Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum


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Fakebook and friends

So, when BG waa chatting with me last night, he mentioned that Ingrid – sitting over from him – said my cow and calf videos were super cute.

And he asked how come he hadn’t seen any videos? I had just posted a reel on Instagram and earlier, a story on Facebook of the calves chilling out with their mums in my house paddock.

I just replied, “oh, well, we’re not friends on Facebook.”

No drama. Just that’s where the videos she saw were.

He fairly sarcastically went, “oh, that’s telling me, isn’t it.”

No.

No, it wasn’t.

I just stated a fact.

I kinda like that neither of us have “friended” each other on social media. It ensures we are private about “us.” I don’t feel it is a slight. I know he said near the beginning that it’s not really his thing. I also know he has nothing to hide there as we have mutual friends, including my daughter. It seemed a bit strange that he felt I was having a dig at this status when I have never requested we be friends there, nor complained/mentioned it.

Might need to talk about this… I’m not a needy, insecure girlfriend. Well, any insecurities I have these days are not about him. All Roger.

Social medua is all well and good, if used with discretion, with your tongue firmly planted in your cheek. I like to keep up with friends and family this way. But it’s not the measure of the success, or other, of our relationships. I’ve seen plenty of Fakebook posts by betrayed spouses raving or boasting about their relationship/posting lovey dovey pictures, to put any weight on what is peesented online.

Hey, I was madly, deeply, passionately in love, for over thirty years, with a man who posted online that he was single, to attract affair partners. What the hell does the internet know anyway?


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I don’t know how to write this

BG is with his mates tonight. The ones who have made the tough, but brave decision to sell their dream home.

Their forever home.

In order to exit a declining business, with their equity and investments intact. To employ other income streams, in his field, in hers, and to capitalise on their town’s magnificent location by offering accommodation in a house they have looked at and hope to buy.

He video chatted with me, without me knowing he was there, which started out a bit awkwardly as I had a freshly showered dog on me, lol.

I have FOMO. Wish I was there.

So badly.

But we have committed to having them come stay here during open home weekends and especially the night of the auction. It is happening in my neighbouring city. We will celebrate (or commiserate) hard.

I’m so proud of them.


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Big feels

I’m in one of those swirls. Asking why. Again.

Which is fruitless. Such a waste of emotional energy.

Finding out Trinket was stalking my LinkedIn has messed with my head.

And I know it shouldn’t matter. That little beige nothing. Who cares??? She is just the soft tool Rog used to soothe himself with after he fucked our lives up.

A soft landing. She doesn’t question him. She is another people pleaser. Has never stood up for herself, demanding better. She just keeps going with liars and cheats. Because this one is more gentle, more covert, more charming, than her last cheater, doesn’t mean he is a good person.

And she’s a cheater too. Fornicating with my partner of over thirty years. What a total maggot.

I NEVER, in a million years, thought I would never be able to talk to him again. Never. He was my very, very best friend.

We were both so gobsmacked when a couple we knew who were very in love separated. Because of that arsehole’s cheating. Our friend took her kids and moved to the South Island, never speaking to him again.

This is what that feels like. Losing your heart. Your life. Fuck him for doing this. I still don’t know why, or how he sleeps at night.

But I know it doesn’t matter. He just isn’t who I loved.


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Anniversaries. A limited edition.

Some of our friends are starting to hit 25+year wedding anniversaries. Starting to catch Rog and I up.

We made it over 30.

But I will never make it any longer than that. There will be no celebration of long, deep, true love for me now.

Reading a friend’s post this morning, about their silver wedding romantic trip. Ugh. I want to die, it hurts so much.

I mean, these are really nice, really good people. I’m genuinely pleased for them. Not Fakebookers. Wished them well.

But sadly, my own pain is unending.

He stole it all. Stole my security and carefree happiness. I’ll never get that back, fully. I mean, you carry on, but it’s never the same again. Everything is careful, mindful, thought out. Spontaneous enjoyment doesn’t exist anymore.

I wanted the long, true love story, and genuinely thought I had it. I couldn’t have loved him more.


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No contact

I recall the long journey that ultimately culminated in me going no contact with my alcoholic, narcissistic brother.

I had absorbed decades of abuse from him.

