Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum


Shit that doesn’t work anymore

We tried to make love today.


We really did.

I don’t exactly know why. It’s been an incredibly long time. We had talked a bit in the last few days, TOIL asked me if there was ANYTHING, any chance there could ever be any rebuilding. It got me thinking. I haven’t thought so for so long now. But we like each other. He is still my best friend. I just have huge issues surrounding forgiving someone for visiting the worst pain, disease and the most selfish bullshit ever on you. I can’t seem to let it go (cue music….)

That shit ain’t love.

I couldn’t do what he did to me to my worst enemy – and I really mean that – even HER. I just don’t get off on hurting people, even if it seems like revenge is justified. So how can someone do what he did to me, still loving me, and then stop doing it, just like that? I will never be able to get my head around that. I know it was a slow burning brain explosion, but you still know right from wrong, hurt from love, how-to-roll-a-condom-on – surely?

So I decided to participate in an experiment to try to “just have sex” – no lingering lovemaking, just a physical release. It was crap. I still can’t feel anything – and I don’t mean deep, emotional intimacy, I mean actual physical nerve-ending feelings. It was okay, for a while, then I realised that I wasn’t going to get to O. Not that that has to be the destination, but my GOD it has been a long time, and it would have been a gigantic bonus. He was instantly erect, straining to hold himself back, and he tried all his tricks, pressed all the “usual” buttons, stroked, licked, kissed, probed all the ….. In his desperation to “get me there,” he lost his hardness – and seriously, this guy used to be hard about 80% of every day, I’m sure, lol – but carried on, trying to get something at least a little “nice” going on. He came fast, and he was gutted, as he wasn’t even fully hard before it was all over. God, we have turned into fucked up teen fumblers all over again. It’s embarrassing. It really is. 

During our playing, he tried to enter me a certain way, one of his favourites (and one I know he could never do with Ms Vanilla, as she is too boring, wouldn’t try anything other than missionary, maybe a cowgirl or two, and once she gave him a BJ – ONCE, in fifteen months, still shake my head over her uselessness – so it wasn’t that I was not able to because SHE did that) I just pushed him off, and turned into a different position. 

After is was very unsatisfactorily over, we lay there, entwined, staring at the ceiling. He apologised (his usual behaviour since I lost the ability to be normal and have one – yep, even if just one of the multis I used to have – of my famously earth shattering orgasms, which I used to have every time – and totally took it for granted, not knowing that sometimes that didn’t happen to everyone) which irritated me – he knows this, he knows I hate when he apologises for unsatisfactory sex. It’s not his fault NOW that I can’t enjoy sex. He is tender, patient, loving. The reason I am screwed (pardon the intended pun) is that I have weird history, and eventually that history wore me down. I then told him the reason I can’t participate in the position we both used to LOVE is that the pressure on the part of my anatomy that was ripped to shreds, inside and out, during my rape is the part that is most vulnerable when in Old Fave.  He was gutted, and felt terrible. But it isn’t something you discuss when things are good. We were able to do all of that for the first 25 years of our relationship – I am (was) really sexually adventurous, and nothing was a problem, even the “scary” positions, a bit of light bondage, that kind of thing, it NEVER bothered me. And my rapist had me completely pinned down, and I thought I was going to die as I couldn’t breathe. I know he asked me about all of that when he found out about my rape, about three years after we had moved in together (he was really worried that he had put pressure on me when I wasn’t ready, as he had no idea about the rape until then, and we had done some CRAZY sexual shit!) But back then, I was so hot for him, and so totally infatuated with him, there was no pain, no discomfort, no fear. But now I have it. Crazy. I am broken in yet another way. I had a little trouble for about a year after the birth of our first child with the same position (huge episiotomy scar – scar tissue on scar tissue) but that eventually came right with gentleness, and perseverance.

I cannot remember EVER having a bad sexual experience with him. I mean, never. We were pretty damn well matched. If things went a bit pear shaped, we would roar laughing and try something new. But all these years later, I am so broken, and it is a big part of my inability to plan a future with him. I feel like we have tried everything to try to fix me, and I am really broken. I used to be able to indulge in a little high-quality self love, but even that doesn’t work. It isn’t about him specifically – he keeps telling me that I will be okay with a better partner, one who hasn’t broken me – but I don’t think so. If that were true, surely I would feel attracted to other men, or be able to fantasise enough to O alone. I just don’t want it anymore. Love, sex, any of that stuff. I think I have had my fill of it, and eventually it made me sick, so I don’t want anymore. Somewhat like the alcoholic spirit we may have been sick on as a young, experimental drinker – I can’t stand the smell of bourbon, for example. I don’t feel the need to try it again!

