Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum


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Thank you, Nan

I just had the buyer for a premium beef local trade processor look at my empty heifers.

He just rang, saying, “bloody good heifers! Shame the rest are in calf. How long have you been on that block? How did you know about [name of the branded beef]?”

Moody morning feed out time

Oooooo. Just having a wee cry now that he has hung up. I told him I was [Roger’s mother’s] daughter-in-law.

Nan (the grandkids called her Nan) was instrumental in setting up the brand. A passionate Hereford breeder, she put a lot into the breed, holding the top position in the world governing body for many, many years. The first woman to do so.

The buyer raved about what a good woman she was 😭😭😭

She was.

I’m super proud that my heifers are prime and good enough to meet the requirements for this super premium grass-fed market.

And all weepy.

One of mine and Roger’s nieces is the partner of a guy who breeds another traditional beef breed. They had their stud bull sale this week. A big deal, the major income for the year comes from a beef stud from this single day.

I watched online, and all the memories were quite overwhelming.

The preparation we put into preparing the bulls for sale. The collaboration as a very young 20-something, about the sale catering with my MIL. I was put in charge of making mulled wine, and helping to organise/buy food and alcohol.

Those memories. So precious. We were building a wonderful future together.

It hurts so, so much. That he threw it all away for a couple of whores.

That he didn’t love me like I loved him.

I hope Trinket realises ine day what she helped to destroy. I know Rog was the serial cheater here, but hell, I begged that woman not to fuck my partner. I also know, if not her, someone else…still….

Shake it off. Cry the tears.

I like to think Nan was looking after me today 💔


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The second half

I’m not in any way a religious person. Can’t decide if I’m agnostic or atheist.

Probably the latter.

But, I get that some people find comfort in it. Religion, whilst seeming to me like wishing on the sky fairy, is personal. I hate when people use religion to hate difference. But if it helps you navigate and make sense of the world, with empathy and tolerance, more power to you.

Therefore, I do follow some people who identify their religion and refer differently to me. Mentioning God casually, so not my thing, but I may still like their point of view. Or take some part of their ethos on board. The likes of Glennon Doyle, who I might not agree with on everything, but enjoy her challenges to straight, white, Christian people’s thinking.

Her “We Can Do Hard Things,’ as a mantra, got me through the worst period in my life!

Mature women, talking about their loves. Chelsea Handler and Jokoy. Whoda thunk she’d be all loved up? And at this age? 😱😜🤣

I like this Instagram post from Jen Hatmaker. A bit younger than me, but similar circumstance. A probably cheating ex husband. I’ve never looked too deeply into it, but it seems that is what happened.

And she’s repartnered relatively recently, and talks about that.

This post broke my heart, but gave me hope.

Who will ever know me like Rog knew me? That kills me. It really does. Absolutely. I still have daily moments where I want to share something with him. An anecdote or wee aside that only he would get. About a thing that happened. Or something he’d love. Or would get why I chuckled. Something on my property. About my cattle. Or dogs. Something someone said to me, that only he would get. Those lifetime sharings.

That are lost.

That now have nowhere to go. That I carry alone. Usually – like right now – sitting painfully in the space between my chest, and my throat.

If you look for thoughts about this loss, it is usually expressed about death.

The “respectable” way to lose the love of your life.

Never them leaving you, for someone else. Because really? If they did that, then they never loved you, you must have done something bad, and grief is not yours to feel.

You are not allowed those shared, deep, loving memories of a special bond. That is reserved only for those widowed! Stop with the “special bond” bullshit.

But, the opportunity for better is immense.

And, BG also drinks his hot drinks black, doesn’t drink milk.

But always ensures there’s milk in his fridge for me.

It’s a start.


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Memories

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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MIA

Well. Yesterday was fun!

I got up early to get my dogs to kennels, cattle shifted, fences set up for the weekend. I have a girls’ weekend planned.

