging by the literature Paul brought home, I suspected the doctor had merely said it was possible.

Unbeknown to Paul I contacted Gerry, saying that Paul was desperately unhappy and that, if he could offer him a contract, I would move the family north. Surprisingly, Gerry agreed, although it would be a webmaster, not editing, job. Although I had previously vowed never to leave Melbourne, I was now resigned to relocating. I couldn’t bear to see him so desperately unhappy and hoped that his dream job in this tropical paradise would give him the happiness he craved.

Immediately, he rented an apartment up north, leaving me to organise the move. At my instructions, the trustees auctioned the Templestowe property, while I packed up our belongings. We intended to move before Shoshanna started high school and the younger ones primary school.

Despite Gerry’s inherent respect for Paul’s talent, he terminated the contract within months even though Paul had already started work there. Paul was coming to work hungover and failed to meet printing deadlines. How stupid of me to think that Paul was stable and capable of holding down a regular job. I was thankful he had been sacked before we’d uprooted ourselves yet again, and was cross with myself for thinking my sacrifice would make Paul happy.

Fortunately I found a wonderful home in Warrandyte, which the trustees purchased. The new house was unbelievably serene, in a bush setting with views across the Yarra Valley. I had come full circle and was back in surroundings I relished.

Soon after we moved, Vlad phoned to say Saskia had died after her battle with cancer, like Brian still in her fifties. Deciding not to go to the funeral in Amsterdam, Paul wrote her a most moving eulogy, tinged with bitterness. ‘Some folks are lucky and get a barrel of laughs and a happy ending; you got more tragedy than you needed. Some of it rubbed off.’ Although not unexpected, the news hit Paul hard. I suggested bi-weekly visits to Dr Roth, to avert a crisis. Mostly, Paul seemed angry with her—presumably a manifestation of his grief.

Meanwhile, I found employment at a regional library service. I’d always loved books and my job meshed favourably with school hours. With all three children at school, I was able to return to painting. I now had two functioning studios in which to spread my creative endeavours. I continued work on my retro greeting cards, even finding time to indulge my passions for papermaking, patchwork and knitting.

But Paul was again on a downward spiral, presumably as a direct result of Saskia’s death. He was often abusive and argumentative. Sleeping with him was nigh on impossible, and we remained celibate. He began to live in one of my studios, where he became reclusive as he totally withdrew.

I encouraged him to seek out other partners: if I was denying him sex, it would be a relief if he sought it elsewhere. Eventually, he found several couples who were into threesomes. My one condition was that he didn’t bring anyone into our home—a promise he broke. On returning from a holiday with the children, I knew instantly that people had been in the house. He confirmed that he’d had a couple and a single woman in my bed. I was furious at this betrayal of trust.

In desperation, I gave him an ultimatum: detox, or move out. As with his many previous attempts, he relapsed within days. Discussions of us separating were met with suicide threats, and I weakened yet again. Most disturbingly, however, he burdened the children with details of how he would do it—by driving his car into a freeway pylon.

I was also worried that he might inadvertently overdose on painkillers or his anti-depression medication. Often he would disappear for lengthy periods; Shoshanna and I would bang on his door, begging him to give us some sign of life. We made it a rule that we would never let more than a few hours elapse before checking on him.

With his enema bladder permanently affixed to the wall, a mountain of red-wine casks began to pile up in his room. There was also the associated debris: tissues stained with faeces, wine and urine stains on the floor, rotting food, overflowing ashtrays and filthy clothes. The stench was unimaginable. The floor was littered with porn, including photos of me that were congealed with a mixture of cum and baby oil. Amid all the squalor was a VCR on which he repeatedly played his favourite video:
Horny
Housewife Movie 2.

Within weeks, in what was an unbelievable turnaround, he secured a high-paid job as a web designer at a large corporation. Miraculously, he managed to dress in a suit and tie and get to work on time.

Although Paul’s work life was going well, his relationship with the children began to unravel. They could no longer have friends over, after several incidents during which he made drunken appearances; I also forbade him to drive them anywhere, because of his permanently high blood-alcohol content. He argued constantly with Shoshanna, invoking the vilest of phrases—‘Die young, bitch!’ and ‘Fuck off, slut’—all delivered with grotesque malice. At my insistence, he moved to a rooming house in St Kilda.

He implored me to take him back, crying like a baby, and I relented. But finally Shoshanna issued me an ultimatum: ‘Either Dad goes or I go.’ There was no contest—my allegiance was to my cherished child.

I had postponed this moment far too long. I would feel a sense of grief at the death of our relationship, but the relief would be overwhelming. The time was well overdue for Paul to leave, and I asked him to move out in early 2001.

Without argument, he left to sleep on Ewan’s couch. Days later, he leased an expensive apartment some distance away. I agreed to let the children visit, provided all porn was safely stowed away. The first time they visited, Ben found a magazine under the couch. I was angry at Paul’s total disregard for the children’s welfare. There was no way I could let them stay over.