Why did I try, yet again, to fix what we haven’t been able to fix for nearly three years? I think I still love him, but that love isn’t enough to get me over the line (oh, so full of dirty words and puns today, aren’t we, Paula?!)

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3.30 am. Again

As I lie here in the dark I wonder if one day soon this will be a time that brings sleep again

I’ve been listening to every bump and squeak for over half an hour. And wondering where my old friend sleep disappeared to.

I used to be a heavy sleeper. I worked physically demanding, outdoor jobs, with animals. Sleep came easily – and stuck – to my weary body. Then the baby decade struck and I did the usual. Our middle child didn’t sleep for longer than half an hour at a time until he was nine months old – then he could sometimes stretch to two hours. It took until he was fourteen months before he managed four-hours-in-a-row. When sleep looked likely again, when he was about nineteen months, I discovered, in shock, that I was 20 weeks pregnant!

Once those years were over with, I slept soundly. The sleep of the safe. Out like a light. After the affair, I slept poorly, sometimes getting a few deep hours after some long, sizzling sex sessions. In the Therapy Years I was once prescribed sleeping pills. I tried them twice but felt dopey all the following day, even on half a tab. These past three months I have had a return of the dreaded night wakefulness. I’m not entirely sure why. I have cut out my evening cup of tea and try to exercise a little in the early evening and watch what I eat. I think it may be to do with the knowledge that it really is over, I really will not be able to pull this once magnificent love story back together, and my mind trying to work out why. Why, if I loved him so deeply can’t I go forward with him? He gets it. He has been honest, loving, giving, DEEPLY remorseful, shattered by his actions. So why can’t I go on with him? I desperately want to. But my heart is so damaged, my mind never shuts down long enough for me to just be. Just sit in the moment. It starts sounding all the sirens, screaming at me, “but he was loving and attentive when he was lying, cheating, licking that rotten whore – don’t be such an IDIOT!!!”

Sleep. Wherefore art thou?



So, this is it. The way I live in 2014. I get out of bed, I feed an orphaned lamb, Lambie, a rescued calf, Lashes, whose mother’s udder just collapsed on her (we missed her on the cull last season, such a sweet old girl) and my almost-three-year-old gelding, Louis. I get on the treadmill and walk/run, shower, dress quickly. Then I gather my youngest, who at almost 16 is of course pretty damn independent, gets her own meals, including packing her own lunch, and off we go. I drop her at the bus stop, 10km from our home, and continue on to the city where I attend university. 

Except for Wednesdays. Wednesdays I head in the opposite direction, and drive to my work. 

This is the routine. I auto-pilot a lot of this – as I guess many people do – but I never was an auto-pilot kind of girl. I had adventures! I never re-traced the same steps if I could help it. I would find a different way to do something, to relieve boredom, to make it new. It might only be a small tweak, even listening to a different genre of music whilst working at a task. So this routine is … I don’t know, just grinding?

But, we are now in the teaching recess, and I am all over the place, but nowhere, all at the same time. I need to get a review done, so I got started this morning, and got about a third of the word count tip-tapped out. Then I took a break, made a cuppa, and did some more reading. Think I might scrap most of this morning’s drivel and pretty much start over. 

Then I think, hmmm, my treadmill of a life these days means I have no material for sharing on my blog, and I need this. I am kinda addicted to the word, written word on these forums. I have known about this addiction for probably about three years, the last three years of my life. Even though I didn’t blog myself until just a few months ago, I read, I commented, I vented. I have no one. This is it. So I am drawn to check it all out, when I know I need to one day find a real life again. One day, this needs to be in the past. But I have no idea anymore if I will ever have a real life again. I mean, ostensibly, I have a real life. I have three kids, a job, am at uni trying to finish some terribly unfinished business. But none of that means a whole heap to me. I don’t live with conviction any more. I just dawdle along, humming some weird-ass tune to myself, trying to keep the monsters at bay. I mean, what the hell did I used to do? Before I invited Leanne back into our lives, before he decided to waterblast my mind? I used to have good real life friends, I enjoyed life, instead of just going through the motions. I played with my kids, I used to be funny! I used to have an appreciation for humanity, and think that mostly we were a pretty good bunch. Yeah, there were always plenty of arseholes, but if you lived well, and kept a bit of an eye out, you should be able to avoid the big catastrophes. To be fair, I know that was kidding myself. I watch mothers lose their beautiful children to car crashes, to stupid, growing up accidents. I see husbands lose beloved wives to terrible illness. I see new parents struggling to cope with a baby who is battling to even survive. And that is just the privileged West! What about “real suffering” (as I like to label it.) What about those in genuine famine, bloody war zones, political prisoners?   So, instead of building myself up, as I fully intend, I end up feeling really … selfish? For being so scarred by a man and a woman I know/knew having some pretty average sex from time to time, and texting each other when they felt lonely. I mean, who even cares? 

