Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum

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Here’s the thing

We are having a lot of stress at work.

I say we, meaning everyone, as a team.

The pandemic, closed borders (just slowly reopening now) has created pressures on small business that are stressful for all. Not least of which on managers and business owners.

People are fatigued.

And have learned bad habits. Don’t go to school if you don’t feel like it. Work? Optional.

My boss is funding a dairy conversion for her husband. It’s pretty ridiculous. I don’t get it, as an ex-dairy farmer myself. At 53 years of age, to start milking cows, why??? And he’s spending huge money on infrastructure and compliance to milk – wait for it – 50 cows!!!

That is so freaking ridiculous it isn’t funny.

So, the staff are struggling. I am the buffer zone between the them and our boss, and I realised our top little star was not coping yesterday – it’s been building for a week or two. So I talked to her yesterday and asked if we can help, maybe reconfigure things a bit to let the pressure valve off a bit.

I related my conversation to our boss this morning.

She lost her mind.

I know she is under a lot of pressure, but the whole house of cards will tumble if we don’t act now, and lose good people.

Anyway, I know I will be dealing with this soon, myself. I’m not silly, I see the pressures of employing staff. But I think I get it, am intuitive, and can pre-empt problems by cutting them off at the pass, as much as possible.

I didn’t sleep much last night. The mind movies of Rog and Trinket still circulate at night, often. I tried a few of my mindfulness, settling techniques.

But music was my saviour, as it so often is. Lately, I’ve been listening to a fair bit of Courtney Barnett. This one got me in the feels, could have written the lyrics myself! But, her languishing delivery soothes me every time…


“Here’s the thing
Can’t stop thinking about you
Yeah, I’m writing
It’s the only thing that I know how to do
I don’t know what to say, you’re so far away
I don’t wanna be annoying
I don’t know what to say, you’re so far away
And I feel insecure
Your windowsill
Is momentarily filled with sun
And it’s these small thrills
That get me through the day until the next one
And I’m not afraid of heights
Maybe I’m just scared of falling
And I’m not afraid of heights
Maybe I’m just scared of falling
I’m your man
Mysterious at your command
And it’s understandable
That you’re in such high demand, it’s true
I don’t know what to do
It’s looking like I’ll never leave this room again
I don’t know what to do
Gonna write this letter to you that I’ll never send
Here’s the thing
Can’t stop thinking about you”



Generally, Facebook memories are fine.

I never posted much about Rog. He wasn’t on social media during his pre-online dating years. A technophobe who hated computers and phones back then. Him later embracing them, was a red flag I missed. They enabled his cheating with both Leanne, and the online dating whores.

So, I respected that rule about not posting about people without their permission. That also went for our kids.

I saw a lot of Fakebook stuff, too. People posting about their wonderful husbands, nek minnit, divorced…

But this week, a photo that a friend took of Rog and I together at a younger friend’s 40th, 5 months after DDay #1 (Leanne) and just weeks after my first suicidal ideation, and thankfully only, attempt came up in my memories.

Lord. Typing that sentence out was hard.

I wanted to die. I was agonised. Roger found me, saved me, and bundled me, wrapped tightly in a blanket into his ute, always touching my skin, and holding my hand, I was zombie like, but aware of his physicality, his constant touch, as he drove, and as he climbed back into the ute between shifting stock. He had several essential farm jobs to complete before taking me home, holding me so tightly, and phoning a psychologist.

The problem was always me.

My reaction.

Never him.

The action that caused the reaction.

I had years and years of therapy after that. Off and on. I never had before in my life.

He never went to therapy for himself.

Not once.

He did come to couples counselling for a short while, two years after DDay, when the hysterical bonding started waning, and I started questioning why I was allowing him to touch me. He went because the daily hot sex was reducing. He went long enough for our counsellor to let me know he suspected love addiction.

I’m ashamed.

Ashamed I did that. Attempted to unalive myself.

But I didn’t know how to make the pain stop. My beautiful life, with my beautiful man, was all a terrible lie.

