Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum

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My blood boiled this morning reading Chump Lady.

I mean, holy hell!

One of the things that you have to learn after being chumped is, that you don’t have to take that crap from anyone anymore.

You don’t have to pretend to be friends with someone who has serious character flaws.

You don’t have to spackle over people who cheat, as “having made a mistake.”

In this case, the woman’s actions made her previously beloved husband so miserable that he felt his only out was to shoot himself.

If you disagree with her cheating – and you absolutely should – then you are not a “bad friend” for not forgiving her. You are a person with morals, integrity, character, and any loyalty you are being made to feel to her is seriously misguided.

I no longer tolerate people like this in my life.

I have unfriended cheaters. I don’t accept any excuses that, “oh, but other than that, she’s a lovely person.”


Lovely people don’t cheat.

Either on, or with partnered people.

It’s that simple.

I have culled people. And I’m good with that. I never had before. I thought you had to accept all the bad. Just ignore it, and play nice.

I worked so damn hard to survive the discard after a serial cheater made me feel unworthy of living. It was a special kind of hell. Trying to stay in the world, when it was too painful to do so.

Buggered if I am going to allow any cheater apologists wriggle room in my life.

I make very deliberate choices now. For my mental health. For my own survival.

The comments got me. Those asking not to talk about suicide.

Fuck that shit.

We need to talk about it. Infidelity, gaslighting, lying, they make loyal partners fucking crazy. Miserable.

Some of us want to die.

Sadly, some of us do.

It needs to be talked about. It isn’t a mistake.

It is abuse.

Unbearable abuse that sucks all of the joy in the world from our beings.


I don’t want to hurt her

Had a dream last night.

Sleeping soundly in BG’s arms.

About some things that Roger told me after his affair with Leanne was exposed to me, and our entire town.

I think it was triggered by having drinks with BG’s best mate’s daughter.

And her cheating mother. BG was concerned to let his mate, Marty, know that he was catching up with his eldest daughter, but not thrilled her mother was there. It was more than 20 years ago, but he’s loyal to his mate. Not a fan of cheaters. It was fine. But I noted BG ensured he was with Ruby, not Nina, her mother.

So, my dreams were about the conversations Roger had with me, about both Leanne, and later, Trinket.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” is a phrase Roger said TO ME about both of these women he cheated on me with.

Yep. Really. He said those words, to me. #clueless

And it got worse. He also said this – several times, about both of these single women, to me, who loved him, and whom he kept cheating on, despite his words about me being the love of his life 🤮🤮🤮 – “at least I wasn’t hurting their (non-existent and dead) husbands!”

Not even kidding. He said that…to me. Who he was killing.

I just wandered down to the pharmacy, to get some antihistamine cream, I got bad sand mite bites this morning, on the beach with the dogs.

And walked past a couple who are some of my favourite punters at BG’s club. And got some horrific news. Joyce’s brother killed himself last night.

Over a woman. I gave my most sincere condolences. And walked on, my heart hurting. Poor Joyce, her brother was in his late 30s, early 40s. Obviously this is terrible news.

And it feels so personal.


I fought being one of those statistics. That period of my life, again, when I didn’t fully know if I would survive. Worked my butt off to survive the intense pain of what Roger and his whores did to my life. To my heart. To survive the cancer he gave me, but also the broken heart syndrome.

So, here I am, just chilling, watching racing, and resting from the chaos that has been my work for the past few weeks.

I need to go be productive. Some boat cleaning and veg gardening. I’m planning a duck and mango salad for dinner, so some prep is in order.


Four weeks

Four weeks.

That is all.

It’s only been four weeks at the barman’s. In full lockdown. Nothing, except supermarkets, pharmacies, dairies (small food and supplies shops) and medical providers have been open this entire time.

I have learned at lot.

I know I like life a lot simpler than it used to be.

