Separate Lives


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My husband and I separated a little while ago.

We live under the same roof and we talk to manage the children, but that is the extent of our interaction.

He has moved out of the main bedroom and sleeps downstairs, sharing a room with one of our children.

I am upstairs, sharing a room with our 3-year old.

My other child gets to have a solo room.

We don’t attend family gatherings, as I can’t bear turning up and acting like a fucking fraud for several hours.

He goes to his work, I go to mine.

We come home, feed the children, do homework, then head to our respective bedrooms.

It seems to work for us, and the kids haven’t found anything odd about the arrangements.

Life goes on!

An amicable split is all you can hope for.


A Friend In Need


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I hadn’t seen my good friend Tina in several months.

Tina and I have known each other for twenty-odd years. We both entered our industry at the same time in our early 20s and have remained good friends throughout the years.

I gave Tina a call and asked her if she’d like to meet me in the city for lunch.

I needed to talk to her about ‘things’.

Tina had divorced her first husband after a relatively short period of marriage. She was now married to a great guy with two young children about the same age as mine. Our families often did things together.

The next day, I met Tina at a café near my work and had a pretty delicious meal.

But it wasn’t the right time or place to discuss the ins and outs of divorce.

I only had an hour for lunch and it flew by.

I told her I had something I wanted to ask her about and I’d text her.

Later that afternoon, I sent her a message saying that I was separating from my husband and that I needed her help and advice, as she had previously gone through the same thing.

“I can’t help you,” she said.


“Last year I cheated on my husband and I’m doing whatever I can to hold this marriage together. I’m not in the frame of mind to help you with separating from your husband.”

It was like she had slapped me in the face.

And she was a cheater!

Well, ain’t that karma for you? Just after I began this blog, a mistress left a frivolous comment and I blasted her.

“Don’t be so sure of yourself,” she wrote. “One day, you’re going to find one of your friends is a cheater, or it may even be you.”

I laughed in her face.

And now, here I was. One of my good friends had cheated on her husband with her boss, a doctor, and she was now the one making all the moves to hold her family together.

She was the equivalent of my husband.

My heart sank.

A friend I had confided in couldn’t help me.

She categorically wouldn’t help me.

Be she would be there for me to talk to and support whatever decision I made.


I Saw The Fear And Felt The Power

After having three children, then discovering my husband’s affair, I decided to return to work. I hated that I had no income and couldn’t walk away from him had I decided that was my best option. I NEEDED to have my own money.

It took much longer than I expected to land a job, and when I did, all I could score was a part-time job with crumby conditions and shitty pay. My boss refused to pay me superannuation, refused to give me a work computer, refused to supply me with a working version of Word, and refused to pay me the advertised rate, bringing down my pay considerably.

I fucking hated the position I was in. They had me by the balls. I needed a job, and after dozens of job applications, I was sick of looking and I needed money. I took the job.

I did that job for a year-and-a-half. Last week I resigned from that job. Please don’t go, they begged. You are amazing, this company needs you, you are part of the family. As I smiled at them, I kept thinking, “You fucking losers screwed me from the beginning. Thank you for the job, but I’m getting the fuck outta here.”

And that’s not even the best news.

Given all of our debts, my only option was to look for a full-time job. I began looking in April. I sent applications. I went to interviews. I spoke to agencies. It is a degrading, soul-destroying process.

But last week, I finally got a job. A solid, full-time job with a legitimate employer.

And that’s STILL not the best news.

Sit down for this.

The job pays $120,000.

Take that figure in. I’M still taking it in! I simply could not believe it.

That may or may not be a big figure to you, but to me, it’s HUGE. After being out of the workforce for the better part of a decade, then working a shitty but highly regarded job, I scored a job paying $120,000! Holy FUCK.

I’d love to tell you THAT was the best news. But it’s not.

The best part was when I told my husband.

You see, my husband earns $115,000. Nothing to sneeze at, I know, but now I. EARN. MORE.


When I told my husband, I saw the fear in his eyes and I felt the power.

I can now afford to walk out should I choose.

If he fucks up again, I can afford to leave him.

And be better off financially without him!

Crazy, right?

I saw that he recognised that fact. I saw it in his eyes. Even while he was congratulating me on my new job, I saw that fear there. I felt it.

If I decide to walk away, I now can.

I have freedom.

I have choices.

I have control over my life again.

