Anxious attachment

This is a good explanation of how trauma bonds form.

We did some brief work with a counsellor who used EFT. She first identified Roger’s anxious attachment style.

And that I had grown up with a secure attachment style.

I now have anxious attachment as well, since his come here, go away treatment since I discovered his cheating.

This is due to his unpredictable reward or punishment reactions. He’s withdraw affection, then pour it on. I never knew what was going on, especially in those last few years.

The years I now know he was online dating.

If he wasn’t getting kibbles from the online hookup women, he’d love bomb me.

If he waa getting his ego boosted by them, he’d pull away. I never knew what I was doing wrong. He was erratic. However, if I talked about separation, he’d pull me close and promise me the world.

It’s telling that the exact wording he used to justify his affair with Leanne – that started just a few months after I took my first off farm job in seventeen years (we had worked shoulder to shoulder all those years) – was that I had abandoned him.

Abandoned him.

By going to my paid employment five days a week.

It was unsettling, this pull me in, push me away stuff. I started to doubt myself. My own boundaries. What was I doing to cause this behaviour? It must be me, right?

No. It never was. It was his childhood stuff. His inability to self soothe. He used sex and affection for that. I now know why he liked so much sex. It wasn’t because I’m irresistible. (Damn! Lol.)

It was because he used my desire for him to soothe himself. To reassure himself that he was loved.

I remember feeling so much empathy for that little boy. The one whose Mum was depressed and showed her love erratically.

Come here. Go away.

And now, having experienced all of the Roger’s love dysfunction of telling me I’m the love of his life, then complete discard, with BG withdrawing to lick his wounds, I’m triggered I know what it is. He doesn’t want to “bother” me.

I told him last night that he’s doing this thing. That he is all over me when I need support. But refusing to accept mine. He’s scared I’ll judge him as weak if he accepts my love and support when he’s obviously struggling with stuff.

It’s making me extremely anxious.

I have identified it, though. And am trying to communicate.

So far, he’s not buying in. Still holding himself to a “higher standard.” I told him that’s not really okay. That I’m not the only one who’s allowed problems.

He’s never had a partner who is there for him. He’s always had to survive alone. He doesn’t know how to allow my support. Too scary.

Fuck.

Men.

And their fucking ideas that they have to solve everythung alone.

Conversations with my staff

We had a couple of cancellations this morning. Winter hitting. Sick kids. Etc.

Being a Saturday morning, I wasn’t going to ask my skin therapist to do anything extra. She’s done all her cleaning and online learning. We had some good chats. We’ve become pretty close. Not inappropriately so. Just a nurturing relationship really.

It’s her one year anniversary with her boyfriend. He’s taking her to one of our best restaurants for dinner tonight. He’s a good lad. Seems really genuine.

And she shared her experience in contracting two STIs, from an ex.

So mad at him. He never informed her, but knew he had chlamydia and herpes.

Shared.

Ugh.

Of course, my memories have been swirling around my brain ever since.

Ugh.

Going to my gynaecologist to get a full STI screen after Leanne. Mid 40s. Mother of three teens whom I had been fastidious about educating about sexual health and keeping themselves safe. One sexual partner ever. My “life” partner.

She gently asked me why I felt the screening was necessary. The tears silently ran down my cheeks as I explained that my darling had been having an affair.

And that he had not used protection. That he was really angry at me when I said I was getting tested. Said I was trying to make out that Leanne was some kind of filthy whore. (I didn’t get that whole protect her honour bullshit even then!)

Um.

No comment there. I actually was just aware that she was a mid 40s single woman, who had had “several” sexual partners before Rog.

He screamed at me, “she’s meticulously clean and hasn’t been sleeping with anyone else!”

Jesus. Yeah, you can sanitise STIs away, Rog…

Okay. But I wasn’t meaning anything other than you didn’t use protection, I didn’t give consent to sleep with anyone other than you, and I believed you weren’t sleeping with anyone else. We both need to get tested.

