Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum


Deep and passionate

I met one of BG’s oldest friends this weekend. She came to give him a hand with his biggest weekend of the year. Where they turnover about 4 times their next biggest weekend’s takings.

Nikki is an ex cop, who has had an interesting life. A very spiritual person. They flatted together as young school leavers, and have remained friends for nearly 40 years.

Apparently she told BG that I was the one. That she loved how I look at him, and how he responds to who I am. How he looks at me, and is constantly seeking me out. That she has never seen him like this, and it suits him.

I have reined myself in with this man. He’s not Roger, and I don’t know him in my soul. So I’ve protected my heart as much as I am capable of.

But Nikki, a pragmatic woman, said she loved my sparkle (that word again!) And how I am deep, and passionate. Not surface and fake (like Chrissy, the pretty, petite, fake tanned, fake breasted older woman he last loved.)

I admit, it’s odd meeting these old friends. You know you are being vetted! And you are aware that your true self is what needs to be noted.

To relax.

It’s hard. Because I’m deep and passionate.

And I love deeply and passionately. And Monday morning lovemaking was deep and passionate.

I hate him leaving.

But this is the life I have now. Completely transformed from an easy, just do it life, to one where I anxiously second guess everything I do.

That’s the trouble with loving deeply and passionately.

You get hurt.


Big week. Big laugh.

It’s been an emotional week. But we got it done.

The house that Roger ended our beautiful love story in – yep, despite his choices, I loved him very spectacularly. But he chose other people over my love, and he used that place, that I felt we built out of love, to fuck other women in. And I was supposed to still sleep in that bed…

It’s gone.

Anyway, it was stressful, and things went ever-so-slightly pear shaped.

I’m at BGs. This is his biggest weekend of the year, a retro festival. I’ve worked behind the bar. I’ve been the door bitch. I’ve run errands, restocked fridges, served food.

We’ve got 8 of us staying in his wee 2 bedroom house. Friends and ring ins to temp for him. Today, he and I took a 15 minute break at home, and he looked at me and said, “fuck. How did I get so lucky? You are so good to me. I’m a dick, and have nothing to offer, why are you so good to me?”

Of course, he’s really good to me. That’s why.

We had a giggle, about all the women in his house. He said, “bloody hell, whose knickers will you find next?!” Referring, of course to the fact that he brought knickers that weren’t mine to “return” to me recently.

And, tonight, I got summoned over to a table of older men, drinking at the club. BG was there and I could see they were giving him a hard time. When I got there, I looked at him and joked, “okay, what have you done,” the ‘lads’ replied, “we were just discussing that it’s about time he bought an engagement ring!” I rolled my eyes and walked away, they roared laughing at my dismissal of such an idea. BG was grinning widely, shaking his head.

A friend asked me if my attitude to marriage had changed since Roger left me.

Ah, no. It certainly hasn’t. I’ve never wanted to be married. I’ve never coveted a diamond ring. Or a marshmallow white dress. I certainly don’t think that seems more attractive now that I got fucked over and am in my 50s! Snort.

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Touch. Daily


Distance is hard. Ask my friend, creativerational who lives on the other side of an ocean from her love. Difficult under any circumstances, but near impossible during a global pandemic. I don’t know how they do it. I think of those in the military …


I have definitely become more anxiously attached since Roger cheated on me. We got EFT, a therapy that focuses on attachment style. Roger was identified as exhibiting an anxious attachment style, and that linked with his love addiction diagnosis. He had good reasons in his childhood for this happening to him. I had a secure attachment style. Also about the relationship and nurturing style I had with and from my Mum.

Since being thrown under the bus, I am definitely both hugely anxious (in life) but also have had a shift in my attachment style. I’m careful not to look needy, but my attachment injury means I crave touch more than ever. BG and I are constantly skin to skin.

Interestingly, it wasn’t me that started this. I recall the second time we were hanging out, since becoming lovers, that he groaned with pleasure when I touched his forearm, and then his back, saying, “oh yeah, skin to skin contact is absolutely the best thing about being with someone.”

Yeah. I crave touch. Even more than I ever did. And not being able to touch daily, is kind of a bit painful. I miss his body beside me. And I recall how tactile Roger is. How we loved to stroke, snuggle, we spent every night snuggled together on the couch.

I now know that he just needs any feminine body. That’s the anxious attachment. He needs that. Can’t be alone.

And it explains why he uses to make such a big deal about how soft my skin is. I always thought that was weird. And I said, after Leanne, when he said it to me, “but surely most women have soft skin?”

His answer was that my skin was softer than anyone’s. That Leanne’s skin was leathery and rough.

