Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum

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Real love

I need to remember this. I have tried to “unlove” him.

But I can’t. He’s carved into my heart. That love exists. Existed. Is real.

Even though he never loved me.

It’s a shitty way to find out. A shitty way to have wasted love. But I really am a genuine person, who loved him entirely.

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Having a wee Monday night plunge.

This sometimes happens in a distance relationship. Especially when we have a good, connected weekend. This weekend was quite special. The price I am paying is mild depression tonight.

I recognise it, and am blogging to help me process, own, and hopefully move through it.

I’ve had really, really sore breasts. To the point where it was painful to shower at BG’s! I showered, back to the showerhead. I had to ask BG to be careful even brushing up against me. Let alone any lovemaking pressure. Last night, he was in bed, gently cupping my boobs, and I flinched as he gently brushed my nipples. Something I would normally love! And he asked if this was normal, did this happen often?

I hesitated briefly. Exhaled.

“Ummm, no. The only time I have ever had sore breasts like this was during my pregnancies.”

Then rushed to say, “it’s alright, I’m not pregnant!”

BG laughed. “Oh, good! That would be an interesting turn of events at my age, with no kids!”

What a weird conversation to be having at 56 and 53…

Anyway, of course, it was triggering. To the times I discovered I was pregnant. All three of my children were very late pregnancy discoveries. The four miscarriages I know of were all probably late-ish, too. And my emotions are a bit raw. Memories.

Of my deep, aching love. The grief…

Tainted memories.

Definitely weirdly hormonal about something right now!

Surviving long term infidelity changes you.

No question. There is daily pain. I also feel more confident and assertive than I was, as the good little wifey. I am a people pleaser by nurture. Maybe by nature, too, I dunno, but I think as the eldest, and only female, becoming a mother at a younger age than I would have, had I planned, meant I was molded into a caring role. It meant I lost any power I was building as a young woman. Roger was the economic power, I was the labour unit, including caring for our children, and our extended family. He was used to barging through, to get what he wanted (only boy, youngest child, yaddah, yaddah…)

He had what is considered a long term affair with someone I thought was my friend.

Any affair that lasts more than 15 months is classified thus.

And the pain of knowing that he was not only sharing his body, which was supposed to only be shared with me, but also that he had obviously formed an intensely emotional connection with his selfish ex-girlfriend just about did me in.

Infidelity changes you. It just does. The betrayed, the betrayer, the marriage — everything morphs. Surviving long-term infidelity, however, is particularly exacting.

From admission or discovery to atonement to acceptance, the long-term affair is an inevitable call to action. As if a “moment of indiscretion” or “lapse in judgment” isn’t bad enough, long-term infidelity is a scourge that can’t be ignored.


Everything about my world, everything that I trusted about that carefully constructed and mindfully curated world, was ripped from under me that night.

The night my supposed friend, who I tried to help as a single mum, seeming a bit lonely and at times overwhelmed by her child, texted me that she’d been having an affair with my beloved darling of over 22 years at that point.

The writer of my earlier linked article, Goggin, nails it really:

Surviving long-term infidelity is a deeply emotional, painful journey into both the known and the unknown. No matter what the relationship outcomes are, none of the people involved will ever be the same.

I accept this. I’m so changed by the choices Roger made for me. And the grief is suffered Every Single Day. I also practice enormous amounts of gratitude.

But I really liked that girl. The one who believed in love. Believed she was loved as much as she loved.

It’s hard to explain the weight of the deep, deep ache within – tonight it is pressing, physically, hard, on my lungs – for the life, the person, I mourn.



Life seems to have changed so much since Leanne.

I manage to hop from moment to moment. Never feeling safe anymore. Ever.

I used to be a fairly contented person. Life flowed along pretty well. I was a relatively respectable, sane partner, mother, farmer.

Since Leanne, I haven’t ever felt safe. At all. I work hard at being (looking/seeming) okay.

This morning, after making love, I got a bit emotional. BG was really concerned that he’d done something wrong, or hurt me.

Not at all. He’s so lovely. I admitted (finally allowing a tiny bit of vulnerability with him…) that I’m scared. That I love him, and that terrifies me.

He always reassures me that he is the happiest he’s ever been in any relationship. He also told me for the first time that you can count on one hand how many relationships he’s been in. People think he was such a lad. Women everywhere. But everything else was casual sex.

He is very worried about not being sexually compatible with me, as I have a high libido, and he has survived up until now – at 55 – on what he terms, “scraps.” Get it where you can. And says it probably made him a selfish lover in many respects. When you’re not terribly (or at all) invested.

