Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum



We live over an hour and a half apart, the barman and me.

We have messaged and chatted multiple times a day for – shit – over two and a half years.

This week, I have realised – or rather – fully taken on board that I give too much.

I’ve known it forever. I did it for Roger too. Picked up all the slack. Put myself and my needs last.

So, I left earlier than usual. No unhappy words, just knew I needed to put distance between us.

BG hasn’t clicked. There’s been radio silence. 24 hours. That has never happened. There are always good nights. Good mornings. Lots of I miss yous, etc.

I realised I have never been fully loved.

Like I love.

And I just don’t wanna be that nice girl who makes these men’s lives easy anymore. My smoothing the way just makes me invisible.

I’m not a drama queen. I don’t make trouble to get a reaction. But I’ve pulled away.

And yeah. He hasn’t noticed.

Think I’ll reconsider going over to do some bar shifts for him this weekend.

And I’m okay. It really aches that Roger gives all the love I lavished on him to that whore.

I slept hardly a wink last night. At one point I turned on my bedside lamp, and was surprised at how I looked. So took a selfie. Low light, no makeup, dishevelled hair, this old girl looked soft and loving. The original, then black and white…

Shame the people I love don’t reciprocate.

Their loss. I’m worth the effort.

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Role models

Have to share something I’ve been holding in.

Trinket’s daughter got engaged last month.


Daughter of a serial cheater. Stepdaughter of a serial cheater. Daughter of a woman who was happy to be a homewrecking whoring affair partner.

Good luck love.

Normally I would be wishing a young woman well, but I admit, I have little sympathy for a girl who told my daughter that she knew Roger was bad to me, but he was amazing to her mum.

As my daughter said, cool story bro, you just wanna wipe the smug off that face!

I can’t imagine Rog dealing with wedding planning! Lol. He hated that kind of drama.

Just sayin’


Confessions of a total dick

I did something really, REALLY stupid.

Gotta dump this on you.

Found messages between BG and his ex.

It was so full on. Like really mushy and teenage stuff. Moving to quite desperate messaging between them. When she was playing him, and he was struggling, madly in love, knowing she was probably slipping away. Suspecting – correctly – there was someone else. All while she pretended he was her “handsome.”

I’m not stupid, and I get how unhealthy both their shit was, but how stupid what I did was in looking.

The messaging went on longer than I understood. She was still messaging him less than two years ago. He never replied.

All the ILY stuff that I had to (pathetically) ask for.

I know we are nice together, but she was that “love of your life” person. We are kind of just the comfortable next place really.

Kind of hard to take. But the reality is that my shit is similar. I don’t feel that intensity either. That bond. That intense connection and sexual tension I had with Rog.

That he obviously never felt.

Sad huh? Are we just settling???


It’s got me feeling really sad. I realise I have never been, probably never will be, the love of anyone’s life. I felt it. But it was never returned.

I know BG thinks I’m wonderful. But it isn’t in that achy, yearning way. The way I loved Roger. It’s kind of like I’m just “too nice.” Too accommodating.

There is very sad truth in that saying, treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen.

There were frantic messages when she didn’t reply. Then same back the other way.

I feel sick.

Both because of what I am not, but also because I stupidly looked.

I miss my Normie.

That person. My person.

Who doesn’t exist.


Tell your story!

Rog hated that I blog. That I told my story.

Hated that my story exposed him for the actions and decisions he made. For the abuse he dealt me.

Including when he knocked me unconscious. He got ahead of the narrative there and told Trinket I “made him do it.” I was terrified. He was painting me to be a terrible, awful person. I only loved him. I was desperate to get him to understand how much I loved him. It was so sad.

So pathetic.

He sat beside me as the police interviewer asked me just a week after that violence, if I considered him to be trustworthy, as he renewed his firearms licence! What could I say?

No! This man I have loved entirely, with my whole heart, my body, my soul, knocked me unconscious when I caught him in another lie about another woman he was fucking in my house. He is not to be trusted! I’m scared!

I tell my story, because it really happened.

He really did betray, lie, abuse and mindfuck me.

I tell my story so others know their story is believed

That sweet guy. His ex must have been a monster. Made him cheat.

