Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum

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Thank you, Nan

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

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

Moody morning feed out time

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

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

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

She was.

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

And all weepy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shake it off. Cry the tears.

I like to think Nan was looking after me today 💔


Floods. Of tears.

I’m so angry at myself!

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

It was good.

We planned.

We laughed.

We flirted.

And now, it’s all the feels.

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

Rog and I did that. Every night.

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

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

Tonight I’m weeping.

For all I’ve lost.

For all I am missing now.

And I wonder.

Will it ever end?

I used to have a good life.


Taking it to the Grave

After Leanne outed Roger to me, and their affair of eighteen months, in my home, in my children’s beds, in our bed, in our vehicles, in our holiday home, in our maimai, on the kitchen bench, every-bloody-where, he told me this.

“I was going to take it to the grave. You were never going to have to know what I did.”


So, in order to have “got away” with his fucking my friend, giving me two STIs, causing cervical cancer, he was going to be that nice guy, who never upset me by TELLING me that he was a lying, cheating disease infested arsehole. Isn’t that nice of him? So kind to be thinking about my feelings, right? The good guy his friends think he is. Making me the bad guy by default…

Hmm, kay. The real reason he wasn’t going to tell me had nothing to do with protecting me from pain. His actions had caused that pain, even before I knew! He chose this. For himself. For me. For our family. For our children’s futures, their relationships, their take on their “nice, normal family.”

The only reason he was going to “take it to his grave” was to protect himself. To ensure I didn’t leave him. To keep his cosy life. He could have the happy family AND the whore on the side.

And it set him up beautifully to be all sorted (with a dumb believer partner) to have another affair when he got tired of/pissed off with me. No worries, I can just step outside and have the illicit ego stroking outlet of another woman’s attention and sex. Paula need never know. Don’t stop that kibble supply. That comfy home, her cooking, her body, her support, her LOVE. Don’t need to lose half our assets, either.

So, Chump Lady tells the story today, of what happens when you take it to the grave!

If you choose to cheat, it will catch up with you – or worse, your loved ones – at some stage. This is no Bridges of Madison County bullshit here. This is real live pain for the daughter who is now dealing with the crap her dead mother pulled.

And yeah, everyone has the right to know.

I firmly believe that. At least then, you are in charge of the choices you then make, and can get STI screens, and try to protect your own health, at least! Not knowing is one of the WORST aspects of someone cheating on you. You, that dumb fuck who loved a cheater because you were too stupid to work it out. To later find out that he was putting his dick/tongue/fingers/whateverelsehecouldfind (not even kidding, a duck caller in one instance, shudder) in other women, then coming home and kissing me with that mouth, making love to me with that dirty penis. It makes me so sick. 🤮

My reality was hidden from me. I looked like the world’s stupidest woman. I even ASKED Rog that one night, when Leanne drunkenly texted him late one night, as we were snuggling on the couch, “I hope you’re not making me the stupidest woman in the world here.” Ugh, he looked deeply into my eyes, holding me tightly, “oh, Snooks, no, of course not, she’s just drunk, rambling and lonely, ignore her.”

So, I did.

Because he assured me it was fine. God, I’m so stupid!

Chump Lady advises:

” I can’t begin to tell you how to live with the cognitive dissonance of who you thought your mother was, versus who you discovered she is. I think the worst part of this story — and it’s the story of so many children of cheaters — is that you’ve been unwittingly drawn into a conspiracy against your chump parent. Now you must carry the weight of her secret, or share it and put your dad through additional sorrow.

I know most people would say, carry the secret. Don’t hurt your Dad with this knowledge. And given your father’s advanced age, I might’ve gone with that. But then I asked Mr. CL, a guy chump, what he thought and he’s firmly in the tell camp. Because everyone deserves to know the story of their life. And your dad’s was hidden from him.”

I especially relate to the part about the children of cheaters. That was my experience. My seemingly in love parents were a lie. I know some of my children have expressed this. That Dad seemed so very into me.

Then he seems so into the next one.

What is his deal? It’s all a lie. All fake. Real love doesn’t exist. I get this. I FEEL this. I asked the same questions when it was my Dad who was the cheating liar.


Just a perfect day 😭

Today, under Level 3 lockdown, I had to get six rising 2yo steers to the saleyards in a nearby town.

I don’t have a loading ramp, or truck access to my yards that I purchased when I moved here. So, my trailer it was.

I’ve had to wait a month for the wet ground to dry enough to ensure I didn’t get stuck leaving the property.

Loading big cattle is quite a precarious task. I had purchased an electric cattle prod, to keep me safe. It was a Godsend.

I started loading at 8am, and had both loads delivered by 10.30am.

I didn’t have to enter the yard myself, was able to coax my good boys into the loading race, and only one quick, mild shock each to make them jump onto the trailer. Three for each load. I did two trips.