On the island my Mum lived on.

Firstly, I stabbed my wrist with a rusty Stanley knife blade. It wasn’t large, or deep. But that blade was rusty.

As I rushed around, checking things off my to do list, throwing gear in a bag, whizzing around to my Dad’s with a small birthday gift, I thought, “wonder when I last had a tetanus jab?”

I got in the car and drove to the ferry, worrying I was gonna be late for the sailing I was booked on.

Made it with a few minutes to spare, so roared into a pharmacy near the wharf as the wound was by then swollen, sore and angry looking. I got a silver embedded Band-Aid, and popped it on. The tiny wound started seeping slightly as I crossed the Gulf.

Off the ferry, I went to my Mum’s old doctor. She’s been gone 20 years in July.

So weird.

I got jabbed, the wound was cleaned and dressed, antibiotics prescribed. All in time for me to pop over to the passenger ferry terminal to pick up my friends.

Sailing away from the wharf was actually a very odd thing. I haven’t been back to the island since my stepfather died. I was thinking it was for his funeral, but then recalled I came back with a car and trailer to move his (Mum’s) things out of his townhouse. Around eleven years ago.

And it was so odd. I can’t remember if Rog was with me shifting the stuff. I don’t think so. I remember him sitting, holding my hand, during Pa’s funeral. I spoke at his funeral. I recall parts of what I said. He was a lovely man, who loved my mother. After my father cheated on her with men, breaking her heart. She found deeper, truer love with Pa. I was grateful to him for how much he loved her, the fun they had. The joy he restored to my darling, bubbly, vivacious Mum. I recall saying, “the best thing a father can do for his children, is love their mother” – all while looking oh-so-lovingly at Norm – “and that is even more poignant in the case of a stepfather.” I thought I had the most loyal, loving, amazing man. Who adored me as much as I utterly adored him. When I think about timelines now, this would have either been close to him fucking Leanne, or during the beginning of his secret life with her. FML.

A very close – in the process of divorce from a repeat offender cheater, like Roger – friend asked me the other day how it was going with BG. I had to stop and breathe a bit. What do I say? I love him. I realise I would feel sad if he wasn’t in my life. But also, that I wouldn’t be totally devastated, like I am about Rog. BG is a lovely man. But he is not “the love of my life.” So I told her that. That I’m lucky. I am with a very darling man, but that it isn’t … like I thought it was. This love is more restrained. Not as fully involved. He isn’t my heart.

It’s a tough weekend. Opening weekend of the duck hunting season. This was usually a big time. My son has moved overseas, so I don’t have him staying as he has done the past three, as he split his time between me and his Dad’s maimai, with our lifetime friends, who I no longer see. My heart breaks over that. We girls sometimes went on girls’ weekends too. I recall Roger’s best mate, H, and other bestie, S’ partners (H’s first cheating wife, P, and S’s current partner, A) and I went to the beach when P and I had a small daughter each. Poor A got terribly carsick, we had to pull over for her to spew on the way to the beach.

The other of the shooting foursome’s wife, J, is a total babe. Been there for me throughout this horrific divorce. We’d usually organise something nice together, and head to the maimai on the Sunday evening, for drinks and nibbles with the boys.

This was my life for 31 duck seasons. It was like Christmas for Rog. He lived for this, and deer stalking season, “the roar.” Especially when we were young. I was supportive, never once complained, and went into the bush with him just a small handful of times. This was “male bonding” at it’s zenith.

This year, it will be Trinket in my place. Again.

It hurts. Aches so, so badly.

I had a cry on the ferry. I didn’t anticipate how emotional I would feel, going to the island, without either Biddy (my kids’ name for her) or Pa there.

So, the day also was concerning, as BG did not message me good morning. He was fully MIA. I messaged, but saw it was unread. We always say good morning and goodnight. By the time I got to the ferry, at 1.30pm, I was concerned. I had tried calling his mobile. Then his work. Three times. Three times I was cut off before answering. Gotta admit, I started thinking, shit, what if he’s dead at home, by himself, and no one knows??? So, I sucked up my, I’m not a weirdo vibe, and rang his sister.

