Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum

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Sweetness and light

So, C sent me a message in the middle of the night. Her wee baby is like my second. Insomniac, hungry hippo! I was wide awake 3am to 6am anyway.

I love her care.

So much.

I haven’t said a lot to her. She knows that Roger serial cheated on me. And sold our farm, our means of earning a living, our home, and ran to the last AP. C was taken aback when she first heard this, about two and a half years ago. But she has not joined the flying monkey troop. She has shown a lot of care and loyalty to me. She didn’t have to. But gets it. Is a very loyal, caring woman. She knows enough, to know I didn’t deserve to be cheated on and abandoned. That I was an exceptional partner, mother, lover.

I do find it a bit sticky when people use the phrase, “moving on.” We are all moving on. Can’t stop time. But it suggests that it no longer hurts, etc. I take no offense here. I understand the loving way she has considered it. But just internally, I know it isn’t quite what people imagine.

It feels good when old friends are empathetic, but not pitying. She sees how I am rebuilding. Expressed admiration for what I have achieved with a broken heart. Two degrees. Five properties, a new business on the horizon. And finally, I told her that I was seeing someone. Her eyes. She melted.

“Oh, Paula! That’s so cool. Is he a nice guy?”

I grinned widely, “well, it’s been a while, and no red flags yet, so I hope so! He’s really good to me. Kind, considerate, treats me as an equal, never dictates how life should be. And we have a lot of fun. It’s different. Completely different in almost every way. And instead of being love bombed and rushing into anything, it’s a slow burn.”

She hugged me hard, tearing up.

Hormones, lol.

Anyway, she is sweetness and light. Which is how BG refers to me most of the time. And I love the synchronicity.

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Dinner with friends

Just back from taking dinner over to some old friends, who have a new baby.

C&C met when C was renting our farm cottage.

She was close with Rog. But hasn’t seen him in years.

I’ve kept up with them. This is their second baby.

I cooked a big serving of moussaka with the last of my homegrown lamb mince, and a potato and fennel dauphinouse with produce from my garden. Served with a simple Italian parsley salad, it was delicious and hearty food for us all, including their 4 year old.

C has been overseas, studying for her boards in Veterinary Dentistry, for a couple of years. Back during the pandemic, shut off from her little family. She told me I looked great, and happy.

They had no idea I am seeing someone. We bred their old man, Buck. He’s been a fabulous working dog for them, but is 13 now. Riddled with arthritis. Lucky his Mum is a vet!

I was silently remembering the happy times she lived on the farm.

And did the timeline maths in my head. She lived there just after Rog and Leanne were using her house there as one of their fuck shacks. A free place to hook up.

Just as I mentally connected the dots, holding wee Henry, she asked me if we were still as close, connected as we once were. Still good friends?

I shook my head, fighting tears, “no. We are completely no contact. He loathes me really.” She just sat down, saying sadly, “that’s so shit, Paula. You two were the most obviously in love couple I’ve ever met. What happened to him? It must be the shit she’s feeding him!”

I actually kind of defended her. “Nah. I don’t think that’s it. I don’t think she’s evil. Just incredibly dumb. Naive. Believed his lies. That we were separated, etc. He just made me the enemy, because it suits his story. He had to leave, fuck other women, because, well. Me.”

I moved the conversation on. Started asking about the baby as I soothed him (8 weeks old, not the most settled critter.) And read Arthur a story.

C talked about their friends that I knew too. He has serious mental health issues. Left them once, disappeared for months. Had an affair. Stopped his high earning career to sail fulltime. They reconciled. It’s still tough. He got physical. She just said, “at least you’re out. Away from the pain, and his cruelty. I worry for Holly and their four kids. The kids have witnessed some dumb/hard stuff, and it has affected them. You’re safe, and looking fantastic. Rebuilding a shattered life. Must be so hard. I can’t imagine. You loved him so much. It was obvious.”

Hmmm. Not to him.

She met us soon after Leanne. Lived there a good while. Even in my shattered state, she could see so much love. She never knew I’d been cheated on, of course.

So, back home, I’m reflecting on this terrible journey. To be where I am today. Owning my pain, that never goes anywhere anymore. I think this is as healed as you get. You have a new, hard fought for life. You appear good on the outside.

But those who know you can see the soft insides. The mushy parts that are still bruised. The deep scars and disappointment that your story was never real. It felt real. But only one of us was telling the truth. The other was full of lies. Undermining the facade of a life they showed to the outside world.