At Peace


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They say most betrayed spouses take around two years to get over the worst pain of an affair, “to heal”.

I don’t believe you ever heal.

But as I come up to three 3-year anniversary of discovering the affair my husband was having, I can honestly say the worst is over.

In the past 6 months, my husband has had life-saving cancer surgery, I had a lengthy consultation with a divorce lawyer, and my doctor bumped up my depression and anxiety medication up to 150mg of venlafaxine.

I don’t think the three things have much to do with each other, but they are the most significant things to have happened recently– and they have all affected me to different degrees.

What I can say is that today, I feel different.

I am not angry all the time.

I have accepted the affair happened, and the part my shortcomings played in our marriage.

Whatever those shortcomings were, the responsibility for choosing to have an affair rests entirely with my husband. He had other options but took the coward’s way out.

Following the affair, my husband has been extremely remorseful and apologetic. He absolutely does not want our marriage to end and is committed to doing anything I ask. I have passwords and logins to everything. He is home on time and no longer “works late”. He is no longer on his phone non-stop.

I will always be sad that our marriage as I knew it is over, and I spent a large part of “healing” coming to terms with that. 

We no longer celebrate our anniversary and I don’t see that ever changing.

On the bright side, I feel normal again. My children have their mum back. 

Don’t ride the criticisms of the naysayers saying you should leave your husband. The decision is yours and yours alive. Nobody else is standing where you’re standing.

Recovery is ongoing but I’m in a different place now. It took almost 3 years to get here, but I’m here.

If you’ve recently discovered your husband was cheating on you, your mind is in much turmoil right now.

Take it from someone who has lived through the shitstorm you’re wading in that it won’t always feel like you’ve been run over by a truck.

Right now, you are in the eye of the tornado, with a million thoughts swirling around your head at lightning speed.

You will get picked up and dumped somewhere totally unexpected every single day.

If you don’t know whether to stay or leave, don’t feel rushed into making a decision. Stay until you feel it is right for you to go your own way. No-one is forcing you to decide. Bide your time until you are sure.

I can tell you that the storm does eventually ease.

You will still have days when you feel like shit. But they are the exception, not the norm.

I hope I’ve given you some hope. You can read my story ‘From The Beginning or D-Day‘ to see how far I’ve come and how many rollercoaster rides I took along the way.

The journey is long and shitty but at the end, you get your life back.

I feel like myself again.

And I wish the same for you.


Unhappy Anniversary


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Since I discovered my husband’s affair in late 2013, I’ve dreaded the thought of ever celebrating a wedding anniversary again.

When he told me post-affair that he loved me, I screamed that a person who loves someone doesn’t sneak around and fucking cheat on them.

I also remember spitting out a short time later that our marriage clearly meant nothing to him and that I never wanted to celebrate a wedding anniversary for as long as I lived.

So this week, when yet another anniversary rolled around (the third since the affair) we treated the day like any other.

My sister (who knows about the affair) and my brother (who doesn’t), along with me and my husband, are in a WhatsApp group. WhatsApp is a chatting app that allows us to swap endless messages and photos without having to send text messages.

When our anniversary rolled around, my brother, who lives in Europe, posted the following message to our group.

“Happy Anniversary to you both. Hope the kids are treating you to a special day.”

I saw the message pop through on my phone and thought “yeah, right”.

I was about to type it in, then figured this was probably a good a time as any to let my brother know what was going on.

So I opened a private message window to him and typed in:

“Hey brother, I should probably let you know that we no longer celebrate our wedding anniversary. We’re practically separated. A few weeks after our third baby was born, I caught him cheating on me with some married skank. We tried to work it out, but it’s not going well. We live together, but we’re not together. I hate his fucking guts.Your sister knows but please don’t say anything to mum or dad.”

I stared at the screen. Even though I could see the words in black and white, I still couldn’t believe this was my life. That I had typed those words. That I was some fucking cheated-on wife stereotype. And did I really hate his guts?

I waited for my brother’s response. At the top of the screen, I could see he was ‘Typing….’ (that’s how it comes up).

And then it popped through:

“So sorry, I had no idea. I hope you’re doing okay. He’s one of the last few people I would thought would do that, but guess you never can tell. 

I don’t blame you for feeling like that. I think it would be tough for anyone to let that go. 

Hope you and the kids are doing okay, and no worries, won’t say anything to your parents.”