And why does it bloody well hurt so much, still?



Hi-de-hi campers. I have reached the teaching recess at uni – PHEW!!!

Only two assignments due soon – one near the end of the break – a short review (shouldn’t take too long) and a start on some fieldwork for a bigger 3000 word one. I also need to make a proper start on a research project for a cultural linguistics paper (something I am completely new to) with my language consultant. I am working with one of the vets from work – she is Swedish, and promised she would help me if I bring wine!  

So, work is getting crazy – I am hoping to get ahead while I am not attending lectures as the wheels are starting to spin pretty fast.

In between all of this, I am coming to some interesting conclusions. I mean, they’re not new, but I am firming up some ideas about all of this infidelity crap. Slow learner.

It’s been five years, three months and one week since D-day.

I have really struggled with recovery, whatever that even means. And I have beaten myself up about my inability to “be okay” this far out, with a truly remorseful man, who I know had a long, slow brain explosion (what even is that, a sloppy, overflowing brain melt???) I read about the occasional person who seems to be able to carry on with the person who ripped their heart out – but I am not like that, and I SOOOOOOO wanted to be. I wanted to prove to Leanne that I LOVED HARDER, that I was BETTER than her, our love was MASSIVE, and would overcome all. I wanted the world to see how strong I am, how AMAZING our love was, “see, I love him so much I can forgive him for making me ill, completely fucked in the head, and I will GROW from this.” But most of all, I wanted this. I wanted to have the love and the man I thought I always had. I still wanted that. I still loved the man, for God’s sake! I wanted our wonderful love story to carry on.

But, I am Paula. I forgot to factor that in.

I write people off when they hurt me. I mean, not usually straight away, they have to keep stabbing me a few times before I’m done, but when I’m done, that’s it. I think that although I understand why TOIL kept replying to her texts in the beginning, even when I said, “starve the bitch of oxygen” (he was trying to PROTECT me – well, partly, partly he was trying to prove to himself that he could go without her, that he was like the alcoholic who could go to bars and not drink, and partly he was so great, he could MANAGE crazy.) I even understand why he re-visited the fucking her when I kicked him out (“why have I fucked up my whole life for some fucking whore? Is she all that after all? I better just try it out one more time. Maybe she is okay?”) But those two years of work were immediately undermined by the distasteful speed at which he hooked up with her again. 

Anyway, we’ve all heard this record before.

I just got to a point, eventually, where I knew I was too hurt, PERMANENTLY hurt, to allow myself to test with a bare skin touch whether that ouchy fire was still ouchy. And people don’t get it. They think I am vindictive, not forgiving enough, that I think I am so almighty that I think I don’t make mistakes. I judged myself (still do too much) by those standards. I mean, TOIL is a lovely man, he is kind, patient, funny and just self-deprecating enough. He even looks just like a guy I used to adore, admire, respect, LOVE even.

But he fucked my “friend” in my homes, vehicles, on my property, in my kids’ beds, on my furniture, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah. I can’t unsee that in my mind’s eye. I can’t undisease my body. Yes, I seem to be cured, but it still happened, I will need to be vigilant with my sexual health forever now. If I ever have sex with anyone else, I will need to let them know that I am an HPV carrier, and that condoms don’t protect against that. (To be fair, most men don’t give a fuck – how does that affect them? It will really only affect a future partner after me. Men. You gotta feel sick about them.)

And I see the people who carry on with their reformed cheaters (the real ones, the genuine ones who really have learnt and changed, TOTALLY understanding and remorseful, with their guard turned right up high about boundaries forever after) and I am jealous. Jealous as hell.

But, if I’m honest, doubtful. Extremely cynical. How will they ever love properly again? How will they ever feel safe, be able to trust enough not to be paranoid of women/men talking to their partner for “too long” touching their arm, maybe electronic contact (for work reasons, a genuine friendship, that kind of thing.) How? 

