Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum


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Unsettled dreams

With the mood deep dive, I got to sleep after 2am. Wide awake at 5am (just in time to watch the Wales v All Blacks test.)

I had unsettling dreams.

This has been a theme for the entire 12 years since Leanne outted Roger’s 18 month long affair with her.

That I had no idea about. ‘Cos I’m stupid like that.

It took a long time for me to admit that I was traumatised.

I thought I was just shocked, and was suffering from complicated grief.

I retreated. Pulled away. From everyone. Trying to make sense of the whys. Why would the man I adored, worked so hard for, sacrificed any individual dreams for, to support his, knowing my past, deliberately hurt me like that? What did I do to deserve it? It took a long, long time to stop blaming myself. I must be a special kind of stupid, right? To not know.

I just loved him. It felt simple. And pure.

Anyway, my dream that stands out was that Rog and I met for a drink, to talk.

That will never happen. I never want to be in the same place as him, ever again, certainly not one on one. I know that is unrealistic. That we will at some stage, meet again. But my body goes into shock even thinking about him looking at me, or even avoiding looking at me. I have deep, embodied trauma about “my person,” not giving a flying fuck about me. My person causing so much damage to me. He knew my triggers, my deeply buried, but nonetheless disclosed (to him alone) fears. About loving too much, giving too much, vulnerability, and especially my distorted sexual fears. About any “other” touching me. I would recoil from touch. Wasn’t an easy hugger (to others) yet craved touch, hugs at the same time.

Rape effects.

I still can barely breathe when I think about both how I totally freaked out, sobbing heavily for over two hours after BG kissed me the first time. Ghosting him for nine months, because of that terror.

Then the first time we made love. I still don’t know how I got through that. I was so, so terrified. Red wine. A patient man, who treated my body, and me, as one. Kindly. But wanting me (or sex? I dunno) so badly that we did it six times in that first night!

It still scares me. I don’t know how it will be when we reunite after this long, enforced period of separation. I know I am starting to have anxiety about it already.

I mean, I’m beside myself with desire. But scared it will be too much/not enough/he won’t want me….etc.

Although Roger dumped me, the below still stands. I am fucked up by the years of manipulation, lies, abuse, that Roger put me through. I never knew where I stood with him after Leanne. Before that, I felt so safe, so at ease, so in love, so lucky to have a wonderful life partner…

Back to the dream.

See, I’m even avoiding writing about it.

He met me, held my arm and kissed my cheek, his hold lingering.

Of course, my heart raced. My body still longs for him, even knowing how deliberately, selfishly, he treated me.

Knowing he was charming me.

And we talked. We got a drink, laughed, there were sparks flying, as I always felt with him. The hairs on my body were on end.

Then I asked, “you love her more. You love her more than you EVER loved me.” He sat back. Hesitated. His eyes blackened, “yes, Snooks. I do. You never did for me what she does. There was no chemistry for me, with you. There is huge chemistry with Trinket. Fireworks. I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want to hear that. It was all pretend.”

Yeah. No wonder I woke with my whole body aching.


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Roller coaster

I’m trying so hard to be okay, alone, during lockdown.

It’s hard work.

My boss’s father died last night. She hadn’t seen him for two years, due to our closed borders. She is Australian, and her whānau all live there.

It’s Saturday, but I headed out with flowers, strawberries, fresh fruit ice cream, and some equipment I picked up for the business, to drop off contactlessly.

Our Covid numbers are up again today.

And this means, I will be staying in lockdown.

Forever.

It’s really doing a lot of mental health damage now. Everyone I know is struggling. And these people all have family with them. None of them are alone.

I’m strong.

I can do this.

I am doing this.

But there are huge emotional dips. I’m sliding down one this evening. I know watching the numbers is detrimental to my mental health.

I really, really miss BG. I am starved of company, but especially of physical comfort. He says he’s struggling, too.

But he’s not locked down, he has a mate with him this weekend. Which is great, but means I’m careful to give him “guy time.” But hell, I’m quietly struggling, and I haven’t told him so as not to worry him tonight.

I’m hanging on. Lord. This is hard.

I bought myself flowers, to try to help my mood.

