I woke from a hyper real dream that I am just recovering from.
Do you ever have those dreams where you wake thinking it was all real? All facts?
Mine were bizarre.
One involved one of my former BFF’s brothers dying, us holding his funeral, then him coming back to life!
In another, I was stacking hay, and Roger was also there. (That wouldn’t happen at the moment. I have a subacromial bursitis of the shoulder. Bloody sore.)
As he was about to leave, he smiled and said to me, “Number three is on its way.”
We were getting along just fine. Laughing and joking. He told me I looked really good and had found my sparkle again.
And off he went.
Then, talking to Switzerland friends there, I realised his AP was pregnant.
And thought what??? We have three kids. How is this number three?
Turned out that his AP was a dark, Latin looking 29 year old. With a toddler.
Still no idea what number three meant! Can’t he count?
Weird.
Anyway, it took ten awake minutes for me to remember that his AP is actually a plain little late 50s redhead…(does he have a type???)
And the whole way our friends have treated this heartbreaking exit affair was highlighted. My longest and deepest friendship has been decimated.
She thinks Rog and Trinky-poo are just lovely. 🤢🤮
So I had to detach.
It has been utterly hellish. I lost my BFF as well as him and my whole life.
J was the person I drove to the morning after DDay. To talk. To find support as the worst night of my life had just smashed me to pieces. She knew how much I loved him. How utterly devastated and bereft I was. She was floored. Not Norm. Noooooo. Oh, Paula, WTAF. Shit!
Anyway, she is team NormandTrinky these days. Completely unaware, or uncaring, or whatthefuckever about what his actions did to me.
Switzerland friends are so very, very, very damaging.
To find that your pain means nothing to people who you loved is just rubbing salt deeply into the very, very raw and painful wounds.
At the funeral I attended the other day, J was asking me all about Roger’s awful losses in the flood.
Like I would really know???
Clueless.
Why are we not all just jolly friends, where I sit and drink wine with the delightful Trinket???
Because, J, I HAD NO FUCKING IDEA WE WERE APPARENTLY SEPARATED when that cunt whore came and stole my fucking life. I pick me polkaed my little heart out those next seven months. We made the most insanely intense love. He told me he’d never have with her what we had. He fucking told me that one day we’d find our way back to each other. He knocked me unconscious over me calling him out about lying and bringing that whore into my home to fuck. He gave me diseases that caused cancer. That I faced surgery and radiotherapy alone, just weeks after he left me.
People have no idea of what he did to me.
Of course, that was just my inner monologue.
Instead, I sat there saying, “Yes, it’s truly terrible what has happened to him (hey it REALLY IS truly horrific. I have enormous empathy for what he has been through and is still facing.) Losing bloody everything.
But my lifetime bestie has lovely times with NormandTrinky. They’ve built a maimai on her farm. They’ve gone on tramping holidays together. They’re great buddies. She friended her on social media…so unbelievably fucking hurtful.
This experience of Switzerland friends was so unexpected. I’m the most loyal fucker you will ever meet. I assume that’s how people are.
They aren’t.
Even Rog used to say, “J, she’s pretty flaky about friendship.”
I knew. I just expected more of her. No idea why! She showed me who she is several times over the almost five decades I’ve known and loved her.
And this is sadly common in the chump experience. As one chump described,
“I actually confronted one of those people, a woman I considered a friend (I still do), and she cried. She said she didn’t know what to do. I will say that this friend has been one of the few that has actually been there for me since D-Day. Others who know treat me like I have the plague.”
Conversely, the odd person understands. One of Roger’s old schoolmates, C, who has remained friendly with me, asked if H (Roger’s best mate, whom I loved far better than a brother) talked to me at the funeral. I said, nah. And she shook her head. “That’s terrible, Paula. I’m so sorry.” I just replied, “He’s just loyal to his mate. I get it.” Mind you, C’s husband cheated on her over a decade ago. She gets it…
If it hadn’t happened to me, over and over, by “friends” being so disloyal and outright cruel, I wouldn’t have believed it was a thing.
Tearing at the Fabric 