She knew nothing, but said, “oh, he’s a man, they’re terrible at communicating.” I laughed it off, but no. Not this man. Ever since I met him, he has messaged me good morning, every single day. Not missed even once. This was unusual. And I had started to get a little bit concerned.

Thankfully, he called me from an unknown number a bit later. Turns out the whole town had a telcom shutdown on the network his mobile, internet, and work landline are on! They’d finally provided him with a competitor’s mobile to get work done. Worse, he’d walked into work, to a river flowing through the club! A major water leak in pipes in the concrete floor.

Fun times.

I felt terribly guilty, here drinking expensive champagne with my girls as he deals with that. This is our first weekend apart, in … I think forever? And yeah, I miss him. A lot.

Anyway. We went to a fantastic restaurant last night.

The food was divine. I had oysters and octopus. Perfection. We polished off three bottles of the good stuff over the afternoon and evening. I was trying to be a bit sensible, being on antibiotics. My wrist is sore and throbbing.

Today, markets, then vineyards and a good long walk. I’m going to visit my Mum’s house that she built with Pa. A really weird thing being back here, where I spent so much time with young kids…it really is a lovely piece of paradise. I know why Mum loved this place and community so much.


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The Journey Through Grief

https://wp.me/pbiNOL-x8

Reblogging this, because it explains the nature of grief so well.

My grief has less debilitating power than it once did, but I still am brought down very low some days. Had a cry shifting cattle yesterday morning. The memories of all that hard work, love, beauty. For what?


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You two were so connected

I had drinks with a girlfriend after work, at a local restaurant and bar yesterday.

She’s a sweet wee thing. Was married to a guy who first worked for my in-laws after leaving school. He was a serial cheater, and quite open philanderer. He used to come onto me (I’m quite a bit older, and an old “friend”) which grossed me out, and sent filthy messages to a gorgeous single woman I know, etc. Macey, this lovely STBX wife of his is adventurous, and tried to make it work. She participated in group sex sessions. But didn’t know how bad he really was with the cheating and sexual predation.

Anyway, she’s doing well. A great new job, starting to look at properties in anticipation of their farm sale, etc. A very positive soul.

We got talking about kids’ mental health. Her eldest, just started high school, has the same name as my youngest, who is in a big mental health crisis, coming to a head yesterday. Her daughter also has anxiety, and new school was a huge challenge, and how they handled that with a fun picnic exploration with a few girlfriends two days before school started after summer break. We talked about how we support, how we talk to our children, these daughters in particular.

That discussion led to one about our own mental health. I admitted that there have been some very dark times, and that they were particularly intense – scarily so – and very prolonged, after Roger left to his new life.

She admitted to me – she said for the first time to anyone – that she had ideation, that she had planned out a suicide, but the only thing that stopped her was she couldn’t find any duct tape that night.

She is a bubbly blonde, always appears to look on the bright side. But I’m so glad she told me. It’s safer to talk. To tell someone. I used this blogging space a lot to “tell” people. To try to cling onto life when I was terrified for my children that I wasn’t going to be able to.

Then Macey said, “so, how often do you see Roger? How do you guys get on now?”

She has two dependent children and 50/50 custody, so lots of contact, and she and Cody, on the surface, get on. She didn’t leave him because of “an” affair. She was just sick of being married to him. It wasn’t fun. It was the opposite of fun.

That said, their amicability is really a front. She says he’s a secretive, controlling man, and she knows he is hiding financial stuff, will not come back to her with a counter offer to her separation agreement. She knows he is trying to shaft her out of her fair share of their business, and has a good legal team guiding her. Cody is using the same old school lawyer Roger did. Who was our joint, and business lawyer when we were together. Macey has a more progressive person on her case, checking she is taken care of.

