Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum


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16 May 2009

A day like any other, right?

The popular press was focused on people like Eva Longoria. Do we even remember her? Swine ‘flu was front and centre of many people’s worries. Rachel Alexandra  won the Preakness, the first filly in 85 years to do so. British retailers were up in arms about Manic Street Preacher’s latest album cover art. Here in Aotearoa New Zealand, the pressing governmental issues of the day … ohh Gawd, hey, it was a Saturday – was one of our long-term MPs, addressing a dental health conference! Hahahaha! Not doing much for the cause of us being a vibrant, and global nation ;-).

Yes, it has actually been EIGHT years since my life imploded. The OW, Leanne, a woman I once considered a friend, someone I had known since middle school years, sent me a text, at 8.57pm, whilst I was attending a 40th birthday party that she was also supposed to be attending. The text outlined that she had been sleeping with my most beloved partner, Roger. There was little in the way of detail, I didn’t keep the text, and cannot recall the exact wording.

I went back to the party, and carried on with the evening. Smiling, dancing, completely numb inside. Then drove the half-drunk Roger home in the wee, small hours. When we were about ten minutes from home, I leaned over with my phone, and showed him the text. He was completely bereft. Head in hands, he eventually looked up, as I drove into the darkness, and said, “I will pack a bag when we get home, and get out of your life. I am incredibly sorry, so, so sorry.” I think I actually floated away somewhere far, far, away. I don’t know if I have ever come back entirely.

Time.

Time does blur things, fading the edges of memory. But it has never eradicated the pain I still feel, not the “two to five years” later when I was supposed to feel a lot better, get my life back.

It is eight years. Eight pain-filled and unnecessary years. There isn’t a lot to add. I just wanted to mark the day somehow, as it passes by in every other sense.

The first ‘online’ person I ‘met’ – a woman who is different to me in so many ways, a US-Southern Baptist, 50+ year old, home-schooling SAHM, who voted for Trump – we couldn’t be politically, ideologically, etc, further apart – is still someone I ‘chat’ with regularly. Who knew? Six and a half years after her D-day, she is filing for divorce. He didn’t do the work, he is an passive aggressive, narcissistic arsehole, and she is (reluctantly) divorcing him. Finally. She has been through the mill. She messaged me today, to reiterate that cheating is a “life sentence” – her words.

I am currently seeing a lot of emotional exhaustion in the blogging community. People who are now three plus years out from D-day. The hope is fading. The magic pill of time is not making things any better for most.

I know that feeling well. I think there is a LOT of detritus bandied about – by counsellors, churches, people hawking self-help books, the general public – about being able to build a ‘new,’ ‘better’ version of marriage/partnership. That infidelity is actually an OPPORTUNITY! Lucky you!

The truth is, it sucks. And it will always suck. For the rest of your life, it will suck in some way, together, or apart.

And that, my sweets, is my take-home lesson from eight years of the pain of ‘surviving’ infidelity, together, or apart, it makes no difference.

‘Happy’ antiversary to me!

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So, this one time, at band camp…

Today wasn’t a whole heap of fun. Work is still far too busy, and I am trying to do a full week’s work in just two days at present, as we are on the shoulder of the breeding season, but not slowing down much. Uni is two days per week (where I have to physically be on campus) but have just been called in another day per week for a compulsory departmental graduate student and faculty meeting.  I have had to quickly design a small research project, and spent the entire weekend researching, and writing an ethics application. Submitted to my supervisor, and she was very encouraging, and suggested a couple of smoothing tweaks to help. I got to these tonight, and am finally finding a moment to breathe a little.