I couldn’t reverse time. He had lied to me for a year and a half, made me sick, and it was with my friend, in my homes.

I couldn’t escape any of it. Every room in the house had her stench. Every part of our farm. Every surface of our car, and holiday home, our whole social circle knew, the whole town.

I withdrew. Leanne had fucked these for me, by fucking him there.

I looked at that picture. I look strained, smiling fakely in my super high heels. Roger looks bored. Disinterested. Leaning in for the picture. It’s an AWFUL photo. Cannot imagine why I posted it? Desperation? Look at us, still together. Take that, Leanne! FFS. Infidelity literally makes you a crazy person.

Anyway, another night of little sleep, have been scrolling for too many hours. 5.15am now. The dogs are both gently snoring.

Got up, hot milk drink. Better try to get a little bit more sleep now…

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Welcome to my blog

I still blog about betrayal, being discarded by the man I loved “forever,” because it helps me move through this new life.

I don’t talk about to to real life friends. I don’t post my deep feelings on social media

This is my outlet.

It’s a (mostly) anonymous space, where I can unload the burden I carry with me every day.

It’s where I remind myself that all of his ways of making me feel not good enough, were not because of me.

They are his shortcomings.

His lack of belief, loyalty, love and deep, enduring commitment. He’s not capable of loving like I love. He loves enough, to get the target of that affection to do what he wants. Ask Trinket. It feels really, really good!

I’m really kind. Clever. Resourceful. Independent. Funny. Hard working. Quirky AF. The most loyal person you are likely to ever meet. I give and give and give. I love with my all.

And I’m exhausted. Woke at 2am, never got back to sleep. Busy day at work. Haven’t eaten. Gonna go crash now. It’s 5.40pm. I don’t carry the load well when I’m this tired.



I’ve talked before about the insomnia that came into my life, and has never left, since Leanne – my “friend” – exposed her 18 month long affair with my most beloved and trusted partner of (then) 22 years.

I haven’t slept a full night through, since that night, 12 years ago.

I used to sleep like the dead. Once the kids slept through the night.

I had TWO NIGHTS – in a row! – last week, where I nearly slept through. And the sleep was that death sleep. Where you wake up at a reasonable hour, and realise you have slept. Groggy, wondering where the hell you are…

Like, really slept.

I was blown away.

And worried.


Yeah, I was worried that it was because BG was here. Not going anywhere. Just here. With me.

What if my sleep is dependent on some man being in my bed??? ๐Ÿ˜ฑ๐Ÿ˜ฑ๐Ÿ˜ฑ

That is so not who I am!

Anyway, just something I noted.

And added to my list of anxieties. Cool.

Last night, he was talking to me, just on the phone. His fridge died. In full lockdown. Bugger! Getting a service technician was tough, but he managed to get a guy who does his commercial work to call in. He’ll know today if it’s gonna be okay, or if he needs to buy a new one. In full lockdown, it is considered an essential item, but will have to buy online. Without seeing it IRL. Ugh.

As the conversation went on, he got a lot more smooshy than he normally does. He’s not one to whisper sweet nothings, not particularly “romantic” (cough, the opposite of Roger-the-lovebomber who would sweet talk you until you melted into a puddle) and I admit, I do really miss it, but am pleased he doesn’t bullshit me with love bombing. I know that missing it is trauma. Ingrained in me by Roger’s training of my young brain, to react and swoon to any seemingly loving attention. Anyway, uncharacteristically, BG said, “I miss your hair, darling. Wish you were here, lying your head on me, so I could stroke your hair. It always smells so damn good.”

The thing is, I feel that stuff. I could feel his smooth, non-farming hands on my skin, as they stroked my face, neck and decolletage, after running through my hair. Like, physically felt it, as he talked. Ugh.

Naw. Bastard! That is the kind of love bombing I know my fucked up brain “needs,” but that my sane brain freaks out about, fearing it is utter bullshit.

But, once I swooned, then blasted myself, I calmed down enough, to think rationally. He means it, Paula. He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t say what you want to hear, to make you believe he isn’t lying. To dull your fears. It is real.

