Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum


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Traumatic birth

I was lucky with my birth stories, really.

However, I just read an article on traumatic birth, and I know that there is stuff that I gloss over.

Our first was born in the main base hospital in my region. An ambulance transfer, as my waters had broken prior to admittance to our local birthing unit, and I laboured through the night, requiring lots of pethidene for the pain (posterior presentation, spine on spine, so painful) and was only 2cm dilated 12 hours later. I vomited constantly. So was dehydrated and so drugged I couldn’t think straight. My birth plan was abandoned because I had no lucidity to remember it.

I was admitted via ambulance staff, alone, definitely not lucid, and scared.

Things went reasonably well. Lots of people in and out of the delivery room, I avoided the Caesarian I had been admitted for.

But was left with an enormous episiotomy to repair.

And yeah, that repair caused sexual problems for me for quite some time, probably up to two years, at least.

I couldn’t bear any pressure on the back of my vulva, so rear entry positions were an absolute nightmare for me. I had extreme pain if I needed to insert even a tampon. I thought I was sexually damaged for life. Only just over five years into being a sexually active person.

I now believe it may have been the scar tissue being reopened and repaired again, from the very messy rape injuries I had. I was stitched up then, from the gaping tears my rapist ripped into my genitalia. Maybe the cutting through that caused difficulties in the healing from the episiotomy?

And so, reading this, made me want to vomit.

And admit to myself that I did have some residual trauma from birthing. I have mostly told myself I was lucky. And I was. Three healthy, great kids. And nothing compared to some of the stories I have read!

You don’t hear much about birth trauma until you’ve experienced it yourself, then all of a sudden, women you’ve known for both minutes and years open up about the horrendous things that happened to them. Some are too terrified to have another child. Some have suffered crippling post-partum depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. Some can’t even use a tampon without experiencing a visceral reaction.

That tampon reference got me. Oh fuck. Yeah. That made me tear up, and the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood on end.

And people wonder why I wanted home births. I had the second and third at home, without the trauma. I am not advocating this for everyone, but it was what I needed, and I’m so grateful I did, as I think those birth stories were healing for me. I never required another drug, nor vaginal stitch, birthing at home. I had PND after the first, but never again, after my home births.

And then my blood ran cold, thinking about the terror I had about large penises.

And how I nearly passed out in fear, seeing BG naked and aroused for the first time. The very strong urge to literally jump out the window.

When you put the pieces of the puzzle together, you start to see the patterns so much more clearly. The veins of trauma that run through my life.


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Well, this is cute!

Fakebook.

It’s a funny old thing, right?

BG and I are not friends there.

I like that.

But tonight, I discovered him on my youngest’s friends list.

Naw.

She’s such a good chick. This kid has been steadfast in her love and support for me, through the discard and abuse of me by her father.

It was a tough time. She didn’t see her dad for a long time after he left. I tried to let her know that being with her dad was not being disloyal to me. He’ll always be her father, and hurts fade with time.

She has never accepted Trinket. And I am quietly surprised she added BG.

But, this is the kid (she’s 23, so no kid!) who found out how to contact him, and invited him to her 21st, 20 months after Rog dumped me for good by moving to Trinket’s.

I had barely let the kids know I was quietly seeing someone. It was 15 months after we first met, and only 6 months into us being together. None of my friends had met him yet! Slowly, quietly, we were starting to get to know each other. I had told the kids maybe a month or two earlier.

She secretly invited him to my birthday dinner nearly two years ago. Just him, the three kids, and me.

I know that so far, Trinket is not on that “friends” list.

I know she sees Trinket as a whore who was happy to knowingly cheat with her father on her mother. And BG is someone I met years after that betrayal and eventual discard. He’s legit.

She isn’t.

Pretty simple really.

It could change. She has accepted that Trinket exists, and she has to play nice in order to have a relationship with her dad.

And I fully accept and support that.