I know I eat and drink far too much when I am catering for other people. I have gained too much weight, even with extra running, morning online workouts and yoga, and long dog walks.

I know I am a very lucky person. And am hugely grateful for all my privileges.

And the barman shared something quite important, that affects us going forward.

I am insanely grateful and touched that he trusted me enough to tell me. He hasn’t trusted deeply, or often, in his past.

I have always said, there are reasons for him not being long term partnered.

Reasons, and that long term single man lifestyle has an effect.

He has also been in love, lied to, and had his heart broken. He’s genuinely the sweetest man.

For example, we watched 20/20 last night, about the American Jennair Gerardot murder-suicide case from 2018. The programme seemed quite geared towards sympathy for her ‘poor, grieving husband,’ who was having an affair with the much younger, Meredith Chapman, whom Jennair shot and killed, before turning the gun on herself, after a 24 year marriage.

BG just seethed throughout, almost yelling at the screen. “Why did she do it? You moron, because you broke her heart and mind fucked her, and she couldn’t fucking bear it.”

He gets how devastating infidelity is. How crazy it can make you. I love that about him. He looked at me, as they went over the parts about the married couple still living together having dinner together, etc, whilst Jennair knew about Meredith. Just as I did with Roger and Trinket. I haven’t talked about that time with him, other than to say it was the worst time of my life, I loved him so much, cooked, cleaned, made love with him, my darling of thirty years, my heart – and he kept going back to Trinket. He just shook his head and said, “sorry my baby. What a mindfuck. I’m so sorry….” That just melts me, that he has that level of empathy, without even knowing the half of it.

But, this thing that has reared up is a problem.

I haven’t shared much, as it is all very personal, and I’ve been ruminating, trying to make decisions, and communicate my position with him.

We have been seeing each other, in this iteration, at least, for 11 months now. It’s been so lovely. Quiet, fun weekends. Trips away – to Australia, to other cities and gorgeous coastal towns around NZ. We were scheduled to have a week in Queenstown and the lower South Island before Easter. Of course instead, we had a staycation here – while both still working! We had planned a month long holiday together to the US and Canada in May-June. Obviously not happening now. We have talked about taking leave later, after travel restrictions are lifted, to the top of the South Island. My dear friends down there want to rent a bach in Golden Bay and meet this man of mine, holidaying together, going fishing in G’s boat, doing the wine trails…

So, dating, seeing each other sporadically, it’s been so, so lovely. We made love every day we saw each other. But not really “real life” as such. I haven’t planned for more, because I need to capitalise on the property I bought, and make slow, steady future plans. I am trying to ensure I look after me properly.

BG has loved having me here. He’s a tidy, mostly thoughtful guy, but I have certainly done some laundry, dishwashing, and all the cooking, bar one night. I love to cook, but the supermarket has only been visited twice, and supplies are limited.

I did do a swish, romantic dinner, with dressing up and candles on Sunday. Old school. Beef Wellington, baked cheesecake, and feijoa, vodka and apple jellies.

I don’t have my fully equipped kitchen, so making do has been a fun challenge.

That was so much fun. He was really touched.

His ex, and good friend, Colleen, has been messaging me a lot lately. She’s locked down in her city alone, with her wee dog. I think she’s feeling a bit lonely and stir crazy. She’s all good value. An happy to chat with her to keep her spirits up.

So, the thing is. Deep breath.


We have had a pretty good sex life. There were lots of things to learn about each other. But mostly, I thought we were doing well. He was slightly vanilla. He likes a few more adventurous, fun things. But I put that vanilla-ness down to newness, trust building, his awareness that I find him quite large, worrying about hurting me, etc.

Staying here, he’s super affectionate, silly, happy, goofy, upbeat, appreciative.