And made up a new cocktail, with the fresh strawberries I bought, from the berry farm around the corner when walking the dogs. To keep busy.

It’s kinda becoming inhumane.


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The pieces

Talking with my youngest brother last night was really enlightening.

I was heading off to uni when our parents separated.

He’s four years younger, so had just completed his first year at high school.

A kid.

I grew up in a happy home, a real farm girl.

He grew up with a mother who was recovering from discovering the man she loved was gay, and a cheater.

Off I flew.

To the furthest away university in the country.

Literally at the bottom of our long, thin nation. The southern-most university in the world.

Mum and I phoned regularly. I knew she was hurting, but thought she was healing well.

She operated and sold the farm.

Because Dad just buggered off. Not even sure where he lived then.

But C told me last night that Mum – whom I never saw drunk, maybe a little smiley and tipsy at the odd party, less than a handful of times – drank every night.

Quite a lot, often.

Nothing scary for him.

But she used alcohol in a way I didn’t know about, to self medicate for probably a year or two. He bore witness to it.

And blamed himself.

He was a “naughty” teen.

So. My perception of her doing so well, being so strong – and I admit my own searing, tearing grief, my suicidal weakness, was measured against my perception of her “strength” – was not a true reflection of how horrific infidelity, then repeated infidelity and abandonment (in my case, and to a degree, Mum’s, as Dad just disappeared really. For years) really is.

I am not insane.

Or weak.

Or unforgiving.

Or pathetic.

I’m The Boss Lady.

I’m human.

I loved VERY, VERY deeply.

And as we know, with great love comes great pain.

I loved too much.

I was “too much.”

For a selfish man-child who refused to communicate, to trust me with his heart.

I loved a liar.

Who learned to lie from his own father.

My fear is, what about my children? What have they learned? I was instilled with a pathological hatred of lies. Of liars. Mum drummed that into us. Liars were the scum of the earth. This was even before she discovered that her life was a lie, with a liar.

Roger couldn’t/wouldn’t trust me with his heart, because of his anxious attachment style.

Needy.

But is doing a magnificent job of displaying outer calm. Outer I’vegotmyshittogether.

Yeah. See how well that worked out for me?

Even our children know this about him.

Rog’s limitations.

I’m still quite bemused by the fact that not one of them have EVER referred to him as “Dad,” to me, since he dumped me and ran, to Trinket. Always, “Rog.”

He’s a liar and a cheat. That is who he is. There is no getting away from that fact. He didn’t do it once, and recoil in horror. He cheated. Found it easy to cheat. So kept cheating. Pretty simple facts.

I know they care about him. Mostly have at least surface “good” relationships with him. The eldest, especially.

Because, like me, she never saw the horror. She grew up in a very happy home, with two obviously in love parents. By the time it all started unravelling after her father was outed as a cheater, she had left home. Lived many hours away, in our capital.

But, like me, there’s little true respect for their cheating male parent.

I find it quite fascinating.


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Birthdays be like…

BG’s big sis turned 65 today.

As she said, WTF? Can collect the pension. How did that happen?

She was the big sister who somewhat “disappointed” their parents, having a baby at 18.

She married him, had two more kids. Years later, they divorced. Remained friends until he died. It’s a bit odd, having a niece who is 47!

We are both in lockdown regions. And I sent her a posh gift basket. She was quite touched. Sent photos, and said, “wow! This is amazing, so spoiled, thank you!” And later, “ahhh, finally. A sister-in-law worth her weight in gold. I’ve waited 65 years.” 🤣

I’m really lucky.

I’ve found new people. A tribe of people I genuinely choose.

And I had my next interview with the franchisors. The head of sales (she laughed at her much fancier title) and some other lovely dude (forget his title, oh God, I’m doomed!)

And, it felt like it went well. I don’t usually feel that way after interviews.

My brother arrived back. And we’ve had a lovely night. He told me that his ex-wife called me The Boss Lady. Because I am Boss, apparently. And apparently being Boss is a good thing.

I am immensely amused!


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Until Monday…

Yep. Another extension.

Lockdown goes on.