My eldest is friends with Trinky on social media. She lives there with them for part of the academic year, though. So it makes sense.

And she never witnessed her dad treat me like dog shit on his shoe once he had his side ho secured. She and he are the closest. That is totally understandable.

I’m just very quietly chuffed. That D and BG are Fakebook friends. Silly, I know.

But just noting my pleasure at this little thing, here, in cyberspace.

I know BG is good to all the kids he has had in his life, whose mothers he dated. The two long termers are very special. But recently, it was Jack’s birthday, and he messaged with him, too. Jack is his ex, Chrissy’s only child.

He always asks about mine. I realised I am quite protective of them, trying not to “force” him on them, I hold back about him with them, and am trying to change that mindset.

I know he sees families as package deals. Bonus people to care about. It’s pretty cute 🥰


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Apart

Long distance is interesting.

Mostly, lots of longing, but also, some good headspace, to be yourself. Get shit done.

With the kids here for the long weekend, I stayed home. Of course.

BG has been super busy. Long weekends in beach towns in hospo are crazy.

Yesterday, my two girls, and the eldest’s partner walked the popular track near our hometown up to the top of the waterfall I could see out of our kitchen window on the home farm.

My kids were the third generation on that farm. The two youngest literally born there. I thought it was my forever home.

We got up the top, and could see the farm easily. I didn’t realise it was the first time the eldest had ever been to the top! Her partner was asking if I could point out “the Donger.”

Don’t ask, lol.

So I showed them the outline of the family farm.

The last place I lived that (I think?) was mostly untainted by Roger’s whores. I don’t think he had affairs when we lived there.

I was so happy there. With him. With my babies. We were living the dream. Ha!!!

The track has a viewing platform, halfway up, and that was as far as my eldest had been on previous visits.

I always seem to go to the top when I am the least fit! Funny. A tad sore today. I got stung yesterday, checking on my bees. (Lost a colony, ugh, only checked them a few days previously. Must have swarmed, bit late in the season for that nonsense! But it has been very mild.)

Because I reacted so badly to my last sting, I took an antihistamine. So came home and totally crashed. Dead to the world.

Woke around 8pm to BG messaging me. I had sent him a photo of the backs of the kids looking out on the plains and the old farm from the viewing platform at the top before I hit the shower, then bed.

And, that man – the opposite of Roger, the love bomber – is understated, and tries not to show his hand too much (he has hurts from previous relationships too) let me know he is feeling a bit alone.

He rarely tells me how much he is missing me. I mean, he says, I miss you. But “really” missing me is a first.

We pretty much spend every weekend together, so this is unusual.

He’s gonna try to escape today, the Monday of the long weekend. I didn’t expect that.

And it triggered some feelings. Some memories of the busted trust after Leanne. When Roger would be away, and I didn’t really know if he was meeting her for a hookup. I mean, that was the previous pattern. I just didn’t know it.

Trust is a bastard of a thing.

You have it. But once someone breaks it, you’re buggered. For life really. I am surprisingly trusting of BG. But, I know that part of that is the level of investment.

He is not my everything.

Stupidly, Roger was.

And when he broke my trust, I was writhing to rebuild it. I realise it was me alone, trying to heal us. I made the therapy appointments. I read the books. I listened to the podcasts. I tried to communicate with him better. I wrote a damn Masters thesis, trying to make sense of the tainted spaces of home.

He responded by playing games.

He hooked up with Leanne again, two years after their affair “was over.”

He signed up to at least three dating apps, and was secretly conversing and meeting with other women, whilst telling me how much he loved me. For at least two years before hitting the jackpot with the current love of his life…🤢

No wonder my ability to trust has been so compromised. Living my fairyland truth, not having a clue he was playing stupid games (and won a stupid prize…) has broken me. I will never trust naively again. Trust is now only a partial concept. Taken with a large side of cynicism.

Anyway. Must mow lawns. Must go to hardware store to swap some gate hinges I bought a few weeks ago, that are a bit long.

