Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum

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Don’t listen!

To those damn butterflies. They lie. All that excitement and the awesomely addictive flappy feelings…it’s a trap!

I fell fast and hard for Roger. I resisted.

But poorly.

I was bowled over. Swept off my feet. I had never even had sex with anyone before, thinking I was smart. Selective. They needed to be ABSOLUTELY amazing. Trustworthy.

I needed to be madly in love, and madly loved. I needed to be 100% certain that this man would never, never, never hurt me.


I moved in with him after knowing him just five weeks! FFS.

I don’t move in for fun. Moving in together is my marriage. I was never going to marry, I’d decided that after seeing my mother’s utter and complete heartbreak at the end of my parents’ marriage.

Drown those fluttery mothafuckas!

Drown them real good…

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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, 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?


Five years

My oldest friend, my former BFF, sent me this today.

Yes, it’s a truly awful photo.

But, it means it is five years minus a week since my life imploded.

I took myself off to my daughter’s city for a few days, and on my return, I told Roger I was healed, that thesis, that research, that hard slog, was my healing from his long affair with his ex GF, my supposed friend, completed.

And he told me he was leaving me.

For some widow he’d met on Match. FFS!!!

I had no idea.

He’d told me how much he loved me – forever – how proud he was, this day, five years ago.

All bullshit.

He’d been hooking up with other women, via the online dating apps for at least two years. The entire period of my Masters research. Including during our romantic trip to Argentina. A couple who’d never been able to afford travel, we’d started. It was awesome.

But all bullshit.

This makes me really emotional.

I had terrible dreams, and little sleep last night. All of Trinket in Roger’s long, lean arms. Him telling her how much he loves her, how he’ll never hurt her, how she’s the only woman for him, soothing her. I woke and vomited 🤢

Yep. Five years later, he can still make me spew.

I hope that bitch realises he has done all that soothing, given all those kisses before. That he convinced me he’d changed. This is his pattern. I’m sure he told Leanne all the same soothing, gentle bullshit.



I got a migraine late in the afternoon at work, yesterday. So frustrating as my girls are here, and were planning on making me a wonderful dinner and cocktails.

Instead, I came home and lay on the couch, planning on trying to sleep it off.

I didn’t sleep. My thoughts swirling about the day my boss saw I was wearing long sleeves and a high neck, at the height of summer and took me aside, questioning me gently. “Has something happened?”

She knew what I was going through. She had been engaged to a cheater. She told me years earlier that it made her crazy. She would drive by his house, late at night, stalking him, etc. She knows the mindfuck.

That day was after Roger ripped my dressing gown off my emaciated body, and I was knocked unconscious briefly, on the bathroom floor.

All because I called him on his lie. About having Trinket stay the night in my home. When I had issued a legal letter stating that she could not set foot on my properties.

The clothing was to cover the bruising.

She insisted on photographing the bruising to document the abuse. I found the file yesterday and choked back tears. She wanted me to press charges. But I was traumatised, shaking like a leaf, terrified.

I am shocked. Shocked I let him scare me, hurt me like that. And related to this comment about safety. “Home.” (Hell, I wrote a Masters thesis on this topic!)

“I just happened upon the final scene of the final episode of Outlander after having been on hiatus from watching since DDay OCT 2017. Jamie and Claire are lying in bed at night during a thunderstorm. He rescued Claire from her kidnappers and she is visibly covered with bruises. He asks her how she feels and she says, “Safe.”

I realized that is all I have ever wanted in a relationship and something I never had, and could never have, with someone who
lies and cheats.

I also realized I am covered with bruises, from my former husband, but they are invisible.


The far more damaging bruises have been the invisible ones.

Those physical ones were nothing. I think that was part of my psyche in being unwilling to press charges. Like, hey, so I’m black and blue, but take a look at my heart!

I only want to feel safe. I’ve been seeking safety my whole life.

After my childhood “home” inploded.

After I was raped by a “friend” in my home.

After my “friend” fucked my love for a year and a half in my homes, sometimes while our children were also there.

After I was diagnosed with STIs after only ever sleeping with my darling, forever.

After he cheated again.

Trinket, and all the other online dating hook-ups over that two year (give or take) period he was secretly shopping for my replacement, as I worked my brain off, studying. Trying to heal from his treachery. Thinking he’d possibly had a character transplant and a douche tuck…

After all, going back to an cheating ex is like vomiting and eating it back up.