Lol. Okay. Sure.

What a load of bollocks.

And now I’m starting to be a needy bitch. Bloody hell. Gross!


Lost for words

I’ve been lost for words the past few days.

I worked my arse off to get to the lake, dump stuff no longer required, pack two trailers and clean like a demon this weekend. Roger and I had messaged about what the kids wanted, what we did or didn’t want, and I just got on with it.

I’m working a 48 hour week at present, on site, in a four day week. Plus another 8-10 working from home. I’m the business manager, and with Covid, we budgeted on an 80% reduction in our business.

We are doing 170%.

It’s chaos. But in a seasonal business, you make hay while the sun shines. We are making it work. It’s stressful, and an enormous jigsaw puzzle, putting it all together. Totally more challenging than any other year I have worked here (13.) I have a huge commitment to customer service, and ensuring our team is coping.

The customers are thrilled. The staff are gorgeous, but struggling. My boss is a difficult personality. I like her, but she is unrealistic and out of touch. That becomes my job. Managing reality, lol. Especially when I was already looking elsewhere before the season began.

Anyway, I realised this week how I am still very much affected by Roger’s … I dunno … shit.

He’s been terribly accusatory, dismissive and downright abusive about my decision that I needed out. He accused me of ripping our kids off. The agreement we signed when he decided that our thirty years were all a huge mistake, and he was madly in love with Trinket, said that if either wanted to sell, we offer to the other party. If no one wants to buy the other out, then we put it on the market. I had been there twice in three years. Rates, power, insurance, lawns, maintenance. I was paying for a place for him to take his mistress and her spawn to to fuck.

I was done. I have other investments, and a beach holiday home.

I’m helping the children with their futures in my way, he is in his.

But. I was ripping our children off, right? Not him. Who sold up their inheritance, disbanded the family trust that was for them because he’d met the irresistible siren that is Trinket.

So. He threatened me with, “if it’s not sold in 90 days, that’s it. Done.”

It sold. Fast. For more than he expected.

I went down and packed, packed, discarded and cleaned. I ensured all cupboards, kitchen, bathrooms, etc were spotlessly clean. I left him the furniture we discussed, and to vacuum.

And I copped abuse. About not being there when he and his whore arrived. I don’t wanna see them! Really? How can they not see that?

So, I left some things I wasn’t sure about on the kitchen benches. For him to decide whether to dump or take.

And got a nasty message telling me I had not done enough. That he was thanking fuck this chapter was closed (hmmmm, he who desperately wanted his lake house, that he fucked several women in, that I designed and we built…yep, thank fuck.)

He’s angry. I took away a toy. How fucking DARE I?

And I wept big, wet tears, feeling stupidly rejected and not good enough, yet again. Like he’d made me feel for years. I gave him every part of me, my future, my body, my heart.

He rejected it all, and still thinks he can make me feel bad when he doesn’t get his way.

I refuse to let him steal my joy anymore. It’s heartbreaking. He makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong.

He’s got a short fucking memory.

He, who drove off to a hot new, better woman, better life, and left me and my 73 year old father to clean, dump, pack. My dad, who is not my favourite person in the world, was gobsmacked. He couldn’t believe he drove off and left me to sort his shit out. Left his working dog in a kennel. My beautiful, ex working dog, who has semi retired to such a lovely life with me now.

Who robbed their children?

Who didn’t pack and clean?

It’s a puzzle, right?

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As expected, the emotions of the weekend have spilled into dreams.

Baby girl had big oral surgery yesterday. Mondays are MANIC at work, so my Dad took her. But I got cover in at work, and went to her in recovery and drove her home. I asked if she wanted me to stay the night, or if she wanted to come to mine. She wanted her own bed, and I tucked her up and went and did a grocery shop for her, for smoothie ingredients, fresh soups etc. When I got back, the pain was hitting badly, despite the meds. I snuggled with her, got her off to sleep, left instructions with her beautiful flatmate, and headed home.

My place is a bomb site. All the lake boxes stacked in my dining room and kitchen. I had a dead ewe to dispose of, and headed out to my friend’s farm to their dead animal disposal site. Back, a bath, and bed.

The dreams were stupid. I know BG’s insecurity has triggered mine. We talked. He feels a bit better, I know he thinks he has to help me, but his work was chaos, in his absence, which frustrated him, as he’s been concentrating hard on leadership and ensuring good systems and support are in place for his team. They have their biggest annual event this weekend, and temps have arrived, into the accommodation he bought, and there was some settling in to attend to. I will head over on Friday, as am working for him for the weekend too.