All in the name of family loyalty. To honour my dead mother.

Once I decided, for sure, to go no contact, it got better.

I didn’t have to endure being called names, being put down, being used as a bank. Trying to be supportive to try to help him. I just said, no more. I can be civil if we need to be in the same place. But nothing more.

Tough love. I guess.

He has since had moments of begging to be in my life, always followed by verbal abuse when I don’t respond. Or in the one case where I did, to try to explain it was best for both of us, some very nasty, really immature name calling, trying to shame me into further contact. He’s used family members, friends, his partner…all to try to engage me. Guilt me into contact.

I have stayed stoic this time. It’s been years now. He was around a bit last year, as we dealt with our father’s ill health. We were civil. Until he wasn’t. Micromanaging me (the lead carer for the father.)

I have him blocked everywhere now. Opened communication via phone/text for that period. It was closed again when he abused me for leaving Dad at home one night for a couple of hours, him much recovered, curled up by the fire, with soup, toast and plenty of Wifi and TV access.

I blocked him again.

No contact is the most peaceful way of dealing with toxic people.

I read Don’t Lose Hope’s insightful post about trauma responses.

And whilst I didn’t fit the fawn response entirely (because I did ALL of them, fight, flight and freeze included) I did include a lot of fawning. A lot of puck me dancing. A lot of, look how fkn marvellous I am, Pick Me!!! It’s pathetic. I felt pathetic.

Last week, I looked back over my communications with Rog, during that period we lived together, while he was eating my cooking, wearing the clothes I bought and laundered for him, having sex with me, all while he was eating cake by doing the same with Trinket.

I was sweating reading the messages. Totally embarrassing. I knew I was being desperate and pathetic. But I was fawning all over him, hoping he’d wake up and see me! Ugh. I feel dirty even recalling it.

Shudder.

So not who I imagined I was! But I was desperate. Desperate to wait this whore out. Desperate not to lose “my man” whom I really, truly still loved completely, and all we had worked so hard together to achieve.

Desperate not to have “failed.”

My stomach is literally churning now, gutted at my needy grossness. The words I read – I can-but-can’t remember being that sad, sad, pathetic person. Your love leaving you for fresh meat does terrible things to your self esteem. To your values. It deconstructed my picture of who I am.

I am often asked if we are friends now. Now that our lives are divided. I’m told regularly that we were the couple that appeared to be such great mates. As well as very into each other.

Sadly, no.

No, we are not friends.

Neither will we ever be.

I have had to learn the hard way, friends don’t treat you like he did me. I was just collateral damage to his wants, needs, desires. He had to fuck me over to get to the wonderful Trinket. I have zero worth to him.

So why would I accept that in any friendship?

I don’t anymore.

I don’t accept it from the Switzerland friends. My abusive brother. Nor Roger, the man I still love, but know he doesn’t value me in any way whatsoever.

I got pushed too far.


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Ducks

It’s opening weekend of the duck hunting season this weekend. It was a big weekend for over thirty years of my life. Baking, prepping some food, in the early years, and back then, Norm would hunt every evening for two months. Every weekend morning, some during the week too. He was obsessed.

I was a duck widow.

Thankfully none of that now. BG has friends who partake, and one year we went to a friend’s maimai, for afternoon drinks.

Norm’s crew have had a steady core of four, forever. His two best mates, and one of their brothers. There have been others come and go.

Since we sold the farm, where the duck pond and main maimai were, they built a new one.

On my former best friend’s farm πŸ˜±πŸ€¦β€β™€οΈπŸ˜ͺ

Anyway, that is weird.

And one of the wives, the longest running partner of the lot of them, by a year, then me, has asked me if we can catch up this weekend.

Naw. She’s sweet! Knowing it is a big trigger, we’re gonna spend Saturday afternoon at my place. She wants to see my new ensuite and powder room. I know she is subtly letting me know she is thinking of me. Us two were the originals. Yeah. There’s an ache. But I am so grateful to her.

I just got my first ever new carpet in an existing house, laid in my bedroom today. Am moving furniture back in. Woohoo! This place is really coming together now.

I also just made a batch of divine lime, chili and feijoa chutney. All homegrown ingredients.

