Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum



When I’m in pain, I go quiet. To the outside world. I use this blog to keep breathing. Outside of here, I am holding my breath.

BG noticed. He said I worry him sometimes.


I know we are supposed to be partners. But I don’t want to long distance worry him. He has enough on his plate, and I can’t be held by him. Eight weeks. Of needing. But trying to suck it up. He asked me yesterday if I am okay. Had I forgotten him. No messages all day. I eventually replied that I felt fair to middling.

I have several friends, happily married, etc, who are really struggling this lockdown. In fact, I don’t know anyone who is coping very well. We are in Covid jail, for so few cases. All linked. All from known clusters, already isolating. With high vaccination rates, we still can’t get time off our sentence, for good behaviour.

We can’t get a damn haircut, or go to the dentist, because 2 people tested positive yesterday, in our region. I can’t drive the hour and a half, over the barbed wire wall of this prison, to get a hug from my boy. We can’t touch other people. My sweet married friends have no idea really, at my sensory deprivation. Not to say their struggles to deal with this are any less than mine. Just different. At least they have their beloveds with them. Roger would be super snuggly in this situation. He was so good at physical affection. He made me feel like the sexiest thing ever.

I think I portray a strong, confident exterior. But my silence gave me away yesterday. Ugh. BG started digging, asking me to talk to him. So, I replied with this.

I had no idea I’d done anything to make him worry. I mean, one very busy day at work, when I didn’t message him during the day. That enough to make someone worried for me? He has no idea of my permanent pain over the loss of my life with my previous love. I mean, he knows I got hurt. But not the extent of the damage.

I feel like I’m failing at life again. That Roger was right. I’m not good enough. That he left because of me.

Not him. Not his neediness. His brokenness. His inability to self soothe. He left me because I am not enough. I know you understand my meaning here. The depression is telling me very convincing lies.



Have known I am struggling mentally, for a while.

Holding it together. Looking sorted and professional on the outside.

I had a series of full blown panic attacks during the night. Am exhausted, and not entirely sure if I can cope.


It’s happening. I have been running on empty for too many months. Supporting my brother. Pretending I’m sorted, not broken (still trying to fake it ’til I make it.)

I just cried at Richard E Grant’s Instagram post.

One step at a time.

As he negotiates his grief. His beloved wife of many decades died this year.

Death means people are allowed to be open with their grief. My boss’s Dad dying. The food myself and many others have cooked for her. The open show of love for the grieving.

I have had to suck my grief up, in public, for too long. When someone you really love, leaves you after serial cheating on you, there “shouldn’t” be grief.

There “should” be relief.

That you no longer have to deal with that dangerous and selfish behaviour. I do and don’t understand my (unsupported) grief. I thought I would be a person who felt relieved of being burdened with a man who didn’t love or respect me.

Instead, I feel like my lover, my best friend, my life partner, died. And not one person allowed me to mourn. You can’t do that in public. Unlike actual death. Where people acknowledge and encourage you to grieve in a healthy, supported way.

Trauma bonds are notoriously difficult to break.

Living this has definitely given me insight into this. I can’t speak of it IRL, people would think I was weak. Pathetic. A little (or a lot) insane.

I’m not coping. The isolation of lockdown and total madness of our insane workload this bizarre breeding season is making me feel weak, and incapable.

My physical health is affected. No formal exercise for a month. I can’t force my body to move. I know that is depression. I’ve been here before. Frozen by the enormity of what I need to do every day.

I hate my 50s so far. Want my deposit back!

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Lockdown life

When the only roots I’m getting are grey….不不不

I have recognised that Sundays are my worst days. I know the week ahead is going to be manic. I mindfully do a lot, stay positive, for the weekend.

And miss the barman terribly on Sundays. He thinks he gets it. But you really don’t, if you are in Level 2, and can do most things normally. In Level 3, we are so restricted. Going to L3.2 meant I went into my first shop in six weeks. Funnily enough, it was the liquor store 不不不

Tonight, BG said, “tomorrow babe.”

Which shows how a person  who isn’t living here doesn’t understand. Whilst previously, alert levels were reviewed every five days, our region isn’t being reviewed until the 15th. And if we are Alert Level 3.2, we won’t be going to Level 2. Instead, Level 3.3. If we even get a change! It is highly unlikely I will see him this month. So far it is seven weeks since I have snuggled him.

It’s Groundhog Day. And frankly, people are pissed now. For the last three weeks, we’ve been on almost full lockdown for daily case numbers of  between 2 and 7.

All linked.

All isolating because they are known close contacts of previous positive cases.

Business is suffering.

Mental health is suffering.