Because we loyal betrayeds, those of us who stupidly love cheaters, have the power to do that. Make people do things they desperately don’t want to do. We force them to fuck strange.

We really don’t.

Most betrayeds I have met just told the truth. But ended up not being believed, because cheaters are masterful liars, masterful conjurors of illusions that they are lovely, loving people, driven to cheat by horrible, loyal partners.

It sucks.

It brings to mind this awful case

A powerful person, mindfucking a vulnerable one. Often male. Often older. Often more economically and societally “successful.”

I admit I have doubted.

But, the reality is, I shouldn’t doubt, because, as one savvy commenter stated,

“I’m yet to regret believing a woman. I’ve regretted pondering a man’s version on many occasions.”

Men are believed. There’s a binary we unpack/fiercely challenge in human geography. Men=rational. Women=emotional.

Society does it. We (even me, an educated feminist, at times) tend to believe the man. The woman is/was a bit insane and is just making shit up.

Yeah. Patriarchy. It’s been a great system.

For men. Right?

Few of our old friends believe me. Most have bought Roger’s Image Management Package.

Which is partly why the few that know me well, and have supported me, believed me, are so very special to me. The mutual friends who dared to put a line in the sand. Who “chose” me, to believe me. Those who refused to be Switzerland. Refused to forgive him, allow him to carry on with the story that I am a terrible person who Just Refused To Forgive him for a “mistake.”

It can be hard to believe an “emotional” woman, over a calm, “rational” man.

But my story is true. He really did fuck with my mind. My truth. He gaslit the fuck outta me, making me doubt myself, even blame myself at times for his long affair with a person I invited into our home, our lives.

So, tell your story. It might help someone. It might make it easier for others to believe the stories of others who lived with/through/despite similar abuse.

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Getting Over It

Copied … from a recovery group.

It is hard to get over a cheater because when you leave the relationship, there are two people you must mourn. One is the arsehole who cheated on you, in all their flawed, unfaithful glory.

This is the person it is easy to get mad at, the person it is easy to cut off contact with, the person it is easy to talk shit about while you’re out for cocktails with your girlfriends at night. It’s the person you are glad to be leaving because you know that you don’t deserve their bullshit in your life.

The other person you must get over is the person you thought they were. The relationship you thought you had. The trust you so carefully built, not knowing that the foundation was made up of quicksand. It’s not the cheater you are mourning at 4am when you come home from the bar alone and want to call them up to tell them they’re forgiven; it is their intangibly perfect alter-ego. The one you built a life with. The one you poured your trust into. The one you thought was always going to be there, until they weren’t.

You hate the person they turned into, but love the person they were. Love the way things were. Love the memory of each blissfully ignorant day with them, so fiercely that it tears you to pieces.

It is hard to get over a cheater because you never get the closure you need. You cannot reason your way to the cause of the cheating — and I strongly encourage you not to try. The back of your mind will only make up reasons that scathe you: you weren’t funny enough or sexy enough or enticing enough. You didn’t pay enough attention. You didn’t make enough time. With every magazine title screaming “Ways to please your lover!” and “How to not scare the good ones away,” you begin to suspect that it was your fault they cheated, not theirs. You know logically this is not true, but it feels true. The harder you search for a reason, the more the truth evades you. A simple lapse in judgment doesn’t seem like an adequate explanation for the hell that you’ve been put through. So you search for a bigger, better reason that is not there.

It’s hard to get over a cheater because the only person you hate more than them is yourself. You hate yourself for falling for them. For investing in them. For turning a blind eye to every red flag that was a clue along the way. You scorn yourself for believing every lie they told, and letting it all come to fruition. You hate yourself for not putting together the puzzle pieces that you were never actually holding.

It is hard to get over a cheater because we are seldom given the chance to properly mourn them. We are encouraged to feel every scathing emotion we can muster toward our unfaithful lovers, but we’re told that we cannot still love them.

Cannot miss them.

Cannot mourn the loss of that love because we should be too angry to feel sadness.