Trying to destress. That Holmes and Rahe scale score of 923 is concerning me. BG thinks I am a chill chick, who doesn’t absorb stress.

Unfortunately, this is a result of being betrayed. I appear resilient, healed, chill. But the vast majority of my stress is hidden. My bottom lip is swollen and crusty with four cold sores, and I’m exhausted and feel like πŸ’©. Trying to find ways to manage my stressors better.

I’ve already had cancer and a heart condition, and I’m a wee way off 55 yet. The age my mother died so suddenly. It was not from a stress cause, but I am mindful, nevertheless.

Just booked another cervical smear, as the last one had some changes AGAIN. I’ve been dealing with abnormal cervical smear results now (from the HPV I no longer have, but that I tested positive for) since 2009. It gets old…so over it


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Gliding into the weekend like…

Little dog to the groomer first thing. Planned road closure, so got there early, to beat it.

Home, check beehives, put top feeders on, feed hives. BG arrives while I am suited up, laughing at me in my beesuit, smoker in hand, wishing he had a camera. Talk to the people on my neighbour’s land , who are trying to locate a recorder, in a large tree on my place, to check on bat activity. Funny. My mind went straight to bat shit crazy. I know I’ve been painted that way by the flying monkeys.

Had a horse that BG and I have a share each in, racing yesterday. It was in a nearby city. Knew we had to negotiate the road closure, so planned to leave a bit early.

Roger was there. Ugh. FFS. I had no idea, and got a huge shock, seeing him.

Like, near me. Why doesn’t he stay down there? Lol. (I vastly prefer feeling mostly secure that he won’t pop up in my life…) my heart sank.

I don’t have a clue how many horses he has shares in these days. But he always seems to know what I do. So weird.

Anyway. I avoid.

But he always tries to engage. I hate it. But I answer questions, etc, hoping he’ll go away fast. It’s a public forum. You really do have to play nice. But I liken it to all the times in a woman’s life where society says, “be nice.”

Your boss felt you up a bit, why aren’t you flattered, he finds you attractive, be nice.

Your parents’ creepy friend made lewd jokes about women’s bodies. He’s old. Be nice.

Your friend of a friend raped you. He made a “mistake.” Be nice.

Your cheating, lying, abusive ex wants to chat. Isn’t that great, you’re still friends. Be nice.

I have managed to avoid contact for about two years. But two sightings in the last month or so. It still upsets me no end. My heart races and I go all wobbly. I break out in a cold sweat. I struggle to breathe properly. Fuck. I hate it. I think I cover all the panic signs well? Dunno. I feel like a cornered animal. Swan gliding across the lake, feet furiously paddling underneath!

BG is fascinated. He sees Roger as being like his cheating dad. If he chats nicely with me, then he ensures that to the outside world, that all is well, he did nothing wrong. He’s so intrigued that Trinket has NEVER shown her face. I met her while we were still together. Just after I found out he was cheating again, with her this time. I drove hours to (my shame) beg her not to keep on with her affair with my partner of over three decades.

Never once since. BG finds that as weird as I do. But, I’m not complaining. I don’t ever want to see her. I wouldn’t trust myself, lol. Joking.

I think? 😜

BG also has this strange, but understandable (from the outside) theory. He thinks Roger engages also to keep me on the hook. So he has a back up plan. If Trinket ever walks.

I roll my eyes.

I don’t think Roger gives a flying fuck about me.

He didn’t want me then.

He certainly doesn’t want me now.

It’s all image management.

We are not friends. Friends don’t lie, cheat, see your utter devastation, watch you work your arse off to heal, to grow, give you potentially fatal – certainly health compromising – diseases and cheat again, walking away telling you that “one day, we’ll find our way back to each other,” then never even ask once how your cancer treatment (from an STI he gave you) is going.

Interestingly, BG told me the other day that Chrissy also played that Terminator card. “Ah’ll be back!’ With, “we need a little break, to figure some stuff out. It’s not over, babe.”

Ill Be Back Arnold Schwarzenegger GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

That was the last time he saw her. She did continue to message for years. Including annual “Happy Birthday, babe,” messages for about three or four years after she left. It’s stopped now. I saw the messages. He didn’t reply.