My sex life is suffering

When you have been fully vaxxed, and following all the rules, it gets very frustrating. I know I am barely hanging on. Operating on low level depression. Not exercising properly (gyms have been closed for months) and lacking any nutrition plan/motivation.

Welcome to my fun life.

Can’t help comparing it to the fact that Rog and Trinket get to spend every night together, entwined. Go to dinner, long, romantic walks/bike rides/making love outdoors…


Unsettled dreams

With the mood deep dive, I got to sleep after 2am. Wide awake at 5am (just in time to watch the Wales v All Blacks test.)

I had unsettling dreams.

This has been a theme for the entire 12 years since Leanne outted Roger’s 18 month long affair with her.

That I had no idea about. ‘Cos I’m stupid like that.

It took a long time for me to admit that I was traumatised.

I thought I was just shocked, and was suffering from complicated grief.

I retreated. Pulled away. From everyone. Trying to make sense of the whys. Why would the man I adored, worked so hard for, sacrificed any individual dreams for, to support his, knowing my past, deliberately hurt me like that? What did I do to deserve it? It took a long, long time to stop blaming myself. I must be a special kind of stupid, right? To not know.

I just loved him. It felt simple. And pure.

Anyway, my dream that stands out was that Rog and I met for a drink, to talk.

That will never happen. I never want to be in the same place as him, ever again, certainly not one on one. I know that is unrealistic. That we will at some stage, meet again. But my body goes into shock even thinking about him looking at me, or even avoiding looking at me. I have deep, embodied trauma about “my person,” not giving a flying fuck about me. My person causing so much damage to me. He knew my triggers, my deeply buried, but nonetheless disclosed (to him alone) fears. About loving too much, giving too much, vulnerability, and especially my distorted sexual fears. About any “other” touching me. I would recoil from touch. Wasn’t an easy hugger (to others) yet craved touch, hugs at the same time.

Rape effects.

I still can barely breathe when I think about both how I totally freaked out, sobbing heavily for over two hours after BG kissed me the first time. Ghosting him for nine months, because of that terror.

Then the first time we made love. I still don’t know how I got through that. I was so, so terrified. Red wine. A patient man, who treated my body, and me, as one. Kindly. But wanting me (or sex? I dunno) so badly that we did it six times in that first night!

It still scares me. I don’t know how it will be when we reunite after this long, enforced period of separation. I know I am starting to have anxiety about it already.

I mean, I’m beside myself with desire. But scared it will be too much/not enough/he won’t want me….etc.

Although Roger dumped me, the below still stands. I am fucked up by the years of manipulation, lies, abuse, that Roger put me through. I never knew where I stood with him after Leanne. Before that, I felt so safe, so at ease, so in love, so lucky to have a wonderful life partner…

Back to the dream.

See, I’m even avoiding writing about it.

He met me, held my arm and kissed my cheek, his hold lingering.

Of course, my heart raced. My body still longs for him, even knowing how deliberately, selfishly, he treated me.

Knowing he was charming me.

And we talked. We got a drink, laughed, there were sparks flying, as I always felt with him. The hairs on my body were on end.

Then I asked, “you love her more. You love her more than you EVER loved me.” He sat back. Hesitated. His eyes blackened, “yes, Snooks. I do. You never did for me what she does. There was no chemistry for me, with you. There is huge chemistry with Trinket. Fireworks. I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want to hear that. It was all pretend.”

Yeah. No wonder I woke with my whole body aching.

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Roller coaster

I’m trying so hard to be okay, alone, during lockdown.

It’s hard work.

My boss’s father died last night. She hadn’t seen him for two years, due to our closed borders. She is Australian, and her whnau all live there.

It’s Saturday, but I headed out with flowers, strawberries, fresh fruit ice cream, and some equipment I picked up for the business, to drop off contactlessly.

Our Covid numbers are up again today.

And this means, I will be staying in lockdown.


It’s really doing a lot of mental health damage now. Everyone I know is struggling. And these people all have family with them. None of them are alone.

I’m strong.

I can do this.

I am doing this.

But there are huge emotional dips. I’m sliding down one this evening. I know watching the numbers is detrimental to my mental health.

I really, really miss BG. I am starved of company, but especially of physical comfort. He says he’s struggling, too.

But he’s not locked down, he has a mate with him this weekend. Which is great, but means I’m careful to give him “guy time.” But hell, I’m quietly struggling, and I haven’t told him so as not to worry him tonight.

I’m hanging on. Lord. This is hard.

I bought myself flowers, to try to help my mood.

And made up a new cocktail, with the fresh strawberries I bought, from the berry farm around the corner when walking the dogs. To keep busy.

It’s kinda becoming inhumane.



BG was working last night. But when he got home, he messaged, sensing I was a bit off.