We are not given the chance to go through the regular process of grieving somebody who was once a major part of our lives. And because we try to deny ourselves this process, we exemplify the pain. We feel ashamed for still loving them. Ashamed for still needing to grieve. Ashamed of not being ready to start over right away, even though we know we deserve so much better. Ashamed because it must make us weak to feel anything other than hatred.

It is hard to get over a cheater because the real person we have to forgive at the end of the day is ourselves. We have to forgive ourselves for missing the signs that we couldn’t possibly have seen.

For losing a game we never signed up to play.

For having a perfectly natural connection with a person who turned out to not be who they said they were.

We don’t want to accept that bad things can happen to us without precedence.

That we can be fooled and treated unfairly and still end up the loser in the end.

We want to believe in the eternal balance of the Universe, which suggests that when we are in pain we have done something wrong.

It is hard to get over a cheater because it means accepting the bizarre notion that life can be unfair in the harshest sense of the word.

It is hard to get over a cheater because a betrayal of trust turns your world upside down. And the only way to flip it right-side up again is to give ourselves permission to work through it.

To accept what happened.

To mourn someone we hate.

To grieve a relationship we walked away from.

To work through every paradoxical situation we encounter, until we come through on the other side. The side with a clean slate. The side where we don’t just suspect that we deserve better — we know. And the side where we are proud of ourselves for never accepting any less.

100% this.

I’m still angry at myself for giving him more chances. For doing years of very, very painful, hard emotional work, to heal from his selfishness and treachery.

When he did nothing but wait, and berate me for not being “over it,” yet. No counselling. No reading. No real self reflection. I had to work because he cheated. Fair? No, it never was, and I knew it. But still, I loved him. I believed his fake remorse.

I should have left him when I found out he was a cheater.

Shown my backbone. Not my wishbone. Instead, he got to play me again. It hurt so much more the second time! I would never have believed that was possible.

All so he could just do it again.

The last time was the hardest. The most painful. Because I blamed myself for letting him hurt me again.


Merry Christmas, baby.

Yesterday was okay. I had my brother’s kids. We baked and iced sugar cookies and made pretty, layered jellies.

Christmas Eve is Leanne’s birthday. The year that fell in the middle of their affair, I remember how even more disengaged Roger was than he normally was about Christmas.

We were at the lake.

Our happy place.

Or his.

He used that place, the place we built, painted, loved, loved in, together, to fuck his other women.

And Christmas Day is here.

I’m gobsmacked.

My former BFF – yes, the woman who befriended Trinket on social media – Snapchatted about the Emma Thompson scene in Love, Actually, where she found her husband was having an affair, saying, “this is the worst. Crying.”

Um, yeah. It really is! She has no idea! I lived that shit for decades. Finding evidence of Roger’s betrayals. His other women. It ABSOLUTELY rips your heart out.

And yet, go on a tramp with one of your best friend’s partner’s whores, knowing how absolutely she fucked me over, and try to make friends with her.

Christ on a stick!!!

Because of him, I don’t see my kids every year for this special day. The year he was having the affair with Leanne, he just kept heading out for walks, or to fetch something. I know now that he was trying to find phone teception, to text/talk to Leanne.

I was triggered yesterday. I still get the emails from that little holiday lake community. The new owners’ kids are selling ice from our old address. Reading that made my heart stop, my blood running cold.

Triggers never leave.

He broke me.

And doesn’t give a fuck.

Another Christmas has begun.

It will be over soon.

Hope yours is joyful full of love, happiness, relaxation, and you find some peace 🎄🤶💋

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Have you had some work done?

You’re glowing, Mum.

Oh, good lord!

I was actually kinda flattered, but LMFAO.

My daughter asked me this question when she brought her old friends for dinner on Tuesday.

I giggled. “No. Not my thing.” Better things to spend my money on. Age is a privilege. Yes, I take care of myself. Good skincare. Water. Good food. Stay out of the sun. I’m 53 years old. I don’t want to look nipped, tucked, shiny, stretched, surprised!

I just said, “I’ve gained a lot of weight since Covid hit. At this age, it’s your face or your body! A few curves mean a few less deep wrinkles!”

