The Second Suspect: BP (The Bipolar Patriarch, aka, the father)

My father is a complex man. On one hand, he expects conformity to traditional values from others, but on the other hand, he is extremely badly behaved himself. He doesn’t follow the rules he expects from his children – and unlike in Western families, this was never challenged by his children. He is also a loose cannon: on one hand, he will write to David Cameron to complain about how severely he has suffered from the evils of structural racism, but on the other, he will surprise you with his ardent love for Brexit or Trump. The man is a mystery. But living with him is infuriating.

I do believe that one reason I married so young (22) and got engaged so young (18) was the promise of escape from the claustrophobic confinement my home had become due to my father. I did not have an arranged marriage (for another time) but I did desperately try to find the first suitable boy who could take me away from the toxic home environment that I felt trapped in.

My father was and is the single reason and perpetrator of this toxicity.

A quick google of my brain results in many entries, and we will together, slowly, go through them one by one. But I will start with the gambling addiction.

Gambling is a devastating addiction and one endorsed by the government in order to exploit people’s weaknesses and profit from creating domestic hell. I once went to see a hypnotherapist about my vaginismus, and she told me, ‘I treat all addictions, except gambling. Gamblers are, mostly, beyond help.’

My memories range from sitting in a banger, on a stifling hot day, outside a bookie in a car for hours on end, whilst my father tried to double his money, to scuttling behind the sofas, looking for 50p coins, as my father had gambled away all the rent money. These are memories of the hell experienced by real families across the country.

With gambling comes lies, deceit, false promises, a lack of boundaries; I would describe it as when there is nothing left to lose, when you have lost it all, when you have fallen beyond the lowest pit, it becomes a mental illness – a delusion of grandeur and a desperate attempt to live an illusion, rather than the awful reality that you have fucked your family’s life, and your own, and have failed as a person – and as a father.

Due to gambling away the rent, we ended up moving 14 houses in 14 years, which resulted in 14 different schools for me. I was really academic and could have become something great, I truly believe this. However, the physical and emotional upheaval affected my outcomes greatly. This is something I also believe to be true.

I ended up taking the sole responsibility of paying the rent cheque for my parents each month, so that my younger sister did not suffer in the same way, and we spent 15 stable years in one home. I used my university student loan to do this when I was 18 and got a part time job on the side, and continue to do this today, 20 years later. This means I work on average 84 hours per week to make ends meet.

My parents need a roof over their head and my mum cannot be packing cardboard boxes at her age anymore. This is a choice I made and continue to make but is a direct consequence of my father’s inability to provide for the family he was and is blessed with.