I’ve got my head sorted again now. Six weeks without the barman. And just wish the PM would say, “2022, you are locked down until 2022,” lol.

But it also made me realise that when he told me the first two years he had with Chrissy were every six weeks one would fly to the other, and that seemed so long, that it’s bad, but doable.

It’s all about the attitude. Of course.

And that was the problem.

Six weeks ago, we were told, three day lockdown, lol. I knew then it wasn’t gonna be three days.

Having those carrots dangled, at first was keeping me a bit hopeful. Just a few more days. Then freedom. But no. A few MORE days. Okay fam???

But it is actually psychological warfare!

We need hope, to start with. But we can’t maintain hope every time the carrot is moved.

I spiralled.

Then I pulled my head out of my arse. And remembered to be grateful. I have so much.

Long video chats with dear friends tonight. A lovely chat with said barman, who has started to show his soft underbelly. He’s hurting being apart from me. Not just dickhead, needy ole me. In fact, he, who is normally really good at spreading joy, got pepped up by me tonight. That felt good. He’s such a joy.

And I got roped into “wifey” stuff, lol. His sister is 65 on Friday. In lockdown. I’m apparently in charge now of sorting a gift delivery for her! I could be offended. But I’m not. She’s so warm and funny, I was immediately pulled into her when we first met. Family. Straight away. BG says she’s never done that before. Just took to me. So I’m more than happy to sort a lovely delivery to brighten her locked down day.

Then, it got worse! I’m now also sorting a delivery for his bar manager! A thank you for how incredibly hard she has worked, with an amazing, positive attitude. She’s been with him since the beginning. I really like her. A good chick. Risen up from a hard life, doing a great job. Making my boy’s job easier.

I am admin person to his life, WTAF??? How did this even happen?

Naw. I couldn’t say no. That’s pretty sweet. He really values his team.

My bestie had her birthday today. First in her new home. After a serial cheater left her for his latest. Sound familiar, anyone? And him moving on and buying an expensive, soulless mansion with the woman who stole her life. She got pretty down, staying with friends, trying to find something she could afford.

And I’m SOOO happy. She’s finally finding her joy. After years of abuse and cheating, she loves her new place so much.

So, after loads of whinging, I am being better.

Not hurt at all by an old male friend of Roger’s and mine saying today that the woman he left me for might think she’s won. Lucky old Trinket. Won the master of charm. The love bombing Roger.

But once the glitter rubs off – and it might take years yet, but it will, because she ‘won’ someone who is disloyal, who never valued how completely he was loved and supported by one of life’s top chicks (his words, cute!) She must know this. Feel this. The trickle of hot, sticky discomfort at being the other woman.

Never trusting he won’t do this to her. If he could profess – fooling everyone with his act – to love someone as much as he apparently loved me, then just turn on a dime, discarding our whole life, our entire history we built together. Never speaking to me – the love of his life 🤔🤣 again.

How could he love her more?

One day, he’ll feel about her, just like he felt about me. That she’s not worth being loyal to, not as shiny as the next shiny thing, we all get old in his eyes. He said any man who can just write off thirty years of work, dedication, bearing, birthing, loving, nurturing his children, and himself, working so hard, staying loyal to him after a looong affair with her friend, is not any kind of man he wants to be around. He threw away one of life’s best chicks. For some new ass. All new ass eventually becomes old ass to these … ass clowns.

He told me I am funny, clever, resourceful and that so many men were jealous of Roger, having me. He can’t get his head around the downgrade.

Naq. Can’t ever hear enough of those compliments!

I know this. But hell. Hearing a man, of a similar age and background, who previously seemed to like Rog, say that, was cathartic. Because I always imagine Rog and Trinkey all loved up. All blissful and wrapped up in each other. Doe-y eyed, in complete, deep, all encompassing love. I know how he will make her feel totally adored. He’ll wrap his long limbs around her body, stroke her skin, kiss her deeply, like he did me. He’s the master of making you feel like he could never be with anyone else, that he absolutely loves you. My skin tingles with the embodied memories of our intensity.

Now she gets that.

I’m so grateful for the good people. The loyal ones. Those who have depth. Character. Strength. Morals.