I just said, “we don’t really get on. Until this weekend, it had been more than a year since I had seen him. We don’t talk. The last time he did, he berated me for telling my truth, that the truth of his latest affair was upsetting poor Trinket. He told me how I should be living my life, tried to manipulate me. I now realise, he always did. I loved him as much thirty years on, as I did at the start. More. But he threw me away for other women. I needed to distance myself because he was really bad for me, and I still love who I thought he was. I even had to ask BG not to wear a scent I found in his bathroom as I smelled it on him one night as was in turmoil, because it was a scent Roger loved, that I bought him. I couldn’t stand it, snuggling into BG, and smelling my long time love…ugh, I felt physically ill.”

All the memories are lies.

Macey nodded. “We were never like that. We were a pretty good team. But no deep, deep love like that. I used to see you guys, at places like the (yearling) sales, the races, and you two were totally awe inspiring. Amazing. So connected. I’ve never really seen that before. Where you could SEE a great connection between a really totally in love, long term couple. I don’t mean that lovey, dovey OTT affection of the honeymoon period. I mean, an intense draw between the two of you. You were couple goals, for sure. I can’t believe he did this. He broke that. Why? If you guys couldn’t work, where the hell is the hope for the rest of us? I am still so shocked!”

Hmmm. Yeah. You and me both, Macey. I was completely shocked, too. Especially when he did it again!


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Reminder

This is a super difficult time of the year for anyone who has lost their love.

Grief.

It never ends.

Losing my kids this year, too, has amplified things for me. I’m constantly looking for the positives, to save myself from the darkness.

Like, no stress. No banquet to prepare. No looooong list of gifts to check off. No pleasing family members. The freedom to have no plan. No Santa sacks to sort – I asked my youngest if she wanted to take theirs, but she rolled her eyes and said, “Santa visits you, Mum. He never was a thing that Dad did, so no. They’d just sit empty. That would be a bit sad.” And I realised that never once, did Roger either buy for, or pack a single item in a Santa sack for our kids.

I cut again last night, not too much, to avoid the blackness.

It’s been a very long time since I’ve been there. Trying, unsuccessfully to ward off insomnia and the darkest of thoughts.

I know who Roger really is. I know he hates me.

Or is indifferent.

Either scenario is equally painful when you remember the things you believed.

Like, inevitably yesterday, on his 24th birthday, the moment our son was born, after a 22 hour labour, and Rog and I were alone in our house, and my body went into shock as he helped our second born onto my tummy and wrapped my violently shaking body in an old duvet as we waited for our midwife to return for her third visit during those 22 long hours.

And how we danced, locked together, kissing deeply, grinning madly at each other, around our lounge room every Christmas Eve, to The Pogues’ Fairytale of New York (listen to the damn lyrics, Paula!) I used to think they were ironic. Ha!

He got me real good.

I know I will always love who I thought he was. The man I believed loved me back, with every part of his being.

But I remind myself daily that that is NOT who he is.

Instead of loving me forever, as he constantly promised, soothing me especially after his 18 month long affair in our homes, with “our friend,” Leanne, WITH BOTH OF THE WOMEN HE WAS FUCKING TOGETHER INTHE SAME PLACE, except I had no idea, while they must have laughed their arses off at how trusting and stupid I am, he loves a suburban widow exponentially more than be ever loved me. She gets his love bombing now. His softness, his facade.

Remember that.

Every day.

He never loved you.


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Shrinking the elephant

We finally talked.

Or, I finally grew some balls.

We started a conversation – or rather, I finally did – about 90% of what is needed to be talked about.

Adulting is fucking hard.

It hasn’t solved the issue, of course, but at least we have shrunk the elephant in the room a bit.