He refused.

And was really, really angry with me.

I went. Got tested.

Cried. Ugh.

My gynaecologist was lovely. She said I was strong AF. That she was super proud of me. And that he was a pretty terrible person to put me at risk like that.

Another betrayed relates her experience with her doctor when she had to get tested…

Get tested. The doctor who did mine vented with me and called him a low life POS. It was actually a good experience.

Yeah. I got two infections. One eventually led to my cervical cancer. Despite loads of monitoring. I’m free and clear for nearly five years now. So thankful.

But it’s another layer to the trauma I found I was buried in after he was caught cheating. One of my worst fears, as the daughter of a closeted, married (to a woman) gay man who was outed in the AIDS era was getting an STI. It had a very real effect on me. I was adamant I would NEVER put myself at risk of contracting an STI. I never had sex with anyone but Rog in my life.

Trauma is an interesting, lingering beast. We can heal ourselves. Do the mahi. Be mindful. And grateful. But the trauma never fully leaves you. You just learn to manage it. To carry it in a safer position in your life than in the beginning when it keeps blowing up in your face.

Cake

Around this time of the year (my first DDay was the 16th of May) I find myself recalling that horrific period in my life. It never goes away that trauma.

One minute I was in a multiple decade long, wonderfully fulfilling love story. Truth. Loyalty. Companionship. Passion. Best friends. Loads of commonalities. Tons of laughter. Three kids. Three intimate births. Three babymoons. Four lost pregnancies. He was the centre of my happy world.

Then BAM!

My darling was a lying, cheating stranger!

It felt like a nightmare I was sure I must be about to wake up from soon.

Not Norm.

Not my love.

Not my best mate.

Not the man I adored and never thought for a moment was capable of cheating on me. He loved me. He told me every day. We were super affectionate. We snuggled together on the couch every single night. He never walked past me without touching me. We kissed all the time.

What the fuck was this alternate universe???

But, he had been living a secret double life for at least a year and a half. As I drove out every morning, after we’d kissed goodbye, he’d be immediately texting or on the phone to his AP, Leanne. Often driving up to see her, or planning a dirty little rendezvous in our children’s beds, or the maimai. Anywhere they could.

So. When the affair was exposed, and he professed his profound shame and deep love for me, of course, he stopped any contact with Leanne, right?

Riiiiiiiight

No. No, he did not end contact with her.

I begged him to starve her of oxygen. Change his number. Never reply to her texts. Just stop.

But no.

Rog knew best. He “needed” to manage her.

Which meant lots more contact.

Now I know it was just cake. He didn’t want to put down the fork. The Leanne-Paula layer cake was just too delicious to leave.

I’m so mad at myself. I instinctively knew it was not okay. But, the most-stubborn-man-in-the-world knew a better way.

It utterly destroyed any last sliver of trust I may have been hanging on by.

Two years later, after he fucked her again, he admitted he was wrong in not changing his number.

But the reality is that cheaters are entitled. They think they can make up their own rules. The frission of two women “wanting” him. Too good to pass up.

I doubt he realised it at the time. But I think there’s a lot in that.

I dunno. I’ve never had two men wanting me at once. I’m far too loyal for that shit, to be honest.

And I thought about Trinket. What the fuck was she thinking? A partnered man. A proven cheater. Having yet another affair. Seems legit. I’d hook up with one of those.

In about, oh, NEVER!

Materialities of home

A big part of my Masters research was about emotional geographies and materialities of home.

Construction and deconstruction of.

Through the lens of romantic relationships.

It was hard.

But incredible.

And my darling friend, a long term blogger who posts far less these days, but who I have had a really wonderful connection with for a very long time, framed my recent itchy discomfort of seeing “stuff” – materialities – that I shared with Roger, ruined by his terrible misfortune in being flooded in February, in a really healthy way.

Rog took a lot of stuff from our home as he was transferring his love for me to Trinket. It was utter agony, arriving home after work some days, to find he was gone and he’d packed yet another trailer with “stuff” to take to his new wife appliance.