I am a very lucky (very horny!) woman.

No matter how isolated I am right now.

Here’s a picture of one of my favourite roses, about to burst into bloom. They are loving not having my escape artist lambs chewing them to death this season!


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Fighting on

I constantly re-set. My life became a mental struggle the night Leanne texted me about my most beloved’s affair with her. I haven’t felt real peace since.

I have however become more adept at consciously letting the pain out, then re-setting. More determined to face the world and do better, become better.

So, after I hit the wall two days ago, I decided to start again at the beginning. This is day two of this rebuilding. I accept that my life is changed, and I am a survivor. I went back through my cancer journey, and felt immense pride for how I managed all of that, newly on my own. I focused on getting through. My kids. My fabulous friends.

And discovered old messages between myself and Roger. I was actually quite shocked at myself. At the almost denial I was displaying. If I was just “nice” enough, he wouldn’t swap Trinket into my place, right? It was embarrassing reading them. So not who I am, who I ever was before, nor who I am today.

He always made me feel not good enough.

Always.

And I know I am more than enough 👌


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Safe

BG was working last night. But when he got home, he messaged, sensing I was a bit off.

Struggling. It’s been five weeks without being with him.

He let me know that he is also finding it hard. In many ways. He’s not a verbally demonstrative man. And he’s covering everyone’s ass at work right now. Tired.

I always feel a bit lame, a bit needy. After all, he had a relationship where they lived in different countries for the first two years. So he can do long distance, and get on with his life. I thought it was just me, so have tried not to complain or indicate when I’m really struggling.

Last night, I hit the wall. Sick of this. Being alone in lockdown, when he’s only an hour and a half away.

Then he said that he is constantly amazed at me. At my openness. My softness (triggered! Rog said I have the softest skin he’s ever touched, so “soft” kinda stings?) My kindness. My care. My trust. My strength. How he is amazed at how vulnerable I allow myself to be with him. Letting him know I’m struggling isn’t complaining, or lame. It’s sweet, but yeah, hard for him because he can’t fix that. Knowing he doesn’t need to be the fixer, but wanting to do that instinctively. That he appreciates that I miss him, he misses me.

But, it’s different for him. Level 2 is hard at work, small gathering rules and a vastly changed service model to fit with those rules are hurting his business.

However, mostly life is otherwise “normal-ish.” I can’t even go to a shop. Everything has to be contactless. I spent two hours online on Friday, ordering feed, water supplies, an order from the hardware store, a grocery order all for click and collect. (Supermarkets are open, but the queues mean about a half hour to hour long wait before entry to the store is granted.) No spaces for pick up for 24 hours. Saturday, I spent three hours driving to pick up points, waiting for my time slot, between stores, etc. Of course, you always forget something you need.

I live alone. So no one to banter with. So yeah, Level 2 is testing, BG.

Sure.

But Level 3, where I am, is so restrictive when you’ve been in it for a while.

I mean yeah, I get that he is finding it hard. But he talks to people every day. I can go days without another human. Generally, without it being mandated, I have traditionally been good with alone time.

He has asked me before if I cope with the distance. That he worries at times that I might find someone else. Someone closer. Someone “more suitable.” Someone “better.” And that it must be hard for me, after a serial cheater fucked me over, to trust. The unspoken part of that being that he is being faithful.

The thing is, I’m a trusting person, by nature. Which is interesting, because I can be cynical too. But I do trust him. And that worries me sometimes. Because I 100% trusted Roger. And he used my trust to bring other women into my homes. Around my kids.

I recall so clearly looking Rog in the eye, and saying, at one stage – when I felt a bit weird about his “friendship” with Leanne seeming a bit “too close,” – “you aren’t doing anything stupid here, right? I hope you’re not making me the stupidest woman in the world, trusting you with her?” And him looking me dead in the eye and saying, “oh Snooks. No. Not ever. Of course I would never. You are right to trust me. She’s a terrible person, and I’m not even slightly attracted to her. If I was, we couldn’t be friends,” and he kissed me and held me, stroking my skin.

FML.

So, to keep busy last night, I started cooking a goat dish for tomorrow

And late, I thought I should eat, so threw this Thai inspired noodle bowl together with some cooked chicken I had in the fridge.