But, the sex pretty much stopped. I have initiated most throughout the whole time we have been together. I have analysed that to death, of course. And think it is partly to do with fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of not having “regular supply.” Fear of looking like a sex pest. Fear of looking like he’s disrespectful to women (his Catholic boarding school education, his whole family are women, mother, two sisters, nieces, only one nephew…) He seems to be happy when I do, but I thought, hang on, it would be nice if he did a bit, right? Be nice to be pursued. (Sadly, I had a man who always wanted me, so am wary of that bullshit too!)

So, I stopped. And we went possibly nearly two weeks without! I was dying! And so, I finally talked PROPERLY with him about it. I mean, we’d talked. But it was very shallow.

We sat down, with a glass of wine, and I laid it on the table (pardon the pun!) We need to talk about sex. Expectations. Needs. Wants. I feel like you’re not sexually attracted to me. I know you like me, but I don’t feel wanted, and I am wanton. Like, you can’t get enough of me. I feel like that about you.

Is there anything I am doing, or am not doing that is a problem for you? Or is it just that there’s a lack of chemistry. You know, like, you like me, but don’t lust after me? That’s okay. You can’t help that if that’s the case.

He gets very sad when I talk about this. He apologised profusely, told me he wants to be with me, wants no one else, that I’m gorgeous, sexy, everything he wants, that he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. I said you’re 54, on meds for hypertension, and you know we could both stand to be a bit fitter, be kind to yourself, I know the more pressure, the worse this can be. I just want to talk, not ignore things. Not make you feel small or not enough.

He’s mentioned before that this has happened in previous relationships. So blames himself. There’s no need for blame. But communication and trying to solve things together is key.

As we got further down the track during this awkward, but loving talk, he looked sadly at me, grabbed my hands and said, “there’s something else that’s been worrying me. That I need to tell you.” He took a huge breath. “I’ve been using porn. Not since you’ve been here though. I feel like shit. It’s not good, it doesn’t make me feel good. I’m fucking embarrassed, and it’s having a detrimental effect on me. I’m so sorry.”

I looked at him and said, “that’s okay. Totally understandable. You’re a man who’s been single a lot, you have to get your kicks somehow, if you weren’t getting it elsewhere. I can deal with porn, quite like some, sometimes, not a big thing for me that you watch. I am happy to join in sometimes if you want.” He replied, “no! I don’t want to use it, view it, view it with you, or alone. I feel disgusted.”

I asked, “is it kinda deviant porn? Something a bit out there?”

“Oh no! Pretty standard, mindless, bullshit fucking. Nothing weird or fucked up.”

He was super upset.

I gently asked if he has always been a consumer of said porn. He replied, “no. It’s only been about the last two years. And not any since you’ve been here.” So, even my non-maths brain could see that meant he was using porn to get off during the week, when I am not around. I have no problem with porn usage. I know some people become addicted and desensitised to real live women and their real, imperfect bodies. I know it’s an industry built on a bit of human misery, yes, some say they feel empowered, personal choice. But I am no prude about it. I like erotica, and occasionally porn is genuinely erotic if done well. I also know a lot is laughable. I said I have absolutely no problem if you feel porn gets you what you need, especially considering that I am not here usually. But I can see you feel it’s a problem, so I support you in whatever you need here.

So, emboldened, I finally broached a sexual need of mine. One that just hasn’t happened with him. And that seemed to go well, so I was quite pleased with myself.

Yay! Good, honest, open conversation.

Then nothing.

Since then, nothing. He hasn’t addressed any of it. And until yesterday morning, many, many days later, no sex, no approaches for sex…and then we had a wham, bam, thank you ma’am sesh. My stated need ignored completely.


I’m a pretty giving, caring person. I’ve given a huge amount sexually, too. I love everything about being naked with him. And I want to help. But, the reality is, I need to have a really good think about what I can deal with. I asked for something specific, for me (and I never bloody well do that!) And got ignored. Yes, it needs to be discussed further. Yes, I need to give it time, reiterate, restate my needs. His discussion about us moving in together, well, that won’t be happening. At least anytime soon.

