Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum


Time, the great leveller?

Although I didn’t experience trickle truth to the same degree that many other betrayeds did, there is certainly a parallel with how time uncovers or changes perspectives. Roger was very aware that any further lies would mean I would lace up my marching boots and get the fuck outta there. I also think the relief he felt at discovery was palpable. He no longer had to lie and be deceitful. He could once again be who he used to be, and tell me the truth, tell me everything about his world, his day, his feelings.

That said, I didn’t/couldn’t know the whole truth on D-night. There are nuanced things that pop up from time to time, yes, even now! I told him about my recent bout of recurring dreams – I still have them most nights – about the first night he fucked her, and my mind movie of how it panned out. He was horrified, and said, “it wasn’t anything like as sexy, or romantic, or hot, as that. No way, this is what I remember happening, and my memory of it is not great, I thought I had told you this,” as he then described what he could remember of him entering the dangerous and slippery slope to where we are today.

I was very conscious my ignorance of the truth, and that I would never really know it, even as my head swam and I felt the earth shift on its axis on the night I was told of their affair, by the OW. I didn’t have a clue about the length, or the scope of the affair that night, but I did know that it (as I later discovered, 15 months of sexual affair, the period leading into that and the two months since he had ended it) meant I had (over 18 months of) a completely different reality to his. I knew it would take quite some time to align the two to any real degree. How could I know the nuances of their conversations, the looks they exchanged post-coitally, the way his skin reacted as she stroked him, whether she liked it when he revelled in the scent(s) of her body, like he did mine …? And so, over the next few months, he started to tell their story. To me. It began to deconstruct the pretty little picture they had painted for themselves. The rot started to invade their castle.


And he knew it. He was helpful, disclosing things as I asked. Uncomfortable, of course, but also told me ‘private’ things about her/them when he recalled them, without prompting. It was an act of goodwill. To try to let me know that he wanted me to stay, that he loved me. That he wanted to try to right his agonising wrongs. That he hated how he had behaved. That he was embarrassed and humiliated. That he was grateful that I even considered staying with such a hurtful scumbag. He hated telling me, but instinctively knew he had to. He even understood that every ‘secret’ he shared with me, handed me more power, and eroded hers. It was – and still can be – utterly and agonisingly beautiful.

I have noted a real shift in the last year or so. Yes, once I decided it needed to end, things changed a little again. Not a large earthquake shift like D-day, more aftershocks, tremors as things settled down to a large degree. Albeit that I would never trust the earth to be still ever again.

We still have a fair bit of contact. And he is still my best friend and greatest advocate. He is softer still. Occasionally, we talk. About IT. But not really about IT. We talk about our feelings, and our journey to here. To today. I note a real recognition of his ‘shit’ – more than ever. And I also note that he is even more open to the reality that this really was one of the most damaging things a person can experience. That I will not ‘just get over it’ eventually with time, love, work and mindfulness. This is a scar he carved in and on me. And himself. He, like me, thought we would do the work, and with the passage of time, we would be completely healed. He admits he thought a year or two would have us sorted – hey, me too! Over seven and a half years later, he sits with the permanence of the wound, and I think he is far more accepting of it, not fighting it, not wishing/hoping/willing that I would just get better. I always felt he thought I was wallowing in it, because it felt good. He denies this, saying, “why would anyone do that? Make themselves sick, sad and tortured? That makes no sense whatsoever. I know you want to get better. I know you want a better life. I know how hard you have worked to overcome this agony I wrought on you.”

We have connected nicely over the last week. Probably catalysed by a visit to ‘our’ lawyer. Who explained how we could conceivably unpack the intricate legal wrapping we had constructed around our joint assets, rendering us unable to split them, as they were no longer under our own ‘control’ which had made me (and him) feel like I would never be able to properly break free. It was liberating, but of course, not an immediate cure.

I like him. I like being his friend. I like listening to him talk. I like sitting quietly in silence with him. I like being near him. I like his calm. I  like the way he smells. Despite what others tell me is ‘healthy’ – we have a real and deep friendship and bond that I doubt will ever be fully severed.

And I am so very thankful for that.



Fast forward (or life without sex)

So, we kinda eventually got there. My story. The last three years have been a little more settled, but probably the most unhappy of my entire life.  Acceptance.  This is what it looks like.  I have learned to accept that bad things happen to good people, but I am no happier.  I thought acceptance would mean I would get to the “other side” and find some joy.  I have done the maths and staying is preferable to leaving while we have dependent children.  I have thought long and hard about this, over and over.

Over a year ago, I lost the ability to have and enjoy sex.  I guess the desire eventually just petered out, but one day I just couldn't engage anymore.  I was having to leave my body in order to escape the horror of it all.  I  got my hormones tested, was this a pre-menopausal problem? The science says (Consuela voice, NOH.) After a while of this, I thought, "heck, Paula, there's such a thing as sex therapy," while my inner voice groaned, "oh god, MORE bloody therapy!"  off I trotted to sex therapy.  The therapist was an older woman, and we talked for a bit, she wanted to see both of us together.  We went along like good little therapy disciples.  It was pretty crap.  The work she did seemed to me to be all about a woman who had never learned to let herself go (was frigid) and needed gentle coaxing.  I was bad, but I did know how to get my groove on, I just didn't seem to want to anymore.  So, lots of touching, and staring, "abstinence" – you know to get the juices flowing (actually, TMI, but "the juices" have never been a problem for me, even during this numb and disconnected period of my life!) We got sick of that pretty damn quick!  I/we quit after a couple of months.  Paint-by-numbers.  No help.  I told her, too, and she didn't seem to have anything else.  

So, that’s my life.  My sex life has disappeared, can’t even “get myself off,” can’t even be bothered, even when I try hard to feel sexy. I. Just. Don’t. I don’t feel sexual, or sexy, or attractive, or funny, or happy.  She wins.  Nice, but I still frame it that way at times.  I have pain and sorrow, and sadness, and that means SHE wins.  That was all she ever wanted for me, it took her twenty-five years, but she finally achieved that.  Pisses me right off!

I get along in life.  He and I are friends, but he is pulling further and further away from me.  Only following my lead.  I know that the only thing that would make me okay again is if he didn’t do this, but you can’t get a do over.  A sexless life is not much of a life really.

Last year I enrolled at university again.  I go to uni three days a week, and work just two. I’m doing well at uni, got straight A pluses last semester, and was just inducted into an international honour society, of course that’s a good thing. But it is really just a distraction. It’s hard to concentrate. I guess. It is not like I have found my passion, more like I am trying to prove a point to myself? This is the only routine that keeps me putting one foot in front of the other every day.  And of course, my lovely kids. But they are getting more and more independent, and my life just stretches out in front of me like some kind of flat endurance test.

Whoah!  Pity party much???