Then, despite it’s deliciousness, decided I wasn’t hungry.

Lockdown is messing with my mental health, and my ability to stick to any kind of wellness plan. I’m a quiet mess really.

What’s new?


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Disappeared

I did this. I shrunk. I wanted to become invisible.

To heal.

I was embarrassed.

And knew I needed alone time.

But, Roger was angry. “You never want to go anywhere with me! Pleeeeeeze come to xyz with me. I need this. I need you. I want you to come and have a good time with me.”

I know now he needed the validation. To show everyone that he wasn’t so bad.

But I was really struggling.

Roger’s feelings were ALWAYS more important than mine.

Of course.


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Connection

I’m watching Sex, Love and Goop.

It’s actually better than I expected.

And really hard.

Because Roger and I were very good at sex and connection.

And BG isn’t.

I need to address this with him, as we have built some trust and intimacy. He’s never allowed himself to be truly sexually vulnerable.

Gwyneth is in it, but not much.

But I cried when she told the story of her parents being interviewed about their long marriage. Her father said, “we just never both wanted to get divorced at the same time.”

That was us. I wanted to split, Roger pulled me in. So tightly.

BIG, BIG TIME.

Then, unbeknownst to me (I communicated, he didn’t at all) Roger all of a sudden wanted to leave me. To split.

And got what he wanted.

Not allowing me to pull him back in.

Power, control. All about what he wanted.

Fucker.


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Test driven

I was thinking about the whole “winning” of the competition I never knew I was entered in.

When “my friend” Leanne texted me about the eighteen month long affair she had been having with my partner of then 22 years. I was told Rog had ended it, and she was vengeful.

Probably.

But hey, yay me! He was having a torrid, sexy, secret affair! Woohoo! How exciting, right? Boring old mumsy here was just going to work, shopping, cooking, cleaning, parenting, accounting, paying bills, preparing GST returns, making love to him most days. How tedious.

But hey, I “won!” Go me! He sacked the exciting affair chick, and I was Plan B.

Awesome, huh?

And he love bombed the Bejesus out of me. After Leanne outed him as a long-term cheater. A very excellent liar.

I was the best thing that ever happened to him. The sexiest woman he’d ever met. He had THE most intense orgasms with me, and me alone. Did I not feel our incredible, unique, intense connection? We were destined to grow old together, to travel the world. To be the old coots, holding hands, kissing, fucking, loving deeply and forever. Leanne was a wee hiccup in our amazing love story. Our destiny.

You betcha. I sure did drink the KoolAid.

Hopium and hysterical bonding. What an intoxicating combination!

Reality is, I was the fallback plan. He test drove Leanne, to see if he could replace me, build a life with her.

He realised he didn’t want to. So yeeha. Paula it is.

Until he started pressing his nose up against the showroom window of the secondhand wife appliance stores. Otherwise known as dating apps. Match. Elite Singles. Tinder. Hinge. Zoosk. Whatever. Wherever. Time to trade me in again.

He test drove a few, for two years, tens of thousands of messages with other women, before landing in Trinket’s pussy.

She swallowed his story, hook, line and sinker. Didn’t even flap her dorsal fin as he dragged her into his boat. Catch of the day!

There was no need for Paula anymore.

But hey, don’t release her, or give her a fighting chance, keep her on ice, with footrubs, incredible, bonding sex, words of affirmation. Tell her how wonderful she is. Always was.

Most of all, kiss her deeply and tell her it might not be the end. The hopium pipe hasn’t completely gone out, stoke it up a bit with, “one day, we’ll find our way back to each other,” as you drive your laden trailer out of her life, leave her to do all the cleaning of your now empty house, pay the carpet cleaner, hand over the keys. Oh, and take on your working dog you left alone in the farm kennels!

Chump Lady explains how hoovering, being the back up plan, fucks with our loving, empathetic, manipulated brains.

I was still sure he was having “a moment.” That he’d wake up one day, look at the old hag lying beside him and think, shit. That was a fuck up.

Now I know he just found his level.

Sad. I really, truly, deeply loved that man.