I was glad he felt a bit more settled. But aware that our Monday morning partings are starting to feel a bit fraught.

Last night, I dreamed Roger and I met for a drink. To talk. And it was an awful dream, because in it, he apologised and held me tightly. Told me he’d totally fucked up everyone’s lives. Made the wrong decisions. Had enormous regrets. Thought I looked beautiful. Was proud of what I have achieved. Misses me.

What a load of crap, brain! Fkn dreams. He’s happy as a pig in shit! Even if not with Trinket, he’s completely thrilled he managed to jettison me. The kids are coming ’round – the eldest was always Dad’s girl, but the other two play nice now, too. And don’t get me wrong, that’s mostly a good thing. No one needs daddy issues. Ask me how I know!

It got me thinking. BG explained a bit more about his history. Brought on by a discussion about Colleen. As we left her place, she hugged me tightly, and said, “I’m so glad you are here. I wasn’t allowed in BG’s life with the last one.” Meaning Chrissy. She banned BG from talking to any female friends. But the double standard was that she was talking to other men.


And that conversation, as we drove home, lead to a clarification of the relationship he had with Linda. The mother of the two young adults, who were small children when BG met them. He never lived with Linda, and I didn’t realise that they were never REALLY a couple. Linda was a girlfriend briefly, and I suspect, a fuck buddy over the years. He was honest with her. But he had a connection, and felt a responsibility for her dead beat dadded kids. He went on school camp with them both. That kind of thing. (I reflected, and thought, shit, I don’t think Roger ever went on a school camp??? Pretty sure he didn’t. I did multiple times.) No wonder Emma especially (but also messed up Sam) feels a connection with BG. I know he still sends her money, to help with her grad school. She lived with his Mum during her undergrad degree a few years ago.

Anyway, I digress. That talk got me thinking about … well, everything, I guess.

Especially the lies I must have told myself, to stay, to love a cheater. Colleen says she knows how hard I had to think, how I pulled away, when I found out BG cheated on her all those years ago. But, as I told her, it sucks. I’m pissed at him that he hurt her. But, it speaks volumes that a strong woman like her, a take no prisoners girl, is still such good friends with him. I’m not friends with my cheater. He broke me.

After all, like this woman, I took him back after he proved he was duplicitous, and had no regard for my wellbeing, or health. I was the dumbass who he fooled (at least) twice.

I take responsibility for being that fuckwit. For working my arse off to do the mental gymnastics required, to believe a lying cheat.

Just like Chump Lady’s letter writer, Patty.

Dear Patty,

I find it no coincidence that your youngest is now in college and your husband has suddenly “fallen out of love” with you.

By taking him back, he conveniently avoided years of child support. Now your wife appliance services are no longer needed. Exit stage right.

Naturally, you’re furious and heartbroken. He made a “commitment” to you that he had absolutely no intention of abiding by. Your first clue was the first long-term affair — he’s really good at being duplicitous. He devalued you — for YEARS — and lied straight to your face. How could you ever believe a word he says?



I was the fuckwit who battled with the spackle for a decade. “He’s really a good person, who made a bad choice.” Yeah. Over and over and over. A good person learns from their mistakes. A serial cheater just goes deeper underground. Online dating sites. Tens of thousands of secret text messages to DOZENS of women. Secret meet ups with them. All while telling the convenient wife appliance that it is only her, was only ever her, will only ever BE her. The love of his life. Blah, blah, blah.

What a load of absolute crap.

That I bought. Because, you know. Love.


I only lie when I love you
I only crawl when I hit the ground
You only cry when I love you
I only lie when I make a sound

Go ahead muck about
I got my conscience twisted
Pull your hair
Make me shout
It’s just that you insisted I was good for nothing
Like you were onto something

I only lie when I love you
I only crawl when I hit the ground
You only cry when I love you
I only lie when I make a sound

I only lie when I
I only lie when I
I only lie when I
I only like when I

I only lie when I love you
I only crawl when I hit the ground
You only cry when I love you
I only lie when I make a sound

Go ahead pull the plug
Broken finger, sticky finger
Now I can’t get it off my chest
And now I’m wishing you were someone else
You know I’m up to something
Diagnosed, no disease
Got a suspicion
But you just can’t find it up your sleeve
And now I beg the truth be told
From someone else
All of that fuss for nothingI only lie when I love you
I only crawl when I hit the ground
You only cry when I love you
I only lie when I make a soundI only lie when I
I only lie when I
I only lie when I
I only lie when I

I only lie when I love you
I only crawl when I hit the ground
You only cry when I love you
I only lie when I make a sound

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So, a busy, emotional weekend. All of the packing was done on a backdrop of knowing my entire family were together, without me.