We are in full lockdown until Tuesday. We are then down to Alert Level 3, which is basically same, except takeaway food options are going to be allowed to reopen, for at least another two weeks. We are not supposed to move.

However, I am going home. My youngest daughter needs to come home to me, she and her sister had a traumatic incident the other night, and she’s barely hanging in there. I need to go home, give myself time to think, to work out how to keep communicating with this man.

He is sad I’m going home. Sent me a message yesterday saying he’s so glad the lockdown was extended, as he needs time to wean himself off me being here.

I never had any problems communicating (from my side, at least) with my darling, before. I talked, we talked, it seemed so easy, so natural. Obviously, that was just me, as Rog never shared his secrets with me.

I had none.

Was a open book. When I had to start building a wall around me, I did such a damn good job, I’m finding it hard to break out of my fortress. And hey, I did. Poked my head above the parapet.

And was pretty much ignored. Go me. All my bravery there was SOOO worth it.

I’m a very supportive and understanding partner. I really am. But it’s not my job to fix a broken man. That said, it’s also not his job to be my everything. I know that. However, to be looked after when I ask for a tiny bit of help, would be an amazing goodwill gesture, huh?

So, there you go. All relationships require love, sacrifice, understanding. I’ve done that my whole life. But I am super aware that I don’t need another flatmate I don’t fuck. I want to be with this man. But I know I need more.

Trouble in paradise. Literally. I knew any problems would be exposed during lockdown. I’m a big girl. If this is not for me, I will walk away. But I need to ensure we both give this our best shot. He deserves someone like me, someone who is compatible with him, his friends, family, lifestyle. I think I can be that person. But I also deserve to feel desired, loved, ‘needed,’ – enough!

He’s asked me to come over to his office to work alongside him, and I just am processing a bit right now, so have stayed put for now.

Me. Who usually moves heaven and earth to be we with him (he’s pretty good at that too, coming over to my place midweek a few times, to surprise me.)

I’m not having another person let me feel like I’m not worthy. I don’t think it’s that. I think he’s dealing with a libido affected by age, overuse of artificial stimuli, and the sudden appearance of a woman with a high libido in his life after years of dampening down his own to survive. I get it, I had to do that when Roger left me to fuck his whore cunt.

I am happy to work with him, do more to help. Get professional help, if required. But ignoring my requests will not be tolerated for long.


Cheater playbook

Alternative title: Do you think I’m stupid? A wife’s tale of how she became the marriage police.

My friend L messaged this morning.

At home. Getting jobs done…need to landscape to sell so I am pushing on with it. You know he’s a lying cheating bastard when his phone is switched to flight mode all the time so no messages pop up on his screen. What a dick.., I am quite enjoying making it difficult for him!!!!

Honestly. When your most beloved is caught cheating on you, and you have the good grace to try to forgive and move forward with them, do they just think we are stupid?

L is preparing to leave.

My reply to her was one of horror and fury that my old friend was doing this to her.


After being caught this latest time, unlike Rog, who sold us up and decamped to Trinket’s, K cried and begged her not to leave him. Promised he’d cut contact and that they should get couples counselling.

She is using his fake remorse to get their house finished.

So she can maximise the return on it when she makes him sell shortly. She replied to my, you go girl message with,

Yep needs to be finished so will get it done…while he is in ‘pretending to be the family man mode’ he is very productive, so will make hay while the sun shines!!!

How thick can he be though…he shows me things on his phone – does he not realise I can see the airplane in the top LH corner ✈️ showing flight mode….and he thinks he’s being so clever…haha fuckwit….

Jesus. What is wrong with these halfwits???

I then asked her if he had made any enquiries about counselling, seeing as he was so insistent that was what he wanted.

Does he still think you guys are getting counselling?

Like, I have NEVER known a cheating husband to EVER be the one who found the counsellor…

Oh, Rog found one.