During the day, my colleagues were on their lunch break. We work in equine reproduction, and the conversation is often pretty agricultural. My boss is my age, with a PhD, and is a board certified specialist in Veterinary Reproduction. The two permanent staffers are in their mid-20s. The conversation today started with the stud manager talking about her dear friend who is just dating a new guy after an appalling time. She had been going out with a man she adored for several years, they had just decided that they were going to start having sex using a different method of contraception than condoms. They went off and got STI screens and both came back clean. Not long afterwards, the woman found she got a terrible genital infection, and went to her doctor to find that she had herpes, warts, chlamydia and gonorrhea. Yup, quadruple whammy. She was in agony, and Ellen, my workmate, said she was with her when she was in so much pain, she couldn’t pee, and had to do it over/in a bathtub. She just wept and said to Ellen, “look at my vagina! It’s a pulverised, disgusting mess!” The guy swore he hadn’t cheated. Turns out, he not only had unprotected sex, but he did it on a sex tour in Thailand! Fucking arsehole! This poor girl was in agony, not just physically, you guys know the rest. Ellen was worried about her friend’s ability to re-partner (yes, she kicked him to the curb, of course) with herpes, and how she would have children if she was shedding during pregnancy, etc, etc, etc. The other girl we work with, a friend of Ellen and the girl in question, was gobsmacked, horrified and completely disgusted. Our boss, the vet, was all, “oh, that poor girl…” Meanwhile, the discussion went onto , “OMG, who the hell would do that? What a complete fucking arsehole. That poor, poor girl.” I sat there, rooted to my chair. What the hell could I say? “Oh yes, it happens to so many of us. After three kids, in your 40s, having only ever slept with one man – the love of your life, the man you trusted with every atom of your being – it happens ALL THE TIME. No biggie!” But no, instead, I sat there trying not to burst into tears, trying to swallow the bit of vom that kept sliding up my throat. My boss knows my situation with the cheating partner (whom she knows and likes, but she gets it, she was cheated on by a fiance back in the day.) But, of course, I haven’t told too many people about the HPV and chlamydia. Another part of my life I am OH SO DAMN PROUD OF.

Malicious Advice Mallard Meme | CATCH A STD OR STI? TRY TO CATCH ALL THE OTHERS THEY CANCEL EACH OTHER OUT | image tagged in memes,malicious advice mallard,AdviceAnimals | made w/ Imgflip meme maker

So, tonight, after being fairly quiet, Rog asked me how my day was. So, I told him what happened. And how I fought tears and/or running from the office screaming. Do you think he said anything? Did anything? Oh, you fools, don’t be so silly! He just sat there.  Later, he said, “what do you want me to say?” Well, dumbass, if I have to tell you…. I don’t have a script. I don’t have the right words to SAY. But he could have said something like, “oh, that must have sucked for you.” Or, “Poor girl, men can be such scumbags.” Or, anything at all.  But instead, he just got defensive and said, “it’s not the same thing.”

Really?

How is it not the same thing? You put your naked cock in a diseased whore. Lots of times. And your fingers. And your tongue. Probably your big fucking TOE! Pretty much every part of you that you could fit in her. Naked. And so did the other arsehole. Yes, you are SOOOO much better than him. Keep telling yourself that. Someone might believe you one day.


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Difference

Hi-de-hi campers. I have reached the teaching recess at uni – PHEW!!!

Only two assignments due soon – one near the end of the break – a short review (shouldn’t take too long) and a start on some fieldwork for a bigger 3000 word one. I also need to make a proper start on a research project for a cultural linguistics paper (something I am completely new to) with my language consultant. I am working with one of the vets from work – she is Swedish, and promised she would help me if I bring wine!  

So, work is getting crazy – I am hoping to get ahead while I am not attending lectures as the wheels are starting to spin pretty fast.

In between all of this, I am coming to some interesting conclusions. I mean, they’re not new, but I am firming up some ideas about all of this infidelity crap. Slow learner.

It’s been five years, three months and one week since D-day.

I have really struggled with recovery, whatever that even means. And I have beaten myself up about my inability to “be okay” this far out, with a truly remorseful man, who I know had a long, slow brain explosion (what even is that, a sloppy, overflowing brain melt???) I read about the occasional person who seems to be able to carry on with the person who ripped their heart out – but I am not like that, and I SOOOOOOO wanted to be. I wanted to prove to Leanne that I LOVED HARDER, that I was BETTER than her, our love was MASSIVE, and would overcome all. I wanted the world to see how strong I am, how AMAZING our love was, “see, I love him so much I can forgive him for making me ill, completely fucked in the head, and I will GROW from this.” But most of all, I wanted this. I wanted to have the love and the man I thought I always had. I still wanted that. I still loved the man, for God’s sake! I wanted our wonderful love story to carry on.

But, I am Paula. I forgot to factor that in.