Hopium is a powerful drug. BG gets it, because he also had to break the addiction, when his dealer promised more, but never delivered. I know he thinks I am vulnerable to Rog hoovering. Coming back to reclaim me.

I’m not.

I was for a while.

I knew it then, and it TERRIFIED me. Thankfully, he really was done with using me up. Thankfully the Wonders of Trinket’s Magical Pussy kept me safe from the hoover. I am stronger and better now. The addiction is under control.

BG also has a bizarre theory, which I know to be bollocks, as a woman.

He thinks Trinket is scared Rog will leave her, for me. I admit, I couldn’t be with another cheater, my insecurities would do my head in. (NB I was never in the slightest bit jealous, nor insecure, before Leanne. Cheating partner changed me at my core. Forever.)

So she doesn’t show? What??? That makes zero sense, dude.

Nah. It doesn’t work like that. She’s secure. If she wasn’t, she’d be glued to his side. They are living love’s wrinkly dream πŸ˜„

Anyway. The horse went very average. Poor ride by the jockey. That’s racing.

I’m sure Roger found that very amusing.

Whatever.

We headed home, picked up the dog, leaving flowers I had packed in a chilly bin in the car all day, for the groomer’s darling mother, a dear friend, who is recovering from cancer surgery.

Threw clothes in a bag, kissed niece and nephew goodbye, they head back down to their Mum’s today, gave doggos treats and goodbye snuggles, and off to BG’s. We got there around 7. He threw clothes in a bag, golf clubs in car, off up the coast to Andy and Ingrid’s. Here by 9, we drank some red wine, and played pool. BG is a pool shark! We doubled up and played Andy and his friend, Bob. Andy is decently talented too. I just had to not fuck up, and the competition was close, us winning a first to five close encounter.

Bed. Sleep. I’m exhausted. The boys have just left to drive further up the coast to play golf. I’m in bed, contemplating making a cup of tea.

Counting my blessings. This is such a good life.


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Recovery

My friend had her cancer surgery today. We chatted this morning. She was jittery. I talked the calm talk. Made her laugh.

She’s worried. Of course.

I’ve had several people message me tonight, asking if she’s ok.

How beautiful.

She’s a truly amazing woman. People love her gorgeousness.

And I realised how messed up I was when I went under the knife.

It was two weeks after the love of my life, my love of over thirty years, the man who held me as I birthed our babies, my support person, drove out of my life forever.

To be with someone who didn’t give a fuck that he was my love.

I had no one.

He’d given me a cancer, when there was no cancer in my family, via sex.

Cervical cancer. Grade III.

From the HPV he gave me from cheating. Fucking Leanne without condoms.

Then he fucked off to fuck another Schmoopie while I had a lymphadenectomy.

I drove myself to hospital.

I drove myself home after the recovery period.

I drove myself to the daily radiotherapy appointments for those seven weeks.

Then I drove myself to work afterwards. Starting at 10.30am daily for those weeks. I was EXHAUSTED, but was running on adrenaline.

No one messaged.

No one checked in on me.

I’m so glad our darling girl has so much support πŸ’—


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Exhale

Made it.

The event I was dreading a bit, but of course attended, was just lovely. So many old friends. Lots of love, wine, lovely food, laughter and dancing.

BG just goes with the flow at these things. I’m so grateful for his level head, and appetite for fun. He always has my back!

I haven’t talked a lot with him about my past. He knows enough. But little about the people who I felt let me down, or are Switzerland.

At one point, I saw out of the corner of my eye, Rog making a beeline for BG. Hand outstretched, like they’d never met before. They have. A couple of times. BG is always personable and they chatted. He is cute though. He sees who Rog is. He sees him as very similar to his own cheating father, good in a room. Image management on point. As he said, if they talk in public, all friendly, then Rog can’t possibly be a bad guy. Right? As he said, “that’s also why he always seeks you out at these things. So people go, see, Roger and Paula are friends. He didn’t do ANYTHING wrong. Typical narcissist. Working the room. Manipulating the narrative.”

I love this man. And how he has the emotional intelligence to work out the psychology of it all. His own cheating father…

All good.

Then, the woman who is married to Rog’s best mate cornered him. He hasn’t heard anything about my history with her. The drunken mess who, just a week or two into Roger openly driving hours to fuck another woman, screamed at me, calling me crazy, as I smiled and chatted nicely with a group of mutual friends in a wine bar.