I also see the others, the ones who carry on, but neither they, nor I am convinced of the genuineness of the reformation. I have found out some more about the recent couple (the ones I got in “trouble” with TOIL about for mentioning here) who had cheating happen to them. Apparently the woman (cheater) who is now home with her husband, and they are carrying on (at least in public) like “nothing is wrong here, nothing to see here,” well, when she left her husband for the OM, he left his wife and four kids – they swiftly moved to another country! He then took Ms Skanky-Pants to meet his parents, and they shut the door in her face! (I would have loved to see that – she is such a pious bitch, better than everyone else – she would have been most upset that Mummy and Daddy didn’t welcome her with open arms – I mean, twu wuv is so overpowering, they HAD to be together, why don’t they UNDERSTAND???) Fairly quickly, she was back with hubby. I mean, it’s a small town, I didn’t even know she had left! Meanwhile, Mr Cheater had lost his family – they live in another country now (good fucking job!!!) She posts on Fakebook all about the lovely things her husband does for her – LOOK! We are out to dinner at the swankiest new restaurant! And now we are on a tropical island! Look at my brand new BMW SUV! Poor chumpy man. You can’t buy love. You can’t even buy fidelity.

And that is the problem. That is who I am. I don’t trust people who lie. Never have. I am like that. I write people off.

I wish this wan’t me. I wish I could push the crap into one corner, and know that the wall around the crap is now high enough, secure enough, and there is an armed guard to ensure it won’t escape. But, I don’t trust the guards not to fall asleep, I don’t trust that the wall won’t crumble, and someone will miss it, and the hole will allow the crap out. 

But most of all, that wall around the crap is so damn UNSIGHTLY. I can’t stand to look at it, and I know I can’t move it out of sight either.

So, my love wasn’t better than anyone else’s. It wasn’t bigger than anyone else’s. I don’t even know why I thought it was?!

Love does NOT conquer all.

It conquers a whole lot, but it doesn’t conquer arseholery.


Clearing the air

As is usual in our house, we tend to sort things out after an altercation in 24-48 hours. TOIL asked me if we could please talk about the fight we had about his discussion with me about this blog.


So we did.

He told me that he was incredibly disappointed with how that went down, “I’m gutted that went all arse-shaped,” were the actual words. He said that he felt he didn’t communicate what he was feeling and thinking very effectively, or with the right kinds of words, but that he has learned during this all this time, to talk, to say when something is bothering him, or he thinks something is bothering me. So he did. But it came out wrong (he says this is why he was not a great communicator before the affair – which to be fair was news to me until the affair, because I thought we were pretty great on the communication front, I had no filter, I shared EVERYTHING, and assumed he did with me, we certainly talked and laughed a lot – but he was filtering what to share, I just didn’t even think to do that!) He apologised, and said that while he still feels uncomfortable about some of the stuff that is here, obviously he doesn’t like being reminded about his absolutely appalling choices and how he was capable of endangering me and our children, etc, etc, etc. But he was concerned about people raining hate on me if they read what I write, even though I say it is unlikely, and that I don’t care. He conceded that he has no knowledge of the blogging process, and understands better now that he thought this would be a space where I record victories, and the positive things and steps I/we have made. He acknowledges this was naive and overly optimistic!  He apologised for the fuck up.

That helped.

Then he was very kind all day, telling me that he knows how hard I have worked to try to forgive him, and to heal these past five years. He also said that he knows that when I move on with my life, I am absolutely going to nail it. I looked at him, and said that I was already nailing it, before he nailed ME to the wall, but that I appreciated his words. He then replied that he knows this, and he has always admired my ability to adapt and grow. He is so proud of my uni results, even thought he feels like he can’t be, because this is all mine, and he isn’t a part of any of it.  In fact, he even went so far as to say that when he was fucked in the head (and a few other parts of his anatomy!) that he actually thought I would be okay, almost cool with it, because I am such a chill chick. He REALLY believed that while HE was spinning out of control, if I ever found out, I would forgive him, and turn the other cheek, because that was who I had been for the whole (up until then) twenty-one years. Like, yeah, okay, you were fucking around with a whore, and I would just go, “oh well, that’s a bit shit, never mind, let’s just carry on like nothing happened.” Un-fucking-believable. The brain explosion just boggles the mind. 

Fuck, apparently I am legendary forgiving!!! (And legendary chumpy!)

So, this post is somewhat just to clear the air….

In other news, I did a full day on the farm today, and it was just beautiful. I am really a farmer at heart, and have struggled with the loss of my fulltime Holstein-Friesian herd, and my management and care of them.  Posting a couple of snaps of the lovely clear day here, late winter, 2014 🙂

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“Oh no he di’int”

Mmmmm. What can I say about this morning? I woke up feeling okay (that’s rare) as I knew I had done a good job on two assignments this week (one result back already A+, yuss!) and one pass job on …… well, you know, I DID just post about it last night. And I have nothing due for four whole weeks! (Semester break after the end of next week – woohoo!) Mr Suck-The-Life-Out-Of-Me fucked my morning. As I was posting last night, he was peering over my shoulder. That was weird. And uncomfortable. He read the beginning of the post.