I think I always felt that. During those years we were trying to fix what he broke.

Trying to find how home could ever be “safe” again after his taint. After he broke me.

After we lived in homes that his family believed they were entitled to, that I was the interloper in.

After he moved me to a home that ultimately was our downfall. That I NEVER felt safe in.

My home here is the first “safe” home I have had in my entire adult life.


No contact

I have been no contact with Roger for many years now. We have briefly exchanged financial messages, maybe two/three times in the last two or three years? We don’t discuss our children, or anything else.

In the beginning, I did. I was completely insane. I had been cut adrift and I didn’t know what to do, how to survive the utterly devastating loss of my person. My person, who I told everything to, was gone. Like he died. But he was still walking the earth. How the hell could that be???

He did die really. That person, my love, doesn’t exist. And it is harder than death, because you think because they are still alive, that you can reach them on some level.

Death is instantly the end.

And permanent.

In the case of your person fucking off with someone else, they are still here, and can still respond, etc. The problem is, they are not that person anymore. If they ever even were! It’s the ultimate mindfuck.

I was talking with a friend the other day about how my brother is doing a lot better recently. His wife left him, but there was no cheating involved.

It took over two years, but things have shifted. The acceptance, and the absence of obsessing over what his ex was doing, etc. And my wise friend said what I already know.

That the person doing the leaving has left ages before they actually leave. They have completely moved on, mentally and emotionally. Those of us who are left are flailing around. Drowning in sorrow and deepest confusion.


WTF just happened?

We were married, invested, often deeply in love, then that person is gone, and not even in the slightest bit sad!

I read some old messages from me to Roger from the first months after he left recently, and man, CRINGE!!!

It was like it was someone else. Not me. Not the kickarse person I am! They were truly terrible. I was still trying to talk to my best friend. Ugh.

This is why I ABSOLUTELY LOATHE the thought of ever having to share oxygen with him – but that is exponential when it comes to his whore. Thankfully, she has never shown her scrawny neck anywhere we have had to be together.


I brace every time there might be contact. Thinking, this will be the time. The time that that utter maggot shows up.

After all, she did nothing wrong, right?

So, why is it that she has never shown up at things he is at? Not for either of the younger two’s graduations, not for our youngest’s 21st, not for his mother’s funeral, not for when he has a horse racing, not for our mutual friends’ significant birthday parties…

Yeah, she did nothing wrong alright…

Every time, I go through a BIG crisis, planning how to cope if she shows up. I even have to plan if he shows up, as my heart races, and I break out in a sweat when he is at the same venue as me. I can’t breathe, and I often get close to passing out. It’s genuinely traumatic. I know if you have never been through this, you would definitely think I am exaggerating.

I’m not. It is genuinely incredibly stressful.

Chump Lady posted recently about how hard it is running into Schmoopie. I literally don’t know how I would have managed had he done this when we still had underage children, and shared custody. I hate so much that that whore gets to even touch my precious kids – and yeah, I have to have a mental health plan to divert thoughts away from her hugging my kids. Those babies we delivered so intimately together, whom we raised with a strong moral compass, who now have to negotiate dealing with – accepting – one of the women their father loved to dip his dick in whilst also still doing that with me. Had me believing we were fine, that he loved me, and only me. Ewwwwwww.

Chump Lady’s advice:

“My advice is do your best not to. No contact. And remember, you’ve got nothing to feel mortified about. They are the damaged, sad, amoral, fucked up people. At best they are lost and deluded, at the worst they are predatory creeps. There isn’t a single Schmoopie in this world you should feel intimidated by.

The person who should feel mortified is the affair partner. Why should you retreat? Why should you skulk off upset? Hold your head high.”

Yep, that has been my plan. Every time there MIGHT be a Trinket sighting, I adjust my ladyballs, and think, it’s okay, hold your head up, you were honest, loving, and faithful. They were the dirty whores who lied and cheated, and had unsafe sex.

I also remember that he morphed into a Trinket parrot. All of a sudden, watching reality TV, going to concerts of bands he hated (just so he could bask in her wonderful presence.) His dress sense was changed. He bought her (the absolute worst!) lingerie – knowing full well that my taste was far classier, he never attempted to buy for me. I LOATHE cheap lingerie!

