Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum


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Misunderstandings…

…And the power of communication.

I was really feeling quite despondent last night. I thought BG was being negative, handing me a shopping list of things to check/things that were wrong regarding the new building lease.

We managed a really good talk this morning. He did back off last night, seeing my face fall. I know I have to do due diligence yet. Was just excited at this good possibility. He’d had a late afternoon flurry of demands from staff, just the usual problems, but in a barrage. All at once.

I could see him pacing around the club when I arrived, looking most agitated. And he was stressed about a function we had to attend as sponsors…so I went over to be with him, all high with fear and excitement, expecting to be lavished with praise, support and love. Getting instead, don’t pay for that, check this term, what about….??? was a big letdown.

I went to bed before him. He stayed up watching sport, when I needed a cuddle. But was not going to be needy girl.

He snored and fought some huge verbal battles during the night, and I shifted to the couch. He woke up all concerned. I had pretty much convinced myself that I needed to end things with him. He sat naked with me, asking if I was okay.

I said, “I’m really worried about us.”

“Why? What have I done? I’m sorry.”

I struggled to get the words out. But gently explained that I felt pretty concerned that he was riding roughshod all over my accomplishments, and I’d been here before, and it felt unhealthy. He said, “I know. I’m sorry. I messed up. I realised it, and tried to back pedal but it was too late. Please don’t paint me with the same brush as him. I do care. I am proud of you. I was in a bad headspace, and didn’t realise you came to celebrate. I’m a dick and I apologise.”

I replied that I know he isn’t Roger, but my guard is up waaaay high about this stuff. Some green flags seemed to be turning red!

And he admitted for the first time to a small amount of disappointment/resentment that I am opening this business alone. We had talked about joint ventures…I asked him about his feelings before I signed up. He was positive and encouraging. And he owns his lack of commitment to doing anything new. His fear of failure is a big driving force with him. I worked that out a few years ago. I felt if I waited for him, we’d still be waiting.

Anyway, long, good, real conversation. Which inevitably turned to sex. He always worries he’s going to lose me over this. I just homestly told him, if everything else is good, I can manage. But it does mean when we are struggling, the thoughts about my higher drive always ramp up.

Ultimately, he talked again about how unhealthy his relationship with sex is. It was a thing you did, working in hospitality, after a few drinks, and a stupid gane of pursuit. It isn’t a deeply intimate thing for him. He shows intimacy in other physical ways. I know this. I know that I’m “too good/nice” to fuck good and hard, or even seduce slowly, devouring each other. He’s never equated sex with love. It’s been Wham! Bam! Thank you Ma’am. Loads of one night stands and drunken hook-ups. No need to learn skills, understand where all the buttons on the console are, just a lot of point and shoot! Lol.

I’m the opposite. Probably demi-sexual. I need love to feel deeply sensual and wantonly sexy. And the closer I feel to you, the hornier I get.

It’s a giant challenge!

But. This was an exceptional talk. We discussed mental health, sex, hopes, dreams, expectations, what does supportive look like/feel like. I told him how hard I am finding it to talk candidly with him. Not because of him, but because I am struggling to identify and name my feelings sometimes. And top of my list is always that I don’t ever want to hurt him.

He did have one frustrated moment where he said about my past, “sometimes I feel from all of this unsaid stuff, the way you go quiet and withdraw, that you are never going to get over him.”

That took my breath away (what little I have, with this pneumonia!) My first instinct was to defend myself. Shout, no! That’s not true!

Instead. I shut my mouth. After a few minutes, I said, “there’s some truth there. I don’t think you do ever “get over” this stuff. But I know he’s not who I loved, and I also know I love you. It has left deep, painful scars. Sometimes the trauma is briefly visible, I’m sorry, I try to tuck it away quickly, out of view.” And I liked his reply.

“Yes babe. I see those moments. When you withdraw. And I’m sorry you have that. I also know my own damage. I just bluff my way through that, and yours is more painful. It silences you. Like sharp pain makes you suck in your breath. I hate when I feel like I triggered it by doing something wrong.”

Oh fuck. He he gets it. Because he’s felt it. He told me he gets really anxious about this stuff, because Chrissy said she loved him all the time, and then she was gone. No discussion. No warning. No honesty. He’s scared I will lie to him, too.

I tell you, trying to do this in your 50s is fucking insane!

So much baggage.

But, I do like how open he is to me. He’ll answer anything. He tells me the warts and all stuff of his past. He’s kind, caring and loving about my crap. He wants to make this work, and he knows that takes effort, it doesn’t just happen.