Had everyone fooled.

Now he’s fooling someone else. Someone drunk on his love bombing. His “affection” and attention.

It still aches.

But hey, other than that, it was such a nice night. Especially when Arthur, who hadn’t seen me for a while, got in his jarmies and snuggled into me for more stories. And Knock Knock jokes.

Oh. To be four again!


Fears. Irrational?

I have a genuine fear. I don’t have a clue whether it is rational, or completely irrational.

My three kids (our, yeah, I avoid saying our, because I worked so hard for these kids, and they just loved him anyway. No effort whatsoever. Ugh.) I am struggling with how their relationships with their sperm donor are still close.

I mean, I get it. He’s a “nice guy.”


It’s always been this way. Nice guy Daddio. Fun.

Mum is the lame one. Who is boring. The regulator. The disciplinarian. Does the hard yards. Ugh.

I had this when he first left. That they would reject me. Choose him. And the precious wee sweet thing, Trinket. I met her. She’s mild. Appears sweet. Kind. Lovable. I am still scared my kids will love her. I know one is living with her. It kills me.

I am a written word girl. I rarely call anyone. Would rather use the written word.

Rog is the opposite. I know he phones. Uses his wits. And words.

He’s quietly charming.

And that works on the kids, just as much as women/Trinket.

And I worry I am losing my kids.

I don’t know if this is a genuine thing, or if I am insane.



My youngest daughter went to Roger and Trinket’s this weekend.

Or, as she put it, went to see her sister.

She told me it’s difficult.

And that pains me. It shouldn’t be difficult to spend time with a parent. But it so often is. I know that 

She saw me shrink. She saw him knock me unconscious. She held me at night in her bed. She witnessed my insomnia, my fitful nightmares. She saw me deal with my cancer surgery and treatment, on my own, just weeks after he buggered off to Trinket.

No wonder it’s difficult.

I have some guilt that I couldn’t protect her from this clusterfuck.


Weekends be like

Just have to put this somewhere.

We were out with friends last night, and late at night, BG asked me if I would ever marry him.


So, I got him back by saying yes. Lol. Now who’s under pressure? 😂😂😂

He looked at me funny, and said, “but you never wanted to be married.”

I just smiled mysteriously and thought, never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to, dude 😉

Rog wanted to get married when we were young. I never did.

But hey, never say never about anything, right?

I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an actual proposal, but I do feel a bit weird about it. Had to write it down somewhere. So here you are…


Here comes the night time

Infidelity is sexual assault. If someone is purposefully withholding information that would change their partner’s consent, they are committing a crime.

A comment from an infidelity recovery group I belong to.

Having sex with your beloved partner, when they are having sex with other people, without your knowledge, is rape.

They are forcing you to essentially have sex with all of those people’s previous (and current!) sexual partners.

That is not consent. I did not agree to that.

I know hardly anyone understands my sexual PTSD. But a gynaecologist from this support group, who was cheated on, explains hers. Exactly how I felt/still feel.

I was just thinking it was a form of rape. I certainly felt like I’d been picked up by the heels and dipped in a vat of sewage when my gyn gave me(also a gyn) the diagnosis. I basically lost my mind for 3 years – went through five different antidepressants and thought of suicide every single day. I will never be the same. He might just as well have thrown acid in my face. The me I thought I was has been effectively erased.

It’s hell. You can’t escape your own filthy, diseased body. Your earthly vessel. And it’s completely riddled with cells damaged by other people’s gross lack of morality.

Leanne was a known whore. Slept with loads of people. Her own mother found a diary when she was barely into her teens, outlining the anal sex she was having. Nothing wrong with anal sex, per se, but I found it challenging to think of a 14 year old girl going straight into that!

Trinket was apparently married to a man who fucked anything he could pin down. Her sexual behaviour was also dictated by that trauma. To be “dirtier” in bed. To please the unpleasable man. Her body would be riddled with crap he brought home from whores everywhere.

I had had sex with exactly one man. My darling. The most loving, trustworthy person I knew. My best friend.

No wonder I was so traumatised and still have trouble sleeping. Suicidal, horrific rape nightmares. Night has become my enemy.

It used to be a time of love, reflection and mostly peace.

“God knows what you might find. Here comes the night time.”