I write people off when they hurt me. I mean, not usually straight away, they have to keep stabbing me a few times before I’m done, but when I’m done, that’s it. I think that although I understand why TOIL kept replying to her texts in the beginning, even when I said, “starve the bitch of oxygen” (he was trying to PROTECT me – well, partly, partly he was trying to prove to himself that he could go without her, that he was like the alcoholic who could go to bars and not drink, and partly he was so great, he could MANAGE crazy.) I even understand why he re-visited the fucking her when I kicked him out (“why have I fucked up my whole life for some fucking whore? Is she all that after all? I better just try it out one more time. Maybe she is okay?”) But those two years of work were immediately undermined by the distasteful speed at which he hooked up with her again. 

Anyway, we’ve all heard this record before.

I just got to a point, eventually, where I knew I was too hurt, PERMANENTLY hurt, to allow myself to test with a bare skin touch whether that ouchy fire was still ouchy. And people don’t get it. They think I am vindictive, not forgiving enough, that I think I am so almighty that I think I don’t make mistakes. I judged myself (still do too much) by those standards. I mean, TOIL is a lovely man, he is kind, patient, funny and just self-deprecating enough. He even looks just like a guy I used to adore, admire, respect, LOVE even.

But he fucked my “friend” in my homes, vehicles, on my property, in my kids’ beds, on my furniture, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah. I can’t unsee that in my mind’s eye. I can’t undisease my body. Yes, I seem to be cured, but it still happened, I will need to be vigilant with my sexual health forever now. If I ever have sex with anyone else, I will need to let them know that I am an HPV carrier, and that condoms don’t protect against that. (To be fair, most men don’t give a fuck – how does that affect them? It will really only affect a future partner after me. Men. You gotta feel sick about them.)

And I see the people who carry on with their reformed cheaters (the real ones, the genuine ones who really have learnt and changed, TOTALLY understanding and remorseful, with their guard turned right up high about boundaries forever after) and I am jealous. Jealous as hell.

But, if I’m honest, doubtful. Extremely cynical. How will they ever love properly again? How will they ever feel safe, be able to trust enough not to be paranoid of women/men talking to their partner for “too long” touching their arm, maybe electronic contact (for work reasons, a genuine friendship, that kind of thing.) How? 

I also see the others, the ones who carry on, but neither they, nor I am convinced of the genuineness of the reformation. I have found out some more about the recent couple (the ones I got in “trouble” with TOIL about for mentioning here) who had cheating happen to them. Apparently the woman (cheater) who is now home with her husband, and they are carrying on (at least in public) like “nothing is wrong here, nothing to see here,” well, when she left her husband for the OM, he left his wife and four kids – they swiftly moved to another country! He then took Ms Skanky-Pants to meet his parents, and they shut the door in her face! (I would have loved to see that – she is such a pious bitch, better than everyone else – she would have been most upset that Mummy and Daddy didn’t welcome her with open arms – I mean, twu wuv is so overpowering, they HAD to be together, why don’t they UNDERSTAND???) Fairly quickly, she was back with hubby. I mean, it’s a small town, I didn’t even know she had left! Meanwhile, Mr Cheater had lost his family – they live in another country now (good fucking job!!!) She posts on Fakebook all about the lovely things her husband does for her – LOOK! We are out to dinner at the swankiest new restaurant! And now we are on a tropical island! Look at my brand new BMW SUV! Poor chumpy man. You can’t buy love. You can’t even buy fidelity.

And that is the problem. That is who I am. I don’t trust people who lie. Never have. I am like that. I write people off.

I wish this wan’t me. I wish I could push the crap into one corner, and know that the wall around the crap is now high enough, secure enough, and there is an armed guard to ensure it won’t escape. But, I don’t trust the guards not to fall asleep, I don’t trust that the wall won’t crumble, and someone will miss it, and the hole will allow the crap out. 

But most of all, that wall around the crap is so damn UNSIGHTLY. I can’t stand to look at it, and I know I can’t move it out of sight either.

So, my love wasn’t better than anyone else’s. It wasn’t bigger than anyone else’s. I don’t even know why I thought it was?!

Love does NOT conquer all.

It conquers a whole lot, but it doesn’t conquer arseholery.