Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum


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An oldie

This is dating me! But after Kat┬áposted about living someone else’s life, this song popped into my mind. Like waking up one day we found ourselves in a strange and unfamiliar environment, with a strange and unfamiliar man by our side? WTF happened, who are you, and WTF am I doing here?

Then I had a real Talking Heads flashback afternoon. My best friend, J and I used to have some fun times to some of this music. I liked it, but it wasn’t totally my favourite, and she was a bit the same, but together we loved them! Does that make any sense? We rogued and detassled maize as a summer job one year, a boring job that means you spend a lot of time walking up rows of maize, and we only had the local Top 40 radio station and a group of us working away for company. So Road to Nowhere was a classic we still giggle, make walking motions as we “dance” and reminisce about! Stupid, but true. I used to be silly, irreverant and really quite dumb. Once upon a time.

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself
Well…How did I get here?

Letting the days go by
Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by
Water flowing underground
Into the blue again
After the money’s gone
Once in a lifetime
Water flowing underground

And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife

Letting the days go by
Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by
Water flowing underground
Into the blue again
After the money’s gone
Once in a lifetime
Water flowing underground

Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…

Water dissolving…and water removing
There is water at the bottom of the ocean
Under the water, carry the water at the bottom of the ocean
Remove the water at the bottom of the ocean

Letting the days go by
Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by
Water flowing underground
Into the blue again
Into the silent water
Under the rocks and stones
There is water underground

Letting the days go by
Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by
Water flowing underground
Into the blue again
After the money’s gone
Once in a lifetime
Water flowing underground

And you may ask yourself
What is that beautiful house?
And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go to?
And you may ask yourself
Am I right?…Am I wrong?
And you may say to yourself yourself
My God!…What have I done?!

Letting the days go by
Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by
Water flowing underground
Into the blue again
Into the silent water
Under the rocks and stones
There is water underground

Letting the days go by
Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by
Water flowing underground
Into the blue again
After the money’s gone
Once in a lifetime
Water flowing underground

Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…
Look where my hand was
Time isn’t holding us
Time isn’t after us
Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…
Same as it ever was…
Yeah, the twister comes
Here comes the twister
Same as it ever was…


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Ta-dah!

The great reveal – of sorts. This is a pic of me sitting in my car on arrival at uni in a pretty dishevelled state, after less than two hours’ sleep the other day. Following on from less than three hours the day before. I have developed beautiful black shadows under my eyes, huh? Smokey eye, in reverse. I liked them so much, I selfied!

IMG_20150511_143155 (1)

Emotional exhaustion is possibly the most draining aspect of the post-affair life for me. I used to be a very youthful looking woman, and whilst I know I am not quite a crone (hmmm, I have posted a selfie, pretty damn vain, really. Even if it is after two pretty sleepless nights and long days of driving to collect people from airports in the wee small hours) I often wonder (even more vanity) what I would have looked like at this age without the agony of the past six years. After all, happiness is the most important ingredient in any beauty regime.

I like to pretend I would have looked so much better, but in reality, meh. Who really gives a shit? Looks had nothing to do with why he kept fucking my “friend” – she is ugly inside and out, and always has been. I kept trying to soften her edges, to give her the benefit of the doubt, to show her kindness, hoping it would help her. What a mug!


34 Comments

Mind movies

movies-eternal-sunshine-of-the-spotless-mind

Anyone else have mind movies every day, and then the overactive dreaming every night? For six years? Constantly?

I have been counselled about this countless times. The standard advice (once people finally get that I can’t stop them by “just letting it go”, or trying not to think about it….) is to let them run their course and eventually you will be desensitised. But that hasn’t happened for me. I have tried mindfully pushing them away, then sitting with them, letting them play out hopefully to peter out. I have tried hypnotherapy to devalue them. But I had a teary moment again today as I drove home. I saw (and when I say saw, I mean I literally SEE these scenes, very vivid and 3D) how delirously happy I was, back as a young 20-something, talking with him about cheating, how I understood that temptation comes to many of us, throughout life, but that how connected people communicate and work on their connection to bond them to their partner. My movie today wasn’t originally about Leanne – they most often are. This one was about the stag party prostitute he lied to me for over twenty years about. The one I knew he visited, the one I was told (and believed) that he had been pressured into a drunken hand-job with by “the boys” and had felt disgusted about later. The one I never knew he didn’t have the cash to pay, and a friend pressured him into the room and paid (more married men at a brothel doing things that I thought they were better than) and he had to surreptitiously find to pay back at the wedding the week later. I talked to him about it at the time. I was actually okay with it. We were young, he was curious, VERY drunk, and I asked him to tell me the whole truth. He told me when he returned home from that night how awful he felt about what he’d done – the hand job – and until after his affair, I totally believed that story.

So, today’s movie production was of him sweating, drunk, and pumping away on a prostitute in a brothel, with a bunch of young guys, the majority of who should have “known better,” “got that out of their systems before now,” etc…. One in particular disappoints me more than the rest (other than Roger) as I adore him and his family. Dumbass. Him, not me. But I feel like one too. As I told Roger when he finally told me the truth about two years ago (that I genuinely believe he kind of almost forgot about as it was so long ago – in the first year of us living together) I don’t care if he came in her hand, her mouth, or her vagina, or her….. It is all sex. I care that he lied to me about it, and created an atmosphere that seems to have allowed omissions and lies. He swears he never used a prostitute before or after that time, and that it really did disgust him.

But he doesn’t understand fully the repercussions of that lie AFTER he cheated twenty something years later! The first crime was forgivable (to me at least) especially if he told me the truth, but it is material to the second one. He does NOT seem to get that, in fact, it is the one time he has ever got angry with me during our post-affair years, when I have tried to get him to understand that it affects me monstrously because the two events are linked. The first lie set up the rest decades later.