Then this morning, I was up at 4.00am. (I haven’t been sleeping well again, you wanna set up camp in the sleeping bags under my eyes?) And I got up and had a cup of tea, and then fed the orphaned lamb, very originally named, “Lambie.” (Usually I have several awaiting foster mums, and they all get names, this one has been a loner for a while, and I never got around to naming him, poor little sausage.) Then he came in, and started a conversation. 

It didn’t go well.

He has been reading my blog – so (raspberry noises here, flipping the bird – is that American enough?) to you, dickhead – and never told me.  What a fucktard. I mean, I don’t care that he reads, but really, why not tell me? He has obviously learned nothing.

Then he offered his fabulous, important opinion. 


He told me I am a bitter person, and that I am sharing far too much of other people’s lives and being far too judgemental. That I need to stop. 

Yeah, because he didn’t share anything, Mr-Fucking-Perfect. If he thinks I am such a chump that I don’t know that although I was hardly topic-of-the-day while he filled her right up with his genitalia and semen, my life was “shared” with a whore. And I had no say. I had no way of protecting myself, my image, my privacy, my body, my health, my children’s future. He shared me with her, even if he thinks he didn’t. I admit it, I fucking cried. Hope he was happy with his result, more fucking tears from his push button crier these days. Good job. You’re a champion.

So, Nephila, I am now a vitriolic bitch, are you proud of me? I fucking am. 

Of course I am “bitter” – that is the whole fucking point of blogging. To bleed the poison out. And if, as he insisted (he of the “how do you turn on the computer” persuasion) the people involved find my blog? #Whogivesafuck!!!


Lab Rats

Well. It sure has been a long week in the Land of the Torn. (It’s only Wednesday.) I have had three assignments due in the past few days, and the last one, and worth the most credits, is due tomorrow. I finally submitted it tonight.

I know you are all gagging to hear what they were about.

Well the first two were pretty mundane, easy-ish pieces. This one has had me feeling all panicky and anxious (are they pretty much the same thing?) This one was about online spaces and the body. Hmmm, existential much? (Well, almost.) Some in my class were doing good old social media – Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, some were doing online gaming spaces ………. Guess what I chose?


Yep. I chose this. Blogging spaces of the betrayed spouse.

Gulp. Double gulp.

I was about halfway through it when I got the panics. It was too personal, and I emailed the marking tutor, asking her advice, should I can this (as I was having trouble being ‘academic’ enough about it, and linking the published literature to the personal.) She encouraged me by sending me some journal articles and saying that the more uncomfortable essays were the ones that got the best marks in previous years, as it was emotional spaces that seemed to best represent the questions asked.

Gulp again.

I forged on.

I literally did not sleep a wink last night worrying about what I had done/was doing.

Then I had a full on day at work today while my boss is overseas at a conference.

And tonight I finished it.

It has been challenging because usually in academia, you are writing reasonably clinically, even in the humanities, analysing and interpreting the literature, offering and using existing theories, and backing them up, but this was hard! How much personal stuff NEEDED to be shared, I found the editing difficult, was I venting, or did I need to share stuff to set the scene to answer the questions asked? Too personal, too clinical? Balance. That elusive concept. I have so little balance in my life, so trying to construct some was …. difficult fucking impossible. Trying to see my writing through a jaded marker’s eyes, and not make it…… I don’t know….. titillating? (Oh, THAT woman sitting over there, SHE was the poor sap whose partner of nearly three decades CHEATED on her, and then the poor dear wrote a UNI assignment about it, oh dear – yawn!)

And I couldn’t get my family to proof read it for me. Lord no! My kids are good little editors, and this time I had to wing it alone.

So, here’s to completing it, thank you all for the material – don’t panic, I didn’t overshare, but one or two of your blogs were referenced!


Racing this time…

Tomorrow we are racing. Our baby – the last horse we bred – is having his first start. I am a lover of the thoroughbred. I used to hunt to hounds – in NZ we hunt hares, with harrier hounds, not foxes, we don’t have them – on a thoroughbred, a good, old-fashioned New Zealand bred, Sugar Daddy, he won multiple races and was a fabulous ride, loved him to bits. I inherited him from TOIL, who no longer hunted when I met him, no time when calving. We had two broodmares, and we had a lot of fun deciding on the stallions they would visit, and it became a fun thing we did together, traipsing around the country following the progeny as they raced. We also bought shares in a couple of good horses, and had a heap of fun with them. Our own breed, not so successful! We got rid of the broodmares a few years ago. TOIL’s lifestyle decision means we earn about a fifth of what we used to. We can no longer afford the luxury of breeding and racing horses. But we have the youngest two stock left, a filly (Spider) who has had three starts, and looks encouraging, and this guy, Louis, just turned three (horse’s birthday being 1 August in the southern hemisphere, he’s not actually three until October) who has been a bit of a character. He was entered in the yearling sales, a cracking, strong, handsome type. Three days before he was to go to the prep farm, he injured himself. Badly. Split a front hoof in two, vertically, right through the meat of the hoof, right up to the coronet band. I thought we would be lucky to save him.

