Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum


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Oh! Precious!

Just gotta share this. I had a good laugh and super warm fuzzies this evening.

An old family friend of Roger’s family ran into me in the supermarket.

Literally.

And we got chatting. She’s a gem. Old school “lady.” And calls a spade a spade!

She asked me how I am and said she heard what happened to me.

And then said, ” He’s disgusting, and that woman! She should be utterly ashamed of herself! Taking on a married man. What was she thinking???He cheated on you more than once, what makes her think he’ll be faithful to her? Idiot. And what an absolute cow.

You look so well.”

I got a tad wobbly then. Ugh. I always do when people are nice, and my broken heart gets exposed. It’s embarrassing!

She came in for a hug, “I know your heart was broken, because I always saw how you looked at Roger. So much love in your eyes. I’m so glad you look so fabulous, because (Roger’s mother) always had so much time for you. Always said Roger got a good one there. One of the best. You deserved so much better.”

We laughed and kept hugging, and she asked me to look her up, we’ll go for a coffee sometime.

Cute, huh? ❤🥰


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She won?

Losing your life partner to another woman, on the surface, seems like a lucky escape.

If your partner, your soulmate, the “love of your life,” chooses another woman, well, he’s the trash who took himself out, right?

I mean, I was told I was beautiful, the sexiest woman he’d ever known, a great cook, a loving and deserving, loyal partner, the only woman for him.

And yeah, he kept cheating. Secrets and lies. Decades of them.

So why do you feel like the world’s stupidest woman, biggest loser? Why are you so damn heartbroken?

Because I am.

Still.

Incredibly and achingly broken hearted.

Yes, I’m doing okay. A lot better mostly…but I still hurt. Still dive off the cliff on the regular.

The root of my pain never leaves me. Losing my reality to the lies. The terror of a future of more STIs, more cancer, but mostly the horrific vulnerability. The fear. The mistrust. Will I be played again? That I trusted, then fought my own instincts to learn to trust again, then was thrown under the bus for yet another woman. So how can I trust a complete stranger? Someone I haven’t known my whole life?

That is how Roger treats the love of his life. The only woman for him.

Dr Craig Eric Morris, a relationship researcher, co-writing about infidelity, and the effects of being the abandoned betrayed, explains the grief, and how that contributes to huge personal growth in the betrayed, as opposed to the betrayer/cheater, who just bed other women to self soothe, and never really has to have a good long hard look at themselves and their abusive, selfish actions.

both men and women report intense feelings and among both sexes, the “rejected” suffered significantly higher levels of post-relationship grief compared to “breakup initiators.”

Oh. Yeah. That grief. “Significantly higher levels.” It still absolutely sears. The pain is next level. Roger will NEVER get it. I know.

Yep.

Still.

And that is why I know it will never be over or gone. I just keep weaving it as neatly as possible to my life’s tapestry, the flaw that I can mostly deal with, but know it’s there. Always.

I do also try to remind myself what Trinket won. I know she will feel loved, cherished, delighted in her prize.

But she won a man away from someone who loved him extremely deeply, so much so that she spent eight years wrestling with her instincts that he was once a cheater, always a cheater. I saw some of the red flags, but desperately tried to justify them. (He kept in touch with Leanne, refusing to change his number, he told me it was to manage her crazy. Fucking her again two years later, was a great tactic in that regard, right? Oh, but I was the only woman for him, so that’s okay then.)

So, Becky With the good Hair – I mean, Trinket (with the frizzy hair, whoops!) …

Morris and his colleagues conclude the woman who loses her mate will go through a period of personal growth. Her post-relationship grief and betrayal will ultimately give way to knowledge that will help her detect low-value mates. (Unfortunately, they do not offer statistics on what actually happens in the aftermath of mate poaching.) Conversely, the researchers say, the ‘other woman’ is stuck in a relationship with a partner who has a demonstrated history of deception.