And, bonus. Great sex after all of that! Initiated cautiously by him. But strongly encouraged by me! See? Connection makes it BETTER! 😜

I’ve done a pile of homework. Opening a new business bank account. Downloading manuals and checklists. Filling in what I can in spreadsheets. The sun is finally out. The dogs are on the furniture, in the sun.

Whaaaat? Get off the ottoman, big dog! I am curled up, about to have a nap. Tomorrow it is revised budgets and business plan. Making a bank appointment. Writing my resignation letter…

BG just phoned. A bit upset. He was planning on coming over. Instead, at my insistence, he rang Andy, one of his best mates. He’d called earlier in the week and BG was a bit busy. Glad he called him. Turns out, his business is in trouble. He’s downsizing, restructuring. It means they will have to sell their stunning home and land up the coast with the elevated, 180Β° views. When he called, he and his wife were over in the nearby town, looking at smaller houses. He was asking if I’d mind if he went to Andy’s. Lol. Mind? Bloody hell mate. Get your arse up to your friend’s place! Beer and mate therapy required!

More Nana napping for me. Time to chill, rest, try to recover.


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A bit of fluff. Or is it?

Last night, one of my oldest friends, Bella, invited me to a function, to celebrate both of our recent birthdays.

Well, she invited me, to celebrate mine, but hers was a couple of weeks ago, so I was celebrating her, too.

It was an industry do. And that works, I’m currently in a parallel industry. We, as kiwi breeders, were being wooed back to Flemington, to the Melbourne Cup carnival. The 18 carat gold Cup, worth AUD275K is on tour.

Yes, we got to hold it and pose for photos. I hate photos, so here it is, without my ugly mug (see what I did there?) to ruin the shot!

Chit chat, champagne, and lots of discussion regarding her wonderful work trip to the UK ensued.

Then we two left the function room and ate at the Italian place the function had been held at.

It was a nice midweek diversion.

I asked Bella how her and her husband’s new venture is going. They recently had a nasty, tricky “divorce” from his brother’s family, and their joint business of many decades. I’m so pleased for them, especially her lovely husband, who, after so much hard work, gets to steer his own ship, finally.

Then Bella asked me abiut BG. “You guys good? He’s such a nice man. I’m so impressed with how he just fits in, and thinks the world of you.” I was understated in my reply. Saying we are good, just work in progress.

Then she enquired how my business is getting on. So I filled her in on the latest news.

Which is that I am viewing a probable temporary lease for premises near my under construction permanent base, and have also taken the bull by the horns and approached a local franchisee to chat regarding her experience running a pop-up prior to her new premises becoming available, on Friday. Things are moving fast. I am going to have to pull finger and get my budgets sorted. That part is quite daunting with smaller, less luxurious, temporary premises throwing my plans a bit. All a work in progress.

Bella leaned back in her chair. “Wow Paula. Just wow. I’n in awe of you. Look at you. Just growing and glowing. Not many women I know have been through what you have, and come out the other side so positive, so quietly driven to succeed and take a risk, but also, just so up for anything. Most at our age just sit licking their wounds. But you. You’ve never let this stop you, or make you bitter. Quite the opposite. I’m so proud of you! I know you’ve been through hell. But you are always up for a laugh, with a big smile on your face. You’ve been really brave.”

Bella knows. She knows how heartbroken I am. How I truly, deeply, madly loved Roger with everything I had.

She also knows he never loved me like – in her words – I deserved to be loved, in return. She probably has no idea that I am still utterly broken and ache so badly inside. I hope not. I try to present well in public!

This is a woman who is an ex fuck buddy of Roger’s.

Before me. And later, whilst we were separated briefly, before our children were born. She is still in touch with him. I avoid talking with her ever, about him. Or even alluding to him. I know she catches up with him and his whore when she is down their way. They are old friends.

I am one of those people who has had to learn to accept praise graciously. I used to cringe, downplay, twist myself to avoid that kind of spotlight. However, now I try hard to sit gently with it, attempting to accept praise, squishing my inner “you’re really not good enough, you know,” voice down.

I don’t need her praise.

But I am aware that it is given in good faith.

That when she hugged me (we’re really not big huggers – especially her, I’m learning to try to accept physical touch) that it was genuine, warm, and not just something you do. So many huggers are just being polite. That isn’t us.

I know I sound like a cold fish, by saying that. But I have a very strong startle reflex. It started after I was raped. I don’t love being touched, especially unexpectedly, by people I am not close wirh.

During the weekend, BG came into my room as I was in the bathroom. And I nearly hit the ceiling. He got a fright at my extreme startle response, laughing and apologising. And it zoomed my body’s memories back to the startle response I had to Roger surprising me with unexpected touch at any time after his affair with Leanne. I was so on edge. He thought it was funny.