It was a Sunday, and we live about half an hour from our Equine vet practice. They rushed out, and we got the foot cleaned and bandaged, we wanted to let the swelling go down before we “glued” it back together. He was on strong antibiotics, and is needle shy, so we worked out some ingenious ways of getting any injectable meds into him, or choosing oral where we could. He was boxed for three months, and eventually, as the foot grew out, we managed to get a bar shoe on his foot, thinking he would be club footed, at the very least. X-rays were taken and he had chipped plenty of bone off in the fetlock joint, with the impact of what he struck with his foot. One big piece was particularly concerning. Our vet was doubtful we would get him back to racing condition. We nursed him carefully, and I found a fantastic supplement derived from green-lipped mussels, abalone, marine cartilage and plants that had some great data about bone/cartilage growth and support, even anti-inflammatory effects and analgesia. When he had been on this for nine months, and the hoof had grown out completely, into a beautiful shape, not club footed at all (much to my farrier’s relief and pleasure, he did a fantastic job alongside our vet) we had him re-X-rayed. The bone chips had all but disappeared, and the vet was thrilled to announce that he was so thrilled with the result, that he would pass him fit for sale to the lucrative Hong Kong racing market if he were asked (but that he was borderline at that stage, some vets would pass him, and some might not.) Nevertheless, we were thrilled. It meant we had a) saved his life, b) saved him for racing and c) given ourselves a maybe option in Hong Kong. It isn’t cheap to give these treatments, the supplement alone cost around $500/month – and I was getting it at cost through my work.

Long way to get to this point. Louis is racing for the first time tomorrow. We don’t expect much. He is getting fit again after a spell. We chose a small trainer in a small town near us. He has some panicky tendencies, and we both thought he would get lost in a large stable, with different handlers, etc. This is a father/son (and mother/wife) team.

They love him. They only have a dozen or so horses in work at a time, and they just think Louis is a hard case (that is kiwi for funny!) He has thrived.

I never thought we would get him to this point. I don’t care if he runs last tomorrow. He has had one barrier trial, and he ran really well. Most encouraging first trial.


Yep, it was always coming, huh?

Racing lost its gloss for me. I mean, I still love the horses, I still love the good operators out there, luckily in NZ we don’t have too many problems with cruelty, or bad operators. But, our joint passion faded. Why?

Because he fucked a whore around this sport.

The first time he fucked her was the first time one of our fillies won. He didn’t plan it, but if we are honest, he didn’t protect himself from it, he was subconsciously aware that if he WANTED to fuck her, he could, but he hadn’t yet realised that he wanted to.

The filly won. We celebrated with friends. He took her to our holiday home, with her kid, and our three. With my blessing. And he fucked her. And that started the ball rolling for fifteen months of lies and putting my life at risk. I asked him about staying in the same house, and how weird it must have been, was he tempted? He lied, and said she still repulsed him.

Every time we had horses racing for those fifteen months, SHE seemed to show up. It was weird. I had no idea about their affair, but I do recall thinking it odd that she kept showing up. I mean, we had tickets to the posh inner areas at premier racedays, and SHE would show up.  They were in her city, okay. But when they were closer to home, often SHE would show up. I shouted her so many drinks. I went out of my way to find tickets to access owner’s areas, etc, for HER.

So, we are going to watch my baby, Louis, run tomorrow. I don’t get to see many of them race anymore, with work and uni. This race meeting is in the town they met for coffee in, two days before he fucked her again, two YEARS after D-day, when I had had enough and kicked him out for the third (and I thought final) time. He met with HER for coffee less than twelve hours later, in a neighbouring town. This is the town we will be in tomorrow.

He doesn’t connect the dots.

But I always do.

Triggers are the pits, even when you know you are done.




And, now for something completely different (well, maybe not, my favourite break up song in the world.) I have wept far too many tears to this gem over stupid boys! (Even though it is only two 😉 )



Read that, same ending as the first time.



Yep. Tell it to TOIL. He had a bitch 27 years ago who cheated on him (with at least four guys, while telling people that they were about to be engaged – which was never on his agenda – and discussing with his horrified sister that she was planning on tearing down his parents’ home and building a new one on his parents’ – not even his at that stage – farm) and whom he eventually sacked. He insisted he never loved her. He insisted he was pleased when he met me as he realised what real love looked like and felt like. He still insists there was no unfinished business. She was a bitch then, she is a bitch now. 