Struggling. It’s been five weeks without being with him.

He let me know that he is also finding it hard. In many ways. He’s not a verbally demonstrative man. And he’s covering everyone’s ass at work right now. Tired.

I always feel a bit lame, a bit needy. After all, he had a relationship where they lived in different countries for the first two years. So he can do long distance, and get on with his life. I thought it was just me, so have tried not to complain or indicate when I’m really struggling.

Last night, I hit the wall. Sick of this. Being alone in lockdown, when he’s only an hour and a half away.

Then he said that he is constantly amazed at me. At my openness. My softness (triggered! Rog said I have the softest skin he’s ever touched, so “soft” kinda stings?) My kindness. My care. My trust. My strength. How he is amazed at how vulnerable I allow myself to be with him. Letting him know I’m struggling isn’t complaining, or lame. It’s sweet, but yeah, hard for him because he can’t fix that. Knowing he doesn’t need to be the fixer, but wanting to do that instinctively. That he appreciates that I miss him, he misses me.

But, it’s different for him. Level 2 is hard at work, small gathering rules and a vastly changed service model to fit with those rules are hurting his business.

However, mostly life is otherwise “normal-ish.” I can’t even go to a shop. Everything has to be contactless. I spent two hours online on Friday, ordering feed, water supplies, an order from the hardware store, a grocery order all for click and collect. (Supermarkets are open, but the queues mean about a half hour to hour long wait before entry to the store is granted.) No spaces for pick up for 24 hours. Saturday, I spent three hours driving to pick up points, waiting for my time slot, between stores, etc. Of course, you always forget something you need.

I live alone. So no one to banter with. So yeah, Level 2 is testing, BG.


But Level 3, where I am, is so restrictive when you’ve been in it for a while.

I mean yeah, I get that he is finding it hard. But he talks to people every day. I can go days without another human. Generally, without it being mandated, I have traditionally been good with alone time.

He has asked me before if I cope with the distance. That he worries at times that I might find someone else. Someone closer. Someone “more suitable.” Someone “better.” And that it must be hard for me, after a serial cheater fucked me over, to trust. The unspoken part of that being that he is being faithful.

The thing is, I’m a trusting person, by nature. Which is interesting, because I can be cynical too. But I do trust him. And that worries me sometimes. Because I 100% trusted Roger. And he used my trust to bring other women into my homes. Around my kids.

I recall so clearly looking Rog in the eye, and saying, at one stage – when I felt a bit weird about his “friendship” with Leanne seeming a bit “too close,” – “you aren’t doing anything stupid here, right? I hope you’re not making me the stupidest woman in the world, trusting you with her?” And him looking me dead in the eye and saying, “oh Snooks. No. Not ever. Of course I would never. You are right to trust me. She’s a terrible person, and I’m not even slightly attracted to her. If I was, we couldn’t be friends,” and he kissed me and held me, stroking my skin.


So, to keep busy last night, I started cooking a goat dish for tomorrow

And late, I thought I should eat, so threw this Thai inspired noodle bowl together with some cooked chicken I had in the fridge.

Then, despite it’s deliciousness, decided I wasn’t hungry.

Lockdown is messing with my mental health, and my ability to stick to any kind of wellness plan. I’m a quiet mess really.

What’s new?


Floods. Of tears.

I’m so angry at myself!

I’ve just hung up from a two hour video chat with BG.

It was good.

We planned.

We laughed.

We flirted.

And now, it’s all the feels.

I miss having someone I can curl up on the couch with every night.

Rog and I did that. Every night.

Even when he told me he had “picked” someone else. He was my love.

And, I’ve been strong. I’ve rebuilt a shattered life. I’ve coped with more lockdowns.

Tonight I’m weeping.

For all I’ve lost.

For all I am missing now.

And I wonder.

Will it ever end?

I used to have a good life.

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BG just called me, driving back to his town from a nearby city to us both. He was bored without my company. So went over there, to get out of Dodge, and buy a new phone.

He was quite angry sounding. A bit of a political rant. I know where that came from. Frustration. I think the whole country has had enough. We are now being held to ransom by the inadequate investment by successive governments in our health system. If Delta goes rogue, we can’t cope. Late to receive our supposed early secured vaccine, we had a year without Covid and probably got a bit complacent, tbh. He can’t run his business this way. It’s awful, he is hating it. Supposed to be rebuilding, redesigning the spaces, and implementing a new vision instead, he’s ambulance at the bottom of the cliff. He rang annoyed at yet another staff member not showing up for their shift. He’s headed back to cover for that staff member. Always working.

And he said, he’s really on the edge. Ready to walk away. But feels he can’t, and keep me. I told him that if he wants to walk away from me, that’s fine, but he was being rash. Then he admitted he feels he can’t leave, and stay with me, because I need someone reliable, earning, not a drain.