Yesterday, I woke and after some serious snuggling, rearranged my lady balls a bit, and asked this question, “what do you think you were looking for when you were on the dating apps? Were you looking for something permanent, or more realistically, perhaps, as a guy who has been single a lot, was that more for hookups, sex?”

He was a bit … offended? Not really, but he said, “no. Hook ups are not that easy once you get past a certain age. Young women are kinda into them, but generally, older women are looking for more than that. And so are a lot of older guys. You know as well as I do that for some reason women and men see love and sex differently. Women still tend to put them together, and men still tend to be able to separate the two out. I didn’t expect any women in my demographic, 45-55, to be interested in hook ups. Casual sex. And that wasn’t/isn’t my thing anyway.”

I posited that younger women might be available if sex was the goal. And he replied that even if that was the case, younger women only want to fuck mid 50s and older guys if they have money, as a rule.

Yeah, fair point, I reckon.

Anyway, his reply was that he was looking for this.

For me.

Well played, sir.

Then, I ventured into more new territory.

“So, when I returned after just fucking off for nine months, why did you decide to give me another chance? I mean, we’d messaged a bit, and two very, very chaste dates? What made you give the weird, psycho, ghosting bitch another try?”

He looked at me and shrugged. “I dunno? You’re a bit of an enigma, I guess? A beautiful, stylish, well educated, funny, quirky woman who was obviously extremely hurt and vulnerable when we first met. I knew you weren’t ready, and was cool with that. I liked you. A whole lot. Our banter was good. And you seemed like you knew your own mind, so I trusted that you felt more healed when we cycled back around, I guess? I never stopped thinking about you, where you were, whether you were okay, whether you would ever get over what he did to you, all that shit.”

Again, answer is earning great Brownie points, dude 👍😜🤣

This morning, I have been awake again since 4am, and up with a cuppa. He stirred about an hour ago, found me and enticed me back to bed for snuggling. Tracing my left nipple sleepily, he asked his first direct question about my body.

“This one is a bit different to the right one, I like that.”

I answered, “yes, you can blame G (my son, the middle child) for that. I had terrible recurrent mastitis when breast feeding him, and at one terrible stage, he ate off three quarters of my left nipple. It’s healed, but is a different shape. Sorry about that.”

The serial apologiser gazed at me and said, “um, now you need to stop apologising! That is not something you need to apologise for! It’s amazing. A war wound. From being an amazing, resilient Mum, who put up with so much pain for her child to be nourished. I like it, it’s seriously attractive.”

Ugh.

Why is he so damn cute?

Anyway, that wee morning segue, meant I was bolstered to address that elephant later in the evening.

It was and is an awkward conversation. He took it well. I did expect that, but it is a hard thing to talk about. He felt bad, like he is letting me down, and we talked about how this lockdown has thrown a bit of a spanner/grenade into our nice “dating” life. No one was expecting us to be living together, sharing a two bedroom house with a large dog, at this stage of things. I was and am hyper aware of his workaholism, his attention to a million things. That is just fine with me. He is reworking budgets, planning what each level of covid-19 alert means to his business and staff. Hospo businesses the size of his are unlikely to be able to reopen when we go down to level 3, and how long it is before level 2 may be reached is uncertain. He’s worried about his staff. His members. All that jazz.

I have another life, too. Shoving ourselves in each other’s pockets was not part of anyone’s plan. That said, we are both super happy to have the blessing of this time together. He’s so sweet with my dog, spoils her rotten, I’m sure trying to bribe her, lol. She is super loyal to me, but has started looking to him as a pack leader/collaborator now, too. It’s so lovely to see her puppy dog eye him. We both knew it would be an interesting challenge.

A commitment of sorts. There was no running back home if we fell out. That would mean I was breaking the rules. And besides, my house has a different bubble. I can’t break into the quarantine bubble of my flatmate and her friend. Even if I wanted to return home, and I don’t, here at the halfway point.

It’s interesting. I know I have a really good thing going here. And I am incredibly grateful to the universe for that.