And tonight, I can see all the wrinkles in this photo another one of her friends snapped of us together. I went to the races in our home town. Had a horse racing, do went straight from work, no time to change or sort my makeup! I love this kid.

I was too worried Rog and that whore would be there. It’s two days until Christmas. His dad is terminal with cancer at 91. I thought he might be there, home for Christmas, and it terrified me.

We met at this race meeting. 34 years ago. So, lots and lots of feels. Our boy turned 25 today too. I miss the man I thought he was. I definitely did NOT want to see the person who inhabits that body, who fucks that whore, Trinket.

Phew. He wasn’t there. Such a relief. I don’t think I will ever not feel this horrific anxiety about him.

How many ways did he break me. Ugh.


Quarter of a century ago

Our son was born.

21 days after his due date.

After a 22 hour labour.

He arrived. At home. With Roger playing midwife.

It was dramatic. And a bit scary. Rog thought he was being born blue. Our midwife arrived 20 minutes after the birth, with G and me bundled in an old duvet, propped against a wall, me shaking uncontrollably, Roger single malt in hand. All was well, just a fast final stage of labour. All 9 pounds of chub.

It was an incredible experience. Our second child. On our own. We were so, SO bonded. I couldn’t have loved Norm more.

Look what he did to our beautiful family.

I’ll never understand why. We were so, so good together.

All my memories are spoiled now. I can’t look at photos without tearing pain.

My camera was stolen with all the first few weeks of photos of G on film. So here is one on Christmas Day, me, G and my darling Mum, 36 hours after his birth, at my inlaws’ house…

However, despite their philandering, lying, abusive father, I’m bloody proud of my kids. I worked so hard for them, and they are awesome, flawed, loving, funny AF humans.

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Dinner with the babies

Have been bleeding heavily. A period for Christmas! What fun!

Feel absolutely wiped out.

Had my youngest and two of her old school mates for dinner last night. So good!

My brother cooked and I was the mixologist.

Cocktails and banter while they watched him chop and prepare a delicious feast.

We carried on late into the night. Me and “my” kids.

I just love catching up with these babies. These 23 and 24 year old babies of their families!

Dee’s mate, Jimmy, the younger of two, is a fashion designer and artist living in our capital. And Hayley, the youngest of four, is a primary school teacher who just moved in to flat with Dee.

Jimmy is a great guy. We chatted and laughed and I caught up about his latest project. A collection he’s working on, and the collective space he is renting with nine other creatives. Love him.

Then I asked about his mum. A lovely woman.

Who was chumped too. His dad, a local cop (yeah, original, I know) cheated on her and they divorced as he was a late high schooler.

He let me know his mum lives nearby, with her new partner. Very happy and settled. Jimmy said she was happily single for several years, then met this neat guy. The boys both like him a lot.

Much later, he started talking about his father. He’s got dementia. A brain aneurysm. His memory is very patchy, and he has gone from being a vibrant, fit, late 50s guy to an old man who needs a lot of help. Riddled now with stage IV cancer, not a lot of time left. He hasn’t worked in several years. Jimmy said he and his brother didn’t even know as his partner didn’t tell them. They were furious. Say she’s a total cow. Terrible woman. They loathe her.

I said, “oh man, that’s so tough. I’m really sorry, Jim.”

Then it dawned on me. I remembered dad cheated on mum.

“Oh, um, Jimmy, is this – that one. The same one?”

He nodded, grinning wryly. “Yeah, you have just remembered, right? Yeah. This is the same one. Dickhead chose REALLY well, huh? Someone who wouldn’t even tell his kids he was sick.


It’s arrived. Sad. But very true. The cheater lost his kids really, to this woman and her four. Jimmy said he believes that deep down his dad always knew he fucked up. His mum is a gem.

Cheating. The gift you give your kids.


“I’m not a homewrecker”



The denial is strong with these homewrecking whores.

One comment about this God awful bullshit they tell themselves that I read nailed it…”The “I’m not hurting anyone, I’m secretly strengthening other relationships so that they last longer. I’m your secret Santa!” narrative. A good reminder that these people also gift us with STI’s. Get tested for Christmas.”


Trinket is innocent, see?


As my mother liked to say, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck…