Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum

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Missing someone is always a bit shit. Stink being so far apart, and having not seen that barman for a while.

But nothing compared to how I pined for Rog when we were apart.

I can remember him coming back from a two week hunting trip, when our eldest was a toddler. He told me how the other boys were all so happy to “get away from the ball and chain.”

But not him. He missed me like crazy. Said it was physical pain.

I often wonder if he tells Trinket the same lies.

I still ache for him. Again, not this him. The him I thought he was.

The way I ached for him when I was in the UK, and he was off fucking the whole town. I mean, it was okay, we were separated. But I fucked no one. And ached for him, while we wrote to each other three times a week.

Ugh. He really made me believe we were destined for each other.

A fully grown, supposedly intelligent woman. FFS πŸ€¦β€β™€οΈ


Just when you thought you couldn’t hold any more…

Arrived home early this morning to carnage.

A small tornado tore through my property.

Road frontage. Fallen olive trees.

This was my first hint.


A giant, very beautiful melia tree uprooted on my lawn was the second clue.

Then, as I walked down the orchard, seven mature olive trees, uprooted…

Also, a window blown in in my bedroom.

I’ve got a heavy cold, so went to work to do the basics, when the power went out there, I came home to light a fire. Spent an hour on the chainsaw, between showers and blasts of thunder. Am wiped out now.

Have called my insurance broker, an arborist, and a glazier. After taping plastic to the window to keep the rain out.

(Try and find plastic in your house these days!)

Cold. Wet. Need to sleep.

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It’s unanimous

Being cheated on sucks.

It’s the worst.

We are not allowed to compare to losing someone when they die.

But, I hear it a lot within the betrayed community. Couldn’t agree more. Death is easier.

This, posted yesterday on a support board.

See, it’s not just me…I read because I relate, and feel that I’m not alone. This is as bad as I feel it. I’m not making things up. Etc.

“Yep… death of a loved one is so much less painful than this! At least when a loved one dies you know they loved you and want the best for you. This is INTENTIONAL pain betrayal abandonment and so much more on THEIR part! No one brings flowers cards or casseroles when we get shit on!”

I had a wonderful weekend, catching up with my former very best friend (who has never “got it”) and some of her seven siblings, 5 girls, 3 boys all together. A family I grew up with. Some of whom have experienced this, and do get it. So very lovely. I’m an honorary 6th daughter…

BG drove over to the beach house of the eldest’s, and I introduced him. He slotted right on in, and had links. This is a large, Irish Catholic family. BG went to our largest catholic boarding school with friends who are interwoven/shared. I love this. My life, interlocking with his.

I hadn’t seen the family for a long time. Thanks infidelity (I hid after Roger’s cheating was exposed, the shame was too much for me, so I retreated.) And Covid.

I wasn’t invited by my friend, but her little brother. It was a chili themed night. We made smoked chilis. Chutney. Masala paste. Sambal. Ate Mexican food with slow cooked meat.

And of course, chili margaritas!

Hence BG. He was my sober driver. Sweet man. He rescued me really! We were home, tucked up in bed by about 11pm. They kicked on until 4am! When we went back to collect my car the next day, the hangovers were immense!

Back at BG’s he was excited over something really stupid. I brought him some of my ham and barley soup. “Yum! I love pearl barley!” But cautiously asked, “no peas in here, right? Not pea and ham soup?”

“I’ll never trick you into eating peas, darling. Not even by hiding them in soup. I promise, lol.”


It’s soup. Not a Michelin starred dinner!

Last night, back after having a wine with his bestie and his wife, I heated soup for our dinner, adding fresh spinach, heating sourdough, making herby butter, we talked. Addressed my concern. He knew he’d messed up. And I felt awful. Not because I was wrong. But because I struggle with asking for what I need, and holding boundaries. I told him this. That I HATE asking for anything. And that forcing myself to do it, then that request not really being heard, well, that is devastating. I am really low maintenance, but damned if I will be used and abused because of that, again!

He held me, apologised. Said he didn’t realise he’d hurt me. But would do better. Agreed that we both had “stuff” clashing here. He’d been directed to do so much, did it, still got shat on. I’d made my needs small, asking for the bare basics is hard, we came at this with our baggage swinging!

Let’s see.

I’ve been promised better before…

It was a good talk though. I have been worried about his stress levels. And identified that I may have inadvertently added to them.

Without me, he was going through the motions. Decent job. Nice location. Close friends and family.