I hate that Roger’s shit still affects me so viscerally. My body reacts with heat, to both sweetness and utter terror. When I haven’t seen or spoken to him in so, so long. That trauma bond is damn unbreakable. His shit still affects who I am, and how I react in life.

I’m totally exhausted. To the point where I desperately fight my eyes closing at my desk at work every damn day. I’ve never had this before. The 3pm drowsiness. I’ve napped both days of lockdown, in the afternoon. I’ve never been a person who could nap.

And today, it’s weird, as I am happy alone, but today, I miss my barman. I miss his comforting presence. I miss his soft stroking hands. I miss touching him, and the way he quietly moans at my most simple of touches. He LOVES being touched. I think the deprivation of not having someone has built up over the decades. I remember him saying, just after the second time we spent the night together that he absolutely loved the skin to skin contact, of my hands, scratching his back gently. Many humans love to be touched. I do. But I also have some trauma residuals, where my startle response is intense. Like, I jump, and internally scream, “don’t touch me!” Just like I was after I was raped. And when Rog wanted to touch me after his affair with Leanne re-traumatised me.

What if he’s going to hurt me? Rog had me totally, madly, truly in love with him for thirty years, and he was a cheating liar…

Oh, and BG’s stepdaughter has just found out she has the opportunity to do a fully funded PhD. As she nears the end of her Masters degree. Pretty exciting. Her mother has moved up to be with her. Getting her out of the small town where she has been drowning in poverty and fear, dealing with her meth addicted son.

Two kids. Two totally different outcomes. BG is pleased she is safe, and has finally taken care of herself after years of dealing with the misery and the guilt involved when you have a child with an addiction.



The whole incident, whereby I was able to do this “male” thing last night, and BG seemed offended (he denied he was, then later admitted he waa a bit embarrassed) has shaken me quite badly.

I haven’t slept.

This is one of those lingering things. The damage. My fears about men. That my independence – which personally I treasure and safeguard – is a major turn off. And it makes me angry, sad, and terribly hurt and vulnerable. I’m on the couch, under my weighted blanket. Trying to self soothe. BG worried when I left our bed.

He just came to ask what’s going on. I’ve been restless all night. I am trying to find the words to tell him, without sounding ridiculous.

I’m back. An hour later, he has got some of it out of me. I feel so pissed at myself for being this way.

He just held me, and apologised. He was mad at himself, because he hadn’t done the thing I asked him to when he asked me before work if there was anything I’d like done.

The thing is, I didn’t even care. But he felt he had let me down, so when he then also “failed” at the “manly” task, he was upset he’d let me down even worse.

I explained my sleeplessness, and my damage. That if I ever got something right, I was punished for being “too clever,” or “too capable.” I shared that Roger told me he was leaving me for someone who “needed” him more. And how fucked up I am under my cool exterior.

And how I’m mad as hell at myself that I still am.

Then he got all, “I’m so sorry, babe. I’m not making you feel safe.” Which is BS. He does. And it’s not his fault. Or his job to fix what Roger broke. That pisses me right off!

Man. How did I let this happen? All this damage???

And how come it still affects me?

I usually hide it better. I said, “see where D’s anxiety comes from? That’s my fault. All my not good enoughs.”

Fuck this life.


No rest

I have never been so exhausted as since I discovered my beloved was a cheater. My mind NEVER shuts down. Sleep is fitful. I still have weird dreams and often (sexually) violent nightmares.

Less than in the first years. But they still happen. They still steal my sleep.

I think the peace that is stolen from us by a partner cheating on us is one of the most sinister, disrupting and intrusive effects of the selfishness that a disloyal partner’s cheating inflicts on a loving, loyal partner’s future.

I’ve had a tough week.

This is the new me. I saw a pretty blonde woman’s picture come up briefly on BG’s phone at the weekend. “Lou.”

It was after a big party, we were rushing to get back to his work. I kinda shelved it, in an icy, I can’t process this right now way.