Tough for anyone to let go. Tough for anyone to let go. Tough for anyone to let go. The words swirled around in my head.

I felt the sting of tears in my eyes then warm wet drops rolling down my cheeks.
This was my little brother. And he knew exactly what to say to me, his big sister, in pain. He was wiser than he knew.

My brother will be back home at the end of the year…for his wedding. 

All I can hope is that he’s a better husband to his wife than my husband was to me.

I love you, little brother.


After A While…


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It’s been two-and-a-half years since my husband’s affair.
But after a while, you stop counting the minutes, the hours, the days, the months. Before long, you are counting years. Years since the affair. Or more precisely, years since you discovered the affair.
I wouldn’t have believed this had someone said it to me soon after D-Day, but after a while, you wake up and it’s not the first thing that assaults your senses.
You can even make it through days where you don’t think about the affair. What he did. What she did. Who said what. What they did together.
But that feeling of a lead brick sitting where your heart used to be? That feeling doesn’t leave.
After a while, you come to accept that feeling will always be with you. Everywhere. Every day. For the rest of your life.
The concept of being ‘light-hearted’ ever again does not compute.
The fact that he chose someone else over you is a feeling you don’t overcome.
That he sent you to the depths of despair with his cavalier attitude and believable lies is still unbearable.
Block your ears from those telling you to get over it or that you should be over it by now.
These comments are spoken by ignoramuses, people who have not been in your place.
How I wish I was ignorant about the pain of an affair, instead of having to experience it first hand.
After a while, you realise there is no passion left in your relationship. How the hell do you feel honest-to-God passion again for someone who fucked you over so easily?
That feeling of trepidation when you see your husband looking at his phone screen? That never goes.
And it gets fucking exhausting having to explain to him (yet again) why this fucking bothers me so much.
After a while, even when all is said and done, you truly know your relationship will never be the same.
You still have sex from time to time, but it’s no longer intimate.
Specials memories and dates mean nothing. Even as you see them approaching on the calendar, you feel your chest clenching.
Worst of all, that feeling of being dead inside drains the life out of you. Every. Single. Fucking. Day.
After a while, you dishearteningly discover that you don’t really care that much about anything anymore.
So when your husband tells you his recent biopsy was positive for cancer, you fake concern but realise the love left a long time ago for you not to care more about the possibility of losing him.
When the specialist told us this particular type of cancer is slow growing and may have begun growing around two to three years ago, all I can think about is that fucking bitch he was panting over. Would she have stayed and held his hand through cancer? I doubt it.
After a while, I’ve come to realise I don’t give a fuck about very much at all.

Let’s Say Our Roles Were Reversed…


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I would never have an affair. I’m simply not capable of it. I love my husband and cannot fathom being with anyone else, especially intimately. And I’m not just talking about sex, but sharing secrets, fears, desires. Sharing how your day’s going, your frustrations, your joys. Obviously my husband did not view things the same way, hence why I’m here blogging my story.

Yes, our 20+ year relationship had become stale, but we were both to blame for that. Neither of us made an effort to stay connected with each other, instead focusing on three little people that depended on us to survive. It was a challenging and frustrating existence — and we took our resentments out on each other.

I remember reading on another blog that your husband’s feelings for the other woman can take a while to fade, and so out of curiosity, I asked my husband the other day if he still had feelings for “her” — the homewrecking whore. (I discovered the affair 2 years, 2 months ago).

No, he replied emphatically, definitely not. I asked if he thought he loved her at the time, and he shook his head. “It wasn’t like that,” he said, but I could see the exasperation on his face at having to explain this to me more than once over the past couple of years. “As soon as you found out, I stopped everything. I told her my wife had found out and that it was over with her, and that I needed to focus on my marriage. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like a switch went off. I haven’t thought about her since.”
I thought a lot about that phrase “like a switch went off” and wondered if it was possible to simply turn off feelings for someone.

In an effort to come to some clarity about this, I decided to write it out. Write about having an affair as if *I* was the one cheating and developing feelings for another. Write how it might play out. How the people might talk to each other.

Would this help me to understand anything? Or would I just open a new world of hurt? I had to find out.