BG says he got immediate bad vibes from her, and then she told him what she did at the wine bar, ending with, “not my finest hour.”

Wow!

Really??? I am surprised she told him. Even more surprised she remembers. It was a turning point for me. The first (and still only) person I have ever unfriended on social media.

And real life, lol.

She was rotten drunk. And she has never once made a move to try to apologise to me. I was putting a face on, trying to act sparkly and bright, but was in reality completely heartbroken, feeling vulnerable, tearful and the biggest fool in the world. Utterly devastated.

And she tore into me.

I mean WTAF???

Her own husband called her a bitch. “You don’t kick anyone when they’re down! Why would you do that?”

Hmm. As we left the party, her stepdaughter – my 30 year old goddaughter, who plays nice, they’re a blended family, and being onside with the wicked stepmother means she has a good relationship with her Dad – hugged me tightly. We’d chatted earlier, caught up on her news, etc. As we pulled away, she rolled her eyes at me, and smiled. “The stepmother is true to form!” I tilted my head. “Why? What’s happened?”

“She’s passed out on the bathroom floor.”

Nice. Stay Classy.

I tried to stay far away from Roger. But he cornered me at the bar. Making chit chat. I realised afterwards that I never once looked at him. Could not tell you what he looked like, or what he wore.

BG says there was a funny moment. An absolutely stunningly fabulous old family friend intervened when Rog was with BG. She asked Roger if he’d met BG. “His best mate lives next door to us at the beach!” Then basically said/suggested/gestured something along the lines of, yeah, he’s a great guy, look at him! Paula’s upgrade. BG reckons Roger’s face was priceless, as he nodded agreement. Funny. Even if just his perception/story! I know this woman calls a spade a spade. She would have been a bit clever.

So. I not only survived. I had fun.

And am still acutely bemused by the fact that the darling, innocent Trinket has NOT ONCE shown up to any of these events with her darling, Roger.

How weird? Surely it can’t be because she knows she’s a cheating whore, who had an affair with a partnered man and that is not okay?

Yeah, nah.

I really don’t know. She just doesn’t seem to show up for him. Be proud of being with him.

Funny that.

Driving home, BG leaned in, and said, “you sparkled tonight, as always. So great to see you with your friends.”

I froze.

Sparkled. That word! Oh my heart!

Roger told me many times after his affair that he had extinguished my sparkle. 😭😭😭

Apparently, another man can see it is back. I guess it’s all perspective in the end…


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Tell your story

There is a whole societal narrative that says you shouldn’t talk about being cheated on.

That makes you the bitter bunny.

I talked. I tell people my truth.

Not like the initial occasional emotional vomiting.

Not at all. I tell the cliff notes version of the truth. I loved a man for a very long time. He cheated. I tried hard. He cheated again. He left for Sparkle Pussy. I got sick because of his cheating. It’s been heartbreakingly hard.

“When you knew, I hope after disclosure, you dumped him. I hope you tell people WHY you dumped him. Same with your ex. If we want to challenge the Holy Right to Jizz Without Consequence, we have to talk about it.


Oh, they don’t want to be shamed? You don’t want gonorrhea. They can fuck right off.”

Thanks, Chump Lady.

One of my staunchest supporters messaged me late last night. She held my hand through this. Her husband cheated around the same time Roger did (the first time I knew he was a cheater – Leanne.) They are still together. She is an old classmate and friend of Roger’s. But steadfast beside me. “You’re such a gem, Paula. Funny, sexy, loyal and loving. He’s an arse who never deserved your class, commitment and style.” I didn’t tell many people when I had cancer. But C was there for me. We walked the dogs at the dog park together every Friday throughout my radiotherapy. And for the first years of my new singledom. They have a bach at the same beach BG lives at. So we catch up there, regularly too.

C has just been diagnosed with aggressive melanoma.

And it has spread.

They are operating on Wednesday. It’s pretty serious. This delightful bundle of love, is really, really scared. Lots of tears. She reached out to me, a cancer survivor, knowing I know how she feels. I feel sick with worry.

But positive. She’s got this!

Oh man. I really, really hope she has. She’s a mess.