When the sun goes down
When the sun goes down, you head inside
‘Cause the lights don’t work
Yeah, nothing works, they say you don’t mindHere comes the night time
Here comes the night time
Here comes the night timeAnd the missionaries, they tell us we will be left behind
Been left behind a thousand times, a thousand times
If you want to be righteous
If you want to be righteous, get in line
‘Cause here comes the night timeHere comes the night time
Here comes the night time
Here comes the night time
Here comes the night time
Here comes the night
Here comes the night time
Look out, here comes the night time!They say heaven’s a place
Yeah, heaven’s a place, and they know where it is
But you know where it is?
It’s behind the gate, they won’t let you in
And when they hear the beat coming from the street
They lock the door
But if there’s no music up in heaven, then what’s it for?When I hear the beat
My spirit’s on me like a live-wire
A thousand horses running wild in a city on fire
But it starts in your feet, then it goes to your head
And, if you can’t feel it, then the roots are dead
And if you’re the judge, then what is our crime?
Here comes the night timeHere comes the night time
Here comes the night time
Here comes the night time, yeah
Here comes the night timeHere comes the night!
Here comes the night!
Look out, here comes the night!
Here comes the night!
Here comes the night!
Here comes the night, the night, the night, the night time!Now, the preachers they talk, up on the satellite
If you’re looking for hell, just try looking insideHere comes the night time, the night time
Here comes the night time, the night time
Here comes the night time, the night time
Here comes the night time, the night time
Here comes the night time, the night timeWhen you look in the sky, just try looking inside
God knows what you might find
When you look in the sky, just try looking inside
God knows what you might find
Here comes the night time


Another one bites the dust

Settled on another apartment in the capital today. Monies paid. Paperwork signed. Keys in the hands of my property manager.

That’s enough property for now. My next projects are to buy this business I have been doing due diligence on, and getting this house renovation sorted.

It’s good.

But sad.

I wanted to share this part of life with my love. The father of my children. We worked so damn hard for all of this. There is good. But a huge void, too. An emptiness in my soul.

And a friend wrote about loving someone who chose another.

Her counsellor said it can be harder to bear than death.

“My counselor said that sometimes it is worse than mourning a death because with death you know that person is gone and you will never see them again but with a divorce the person is still around and letting them go if you still love them is so hard.”

Yeah. I think so.


Taking it to the Grave

After Leanne outed Roger to me, and their affair of eighteen months, in my home, in my children’s beds, in our bed, in our vehicles, in our holiday home, in our maimai, on the kitchen bench, every-bloody-where, he told me this.

“I was going to take it to the grave. You were never going to have to know what I did.”


So, in order to have “got away” with his fucking my friend, giving me two STIs, causing cervical cancer, he was going to be that nice guy, who never upset me by TELLING me that he was a lying, cheating disease infested arsehole. Isn’t that nice of him? So kind to be thinking about my feelings, right? The good guy his friends think he is. Making me the bad guy by default…

Hmm, kay. The real reason he wasn’t going to tell me had nothing to do with protecting me from pain. His actions had caused that pain, even before I knew! He chose this. For himself. For me. For our family. For our children’s futures, their relationships, their take on their “nice, normal family.”

The only reason he was going to “take it to his grave” was to protect himself. To ensure I didn’t leave him. To keep his cosy life. He could have the happy family AND the whore on the side.

And it set him up beautifully to be all sorted (with a dumb believer partner) to have another affair when he got tired of/pissed off with me. No worries, I can just step outside and have the illicit ego stroking outlet of another woman’s attention and sex. Paula need never know. Don’t stop that kibble supply. That comfy home, her cooking, her body, her support, her LOVE. Don’t need to lose half our assets, either.

So, Chump Lady tells the story today, of what happens when you take it to the grave!

If you choose to cheat, it will catch up with you – or worse, your loved ones – at some stage. This is no Bridges of Madison County bullshit here. This is real live pain for the daughter who is now dealing with the crap her dead mother pulled.

And yeah, everyone has the right to know.

I firmly believe that. At least then, you are in charge of the choices you then make, and can get STI screens, and try to protect your own health, at least! Not knowing is one of the WORST aspects of someone cheating on you. You, that dumb fuck who loved a cheater because you were too stupid to work it out. To later find out that he was putting his dick/tongue/fingers/whateverelsehecouldfind (not even kidding, a duck caller in one instance, shudder) in other women, then coming home and kissing me with that mouth, making love to me with that dirty penis. It makes me so sick. 🤮

My reality was hidden from me. I looked like the world’s stupidest woman. I even ASKED Rog that one night, when Leanne drunkenly texted him late one night, as we were snuggling on the couch, “I hope you’re not making me the stupidest woman in the world here.” Ugh, he looked deeply into my eyes, holding me tightly, “oh, Snooks, no, of course not, she’s just drunk, rambling and lonely, ignore her.”

