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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You think sharing your life with someone means you experience things similarly.

But, the reality is, everything that meant everything to me, meant nothing to you.

And, after over three decades together, that is mind blowing.

I tried to communicate clearly and honestly with you.

You continued to keep secrets and lie.

There was no mirroring. There was a completely different set of morals and goals.

No wonder I struggle with humans.

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Emotional pain is embodied.

I’ve never felt more intense physical pain than this emotional pain.

I just had a series of very bizarre dreams. But the weirdest one was at the end. More hyper real than the previous bizarre ones.

Trinket floated in (yes, like a ghost) and apologised for all the pain she has caused me.

Said she was ashamed of believing Roger. That slowly, his lies were revealed. That she recalled me saying we were not separated, that I was shocked and appalled at what he was doing with her, when I still loved him. That his love bombing of her blinded her to his lies, made her think I was the liar. She “forgot” what I told her, the pain in my eyes…

And my mind flashed back to the searing pain of reading a text he sent me, meant for her πŸ—‘πŸ”ͺπŸ—‘πŸ”ͺ

I felt a sense of calm. Of healing. And it was briefly soothing.

Strange thing to dream about after the dreams that preceded, about shootings, paranormal happenings, and supernatural creepiness.

I woke, prickling with sweat.

I wish the nightmares would end. So sick of them.


Therapy fails

Oh, where do I start here?!!!

I had been to therapy – briefly – as a young woman. But generally, felt pretty emotionally and mentally healthy. Had not felt the need for paid navel gazing again.

But I literally can’t count how many different therapists I have seen since my life partner, Roger, was exposed as a cheater!

Actually, Chump Lady asks us to raise a hand if we went to therapy with a cheater, πŸ™‹β€β™€οΈ two hands if we went not knowing they were cheating πŸ™‹β€β™€οΈπŸ™‹β€β™€οΈπŸ€¦β€β™€οΈ

My story kind of fits. Yeah. Cool.

While Roger spent 18 months fucking my childhood friend – and I never knew that he was having an affair – I did feel some kind of a shift.

We’d been together more than twenty years, three kids, built a life, worked so damn hard, and something had changed.

I couldn’t put my finger on it. So, I asked him.

Many times.

What is wrong?

“Nothing, Snooks. You’re imagining things.”

But the feeling never went away.

I asked him to come to couples counselling with me.


He refused.

I begged. Please! Please come and help me understand why things feel so off. Surely you feel it too?

“Nope. Everything is fine. Give me a hug.” You’re crazy, woman…

Gaslighting much?

But, I knew everything wasn’t fine.

Still not suspecting an affair.

So, I booked the first couples’ counselling session. Feeling sure he would come, once he realised I was serious. That I needed some support.


Not at all.

I ended up going to three sessions!


Still no clue he was cheating. Just feeling that something was awry with us.

He admitted after Leanne exposed their affair to me, that he was scared that if he went, the counsellor would see he was cheating.

And the part that stood out to me here was that obviously he didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to save us.

He never understood that part. He thought he was being honest by telling me that, after the affair was supposedly over. (Umm, yeah, he fucked her again a couple of years later, so, over is a movable concept, right?)

I can’t begin to tell you how weird it was, going to couples’ counselling alone. I have no idea what the therapist thought really! He did ask me why I wanted to save the relationship. The unspoken part being, “when he doesn’t even value you, or the relationship enough to even ‘humour’ you by coming to see me.”

And now, I over-analyse EVERYTHING. Including really small shit that BG does…or doesn’t do.

Not even coming to counselling that I begged for? That was another red flag I sailed on by.

I saw so many therapists once the affair was exposed.

Rog came to one session early on, maybe 9 or 10 months after D-day, when I was suicidal. It wasn’t for him, he thought counselling was for me.

Because I was crazy.

But we knew nothing about therapy. And unknowingly picked a Christian based counsellor. He was haphazard, and not a good fit. Actually did not turn up for TWO sessions! Not a great strategy for a suicidal client. I just felt that once again, my worth was negligible. Not even worth trying to help.

I finally got Roger to couples’ counselling years after his affair.

And it was eye opening!

This soft, kind man I had loved for 25 years, whom I chose because of his kindness, his emotional intelligence, didn’t have a CLUE!

Seriously, it was almost embarrassing watching him not understand the questions. Go off on weird tangents, to be brought back by the counsellor. Then have to have the simple question broken down for him.

Spoon fed, but still not knowing how to swallow.

That was when I finally got it.

Roger did not understand.

Had zero empathy for me, and what he had done. And he had no real desire to look at it all, work out who he is.

Well, not for me, at least

This was the counsellor who told me he suspected Roger is a love addict. His self worth is tied to someone “special” thinking the sun shines out of his arse. Some childhood damage, for sure.

Still gets me. That you can love someone for decades, and not get that they don’t care about you. That you are just the current vessel that is providing them with “love.”

Or the kibbles they are addicted to.