Here we go…

My life is shit. Literally. It’s just one dirty nappy after another. It’s monotonous. It’s tedious. It’s all time-consuming.
My husband comes home from work and starts on me. He looks at the shambles around me and innocently asks “What did you get up to today?”
I hate it when he calls me lazy, I say to myself. Doesn’t he know I look after a helpless, unsettled baby all day?
I stare at him in my half-zombie state but do not respond.
“What happened to the milk? Are we out?”
Damn. I mustn’t have bought enough.
“I don’t remember,” I mumble. “What day is it?”
“What day is it?,” my husband repeats in a half-mocking tone. He mutters something under his breath. “Jesus. It’s Thursday.”
I look around me, realising this world of confusion and tedium is now my life.
“What’s for dinner?” he asks.
Dinner. I hadn’t even thought about it.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “You’ll need to sort out your own dinner. I’m going to bed.”
I force each foot to take a step. Just a few more, I say, almost there. I collapse onto the bed. I don’t move until three hours later when the baby wakes for a feed.
Downstairs, I can hear my husband making his dinner, while yelling at one of the kids to get to bed and the other to brush his teeth.
Upstairs, I sigh. I pick up my phone in the darkened room and type into Google: ‘I hate my life.’ I hit the search button.
A bunch of ads come up but one catches my eye.
‘Hate your life?’, it reads. ‘Chat to others who feel like you!’
Wow, I think to myself. Are there really others out there who feel the way I do? Yeah right. I click on the link.
‘Welcome to HeyChat, the discreet app for chatting to others online. No log history of your conversations is ever kept. Your privacy is paramount’, it reads. ‘And it’s free. Simply sign up and you can be making new friends in minutes!’
I could do with some new friends, I tell myself. Ones that don’t judge me and criticise me and yell all the time. I sign up and download the app. I’m in business.
I take my time looking through the different categories but it isn’t long before I receive a private message from someone I don’t even know.
“Yo babe, looking to have some fun tonight?”
Ugh, what a sleaze. Is this what online chatting is all about?
What a waste of time. I’m about to log off when another message pops through from someone else.
“Hey, how’s things?”, the message asks.
“I’m new,” I mutter. “What am I supposed to do here?”
“Just talk!” the reply flashes on my phone. “I’m Brad, BTW.”
Brad? As in, a guy? Oh. I wanted to make new friends, not be harassed by another desperate guy.
“Married?”, he asks.
“Yes, you?” “Yep.”
“Do you have kids?” he asks.
“Yes, 3. One of them is only a few weeks old,” I blurt out.
“Well, that would explain why you’re up at this hour.”
“I don’t even know what hour it is,” I say. “My life is one big blur. How about you? Kids?”, I ask to be polite.
“Two,” Brad answers. “Aged 8 and 11.”
“Ah, your kids are a bit older than mine,” I say.
“Kids are kids,” he offers. “It’s the same shit when they get older.”
“No!!!” I type. “Don’t tell me that! I was hoping it would get better,” I half joke.
“Haha, yeah, it’s not as bad when they get older. They can do more for themselves. Don’t need you as much.”
“Well that’s a relief! I was worried for a minute that I’d be breastfeeding until they’re 8!”
“Don’t worry, you won’t be,” he reassures me. “What are you up to tonight?”
“I came upstairs and crashed out with the baby.”
“Is the baby sleeping now?”, he asks.
“Good, so I have your undivided attention.”
“You do.”
I feel a little tingle run through my tired body.
“Where’s your husband?”, he asks.
“Where’s your wife?”
“She’s in the bedroom. I told her I had to stay up and finish some work.’
I suddenly feel a little bit naughty talking to this stranger.
“Are you really in Sydney?” he asks. I completed only the bare basics on my profile.
“Sure am,” I say.
The baby lets out a little cry. Please go back to sleep, I silently beg. But the baby has other ideas.
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I say.
“Can I chat to you again?”, he asks.
“Great,” he says. “How about 10pm tomorrow night? ”
“Yeah, I’ll probably be here,” I say, trying not to sound too eager for another connection. “Bye.”
I quit the app before he can respond.
I reopen the app. I can’t find any history of our conversation. Good.
I pick up my little baby, sit in the cushioned chair and begin feeding. My lips form a little smile, the first in a long time.
The next night, I make sure I make all my excuses early (“I’m so tired”, etc…) and take the baby and head upstairs by 9.30pm. I feed my little one, place him in his cot, and lay down on my bed. It’s 9.50pm.