It didn’t feel funny.

My flight response was turned up to max. I didn’t trust him not to hurt me.

Within all of that personal fuckedupness, I am incredibly tactile with the people I love. Physical touch, skin to skin contact, sensual kissing and sex in every excitng, mildly depraved form, that works for me.

And that is my current struggle. BG loves to touch and be touched. Skin to skin. Head and shoulder massages, etc.

But even our kisses don’t have any real fire or depth. Rog was such a good kisser. BG is quite chaste in his. And, he’s a receiver. Not a giver, sexually, and with touch/massage, etc. His Madonna/Whore thing hasn’t improved at all. He never makes a move on me.

And I’ve started to stop initiating. Therefore we are sitting in a sexual void.

I don’t know if this has a solution. I don’t know if I have the energy to try to convince him (anyone?) that I’m completely fuckable. That I am sexy “enough.” I felt that so much with Rog after I knew he is a cheater. That I am not sexy “enough.” It’s all bad karma for me. I’m the fat, ugly girl no one lusts after….

Why should I have to try so hard? When he won’t even make an effort to make me feel desirable?

I’m tired of this dance.


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Numb

The numbness is returning.

I haven’t has this for a while.

Where I just don’t feel anything.

It happened first, several years into my recovery from my beloved “life partner’s” infidelity.

And it feels so odd.

For a passionate, lively person, to lose all feelings, is like a quiet death.

For the first time, I couldn’t be arsed going to see BG. I went tree shopping with a friend, instead. And spent yesterday cleaning out the guttering on my roof and digging enormous holes for enormous trees.

Then BG turned up. Stressing because someone at work called in sick. He felt guilty for leaving.

I’m 14 days into my decision to take a break from drinking any alcohol for a month, and not missing it at all. We went to a local place and had bar food for dinner. I treated myself to a zesty ginger kombucha, BG had a couple of ciders, and said he was impressed I am still not drinking. He is surrounded by alcohol at work, and I’m just bored with the whole scene.

Numb.

Haven’t slept well recently. It’s 4.30am and I’ve been awake since 1.30.

Ruminating.

It’s been 9 weeks since we made love.

Nine. Weeks.

You’d think he’d arrive and want to rip my clothes off.

Nope. A kiss as I was making lemon curd, standing whisking the mixture over the double boiler.

Then nothing.

Then he came in and saw the coffee table from one of my apartments, in the dining room. I haven’t had time or the people power to shift it out to the barn, for storage. “You should move that (my mid century ottoman) and make it like a window seat, and put that (chain store, round, modern, dark veneered coffee table) there.

I was mildly irritated.

But couldn’t be arsed.

“Yeah, let’s see how that looks tomorrow.”

It will look crap. I have a retro theme in my home. Each high end piece is carefully selected and placed. He already hates the delicate, but comfortable-for-me furniture I have tucked into my hidden TV nook, and regularly rearranges, dragging it out, and putting my large, 4 seater, mid century couch there. He’s a big unit. I get the need for comfort.

But this works for me. It’s my beautiful, curated, healing space. I don’t want to have to compromise anymore. To a man. To kids.

To anyone.

And I bite my lip.

For now. Knowing I’m feeling bitchy.

I went to bed early. As the rugby test match between Ireland and the All Blacks ended.

He didn’t come for several hours.

He never comes to bed at the same time as me. And we have NEVER once made love at night. He is a morning sex guy. I’m not at my best/horniest always first thing.

I’ve told him this. Asked to have/suggested daytime sex

Many times.

I’ve tried instigating at night. I’ve explained that I’d like more.

Better. That we need to look after both of our needs.

I’ve had two orgasms ever with him.

Two. Not kidding

In over three years.

Rog always ensured I came first…that’s multiple times a week, for thirty plus years…he knew me. He cared about my pleasure. He took the time, made the effort. To be honest, I’m pretty easy to please!

Sex is certainly not everything. Mostly, BG and I are pretty great. Adorable, even. But sex is important to me. I give a lot.

And get very, very little in return.

I’ve explained to him that there is so much more. Tried to show him.

Remember, there has only ever been Rog, who was completely sexually compatible, and BG … it’s really not good enough that he hasn’t tried a bit harder. My pleasure seems irrelevant. And yet, outside of sex, he’s the most generous, sweetest, kindest man. I’ve tried so hard to communicate. To show him. He’s unlocked less than half of my amazing wanton self. He has been gobsmacked at me many times. What I like. How my body responds. What I can and love doing for him…

I’m numb. Just tired and really burnt out. My boss has been micromanaging from her European conferences, and after 17 years with her, and no pay rise in the last nearly 4 years, I’m feeling … not even mad or upset. Just really numb. Done with caring.