It concerns him.

He genuinely worries I will leave him for more sex. He thinks in some small corner of his brain, that Chrissy did.

I don’t believe that. Cheaters are disordered. It wasn’t about more sex. It was about an ageing, fake, petite blonde, needing attention. More attention than one man can (or should, IMHO) give her. He could have been swinging from the chandeliers. She was selfish, and did not communicate.

But yeah, I’m spiralling. I recognise it. I know kinda why. And I’m pulling all the trauma tools outta that toolbox right now.

The not good enoughs are getting a damn good dressing down.

The anxiety is being allowed a voice, but then I’m trying to make it listen to rationality.

I don’t know how the hell to fully and completely stop loving that ghost.

That person who became so selfish, so entitled. Who thought breaking me completely, lying, cheating, would make him happy, no regard for my feelings, what I had done for him. The three decades of devotion.

No thoughts to repay my love and loyalty with some love and honesty. Some respect.

I was an open book. Him? Hmmm. I mean, so many lies and secrets. I still can’t believe I never guessed about Leanne. That he managed to keep me hooked with his love bombing throughout those two years of secret dating apps! So duplicitous.

There’s a very weird part of nostalgia, even when you KNOW that the person you shared your whole life, your whole heart with, dismisses it all and is completely infatuated with a new “love of his life,” – that tries to derail your healing self. I ache – even knowing who he really is, that he confides in a stranger now – that my life, thoughts, dreams, love, physical touch is not able to be shared with that ghost. That part of my grief will possibly never be resolved. I understand that. I don’t want him. I would love to be able to touch the ghost. The person he appeared to me as for well over twenty years. People who have had loved ones die understand that kind of grief. They rarely see being discarded by the person you utterly adore as anything like in the realm of grief. Hell, I understand it from that persepective. There have been so, so many days and nights I wished I could hug my Mum!

It made me weep last night, on the ferry home. That I have this wonderful life. And MY Roger, that ghost, doesn’t know me, or what my life is about anymore. There is no heartbreak like not being able to share that. Widows, widowers, you know what I mean.

I still FEEL him nearby when he is. An embodied link to the man I shared everything about me with. An unbearable anguish. Tormenting me.

Instead, I know what he was doing this weekend. With old friends, a life I was once a central part of. I miss them.

I know not to.

I’m grateful, SO grateful, that the cheater is gone. But so heartbroken about all the losses. The fake him. The friends. The pain I have lived through and will continue to in some part, for the rest of my life.

Cheaters (whom you really love, at least) leaving you for affair partners is worse than them dying. Dying is more final. Incredibly painful, but more final.



There are too many words, too many emotions, flying around inside of me to get them in a line to get outside of me.

I had to go to his city. And I knew he’d be at the event I was attending, and was 95% sure the whore would be too.

I sucked it up hard. I have to be able to live my life. But I know he still affects me.

And I wish to high heavens that it didn’t. That I didn’t give a damn.

I don’t wish him actually dead, but my God, I wish he’d died. Before I knew he was a cheater. So I could mourn properly, and remember him as the sweetheart he appeared to be, my love, my heart, my bestest friend I ever had (!!!) my life.

As I have stated before, I’d prefer that I never have to ever see him again. Of course, that is unrealistic. We made three humans together.

It was the most expensive, disruptive, demeaning, heartbreaking thirty years. Lord. Why did I try to make it work with him after the disgusting 18 months he spent fucking our friend under my nose, in our homes?


Why did he hate me so much, he just shattered me into millions of tiny shards? Then, just as I was completing an incredibly challenging, unbelievably healing project, in my very “personal” Masters thesis, he did it again???!!! WTAF??? What did I ever do to make him think I deserved this hell?

As we drove south (yep, BG decided to come, too, even though I said it was just a huge mission to drive the nearly eight hour round trip in a day) and we drove past the turn off to our former holiday home, I realised how much lighter I now feel without that millstone of the lake house I was determined I needed to keep, for our children? The peace of mind, not having to pay bills for it, think about who was staying when, the very image of that beautiful house, with my lover dick deep in other women, in my supposed sanctuary.

I had very little real idea of how much better I would feel without it.

Anyway, I have cattle to feed, I’ll get these words out of me, one way or another in due course.

I’ll leave you with a pic of the view where we went for some food and a glass of cider before heading home. 💙

Thank you, my friends here. My only safe outlet for this pain xxx.