I’m a practical person. But at 53, aware I’m not as resilient as I once was. Those big cattle can do some damage. One lad turned out to be a massive and very quick kicker. So glad I had the prod. I don’t like using one if I can avoid it, but I definitely would not have got him on without it.

It may not seem like much. But getting this done was an achievement. The boys made surprisingly good money, I have run out of feed (grass) and they have been living on silage alone mostly the last six weeks. They needed to go, and were in very good store condition. I knew I couldn’t finish them here. I have eight heifers to flush up to get in calf. That is my feed priority.

With lockdown, it was contactless, masked and gloved unloading, no vendors allowed on site, but I saw them through the fence, being electronically scanned and penned, and I was proud of how they looked. I bought them sight unseen off our stallion handler at work as weaners, and they were not well reared, very backwards in condition, and he sold me steers, BUT THEY STILL HAD THEIR TESTICLES. Ugh. So I had the expense of surgical castration, as well. I got out making a bit of profit, and they kept my place tidy.

The kicker was that the agent I dealt with was one who we used. He asked me where Rog was. I told him he left me, for an online dating hook up. These cattle were mine alone. Different account. Sold us up and moved to xyz. Agent was horrified, and said, “shit. What? You two were such a great team. You especially worked so hard. Best farmer’s other half I’ve seen. He was a lucky man. What was he thinking? Jesus.”


On the drive home, the adrenaline kicked in. It was quite a mission yarding, loading, driving and unloading big cattle on my own. And these lads were sweet boys. All able to be scratched in the paddock. The tears flowed. I desperately wanted to tell my Norm what I had done on my own and how well they sold. The old Rog would have been so proud of me. I had no one with our shared farming history to share this with. It felt so empty.

Once upon a time, my Norm would have worried, probably tried to discourage me from putting myself in danger. This stranger Norm doesn’t know, and even if he did, doesn’t give AF about me. Whether I live or die.

My heart ached all day. I hadn’t slept last night, and I crashed, exhausted, this afternoon. Tears always wipe me out.




Here in lockdown, solo, makes me realise even more what I have survived.

I fought so hard.

Both to survive Roger and Leanne’s deep and very cruel betrayal.

And then Roger’s subsequent betrayal with Trinket, after promising me forever love, fidelity and honesty.

That shit nearly killed me.

Every single night, I would battle my broken heart.

To not go and make a noose.

To not connect a hose to the car’s exhaust.

For two whole years, I wanted to not have to be here and deal with the unbearable pain of loss. Of discard. Of being replaced.

The irony of fighting cancer, and wanting to kill myself was not lost.

My children are the ONLY reason I survived that prolonged agony.

To look at me from the outside, no one would ever know.


Lockdown blues

Today is day 11 of complete lockdown. I just calculated that this is 14 days since I have touched my boy.

Level 4 won’t be over before this Wednesday, at the earliest. In Level 3, we are still not allowed to travel outside of our immediate area. That will be another week or two, minimum. That will mean BG and I won’t have seen each other for at least a month.

This doesn’t sound that long. Lots of people I know have partners who travel overseas for work, or live on separate continents.

I’m feeling very pathetic. I was good on my own. Living a single life. Planning on staying that way.

But, I’m obviously pathetic. Roger and I rarely had many nights apart. In 30 years. He hunted, and went on overnight fishing trips. I occasionally took the kids to my mother’s. She died when they were very young, so that didn’t happen much. Or I worked the yearling sales, away for a few nights. I think the longest we ever had apart was maybe a week? When him and his mates got a ballot block hunting wapiti in Fiordland.

So, in a relationship, I’m obviously a disgusting needy bitch. Who fkn knew???

It’s affecting me. I know this. Aching for touch. Missing being able to snuggle. Horny AF. Yeah, I know, toys. They get a workout.

Not the same. It’s that comfort. That physical reassurance. I’m ashamed that I am this way.

And then I realise I am being a bit hard on myself. I have kids, and great friends, who have hugged and held me on this healing journey. On my own, during lockdown, I can’t snuggle down in her bed, with my daughter, hug a friend. Touch another human.

My brother is having a terrible mental health crisis. His head injury, pending divorce, job loss when he can’t move up here during lockdown, as he had planned…and then my Dad, down there trying to support him, ended up back in hospital with a mystery illness, scarily similar symptoms to those he had last year, culminating in the loss of a kidney. My youngest daughter, walking her own mental health balance beam. Yesterday’s extension of lockdown announcement meaning she will never return to her office. Her resignation effective during the extension, she feels deflated. Won’t get a proper send off, with her beloved colleagues.