I remember when the numb happened first with Rog. We had been hysterical bonding for a very long time after his affair with “my friend,” Leanne was exposed by her to me. Longer than his eighteen month affair with her. He kept it going well, by (lying, no doubt) constantly telling me I was FAR superior, FAR sexier, than her. That I actually showed him how much I loved sex with him, and she was a bit bored by sex.

Then I went numb.

Lost all the panic. All the joy. Any feelings at all, then my body stopped feeling. All those electric nerve endings fizzled.

Nothing.

To the point that I sought sex therapy, briefly.

I’m tired.

And numb.

BG’s 87 year old mum caught Covid yesterday. His sister who lives in Sydney arrives tonight for her planned 88th birthday party on Tuesday. That obviously won’t be happening. At this stage, N (BG’s mum) is relatively well, and is being well cared for in her isolation in her retirement village.

And I am a little relieved. I won’t have to do a mid week dash. I know this week will be hell, with the boss scheduled to arrive home last night.

Numb.

It’s worse than traumatised, in some ways. You just feel superfluous to life.


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A long weekend

Had a nice weekend, starting with taking my strange father to the movies.

He seemed to enjoy that.

Next day, some clean up on the section (tornado damage) followed by a trip over the hill to have lunch with one of my oldest besties, eldest daughter and her flatmate.

Off to BG’s beach. Things were crazy busy over there, so I jumped behind the restaurant bar Friday and Saturday nights for a couple of shifts, with the boss man on the carvery.

What a team. Lol.

Actually, I quite enjoyed it. Super busy, but everyone in good spirits. He has a great, positive team, and I worked that bar with another woman who was grateful for the help. After all, we fed over 450 people in just a few hours. The bars were flat out keeping up.

Friends from my home town showed up as I finished, and the man whisked me onto the dance floor, funny.

BG is always blown away by me just just jumping in to help.

I put a lamb roast on before work Saturday, so ensured we had loads of greens and something hearty after we finished up, and didn’t just eat crap. He was grateful.

Anyway, a quieter Sunday, we took an elderly member of his club to the nearby town to catch a bus to his son’s, and we went and had a drink there, came home and went for a brisk beach walk. A stop on the way home for a glass of wine at a brew bar, and I was committed to staying Sunday night.

Home early this morning to move heifers and feed out.

Work.

Home to see the tornado damage progress. The arborists arrived and made a great start.

I have the Monday blues a bit.

It’s okay. I am used to this life.

We have so, so much good. So much fun. So much enjoyment of being together.

But, no sex for six weeks, then he tried Sunday morning.

We didn’t get far. That was a first for us. To start, and not “finish.” Hey, it’s never about the destination. More the journey. No problem for me.

But he beats himself up.

Frustrated. Annoyed at himself.

But unable to really talk about it. Which I find really challenging.

I’m kind of in this zone. Where I am not concerned. It’s a very strange thing. I LOVE sex. But I’m not giving up this nice, kind, gentle, sweet man because the sex is less than I would like it to be.

Surely we can make that better. But, even if we can’t, is it a deal breaker?

I don’t think so.

But it is very weird. I had fantastic chemistry with Rog.

And he fucked me right up. So….

Anyway, whatever. I just like being with BG. He worries. That I will leave him. That it won’t be “enough.”

And he seems to genuinely like being intimate, sharing life with me. Just sent me this cute message.

Sex. How very odd. I really never anticipated this. Have never had to deal with this before. Having a much, much higher libido, and realising he just struggles with knowing his is not keeping me … ugh.

Why?

I do sometimes ask that.

Why did this happen?

Why did Roger fuck it all up, we were so good.

I watched a couple I follow on Instagram. A seemingly real couple, with kids, a sense of humour, no apparent fakery, and the way he talked about them.

Us. Forever. That simple.

I felt my heart tear apart. That was me…

I wonder if Trinket is so very much more than me. That they are having a wild old time in the sack – if they’re even together anymore. Who even knows? I used to think no one would ever be like we were, that we had something super special. That I would die, KNOWING Rog. Knowing he was mine. Knowing about his life.

He’s a total stranger now.

And just typing that makes me ache all over.

He didn’t ever feel that way about me.

He just swaps out one warm, willing body for the next. If not Trinket, the next victim, I guess.

But, I try not to think about them too much. It does no good.

He just didn’t realise how much I loved him, how truly heartbroken I would be.