Morris CE, Reiber C, Roman E. Quantitative Sex Differences in Response to the Dissolution of a Romantic Relationship. Evolutionary Behavioral Sciences. 2016.
Morris CE, Beaussart ML, Reiber C, Krajewski LS. Intrasexual Mate Competition and Breakups: Who Really Wins? The Oxford Handbook of Women and Competition. 2016.

Doesn’t really help me deal with my pain. Because I know Trinket doesn’t get it. She hasn’t had the revelation, that he “loves” the one he’s with. That neither she, nor I, are special or beloved. Just tools to make him not feel alone or worthless.

He has never once been alone. Had to reflect on his actions. Who he is. Had to live with what he did to the most loyal person he EVER had in his life. There is no remorse. No idea of how close he pushed me to the edge. My epic battle to just survive his abuse and discard.

I know I will never get a heartfelt apology from either of them, because they did nothing wrong.

Right?

If only. If only she (or he) felt remorse for actively and willingly stabbing me repeatedly in the heart.


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A bundle of love and fun

My barman makes me smile.

He was so sweet when he got home from golf and saw I had mowed his lawn, done laundry and washed his floors. “You’re naughty. You don’t have to do those things for me.”

I know. But he does lovely things for me all the time.

We had a delicious and delightful dinner out with his friend, Trevor and his wife, Sally, later back to their bach for a nightcap. I was feeling much better than I have for a few days, the beach is healing for me. My skin was glowing, and I got a bit dressed up. Felt sexy and happy.

Trevor chatted away with me for a while. Asked me how long I was married for, and what happened? They are just approaching 27 years of marriage, and seem good. But I really note long termers now. They never touched all night. BG touches me constantly. Or I touch him. Rog and I were very tactile. Touching, stroking, holding hands. We weren’t gross about it, and in people’s faces. But a touch under the dining table, hands held as we walked, a brush against me or hand on my shoulder as I worked in the kitchen.

Trevor and Sally? Not once.

I just made buttermilk pancakes for brunch, and BG came up behind me to hold me, nuzzle my neck and rub my bum as I cooked, several times. We love to touch each other.

Trevor, who has the kindest face and manner, looked at me when I explained briefly, “thirty years, was still madly in love with him, but he kept cheating and blindsided me by leaving for an online dating widow who believed his bullshit about being single” …(of course, I didn’t add, despite me obviously still living with him?)

Trev, who is one of the old boarding school, lifetime friends crew, responded with, “Wow, that’s unbelievable, and you are such a sparkly, walking bundle of love. So glad BG found you, he’s entirely besotted, and I’ve never seen him like this. He’s never found anyone like you before. You are such an interesting, fun, gem of a woman. Hope you don’t mind me saying so. Lucky BG. Love it. Your ex is a fuckwit, look what he lost!”

So weird, when mid 50s men are so open. I appreciate them so much, even if I find it a bit uncomfortable talking about my past, and being open to the love of these generous souls. I squirm with embarrassment, but feel the deep love and connection that these guys have for each other and their families. These wonderfully welcoming people who have come into my life with BG, are such a blessing. Make up for the people who I thought loved me, but whom I lost when Roger discarded me.❤❤❤

“I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor”

Stop making the eyes at me,
I’ll stop making the eyes at you.
What it is that surprises me
Is that I don’t really want you to

And your shoulders are frozen (cold as the night)
Oh, but you’re an explosion (you’re dynamite)
Your name isn’t Rio, but I don’t care for sand
And lighting a fuse might result in a bang b-b-bang-go

I bet that you look good on the dance floor
I don’t know if you’re looking for romance or…
I don’t know what you’re looking for
I said I bet that you look good on the dance floor
Dancing to electro-pop like a robot from 1984
Well, from 1984!