I open the app and am disappointed Brad isn’t online yet. Come on, where are you? Another 45 minutes pass, and I’m beat. I exit the app and close my eyes.
The next morning, I wake up slightly annoyed. “I made you some coffee,” my husband calls out from downstairs. “Who said I wanted coffee?” I hiss back. God, I sound like a complete bitch.
My husband doesn’t answer. I decide to go back to bed for another 10 minutes. Then I remember the app. I wonder if….
My fingers reach for the phone and I quickly log in. My eyes light up when I spot Brad.
“Hey you,” I say.
“Hey there,” he responds.
“What happened to you the other night?”
“Wife needed to go out so I had the kids. Sorry we couldn’t chat.”
“That’s cool,” I say. “What are you up to today?” It’s Sunday morning.
“Lunch at the in-laws,” he says. “Same old, same old.”
“Well, I’ll be around later if you feel like chatting,” I find myself saying.
“I might just take you up on that offer,” he says. “Couldn’t give you a time, though.”
“That’s fine, I’ll probably be on some time after 4pm,” I type. “Have fun!” I log off before he can say anything else. I like having the last word.
My husband and I take kids to the nearby playground, and grab lunch on the way. It’s an easy but uneventful afternoon.
We end up getting back home later than I expect. I go to the bathroom, taking my phone with me. It’s now 4.45pm. Will Brad be online, I wonder?
I silently put the toilet seat down and sit on the lid. I log in.
He spots me first. “Hey sexy mamma,” appears on the screen.
Ha, I think. If only you knew.
“LOL, you have no idea if I’m sexy or not,” I say.
“I bet you are,” he says. “I can tell.”
My eyes roll but I play along.
“I might be,” I counter. “You’ll just have to use your imagination.”
“I bet you’re a brunette.”
“Nice guess.”
“See? Told you I had a sixth sense about these things.”
“Well I bet you’re at least 6 feet tall,” I say.
“One point for you,” he says. I’m 6″2′.”
“Aha!”, I laugh. “You’re not the only one with magical powers!”
We banter a while about our day, our kids, the week ahead.
“You’re easy to talk to,” he says to me.
“You, too. Gotta run, see you around.”
I exit the app.
It’s just some random guy online, I tell myself. No big deal. I don’t even know him. This is nothing.
Yet I’m not entirely sure I even believe that myself.
My nights are different now. I no longer crawl into bed at 8pm exhausted after a shitty day. I look forward to my evenings, where I feed my baby then log on to chat to Brad.
“God, I’m so fucking bored,” I tell him one night.
“Sounds like you need a little excitement in your life,” he responds cheekily.
“I could definitely do with some excitement,” I say.
“Yeah? What did you have in mind?”
I stare at my screen. What did I have in mind? Good question. Wish I had an answer.
“Hello?”, he asks. “Are you still there?”
“Sorry, I was just thinking about excitement. I don’t even know what it means anymore.”
“Are you sure about that? How about a passionate kiss?”
“It’s been so long since I had one of those…”
“But the thought of it excites you, right?
“And what if that passionate kiss moved down your neck?”
Gulp. I feel for my neck, imagining a handsome stranger caressing me with his tongue.
“And a hungry mouth devouring your nipples.”
We’ve definitely crossed a line here, I say to myself. How far will this go?
“I’d sprinkle butterfly kisses across your smooth tummy,” he continues. “And slide a gentle finger inside you while flicking my tongue across your clit.”
Sweet Jesus, his words are making me wet.
“That does sound exciting,” I finally say.
“I’d stay down there until I felt your quivering orgasm,” he says.
“You can’t make me come that easily,” I say.
“Do you prefer to be fucked?”, he asks.
“Sometimes,” I say. “And sometimes I like to take a hard cock in my mouth and suck it until it explodes.”
“Tell me more,” he says. “You’ve made me hard just thinking about it.”
I smile. It’s time to go.
“I’ve got to run, Brad. See you next time.”
Holy shit, what had I done?
“What you did to me the other night wasn’t fair, you know,” Brad tells me the next time we meet online.
I smile knowingly but play dumb.
“What do you mean?”, I ask.
“You know exactly what I mean. You had me hard as a rock. I had to jerk off just to get to sleep.”
“Poor baby,” I say.
“You enjoy having this power over me, don’t you?”
“I enjoy having a little fun,” I say. “What are you up to?”
“The wife’s putting the kids to bed. I’m in my office.”
I briefly feel a mild stab of guilt. I put it out of mind.