For me. Not us. After I tried to top myself, because obviously I was the problem, right???

Yep. He found me a shrink, dropped me off and then left me to it for about a year, after which time, he fucked Leanne again.

I then found a couples counsellor, who told me once we were finished with him that he thought I was amazing trying to deal with Roger’s shit. His lack of awareness, and his suggestion that he was a love addict.

To which Rog replied, but isn’t that a good thing? To love “too much?”

Hmmm. Maybe in his world, where he doesn’t get hurt! Just get all the hits from the incredible “love” drug.

And guess what? Do you think K has looked for a counsellor? After breaking and re-breaking his wife’s heart?


No, he hasn’t.

Yeah, I know. How surprising, huh?

Anyway. I’m at the beach, knowing I need to go home to get to my friend Amber’s 40th birthday.

I don’t wanna go.

The barman is crazy busy, and I jumped behind the bar again last night, the mature bar staff there telling me that me arriving calmed him down, he’d been super anxious and stressy, but was cracking jokes with the team and being a flirty dick with me.

I got back to his place before him, and noticed he hadn’t remade the bed since I left on Monday morning (everything in same place as I left it.)

He is pulling long shifts as he tries to find more bar staff, and I know he falls asleep on his comfy couch in front of TV often.

I joked about it this morning, in fresh linen, when he said he’d slept the best ever. (There’s something about skin to skin contact that is extra soothing, right?) I said, “ah well, probably should stop sleeping at the other girl’s place then.” He grabbed me, staring into my soul, and said, “there’s no other girls. Why would I when I’ve got the very best one.”

Red flags, radar, yes, all operating very well, thank you. Not gonna be sweet talked by another one.

But you’ve gotta admit that is pretty cute, huh?


Love tore us apart

I love Joy Division. Among many 80s throwback musical memories.

Sitting here, at the beach, couch deconstructed, on a long, rainy weekend, cup of hot tea in hand, just chilling, listening to music. So relaxing.

When the movie, Control, came out, I was infatuated with Sam Riley, and the depiction of Ian Curtis’ short life.

Roger was deeply freaked out by me watching it over and over. I had no idea he was embroiled at the time in the year and a half long affair with Leanne. But my interest in the story, which of course includes the affair Ian embarked on with Annik Honoré, made him think I was onto them.

I never was. I thought my Bear completely incapable of inflicting pain like he has. So crazy. Not sure why I thought I was so special, and had the only guy in the world who would NEVER cheat on me.

Well, I do. He had been cheated on, and it hurt. And he knew I was vulnerable, as I had talked about how it was a major thing for me, to always communicate, be honest. I just thought he was emotionally intelligent, and had been given all the information required not to hurt me. I loved him so much. Would do anything for him.

I’ve just discovered someone else in my life may well not be so honest. Only this time, thankfully, I am not heavily invested in this person, so I can “let it go.” Being let down, lied to, made sick, then having it done again, by your person, who holds your heart, that is pretty fucking cruel.

The lyrics just tear at me, still. The desperation. The thing that was so good, not functioning anymore.

Just everything.

“Love Will Tear Us Apart”

When routine bites hard,
And ambitions are low,
And resentment rides high,
But emotions won’t grow,
And we’re changing our ways,
Taking different roads.

Then love, love will tear us apart again.
Love, love will tear us apart again.

Why is the bedroom so cold?
You’ve turned away on your side.
Is my timing that flawed?
Our respect runs so dry.
Yet there’s still this appeal
That we’ve kept through our lives.

But love, love will tear us apart again.
Love, love will tear us apart again.

You cry out in your sleep,
All my failings exposed.
And there’s a taste in my mouth,
As desperation takes hold.
Just that something so good
Just can’t function no more.

But love, love will tear us apart again.
Love, love will tear us apart again.
Love, love will tear us apart again.
Love, love will tear us apart again.

And She’s Lost Control.

