Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum


3 Comments

Revelation

My weekly therapy appointment was last night. I came home completely drained.

Completely.

Still exhausted.

My therapist decided we could skip the installation process of my safe space for now. We had a brief discussion about whether this is a problem for other traumatised clients. I had felt like such a failure for not being able to identify any place as safe. She assured me it has happened before with long termers, people who have been dealing with severe PTSD for a long time.

To be honest, even that felt fraudulent to me. Hey, I just had my love betray me and leave. Happens all the time. Get the fuck over it, Paula.

And I know to try to be kind to me. That what I am experiencing and feeling is real, and I shouldn’t feel bad about my reaction. But I do.

Kirsty just reiterated that my response is justified as it is the result of a lifetime of layers of trauma that I have minimised to ‘cope’ with. It’s real. And understandable. My safe place was Roger, and he was never safe. He cheated and lied from the very beginning. He manipulated and gaslighted, and made me feel I was doing something wrong, as he kept fucking and flirting with other women. I always minimised this, explaining to my friends when they questioned his behaviour, as him just being a friendly guy. I was never outwardly jealous. I patted myself on the back for being such a tolerant partner.

So friendly.

Instead of installing my safe space, we worked on processing a ‘lesser’ distressing memory. She relisted my memories from last week, and asked me to pick one to focus on. To draw on a mental picture.

I chose the moment my parents told me they were divorcing. I never looked back on this moment as too distressing until after Leanne texted me she had been fucking Roger. In the years since then I have realised I worried about how I processed this time in my life.

As we worked through the EMDR processing of this event, my distress increased, and there were silent tears flooding down my cheeks at certain times, my body convulsing as I tried to contain my pain. I told Kirsty I had just felt kinda nothing about it. And huge guilt for feeling nothing as I now feel totally undone by my own divorce. As I looked at that picture of Mum, Dad and me, I started to pick apart my memory. It happened after my bursary exams ended. These were the final secondary school exams. I am sitting in our family room, on some cane furniture – how mid 80s can you get – with a blonde perm, and in my school uniform. So many things wrong with that memory. I didn’t have either blonde hair, or a perm since at least two years earlier. And we were the only year my school had mufti, not a uniform for their final year students. So we must have sat exams in street clothes, not uniforms? I am pretty sure my brothers were probably also there?

Anyway, as I sat pondering that, and nearing the end of the session, it hit me. That moment was the end of me ever feeling safe in the world. It changed everything. I brushed it off as I was moving to the other end of the country in a few months, to go to university. Farm was sold. I never came home to my home ever again. My father pretty much disappeared from my life for around a decade. He was never a great presence anyway, Mum did all the parenting really. But I realised that I honestly had never felt safe since then, except when encased in Roger’s arms, breathing in the calm of him. The relief I would feel riding my motorbike home from work to him. The making of a new home with him. It was him who I felt anchored me. He was my rock when Mum died. I felt his family was closer to me than my own. Losing Mum removed our family anchor. The loss of his family when he decided to sell the ‘family’ farm – their fury and anger at us – just bonded me to him even more securely. The way I had always felt deeply uneasy every time he made a decision to move. My roots being ripped from the ground I had been growing in. I always hated leaving my home. It wasn’t as bad the first time. Leaving our first love nest, to the new home we built, but it always felt like his parents’ place. Even though we bought the farm off them, they still lived in the main home.

Moving to our last farm tore me apart. It took me months to find my feet. (By which stage he was already balls deep in Leanne.) My role had been discontinued. I was no longer a full partner in the business of running a farm. I had to start from scratch, taking on a low paid admin job, teaching myself the role. It was heartbreaking being discounted by Rog, and I was determined to do a good job. To earn his respect back. Ugh.

Ever since my parents announced their divorce, I have been an anxious person. Not good enough. Seeking a home.

Fuck.

That caused me to drive home in floods of tears. Weeping and aching for that young woman who then constructed her identity as strong, tough, resilient. Who cared about the fucking parentals?