But.

There’s always a but.

For all the lovely. For all the blessings of someone delightful, kind, funny, loving, etc.

It is unbelievably different, and not what I wanted/’deserved’/hoped/planned for. We don’t have a lifetime of memories, shared friends, experiences. And I know that is just what it is. But, like Roger told me about Trinket. BG and I can never have what Rog and I had. Built together. A thirty year cache of mostly fantastic memories. A truly special bond and connection (yeah, we really did until he fucked it, I didn’t dream that, it was real.)

These were the things I pointed out to Roger that he burned, when he chose to get into bed with Leanne.

Then chose to continue to keep betraying me over and over and over.

Different is okay. But it adds to the grief.

Of all the things we lost in the fire.

Except he doesn’t feel any loss, because he Band-Aided over it all with a bland, suburban widow.

Papering over our life together completely. Deleting it from his hard drive.

Things we lost to the flames
Things we’ll never see again
All that we have amassed
Sits before us, shattered into ash
These are the things, the things we lost
The things we lost in the fire fire fire
These are the things, the things we lost
The things we lost in the fire fire fire
We sat and made a list
Of all the things that we had
Down the backs of table tops
Ticket stubs and your diaries
I read them all one day
When loneliness came and you were away
Oh they told me nothing new,
But I love to read the words you use
These are the things, the things we lost
The things we lost in the fire fire fire
These are the things, the things we lost
The things we lost in the fire fire fire
I was the match and you were the rock
Maybe we started this fire
We sat apart and watched
All we had burned on the pyre
(You said) we were born with nothing
And we sure as hell have nothing now
(You said) we were born with nothing
And we sure as hell have nothing now
These are the things, the things we lost
The things we lost in the fire fire fire
These are the things, the things we lost
The things we lost in the fire fire fire
Do you understand that we will never be the same again?
Do you understand that we will never be the same again?
The future’s in our hands and we will never be the same again
The future’s in our hands and we will never be the same again
These are the things, the things we lost
The things we lost in the fire fire fire
These are the things, the things we lost
The things we lost in the fire fire fire
These are the things, the things we lost
These are the things we lost in the fire fire fire
Flames – they licked the walls
Tenderly they turned to dust all that I adored


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Full of anniversaries. In my head

Today is two years since the last time I made mad, passionate, incredible love with Rog (or Dog, as a friend has recently anointed him…)

A day before I left my old life forever. Driving away from thirty years of love and commitment, tears streaming down my face. My body heaving with the sobs.

I was reminded of this today, as my little brother, who is still unable to see his children as his vindictive STBX took out a protective order – he has never been violent – (court scheduled for 23 March) has been posting online about missing them, and his “best friend” – his wife, who is divorcing him with an enormous amount of acrimony and selfishness. It really is appalling.

She is trying to get him to pay her student loan, relinquish his share of their home, and hold onto the share of my mother’s estate, but get him to give up the share in her grandmother’s. Cleaning out all the bank accounts. Etc. It’s all about her. Despite him moving out and being the only one paying rent. Both hers (theirs/where the kids are), and his on the new place he has just moved into.

I reminded him, “she is not your best friend anymore. Okay? I know it’s hard. I’ve been there. Rog was absolutely mine. 100 percent. My confidante, the only person who knew all my secrets. He treated me badly. Kept betraying and using me. But I continued to love him. Recognising and accepting that best friends do not do things to hurt their best friend, was the hardest, most painful thing I have EVER experienced. I struggled mightily. It is like grieving the death of your most beloved, but then, they are still walking around, stabbing you in the heart. He chose to make a willing widow his best friend, discarding me and my loyalty completely. I am lower than dirt to him. They don’t care about us. At all.”

These people are not our friends.

And it is THE MOST HEARTBREAKING THING EVER!!! I will probably always love him.

