Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum



Generally, Facebook memories are fine.

I never posted much about Rog. He wasn’t on social media during his pre-online dating years. A technophobe who hated computers and phones back then. Him later embracing them, was a red flag I missed. They enabled his cheating with both Leanne, and the online dating whores.

So, I respected that rule about not posting about people without their permission. That also went for our kids.

I saw a lot of Fakebook stuff, too. People posting about their wonderful husbands, nek minnit, divorced…

But this week, a photo that a friend took of Rog and I together at a younger friend’s 40th, 5 months after DDay #1 (Leanne) and just weeks after my first suicidal ideation, and thankfully only, attempt came up in my memories.

Lord. Typing that sentence out was hard.

I wanted to die. I was agonised. Roger found me, saved me, and bundled me, wrapped tightly in a blanket into his ute, always touching my skin, and holding my hand, I was zombie like, but aware of his physicality, his constant touch, as he drove, and as he climbed back into the ute between shifting stock. He had several essential farm jobs to complete before taking me home, holding me so tightly, and phoning a psychologist.

The problem was always me.

My reaction.

Never him.

The action that caused the reaction.

I had years and years of therapy after that. Off and on. I never had before in my life.

He never went to therapy for himself.

Not once.

He did come to couples counselling for a short while, two years after DDay, when the hysterical bonding started waning, and I started questioning why I was allowing him to touch me. He went because the daily hot sex was reducing. He went long enough for our counsellor to let me know he suspected love addiction.

I’m ashamed.

Ashamed I did that. Attempted to unalive myself.

But I didn’t know how to make the pain stop. My beautiful life, with my beautiful man, was all a terrible lie.

I couldn’t reverse time. He had lied to me for a year and a half, made me sick, and it was with my friend, in my homes.

I couldn’t escape any of it. Every room in the house had her stench. Every part of our farm. Every surface of our car, and holiday home, our whole social circle knew, the whole town.

I withdrew. Leanne had fucked these for me, by fucking him there.

I looked at that picture. I look strained, smiling fakely in my super high heels. Roger looks bored. Disinterested. Leaning in for the picture. It’s an AWFUL photo. Cannot imagine why I posted it? Desperation? Look at us, still together. Take that, Leanne! FFS. Infidelity literally makes you a crazy person.

Anyway, another night of little sleep, have been scrolling for too many hours. 5.15am now. The dogs are both gently snoring.

Got up, hot milk drink. Better try to get a little bit more sleep now…

2 thoughts on “Memories

    • Lol. DLH. I was so miserable. Completely devastated. Trying to pretend I was okay. My heart breaks seeing this photo. I was besotted by him. Loved him too much x

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