All the while I just wanted someone to love me. Think I was too amazing, wonderful, helpful, lovable, to leave. I loved hard.

No wonder I was drawn to geographies of home! No wonder I have such intense nausea and vomiting at the lake house. No wonder I was so unhappy in the home he kept fucking Leanne in. That he brought his replacement wife appliance, Trinket – seeing how she fit into his life – into to fuck, when I begged him not to.

No wonder I hated my home after a ‘friend’ viciously raped me in mine. My home has never been safe since my late teens.

I wept buckets for that poor kid. Who truly believed she found her soulmate. Her safe person. Her safe place.

And how that kid has been traumatised by her safe person’s deception and duplicity. By his lies as she begged him for truth. By his rejection as she pretzeled herself to be what he wanted, to heal from his treachery. Then cast her aside just as she announced with great relief that she had achieved his goal, and felt better. Rebuilt. Renewed. Had healed herself from what he did. Through years of hard work, introspection and forgiveness. Only to have him respond to her relief with I’ve Met Someone Else. WTAF? I did what you wanted, you fucking arsehole!

I get to do it all again now. Start over with the fucking therapy. I work damn hard on my shit, while he plasters over his with new women. Happy happy joy joy.

Yep. It is going to be a long painful process. This was just processing one, lower distress level memory. And I worry I don’t have the stamina. I am so fucking tired and broken right now. Work is a fucking nightmare. And I have a sick kid at home.

D was diagnosed with an auto immune condition a couple of months ago. Which explains a lot really. Her poor appetite. Her always getting strep throat under pressure (she’s been on antibiotics at least six times in the past year, and I only twice in her entire life prior to that…) I think it has been a bit of a chicken and egg story. Depressed/anxious because of it, sick because of anxiety, in a continuous cycle. She is still coming to terms with how she can help herself. Has stopped her own counselling now. She needs to work on her immune system now. Is getting regular B12 shots, but I have been trying to gently suggest she see my naturopath or the immunolgist I consulted after radiotherapy. She will only do things in her own time. I get that and am being patient.

Meanwhile, despite taking good care of myself, I am dealing with multiple infected ingrown hairs. Making me feel miserable. And gross. While bleeding heavily with these damn new periods. FFS. This was not what the doctor ordered!

I honestly just feel wiped out. Emotionally and physically drained. No matter what I put in to replenish myself, the hole in the cup is still gaping. I know the EMDR is not a quick fix. But I sure hope I get some relief soon.


6 Comments

Think of the children!

As a child (young adult) of divorce, I was always ALWAYS completely determined to choose well, to never pair with a liar or cheat. I talked a lot about truth. Openness. Honesty.

I knew.

I knew that my parents’ seemingly happy marriage imploding on a bed of lies was not something I was going to repeat. I was going to ENSURE my man was an honest one. I didn’t want to marry, as I was not going to pair with someone who could ruin my life by making selfish choices because he ‘owned’ me.

Crazy shit. I thought I could control this. By talking. By loving hard. By being honest. He would of course get it and mirror my truthful demeanour. Ha! Good one!

I am not advocating you ‘stay together for the children.’ If your relationship is had it, have an adult conversation, and end it. Don’t sneak around cheating on your damn family, while they have no idea. Your partner cannot protect themselves from sexually transmitted infections, or make informed decisions about their future. Be fucking honest!

There is a lot of new research about how cheating fucks kids up. More than we initially thought. Especially older kids.

Tell me about it.

No shit, Sherlock! I knew this. From young adulthood.

Am watching and listening to Chris Rock – of all people – on divorce, in his Netflix stand up special, Tamborine. It is enlightening. He talks about commitment. Work. You are in the service of each other. Stay together. Fuck. A lot. To overcome problems that were always there. Your partner was never perfect. From the start. From a man who behaved badly. He admits to the error of his ways. Addicted to porn. Desensitized. He calls it sexual autism. And women who leave them, mentally. Regrets. Men who fuck up.