Now he wants to come and live with me, combine our lives. But he is scared. He needs a similar income. They aren’t always easy to find. I know he is worried. I have the economic power. What if we split up, and he’s moved his life, for nothing.

I get it. So, we talked. He eventually admitted he is struggling with change. He wants it, but is fearful that this dream might crumble, and he’ll have gone backwards. Backwards at a time in life where he needs to solidify and ensure he can live on what he has earned. There’s not a huge nest egg, for retirement. There’s some. But not really enough. He worries he’ll be a burden.

I just said it’s okay. I’m in no hurry. We can keep doing this for longer. The distance. The commute. As I have said before, there is some upside. Sure, you miss them. But that can be exciting. And I have my life. Not wrapped up in someone else.

I slept the best I have in a very long time last night. Curled up in his arms. He got up when I woke, at 5.30pm, for more cuddles, to help me pack my car. Held me tightly, smothering me in tiny kisses. “I miss you already. Don’t want to go back to bed without you.”

He’s not usually like this. I know he is letting some very carefully constructed and fortified walls down lately. Taking big risks with me.

I’m very flattered. And love him for trusting me enough to do so.

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Unhealed trauma


I mean, yeah, of course, but, wow!

I don’t think I had “childhood” trauma, but definitely was more deeply affected than I admitted/knew by my parents’ shock divorce, obviously by the vicious, tearing rape by my friend’s friend, and yeah, also about my first attempts at making love with the first boy I loved. Where it πŸ† just didn’t fit! πŸ€¦β€β™€οΈ. We tried, off and on, for a very long time.

I thought I was broken. Not capable of being penetrated. This is where my deep and very real fear of large penises kicked in.

I know it sounds like a joke.

But I was TERRIFIED of meeting someone with a big dick.

And guess what?


The day BG took his pants off, aroused already, holy, holy fuck! 😱

I froze. I actually nearly ran from the room.

I did tell him, when we started making love, to be slow and gentle, as his is a LOT bigger than the only penis I had ever had inside me.

To be honest, I’m sure that is what every man probably wants to hear, but he looked a bit coy, and was amazingly careful.

To start with 😜

I also thought maybe I was overstating it in my mind. Maybe he was “normal” sized. But he has length AND girth. It was quite shocking.

Months later, probably a year, I discovered he had a reputation about his size, amongst his friends. A couple of the wives siddled up to me, to ask.

If the legend was true!

Jesus. What???

Not even sure how you answer that!

Of course, this was not asked sober. I just winked and smiled, knowingly. Then Ingrid, who asked first, told me that it was legendary amongst this crew.

When I later relayed the story to BG, he shook his head, and was really embarrassed. Told me about the incident, in his teens, with a girl in his Catholic boarding school dorm. And getting caught by one of his mates. Who is still a close mate to this day. Good lord.


As he intimated, it made it seem more. Like, “The Legend,” is larger than the reality. (Pardon the pun.) And yeah, I can see it is dehumanising. Objectifying. It embarrases him.

But, it was genuinely a terrifying night. In a good, consenting way. Still a really difficult thing for me. In my 50s, one lover ever, whom I was totally, madly in love with. Then this very real fear of mine, materialising!

Back to the other points, though. I definitely tick all of those items on that unhealed trauma list. I would like to add that it wasn’t really a difficulty setting boundaries – although, my uber chill chick vibe might be (correctly?) read this way – I think it became more about difficulty policing them.

When I insisted after Leanne that he change his phone number (it was before I even knew you could block) to starve her of oxygen, when she kept covertly (by connection) threatening us, and our children, and overtly saying she was bringing her mother to meet with my inlaws, to let them know they were destined to be together, that scared the SHIT out of me.

Cut her off! Cut her access to us off!

Rog insisted that he needed to keep his number, to “manage” the bunny boiler.


Also helped his need for ego kibbles, right? Not only was he continuing to get her attention, he fashioned himself as my great hero and protector by “cutting her off at the pass.”

Also made it REALLY easy to fuck her again, two years after he had “ended it.”

Riiiiiight. Good job on the boundary enforcement, Paula.

My problem is, I have no desire to be the Marriage Police. What a shit job that was.

So I “believed” him, let it slide.

I also hate that I was unable to see that his refusal to read about affair recovery, or get counselling was another violation of my boundaries.