Or the idea of the old him. Not who he showed he is. (And I have had to believe him. He never loved me like I loved him. Because I could never have done what he did. He meant too much.)

That love happens in silence.

Because it’s dysfunctional to love someone that doesn’t care a lot about you or your wellbeing.

Yep.

Anniversaries.

Antiversaries.

They are etched deeply in my heart.

Walk in silence
Don’t walk away, in silence
See the danger
Always danger
Endless talking
Life rebuilding
Don’t walk away
Walk in silence
Don’t turn away, in silence
Your confusion
My illusion
Worn like a mask of self-hate
Confronts and then dies
Don’t walk away
People like you find it easy
Naked to see
Walking on air
Hunting by the rivers, through the streets, every corner
Abandoned too soon
Set down with due care
Don’t walk away in silence
Don’t walk away


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Regrets. I have a few

Saturday was a busy day. BG had a lunchtime meeting in my hometown, about 40 minutes drive from my place. So, he didn’t arrive until late afternoon.

Roger was already here. He had come to drop off some bins, and help with the final preparations, which was really good of him.

At one point, he brought some buckets over to the house to give them a scrub, not realising there were taps and hoses at the barn. The tap blew off the house, and he tried to fix it, but came and told me there was a problem with thread and not tightening. He left not long after, to whatever Airbnb he was staying at (triggered, I booked one in this town for him once that he took Trinket to, ugh. Those traumatic images never leave me.)

Later, close to party start time, with a few guests dribbling in, G, our son, came in wet through (in his party clothes) as the tap had blown off and he couldn’t reattach the fitting.

I went and turned the water off.

No toilet. For a party of 100.

G asked if he should try a portaloo company. I rang my plumber.

And got put on hold for 30 minutes.

BG went and plugged water with the hose fitting, as best he could, and hung the hose with a knot in it, high in a nearby tree.

Luckily, one of D’s friends is a girl from this town, and her brother is a plumber. Who coincidentally works for the company I use! The girls rang him, as my outdoor plumbing was now running hot water, despite all water mains turned off! WTF???

It is somehow connected, under the house, and was draining my hot water cylinder.

Good times!

Kane showed up, and we got really lucky. He had the replacement fittings required in his car, as there were parts missing from mine, no doubt blown off into the garden somewhere. Never to be found.

Which explains why when the first guests showed up, I was still dressing! Thank God for BG, who dealt with inviting them into my home, serving drinks and nibbles, and introducing himself, as I scrambled to find a dress and shoes!

I was busy, all night, so rarely had time to glance around at who was doing what. I made an effort to include some “adult” guests who may not have known many of the other guests, and spent a lot of time chatting and dancing with D’s friends. I do love having them around! Young people are so good for the soul! We danced for ages. I was the only wrinkly one on the dance floor, 🤣

When everyone finally left, I had two guests to stay the night with me. One of whom is a real doll, whom I met through Roger, decades ago. She comes over and we go out, and she stays with me from time to time. She has been blown away that he did this. And has shared some interesting insights over this last year. She is the one who was in awe of how “cool” I was as a partner, and admired our relationship, saying she thought we had it all.

Yep.

We did.

Until he decided to fuck his ex GF for a year and a half.

She was the person I did see talking to Norm the longest during the night. They were always close, and many people assumed they were having an affair decades ago.

I was fine back then with him having close female friends. There were a few.

A tennis partner.

And old fuck buddy/mutual female friend (who also attended the 21st.)

A tenant of ours.

A local vet. Who had to leave town after she broke up a marriage in her previous place of employment. Who looked down her nose at me, seeing me as some little housefrau, no doubt, when I was nothing but accommodating and hospitable to her.

Etc.

After Leanne – whom I was also extremely tolerant of! – I revisited these close friendships, and kicked myself. Why was I so stupid?

I trusted him.