He talks about stolen husbands. How many women are in his audience with stolen husbands. Yep. It’s shit. He describes how he fucked up. Cheated. And his regrets. Huge. Huge. Huge. Regrets. And how when a woman is cheated on she is never the same. In a bad way. He has ruined the kind woman she was.

But back to the kids. Kate Figes in The Daily Mail outlines modern parenthood.

“Look around today and in many ways modern parents have never been so tuned into their children’s needs. They know that to thrive, children require enough sleep, additive-free food, and stimulation through the best educational toys, sports, music and after-school activities.

Yet, all too often, parents fail to provide what their offspring need most: a constructive and loving relationship between the only two parents a child will ever have.”

As my eulogy for my stepdad so clearly was built around, the best thing you a father can do for his kids is love their mother. I am a HUGE believer in this.

Our kids are doing well. I do know they have reasonable relationships with their father.

But they don’t respect him. And barely tolerate his skank. No time for her at all. Just part of the shit sandwich involved in having their dad around. I get it.

We have been told for decades that kids aren’t so badly affected.

Jean Duncombe, a sociologist who has conducted extensive research on the subject, says: ‘I’m puritanical when someone tells me they’re having an affair — because of the work we’ve done on the impact of divorce on the children.

‘If people say to me that the children don’t know, I say: “Are you sure?” or “Think about what you’re doing to the children” — and I never would have said that 20 years ago.’

For parents who have affairs are not only lying to their partners, they are often deceiving themselves about the impact their infidelity can have on their offspring.

Kids are pissed. Super pissed at being lied to. My youngest daughter especially.

Lily says her adult children find it hard to trust and respect their father because he lied to them as children and still denies he had an affair with the woman to whom he’s now married.

Yep. Roger has tried to tell people it wasn’t an affair. The kids know it was. They saw us (me!) still working hard at healing after Leanne. They knew we shared a bed, finances, had holidays together, that I still shopped, cooked, cleaned, snuggled into him on the couch at night. Not quite sure how he has constructed that as not an affair. But there are people who want to believe it. Even fucking Trinket knew we were still making love, sleeping together, that I loved him!

Anyway, he made his choice. Not me. Not good enough. Etc. I do actually know it is him. But the hard part is them having such a nice life, while I ache and ache – and yeah, do fucking awesome things too! – as I work my arse off to heal!

I hadn’t cut since last week, but tonight have purged a little, to try to stop the shit thinking. The purple of my lymphectomy scar is bright tonight. Usually well hidden by the cover up tattoo…

The good things today included my chickens having really started laying. Half of them gave me eggs today.

And the bad things included it being hot AF. 34°C at 3.45pm. So humid! But got my heat pump cranking on AC for the first time after I got home from the movies, and nice and cool in my house!

My eldest daughter has a wedding to attend next month, and we have been messaging all night about dresses. She wanted to borrow something, and I showed her some options. But also said I would shout her something if she found what she wanted. It’s her birthday not long after the wedding so can call it an early present. Love her style!

I had better hang out some washing, and try to get some sleep soon. Three hours last night, but not feeling tired. Went for a short bike ride after work. To try to wear the body out.

Oh! News. Roger used to get really super pissy at me because I didn’t enjoy biking with him much. I have been working with the local bike guys, and guess what? Have tried 9 different seats and gazillions of pants. And cannot find anything comfortable. I live in the town that hosts our national high performance cycling centre. So the best bike specialists are based here. They have now given up and agreed that my anatomy is actually pretty unsuitable for long bike rides! Ha! My bits don’t fit cycling!!! 🤣🤣🤣🚴‍♀️🚴‍♀️🚴‍♀️WTF? No wonder I found it so deeply unpleasant and painful. I always felt so guilty that I hated it so much when he loved to ride!

Bloody hell. So funny!


12 Comments

Too independent

So, if you are resourceful, and don’t ‘need’ a man, apparently these needy bitch-men go looking for damsels to rescue.