I have lived in a state of high anxiety for 12 years now. I wasn’t that person before Leanne. Before I knew I am a chump. I used to be a far different person than I am today. I felt safe, connected, confident. I didn’t feel the need for much external validation.

I feel none of those things anymore. And yeah, am more socially “needy.” I’m aware of it, and work hard at dismantling the narrative of “not good enough” that now feeds my social anxiety.

That said, I am anxious about today. Anxious about re-entering my home town. The possibility of facing him yet again. Knowing he also has another horse racing in this region tomorrow. It’s likely he’ll be there. And surely the cunt will be, too. I preferred when I didn’t know much about these horses, and his current life.

No contact is the biggest tool for healing from relationship trauma.

I’ve been no contact with my former friend, of at the time, over thirty years, Leanne, for 12 years. It’s good.

It still blows my mind. This darling man, whom I loved and trusted completely, for decades (at least until he broke that unwavering trust, the love was still there) whose body I craved, and snuggled up with, at every chance, whose babies I conceived in deep love, gestated, and birthed with him, is someone I must avoid now. It’s super fucking crazy.

It still messes with me. I know it’s because I still love the “old” Rog. The illusion. So I don’t want to see the new one. Especially not with his whore. My mental health is too precious. Too hard fought for.

I know he doesn’t get it. He never had to fight for life, like I did. He never had to suffer, being rejected and discarded. He had several women clambering for his attention. He. Just. Doesn’t. Understand

Or really?

He just just care.

Better go shift my heifers, give Sunny, number 7, a big hug and scratch. Always helps ground me when I need it.

Thank God for animals, huh?

Sunny. She’ll be hungry…

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Our stories were entwined. We knew each other.

At least, it seemed that way to me. I realise I never knew who he really was, now.

But this comment had me in tears last night…

“This is one of the things that older FWs foolishly & callously throw away, which confounds me.
They lack hindsight, foresight and insight.

I saw the ex as the guy I met when I was 24 and he 27. I was still turned on in that way and knew his preferences too.

My eyes saw the young man
yet additionally my mind understood his history. My heart knew his struggles and challenges and I endeavored to compromise and comfort.
I knew his good qualities and his shortcomings, (if not all of his behaviors) and I loved him anyway. Forgave him all of his trespasses and frailties.
Being a member (supposedly) of his family, from many angles, I’ve witnessed births & deaths, heard the stories of laughter, grief, triumphs and mistakes of his childhood and those of his family and friends. Many of those storytellers are now deceased. His next appliance will never have the opportunity to hug nor speak with his father, grandparents, nephew, brother in law, and close friends. The next will not have that knowing of him.
Neither will the next she or he regale in tales of birthing & raising children together or sacrifices to start a business.
The next will not be an easy breeze of retirement and grandparenting together, when those days arrive.
Now the ex will have to use his money & position as a CEO and the alcohol battered sixty year old face in order to attract another. He gave up a lifelong connection in order to keep playing the field, the way he has always done. He’s insatiable in every way.
When I see photos of him now, I see an old, pitiable, lying, manipulator cheater, whose belief system and alliances switch depending on which way the wind blows, who is willing to use his own grown children to his benefit.
He forfeited half of his money right before retirement age. How short sighted can a person be?
It’s utterly disgusting, what I see now.”

Yeah. Could have just about written that myself. Our interwoven stories, they are nothing now.


And, to me, that is an absolute tragedy. Our love story was of the utmost importance to my sense of safety, belonging and identity, after my childhood home was exploded and destroyed by cheating.

He just never valued it. That makes little sense to me.

But I know he isn’t like me.

He replaces people.

Love bombs them.

He’d been talking to her for three weeks, THREE WEEKS, and he was selling our home, our means of making a living, to move to her.


Ain’t love grand? 🀣

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Until it happens to you …

It is so obvious that people never understood what I went through.

I stayed away from the old friends, because I was judged. Being screamed at that I was crazy, when I was completely broken hearted, and trying to hang onto this world, just confirmed that these people couldn’t possibly understand my hell.

I loved Roger.

With everything I had.

To the point of forgiving him for fucking around on me. For forming a deep, important connection to a woman who wasn’t me.

It was the most difficult journey of all. Finding a way to live with the knowledge that he put me in danger. That he could so deliberately and knowingly smash my heart, break my world.

He abused my trust. He made me feel terribly unworthy. He saw my agony. He told me loving lies about his feelings for me.

So, so many lies.