“If I were in your office, if be hiding under your desk,” I say. “I’d have my head between your spread legs, moving my mouth over your already hard cock until you begged me to unzip you and take you in my mouth.”
“I’m unzipping my pants right now,” he types.
“Take your cock in your hand and move it up and down slowly,” I tell him.
His next message tells me he is complying.
“I wish it was your hot mouth going up and down,” he says.
“I love to swirl my tongue around a hard cock,” I type. “I love to feel the hardness, the urgency, your hands in my hair pulling me down even harder.”
“FFS, I’m about to come.”
Several minutes pass.
“Fuck,” he finally says. “I’ve made a mess of my pants and the desk. Jesus, you made me come so hard.”
“Meanwhile, I’m completely wet,” I say.
I slide two fingers inside myself. God, yes.
“I love it when you’re wet,” he teases. “Let me make you come.”
I hear my husband calling me from downstairs.
“Not tonight,” I say. “I have to go. My husband is looking for me.”
I exit the app and return to the reality of my ho-hum life.
“What are they for?” I ask my husband in an almost accusatory tone when he walks through the door holding a bunch of flowers.
“No reason,” he says. “I saw them and thought they’d brighten your day.”
Tears well up in my eyes. I focus on the brightly coloured flowers in front of me so I don’t have to look my husband in the eye.
“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
Last night, I made a stranger come all over himself. I don’t deserve these flowers.
My husband gives me a little squeeze. “Here, let me put them in some water,” he says, taking the perfumed bouquet from my hands.
I am the worst wife ever.
The guilt is short lived. Barely three hours later, I’m once again talking to my anonymous stranger.
“My husband brought home some flowers for me today,” I tell Brad.
“Nice,” he says. “What’s he apologising for?”
For being an ass, I think to myself.
“Nothing, he just thought I’d like them.”
“Really? They’re not even a sex thank you?”
“We haven’t had sex in months,” I admit.
“Same with me and the missus,” he replies.
“What do you do about it?” I ask.
“Porn. Wanking. Talking to you ;)”
“And is that enough?”
“My wife is never in the mood. I’m sick of begging for it. Men have needs.”
“What do you need right now?” I tease.
“Your hot mouth sucking my cock.”
It’s not long before I have him shooting his load.
This is fun!
“Interested in having a drink with me?” Brad asks a few nights later.
“A drink?”
“I was thinking we could meet at a café or pub?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
God, that would be so weird..
“Come on, it’s only a drink. At a public place. I won’t try anything,” he jokes.
What could it hurt?
“Sure, why not? How about the Horse and Jockey in Homebush at 12pm?”, I say, naming a well-known pub.
“I know it,” he says. “See you then.”
Before I can ask how we’ll recognise each other, he logs off.
What have I let myself in for?
I tell my mum I’m meeting a friend for lunch and she seems happy to babysit her grandchild for a couple of hours.
I take my time getting ready. I have a long shower. I shave. I carefully apply my make-up. I put on sexy lingerie. I pick a flirty outfit and heels to match. I spray my seductive perfume all over my body and look in the mirror.
Damn, I say. I look bloody good. I can’t even remember the last time I went to this much effort for an outing.
Nervous as I am, I grab my car keys and walk out the door. I feel great. This is going to be fun, I say to myself smiling.
This is NOT fun. I’ve been at the pub for a little under 10 minutes, and I’m starting to sweat. What the fuck am I doing, I ask myself. He could be a complete psycho. It’s OK, my brain tries to reason. You’re in a public place. You’re fine.
A couple of minutes after midday, a man walks in. I know it is him. He’s over six feet tall and not what I’d necessarily call handsome. If I was walking down the street and he passed me, I don’t know if I’d even give him a second glance.
He spots me checking him out and walks over.
“Sophia?” he asks. “I’m Brad.”
I force a smile. “Hi Brad, it’s really nice to meet you.”
No it’s not. This is weird. And awkward. And so stupid!
“Did you find the place OK?” I ask, hoping the small talk can last for at least the next hour.
“Sure did,” he answers in his deep voice. “I used to work in Strathfield.”
We order a drink and chat about the weather, the latest movie blockbusters (no, I haven’t actually seen any of them), and our weekend plans. We don’t discuss our partners or our X-rated shenanigans.
It’s time for me to go.
“I need to get moving,” I say, then stand up.
He stands, too.