FFS. I find that repugnant.

But, I fear I may have been a victim of this. I can do a lot of things traditionally considered “male.” Tonight, for example, I walked the property to find where the water problems were, crimped off an unused line, and connected two troughs that had been disconnected. Small stuff, but satisfying. I had to turn farm water off before I went away as I realised I didn’t have a pipe wrench, and the pipe fittings kept blowing off when just hand tightened. Working fulltime in a rural location leaves little time for hardware/tool shopping. But I arrived home from the sales early evening, spent a couple of hours mowing lawns, then walked the water lines to find the problems.

Just a thought.

This was a good, but very triggery-tough long weekend. I caught up with many different people. Our horse trainers. Former workmates. Friends’ kids working the sales. People I have worked for. All were lovely. And all asked me how I am doing. I lied expertly, “pretty well really.” And carried on about other stuff, kids, horses, etc.

However, the most interesting hour long chat was with one of my daughter’s friends’ parents. We had been yabbering away for ages about what the kids were studying, etc, when they asked me where I bought, and what the fuck happened. They said they thought we were one of the “it” couples, seemed close, connected, still so in love. Long termers they looked up to. I just said I finished two degrees and he announced He’d Met Someone Else. Had been secretly internet dating for ages. I had no idea. The whole town knew about his long affair with Leanne. I just said – for the first time really, to anyone IRL – “after all he put me through.” They nodded and said, “yeah, he sure put you through the mill. No wonder he buggered off to (…………⬅️insert region here.)” I just laughed wryly, saying, well it’s been interesting, for sure. I truly believed we were working towards recovery. I was completely blindsided and had to move fast to find my feet, being cast aside so unexpectedly. But was doing well. (Don’t look at my cutting scars. My itchy stitches!) They just shook their heads and said, “we’re so sorry, that must have been absolutely horrendous. Are you okay? You look so well though, well done you.”

The facade we present to look stronger than we feel, huh?

Of course I said I am fine (no mention of cancer or heart condition, hell no, I would never!) And they just said, good riddance, what a twat.

I just smiled and said, yeah.

When inside, whilst I know they are right, my heart screams in pain for the boy I loved. You know. That one who is gone forever.


2 Comments

Sales

It is our national Thoroughbred yearling sales series time. First day today.

I brought a trailer load of furniture up for our son. For his new flat. He’s done well, is a nice spot with a sunny room and large backyard.

After loading and unloading all, the sale kicked off, so I called in and caught up with loads of old friends. I used to work in this industry, and this is the showpiece money time.

Rog has always loved attending the sales. When we met, I was working prepping horses for the sales, and we used to hand walk every individual horse in a very deep bark plough. For about 3 to 5 hours every day, I would be walking colts as fast as I could walk. My legs and bum were legendary! We worked out one day that we were walking in the deep bark about 150km and more per week.

When he was fucking Leanne, the second year of their affair, he asked me to book him a motel room one day, as he made a last minute decision to come up here to the sales. And he could barely turn a computer on. I happily booked him a room in a motel I knew near the racecourse.

Just a few blocks from Leanne’s house. Yay! Go me. How fucking convenient!

He drove up, checked into the room, and headed to the sales.

I did the farm chores, fed the dogs, got the kids fed and once they were in bed, I thought, hmmm, I’m feeling sexy, I am gonna drive up and surprise him! How exciting! I got myself showered, shaved, made up, fragrant and I slid into my most beautiful lingerie, including stockings, suspenders and stilettos. This was not something I usually did. A bit cliche, but I thought it would be really fun. Sex with a ‘stranger’ in a city motel room. I popped a trenchcoat over, and drove the three hours to the room. Knowing I had work in the morning, and would need to leave early.

I arrived, checked what room he was booked into, and waited in the car for him to return. It was late. He wasn’t there. I waited more. Finally after 3am I decided I should drive home. I thought he must have gone drinking with the boys and stayed in one of their accommodation options. I was disappointed, seemed like such a fun, spontaneous idea. I went to work the next day, and completely forgot about it, so never asked him about where he was when he returned the following night.