So, I did.

Because he assured me it was fine. God, I’m so stupid!

Chump Lady advises:

” I can’t begin to tell you how to live with the cognitive dissonance of who you thought your mother was, versus who you discovered she is. I think the worst part of this story — and it’s the story of so many children of cheaters — is that you’ve been unwittingly drawn into a conspiracy against your chump parent. Now you must carry the weight of her secret, or share it and put your dad through additional sorrow.

I know most people would say, carry the secret. Don’t hurt your Dad with this knowledge. And given your father’s advanced age, I might’ve gone with that. But then I asked Mr. CL, a guy chump, what he thought and he’s firmly in the tell camp. Because everyone deserves to know the story of their life. And your dad’s was hidden from him.”

I especially relate to the part about the children of cheaters. That was my experience. My seemingly in love parents were a lie. I know some of my children have expressed this. That Dad seemed so very into me.

Then he seems so into the next one.

What is his deal? It’s all a lie. All fake. Real love doesn’t exist. I get this. I FEEL this. I asked the same questions when it was my Dad who was the cheating liar.

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A Fucking Tuesday. (On a Wednesday.)


The fact that they just get to carry on, whistling merrily as they fuck each other senseless…hmm.

I am better than I was in the beginning of this horror film.

But the trauma is real. I do carry this permanently.

My whole world-view is changed due to their actions and choices.

It just Tuesday (or Wednesday in this case) down there, as they play happy families.

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You think things are going well in life.

But after infidelity trauma, being dumped for an online whore, your resilience is shit.

I’m feeling fragile tonight. Not sure what the hell is going on. And pissed. This is about BG being careless.

I don’t want to rely on some man’s moods. Whether he can be arsed with me.

I’ve handled being an after thought for too long. That cool, low maintenance chick. She’ll just always be chill.

There’s been a lot of memories swirling this week. I drove to my friend, Bella’s house for dinner from the beach.

The route took me right past our first home. Where we fell in love. Lived for four years together, before I went to the UK (and he fucked the whole town.) Where our first baby came home to. I teared up as I drove past it.

We were so young. So very, very madly in love.

Or I was.

We were poor as hell. Our baby had all gifted, borrowed and thrifted clothing, bedding, nappies, gear. The only thing I purchased was a good pushchair. Family bassinet. Friends’ cot. No such luxuries as nappy bags, changing tables, etc. We made do. We even slept in a waterbed! Lol. Try breastfeeding in one of those! I was so happy.

On my first visit to that farm, Roger got me to open a gate that had a massive electric short, in a puddle of water. The shock threw me off my feet. I landed on the grass, on my butt. I was mortified to feel tears run down my cheeks as I laughed the shock off.

I looked at the yards, near the road, and recalled a calving season, early in the piece, where he was off drinking with the boys, and a cow was having a hard time in labour. I had grown up on a farm, but never calved a cow on my own. I got her in the yards, and up the race, found the calving ropes and pulley system Rog had, and arm in, found the feet that were mispresented, manoeuvred them out, hooked ropes, and gently helped her birth her calf working with her contractions with the pulley. I remember my deep satisfaction as the calf lifted his head to take his first breath after I massaged him, coaxing him to breathe. And going and checking on him and mum an hour or so later.

I recall chasing sheep to treat them for facial eczema, hill country, 9 months pregnant.

I remember him and I packing a picnic lunch, taking it into the bush, and making love outdoors in a clearing.

All of these pictures rushing through my head, as I drove past, a single tear running down my cheek as the road started winding. What the hell went wrong???

And then I remembered that he fucked Leanne there too. Just three weeks into “us.”

He never loved me. It was all a lie.

I’m not sure why my heart loved him more? Why I gave more? He just pretends so well. I was as convinced as Trinket is today, that he was my darling boy. Who loved me just as deeply. My truly, madly, deeply one and only love. I know he will have her just as besotted.

Fuck. Geography sucks. It’s so connected with who I am. Who I thought he was.