And even after seeing what he did to me, chose to cheat again.

I realised others see him as a good guy. Who “made a mistake.” Many blamed me. I mustn’t have been good enough.

I’ve had a few people recently (four years out) say to me that they didn’t know. They weren’t aware that I felt so cast out. So unsupported.

Yeah. That’s sweet. But not many reached out. Or understood. Had any empathy for my personal hell. The ones who immediately accepted Trinket as my replacement – after thirty years of deep love and commitment? Well, that is something I know about them, forever.

I hope they never have to find out how devastating that is.

But. I discovered the other night that there are people who genuinely care. Who wanted to see me. Even that some quietly are cheering me on, knowing that Roger did, in fact abuse me. I don’t mean the physical violence that happened that one night. I believe that the only people who know about that, believe I deserved it. So I never told that group of people. I saw what he told Trinket about it. His narrative is quite different to what I know really happened. And covert narcs tell a smooth story.

I mean the mental and emotional abuse. The gaslighting, manipulation, the totally convincing pretending he loved me and was sorry.

I know how he treated me.

I see who he is. It isn’t who he pretends to be.

And that is why I keep my guard up to full height if he ever tries to show the world that we are friendly. Why I can’t look at him. I know I would see “my Norm,” and not who he is today.

That is a real and present danger to my wellbeing.

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Forever. Never.

BG and I are in an interesting place.

There’s love. Great intimacy. Plans for a future. Loads of adventure and fun! We’re compatible. Have similar values.

But there is one aspect of us that is currently a big work in progress.

I have found this a REALLY difficult thing to talk about. I’m a people pleaser. I don’t like upsetting the people I care about.

But, I have been brave. And managed a good starting talk with him. I gently prepared him. Because when we have started to talk about this, previously, he has been very defensive, self flagellating, and upset.

He was great this time.

There’s some big “stuff” I think, in BG’s baggage. This is getting very real.

Starting over in your mid 50s is hard. All the stuff you knew about your lifetime love, pouff!! Gone. Start at Go again.

Letting go of the thing I put all my love, blood, sweat and tears into, has been truly agonising.

Leting go was horrific.

My forever. Our forever.

Becoming never.

God. My heart. The tears are running down my cheeks now.

Building something wonderful, all over again, well … I’m really tired.

Yeah. When I’m tired, the resentment creeps in. I put EVERYTHING I had into loving Rog.

And now. I have to do all of this hard, early, getting to understand this whole other person stuff.

I see what my parents’ love story, then shock divorce, did to me. Outwardly, I wore it well.

I knew the lessons I learned. About truth. Secrets. Respect. Working at love. Loving our family. Honesty, transparency, care and always, always, respect.

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My lifetime bestie and her husband are celebrating 25 years today.

So good.

Their wedding was very chill. Very fun. We had a nearly school aged littlie, and a newborn. A wedding at home on their farm. A very funky short-lengthed dress, designed and made by her fashion designer new sister-in-law, and bare feet. A big farm party. Rog and I danced our arses off! Despite being the only ones with two babies at the party!

This was an odd couple. I like her husband, T.

But they were from different worlds really.

And Rog told me that T fucked one of the strippers at the stag do.

I’m not cool with that.

So not cool.

He’s always been all about the “dirty girls,” as sex workers have long been referred to by the “lads” in local circles. He loves a strip club. An escort. A lap dance.

Apparently, sex with a pro!

But hey. I found out after more than 25 years with Rog, that he also had sex with a hooker at his best mate’s stag party. He lied to me about it for more than 25  years.

But he was clever.

He told me they went to a brothel.

The first version, for over fifteen years, was that he just sat, waiting for the boys to finish their entertainment.

About ten years later it became, “I did go into a room with hooker. But just got a hand job. I was very drunk. I hated it, and couldn’t get hard.”

A few years after his affair with Leanne, the story was that he fucked the sex worker. Nearly thirty years after the event, I got the truth.

Maybe? He’s got a very casual relationship with the truth.

Friends who have holidayed with my friend, J, and her husband, T, have told us about T’s predilection for hookers. How he’d drag the boys to strip clubs. “Just for the beers,” of course!

It’s always concerned me.

But. This couple had five children. Have had a lot of fun.

And some huge heartbreak.

Tragically, they lost their youngest in a terrible boating accident three years ago. 

They’re survivors. They love each other.

At what cost?

I really don’t know.