Or rather, he just didn’t care.

But tonight, I miss him. The dead him. So, I’m going to whisper into the darkness, where no one else can hear me, or judge me for it, “goodnight my snooky bear. I will love you forever.”


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Pick me!

Winning the pick me dance is generally the aim during the immediate aftermath of discovering your life partner, the love of your life (cough) has been cheating on you.

Although, many are far better than me, and walk away straight away.

With dignity.

And strength.

But then there are those of us who are pretty pathetic, and “try harder.”

I’m ashamed of who I was then. I just loved him so much, and was convinced he loved me, but had just “made a mistake.” He sounded so remorseful. I felt really sorry for him. He’d made such a terrible mess of things.

Poor sausage.

Ha!!!

The mistake was his AP telling me about their affair. Not the actual fucking her part.

I always imagined I would leave a cheater.

Immediately.

That was some serious disrespect, and a faithful, loving partner deserves better.

But I stayed. What???

And danced as pretty as I could! I had “friends” tell me I wasn’t sexual enough (despite a very fulfilling sex life, and that “friend” being a cheater in her first marriage, and having little sex in her second…hmmm.)

And I upped the ante.

It wasn’t hard. Hysterical bonding was immense for me. I really did love and desire him. I couldn’t keep my hands off him. I tried to prove how wonderful I was, in so many other ways, as well.

Ugh.

How degrading.

I know that the scenario in the linked story will never happen to me. Roger is disgusted by me. Disgusted I stayed, degrading myself. It was humiliating. For sure. Begging him to “pick me,” over the other two whores.

But, it did make me snigger, reading it.

I often wonder if he learned anything throughout this whole caper. He insisted he never wanted to “be alone.”

So, what would happen if Trinket tired of him? Or he her? If he tired of her, I am fairly sure he’d just start up with the online dating again, securing new supply before dumping her.

But if she dumped him, and he was still wanting to be with her?

That intrigues me.

After all, he’d never wanted to live in the region he does. He only moved there because she wouldn’t move to where he had sent me to look, for a new venture/life for us.

I was tidying up my Google files today, and came across all the saved real estate information from that time. Lifestyle properties and businesses. The dates they were saved to my Google drive totally made my stomach hurt! He was already seeing Trinket. And I didn’t know. I thought we were considering a move together. But when I returned, having done early research, he told me about her, and that he was going to take her there, not me!

I looked at him like πŸ€¦β€β™‚οΈπŸ˜²πŸ˜³

I deleted the files.

Better sleep, the coughing fits are less, and I’ve eaten my first solid food all week, tonight. I’m fighting fit!

Lol.

Or I will be, if I finally manage some sleep…


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Unhealed trauma

Wow!

I mean, yeah, of course, but, wow!

I don’t think I had “childhood” trauma, but definitely was more deeply affected than I admitted/knew by my parents’ shock divorce, obviously by the vicious, tearing rape by my friend’s friend, and yeah, also about my first attempts at making love with the first boy I loved. Where it πŸ† just didn’t fit! πŸ€¦β€β™€οΈ. We tried, off and on, for a very long time.

I thought I was broken. Not capable of being penetrated. This is where my deep and very real fear of large penises kicked in.

I know it sounds like a joke.

But I was TERRIFIED of meeting someone with a big dick.

And guess what?

Yup.

The day BG took his pants off, aroused already, holy, holy fuck! 😱

I froze. I actually nearly ran from the room.

I did tell him, when we started making love, to be slow and gentle, as his is a LOT bigger than the only penis I had ever had inside me.

To be honest, I’m sure that is what every man probably wants to hear, but he looked a bit coy, and was amazingly careful.

To start with 😜

I also thought maybe I was overstating it in my mind. Maybe he was “normal” sized. But he has length AND girth. It was quite shocking.

Months later, probably a year, I discovered he had a reputation about his size, amongst his friends. A couple of the wives siddled up to me, to ask.

If the legend was true!

Jesus. What???

Not even sure how you answer that!

Of course, this was not asked sober. I just winked and smiled, knowingly. Then Ingrid, who asked first, told me that it was legendary amongst this crew.

When I later relayed the story to BG, he shook his head, and was really embarrassed. Told me about the incident, in his teens, with a girl in his Catholic boarding school dorm. And getting caught by one of his mates. Who is still a close mate to this day. Good lord.

Literally!

As he intimated, it made it seem more. Like, “The Legend,” is larger than the reality. (Pardon the pun.) And yeah, I can see it is dehumanising. Objectifying. It embarrases him.