I tried not to react. To stress.

But, internally, as our home slowly emptied, I was panicking.

Eventually, I realised that most of what he took was not “the good stuff.” Much of what he chose to take was the crap we had as young, super poor kids.

There were some things I valued. Some lovely family furniture. It made sense that his family pieces went with him. Even though I loved them.

The only big (to me) “things” I was silently upset about were a side table my mother’s husband made for us and my chef’s knives.

Meh. That’s pretty marvellous, right? After 31 years of love, passion, and connection. To only be a bit concerned about those. I tried to be really rational about the “stuff.”

I had really fucked up emotions about our first “new” bed I researched and purchased, in the 80s. It was state of the art at the time. The most expensive “adult” purchase I had made to date. Recycled native timber, made from the pews from a dismantled church in Canterbury, and wrought iron.

So passé. But yeah, it seemed “classy” at the time.

Our two younger children were no doubt conceived in this bed. There are dozens of photos of our kids in this bed. Two homebirth babymoons, with co-sleeping, etc….

And he fucked both Leanne and Trinket in it, in my home.

So, much as I was deeply emotionally attached to the symbolism, I knew it was better that he took that taint out of my new home…

The post flood, silted up home photos showed cheap artwork. And that bed.

It’s something that there is no way of explaining to anyone. That emotional geography of home.

Both “our” home, and his.

This is what my friend wrote. And it helped me immensely.

I’m half glad it’s not in his space anymore, because it’s already lost to you and he had no right to have it after such a shitty discard so it being gone from his world… he finally has to deal with his world without the touches that Paula put on his world

What a lovely take on an uncomfortable situation.

I’ll never understand Trinket. Doing this to a loyal, loving partner. Why? How did she give herself permission to fuck a longterm partnered father and the love of someone else’s life?

I know his shit is something else. But her? So fucked up.

We

Happy Mother’s Day to those who celebrate.

I read the below this morning, and it hit me hard.

Rog did this when “we” were communicating in the early days.

He never once said I. Or me. It was always we.

And yeah, it stung. Ached like a motherfucker! But, I quickly realised this was his anxious attachment bullshit. He cannot be alone. He has never been alone. I didn’t realise it at 20, when I met him. But that’s how knowing someone five weeks, I moved in so fast with him. Love bombed. I mean, he’d been online dating Trinket three weeks when he decided she was The One.

Everything was about her. Them. He tried to get her to move to the region we were looking at real estate together in. When he realised he wasn’t going to get her out of her home region, he was moving to her. Like, immediately shifted his entire focus from our farm, our life, and started being a couple in her town.

It was bizarre to watch, I can tell you!

One minute, he was telling me I was his everything. He couldn’t live without me. And zap! Next, he’s entirely entangled in a stranger’s life.

We are going here. We like this. We are planning that. We’ll be there then.

Knifing me with every exchange.

Now, I’m fine with it. Because I see what he was doing. Whether it was deliberate or not, he was hurting me. But it quickly made me see who he is. I asked myself, who is this man I’ve loved and been incredibly loyal to my entire adult life? Oh, right, he’s a parasite.

He clings onto the first available host.

Seriously. This was the first in a long series of women he online dated, who swallowed the bait! There had been a string of them before her who had nibbled, bit spat him out, as I found out later.

He starts to wither and die without a partner to feed his ego.

I felt really sad for him then. Anyone who can’t be happily single is pretty vulnerable, eh?

I love my alone time. But I also see that it is a fairly gendered thing. Trained to serve, I love being responsible for no other human’s wellbeing.

For example, BG arrived late last night and hadn’t eaten. So, what do I do? Make him some dinner. And yeah. That irked me. Not so much that I did it. More that I felt the “need” to. Bad habits die hard.

Roger hasn’t ever been single his entire adult life. Partnered at 18, he left her to go on his OE. He met a girl the day he arrived in London. Abd waa with her the entire time he lived there.