I wish you’d stop ignoring me
Because it’s sending me to despair,
Without a sound yeah you’re calling me
And I don’t think it’s very fair

That your shoulders are frozen (cold as the night)
Oh, but you’re an explosion (you’re dynamite)
Your name isn’t Rio, but I don’t care for sand
And lighting a fuse might result in a bang, b-b-bang-go

I bet that you look good on the dance floor
I don’t know if you’re looking for romance or…
I don’t know what you’re looking for
I said I bet that you look good on the dance floor
Dancing to electro-pop like a robot from 1984
Well, from 1984!

And no, there ain’t no love, no Montagues or Capulets
Just banging tunes and DJ sets
Dirty dance floors, and dreams of naughtiness!

Well, I bet that you look good on the dance floor
I don’t know if you’re looking for romance or…
I don’t know what you’re looking for
I said I bet that you look good on the dance floor
Dancing to electro-pop like a robot from 1984
Said, from 1984!


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In the cycle

One of the things my trauma therapist helped me with was the self loathing for not being better. Healed.

I had read about time and self compassion. But Roger kept telling me I was not healing properly, that I was failing at recovery.

I know now that that “two to five years” thing is a myth. Healing is continuous, and is never “complete.” Tied up in a neat little package. It keeps going. You heal a bit, then fall back. It is constant mindfulness and gratitude. And honestly? It can be exhausting.

I accept I will never be as carefree and trusting as I once was. I will never feel as loved, loving and lucky as I once did.

But my gratitude is more conscious. Deeper. I’m so grateful I stayed. I did not end my life all those times I just couldn’t bear the pain any longer. I’m grateful for the cutting scars on my thigh, because that action, whilst being fucked up, saved my life on numerous occasions.

I’m Netflix and chilling at the barman’s while he defends his golf match play trophy, the Covid Cup, this morning. Just waiting for it to not be too early to mow his lawns. To surprise him. He had a HUGE night at the club, with the first weekend at Alert Level 1. We were packed to the rafters, and he’ll be dying to look at “the numbers,” when he gets back. So, laundry done, lawns about to be, and the dogs are exhausted after an early morning beach run.

When in the grief cycles, I just keep looking ahead, knowing the pain will ease again. And preparing for when they intensify the next time.

Grateful for my life, and healing enough to let someone into my heart. Grateful for his gratitude in having me in his life. Grateful for his love, affection and care. Grateful how much he adores my dogs and worries about my kids.

His beloved 86 year old mother is currently in hospital with multiple issues, the biggest of which is pancreatitis. She’s comfortable. And in the best care. He and his sisters are so caring about her, and it melts my heart, after Roger never even saw his dying mother the last month of her life. Too wrapped up in Trinket.

Lawns a-calling. Beach air is working its magic. 👌❤🌊😍


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A good cry

I had a good cry yesterday.

Sobbing in my car, the dogs looking at me like I’d lost the plot entirely. My little one nudging into me, curling up on my lap.

A sob fest that had been brewing for a while.

Lots of nostalgia. An old song on the radio on my way to work, one that took me back to the pre-kid years with Rog. When we were first together, madly in love. All those feelings flooded my body, drowning me in sorrow. That tearing grief.

And I remember, no, that was just me. Falling for his love bombing. Fkn Idiot Me.

And then, thinking about Leanne. And how I always sensed she was obsessed with Roger. She desperately wanted to split us up.

And she succeeded.

He let her get what she wanted.

If he hadn’t bought that damn farm that caused tragedy to everyone who owned it. If I hadn’t welcomed that bitch back into our lives…

Coulda, woulda, shoulda…

It is what it is.

He never loved me anyway😭😭😭


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Lingering

I found some old photos of BG, with his first love.

The one who cheated.

The one I have been a little nervous about, as in, how can he ever love me when he had this gorgeous, sexy creature who managed to steal his heart?