But, it was genuinely a terrifying night. In a good, consenting way. Still a really difficult thing for me. In my 50s, one lover ever, whom I was totally, madly in love with. Then this very real fear of mine, materialising!

Back to the other points, though. I definitely tick all of those items on that unhealed trauma list. I would like to add that it wasn’t really a difficulty setting boundaries – although, my uber chill chick vibe might be (correctly?) read this way – I think it became more about difficulty policing them.

When I insisted after Leanne that he change his phone number (it was before I even knew you could block) to starve her of oxygen, when she kept covertly (by connection) threatening us, and our children, and overtly saying she was bringing her mother to meet with my inlaws, to let them know they were destined to be together, that scared the SHIT out of me.

Cut her off! Cut her access to us off!

Rog insisted that he needed to keep his number, to “manage” the bunny boiler.

Hmmm.

Also helped his need for ego kibbles, right? Not only was he continuing to get her attention, he fashioned himself as my great hero and protector by “cutting her off at the pass.”

Also made it REALLY easy to fuck her again, two years after he had “ended it.”

Riiiiiight. Good job on the boundary enforcement, Paula.

My problem is, I have no desire to be the Marriage Police. What a shit job that was.

So I “believed” him, let it slide.

I also hate that I was unable to see that his refusal to read about affair recovery, or get counselling was another violation of my boundaries.

I have lived in a state of high anxiety for 12 years now. I wasn’t that person before Leanne. Before I knew I am a chump. I used to be a far different person than I am today. I felt safe, connected, confident. I didn’t feel the need for much external validation.

I feel none of those things anymore. And yeah, am more socially “needy.” I’m aware of it, and work hard at dismantling the narrative of “not good enough” that now feeds my social anxiety.

That said, I am anxious about today. Anxious about re-entering my home town. The possibility of facing him yet again. Knowing he also has another horse racing in this region tomorrow. It’s likely he’ll be there. And surely the cunt will be, too. I preferred when I didn’t know much about these horses, and his current life.

No contact is the biggest tool for healing from relationship trauma.

I’ve been no contact with my former friend, of at the time, over thirty years, Leanne, for 12 years. It’s good.

It still blows my mind. This darling man, whom I loved and trusted completely, for decades (at least until he broke that unwavering trust, the love was still there) whose body I craved, and snuggled up with, at every chance, whose babies I conceived in deep love, gestated, and birthed with him, is someone I must avoid now. It’s super fucking crazy.

It still messes with me. I know it’s because I still love the “old” Rog. The illusion. So I don’t want to see the new one. Especially not with his whore. My mental health is too precious. Too hard fought for.

I know he doesn’t get it. He never had to fight for life, like I did. He never had to suffer, being rejected and discarded. He had several women clambering for his attention. He. Just. Doesn’t. Understand

Or really?

He just just care.

Better go shift my heifers, give Sunny, number 7, a big hug and scratch. Always helps ground me when I need it.

Thank God for animals, huh?

Sunny. She’ll be hungry…


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Recovery

My friend had her cancer surgery today. We chatted this morning. She was jittery. I talked the calm talk. Made her laugh.

She’s worried. Of course.

I’ve had several people message me tonight, asking if she’s ok.

How beautiful.

She’s a truly amazing woman. People love her gorgeousness.

And I realised how messed up I was when I went under the knife.

It was two weeks after the love of my life, my love of over thirty years, the man who held me as I birthed our babies, my support person, drove out of my life forever.

To be with someone who didn’t give a fuck that he was my love.

I had no one.

He’d given me a cancer, when there was no cancer in my family, via sex.

Cervical cancer. Grade III.

From the HPV he gave me from cheating. Fucking Leanne without condoms.

Then he fucked off to fuck another Schmoopie while I had a lymphadenectomy.

I drove myself to hospital.

I drove myself home after the recovery period.

I drove myself to the daily radiotherapy appointments for those seven weeks.

Then I drove myself to work afterwards. Starting at 10.30am daily for those weeks. I was EXHAUSTED, but was running on adrenaline.

No one messaged.

No one checked in on me.

I’m so glad our darling girl has so much support πŸ’—


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Sex kills.

Sex.

It’s a human need. Most of us need it.

Not everyone.

It’s perfectly fine to go without. To be asexual. To take time out. To not like it. To live without it.

I love sex.

And I’m surprised to be in my early-mid 50s, and struggling.

This isn’t the place to dissect it fully. But I am with a kind, caring, funny, loving man.

And the sex is … problematic.

I am stumped.

The only other man I was sexual with, well, it was organic. Natural. Fabulous. Soul nourishing.

But he was a shitty person who discounted, abused and broke me.