But, I digress. My question is this. Has anyone else struggled with this debilitating problem? If so, what worked to soothe the pain, and reduce the occurrences? Even after separation? After letting the perpetrator go from your life? How do I get some sleep without this? How do I ever re-paper my mind with more pleasant images? Your thoughts, please.


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Pleasers

It’s been a long fortnight in the Land of the Torn.

Our exchange student’s parents arrived from her home country – against the conditions of the exchange program. They are very nice, one has no English, and the other, a little. Neither of us have any Spanish. So, they took their daughter out of school for a few days and did a quick tour of the South Island. The rest of the time, they have been with us. This is not something I really signed up for when agreeing to host a student. Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, before the Wicked Witch of the….North (in this case) and the horrid Wizard of Torn fucked up my life (pffft, this is my fairytale, and I will tell it my way) I would have embraced it. I am (was?) a very hospitable person, I like (d?) people, I like (d?) to cook for them and show them around. This time it has been somewhat of a chore. Don’t get me wrong, I have had my game face on, but the smile has not quite made it to my eyes.

They are off tonight to have dinner with another lovely South American (immigrant) family, whose daughter N has befriended at school. We have great discussions around the dinner table, with N translating. But it will be nice not to have to wear that mask tonight. I have cooked beautiful dinners, and I can relax tonight with something simpler. Then early the next morning they will take our car (we lent our old banger to them to get about in) and N to her camp a few hours away, and join in the activities planned before the parents return for Saturday night. On Sunday I will drive them to the airport and we will be back to the four of us. N leaves us on the 7th of July, so we are counting down. It has been mostly good, but there have been some moments with a pretty lovely, but pretty entitled, Daddy’s girl living with us. She has tried it on with Roger a bit, batting her eyelashes at him, touching him and generally trying to cajole him to get what she wants. This has made him deeply uncomfortable at times, and he is great with her, they get on well, but he has asked her on several occasions not to do that. Affairs aside (and I don’t give a rat’s arse about it, he is his own man) she is 17. Not cool.

So, we have been playing happy families for the visitors, which is fine, as we do get on well, but I have noted that I have become a bit snarky. Just subtle, but not all that nice, nonetheless. I need to rein it in. I have been working on that. Roger has taken the opportunity to try to fix us and make plans for a future together – “whatever it takes, you’re the only one I ever want, the only person who gets me, I will continue to do whatever it takes for you, forever” – that kind of stuff. He is very nice, very kind, very mindful. But I can’t do this.

So, I sat and thought about it a bit this morning while I was typing out answers to a reading exercise. I have always done what pleases everyone else. My happiness was tied to servitude.

What the actual fuck???

That was not who I saw myself as. I think it was a manifestation of taking a while to find my niche in life. I dropped out of university THREE times, I had a very fulfilling, but very long hours and low waged job for the pre-kid years. So, I threw myself into helping others to get my self esteem fix. And never truly saw it that way until I was shat on so badly by my love and my “friend” (gag).

So, when Roger starts down the road of, “I really, really love and adore you, you are beautiful, clever, witty, sexy…….” I think, “poor guy, he fucked up, but he’s really sorry, you owe it to the poor guy to try again…..”

Then I wake up the next morning and feel ill. Utterly devastated to be conscious of the fact that I will never be able to be with him (or probably anyone, I’m okay with that) because ultimately, I WAS NEVER THE KIND OF GIRL WHO COULD EVER LIVE WITH A MAN WHO TREATED ME LIKE SHIT. NEVER.

I always knew this. But I guess I hoped and wished that I could change. That I COULD LEARN how to be. That somehow his kindness, deep remorse and love would be enough. But it can’t be. It is just the way I was wired, dammit. I am staunch about this kind of thing. It’s weird. I give a lot of rope, but once someone hangs themselves, too late, mate. It’s not an easy life being so damn pious! I’ve tried to change. I’ve tried to accept this shit sandwich, choking it down, washing it down, hoping it won’t stick in my craw (craw, what even the fuck is a craw?) But, I have a craw, and stuck it bloody well is! And it does me no good whatsoever being so high and mighty.


29 Comments

Beach

A quiet weekend.

Away.

At the beach.

With no assignments, just a few readings sorted in about an hour or two.

This was my weekend. I’m home now, and I realise I am still so all over the place at times. My emotions are always bursting at the seams from under the rug where I have them pinned down, to keep them from public view. I have only just started a prescribed VERY strict nutrition and exercise program, only in week two, and I recognised today that it is making me utterly miserable. Too rigid, too little wriggle room. So I am making some changes to it, for my sanity. I can feel the suicidal stuff threatening me from behind THAT door, and I need to change tack, and not open that door again. I have already lost three kilos, so I know I can do this, and I am just starting to feel the positive effects of an increased exercise regime. ‘Just’ twelve to go!

It started with a friend sharing some birth photos online on Friday. They were beautiful, but not something I would share publicly. I had the most wonderful home births with the second and third babies, and the memories of the long, 24 and 34 hour labours, with Roger there with me, holding me, rubbing my back, kissing me, caressing me, in the birth pool with me in the mid stages of labour, walking for miles up and down our rural road – me gripping telephone poles, or trees, or him – as the contractions swept me away on those oh-so-unbearable waves of pain, but he was always there, always encouraging me, always telling me I was amazing, beautiful, strong…and I was…and he meant it…

And yet, here I am all these years later, alone, and no longer amazing, beautiful, nor strong. Or not as any-of-those-things that I thought I was. I am here broken, sad, and not healing. It just seems that the more I achieve, the harder I push through this hell, the deeper I get into it, without getting any closer to the other side.

I’m sick of it, sick of this fight.