The jitters

Ah fuck.

Just had an awful morning.

Bad jitters.

I haven’t had this with BG.

I had a really good meeting with the franchisors, finalising the floor layout and electrical plan for my new clinic. Being in at the building stage is such a bonus.

Then, I fed some hay to my in calf heifers, fed the chooks, brought firewood in and lit the fire. It’s nice to take the chill off the house in winter if you are home all day.

I had an appointment in about an hour, so started scrolling online to pass time.

And found BG on LinkedIn.

And this is the thing that overturned my morning. It’s not like me, but my gut reaction is indicating something.

He had liked an article on the woman (or one of them???) he was seeing between his “big love” Chrissy, and me.

Now. He hasn’t ever told me her name. We have barely touched on her, but when we did he was a bit dismissive, saying she was really needy.

Remember, I found an unused phone of his a while back, and saw some conversations between them. She called him Handsome.

Something I have avoided because of this.

And the messages didn’t tell me a lot. Or raise any red flags.

Except they did solidify her name and what she does for a living.

He has never shared anything about her other than the “a bit needy, we were pretty brief and not compatible really,” comments.

Anyway, I was pretty shocked to see he “liked” the article on LinkedIn, focusing solely on her.

Not that he liked it. But the timing and context.

He rarely uses LinkedIn.

And this “like” was from nine months ago.

My stomach hurts.

Before I was cheated on, this wouldn’t do anything to me.

But, I’m pretty churned up about this.

Is he still in touch? (Roger used ex girlfriends as APs…)

Why would he follow someone he dated for a few months, and split up with because she was “a bit needy,” years later? And why stalk/like her article when he is supposedly with me?

I actually want to vomit.

This is so foreign to me.

And yeah.

I know.

I have to talk about this with him. Ugh.

We aren’t seeing each other this weekend. So I’m going to have to wait. And this is going to eat me alive.

Why did I think I could be in another relationship?

I loathe this stuff. The doubt. The mistrust. Then “having to” believe any explanation.

I mean, I know.

Trust, then verify.

It’s so shitty.

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Forgive. Forget

Wow! Yes!

Roger painted me as unforgiving.

The reality was, he wouldn’t do what I needed, to make me feel safe.

I asked him to please change his phone number. He argued it was best to keep it, as then he could “manage” Leanne’s apparent crazy.

This left me in a constant panic. That they were still playing me.

And yeah, well, after all his assurances that he was done, he went and fucked her again, two years after “he was done.”

He never tried to work out why he did it. Who he is and why. He never bought a single book, read a single article, or booked a single counselling appointment.

Oh, not true. He booked a psychologist. For ME!

Because I was the problem. My reaction to his actions. That was a problem for him.

Secrets are his stock in trade.

When I finally discovered Trinket, I started digging again.

Marriage fucking policing AGAIN!

And I got as far as online dating profiles on three different platforms (technophobe, riiiiight) going back at least two years. I gave up digging after that. No doubt it went on much further back. I honestly had no clue about this behaviour. Why would I, when he kept telling me he wanted only me, kept touching me, holding me, “loving” me, and “only” me. I was the only woman who got him, the only woman FOR him. He’d never have with anyone else what he had with me….



By a fucking maestro.

But, my gut knew. I knew not to let my guard down. I knew deep down what he was capable of. I wasn’t fully conscious of my own intuition, but I struggled with forgetting. I could and did, forgive … enough. Not complete “forgiveness.” Deliberately breaking the person who adores you’s heart is actually quite literally the definition of unforgivable.

Deceit. That was always him. While stroking you softly, he would plunge the knife in.

So, I was made to feel not good enough.

Not a good enough forgiver.

Despite staying (and he knew my stance on cheating) and busting my arse to heal us, from what he did. Despite all the time taken and paid for, in therapy. Despite four years of cramming in two degrees (to help me understand human behaviour, and to try to rebuild some absolutely shattered self esteem) whilst working, raising kids and running the accounts for our farm.

He did it again.

Sadly, proving all my intuition to be spot on.

He didn’t change.

He just got even better at hiding his duplicity. Better at the soul rape. Better at fooling me that he was only having sex with me. Better at getting non-consensual sex, because I never consented to share my body with others, to expose myself to the diseases I now carry in my body, because he shared his with others.

But, I still feel “not good enough.” Even with all of this knowledge.

That’s the terrible scar left by a cheater, on a loyal, loving partner. It never fades. You just learn to dress to hide it better.

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Pick me!

Winning the pick me dance is generally the aim during the immediate aftermath of discovering your life partner, the love of your life (cough) has been cheating on you.

Although, many are far better than me, and walk away straight away.

With dignity.

And strength.

But then there are those of us who are pretty pathetic, and “try harder.”

I’m ashamed of who I was then. I just loved him so much, and was convinced he loved me, but had just “made a mistake.” He sounded so remorseful. I felt really sorry for him. He’d made such a terrible mess of things.