What really happened? I found out about 6 or 8 months after D-Day, that Leanne had returned to NZ that night on an evening flight. It was unexpected, and when she texted him, he said he would pick her up from the airport. He stayed the night with her. His story was that he never slept a wink all night. It was his only night staying all night at her house. Usually it was a mad drive to her house for daytime fucking while I was at work. He said he had a feeling I was nearby and would see his car in her driveway.

I just never, ever suspected. I was actually sitting in a car, dressed like a hooker, a few blocks away.

That is the kind of man Trinket has chosen to spend her life with. That is what he did to me over and over and over, while I loved and cared for him. Just his life secretary. While I believed he truly loved me. Like I loved him. There is no pain like having deeply loved someone who just discarded you like rubbish. I have no idea what I did to him to make him treat me so cruelly. I know I did nothing. And as for her…why? Why cause such agony? What did I ever do to her? Such total selfish cruelty is not at all understandable. I always told him I loved him every day, even after how much he broke my heart. I begged him to always be honest. Instead, he gave me very loving gifts, wrote special, loving words, even during the period he was seeking, then securing, my replacement. Fuck. So fucking cruel. I thought my loyalty through such devastation would be rewarded with loyalty respect, love. Because I’m stupid like that.

So yeah. The sales, like so many things, places, etc, are triggering.

Meanwhile, Trinket is fucking him right now in my bed at the lake. We all know how nauseous having other women in my house makes me. And my friend sent me a message this morning, as she is heading down that way and wondered if I was there for the long weekend. Nope. Their weekend, I told her. This friend’s husband had an affair years ago, she knows how much it hurts and feels so bad for me that the whores were/are in my houses. She could not cope if her husband’s whore came to her home, she gets it

Yeah. But hell, so convenient! She knew she shouldn’t have been there the first time. Now she has moved right on in. Her fucking space now. Makes my stomach hurt.

Away from that, my son and I went to a very funky neighbourhood Asian fusion, casual restaurant for dinner tonight. My first go on Lime scooters! Hilarious. Fast! Fun.

Even used a Snapchat filter to message the girls…

That mix of pain and keeping on pushing hard through it all.


Leave a comment

Superb friends and the ache

It was my MIL’s birthday yesterday. I woke up dreaming about her. The first without her, since her death last year. I miss her cheeky humour.

Took two friends who had never been racing to an evening horse racing meeting in the big smoke yesterday. Was quite lovely. They came home with considerably more money than they took! Rookie luck, and some fairly clever punting made their night!

I went to the same race meeting last year, and had a great time. Everything was pretty raw, and Rog came too. A guy attending a stag night there hit on me quite gently, and we danced and had a few laughs. Later, he asked me about my relationship status, why was I single? I pointed out Rog, just beside us, his back to us at the time, and said, “well, technically I still live with that guy there, my true love of just over 30 years. But he met some chick online, and is selling our farm and moving to her.” The guy just about dropped dead. He did a double take, and said, WATF? You’re joking, right? What is wrong with the man? You’re gorgeous, obviously clever and fun, the man’s a fool. I laughed and said, yeah, so people keep telling me.

This year, same, smaller crew, except the women in the group decided to stay at the beach and watch from there. Our friends had a runner in the big million dollar race last year, and he especially, was absolutely fizzing. This year he grinned widely and gave me a big bear hug as I walked in. He invited me back to their beach house today, or anytime.