I don’t have a clue what it was, and having only ever seen one dating app’s display, for a whole day of my life, I think it might have been something like that? I need to discuss. But that needs to happen in person. Who is Lou? Why is her photo on your phone? Etc.

With Rog, I would have never thought to ask. Just a friend. I was so trusting. It kinda never occurred to me he might be a cheater.

Until irrefutable proof told me otherwise. He had apparently ended it with Leanne when she told me. I literally had no idea that for the past year and a half, when I drove to work, he was texting, phoning, fucking her. He admits he was never gonna tell me. I know that is the truth, because I “caught” him a couple of times, and he could have easily told me the truth, and we could have moved forward, then. Instead, he lied.

And I believed him. Because I never would lie. Especially if I am asked a direct question.

So, now I have major trust issues.

Exacerbated by BG going quiet this week. No good morning beautifuls.

I kinda hoped it was work stress.

And my glorious friend, CR, said it was probably the honeymoon period ending. He feels safe with me now, so doesn’t need to check in as often, etc.

I asked him last night, about this. He said he was sorry, but he felt like a drag. Always complaining about work. And he has been. Hospitality is damn hard at the best of times. Managing a team of up to 40 people, clients needs and demands, in a pandemic has been a nightmare. Staff reliability, recruitment, retention, fragile mental health. These are big issues for him. With no foreign travellers, his casual staff roster has been a nightmare. Then a couple of weeks of trying to design a role and find the budget for an increased salary for his 2IC (who had handed in her resignation) to entice her to stay, without upsetting incumbent staff, or creating employment law problems with another staff member….horrific.

So, he went quiet. To think.

And I went, “he’s withdrawing. Lost interest. Damn. I’m not good enough. Again.”

These are issues I never felt before. I look back at my life, when I loved and worked hard, and never thought to question the love or withdrawal of love, or whether my love was loving someone else, and see how peaceful and joyful it was.

I lost my peace. I lost pure (unadulterated, yeah, pun totally intended) joy. I worry. I overthink. I stress. I grieve.

I am tired.

Tired of the fight.


The off switch

Not sure if it’s the prospect of not seeing and touching my barman for a couple of weeks, or what? But I’m unsettled.


I’ve been trying to get back to sleep for over three hours now.

When I get extra antsy, like this, my mind won’t switch off.

I’ve meditated.

I’ve made chamomile tea.

I’ve taken extra magnesium and melatonin. A herbal sleep tonic.

And my mind does this really weird thing with my acceptance that shit happens, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

And fucks with my zen!

Because mostly, I am at a place of acceptance. That I loved, treasured and adored a man who easily moved onto another woman. In the click of your fingers! Zap! I’m “in love” with someone I met on the interwebs just a few weeks ago, and am selling us up and moving to be with her. No job. No plan. Just twu wuv.

Just like that. I was completely replaced. Cut out of my own life and tossed aside, so very callously. So very disposable. So completely worthless.

That I gave him every part of me, let him mold me, change my lifecourse, to suit his. Which I did so willingly.

Because I truly, madly, deeply loved him.

And he never cared in the slightest about me, or my dreams. I accept I was unloved and I wasted three decades of my life on a selfish man who never valued, let alone loved me. Certainly not the way I was totally dedicated to him.

In these sleepless, helpless moments, my hard work in healing from his cruel and duplicitous betrayal and abandonment of me, of our beautuful history and life tovether, unravels somewhat. I wonder how you just walk away?

Because I am not like that. I bonded with him. And my mind works completely differently to his.

I know, had it been me in his shoes, I would have enormous regrets. Where he has none.

A divorce recovery coach writes…

Men who break their promises and betray their families usually have no room or time to think about regret. Occasionally, they may have pangs of regret when milestones with the children are missed. Or when their family moves forward without them. But they seem to not allow themselves to go to that regret space very often. Instead, they blame us and our children for excluding them, and so regret doesnโ€™t have a chance. 

Men who leave relationships also donโ€™t allow themselves to consider the fact that they may have made a mistake. Instead, they go full speed ahead to make everything in their new life seem perfect! Admitting that they may have made a mistake is very hard to do after the destruction and disappointment they have left in their wake everywhere. 