Loving this downtime. Progress on the property has been achieved. Little jobs ticked off the list. But I do have a problem with a pair of Philips head screws stuck in my bedroom drawer sliders. They bloody well routed out while I tried to unscrew them. YouTube might help me solve the problem!

Adios team, better get my carcass into gear!

My little dog is having a sleepover at my youngest’s house, and it was super weird not having her in my bed. And the big dog is somewhat confused.


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She can make up her own mind

Not infidelity related, but I love this!

Last night, eldest and her partner (staying the long weekend with me) went to one of her best mate, Steph’s engagement/house warming shindig, back up here, on the family farm, near their hometown. I volunteered to sober drive, so got the fun half drunk chat on the way home after being their Uber driver. Took me back 15 years or so! 🤣

They’ve been engaged a while. Yesterday was supposed to have been their wedding day. They couldn’t celebrate before, because of Covid restrictions on gathering sizes, etc.

Her fiancé, Stu, is American. A Tenneesee boy, and with our border restrictions, they postponed the wedding until they could be sure his family could fly here easily and safely, without going into the lottery of finding a Managed Isolation Quarantine spot, flights to match, etc.

They are now planning an early winter wedding, again this time 2023.

My son-in-law got in the passenger seat, S’s handbag strapped across his body. Very cute, he’d gathered her things. And so he was the chatty one. He was having a giggle about the groom-to-be’s super traditional thing whereby he actually asked Steph’s dad if he could marry her before “popping the question.”

Steph’s dad is older, older than her mum, and she is the baby of the family, but I ADORED his response.

“I think Steph is perfectly capable of making up her own mind.”

I know it’s a cultural thing. Stu was doing what he was brought up to do, as the respectful thing. Good ole southern boy.

But man. I am so glad I’m a Kiwi! We take gender equality seriously! Steph is not her father’s property. She’s a fully grown, very well educated, fully employed, almost 30 year old woman. And I am quite chuffed at her old fashioned dad’s feminism!

And Stu took it really well. Realised that in itself was his blessing. (Steph seems to like you enough, that’ll do me.) Said he kinda realised then that while he thought he had to do that, that it is a terrible trope. That asking for someone’s “hand in marriage,” is kinda degrading. Like can I take that woman off your hands?

Glad he wasn’t offended. And super thrilled that even an old Kiwi farmer was onto it enough to school a younger man about institutionalised patriarchy.


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What a day!

Yesterday.

I eventually got out of bed, after the barman messaged, saying he was on his way.

Went and shifted heifers, and set up electric fences for the next few days, fed the chooks, medicated my dogs (pain meds for the little one, daily asthma inhaler for the big one 😀) and was back to the house just as BG pulled into my driveway.

Still no proper kisses, my cold sores nearly healed, but ugh. I hate not being able to kiss his lips.

Shower, blow dry hair, off we went, towards my home town.

Road closure, detour, we got on course a bit later than we intended, but still plenty of time.

First people we see on course, as we make our way to the Secretary’s office? Norm’s bestie, H, and another mate, who are in the ownership of a horse with him. It’s still really awkward with him. Thirty plus years of friendship, and we are now awkward strangers.

“Hi H, this is funny, right?”

H replied, laughing, “sure is.”

Me, “good luck.”

“Thanks, you too.”

Walking into the raceday office, I asked for our owners’ tickets.

Now, BG’s surname has all the same letters as Roger’s! And our children’s. Think along the lines of say, Peters and Peterson. BG has a few more letters in the middle…

So, Muggins here asks for tickets for owners of [insert filly’s name here], [my surname.

And Roger’s surname.]

Faaaaark! 😱😱😱 The guy handing out tickets knows Rog and myself. No idea who BG is. He looked up at me, laughed nervously, and BG gives me a hard time, as I look completely mortified! The thing is, I could see the list of owners, and Roger had a horse in the same race, and his name was right below BG’s! Freudian slip fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck!!!