The kids, and a handful of the youngest’s friends, were at Roger and Trinket’s. A wine weekend for baby girl’s birthday.

I’m better now, than I was.

But my God, my heart. The fact that I was missing from that picture.

Replaced by Trinket.

New Mum. Not content with stealing my partner, she muscles in on my children. It’s a shit sandwich you just have to swallow.


It is so very wrong.

Anyway, as BG and I cleaned yesterday, we kept an eye on the time. Roger (and no doubt, his whore) were coming to get his stuff later in the afternoon. We preferred to not be there, if possible.

And the most bizarre thing happened.

We bugged out, and less than a minute later, he drove past us. I didn’t even see him, but BG did, pointing out his car as it drove past.


And then things got weird this morning. We ended up having a conversation at 5.30am, about us. About needs. Yes, even about sex.

You see, BG has a lower libido than me. We have a lot of intimacy, and I find his kindness, silliness, sense of humour, work ethic, love and care to be plenty. Enough. But he worries that he’s not “doing enough” for me. Which is Catholic boy talk for not having ‘enough’ sex with/for me.

I came from a background of lots of sex. Great sex. Most days. Always horny. Always wanting as much sex as Roger did, to really struggling with sex at various times after I knew he cheated. Hysterical bonding, huge sexual connection to feeling numb for a while. Not even being able to get myself off. It was like all my nerve endings had been blocked…sex became difficult. But never impossible. I just lost myself for a bit there, in the intense grief.

So, BG thinks I’m some kind of nympho. And hey, I LOVE sex. I love the physicality, sweat, body fluids, skin on skin, etc.

He worries he needs meds, that there is something wrong with him, for not seeking sex 24/7. But, if we are going to make love, he is easy to arouse. He does not require little blue pills. And there’s a lot of blood required to fill that vessel! Let me tell you! Blood pressure went haywire this weekend, after it being fantastically normal with his new meds. He forgot to bring them, so no wonder he wasn’t focusing on getting laid.

But. It got silly.



He brought a pair of women’s knickers over, thinking they were mine.

They weren’t. And I told him.

He looked at me, mortified, “WHAT? Of course they are! Are you kidding me?”

No. Not mine. (They were a cheap brand I wouldn’t ever buy.) And he was horrified. “But they’ve been in my drawer for ages. Surely they’re yours?”

When I smiled and said, “they really are not,” he replied, “oh, holy hell. No way. They can’t be anyone else’s.” I could see he was genuinely upset.

You see, although I’m a chump, my feeling about this is this. If there was any possibility they were anyone else’s *and they do look similar to a style I wear* he would never have tried to return them to me. I could be wrong. But I am pretty sure they are the same pair I found at his place, the first time I slept there. They are from a previous hook up/fuck buddy/girlfriend.

But he was really upset. Because he knows my background, and assumed I would jump to conclusions. I just said, “look. I’m not worried. As I have said before, if you fuck around, I will find out. And I will be gone. This doesn’t feel suspicious, like when I found hair from both Leanne, and Trinket in my homes. An earring, deliberately hidden in my wardrobe, under some of my clothing. Etc.

He says he’ll never be able to fully satisfy me, sexually.

Bloody hell! WTF? I’m happy. I love everything about us. Sure, the frequency is not what I am used to. But you realise that sex is not intimacy, and that intimacy trumps loads and loads of sex, with a selfish, cheating, lying, disease infested man.

Any day.

He won’t accept my, “I’m fine, darling, stop worrying.” Instead, he lay beside me, furious with himself – for no reason, we had fast, furious, we-won’t-see-each-other-until-Friday sex – and he said, “I’m obviously not supposed to be in a relationship!”


Because at 55, he’s not walking around with a permanent erection???

I dunno. I have reassured him in a million ways, that I want to be with him.

And he pushes me away, because we don’t fuck like rabbits every second we’re together?

Why is it so difficult? What is it about me?



It’s done. The lake house. The place where my life exploded.

I packed up my shit, threw some stuff out, got outta there at 7.30pm last night. Back today to clean.

The wonderful barman took the weekend off to help. He hates going there. Touching “his” stuff. Thinking of the hell Roger put me through by using my home to fuck other women in.

But he was a damn rock star. We got it done. I felt wobbly near the end. Packing little kid and baby life jackets. My beautiful children grew up with the home we built for them. Created memories. Boating, biscuiting, fishing…it was our haven. Until their father fucked it all up. Bringing whores who didn’t care about the fact he had a partner and children into our homes.