This guy is a good friend of Roger’s. And of course we never mentioned a thing, and I certainly would NEVER talk about him now. But early on in this clusterfuck of I’ve Met Someone Else, he asked a few questions, he and his partner came over and drank wine with me in my new home. He says he doesn’t get it. Rog and him discussed relationship problems over the years, and we know he has some question marks over his own. He knows he’s a bit of a lad. Loves drinking with the boys and horse racing. But is very kind, exceptionally generous, earns a good living and is heaps of fun. His partner gets to play mother/sober driver a lot. It creates a not so sexy parent-child dynamic. He has expressed his disappointment to me – for me – on several occasions. He says Rog admitted to cheating on me, said I never deserved it, was a top woman who loved him heaps and he had totally crushed me, I had struggled with healing. He thought we were extremely well suited and that I was amazing for not just leaving him over his treachery.

So, that serious student of racing form friend was laughing and shaking his head over my rookie friends collecting a dividend on every race, bar the first of the evening! He loves to see people having a great time.

Ran into quite a few friends, and am heading back up there today. Our son moved into his new place during the week and I will get all his stuff into my trailer, bed, furniture, cajillion guitars…and take it up to check out his new digs. He was there with friends last night. One of his best mates from high school came and gave me the biggest hug and kiss, chatted away for half an hour, then hugged and kissed me again. Miss those boys! So nice they are now in the same city.

Bella popped down to the enclosure we were in, to catch up. Her job is in the racing industry, and this next week is all about schmoozing. She invited me to stay with her tonight. I just might do that. See how I go. Drive up with G’s gear, was always gonna call into the sales on my way home as the sales series kicks off today. As it is a long weekend, I think I probably will stay up with Bella.

It all still aches so very, very deeply. The hidden agony I carry in my body of loving and missing a man who disappeared. Grieving the death without a body. Of knowing that body and HER are in my bed, fucking like crazy. The rejection. The not good enough…

I live life. I keep going. But I dunno if this ache will ever subside. It still hurts just as much as ever. I just got better at the facade, the part of me that people see. You stop reaching out, instead you start to retreat again, hiding your pain better. I have had so much lovely support, but I know you stop. You have to, to protect and nurture those friendships. And everyone has their own ebbs and flows. I like to ensure I am there for them when they need support too.

You honestly think Dday is the worst life gets. And is acknowledged as the worst life stressor people outside of war zones face. Next. Fucking. Level.

Then the bloody cheaters do it again, and leave you. After years of painstakingly rebuilding yourself from the ground up. After communicating very clearly that honesty and openness are the only way, good or bad. Be. Fucking. Honest. Tell. The. Fucking. Truth. Always. After convincing yourself that his words really are the truth, he’s learned, he knows how much damage he has caused, he really does love you and can’t live without you, that he will never find what he had with you ever again. That no one will ever be enough. That he wants to grow old(er) with you, the one true love of his life. Hmmm. Except now Trinket is so much better. ‘Truer’ love. FFS. Good one. Whoops! Sorry Paula, fuck right off now like a good little girl, won’t you. You are no longer required.

And the searing, resonating, unrelenting agony doubles down.

Another fitful night filled with images of Roger and Trinket fucking madly, kissing, cuddling, whispering softly to each other, curled up together, his long arms around her, encircling her in (imagined) safety, his erect penis pressing deliciously into her soft butt, in my bed.

Sleep has become such an elusive luxury.


6 Comments

What’s good?

You all know that this is my safe space. Where I put the crazy making pain and sadness so that I can keep pushing to live a good life. So I can pretend to the world that I am doing okay without all the hideous pain sticking out of the back of my pants, right?

So, it reads like I am a 100% gigantic fuck up. A miserable POS. You probably have a picture of a wizened, bitter old woman, squeezing the joy out of everyone else’s worlds, right?

Not quite, my pretties! I am outwardly pretty decently recovering. My colleagues love me, value my calm and sense of humour in stressful situations. I live with one. She and I laugh a lot. She thinks I am very wise, thoughtful and open minded. I have two others coming to stay soon for a few nights as their accommodation is unavailable briefly. We get on well. And choose to spend some time together outside of work.

My friends are fab, we do fun things together, and the two who know I am still on the roller coaster are always there if I need a cuddle. Or a wine. But mostly we just hang out, enjoy each other. I am a good friend. Supportive and caring. I keep in touch. I’m there straight away in a crisis. I don’t load all my pain on them constantly. I put it down here.