For a man to regret leaving his wife and to admit that there is something to be sorry about, he would have to be vulnerable enough to be honest with himself and to have an active conscience. Most men are unlikely to share their regret with anyone. It would be too painful to admit.

And that sums up what I know about Roger.

I saw him do this throughout his lifetime. He doesn’t look back and feel regret. That is a waste of time to him. Whereas I use that reflection to try to do better, live better, be better, he charges on.

When he broke our family, cutting contact for eleven years with his own sisters and their children (๐Ÿ’”๐Ÿ’”๐Ÿ’”) my heart was so broken, and he just carried on.

He showed me who he is. I believe him now.

So why, in the wee, small hours, when I’m still recovering from this dann pneumonia, does my self esteem, my hard won peace(ish) unravel?

Night peeps, gonna try to get an hour in before I need to shift my cattle and get back to the grindstone of work.

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BG is stressed. Work is causing his hypertension to go off the scale.

So, on Sunday, I suggested a road trip.

He was excited.

Off we set.

Up the other coast of the peninsula he lives on, and back over, towards the top, to our friends’ home north of him, on the same coastline.

These two.

Are just gorgeous friends. These are the first of his people that I met. An old boarding school friend, and his 20+ year second wife.

They insisted we stay for dinner, and I made arancini balls out of their leftovers, and have arrived home with houseplant babies grown from Imogen’s plants, and a huge shopping bag full of bulbs. She’s been trying to sort out their garden.

BG came home and apologised for his stress, and thanked me for whisking him away from town, so he could relax. (His events manager said to me in the morning, when we were setting up at work, don’t let him come back here today…)

I drove us home so he could have a few drinks with his mate to help unwind. I just said that it’s fine. I get it. But we need to find better ways of dealing with it.

The drive was good. He usually drives my car, and we talked. A lot. About how we go forward with the circumstances we have. Legal protections, etc. He asked me some questions about what we have not quite finalised, regarding my assets. And pointed out a couple of things I hadn’t fully considered. We talked about “forever” versus what happens if either one of us dies, or decides to leave the relationship. And I related, for the first time, my concerns, highlighting what happened in my mother’s case. Like us, she had the greater asset base. And her older husband outlived her. She thought she had protected her assets, whilst enabling him to have a life, but it went pear-shaped despite her plans.

BG nodded and said, “ah, I understand more where you are coming from now.” As I said, “it’s a lot simpler that you have no children, but I do. And I have more to lose financially, than you do. But I’m also aware that without kids, no problem other than you leaving me, everything could be 50/50 in that case. But I have kids I would like to leave anything I do have at the end to. And I don’t want you to decide after 5-10-15 years, that you’re off, leaving me with half of my already halved earnings.”

To which he replied, “but what if you leave me, and I have invested in us?” Because, if he ever moves in with me, he’s not a renter. My home is legally very well protected, but he could invest (his higher earnings than mine) in a life together, and then I could run off, leaving him high and dry. He also fears the financial exposure in my trust-protected home, if he shares expenses, makes capital improvements, for years. I get that.

Anyway, it was a good conversation. We decided I should come and meet with him and his lawyer, so we can hammer the last few nails in this contracting out agreement. It’s two years tomorrow, and we definitely need it completely sorted in the next twelve months, when he could legitimately argue we’ve been a couple for three years, and be legally entitled to 50/50 if we split.

As we both know, that isn’t 50/50 (not by a long shot) of what I actually have, as over 80% of that is tied up in two trusts, that were both formed prior to us meeting.

But it needs a legal plan we’ve been working on, fully in place. We have both long acknowledged that.

We also got to the point where I told him for the first time, that it was my first D-day antiversary. And the brief version of that story was related. How I was texted, completely and utterly blindsided by the OW, at a party that they had been having an affair. How I then carried on all “normal” on the outside, completely churning inside, on autopilot, the rest of the night. How it was half an hour into the drive home, at 1.30am, before I confronted Rog, showed him the text.

Five hours after I received it.