But I looked at her and all the fake is there. In one picture, he is absolutely beaming with joy at the camera (clean shaven, so weird, I love it, but I also love his glorious beard) holding his mate’s newborn daughter, and Chrissy is sitting awkwardly beside him, gazing at him. And all the fake is obvious. Fake tits, fake tan, overplucked eyebrows, overbleached, broken hair…

And I realised I had put her on this pedestal. The only woman he ever loved, this beautiful, petite woman who got his heart in his mid-late 40s.

And then I read the post below. And it is the story of mine and several betrayed wives I know. You get happier. You find yourself after years or self doubt and pick me dancing, wondering why your cheater won’t love and be faithful to you. But – and I emphasise this, you NEVER “get over it.” It’s trauma. And becomes embedded in you.

Today is the 5 year “anniversary” of D-day for me. Gosh I was so naïve and trusting of my ex husband. We had been married for 25 years. I have gained so much in the last 5 years. Mostly I gained back myself and I know I can do hard things and navigate life on my own. He has lost so much, mainly the respect of his daughters. Not sure he even realizes how little respect they have for him and he blames me–he says I brainwashed them (they are 23 and 26). Anyway, those of you in the trenches, you will probably never “get over” it, but you will find happiness!!


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Winner, winner, chicken dinner

We won.

Our wee mare won today at just her third start, first over a suitable distance for her.

She is still changing her winter coat, and has a lot of strengthening up to do.

But she raced away from the field, winning by nearly 3 lengths. We thought we had a decent one, but you never really know.

My two best old girlfriends are racing this mare with us. Both first time racehorse owners. Thrilled for them. And the breeders, two other women in our part of the syndicate.

I went. But only because I left work early yesterday, at 4pm, with a migraine brewing. Stress and anxiety at the possibility of running into Roger and Trinket. I was up vomiting all night, and into the day, still light sensitive, but managed to crawl out of bed to go to the races for an hour. After all, S left home at 5.30am to beat the traffic over the damaged and lane reduced harbour bridge to get there. I only had to drive 30 minutes or so! It was the least I could do. And Bella, one of the breeders, well, it blew me away, but it was her first win on our home track! Crazy. She has bred and raced a lot of horses over the years. Such a lovely milestone.

So glad I made the effort, even if I looked half dead.

And the trophy was awarded by our niece, who manages the business that sponsored the race.

Flew home again to bed, all sweaty and red faced still, from the migraine. Coming right now, though.

Such a tonic to win a race. And even better to do it with your tribe by your side 🥰


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Ache

I have a horse racing tomorrow.

At a local meeting and I’ve been trying to talk myself into going. I race her with my dearest old school friends. And one of Roger’s ex fuck buddies, lol. The school friends get it. Ex fuck buddy is still buddy buddies with Rog. Unbelievably, Roger has a share in a horse in the SAME DAMN RACE!

Fuck! I have been trying to tell myself I can go. But I’m struggling badly. He still affects me so much. I haven’t seen him in eleven months. And even one phone call upset me, hearing his voice. Those tones. So soothing. He’s a smooth, calm operator. I don’t think I can go. Face him. I still madly, deeply love who he used to be. Or pretended to be. Who he convinced me he was. The man that walks in that body is not my love. He’s a cruel, manipulative man who broke my heart into eleventy million shards.

Then, just as I felt I was healing well, did it again.

I can’t be reduced to a pathetic puddle just because he shows up. I can’t share space, smell his scent, or hear his soothing voice.

Heartbroken all week, and trying to decide what is best for my wellbeing. I think it will be a glass of champagne at work, watching it on a screen instead.

FML


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Lunching

On our road trip home yesterday, we decided to stop for lunch in a busy beach city.

Whoah! Spring weather and no travel meant it was chaotic! Covid alert levels were pinging, for both of us.

We grabbed an outdoor table and had a wine and some tapas.

My dear friend, G’s husband, P spied BG as he drove past and pulled over to come have a drink with him.

I’ve known P since middle school.

But he recognised BG first, lol.