About epilepsy. Ian’s graphic interpretation of the condition that had him in its grip.

But, my God, do I relate to the complete loss of control of my life, the decisions made for me, by people who had absolutely no interest in protecting me. The fall into the dark abyss.

And the fight to regain some control for me, going forward.

“She’s Lost Control”

Confusion in her eyes that says it all.
She’s lost control.
And she’s clinging to the nearest passer by,
She’s lost control.
And she gave away the secrets of her past,
And said I’ve lost control again,
And of a voice that told her when and where to act,
She said I’ve lost control again.

And she turned around and took me by the hand
And said I’ve lost control again.
And how I’ll never know just why or understand
She said I’ve lost control again.
And she screamed out kicking on her side
And said I’ve lost control again.
And seized up on the floor, I thought she’d die.
She said I’ve lost control.
She’s lost control again.
She’s lost control.
She’s lost control again.
She’s lost control.

Well I had to phone her friend to state my case,
And say she’s lost control again.
And she showed up all the errors and mistakes,
And said I’ve lost control again.
But she expressed herself in many different ways,
Until she lost control again.
And walked upon the edge of no escape,
And laughed I’ve lost control.
She’s lost control again.
She’s lost control.
She’s lost control again.
She’s lost control.

I could live a little better with the myths and the lies,
When the darkness broke in, I just broke down and cried.
I could live a little in a wider line,
When the change is gone, when the urge is gone,
To lose control. When here we come.

Off for a walk in the rain, bikini on…to dig a hole at Hot Water Beach, and bask in the contrast of hot and cold.



EMDR is hard.

I worked on a lake house memory last night. We’ve moved up the distress scale. It was a memory of an afternoon/evening spent there, with just Roger, Leanne and myself. And for the first time during the processing, tears absolutely poured silently down my cheeks. My body shook, and the pain in my tummy and throat were nearly unbearable.

I didn’t manage to move the memory’s distress level down at all last night. It is sitting in its secure receptacle, in an inaccessible place. Kirsty made encouraging noises, but I could see she noted how long and how immovable these trauma memories have been for me. I am concerned. This is going to be a very long, very expensive process.

The positives are that she does underscore to me how high functioning I am despite dealing with multiple high level traumas. I just think you kinda have no choice. She said a lot of people are not as capable of achieving what I do when under this kind of mental angst. That feels like I am winning at least a small part of this battle.

We discussed the funeral, and the level of anxiety I felt. At seeing them together. I said, she didn’t come. Kirsty expressed surprise. But said, ah, she feels guilt and won’t face you or your old friends. What a life she has chosen. What a way to live. Loved up down there, pretend he never had a life before her up here. How is the cutting?

I hadn’t cut for 12 days. Until I arrived home, picked up and stacked 120+ bales of hay, danced to loud music to try to shake off the grief last night (haymaking was a Roger thing, I loved the smell of his hay scented sweatiness, then a couple of beers, a lot of inhaling him, and intimacy in massaging his aching body, always with a happy ending, me climbing aboard, getting him to completion to help him sleep well after a big, achy day of making hay.

So, there was some blood produced after my shower, to literally bleed out some of the pain.

As I sliced beside my tattoo, covering my surgical scar for cervical cancer, I noted my feelings about that. The weird mix of fear that his whoring would literally kill me, juxtaposed against my suicidal ideation. How could I both fear death, and yet invite it?

This morning, I did my usual chores, chickens, dogs, laundry, swept the floor. And sat, weeping into a cup of tea on my doorstep, staring at my lightly bruised legs (solo hay gang injury 😂) finishing off with my “beetle crushers” (Roger’s description when I bought them with him.) I bought these in Argentina, and they are great little lightweight boots, a bit reminiscent of a tame version of my prized cherry Dr Martins I owned when I first met Roger.

So many tender memories hurting like fuck today. I wept more, trying to swallow the lump in my throat on my way to work this morning.