How that night, and for several weeks afterwards, he had me believing it was a once off “mistake.”

It was around a month later that I discovered it was 18 months worth of “mistake.” The trickle truth over the next year was unbearable. New discoveries regularly punctuating my “healing.”

BG held me and said, “are you okay, darling? That is horrific. I can’t even…that prick.”

And yes, I am mostly okay. But it will never go away.

It will never be neat and tidy.

I will always recall that night with exceeding attention to detail. I was sober driving, so every nuance of what happened, the texture of the duvet I sat on in the dark as my world exploded. The colour of the birthday girl’s sister-in-law’s outfit as I returned to the party rooms to dance with her. The silly conversation we had, laughing like idiots. My smiley mask firmly on. The music that was playing.

The colour draining from Roger’s half drunk face as I showed him the text, confirming she was telling the truth…

It started all the trauma. My parents’ weird divorce, my violent, bloody, tearing rape by a friend of a friend, in my own home, my mother’s sudden death…all of the things that I’d held together, slowly unravelled from that moment on.

My home was no longer a safe place.

The safest, most trusted person in my life was a terrifying monster.

So yeah, that antiversary will always represent a seismic shift in the time-space continuum of my life. I’ve driven home. Awake since 2am, coughing like a champ, i got up and drove at 4am. Tucked up on my couch, with both doggos nearby, huddled under the heat pump, until there is enough light to go shift my stock. This is the sleeplessness that Roger’s infidelity caused. I’d sure love to sleep through just one night again!

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Permanent insomnia

When I was a young woman, I met a boy whom I fell madly in love with really quickly.

I fought it.


I was 20 years old.

You do not meet the love of your life and stay with them at 20! You have a life to live! Education, travel, parties, city life.

But I was hooked. A reasonably bright 20 year old vegetarian, with big dreams.

Who instead chose a hunting, shooting, fishing beef farmer, who had struggled a little with formal education.

A match made in heaven.

Even then, I thought he was an odd choice for me. My previous on again, off again boyfriend was a smart, bronzed, long-haired, muscular, esoteric, poetry writing, musical surfer. Roger was pale, tall, lean, balding, dry witted, old school bloke. But he had me totally mesmerized. He love bombed me constantly. Constant attention, wee bunches of hand picked flowers, a bag of groceries, phone calls, turning up to see me every day, little sweet touches. Those oh so soft eyes, his intensity when kissing, touching, making love. My body literally ached from the physicality of him.

Until he was caught cheating with our “friend” more than twenty years later, none of that changed. He told me – and showed me through physical affection and intense passion – that he loved me multiple times a day. I still shiver when I see in my mind’s eye, the super intense look of sheer pleasure and something much darker in his eyes, on his face as we made love. He used to bite me hard as he came, my fear was losing a nipple one day! God, it was intense. He knew all my weaknesses, just where, just how, with what pressure, what part of his body, to touch me.

As my only lover, I just assumed that this was how sex was for everybody.

The saying “better than sex” had some gravitas. When friends would smirk and suggest that it doesn’t have to be that great to beat sex, I admit I thought they must be prudish, or somewhat frigid. Sex was AH MAZE ING!!

Whilst I have some very intense moments with my lovely barman, we don’t have that.

That always amazing thing.

I believe we still haven’t worked each other out entirely. I mean, I do more of one thing Roger didn’t seem overly into (and I assumed I can’t have been too proficient at, so asked a lot of guidance about) and BG LOVES me doing that.

But I do wonder at times.

He doesn’t approach making love with me with quite the intense passion and desire that Roger did. I agree that we are mid 50s. But up until just over three years ago, Roger and I were still very intense. Sweaty, high cardio, very wet and wild sex sessions. With my lack of experience with different partners, I am left wondering. Were we a lightning, once-in-a-lifetime coupling in bed?

And my answer always comes back to this.

He was for me.

But I obviously never satisfied him. He kept looking elsewhere. He will never be satisfied. He might be for long periods. But never forever. My experience, of truly mind bending sexual pleasure with him, was one-sided. He does this with everyone. Leanne once said he could make her orgasm faster than anyone she’d ever been with. I know I was multi-orgasmic with him.