My most recent off the plan apartment purchase finally had title issued yesterday. Trying to coordinate legal and mortgage paperwork remotely is becoming a challenge. Banks especially, like you to sign mortgage paperwork, in person.

My boss is being her usual lockdown utter control freak. Having zero access to our database, trying to work out of Dropbox, is frustrating, to say the least. I have cried four times over this. It’s utterly miserable being cut off at the knees, and I feel like my 15 years of dedication and loyalty to her is being rewarded with mistrust and ugliness.

I haven’t heard any more about the job I applied for almost a month ago. A single email. We are compiling a shortlist. We will get back to you shortly.

No other opportunities that look likely.

Timing. It couldn’t be more shit.

I need a damn hug. And some very vigorous sex, to be honest.

I feel like shit. And probably at best, halfway through this current situation.

So, good old Winston’s words to the fore, yet again.

Because I won’t let them beat me. Those damn suicidal thoughts that I can see peeping on the periphery of my vision. They can just fuck right off before they get anywhere near me again!

And, to be honest, they have only ever been a real threat when Roger chose other people. I always manage to lift myself up about everything else.

And BG sent me a message today, saying he us working on a plan. Whatever that may be. Relocating here, to base himself until Level 2, when he can open again, albeit with restrictions? I don’t know what his plan is. But I appreciate that he’s thinking about it!

And the most awful thing of all is, that while I do miss him. Do love him.

It’s not the depth I felt for Rog. And I’m pretty sure I will never have that love, that security, that enveloping safety and warmth I thought I had for at least 23 of those 30 years.



I’ve just had something very painful happen. I may never share the details. Just that I am in a world of pain right now, and this is my safe space to acknowledge it.

I used to believe this, below

But, the reality is, he doesn’t care. Never did. It hurts so much. I loved SO HARD.

Life doesn’t work that way. No one cares that you gave it your all.

And that is me bleeding out the latest pain, in my safe space. Keeping my dignity and trying to rebuild my self worth.

Thanks team. 💔💔💔

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Grief. An illustration

I’ve seen, heard, read a lot about grief. I’ve always understood a lot about grief, too.

Rog accused me of “not grieving properly,” when Mum died so suddenly, at just 55.

There is no “grieving properly.”

There is grief. It’s something that has some commonalities, but is individual, as well.

The loss of my person – who never really existed, he admitted he never shared everything with me, always had secrets, I shared everything, he was my everything – has been the most difficult and painful grief I have experienced.

To clarify, I loved my mother very, very much. We were close. She died suddenly. Far too young. When I had very small children and babies.

Of course I mourned her.

I’ve shared Nora McInerney’s TedTalk before. It speaks volumes. About how we have to carry our grief(s) forward in our lives.

People think grief is about dying.

It can be.

But losing a living person – in this case, MY PERSON – has been worse than any death I have experienced. I have lost others, too. Roger’s betrayal and discard of me meant I lost some other important people in my life, too. His family, who I once loved every bit as much as my own, “his” friends, who I considered some of my closest friends too.

With death, you don’t lose friends. It’s incredibly painful.

To move forward, you have to find a way. So, so hard. I found the illustration above speaks to me. I’ve always strived for personal growth. But post betrayal, the growth has been the most excruciating thing. I found Acceptance and Commitment Therapy matches this picture.

You can never negate the grief, make it go away.

You can’t even shrink it.

It doesn’t get smaller.

You have to grow your world. Expand and beautify the surroundings around the grief.

I’m an empath. Life hurts a lot. But it’s also important to appreciate its beauty where you can. Mindful gratitude is an enormous help.

I still cry. Far more often than I imagined I was capable of.

And I overthink. WAAAAY more than ever. It’s a trauma response. I have always been an overthinker.

But it got worse after my rape.

And it’s on steroids now.


A reminder

I was reminded today, by my sweet friend, K, that my story is real. And I’m allowed to tell it, if I want to.

This choked me up a bit.

Roger has told me in the past, to stop telling my story, it upsets poor dear wee innocent Trinket. Yeah, okay? Perhaps you two shouldn’t have done the things you did then. Huh?

Oh no, blame the messenger. Not the actors!

The outside world sees me – expects me – to be fully healed. That wee 30 year blip in the road never happened.

K gave me permission. That I don’t need, but totally appreciate, to be me. To grieve my way.

God, she’s awesome. She noted my old BFF, J’s disloyalty in “Facebook friending,” (sounds so twelve years old) Trinket. K was aghast that J did that.

Phew. It’s not just me. It was seen as an awful thing to do.

K also said, “um, I saw those photos of them on the tramp they went on. Man, what? That woman, she’s pretty plain. I had no idea. No looks at all. What is it about her? I was shocked, actually, because you’re fabulous inside, but a total package, as far better looking. It’s crazy, huh? I don’t get it.”