Great start!

Into the owner’s bar area, a glass of bubbles to calm my nerves.

Then, horses about to enter birdcage, BG wants another drink. I go back inside, to buy one. Realise I have not got cash, and the races is one last bastion of cash here in NZ.

Over to the Secretary’s office, EFTPOS for a betting slip – they don’t allow cash withdrawals. Over to the tote, I hurriedly back our horse, and Roger’s horse as the only ones I know anything about, in a rush, taking a $10 quinella. Beer, phew, horses around at the start now, up to the member’s stand to watch the race.

Roger’s horse 1st. Ours, 2nd. Oh, FFS! I just won $620! I never used to bet, so this, and the place money for the bet I placed on our horse, and separate win money I put on Roger’s, in my betting account, and another winning bet, meant for a $40 outlay for the day, I took home close to $1000!

Gave H a big congrats! And hug.

Weird. We were once so close.

Then the editor of the national race form guide came over and thanked me for subscribing! WTAF? How weird. I know him. And I just renewed my subscription the day before. They must be struggling. Really odd. But kinda nice, too?

BG was still giving me stick.

For saying the wrong name.

Then, I doubled down on the “betrayal” by backing my ex’s horse! Lord! I took him into town, for lunch. My shout.

Of course, I see Roger’s wicked older sister. Can this day get any worse? Lol.

Driving home, over the back roads due to the detour, my fertiliser spreader rang. “Just in TA now, can I bring your load to do today, on my way home?”

“Sure, on my way home now, have some fences to wind up, and will unlock the road gate for you.”

Arrived home, quick change, my barman and I strode over the paddocks to wind up the fences I’d carefully erected that morning, and shifted the portable water trough out of the fert truck’s way, and opened the road gate. Just in time for the wee spreading truck to pull in.

My enormous 3.5 hectares, done for the autumn.

Back, to re-erect fences, and lock road gate, then off to the movies.

Home, chill, checking whether Covid suffering brother, isolating in the barn, needs anything, food? Cooked dinner. Roasted pumpkin for pumpkin soup tomorrow. Bed.

No sleep.

My brain is whirling.

I know the barman is never going to let me forget I called him by Roger’s surname! I have never done anything like that, in the three years (this week) that we have been seeing each other. I know it is in part, that I worry I will run into him. My panic was running my brain. Dammit.

The worst part for me is, I think BG knew it. Previously, I have hidden my trauma and panic far better. Except for the third time I had to see Rog, after he left. At our youngest’s 21st. One year and eight months after he ran to that cunt’s town, and dumped me, leaving me to deal with a completely shattered heart and life, and to fight the cervical cancer he caused, alone. I was panicking that day, as I thought the cunt was coming to my property, and I was trying to be cool, chill, not-at-all-fazed, for my daughter. It was early days of BG, and I wasn’t expecting him. He showed up, and calmly sorted looking after people, pouring drinks, serving food, chatting to people he’d never met, and directing them to the facilities, as I dealt with a water problem, meaning I didn’t wear what I planned, or do my hair, lol.

I am grateful. So very grateful for this man. This support. And I do feel terrible about the name mix up. I know he’s fine, having a laugh at my expense, but still! Why am I like this???


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Kiddos

Dinner with my little (23 year old!) girl last night. Delayed Mothers’ Day catch up. She had delivered boutique gin and gorgeous earrings on Sunday. From them all. I just cooked a chook, roasties and a rocket salad.

We talked. She’s having a rough time the last few days. An overthinking, anxiety suffering woman, we talk a lot. I try to ensure I just listen, only offering advice if invited.

Definitely jaded. Definitely affected by our split. Quite despondent about men, in general. I try to encourage her to realise that not all men are like her father. But she is seeing a lot of the entitled behaviour of men. Patriarchy in action. And her current boyfriend is reasonably on board with his own, and her needs, but not yet nailing communication.

If anyone ever really does!