When he and his mate, Joe, sat down, P joked that he thought maybe BG was in his town with someone else, not me.

BG and I laughed.

After P left, BG put his arm around my shoulder and said, “that was shitty. I could have been here with a woman, maybe Colleen (his friend who lives in that town) and that could be misconstrued. Fuck. I’m sorry if you were triggered. I will ALWAYS ask if you are okay with me meeting a woman on my own. I’m so sorry he said that.”

That was super cute and intuitive. I’m actually not that freaked out. He lives away from me, after all. There has to be some trust or I’d die from jealousy and anxiety.

This is the town Roger sometimes met Leanne in. Her parents have a holiday apartment there. Handy for fucking married men in, huh?

The thing is, I do worry I might get played again. But all you can do is trust and verify.

Then, I asked BG about whether we are going to Colleen’s housewarming party next month.

And he said, “I dunno? I don’t really care and won’t know many people. Is it too much, going to an ex GF of mine’s party? I keep thinking about your past, and how that cunt used your trust with his ex GF to make you believe nothing was going on. Is this too hard? I don’t wanna go if you are uncomfortable in any way.”

Mmm. Yeah. I am fine. But I question that? Am I just a trusting fucktard??? I mean, BG lives two hours away, and works in hospo. If he wanted to fuck around on me, he has far more opportunities to do so than Roger ever did…that said, cheaters always find a way…

I dunno. I just wonder if I am too fucking gullible. Too fucking kind.

It was a fabulous weekend. I got to see BG in action at a work meeting, and realised how much knowledge he has. And admired his thirst to learn more and upgrade, be cutting edge with IT that he employs, and the support he craves for his staff…It was kinda cool to watch.

His friends and their kids just adore him. And, by default, me. I am so grateful for these wonderful people who have come into my life via him.

But.

Yeah. Why is there always a but?

He’s loving, kind, affectionate, thoughtful…But he just doesn’t have a libido like mine.

I was pursued my entire thirty years with Rog. He took me for granted, used and abused me. But he always wanted me. Or rather, always wanted sex with someone!

He’d be laughing his arse off now, at me, in this relationship where there is huge respect, love, kindness and fun.

But not quite the zing he and I had.

When I do initiate, BG is always up for it. And that was part of what I discussed with him recently. That I wonder if his terminally single status has him feeling a) he doesn’t need as much sex as many partnered people, and/or b) he is worried initiating sex is being “pesty.”

Having all this love showered on me, but less raw desire, is … challenging. Not great for the self esteem.

I know it is FAR more than just about sex. But it’s weird and disconcerting in a society that has taught us that men want sex more than women…

It makes all my not good enoughs ping. Even with a shit tonne of knowledge that it isn’t me. It just is what it is.


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Slut shaming

Had an interesting discussion about the culpability or otherwise of Other Women.

I have had someone once tell me that you can’t call an affair partner a slut or a whore, or whatever.

And once upon a time, yeah, I might have had some sympathy for that point of view.

To a point.

But I’ve always believed in the sisterhood.

You don’t fuck other women over to feather your own nest.

So, the argument that all sexual behaviours are healthy and justified, is not one I ascribe to.

To say, “an affair partner is innocent, place your blame with the spouse/partner who had you believing you were in a monogamous, loving relationship with” – you just don’t get it.

I loved this analogy:

If 2 people rob a shop and one pulls a gun and shoots the owner they are both held responsible under the law. Your husband and the OW are both shooting down the marriage. Both knew what they were doing. The harm done to an innocent party, spouse and children.

Yeah. Or, as Roger would have you believe, our separation wasn’t about his own choices and actions, but the toxic tentacles of an affair.

Not of his choices. But this separate, autonomous entity, “an affair.”

Oh. And apparently our demise was driven by me.

Apparently my begging and prostrating myself to please still love me, please don’t leave me, was me driving to a much wanted split.

Of course, silly me 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️FFS