Gotta get on with the day. Grief is so all consuming. I just don’t get enough sleep.

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Being alone. Not lonely

I recall, very clearly noting that the one man in my research cohort, talked often about being lonely.

None of the women did.

I found that very interesting. Is there a gender bias towards men not enjoying their own company? Roger sure used to go on about it. How he wanted someone (hmmm, red flag, not necessarily me?) to share his life with.

We have probably all seen statistics about how the happiest group of men are married, and the happiest group of women are single.

I took another look at this. (God, I love the linked article, about how women FEEL so intensely. I have wondered how the hell Rog just got to walk away, starting over with a new-to-him, but used model…just doesn’t FEEL like I do, maybe many women do. Just, NEXT! I need a new woman, I broke this one, she’s faulty now…)

Why are women so often so much more devastated at relationship loss (moi) than men (Roger) are? I know part of the reason was investment. But also the way we are socialised to commit. I found it interesting reading this, to note that recent research does identify not just socialisation, but brain function, too.

As well as a more finely tuned ability to feel emotions, to empathise, we tend to self sacrifice more. In my case, I now believe it was too much. I enabled shitty behaviour, because everyone else’s happiness and comfort was more important than my own. I am, surprisingly, a bit of a rule follower. I recall a high school social science teacher telling my BFF (who was Head Girl) that I was a rebel. She retorted that, despite my punky appearance, I was actually a highly empathetic human, who liked to do the ‘right’ thing. I was kinda blown away by both comments…

“Putting others first

This inequality of happiness means that it is harder for women to maintain a happy state when faced with social expectations and constraints. Research into stress shows that women are more physically reactive to social rejection compared with men, for example. This means they are more likely to prioritise the needs of others over their own – and over time this can lead to resentment and feeling unfulfilled.

Females in general prioritise doing the right thing over being happy, whereas men are better at the pursuit of pleasure and hedonism. Studies have also found that women tend to act more ethically than men and are more likely to suffer feelings of shame if they are not seen to be doing “the right thing”. But female morality also leads them to engage in more fulfilling and impactful work. And this ultimately brings them greater joy, peace and contentment.”

I was fully invested in making it work with him. I never looked externally to another person to be the solution to my unhappiness after Leanne. I looked within myself, within my coupled identity.

I loved him.

Despite all of the shitty things he did to me. I stupidly loved only him. I don’t really think I will love again. Not really. Not with that intensity. Not saying I’ll never enjoy another person. Just that the hole left probably can’t really be filled in any truly satisfactory way.

I have always been comfortable with my own company. That’s not to say I am anti-social. But I like being alone, as well. I have never constructed being alone as loneliness.

However, after reading the linked article, maybe there is some traditional loneliness there? I know I ache, like the article states. My neck and shoulders are damn tight and sore again right now. I know I miss Rog as my confidante. I used to share everything with him. We talked about how we were each other’s best friend. He has Trinket now, so no change for him. I have no one really to share my thoughts with. Hence blogging, lol.

I don’t feel lonely though. Just alone. I like not having to be accountable to anyone else.

But intimacy, fuck. I REALLY miss intimacy – and hot sex! Like, A LOT.


Self harm. Not just for the kids

I hadn’t mentioned this until recently. Because, you know, shame.

I have been doing this off and on ever since my cancer surgery. I came home, and as the emotional pain began to overwhelm me, I knew suicide was beckoning again. And discovered that cutting helped release that tension.

Just a little bit.

A little bit, when walking that tightrope can save your life.

I had never really heard of adult cutting, like, a supposedly grownup person, with responsibilities and shit, starting to cut for the first time.

But, it happens. It’s a thing. Always staying ahead of the trends, that’s me, ugh.

I look at those lines, freshly scabbing over, or tiny silvery scars, and see them now not as failure, but as survival lines. They are part of how I have managed to still be here, for my kids.