It makes me hurt, seeing how she has been affected. I know she has zero respect for Roger, and contempt for Trinket. I can’t change that. I don’t talk EVER about them, with her. I wanted to know if her sperm donor got in touch any of the recent times he’s been up here, but didn’t. I steer well clear these days.

She’s been really messed up by his behaviour. I understand. I had the same experience as her, just a few years younger.

Serial cheating fathers do a number on us.

Like me, I guarantee my kids would swear they were fine.

Not affected whatsoever.

I thought I had it sussed, too.

Anxiety is one of the mental health issues we know can be caused, or at least exacerbated, by parental infidelity.

She saw me fighting so hard to heal from his affair with my friend.

And to see him do it again, after seeing the agony he caused then, it blew her mind.

She has zero respect for him. And I see that her eye rolls dismiss the whore he left us for as a total cunt.

I see how she is affected. Because I know her path. I’ve walked it, too.

Years later, and after some therapy meant to put a finger on my anxiety, my therapist explained that my father’s cheating had a huge impact on my childhood, which of course I knew, but she surprised me when she linked his infidelity to my anxiety today.

I told my father.

We were happy kids, dammit!

He definitely doesn’t think it affects me now. He says I’m fine, that I need to just calm down. I have a house, and great kids, a good job, a husband who loves me. I’m totally fine! He did his job!

I don’t fully trust my husband

A father is the first man a little girl trusts. He is the first man she loves and the first man to teach her about the love of a man. You’ve heard this all before. She believes in everything he says and every man that comes after him will be measured against him. But what if he’s good to his daughter, but not good to his wife?

What happens when the daughter of a serial cheater becomes a wife?

Not only did my father not hide his infidelities, but as I grew older, he shared his theories on why men cheat. The one that sticks out the most is a common excuse used by cheating men— if a woman is not giving her husband sex on the regular, he will go get it elsewhere. My father claimed to be telling me this to help me, so that it wouldn’t happen to me.

Looking back on it now, I believe he told me these things to convince himself that he was only doing what was natural, so that he wouldn’t have to face the very real fact that he was hurting his family.

I went out into the world believing that sex=loved. I gave myself over to a string of losers, thinking that as long as I did what they wanted, they would love me.

Guess what? They cheated on me anyway.”

Yup. I agree.

Just this week, my daughter fainted at work. She’s a slight girl. Always been little. Is a grazer. I have an anorexic niece, and I have watched my smallest kid, quietly, but like a hawk. She has pernicious anaemia, and watches her nutrition. Eats well, but grazes, rather than eats like a horse.

She was asked by her boss if they should be worried about her eating. She was mortified.

That said, I know weight is a touch point when your father is a cheater. I always felt overweight when I was with slim Rog. My curves were a daily fight for me. I hated my post baby body.

I constantly worry about my weight

Another one of my father’s theories for why men cheat, is that women get fat when they settle down. They stop taking care of themselves. Because of this, my mother would constantly try to find ways to have him validate her. She’d see an overweight woman cross in front of our car and she’d ask him if that’s how she looks (she never did). My father would laugh and assure her that she was nowhere near the size of that woman. My mother would lift her head and feel good all day at the expense of that poor woman who unknowingly crossed our toxic path. This happened a lot. It didn’t matter that my mother didn’t look like that woman, he still cheated.

So, it doesn’t matter how many times my husband assures me that he loves my curves, because of my father’s infidelity, I still wonder if my husband will leave me if and when I get too fat.

I know my mother felt this pressure, too.

Not thin enough.

Not pretty enough.

Not sexy enough.

Not clever enough.

Not wealthy enough.

Not good enough.

Not enough.

I love my kids. And I see the eldest ignore, or suck it up.

I was her.

She didn’t see what he did to me. She wasn’t there the night he knocked me out cold because I called him out on fucking his whore in my house. She is closer to her father than either of the others.

I get it. I see the varying degrees my brothers and I have tolerance for/relationships with, our cheating father.