When I think about her doing that, and him staying with her, I realise he “had issues.” I mean why would you put up with a 20 year old who was already cheating on you, and stay in the relationship for another (off and on) six months. That red flag never waved for me back then. I thought it meant he was forgiving!


Old book



In the context of support for those of us who find our worlds imploding, I think I won the Shittest Friends in the World Olympics. Feel free to contest this if you feel I have wrested your title off you!

When D-day went down, as I have shared before, I drove out to my best friend’s house the following morning, in shock, knowing this had really happened, but wondering what the hell to do next, I still loved this wanker! Who could hold me up as I bore the brunt of the weight of what the only man I had ever fully trusted enough to totally, without reservation or filter, love, had done to us. This mate and I go right back to middle school, and she was my bestest friend in the world. I had a cup of tea with her, and then asked her if I could go for a walk with her down their farm. And then I told her what they did, my love and our old school friend. She gasped and shook her head, “no, no, not TOIL, no, no, you guys were so in love after all these decades, no.”

But then as I told what I knew (which was quite a lot of the full story, we had sat up all night and he had answered every question I posed, with the exception of when it started, which he said he was unsure of) it dawned on her that it was indeed true, and this lovely man that she adored and respected, had indeed been fucking our friend. For a long time. I think she seemed almost as devastated as I feel now – I might have still been in shock. Then she started telling me that there was no way that she would have “let her husband spend the kind of time talking to Leanne that I did.” Mmmmm, no surprises there, blame the betrayed for not being the marriage police, and yeah, comparing my previously very honest and trustworthy partner with her strip club, brothel creeping husband. But he hasn’t been caught out yet by her.

For a year, she was my main support, and I do appreciate that she cared, and was there for me to vent to. But with hindsight, I know that telling her was where the whole town knowing came from – the old story, you tell a secret to one person and it is no longer a secret. The town started to judge me. “Wow, Paula, she must be a real bitch/a slack fuck/a real slob/insert insult-of-your-choice here for TOIL to cheat, he’s such a great guy.” The story roared around town like wildfire, “Stupid Paula, look how stupid she was, he was FUCKING her friend in her house and on her farm, what a total numbskull she must be, we could all see this.” I asked a thousand people if they knew, but they all denied it, but many said they did notice his relationship with his ex was close, and two and two were computed after the fact! The problem for me was that he was always like this with women, and it NEVER bothered me. We trusted each other, and friends are to be encouraged, right? (Of course, in the light of what he did with this skank, I revisited every close female friendship he had had for the past twenty-one years!)

But when I eventually decided that friend fatigue would set in – if it wasn’t already – after a year, I withdrew any comments or discussion about how appalling I felt. I didn’t want to be pitiful Paula anymore. I still was inside, but my public persona had to change. I managed with this facade quite well for another year, still dying inside, and feeling very alone, but trying to show that I was strong, and I would recover somehow from this absolutely cataclysmic event. I told J. I said it was not up for constant discussion anymore. About this time, she kept pumping me, telling me I should be healing and better by now, urging me to “not be sad.” But, I couldn’t switch it off, I just didn’t think sharing any of my pain was helpful, it was just keeping my head under water. I found out that all of my innermost thoughts that I shared with J were shared with everyone else. As I looked at my circle of friends, I realised that I had become the source of gossip, innuendo, and a fair bit of defamation.

So I decided I needed better friends.

The problem is that without exception, every single person I have tried to connect with since all of this to forge a new friendship with, has turned out to be suffering from betrayal also! I mean, is this reverse Midas Touch?

I looked at myself, and wondered why I have turned into a shit magnet. Am I/was I attracting this subconsciously? I don’t know the answer to that, I can’t see how I am, but it seems too much for coincidence.

The only real support I have had during this most arduous climb of my life has been a woman I met online a few years ago now (thanks lonelywife xxx) whose husband had an EA, his second of their almost three decade long marriage. She is completely different to me in so many ways, and so similar in so many others. She is American, southern, Christian, a stay at home mom, the owner of a set of right wing political views, I am a Kiwi, northern, an agnostic, employed/student, with liberal political leanings. But she loves hard and true, and she is passionate, and caring, with deep empathy. She is a problem solver, she doesn’t sit and accept stuff, she gets off her arse and strives for improvement. I am deeply thankful for her friendship every day.


Yes, there is a but.

I don’t have anyone in real life to be a friend. I never told my family, as they would be of no help. And I miss my Mum. She would have been amazing.