My boss told me to take a mental health day yesterday. We have been CRAZY busy. Long, exceptionally stressful hours, multiple tech issues slowing and disrupting things, my role expanding to frankly unmanageable levels. She knows I have been juggling the balls of two clowns, not just my own.

I wasn’t going to take it as when I have a day off, I return to utter chaos.

But, I did.

It was a good day. My daughter also had the day off, and once I did my morning, work related chores, and she had a bit of a sleep in, we headed off together to buy a new desk and linen for her new flat. We also got pedicures and manicures. And bought clothes! Whoops!

She talked me into tiny denim shorts 😱. Interesting choice! But she tells me I totally rock them with my toned legs and bum. Riiiiiiight. I also bought TWO dresses, and she got a couple of things. We were pretty rapt to find exactly the right desk for her tight space. Then a gorgeous chartreuse velvet comforter and pillowcases for her bed. Grocery shopping was actually enjoyable as we had her best mate, who has been in her home region for the summer, working as a legal intern, coming for dinner.

We came home and I prepared a pretty simple BBQ meal, D’s mate, who I love, showed up and we chatted and ate, I went to bed a bit more relaxed than usual.

And woke at 2am, never to go back to sleep. Damn. I have a big social day ahead!

Gonna try to rest, cuppa in hand. Hoping to doze a little, cucumber slices on eyes. Straight after I tidy this disaster up! Bloody dogs on my lawn after rabbits! So annoyed!

So yeah. Just letting you all know that I do normal shit, I am a nice person, I am not just wallowing in the agony of what was done to me. I do always carry it with me, the ache in my stomach that still does not let me eat much. But my outward appearance and functionality is still there despite all.

My therapist was helpful when I was asking why I am still such a fuck up, all this time later. She reiterated trauma has no timeline, and is not terribly logical. She asked me how I was after the Leanne affair, and I recalled I was quite outwardly functional, very loving and understanding of Rog then, and the trauma hit badly around about this time out then, too. Like you convince yourself for only so long that you are strong, you will survive, it is over, it ‘wasn’t that bad,’ etc. Then your stamina runs out. My trauma response is normal and understandable. To try to stop feeling like such a failure because I am genuinely traumatized from being told one thing by him but him doing the most damaging things to me. Lying, cheating and putting me in the same danger he knew I already had made clear I can’t cope with. My trauma response was obvious after Leanne (suicide attempts after months of trying to minimize it in my head) and he lied again! Promised me things he was obviously never going to deliver. Fuck. You have no idea how hard I worked to try to believe him, a known liar and cheat. To override all my instincts about his treachery.

But, that aside. I do live a good life. I do practice mindfulness and gratitude. I do care about living well. My garden, the produce my property produces. Plums, lamb, vegetables, eggs, etc.

So yeah. All bundles of love and light, lol.

Just wanted you all to know I am not just a fuck up. There is so much more to me as well. But I am in the very darkest period of my life, trying to find the path out. Let down by loving a terrible man. All charm and twinkle on the outside, but capable of such incredible cruelty and deception to the person who has loved him longest and most deeply. I know and accept that I will never fully recover from this, it will always be a large scar on my life, this pain and total injustice at his discard and disregard of my wellbeing. When all I ever thought of was his.


2 Comments

Hidden insanity

Being betrayed my whole adult life is causing some huge distress, craziness really.

Cheating affects women more, and more deeply than men according to the psych literature. And I learned so much during the period after the Leanne affair. I painstakingly rebuilt myself, my self esteem, after he completely crushed it. But this subsequent cheating and final discard has spiralled me right back to the beginning again. I feel more worthless now than ever during that recovery period. I really felt I was achieving so much while we were together ‘recovering’ from his choice to seek validation from other women. I aced two degrees, first in my class in one of my majors, second in the other. Little old three time uni dropout me. Then a first class honours on my Masters thesis. All while running a business, family, managing the admin for another small business and trying to feel safe in the world again.