We had a beautiful life. A beautiful family. And I was never enough for him.

Anyway, having BG there ensured I shed no tears. He’s never seen me cry, and I wasn’t about to start there.

Today, he cleaned, packed the last of the kitchen, and was a huge support. Saying, “great time to sell, babe. The house needs a little bit of money spent on it now, huge capital gains have been made, and your solo little haven, sitting on the lakefront, all alone, now has containers and new houses gone up next door and all around, even since I’ve known you. You’ve had the best of this now.”

Phew. It’s gone. The last link to the narcissist I loved. The man who the more I gave, the more he took.

I was really tearful driving home last night. Today I was just relieved. We managed to bug out before Roger got there. Which was fabulous. Neither of us wanted to see him.

A new chapter in a new place. I was always more of a beach girl than a lake girl.

I’ve started riding again, with my old friend, who I grew up with. Rode competitively with. It’s magical and incredibly good for my soul.

This is the ONLY person who questioned me about Roger’s apparent “friendship” with Leanne, towards the end of their eighteen month long affair. One day, she just said to me, “Paula, what’s the deal with Roger and Leanne? You need to be careful here. She’s no good. And I think he’s taking you for a ride. I saw him coming out of her parents’ apartment in my town just recently.”

That was when I started digging. I lined his best mate (a former betrayed, and someone I considered close friend) up and asked him if Roger was having an affair with Leanne. He said, “no way, not Norm. He’s not built that way, and everyone can see how much he loves you.”

But, I later found out, he also had suspicions.


And yet, that man is no longer in my life. He thinks I made things up. That I lied. Go figure. Even after knowing what Rog did.

Ah well, that is the injustice of betrayal. We betrayed get fucked over again. Lose friends, along with our person. Our best mate. Our lover. Our identity. Our love story.

All lies.

The rebuilding is long, and damn hard.

This chapter, the holiday home I struggled to reclaim, is over.

I no longer have to pay for a place he fucks other women in.

I no longer walk in and see him balls deep, face buried, in strange pussy. I no longer have to suppress my vomit rising as I walk in there, feel the deep sense of dread as I turn off the highway, to drive into the village. Recall those beautiful yet horrific romantic memories of the glorious times we had there, so very madly in love.

Even BG did that today. Said he wasn’t cleaning that bedroom. Was that okay? It freaked him out. Had bad juju. Funny, eh?



It was Colleen’s – BG’s lovely friend (and 25 years ago ex GF) – birthday yesterday. She organised this cool cooking class in the chef’s home for eight of us.

Such a fantastic night, full of friendship, laughter, food and wine.

We kicked on afterwards with her and one other couple in town.

And I got somewhat interrogated by Colleen. She had been watching us all night, smiling, “naw-ing” and taking photos.

She asked me about how we are. How was I? Were we good? Because she was in total awe of us. She said she had never seen him like this with anyone. The way he looked at me, the way he touched me. The way he sought me out.

And then, my heart froze.

She told me she’d never seen a couple look at each other across a party space like we do. Eyes meeting, and us both sparkling. The connection, the electricity between us. How loving I am, and how the barman is completely infatuated.


That was what several of my friends used to say about Roger and me. What do I do??? Why? Why do people say that? What is wrong with me???

And then, she started asking deep questions. About my feelings. Was I emotionally available for her friend, how had my cheating ex affected my ability to love. Did I still love my ex. She couldn’t imagine thirty years, then it ending like that. It must ache. You don’t just turn feelings off. How do I then feel about the barman?

Was BG being good to me? I am something special, and she’d never seen him so enamoured of anyone. Blah, blah, blah.

I told her I had taken this VERY VERY slowly. That I play my cards far closer to my chest than I ever have. That we kept us on the down low for months. To see if it was going to stick. She replied she couldn’t imagine that. She tells the world when she is in a new relationship, wanting to share her happiness. I talked about the slow burn. The caution.

Bloody hell!

Why can’t I just have “normal” relationships? Why all the extra?

On another note, went on a three hour horse ride, galloping over farmland, crashing through beautiful native bush. I’m deliciously bruised and aching this morning.

Off to pack up a holiday home…


When will the tears stop falling?

It’s my youngest’s birthday. 22 years ago, a 34 hour labour, an exhausted home birth, a fabulous babymoon to follow, with my darling, and the three little people, we were so very happy.

Or rather, I was.

Lies. A house. A life. Built on lies and deception.

I can’t imagine how anyone does this to another.

I guess they just blot it all out.

Thirty years of love and immense sacrifice.