When he arrived home, new girlfriends. When I met him, I was led to believe he had been single for a while. But I now know he was still fucking his ex – Leanne! – from time to time. He fucked her again just weeks after meeting me, when he was love bombing the shit outta me with daily contact, dates, hand picked flowers, etc. I backed off then, thinking we’d had a summer fling, and he was not available as anything more.

He pursued. Love bombing me into his arms. Ugh. I thought I was so emotionally intelligent, and had worked him out.

Five years later, when he insisted I needed to do an OE, to the point of paying half my airfare, and I left, he was serially fucking his way through our town. I was only gone six months. He shagged every available woman he could in that time. I mean, go him. That’s fine. But he had one “permanently” on call during that time, too. A fuck buddy/FWB. He knew she was a bit obsessed with him.

It wasn’t very kind.

This is who he is. An anxiously attached old dude, who is so good at this. He appears like he has his shit together but is incredibly needy. He earnestly told me, when I discovered his 18 month long affair with Leanne that he felt abandoned by me.

Because I got my first off farm job in over 17 years! That I had to get to pay the bills because he chose to sell our profitable farm for a new challenge, which made no financial sense!

Ugh. It’s infuriating watching the person you loved with every fibre of your being, love bombing someone else with the intensity he had you.

And unbelievably painful. To live with and love someone who immediately starts referring to a stranger as “we.”

There wasn’t even a second of me. Or I. Or my.

Pretty pathetic, huh?

Gunfire. Triggered

I was up, shifting my stock this morning before dawn. Before work.

And as the sun started peeping out, barrages of shotgun fire filled the stillness.

Mallards flew overhead, and several landed in my paddocks.

To say I was triggered is an understatement.

This was my life for over three decades. The lead up to duck shooting season. And the roar (deerstalking high season.) Such is the way of the hunting widow.

And the mind movies returned.

Of Rog using our maimai to fuck Leanne in. His mate’s duck caller as a sex toy, inserting it inside her.

That place.

I tried to reclaim it after he desecrated it with her presence.

We spent a few “romantic” nights there. He cooked me a Spanish smokey flavoured pork dish.

He never cooked.

But he did then. Love bombing me.

Fire blazing. Making love on the floor in front of it…we were wild, him and I…

Death by a thousand cuts

Living with your cheater – your person, but someone who has been body snatched, and there’s this new, evil presence in your house, who looks like, smells like, sounds like, your beloved, but who in fact is just the outer skin shell of your person – is utter hell.

Zero stars.

Do not recommend.

He still snuggled with me on the couch. Rubbed my feet. Lay his head on my tummy. Stroked my thigh. Made intense love to me. Engaged with me with dirty, flirty messages occasionally.

I was desperately trying to find a way to detach. But my broken heart was jagged on the skin suit. Maybe I could ride the body invasion out. Exorcize the demon, Trinket.

And then my Snooks, my Bear, would return.

Stupid. I know.

Other betrayeds have lived this hell…

I have always felt this was far worse than death.

If he’d died, I’d have mourned my soulmate. My one true love.

Instead, my entire thirty plus year love story has proven to be a lie. None of it was ever real.

Ingrid tried to get me to say that there were good times.

But there weren’t.

Because it all meant absolutely nothing to him.

Whereas I valued us. I  would never have given up on us.

He just fell into the next available vagina. Detached. While keeping me on the bench, just in case his new star player got injured or signed with another team….

Gender and sex

Having that complicated talk with Ingrid at the weekend has had me thinking a lot about sex. And gender. And abuse. And “needs.”

I knew I was quite fragile about sex. My upbringing, my birth order and gender (first born, only daughter) in my FOO, my late onset puberty, being a year ahead of my age group at school, and my gender in a time when gendered roles were encouraged and boundaries drawn around them (read, gendered judgements about sexuality were made!) Meant that I didn’t have sex young.