I assumed he was being ethical. Even with Leanne. I have no way of knowing if he fucked any or all of them. I trusted him when he told me three times during his affair with her, that he was definitely not attracted to her, certainly not fucking her. To my face. Looking me dead in the eye. Lying like a pro. And I always believed he was telling me the truth.

The most heartbreaking thing happened in the morning. I got up early to check the mess. It wasn’t too bad, so went back to bed for a bit.

When I got up and dressed a bit later, while my household slept on, Roger was here, and he had done a lot of clearing up. Which was really nice of him. It made things much easier later on, to get it fully ready for the hire company to pick up their things. I really appreciated that he did that before leaving back down the line to his Trinket.

But, as he left, he said to me. Can you make your blog private?

I was taken aback. And said no.

Fuck off.

He left.

He has no idea.

This blog has saved my life. You readers and those who comment and support, have ensured I never carried out my suicidal plans. When I can’t cope with the pain, and have cut, and it still isn’t stopping, this blog has meant my children still have their mother. This is no exaggeration. It has saved my life having this open but secret community. Having friends who understand. He can’t ask me to give that up, too.

Anyway, later, Irena, the guest, and I talked a lot. As she left, she told me Norm told her that we had the most amazing relationship ever.

And he regrets nothing.

Yeah, he said that. Of course. He did.

No regrets.

He just turned the page. Walked away from his old life.

💔💔💔

Maybe I’ve forgotten
The name and the address
Of everyone I’ve ever known,
It’s nothing I regret
Save it for another day, ’cause
The school is out
And the kids have run away
I would like a place I can call my own
Have a conversation on my telephone
Wake up everyday, that would be a start
I would not complain ’bout my wounded heart
I was upset, you see
Almost all the time
You used to be a stranger
Now you are mine
I wouldn’t even trust you
I’ve not that much to give
We’re dealing in the limits,
And we don’t know who with
You may think that I’m out of hand
That I’m naive, I’ll understand
On this occasion, it’s not true
Look at me, I’m not you
I would like a place I can call my own
Have a conversation on the telephone
Wake up everyday, that would be a start
I would not complain ’bout my wounded heart
I was a short fuse
Burning all the time
You were a complete stranger
Now you are mine
I would like a place I can call my own
Have a conversation on the telephone
Wake up everyday, that would be a start
I would not complain ’bout my wounded heart
Just wait ’till tomorrow
I guess that’s what they all say
Just before they fall apart

My social media feeds seem to be full of “happy couples” celebrating anniversaries, waaaahing on about how lucky they are. Fuck it hurts. That used to be how I felt. And Roger, so smugly loved up with me, was derisive of his best mate, whom he was best man for at his first wedding – and wanted to tell him not to marry her the night before the wedding (I thought he was so emotionally insightful, ugh) and never really liked his second wife…for good reason, she’s awful. I’m so sick of the grief.

I regret ever giving him my heart for safe keeping. 💔

I regret believing the words that came out of his mouth while he was lying and cheating. Every time he said he wasn’t doing anything wrong, and made love to me, I was fooled. I regret wasting the thirty best years of my life supporting him when I should have been putting myself first every now and then. I regret loving him. It has broken me.

And it brings to mind the poem he asked me to write out in calligraphy, to hang in his maimai. Not at all any coincidence that he used that place on the back of our farm, to hook up with and fuck Leanne regularly. To shove her full of anything he could find lying around.

The code of the cow country. About treating people right. And living to a set of standards that includes talking straight and treating women with respect.

Yeah, even the one who washes your dirty laundry, cooks your food, and whom you impregnate seven times…

Yeah, right. Talking the talk is easy.

It’s just gone. All of it. All of that incredible love story.

Like it never existed.

Turned to hatred of me, blaming me for it ending. Replacing me, just like that, with any other willing body.

The first to take the online bait, and run with it, ignoring my existence.

I was never special. It was all a gigantic mirage.

And my heart will never be whole again. I do accept that.

I mean nothing to him.

I meant nothing to him.