But, selfish people will always be selfish people.

Roger never thought of consequences when he was desperately getting his dick wet in strange.

Not to him.

Not to me.

Certainly not to our kids.

He would never have thought or cared about how much damage he did. To this day, he would deny it.

Underplay it.

He’s a great guy, remember?

And Trinket is just a terrible person. Who didn’t give a fuck that I existed. That I loved him entirely. That I sacrificed for him because I adored him.

That our children believed he was sorry for his cheating, too.


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Flowers. Happy. Simple.

I completely forgot to tell BG that I had ordered flowers to be sent to BG’s Mum. Oops!

For Mother’s Day. Tomorrow.

He messaged me. “Did u send Mum flowers??”

Oh shit! Did I overstep a mark?

Apparently, in the retirement village she lives in, she was quite chuffed. Telling him they are stunning, delivered in a huge vase, “the biggest, most beautiful ones there.”

Bragging rights amongst the other mothers who live there. 😜😄🤣

We talked later. I checked it was okay to do that. He roared laughing.

“Okay? It’s incredibly thoughtful, you made her day. I’m so, so grateful. That’s so kind, you’re amazing. I’m useless, would have rung her, but terrible at that stuff. Have been spoiled by my sisters always covering for me. Sorry babe.  I’m so chuffed you’ve made my Mum really happy.”

It’s me. I’ve been trained to care. I’m good at it, lol.

He took me out for a very posh dinner. After going to the local rugby club to present two sponsored jerseys. First game of the season today.

He said, “you’ve lost your Mum, I so appreciate that you care for mine.”

Yeah. There is some of that. Then, as I lost Roger, I lost his sassy Mum, too. I was two for two. Nan was my mother figure for thirty years. A clever, funny woman, who was a wonderful MIL and grandmother. Not soft. But fun. Intelligent. Could sometimes be cutting. I loved her. I loved her strength, and her take no prisoners attitude. But the kids saw another side to Nan. She adored her seven grandies. Lots of Nan adventures were had by all. They all loved her back. Immensely.

I never really had much of a Mothers’ Day. Duck shooting meant I never saw Rog alone. The WAGs are invited to the maimai on Sunday night. But it’s kind of a token move really. I did my usual spackle. “It’s okay. I’m not your mother.”

So. Happy Mothers Day to you, N (BG’s mum’s name is the same as my fairly uncommon middle name! Weird.) Hope you enjoy your day. I know your kids all love you. I know they backed you 💯% when their father fucked off on you in your late 60s, for his thirty year affair floozy.

Simple, thoughtful touches can make a big difference to people’s lives.

Just as easily as complicated, thoughtless things can, too!

So glad I made a small, positive step for someone today.

Happy Mothers’ Day to those who celebrate. Thinking of those of you who this day is painful for.


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Celebrate success

BG’s stepdaughter just graduated with her Masters.

He downplays his relationship with her.

But he’s been in her life since before she started school.

He never lived with her. But he was in a relationship with her mother, off and on, for about 11 years. He was never in love with her mother, but was always there for them all. Especially the kids. Probably kept him “off and on” for too long. He has a good relationship these days with her mother.

We are still being careful about indoor events in Aotearoa. So, Linda (Mum) sent BG a link to watch the capping ceremony online.

It was last night.

I haven’t met the kids. He hasn’t been with their mother for well over a decade. But he’s understandably protective of them, and they don’t live near either of us. Their mother was hurt when they ended. He’s been careful not to compound that by introducing casual people.

The graduand is 25. She has asked him about his life now, and wants to meet me next time we are in her city. He told her I also have a Masters degree, in a similar field, and that he thinks we’d love to talk.

Eeek. I was so pleased he raced home from work to watch the ceremony. He sent me a screenshot. She had the most genuine smile, and I adored her korowai. I wasn’t actually aware of her Māori heritage, but asked BG whose korowai it was. An aunt’s.