I’m very sexual. I love sex. I have few judgements around sexual conduct. If it’s consensual and of age, go for it. Nothing is really out of bounds for me, as long as it’s safe and everyone is genuinely enjoying themselves!

Because I was a latecomer to actually having sex, doesn’t mean I was against it. I just never really had an offer, lol.

Well, kinda. I did date my first love, off and on, for several years, and we could never “do it” because he was huge, and I just found it far too agonisingly painful.

We tried!

In hindsight, I may have suffered from vaginismus.

So, the violent, bloody, tearing me in two rape was traumatic.

My fears about huge dicks were real. And BG’s was terrifying when I first saw it! I know most heterosexual women joke about this stuff. But my fear was genuine.

And I thought about how I constructed my sexual and “partner” identity. To please Rog.

I was the low maintenance partner. I loved whatever we did, sexually. But yeah, I could have gone further. I suggested it a few times, rather timidly, really. But he wasn’t interested. He’s a wonderful lover. Really far sexier than the initial vibe you get from looking at him. Physically very tall, lean, with gorgeously broad shoulders and a great arse. He gives. He knows where all my buttons are. After all, he pretty much installed them, lol!

So today, when BG called me from work and talked with me for around an hour, I felt seen. Heard. Appreciated. Valued. Supported.

Yeah, we don’t have the sexual connection Roger and I did. But we have a hell of a lot of upside. I even asked him that. We were skirting around Ingrid’s conversation with me. I don’t want to betray her confidence, but BG knows they are far from vanilla with their sex life. And I just mentioned that Ingrid is feeling quite concerned about their boundaries at the moment. I didn’t say sub/dom, etc. Just general relationship boundaries. He listened. And asked if he should have a generic chat with his bestie, Andy. Along the lines of, “is your relationship okay, mate?” But he knew I was hinting at their sexual boundaries, and her sexual trauma.

I love that he listened. And didn’t judge. And asked my opinion on whether he should offer assistance/an ear.

Later, discussing my financial/business challenges, he offered some advice.

Then apologised, claiming it was his fault.

It’s not.

And I replied, apologising for landing in this predicament.

I apologise a lot. Ugh.

But he’s worse, lol.

And I said, “I just don’t want to be a rescue case. You don’t need to feel you have to rescue me. Because, darling, I know you try to rescue people. Your kindness is noted. Your people know this about you. I know this about you. You like to rescue people.”

And he replied, “I’m not, babe. Yrah, I like to help. But in this case, you’re amazing, really. Independent as all hell. I don’t see you that way at all. I just know I want to support you however I can.”

And then we talked. Are we okay? I’m happy with who he is and how kind and caring he is. Is he happy? He replied with, I’m super happy. I know you need more from me. But I’m really, really thrilled with who you are, and how lucky I am to be with you. I’m kinda stunned I got this so late in life. I’ve never felt this way before, and didn’t think I was ever going to.

He never says directly, you need more from me sexually. But I know that’s what he means.

I’ll take who he is, any day, over the fiery passion I experienced with Rog. It’s a hard trade some days, I’ll admit that. But man, what did I do to deserve such a gem? He told me I’m not being a burden. My problems are his to share.

Previously, I could never really have problems.

Because I was the low maintenance, chill, easy, supportive partner.

I get it now. Roger needs to rescue the damsel in distress. But that was never me. That was the other women.

I tried to lessen any needs I might have to make life easier for him.

I never wanted to be “too much.”

And instead, ended up being “not good enough,” in his eyes.

Can’t bloody win, right? 🤦‍♀️😜

Crawling out

I haven’t felt this desperate about my life choices in a long time.

So, the positive feedback I received this week at my networking group was super appreciated.

My team and I finally smashed all of our monthly targets this month.

That sounds great, right?

Except BG and I have crunched the numbers and the franchisor has set targets which for this month are essentially half of my break even needs 🙄

Anyway, I shouted the team a pizza lunch on Friday, and that was appreciated. I stay positive in public. They have no idea how precarious things are, of course.