Of course, Roger will be telling Trinket she’s the best he’s ever had, the sexiest woman he’s ever met.

Ask me how I know. ๐Ÿคฆโ€โ™€๏ธ

This is not to say that I don’t enjoy good sex, some knee shaking, whole body shivering times with BG.

But sex is just a much lesser priority. Roger was always ready. Always wanting it. It was a fabulous thing to be constantly desired.

I loved it. It made me feel incredibly sexy and wanton. I know it meant I initiated less, because I rarely needed to!

So, sex has become a very fascinating topic for me. I know as a single man, with no guarantees of when, where or even with whom BG would have sex next, that no doubt changes a sex drive. He admits, he had to shut down some of it to survive. His fear of being his serial cheating father drove a lot of it. Don’t be a sex pest! So, for him, my high libido is a thing of wonder, but some cause for mild concern. He often says he’s “not affectionate enough.” Or, “not doing enough.”

Euphemisms for not having “enough” mind blowing sex with me.

The reality is, he’s exceptionally attentive. Multiple daily messages and calls. He touches me constantly. He calls me by affectionate little nicknames. In public too ๐Ÿ˜ฑ๐Ÿ˜ฑ๐Ÿ˜ฑ.

It’s a chemistry thing for me. There are things he hasn’t worked out, sometimes even after I have been very direct.


Oh God, who knew at 50 something I would discover that talking about sex would get so hard? I am no prude. One sexual partner, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like to fuck! I love sex. I love adventurous, pushing the boundaries sex. I just did all of that within the boundaries of what I believed was a loving, mutually fulfilling, exclusive lifetime partnership!

Yeah, right!

So, teaching a new person what zings, and finding their buttons, has been both exciting, but also very challenging. BG hasn’t shared a life, intimacies, his heart, fully with ANYONE before. He’s open to it. He’s actually very loving and sensitive. But not having thirty years of deep, unreserved intimacy, there are things we just miss each other on at times.

It’s a very weird thing. And I think some of it is not possible to quite click with. That whole life, ingrained knowledge and trust. We’ll never have that.

And I will never trust like that again. It scares me to think I will miss out on that absolute joy of “knowing” ๐Ÿคข๐Ÿคฎ๐Ÿคข๐Ÿคฎ I was loved and treasured above all and anyone else.

These are some of the reasons I have never slept through the night since that fateful night one May, when my “friend” texted me she had been fucking my safe person, my whole heart and world, and exploded my peace forever.


This is where I live now

After what I lived through, all the gaslighting, abuse and mindfuckery, this is me. Constantly scanning my life. My friends. My work colleagues. BG.

Are they for real? Truthful? Genuine? Well intentioned, but not following through?

Radar is switched on 24/7.

In fact, sleeping past 4am is a thing of the past. I used to sleep like the dead. Riding trackwork, parenting young children and babies, and dairy farming will do that to you. I worked my butt off for Roger and the kids! It makes you physically exhausted. And I was happy. In love. 100% sure I was loved just as much by a beautiful man. Someone who got me like no one else. My best mate. My partner for life.

You sleep. So well.

I haven’t slept a full night through, not even once, since D-day #1.

The night Leanne texted me to tell me she’d been fucking my darling.

I sleep even less since Trinket. Since I told him after I submitted my Masters thesis that it was my healing document, I loved him completely and was so grateful we had made it through the mire of infidelity. I was full of love. So happy we had survived, and were gonna be okay.


Then he dropped the next bomb. I’ve Met Someone Else.

FFS. My world, the one he smashed. The one I had single handedly had to rebuild, piece by excrutiating piece, fell apart again.

Again at his cheating hand. Un-fucking-believable! You are actually kidding me, right?

I sleep poorly. Especially on my own. I’ve been lying here listening to my dogs both gently snoring for two hours. Willing my tired mind to shut down. To rest.

I’m pretty sure my doggos are both trustworthy. The big one however, is a bit of a thief…