Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro: 28 °C, hot, sunny and slightly overcast.
Everything was going well, and then Sunday.
In the morning, I got up early, did a good workout at the end of Leme, and had coffee in the street before going home, and I would like to say that I have never been officially married.
I have two mothers of my daughters whom I have lived with, whom I consider my ex-wives, and when I talk to people about my marital history, I usually say that I have been married twice. Even though it is not 100% true, it is more a question of respect than anything else for them, as, of course, they are the mothers of my daughters.
My first ex-wife, Cibele, Jessica’s mother, lives in Leme and is now retired and financially stable. She is an ex-civil servant who held a high position in the Brazilian government for many years, earning a good salary, and has retired well. She’s a very well-prepared woman, both academically and spiritually. We have a cordial relationship, and I consider her a friend, and I think she considers me one, too.
My second wife is a nuclear time bomb, ready to go off at any time. She’s neither academically nor spiritually well prepared, but she is not a bad person. She is your best friend until you disagree with her once, and then she will declare a third World War against you with no remorse.
In some ways, she reminds me of my mother. When we were married, I had often said, in the heat of a quarrel, that I was married to my mother. I’m sure that one of the main reasons that we were together for so long, for about 15 years, was that, in some ways, I wanted to protect Yasmin from mental abuse.
Even though we have some profound differences, I consider Yasmin’s mother to be a good and important person in my life. Anyway, I will have to move out of my cosy two-bedroom flat in Rua Duvivier in Copacabana because the owner needs the flat back to accommodate either her mother, who has Alzheimer’s, or her daughter.
I have been living here for two years, and they have been two excellent and happy years. I would have liked to have stayed here for at least one more year, but it was not to be, and besides, change is good.
When the owner asked me for the flat back, I was disappointed and, at the same time, panicking. My financial situation is not 100%, and my mother in England needs me to go there to resolve financial and legal issues. Due to this confusing situation, I came up with the crazy idea of temporarily moving back in with Yasmin and her mother for three to four months before going to England.
I talked to Nalva, Yasmin’s mother, and everything seemed OK. She liked the idea. I proposed living with them until I went to England, and during this time, I would also resolve some things that needed to be done before I went, while working online.
I would also financially help Nalva to rent a better flat for them both whilst I am gone. I want more comfort for my daughter, as she is a teenager and needs her privacy, so I want her to have her own bedroom and space to do her own things.
Saturday night, Nalva sent me two messages about possible new flats to see, but since I had already gone to bed, I didn’t reply until the next day, Sunday. Nalva had sent me a third, abrupt message, complaining that I had not answered.
The fact is, I had already told her I would help her rent a better place, but I don’t want to be involved in the process. Nalva is completely illiterate about tech: Facebook and Instagram logins; she often forgets her passwords, etc.
I told her I didn’t want to be involved in any form of finding a place, as I didn’t want to be distracted from my current goals and objectives. I have so many things to do to change my life; if I don’t put my foot down and set limits, all will be sabotaged and lost.
I sent her a polite, objective audio message to explain my position so she could understand it. The result was a ton of heavy-calibre messages being fired back at me through various audio messages, throwing everything back in my face.
Yasmin was still sleeping, so she didn’t have to witness this. I tried to minimise the situation by not answering back; however, the harshness of the words hurt as I thought they were unnecessary, uncalled for, and unfair.
Later, I told Yasmin what had happened, and she told me that, until now, it was more or less the same as living with her mother. It shocked me to think that my daughter has been psychologically abused every week, and the only way for her to protect herself or minimise the situation was to stay quiet, not to provoke, and not to say anything in order not to make the situation worse.
Then I thought about myself and whether I had been selfish in not noticing what my daughter had been going through since I left home. The rest of the day was spent thinking about what had happened and how it would be when I went to live with them.
In some ways, I felt like a failure because I would have liked to have given my daughter more security, peace, and tranquillity. Yasmin and I spoke more about this until it was time for her to return to her mother’s.
I admire my daughters and Yasmin for what she sometimes has to go through daily or weekly. I want to be closer to her so she can depend on me and I can help her in situations like this. Going down in the lift to take Yasmin home made me physically and mentally sick. It brought back a ton of memories that I had forgotten about when I was married.
After taking Yasmin back home, I met a friend and walked. Walking helps me focus.
In bed by 9:00 pm.
Thank you.
Thanks for reading my blog. Check out my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments.
Richard