And my latest feel good is the net promoter score feedback. Getting some great comments, but it’s such a roller coaster because tonight, a membership cancellation.

I need to buy some groceries. But, unlicensed, I can’t drive to pick them up, and can’t afford them…how did I get here?

Tonight, I will eat frozen dumplings. Not too bad, but definitely getting a bare cupboard.

Last night, Ingrid stayed. It was lovely having company. But we both drank too much. Over half a bottle of single malt. Weirdly, although I knew I had drunk too much, I didn’t feel at all drunk. We talked and talked and talked. She trusted me to tell me about her and Andy’s non-vanilla, sub-dom sex life. She says she’s never told anyone before. I already knew they pushed the monogamy boundaries, ethically. But she thought no one knew. However, I don’t think anyone knows the full story/their specific kinks, and she shared.

She was severely and long term multiply sexually abused from the age of 11. She told me about it all. I admit I am amazed at her relative functionality as it was really a very disturbing childhood into young adulthood. She told me she was immediately drawn to me when BG brought me into the circle. That despite my “Cinderellaness” that BG thought (one lover ever, never really done drugs, etc) that she knew I got it. Non-judgmental. Open, accepting, head screwed on right. I told her about the first real, deep sexual conversation I had with BG on our way home from a party weekend at their house after Ingrid had flirted heavily with me that night. I wasn’t upset. More flattered really. She giggled and said, “oh funny. I bet he freaked out a bit.

Kinda, lol.

I just met these people. We were in a very new relationship. Just months in. I had been with one man only. Ever. Before him. And I asked him about his sexual fantasies and kinks. Was he into more than two? I wasn’t freaked out, just interested if this was a “thing” with this group of lifetime friends.

Definitely not! He was great, actually. Just said he has no desire to be in a sexual situation with his mate’s dick – or wife, lol – involved. He’s not into sharing either his, nor my bodies with anyone else. That he had participated in threesomes before. But they were spontaneous, drunken, anonymous. Way back in the younger, single days.

I have no problem with consensual ethical non-monogamy. Each to their own. Be safe.

So, 2am. We thought we better sleep.

I had work this morning. Lord. Hungover. Not good.

And tonight, having snoozed after watching our horse run 4th…dammit…I’m alone with my farting dogs! What have they eaten???Craving ice cream. Trying to rehydrate. Reflecting on how the hell Roger fucking his ex girlfriend in our daughter’s bed one night, got me here.

Talk about the Butterfly Effect!

Types of Intelligence

Found this….

“According to Psychologists, there are four types of Intelligence:

1) Intelligence Quotient (IQ)
2) Emotional Quotient (EQ)
3) Social Quotient (SQ)
4) Adversity Quotient (AQ)

1. Intelligence Quotient (IQ): this is the measure of your level of comprehension. You need IQ to solve maths, memorize things, and recall lessons.

2. Emotional Quotient (EQ): this is the measure of your ability to maintain peace with others, keep to time, be responsible, be honest, respect boundaries, be humble, genuine and considerate.

3. Social Quotient (SQ): this is the measure of your ability to build a network of friends and maintain it over a long period of time.

People that have higher EQ and SQ tend to go further in life than those with a high IQ but low EQ and SQ. Most schools capitalize on improving IQ levels while EQ and SQ are played down.

A man of high IQ can end up being employed by a man of high EQ and SQ even though he has an average IQ.

Your EQ represents your Character, while your SQ represents your Charisma. Give in to habits that will improve these three Qs, especially your EQ and SQ.

Now there is a 4th one, a new paradigm:

4. The Adversity Quotient (AQ): The measure of your ability to go through a rough patch in life, and come out of it without losing your mind.

When faced with troubles, AQ determines who will give up, who will abandon their family, and who will consider suicide.

Parents please expose your children to other areas of life than just Academics. They should adore manual labour (never use work as a form of punishment), Sports and Arts.