Of course, I was gracious and mumbled, thank you, obviously it isn’t about looks. But internally, this… Well, um, that’s nice and all, K, but makes me feel really crappy, too. Like, I was SOOOOO awful, any desperate old hag was better than me. Ugh.

Then K started talking about BG. How fabulous he is. That she and J are a bit in love with him. “Just so kind, Paula. We are impressed. Trust you to land such a great guy. We are a bit jealous, really. Sexy and adores you, so kind to everyone, but they way he looks at you, swoon! J says it’s how Norm looked at you all those years. She was always quite jealous of your relationship. I wonder if there is a bit of schadenfraude with her. That you failed. Sad eh? She wouldn’t do it consciously. There is something about you, these guys fall head over heels for you. What’s your secret?”

I blushed, laughing. “Well, if it ends like what Norm did to me….fuck being adored. It’s not worth it. Can’t have adored me that much if he kept choosing other women over me. I’m careful. Cautious. Not letting the passions free. That is WAAAAY too scary. I wouldn’t survive this again. Best to keep some of the walls up, some of me back, for me. But hell, it’s hard. I don’t do restrained. I love with every part of me. I give everything. But I know I can’t again.”

I talked about the challenges. The wanting to be with him more, but loving my independence. I can’t be any man’s enabling accessory again.

She nodded. “I get that. Marrying later, I have kept my own business, my own bank accounts, etc. We have some joint things, for the kids, etc. But my clothes, my entertainment budget, that’s paid out of my earnings. Then there’s no guilt. No need to justify any spending, etc.”

This is one challenge I face. The together, but separateness of later life relationships. We need to keep ourselves frombeing swallowed alive by our partners.

It was so nice to be able to have a real talk with someone. So much of my life is hidden. My feelings.

I’m lucky to have K, and L, especially. They let me be honest and real.

But I never lead with a share. I only talk about it if invited to. And I see them both in person, very rarely.

It’s my FIL’s 91st birthday, and I’ve been warned off, by Roger. Not allowed to contact his father. So weird. 30 years. He was kind of my father figure, as mine was not really around much, and hardly someone to respect. I’m thinking of him anyway, silently raising a glass of red to him. Happy birthday, B. Hope you enjoy your day 🍷🍷🍷



BG and I have shares in two racehorses together.


I find this “joint” stuff quite challenging and confronting.

The first one, a 3 year old filly, had her second start yesterday. My town has the only all weather track in New Zealand, and we were racing there. He messaged me at around 11am, saying he was ducking out of work, and driving over to watch her.

What a lovely midweek surprise!

I work 20 minutes out of town, but made plans to dash in for the race.

The filly went very poorly, and we have decided to sack her. On examination, looks like she might have a heart issue.

Never mind.

BG met up with some people he knows, and spent the rest of the afternoon there, drinking and relaxing while I went back to work.

When I got home, he called me and said he was getting a ride to my place. I offered to go pick him up. He was amazed I’d do that for him.

I mean, what?

Of course I would. It’s a seven minute drive from my place! Crazy man.

He has never had a partner who would do that!

My whole life was about picking Rog up from some lads’ event or another, lol.

Mum lyf!

He was quite funny. I don’t see him drunk often.

He’s the boss.

At a drinking establishment.

Not a good look at work.

He got out of town, and let his hair down. So funny. So affectionate. Introducing me to everyone, arm around my shoulders, pulling me in tightly to him, stroking my hair, beaming at me, dimples flashing, as I chatted away to his friends, and new acquaintances.

And he kept apologising. For being happily intoxicated. Totally sweet and funny. Not horrid, loud, or boring. Just relaxed.

I got us home, the dogs were beside themselves to see their favourite person, and he, as always, made a huge fuss of them both.

I cooked us a lovely piece of venison, thinly sliced, I dressed it in a crispy salad with a balsamic and berry vinagrette. He ate ravenously, saying, “man, you’re the best…this is amazing. You’re amazing. I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up and you aren’t real.”

He also brought my birthday gift over, the one he forgot last weekend. It’s glorious! Huge! We held it up where I think I’ll put it, and he thought he was very clever!

A nice night in, a delicious glass of syrah, a very good meal, some Olympics on TV, a snuggly, grateful man, and delicious morning sex before shifting stock and going to work.

How did this happen?

I am living life on my terms, and often a nice boy I have fallen for accompanies me on this journey. He never expects anything of me. Is excited when I do the bare basics as a supportive partner.

And I am very grateful, don’t get me wrong.


Yep, always a damn but.

I never fully FEEL what I once did. That true peace. That deep joy.

Acceptance of the fact that Roger and Trinket stole my peace is hard to grasp. But I have accepted that this is what I am left with. This enormous scar, this cavernous hole that never fills.

How lovely is my darling barman, though?