“It’s been great putting a face to the name,” he says smiling.
He kisses my cheek.
“Same here. I’ll talk to you soon.” I turn and head to my car.
Well THAT was awkward, I think to myself. But it could have been worse. He could have been a complete dick.
Brad and I spend the next few nights exchanging more flirtatious comments via text.
“You didn’t tell me you had curves women kill for,” he said one night.
Yeah right. What a smooth talker.
“What can I say?” I type, trying to keep the conversation light-hearted. “I’m a curvy chick!”
“You gave me an instant hard-on,” he types. “I was extremely uncomfortable that entire hour. And you smelled so damn good.”
I smile at the screen.
“Good enough to eat?” I ask.
“You wouldn’t have regretted it,” he responds. “I would have made you come with my tongue.”
I gasp. And I try to imagine myself on his back seat, my legs spread apart, his tongue sliding in and out of me. Jesus Christ. I need to snap out of this.
“Are you still there?”
The image of him going down on me is burning into my brain.
“I’m imagining you sucking my clit with your hot mouth,” I finally type. “The thought of it is making me feel light headed.”
“I can see you with your head thrown back, your hands wrapped around my head pulling me in even harder, me gently pushing a finger in your ass while stroking my tongue across your pussy.”
My heart is beating faster. Why can’t my boring husband talk to me like this?
I slide a finger inside my jeans and beneath the elastic of my underwear. Holy hell, I am soaked.
“And I’d keep stroking and licking and sucking until I felt you climax and quivering under my touch,” he says. “Let me make you come,” he begs.
I remove my jeans and slide off my undies. I part my legs and let my fingers find their way to my pulsating pussy lips. I insert a finger. My lips involuntarily part.
“Make me come,” I say.
“Can you feel my lips, urgently kissing your hot pussy? My tongue running over your clit?”
Oh God. I move my fingers faster over my clitoris. I imagine his strong hands holding me apart, his head down, his tongue inside me licking and sucking. The image is so vivid. I feel myself edging over the point of no return.
“Oh fuck,” I say. “That was wild.”
‘I’m going to sleep like a baby tonight’, I momentarily think before closing my eyes. Then I pass out.
We have similar exchanges for the next few months. I disappear into the bathroom with my phone. I take it to bed with me, into the car. It’s next to me when I’m cooking dinner. It’s in the bedroom when I’m getting dressed. In the laundry when I’m preparing the next load. In the garage when I’ve gone to find something.
One morning, my husband notices I’m only half listening to whatever he is babbling about, and confronts me as I glance down at my screen.
“What is it with you and that phone?”, he asks.
“What do you mean?”, I ask.
“I mean, you take it with you everywhere,” he snaps. “What’s with that?”
I shrug my shoulders.
“So?”, I say defensively.
“So what do you do with it all day?”
“Talk to my friends, eBay, Facebook…”
“Well you seem to be on it non-stop.”
I raise my eyebrows. NOW he decides to notice me?
“I’m under a lot of stress with the baby,” I say. “It helps.”
He looks at me with contempt.
I turn and walk out of the room.
Fuck you, I think to myself.
I relay the conversation to Brad later that night.
“I think my husband is getting suspicious,” I tell him.
“About how much time I’m spending on my phone.” I wanted to add “talking to you” but it went unsaid.
“Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Nothing,” I say. “It’s a bit late for him to suddenly notice me and start criticising everything I do.”
“Can I see you again?”
I stared at my screen. He wants to see me again?
“I’m going to be out your way again on Wednesday. Lunch?”
Lunch would be nice, I think to myself.
“Sure,” I say. “Same time, same place?”
“You got it,” he says before quickly disappearing.
For our next meeting, I spend even more time getting ready. I book a hairdresser appointment for that morning. I get my legs and bikini line waxed, not because I imagine myself getting naked with my online lover, but because I feel sexy when I’m smooth all over. I pick out a lacy black bra and matching G-string. My figure-hugging dress has a low-plunging neckline, and my sexy stilettos give me a killer silhouette. I add some silver drop earrings and do a double-take when I spot my reflection in the hallway mirror. Damn. I look hot.
“You look incredible,” are the first words he says when he greets me.
“Thank you,” I say, slightly surprised. His words feel weighted with innuendo.
“How are you?”, he adds.