Now I have a gem of a human, and 🀯

I’ve never questioned this until now. It worked. We’re living in 2022, surely men get that sex is not all about their pleasure???

I just thought that was a thing from previous generations.

Watching The Principals of Pleasure, I’m kinda shocked. That this is still a thing. That women’s pleasure is still either discounted, or maybe just misunderstood?

I am trained to acquiesce. To be the bigger person.

That is fucked up. I thought I was a “loud” feminist. But man. I STRUGGLE to communicate effectively about this. WTF???

I was thinking of another, now dead, friend of mine, as I was mowing my lawns. She was my younger brother’s year at school.

We were latecomers to sex.

It wasn’t because we are prudes.

We are/were vibrant, sexy, fun people. We didn’t disapprove of sex. Or, specifically, women who love to fuck.

I have realised that for both of us, we “came of age” or hit/were into puberty in the age of the AIDS epidemic. As clever young women, we both abstained.

Because we knew sex could kill.

Sex was scary, not because our (socially constructed) virginal staus would be ruined. But, because WE MIGHT DIE!!!

Yep. While our devil may care friends and peers were out, living large, we watched. We learned how to be sexy, fun, exceptional hosts.

And we were both highly sexual women.

L sadly died some years ago. Despite us both being mindful of the dangers of sex, a cancer got her. And not a little ironically, I got grade III cervical cancer from having sex with my love, the only man I had ever made love with.

I was luckier than her.


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Hysterical bonding

Unless you’ve been chumped, you’d never believe that this is actually a thing.

Hysterical bonding.

Or when you can’t get enough of your cheater.

You shag mercilessly, every minute you can. Every possible place you can. It’s intense.

And incredibly confusing.

You mean I’m rewarding this arsehole for cheating on me, making me sick, destroying my world?!!! WTAF???

But it happened.

A lot.

And there was unbelievable closeness.

And unbearable shame.

I was going insane. The sex was always fabulous with Rog. But this took it to the next level, when I didn’t even know a next level was available.

Sooooo damn hot! πŸ”₯πŸ₯΅

Then plunged into deep shame.

Every time.

Like an addict.

Because, while he was diagnosed as a love addict, I knew I was addicted to loving him.

And I wanted desperately to protect myself. It was like self harm.

I now understand how I did start actually bodily self harming after he left.

The satisfyingly sickening feel and visuals of the scalpel blade slicing my inner thigh open.

The literal blood letting.

In 50 years, I had no idea that it’s done, not to cause pain, but to try to relieve it. And weirdly, it does. You feel powerful and emboldened.

And you know it’s wrong. Sick. But you don’t know how else you can possibly survive this agony.

And I knew I would never feel that connection with another human ever again.

So far, I’ve been right.

I think we did have something genuinely amazing.

Or I did.

He just didn’t feel what I did. He can get what I gave anywhere, apparently.

I do love BG.

But it’s completely different. I’m grateful for him. He’s a good person. I was telling my boss about how his community looked out for him when he got Covid and had to isolate. Contactlessly delivering coffee. Shopping for food. Checking in on him. And mentioned that he does that for others. Checks on older club members and friends, drives elderly people to neighbouring towns, to catch buses to visit family. To medical appointments. My boss was amazed. “Really? He does that? What a lovely man.”

Yeah, he does that. Regularly. It’s part of who he is. I guess? Perhaps not having his own family has meant he’s cared for others?

And we are cute together.

But honestly? Not that same level of deep connection.

I accept it is gone. The ability/opportunity to form, curate, encourage those life-long deeply rooted feelings of bonding and belonging.

I’m building something else with this lovely man.

He lurves my doggos…

But passion is … not missing. It’s there. It’s just not what I know I am capable of.

I think, loving someone very deeply for over thirty years means that connection is unbelievably strong. Trying to sever it, or even trying to replicate it, is pretty impossible. I’m not trying to replicate it. But I am trying to nurture what we do have. Which is a second (third, fifth? Lol, BG is old, and there’s been chances before) chance at love and happiness.

Not having that intense sexual connection is a hard pill to swallow. We certainly have our moments. Separation for any length of time definitely ups the ante. But hey, that’s not the everyday. What happens when we live together? That certainly is something we are working towards. Rog and I (well, I THOUGHT we did!) had a really intense sexual chemistry. He knew my body so well. He knew how it had changed over the years. What the effects of childbirth were. How my birth injuries changed my sexual responses. These are not things that a new partner knows/has experienced with you, and they are hard to talk about! BG’s knowledge of what I prefer, what works best for me, is only informed by me. Telling him. Showing him. The “lessons” don’t stick straight away. I see and feel him using well-worn porn-informed ideals of what good sex entails. Hey, I’m up for all of that! But there’s a lack of “tailoring,” of bespoke lovemaking, if you will. I ask questions in bed (or wherever else we might be naked dancing!) Do you prefer this, or that? Always, sometimes, just today? Tell me, show me, what you are loving/not enjoying so much.