For what?

To be plummeted back to worse than the “first’ time. I had assumed that should he ever cheat again, I would throw up my hands, and walk away muttering something under my breath about, well, I tried!

I never predicted this insanity. This utter agony and battle to survive. It’s frankly quite damn embarrassing! I know better than to let it affect me this way. But I really am struggling to find any self esteem. He discounted and devalued me, and I have no idea why I am letting that even matter. Well. Not true. I do know why. The trauma dementors. They continually circle, quite literally sucking the will to live.

Yet, on the outside, my colleagues and friends see an organised, put together survivor and thriver. This is by a million miles the most painfully hard thing I have ever pushed my way through.

If you are an OW reading this. Please know the cost of your decision to break a loyal and loving spouse. Just because he SAYS his marriage is over does not mean his wife got sent that memo. You will cause the worst pain – bar the loss of a child, I believe. Pain levels you have no idea even exist. I have lived with constant high level anxiety and fight or flight response for the better part of a decade. It has taken a massive toll on my health. Both mental and physical. And I am paying hundreds of dollars weekly to try to right my brain from his/their abuse.

There is no excuse for an OW. I have spent years trying to write them out of the picture. Roger chose this for me. Not them. He promised to love and protect me.

They promised me nothing. They however, are as culpable. They know, but choose selfishness. They knew they were hurting me.

And did it anyway. Go Leanne. Go Trinket. You guys are more worthy than me. Rog will never cheat on you. Because, you know, more special.

Just help yourselves to my man, my properties. Hell, eat my food, use my gas money, sleep in my beds. Why the hell not?

My therapist has let me know I do have a valid claim to get compensation through our government system for compensation for her fees. There are valid factors in my trauma history. I just don’t know if I can face that fight as well right now.


20 Comments

Fool me twice

I think most of us have a good understanding of the utter shock of DDay.

You think you could not possibly ever be hurt any more than at that moment.

Let me agree with Lauren Beth here, another spouse who stayed, believing her husband wanted change. Then he cheated again. Oh yeah. This is absolutely the worst I have experienced so far. That I worked so hard against all my gut feelings that he did not do the work – rather just waited it out, as he said to CrazyKat’s Blue Eyes, when they stayed with us, “you know these women, they just need to get over it” – found my first glimpse of hope and peace, and he’d already been cheating on me again for nearly two years. While promising me he’d wait for me. Fooled me twice. Shame on me.

Lauren Beth writes, “My therapist had to work diligently with me to get me back to a semi functioning human the first time I discovered my husband cheated. This second time around is worse, and I am thankful I remember what she taught me. I would be in a mental hospital if I did not have the tools I was provided. If you have been through this then you know that at some point most of us end up in the hospital.

Fuck. Yes. I have come close. Today I had to get a couple of stitches where I cut too deeply. My mind just could not stop imagining them together, fucking in my bed at the lake, where he made intense love to Leanne. And Trinket. Probably others. And stupid old one lover me. The crappiest sex partner ever apparently. Go me. Lying there in his arms, breathing in his intoxicating scent. Such dumb bliss I always felt. None of it was even real. I tried distraction. Music. Exercise. Holding ice on my wrist until I couldn’t bear it anymore. Damn blade slipped and I tried to apply pressure. But it really did need a bit of a tidy up. I couldn’t stop it bleeding, just two little stitches to stick it back together. And some bullshit story about slipping after work with some supplies, not knowing there were some sharps incorrectly disposed of, whoops, silly me.

Generally the cuts have been superficial. Not too often. I did get rid of the scalpel blades tonight though. This cannot escalate FFS. If anyone other than my new shrink knew…Jesus. It really is the most bizarre, embarrassing and scary thing. Like I have no control over my own actions. Totally an out of body experience. Middle class mother, employee, outwardly sensible and healthy person. Yeah. WTAF? Just fucking stop.