An example of a korowai. Often used in graduation ceremonies.

Lord. Love her already. I asked him to congratulate her mum. She’s a battling single mum, who fought hard in a small, drug riddled town for those kids. What a fabulous thing this “kid” has done.

And I also said he must be proud. He played his role down. It was mostly remote. But he helped. Small. But financially, and with texts and encouragement, he’s always been there. Emily has sent him Father’s Day texts every year I’ve known him. They keep in touch. And recently an ILY text. He said that was a first. She’s not one to do that.

I just replied to his downplaying his role with, “you’ve been a part of the village that made this remarkable young woman, who has beaten the odds. Be proud. Of her. She is pretty fabulous.”

I think he liked my reaction.

I get it. First Class Honours, and is taking a gap year, to then enrol in a PhD.

Clever sausage. She is inspiring.


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Heavy loads

I have the most fabulous friend.

Well, many, actually!

But this legend, is English, a vet nurse, an incredible mum, married to a lovely English vet. Senior partner in a large veterinary practice.

As well as running a large lifestyle property, raising three truly wonderful young women (just turned 11-15) she is a totally fabulous cook, who also bakes unbelievably. Better than any posh cafe. She does small scale catering, makes amazing, rustic wedding cakes, and used to also work with me.

She’s had a REALLY tough year. Away from family, no chance of going home to deal with aging, ailing parents and parents in law, with our very hardline border control during Covid, her middle daughter, often remotely learning from home after a tough diagnosis of autism (high achieving family, but loving and accepting, there were so many nuances) her eldest daughter was diagnosed with an ovarian cyst at just 13. She’s recently had surgery, a really tough thing for a young, not sexually active woman.

Her husband just had a serious accident at work, large animal practice.

Last week, the youngest daughter inadvertently ran barefoot through an old bonfire and has burnt her feet. She’s been in hospital since. Heavily sedated. Just home today. Nearly amputated both feet.

This kid! In enormous pain. But sucking it up!

S is amazingly resilient, but this is an enormous helping at the shit sandwich buffet.

I asked her to be real with me. What would help most. I know she refuses help.

I’m currently making an enormous moussaka, shopping to also provide a Greek salad and good bread. Will also do a beef cheek casserole. They are every day at hospital, an hour plus away, next week. More debriding. Monitoring. Dressing changes.

Women are fucking incredible. We really are.


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Swamped

I haven’t had 5 minutes to breathe this week.

Blogging has been neglected.

And honestly? It was a super shit week. I got really insecure and unhappy. A longish period of separation from my barman, a huge workload, and exhaustion. I don’t drink coffee, but have required caffeine for the past four years, since being cast out into the world. Dumped. I haven’t slept through the night even once since the first Dday, almost thirteen years ago.

It’s been worse since Rog left.

I’ve given up caffeinated drinks for two weeks, and I didn’t realise they even affected me until now. I’m shattered. Totally exhausted.

I’ve gained quite a lot of weight, and this is all part of trying to address that.

But. The root of my wobbles this week has sadly been about BG.

I have tried so very hard not to get too entangled in this. My value. My happiness. My peace of mind. Etc. They are not predicated on how some man feels about me.

But. Yeah. But.

He was distant this week. Not one good morning text. I often “go first.”

So I stopped.

And got nothing.

I know he’s under a fair amount of pressure at work. And close to resigning. He waivers. Trying to weigh up income against peace of mind! I get that.

So, I’m chill.

I’ve always been the “chill chick.” The “low maintenance” partner. Norm used to praise me for it. So much better than those “other” high maintenance women, right? 🤦‍♂️

So I have identified that I am a people pleaser. Smoothing everything. Good at life admin.

And I refuse to be pushed into that role again. So I stopped communicating. I guess I also thought he’d call, and we could talk, face to face. I wasn’t prepared to tell him via text.

Nah. That would be too hard. No one has time to solve problems!