With Rog, it felt instinctual. We knew each other. I didn’t struggle with getting the words out. The fear I was doing something wrong.

Hysterical bonding (hey, I had two different Ddays, with two different affair partners, and a discovery of him fucking #1 – that I knew of, anyway – again, two years after their affair was “over ” I had loooong periods of hysterical bonding in those thirty years) was easy. We just knew where all the GO buttons were. God. It. Was. Ah. Maze. Ing!!!

I can’t fully articulate this. But I do know the way my heart lurches when BG looks at me, those dimples flashing, the eyebrows raised. Instant WAP.

It just never fully means what I used to know. Unbelievable, earth moving passion.

But, he’s unbelievably caring. Real. Loving. Funny. Sexier than I can explain. I sleep like a baby, feeling so very, very safe, when I’m with him. I never sleep well, since the first Dday. But far, far better when I’m with him. His snoring and all, lol.

That is all.


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Reflections

Four years.

Four years ago today, I moved into my home. The first home in my life that has been truly mine.

It’s the safest home I’ve ever had.

The peace lily my dear, kind friend, L, gave me gracing the old mantlepiece on the day I moved into this home πŸ’š

I love living alone. Everything is mine, just the way I want it.

I’m thinking about this week three years ago, in Barcelona, trying to enjoy my trip, but heart breaking for my bestie, whose young son had just been tragically killed.

This day, three years ago, visiting the Salvador Dali house near Barcelona

Beautiful architecture. Stunning art. Incredible food and drink. Great company. My old high school friend, Kim, planned a truly amazing trip to SpainπŸ‡ͺπŸ‡Έ, Portugal πŸ‡΅πŸ‡Ή and Morocco πŸ‡²πŸ‡¦ for us.

La Sagrada Familia stained glass window

I also managed to slip in a four day jaunt with my friend, Sam, in London.

It was so healing for me.

As I was unpacking, in my new home that day (I use home, as the other places I have lived were houses really, never really mine) I found dozens of cards and letters Roger wrote me.

This one was just before DDay 2, when I discovered he was having another affair, and he had actively been looking for this, online dating for over two years. See how he had me fooled?

I will always be the love of his life.

How special I am.

I never got to ask him to leave.

I was working my ARSE off on healing from his treachery.

I’m here, walking along a beautiful beach, having not slept. Been walking here for three hours. Since 5.30am.

I’m unsettled. Kinda have been ever since Leanne, certainly more so since Trinket.

I’m overthinking and panicking about money. The goalposts of funding this business keep shifting. I need to buckle down this week, sharpen my pencil, and approach another lender with precision budgets, forecasts and a diamond bright business plan.

And, realistically, this has been a beautiful weekend so far, people, laughter, an attentive and loving partner.

But.

He just doesn’t desire me.

We haven’t made love in a whole bloody month.

I’ve sober driven for him the last two nights. Happy to do so. Kind of semi aware at the same time that he confided drinking seemed to be the (he admits, fucked up) key to sex with Chrissy. He says she had a drinking problem that he didn’t discover until they lived together.

Well. Not the key to sex with me, apparently.

This is his old home town. The romance has been special. We’ve done lovely bush walks, over hills to discover beautiful gems, little secluded bays. We had a stunning dinner at a superb location, that he booked and surprised me with. He bought me delicious wine, and thanked me profusely for driving last night as he caught up over copious bourbons at his best mate down here and his wife’s place. They have two young daughters who seem to have attached themselves to me. I climbed jungle gyms. I bounced on trampolines. I drew pictures. I hugged. I learned about new games on their tablets. I read bedtime stories. I enjoyed every minute of it. And BG was grateful and impressed at the girls’ adoring attention to me. “Uncle BG is coming! Yay! He’s the one with the cool girlfriend!” (PS, I am amused by/hate the word, girlfriend. A. I’m no girl. B. It was my kids’ and my favourite joke about Leanne. Dad’s “girlfriend.” What a fuckwit I am. I thought it was a joke!)

But none of it makes him want me, sexually.

I don’t do it for that. I do it because it’s who I am, and I really enjoy these people.

But, it is getting increasingly frustrating.

And once again, despite me knowing better, and that this is his problem, not about me – just like a cheating partner! – I feel like I’m lacking.