Develop their IQ, as well as their EQ, SQ and AQ. They should become multifaceted human beings able to do things independently of their parents.

Finally, do not prepare the road for your children. Prepare your children for the road.”

It says a lot, right?

About me. I have high IQ and EQ. But man, have I struggled with SQ and AQ! This fact has made me so mad at myself these past five years, especially.

I loved my people. I thought I had a solid, loyal group of friends. Until they had no empathy for my agony. My SQ must have been poor, right? Because my network disintegrated when I most needed it. I was abandoned in my hour of need by so many. That was devastating. I’m loyal as fuck. And don’t understand disloyalty.

So, dealing with adversity is obviously a problem for me. I know that about myself. I have low resilience. It sucks. I hate myself for it.

And I know hating myself is me being mean. To me. I know that was the root of my year or so of serious suicidal ideation and self-harm.

But reading it immediately had me thinking. About Rog. Where was he on these four scales? I think my long-term readers can place him.

And BG?

I am honestly so grateful for him right now. I’ve had a hellish week. Some personal stuff, I lost my license. Being pulled over was definitely my fault. No question. I took my car off cruise control on a speed limited rural road, (20kph lower than the open road speed limit – my daughter has been ticketed here, so I’m always cautious – well almost always…dammit) to overtake a horse truck doing 15kph less than the speed limit, then didn’t click it back on, on my way to work, thinking about how I solve this revenue problem and saw I was doing 12kph over the speed limit when a cop car approached. Fuck. Bugger. Dumbass.

I was definitely in the wrong.

However, it appears the police officer may have screwed up. He took my license, saying I had unpaid fines from 2020. An incident he described that rang no bells at all for me.

I was absolutely stunned. I had no notice (or any recollection!) about the supposed incident he described. I have had a speeding ticket since and was never informed of this then. After investigation yesterday, I was informed by the Ministry of Justice that there are no overdue fines against my name. WTAF?

I’m spending time I don’t have gathering information, etc, and BG’s been my rock, providing information and advice. I have no means of getting to work. I live rurally. My business is in the city, 25 minutes’ drive from my home – and the business is super tough. I may not last. The franchisor has fucked up. Even my mentor within the organisation is admitting that…

This morning, he’s driving over to drive me to and from work! I asked him not to put himself out. He’s frantically busy. I was supposed to go to him, I don’t have to return to work until Wednesday (long, long weekend) but no license. What a fuck up.

And I sat, sipping the beautiful single malt whiskey pictured above last night, thinking about how BG prioritizes me.

I feel so guilty. I fucked up. And he keeps supporting me. Keeps showing me he’s committed.

Roger never bloody did. I see that now. I would be feeling miserable, and he wouldn’t drop everything and come to me. The only time I remember feeling I was his priority was the day he saved me from suicide after DDay. The Leanne affair I was too stupid to see. When he found me in the woolshed and bundled me in a big duvet on a miserable, wet day and drove me around the farm in our ute to keep an eye on me as he worked shifting stock.

He left me to ambulance alone to the base hospital when I was in labour at the local birthing unit. To work.

He left me to work as I was in labour alone at home, with our second. Almost missing the birth, with no midwife or anyone present.

He was bored and read the newspaper as I laboured hard, birthing our youngest in a birthing pool at home. I remember feeling really disappointed in him then. So let down.

I worked tirelessly for him. I worked tirelessly on myself after he was exposed as a cheater. Including completing two degrees while I worked, parented, carried the whole domestic load and all the bookkeeping, bill paying, etc. I put myself out for decades, supporting him. I’d drive miles to pick him up if he’d had too much to drink. Or needed a hug. I loved him so damn much.

He never loved me enough ever, to put me first.

I can’t believe BG. And I’m feeling very grateful but very guilty for fucking up.

I realised all of this last night as I sat with that whiskey warming my insides.

And felt such a fool.

That I equated desire, passion – sexual chemistry – with love. I thought because he always wanted me physically, that he loved me.

Dumbass.