The funny thing is, he would never be a drain. He’d pull his weight. He doesn’t get that you have ups and downs. That the support of a partner makes that decision a possibility. At 56, he doesn’t have to do it all anymore. I will share. I know he’d do that for me. Gendered assumptions are at play. I know that.

I’ve had a busy day. Started out with a trip to pick up three new queens, my hives need a new genetic injection.

Yesterday I spent two hours doing the click and collect shopping I needed. No pick ups for 24 hours. Ugh. Farm supplies. Hardware store. Groceries. I spent two hours contactlessly picking those orders up. Then realised the things I needed, that didn’t get included. I hate online shopping for these things. I usually see the things I need in store.

Home. Cleaning up my hives. Sorting a third hive, considering a split, perusing Facebook to see if there are any local swarms to collect (free bees!!!) Relaxing, noticing my mother’s wee rose is the first to bloom this spring

I’ve carted this wee cutie around three properties since she died. It’s still in the same pot!!! Twenty years later. Crazy.

I hate it. It’s a little bit lonely. I never feel lonely. I know it is missing being with BG. He’s struggling. I thought it was just me.

Then a long conversation with Roger’s best mate’s brother’s wife. A darling old friend. The first person I ran to when I discovered he was cheating again. Probably hoping she’d tell me it would be okay, he was having a(nother?) moment.

Instead, she shook her head and said, “oh Paula. He’s no good mate. You can’t stay again. He is a serial cheater. You are better than this. Better than him. Don’t devalue yourself again. Fucker. That utter prick.”

Today, she was asking about the kids. And my now stalled renovation. No building imspectors until Level 2. The builders can do no more until then. She’s a teacher. An amazing teacher.

And has resigned, effective end of this school year. A long, long career. She taught at my secondary school as a new teacher in my final year. She will be missed.

Then she asked some questions about how I helped my youngest daughter, gifting her a large sum, to make sure she qualified for a mortgage. Ick. I handled it well. Just truth, without mentioning money. She’s a good chick. I trust her. She is enmeshed in Roger’s oldest friend group.

But has been Team Paula all the way. She cooked me dinner the night I moved here. And left extra soup, and huge hugs.

While her husband helped Roger move to Trinket. She has always been quietly disgusted in what he did.

I’m so grateful for her genuine friendship. We had planned a catch up the day after I went into lockdown. We catch up regularly. I love her.

And miss all my peeps whom I can’t see right now. Everyone who is important to me, except my youngest daughter, is outside of this lockdown zone. Ugh.

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Yup. Another extension to lockdown in my region. Thursday night lift has now been extended to Monday night.

My weekend plans (which basically consisted of tying BG to the bed, the hormones are RAMPANT!) are thwarted again.

I’m not dealing with that super well.

It really is odd. How you can be a happily autonomous being, and you then absolutely hate having to go a few weeks without a certain person.

Aunty Cindy is becoming a world class cockblocker.

Anyway, guess it means more gardening. More chainsawing. More “adult toys.”


In other news, the tension in my body has backed off a notch or two, knowing my 28 year old daughter is no longer under the same roof as that whore who fucks her father.

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Mornings. Nights.

Been the longest period without making skin to skin contact with my barman.

Because we are still kinda weekend only, this has been hard. There’s already longing and wishing we could be together. Without enforced lockdowns.

I’ll give him his due. I would agree with what he so often says, that he’s not the most romantic being in the world. But, I’m not 21 anymore. Romance is lovely, but real life, kindness, compassion, love, they are far, FAR better.

He’s caring. Pays attention. He messages first most mornings, and definitely every night.

Doesn’t go silly with the compliments. No love bombing. But he calls me beautiful regularly (hey, I’m 53, that’s lovely!) And tells me how lucky he feels, quite often.

I miss him. I’ve cocked up my vanity in the powder room. It would be nice to share that. I’ll sort it. An expensive error, as nothing is returnable. Sharing “life” shit is nice.

He told me one of his regulars died this morning. He didn’t think I’d know him.

I did.

He was a character. He complained of chest pains last night over some quiet beers, in the club. Gone this morning.

And it made me think. Anxiety kind of stuff. What if something happened to BG?

While I’m locked down, apart from him?

His blood pressure is off the charts right now. We had it right down. All his health gains are crumbling. He says I help. That I have a positive effect on his outlook. His health. We eat better when I’m there. We do more exercise. And touch, just plain old skin-to-skin contact. It calms. Grounds. This is quite apart from sex. It’s intimacy.

We are good for each other.

Ugh. Now to lighting and trying to sort this bathroom vanity problem…