So, an acquaintance sent me this video doing the social media rounds of three pearl wearing, mature women singing Try Not to be a Cunt, it’s Christmas at the top of their lungs! (I struggled to share at first, so I also share the Fascinating Aida version, as back up.) Wouldn’t it have been great to send to Trinket? Husband poaching cunt.

(Yeah, yeah, I know. Real men can’t be stolen, etc… but it’s so much easier with willing vaginas circling…they are not to blame, but also not blameless.)

I mean, it’s a given that Rog is. Watching my fucking agony as he smirked at his fucking phone screen, sending her pictures of MY dog! The new dick pic is dog pics apparently. Trinket said he caught her attention on Matchdotcom because his profile pic included the dogs. Women bait. Best ever.

I begged him not to share my life with her, don’t bring her to my homes, don’t finger her in my car. Ya know? All those things he did with Leanne, and he knew nearly killed me. So, the love of his life (his words, even on the last card he wrote me, fucking off to the open legs of Trinketville, leaving me and my aging father to do ALL the cleaning of the empty house, schlep the planter boxes he said he wanted, but left (heavy MOFOs!) he just drove off, with a long, lingering kiss on my lips….) has no actual feelings of her own. Ugh.

So, Christmas Eve. (Also Leanne’s birthday…nice.) Here you are. I’ll leave this here for you. Every single Christmas Eve – without fail, three decades worth – we danced, holding each other, grinning like idiots, kissing madly, to this. It started our first year together, stumbling home after the pub, and carried on. After babies, it would be him stumbling in as I looked after the kinder at home. He’d come to me, fragrant with whiskey fumes, and I would light up like the damn Christmas tree, we’d stumble around to what I always realised was a ridiculously inappropriate anti-love song. About dysfunction, drug addiction, alcoholism and abuse.

Our song. Fucking perfect.

Then he’d fall into bed, waiting for me to do Santa duty (it was ALWAYS me, never us) then mount him hungrily, rounding his Christmas Eve off just perfectly. Go me! Fucking Stepford Wife that I was.

Fairytale Of New York
It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won’t see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you
Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I’ve got a feeling
This year’s for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true
They’ve got cars big as bars
They’ve got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It’s no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me
You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night
The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing “Galway Bay”
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day
You’re a bum
You’re a punk
You’re an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it’s our last
The boys of the NYPD choir
Still singing “Galway Bay”
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day
I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can’t make it all alone
I’ve built my dreams around you
The boys of the NYPD choir
Still singing “Galway Bay”
And the bells are ringing out
For Christmas day


In the danger zone

So stuck. In the cycles. Desperate to get out of them.

The cutting has started again. It also comes in cycles. I had never cut before he left me. Thought it a strange teen thing to do. No one IRL knows. I am embarrassed.

I know I am better than this, was a fantastic partner, could not prevent him cheating on me over and over. I don’t know who this grown, supposedly together mother, woman, friend, etc, even is. I was not like this before. Not anything like this! I had my shit together.

I thought I would be better by now.

I’m worse. Fucking loser.

These darkest of times, when I feel my heart will never heal from this deepest betrayal, are just so damn painful.

I howled on my way to work today. I hid in the bathroom weeping, overwhelmed on several occasions. Sick to death of coping. Trying to find a way to thrive. Coming back out to be bright, the ultimate problem solver. The mask is fucking suffocating me.

I’m clinging on. Hard. My baby girl is here. I NEED to find the strength to stay.


1 Comment


A word I thought I understood well. Have been thinking a WHOLE LOT about our amazing friend, Nige, who took his own life some months after his wife left him, nearly 15 years ago..

I thought I empathised, and understood his pain at the time. He just couldn’t bear it anymore. I know I really only knew about a cajillionth of it really, back in my mid 30s.

I know it now. The battle for the pain to ease. To think you can’t do it anymore. Many, many times.

Every morning, and multiple times per day, this is me…