Last week, her best mate, a gay man (heck, you would think my Mum only knew gay men, but actually, other than Dad and Philip – and Philip’s long term partner M, whom he is no longer with, but they raised Philip’s three awesome kids together when their alcoholic mother died suddenly when they were very small, and they remain close and co-parents/grandparents to Philip’s brood – no, there were no other gay men in her life really.) Philip now works in a nearby town. He is an antique dealer, and he texted me to let me know that he had a pretty tea set for my eldest daughter, he’s been looking for the right one for her 21st which was last March. So I went to pick it up on my way home from uni, and sat with him on Tuesday afternoon, and he asked me how I was. TOIL shared with Philip what he had done to us some time back. I was very surprised at the time when TOIL told me he had blurted it all out. Philip came to visit us when he moved nearby, and TOIL took him for a farm tour. They talked. TOIL shared the whole sordid story, telling Philip that he was so gutted about the damage he had caused due to his selfishness and lack of appreciation for all I have done for him these 26 years.

That was about a year or so ago. I can’t remember, could be longer. Philip asked me if I was okay. I told him no, but that neither one of us could undo what happened, and we had had shitloads of counselling, to no avail.

So, on Tuesday, he asked me again. I just said, still no. I sent him a text that night saying that one day I will talk to him about “us” but that I couldn’t do that in the shop, as I know I will lose it. I have really needed a parental figure. I have borne this pain alone for so long, and the load is so damn heavy. I know he will be awesome when I eventually find a time a place to talk to him. He cares so much, and sent me a text back that he was sending his mate’s girl a big hug, and that I could always talk if I wanted to, but that he understood why I haven’t so far, and it was none of his business if I wanted privacy. It’s not that, I just don’t know how anyone CAN help other than the old load shared. But sharing the load didn’t help before, because ultimately, it doesn’t lighten anything, it doesn’t change how you feel, it doesn’t stick the pieces of your shattered heart back into the pristine condition it once was.

TOIL and I talked late into the night last night. I seem to go okay for longer and longer periods of time – not good, just good at hiding my pain, at holding it inside, close to me – but I still seem to come to the end of my rope inevitably at some stage. This happened yesterday. I was in agony. So we talked. One of the things we talked about was my frustration at my lack of progress, that I hear of so many people who are with selfish and disordered people, and walking away seems a little easier then. I can’t imagine trying to deal with one of those, I know I would have walked immediately, and kept my distance. But TOIL is not like that, and that is hard. He is truly remorseful, he has worked hard to make me feel safer and loved. He was immediately fully transparent and doesn’t tell so much as a white lie anymore. But I can’t seem to climb that mountain. It pisses me off. I mean, for 21 years (or so I thought – make it 20) I adored this man, he was truly lovely. We were truly fantastic. We had such a lot of fun, and backed each other all the way. It was fucking perfect! Then he had this fucked up thing for fifteen months. Then he came back. The good guy won the internal battle he was fighting. But I can’t seem to find my way back to any kind of equilibrium. I know I don’t owe him reconciliation, but I also don’t want to ever let anyone get close to me again, and I am left with serious sexual dysfunction. I am so sexually frustrated, but can’t seem to get any relief, self or otherwise, which is just bizarre! He discussed how he felt that when I am on my own properly that I will heal.

But I don’t.

I have been on my own, and the pain never lessens, it actually intensifies, because I still mourn the loss of my “soulmate” – whatever the fuck that is anymore. I seem to have serious trouble changing my thinking. I know if I concentrate REALLY hard, I can change it, but it never sticks, it never takes root, it is always fleeting and very temporary. So then he said, “well, why do you think you can’t love me again? I am the same person, but a better version, that I was BEFORE I fucked up, I know so much more, and I am far more in touch with you and I.” I explained it as being a bit like a Big Bang. The discovery of cheating, long term, in-my-face, dirty-no-protection cheating blew up my world. It changed it so badly. And I haven’t had another Big Bang to shift it again. Yes, I can see he is a better person. I can see how genuine, how authentic he is to himself, how humble, and how ……. self sacrificing(?) he has become. But there hasn’t been a matching shift in my feelings for him. The unending love that I felt we had – ended. For some fucked up reason, I can’t seem to picture growing old and being so in love with this guy, and he is a great guy (but my mind says, yeah right – he fucked your friend in your beds, under your nose, and gave you cervical cancer, GREAT guy alright.)

And it is all so fucking pointless. I just wish I could leave it alone. I want my mind to be a serene and quiet space. I have tried hypnotherapy and meditation. Nope. No help. I have no fucking control over my thoughts! Who can’t think properly? Who can’t, after all this time, just cull the shit? Me. I can’t. I am torn. The tear just keeps ripping at the edges.