I remember our silver anniversary. It was not celebrated publicly. We were in recovery.

From his long term affair with our “friend.”

Besides, not long after that, celebrated his 50th. With our closest friends. At our love nest. Our built-by-us-in-love, fabulous holiday home.

His mates were incredible that night. Loving me, hugging me, laughing with me, telling me how fabulous I was. For staying after all his lies. All his deception. They said we were a beckon of love and hope. That I was an incredible person, a truly loving, forgiving woman, for still loving their mate. That he didn’t deserve such a top chick. We were so obviously still madly in love. It was a wonderful night.

No celebrating 25 years.

I will never get a wedding.

Or a long term anniversary.

Trinket and Rog, the cheaters, ensured I never would.

Never could.

I never wanted a wedding. But maybe it might have helped, when I never got the long term anniversary celebrations either?? To at least have one set of gorgeously happy “big occasion,” memories?

Luckily, I have plenty of other wonderful blessings in my life.

But I definitely deserved much, much more.

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Watching them love someone else πŸ’”πŸ’”πŸ’”

The love bombing that hooked you, is the same thing that will hurt, when they do it with AP.

There’s heartbreak.


I loved Roger with every cell of my being. I struggled immensely when I realised he didn’t reciprocate.

But, there is nothing like watching your love give himself to a whore.

In front of you.

While stroking your skin.

While making love to you like your lives depend on it.

And him telling you how he thinks that whore must have been pretty when she was young.

And that she has no taste.

And wears boring clothes.

And doesn’t enjoy the things we do.

He said he was cheated on. He told me about that pain, in the early stages of “us.”

But he never had to watch her love someone else.

She was just gone. The “next” person didn’t become “the one.”

He wasn’t deleted.


Like he never contributed.

Or even existed.

The mindfuck was complete.

I thought the Leanne affair was searingly painful.

I had no fucking idea.


Mother daughter chats

My youngest is chatting. Also an overthinker. Thinking out loud about her relationship of a year. Trying to decide if she’s being taken for granted. I think her bf is a nice enough guy, but his EQ isn’t high.

Her’s is off the scale.

So, I’m listening. Not dishing out advice. Just supporting and underscoring that his opinion is…just his opinion. Not fact. Not everyone’s opinion. And that her empathy is a good thing, but that it means we must actively protect ourselves from abuse.

She knows. She just struggles with how badass she is, but how she is also a people pleaser.

Yup. I hear you, sausage.

I’m also feeling some of this. My love languages are a mix. Of all. Basically, I give. Words, acts, gifts, touch, etc.

And I’m, for the first time in my life, kinda playing stupid games.

I hate it.

Having to restrain my natural impulse to do everything, be everything…

But I’ve communicated. BG is hugely appreciative of all I do for him. And NEVER expects me to cook or clean. In fact, if I do that at his place, he often growls at me.

But there is a thing. The men I’ve met just don’t do that as much as women often do. So, I do it at times. Laundry. Dishes. Vacuuming. I also bring small gifts. Nothing OTT. But eggs from my chooks, produce from my garden. A new deodorant, because I saw he was nearly out, so grabbed some in my shopping. A shirt I might have seen on special. That kind of thing.

And I hear what Dee is saying. We give too much. I’m aware of it. And do FAR less than I did for Roger. I was just the ultimate admin person for him. No gratitude at all. I hold back with BG. And he’s grateful.


Yeah, there is a but.

Do I want a man who doesn’t always pick up after himself to be in my space again? I keep my house really tidy these days. No dirty kids and farmers in it. Just dirty dogs, lol.

I can see what he’s been talking about now. Do I really want him in my space?

It’s actually a very good question.

And one that Dee is asking herself about her boyfriend.

There are heaps of studies that show that the happiest women are single. And the happiest men are coupled


I wonder why?

It’s nice being single. Doing things at your own pace. Doing something spontaneously, going away without a military exercise plan and permissions from 10 other people!

So. There’s no damn rush.

I never got why Roger kept desperately searching for the next warm flesh to bury his dick in. Mostly it was that he can’t like his own company much, and likes someone to “take care” of the admin.

And I have had some tears again recently. Mostly that old chestnut, of losing my “person,” who I thought hD my back, through thick and thin.

But we don’t even know each other anymore. It’s so, so fucked up and painful. I really, genuinely thought of him as my “other half” and being without that part of me aches.

My everything.

A stranger.

Don’t even know how that can happen.