He started texting, “you okay?” I eventually just replied. Yeah okay. Let’s catch up soon.

So, we caught up last night. He was super thrilled to see me, took me out to dinner, and covered me in kisses.

And we talked.

I admitted that it had been a tough couple of weeks. Work was hell. And I felt needy, and I’m not really that needy usually. But I felt neglected by him.

He apologised, saying he was clueless. Until late in the piece. Didn’t realise I was doing the emotional heavy lifting. He agreed that I was, and says he wants to do better.

Hmm. I’m appreciative of the words. They’re good words. He listened well, didn’t deflect or deny.

But I’ve heard lots of words over the decades. From another man. Who sounded sincere. Sorry. Who was going to do better.

And did nothing better. Kept lying, cheating, gaslighting. Continued to ensure he had cake.

So. I will be watching actions here. Very closely.

Being insecure is awful. I ruminate on what I was told in the past (by Rog, of course) if I showed any sign of doubt. That I was imagining things. That he loved me more than he could ever love anyone. That I was his anchor. Post Leanne: He’d never let me down again.

Ugh.

And I also thought about the Happiness Trope.

BG said he is very happy. The most content he’s ever been. He wants this. He’s working his way to be with me. Am I sure? SURE??? That I want to be with him?

He’s dying to introduce me to the daughter of a previous girlfriend. He was around from when she was quite little. I consider her his stepdaughter. She’s 25 now, and doing just completed her Masters degree. Taking a break, working, before embarking on a PhD. Her job is at the large hospital just 15-20 minutes from my home. She has asked to meet me. He’s never introduced a partner to the kids before. I’m flattered. He showed me a text from her last night that he received during dinner. She was gutted she’s going to miss meeting me, as he’s coming over to mine for the weekend (boys’ golf) and he wanted to introduce me, but she’s away at her Mum’s for the weekend. She signed off, “Love you.”

BG was quietly chuffed. Says she never says ILY. Not that kind of woman. Not the kind of thing she does. The words meant a lot.

So, happiness. He’s the happiest he’s ever been. At least so he says. In regards to a relationship.

Bet he says that to everyone. Right?

Because Rog constantly told me that. I’m sure he tells Trinket the same thing. Every damn day. How much happier he is.

Because I was such a bitch.

Yeah. That super chill partner. That low maintenance, happy girl. I’m a right bitch.

And then, the Happiness Trope. That he rolled out. About How We Were So Unhappy!

Um. What???

Shit. Did I miss something?

I didn’t get the We Were So Unhappy Memo.

I was fine. Life had ups and downs. Because, life. Definitely felt happy and secure in my life with and love for Rog.

Until AFTER Dday. Then yeah. I was pretty damn unhappy.

You get that, when your significant other is fucking your friend, in your homes, with your children present, while on family holidays.

Et cetera.

To try to distort history. It’s called gaslighting.

Apparently, WE were so unhappy. And the solution to that joint unhappiness was to put his dick repeatedly in (and out, and back in again) our “friend.”

Silly me.

Of course that makes everything better.

The stories that whore must believe about me. I know him and his flying monkeys have bad mouthed me so badly to her. That chill girl, who was really a total monster. Makes Trinket try harder. Pick up the pace of the pick me polka. Yum. CAKE!

As Chump Lady points out (because cheaters are all the damn same!)

And guess what, they’re probably pulling the same shit on the affair partner. Oh, my marriage makes me so unhappy, but I must stay for the children! I am a noble slave to convention! Woe! And the affair partner goes, I will PROVE to you that I can make you happy! I can control your destiny! I can WIN!”

I’m so aware and accepting that you can’t change the narrative that the team Rog crew settled on.

But that doesn’t stop it hurting. To have been close friends with people for thirty plus years, and for you to have supported them through awful life events, loved them. Invested in their lives and families. For them to cut you off? Yeah, that’s some stone cold shit.

So yeah. A few days off the blogging. But everything I feel is still there. The wallpaper of my life.