As one commenter states, “My FW would watch the kind of TV shows and listen to the kind of music he had always hated just because she liked them. He would ask me to buy him bizarre and ugly items of clothing that he would normally have never dreamed of wearing. I thought he was losing his marbles. Turns out she had commented she liked them when she saw them on somebody else so he just had to have them. After Dday he admitted he hated all of it and that she had never even noticed he had tried to please her by copying her tastes.”

Yep, that was Roger. Admitting to me that he thought her watching crap like Married at First Sight was crass.

But still exchanging messages about the show….

That he hated the band that they went to a vineyard concert to watch.

That he thought her dress sense was very Mumsy and boring….

You’d never know what the truth was. He just chameleoned to whatever would get him laid easiest and with the most passion. Say what I wanted to hear to me. What she wanted to hear, to her. Tah-dah, pants fall off!

No contact, hard as it is, is the only way to survive this monumental catastrophe.

The only time I met Trinket, I went to see her, to “beg” her not to “steal my man.”

It was truly awful. She pretended she didn’t know he was partnered, but I knew she was lying. She knew about me. She’d been in my holiday home, FFS! She absolutely knew I existed, AND that I wasn’t to know about her.

Hmmm. Not a cheater, right?

As I walked away from that meeting, I recall thinking that as a betrayed spouse herself, she would get it. Surely she would get it.

But in reality, I walked away shaking my head and thought how pitiful it was that taking someone’s husband was the best she could do…

I like my independence. My own space to make my own decisions. This is the most free I have been, not having to put every other person’s needs first. Bugger taking on someone else’s husband!

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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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Water finds its own level

I’m extra achy again. It sure does get old!

I had a kid mention their father. Perfectly normal, of course. But, Ouch! Fuck. I can’t flinch. I didn’t flinch. But why does it still hurt so damn much????

I know it was partially to do with the brief discussion with BG yesterday about him quickly vetting the family photos, so as not to bring any over to the family lunch for his mother’s birthday of their cheating father.

I’m annoyed at myself. I wish I was better. That it didn’t hurt.

That I was at meh about the man I loved so deeply…

In dealing with this painful, painful ache, I am calling on something two friends have mentioned lately, to try to help me. Help my self esteem.

Both said, but Paula, he was never at your level. Never your class, your style, your intellect. And obviously never capable of loving as deeply as you are. He found a downgrade. To make his life easier. A dull woman. Not a firecracker like you.

Water finds its own level, you know.

In his case, ditch water…

I did giggle quietly at that last dig!

However, this woman sees Roger and Trinket sometimes. I am surprised at her comments. And wonder if she says the same about me, to them. It feels a bit disloyal and two-faced. I am wary around her.

And I repeat mantras in my head about how he disrespected and abused me. How he messed with my health. How he mindfucked me with his promises of loyalty, dedication and deepest love. All bloody lies!

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The mindfuck channel

Or one of them.

After Leamne exposed Roger’s affair with her to me, he went into mourning.

He was openly grieving losing her.

And I almost felt sorry for him! Poor, sad sausage. The mindfuck was complete.

Maybe she was the love of his life, and I – all Bambi innocence – wandered into the middle of it all and fucked it up??? Maybe I was an OW??? Shiiiiiit! Were they still dating when he started love bombing 20 year old me??? I didn’t think so at the time. He told me they’d been over for AGES. I still don’t know the truth. I honestly believed she was crazy.

He told me she was. So yeah. Okay. I know he tells people that about me. “But she wanted to leave ME! Crazy bitch.”

Had he lied??? I’d never considered that before. Was that why she was so nasty and evil about me? Told him he’d catch AIDS from me (in was mid 80s, okay) and that confused the hell out of me. I had only ever been with him! Ahhh, was it because my Dad is gay? I didn’t get it. Had I inadvertently done something wrong? After all, he fucked her right at the beginning of “us.” Just a few weeks into us starting to date – read that as weeks after he started love bombing me daily. And I’d made excuses about that. He was getting her back for cheating on him. We were new, maybe we weren’t exclusive yet? I didn’t lnow the rules. I was 20, FFS! He was my first lover.

Yeah, he was punishing her.

By making love to her.

FML. Riiiiiight.

What a damned idiot.

He played me from day one.