Poor sausage.


The mistake was his AP telling me about their affair. Not the actual fucking her part.

I always imagined I would leave a cheater.


That was some serious disrespect, and a faithful, loving partner deserves better.

But I stayed. What???

And danced as pretty as I could! I had “friends” tell me I wasn’t sexual enough (despite a very fulfilling sex life, and that “friend” being a cheater in her first marriage, and having little sex in her second…hmmm.)

And I upped the ante.

It wasn’t hard. Hysterical bonding was immense for me. I really did love and desire him. I couldn’t keep my hands off him. I tried to prove how wonderful I was, in so many other ways, as well.


How degrading.

I know that the scenario in the linked story will never happen to me. Roger is disgusted by me. Disgusted I stayed, degrading myself. It was humiliating. For sure. Begging him to “pick me,” over the other two whores.

But, it did make me snigger, reading it.

I often wonder if he learned anything throughout this whole caper. He insisted he never wanted to “be alone.”

So, what would happen if Trinket tired of him? Or he her? If he tired of her, I am fairly sure he’d just start up with the online dating again, securing new supply before dumping her.

But if she dumped him, and he was still wanting to be with her?

That intrigues me.

After all, he’d never wanted to live in the region he does. He only moved there because she wouldn’t move to where he had sent me to look, for a new venture/life for us.

I was tidying up my Google files today, and came across all the saved real estate information from that time. Lifestyle properties and businesses. The dates they were saved to my Google drive totally made my stomach hurt! He was already seeing Trinket. And I didn’t know. I thought we were considering a move together. But when I returned, having done early research, he told me about her, and that he was going to take her there, not me!

I looked at him like πŸ€¦β€β™‚οΈπŸ˜²πŸ˜³

I deleted the files.

Better sleep, the coughing fits are less, and I’ve eaten my first solid food all week, tonight. I’m fighting fit!


Or I will be, if I finally manage some sleep…



Sick. Tired. Overwhelmed. Burnt out.

I am usually okay at pretending everything is going well.

It’s the lack of resilience that has got to me since my long term partner’s affair with a supposed friend.

I don’t bounce back the way I used to. And that is partially because i’m emotionally exhausted. It’s tiring pretending. Tiring smiling when you feel like crap. Tiring taking care of other people’s feelings.

Resting. Coughing my lungs out.

But still grateful.

For paid sick leave.

For beautiful surroundings.

For a warm fire.

For snuggly doggos.

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Active relaxer

My kids told me recently that I’m an “active relaxer.”

Meaning I am always “doing” something. As we chat. As we play games. As we watch a movie.

Et cetera.

I am home from work with a nasty cold. But loving being alone.

Have all this storm chaos to clean up, so got out there and piled up sticks and branches, to burn later. Mowed some lawns. Re-baited rat bait stations. Did laundry. Washed floors. I have come inside, out of breath. Absolutely wiped out.

I have noted this about myself, too.

Before I knew Roger was a cheater, I thought it was SAHM guilt. I was a farmer, and a mother. But didn’t have a 9-5 paid job, so always wanted to be seen to be contributing.

After I found out, it ramped up.

I can’t sit still.

I’ve been struggling with some home repairs, and there are power tools everywhere.

But today, I’m tired. And I am trying to give myself permission to rest.

Fucking trauma. It’s such a nightmare.

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My blood boiled this morning reading Chump Lady.

I mean, holy hell!

One of the things that you have to learn after being chumped is, that you don’t have to take that crap from anyone anymore.

You don’t have to pretend to be friends with someone who has serious character flaws.

You don’t have to spackle over people who cheat, as “having made a mistake.”

In this case, the woman’s actions made her previously beloved husband so miserable that he felt his only out was to shoot himself.

If you disagree with her cheating – and you absolutely should – then you are not a “bad friend” for not forgiving her. You are a person with morals, integrity, character, and any loyalty you are being made to feel to her is seriously misguided.

I no longer tolerate people like this in my life.

I have unfriended cheaters. I don’t accept any excuses that, “oh, but other than that, she’s a lovely person.”


Lovely people don’t cheat.

Either on, or with partnered people.

It’s that simple.

I have culled people. And I’m good with that. I never had before. I thought you had to accept all the bad. Just ignore it, and play nice.

I worked so damn hard to survive the discard after a serial cheater made me feel unworthy of living. It was a special kind of hell. Trying to stay in the world, when it was too painful to do so.

Buggered if I am going to allow any cheater apologists wriggle room in my life.

I make very deliberate choices now. For my mental health. For my own survival.

The comments got me. Those asking not to talk about suicide.

Fuck that shit.

We need to talk about it. Infidelity, gaslighting, lying, they make loyal partners fucking crazy. Miserable.

Some of us want to die.

Sadly, some of us do.

It needs to be talked about. It isn’t a mistake.

It is abuse.

Unbearable abuse that sucks all of the joy in the world from our beings.