He was open about his “grief,” over Leanne. He said, “she was my friend and confidante. It’s hard losing that.”

Me: nods head in sympathy. Poor baby.

When Trinket started cheating with him, I got the sad sausage tales again. He was rescuing a poor betrayed woman from her past of being cheated on.

I mean WTAF???

He actually thought I’d be sorry for her.

And chumpy me, I actually was.

The empathy chip is embedded deeply in me, and therefore malfunctions a bit. Other people’s (historical) pain is more important than my (current) agony!

The day my daughter told me, after refusing to see her sperm donor for over a year, that he told her he was still mourning the loss of me…🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️ I mean, WTF! He had his Marvellous Trinket! Whom he just HAD to sell our life up, split thirty years of assets, wipe out my loving heart, to move away to be with!

And he wanted to convince our child that he deserved sympathy because he blew up our lives??? Utterly broke her mother’s heart, shattered her world, gave her cancer due to dipping his dick in filth?.?

Yeah. It must be hard. Honeymooning. Wooing her kids. “He makes my Mum so happy.” Poor baby.

Fuck. That. Shit.

You don’t get to grieve what you exploded, FW.

My daughter was rightfully furious at his sad sausage routine. My other daughter was rightfully pissed at Trinket’s daughter’s gushing about how happy her cheater father made that girl’s cheater mother.

At my daughter’s mother’s expense.

No one seems to see the irony or think critically about the cheating, lying, theft.


The dating app life

Oh, those on dating apps, who are in fact, NOT SINGLE!

Yep. Fun fact. Many of these people lie! Shock, horror!

When I read Roger’s profile on matchdotCON, I felt sick!

The lies he told. And the messages with all the other women…🤢🤮

What a lovely, lonely man he was.

Yeah, right!

Except he was still with me, the completely faithful, loving mother of his three adult children and I had been duped, was totally under the impression we were healing from his long affair with his cheating exGF 🤦‍♀️

And I even drove all the way to the AP’s city, to tell her in person, that HE WAS NOT SINGLE, I didn’t get that memo. I know I was in deep shock, and was probably far too “nice,” about it. As I left, we hugged, FFS!!!

It was so humiliating.

The messages I retrieved, and the ones I was sent by one of the OW. Bloody hell. I saw how I had been duped! This guy was an expert level love bomber. Far more subtle than you’d think. Sweet. Kind. Concerned. Not in your face, jewellery and flowers, more creepy. Because it sounded so genuine! My skin prickled, breaking out in a sweat when I read the words exchanged.

But I saw the patterns. He was telling them what he told me…fuck. That was painful. I wasn’t special. I wasn’t exclusively adored. I wasn’t the sexiest woman alive (well, d’uh!) I wasn’t the only love of his life! 🤣😢

I wonder how Trinket is able to live with all of this? Does she really believe him? I guess she is like me, vulnerable, and easy to lie to, soaking up all the bullshit like the unloved sponge her dead cheater husband made her. I actually feel sorry for her and the life she led. But that doesn’t excuse what she did to me.

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Because I wear bright colours, had a purple mohawk back in the day, and pushed small town boundaries, people thought I was an extrovert.

I didn’t know where I fit.

I knew I wasn’t an extrovert.

But I wasn’t introverted.

I always knew I was trying to find my peace.

Roger is naturally comfortable and loves social situations. He was a perfect match for me, a socially anxious person. I could ride in on his coat tails

The above post explains it so well.

And, I thought about that eight year period. Where I knew he was a cheater, and worked my butt off, to heal US.

Looking back, after he cheated again, I can see he never bought into the whole healing journey.

I was doing all the work. He just hoped I would “get over it.

A friend posted this.


When I realized I was the only one doing the work. Scheduling therapy, getting sitters for therapy, reading books, taking our kid to therapy, reminding him of every little thing, etc. I told him to schedule the next therapy appointment. I never reminded him, and he never did.

I was giving him credit for MY efforts. So what if he showed up for therapy I scheduled, got a sitter for, reminded him of, and got us to on time? I realized he was like a puppet I was projecting my hopes and dreams on. I made it look like he was trying – but he wasn’t trying.

So appallingly frustrating.

And the best reason I have for being no contact.

He never loved me.

Not real love.

I loved him.

And still do.

But I know the man I love does not exist.

It’s a grief no one understands.