“Great,” I say. And for the first time in a long time, I actually mean it. After constantly being criticised and ignored, it’s nice to be noticed. “How about you?”
“I was in the area for some meetings this afternoon, so I’m killing two birds with one stone,” he says smiling.
“And here I was thinking you wanted to meet me for lunch, but I’m just a convenient add-on,” I joke.
“I scheduled lunch first, then added meetings around it,” he replies. I smile.
“Drink?”, he asks.
“White wine,” I say. I can already feel it going to my head and I haven’t even had a sip.
Brad returns from the bar and places the glass in front of me.
“Cheers,” he says. I clink my glass with his and contemplate my weird predicament. Here I am with a man who isn’t my husband, drinking wine, flirting, and loving every minute of it. It’s unfamiliar territory but it feels so good.
Our lunch arrives and we chat about the upcoming school holidays and plans with our families.
“We’re going to Fiji for 10 days, staying at some remote resort,” Brad says. I instantly feel a sense of panic at not being able to talk to him for that long.
“Sounds fantastic,” I say breezily. “You’ll have an awesome time. We did Fiji two years ago and the kids loved it.”
Kids. A wife. Reality.
“I don’t want to be away that long,” he says.
“You’ll be back before you know it,” I say. “Ten days is not a long time in the grand scheme of things.”
“In the grand scheme of things, I’d rather stay here.”
He doesn’t answer but he looks at me as if to say ‘do you really need to ask why’.
I lower my eyes.
“When do you go?”
“December 14.”
I do a quick calculation in my head. That’s 5 weeks away.
I nod.
“That’s ages away,” I say.
He forces a smile.
“Not really.”
I don’t want to think about Brad leaving. I decide to change the topic.
“Did you see Bryan Adans is touring next year?”
“I heard it on the radio this morning,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind seeing him.”
“Oh, I’m definitely there,” I enthuse. “I’ve waited nine years since the last tour to see him again.”
“Would you be going with your husband?”, he asks.
My husband. My poor, angry, critical, boring, clueless husband.
“God no, he can’t stand him!”
He laughs.
“Neither can my wife.”
“Some people have no taste,” I say. We both laugh.
“I hate to eat and run,” he says. But I’ve got 20 minutes to get to my meeting.” He looks annoyed.
“I hope I didn’t delay you.”
“Are you kidding, I’d rather be here with you. But I really do have to go,” he says.
We both stand up. He comes to my side of the table.
“Can I kiss you goodbye?”, he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His face moves in and I feel the gentle touch of his lips on mine.
“I’ll be seeing you, pretty lady,” he says.
“Bye,” I say as he turns and heads to his car.
I sit back down and put my fingers on my lips.
Holy fuck, what just happened?
That night, back at home, I decide to not log on. I don’t log on the next day either. When I eventually log on, six days have passed since that fateful kiss.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Brad says when he spots me online.
“I have,” I admit.
I stare at the screen.
“Are you still there?”
I don’t know how to answer.
“It was the kiss, wasn’t it?”, he finally asks.
“Yes. I feel like we crossed a line.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to confuse you.”
“I no longer know where we stand.”
“You just looked so damn good, I wanted to know what it would be like to kiss you.”
Trust him to make me smile when I’m so mixed up.
“Tell me what you got up to today,” I say.
“Well, I woke up all hot and bothered because I had a dream about you,” he says.
“Really,” I say. “And what was I wearing in this dream of yours?”
“You spend a lot of time thinking about getting naked,” I say.
“Haha, what man doesn’t?”
But you’re not like other men, I say to myself. You’re different.
“And what was I doing all naked?” I ask.
“You were straddling me, riding my cock,” he says. “And I was lifting your ass and pounding you back down on me.”
“I bet my boobs were bouncing all over the place.”
“One was,” he says. “The other was in my mouth being sucked until you screamed.”
I let out a small sigh of ecstasy.
“I can see you now, your sexy curls framing your face, your head thrown back as you enjoy the wild ride.”
This is how passion should be, I think to myself. Why don’t I have this with my husband?
“Mmm,” I type. “Your cock is so fucking hard.”
“And you’re pussy is so wet. Let me come inside you.”
“Fuck me harder,” I say. “Let me feel your cock slamming into me.”
A few minutes pass.
“How do you do that?”, he asks. “How do your words on a screen have me coming so hard? ”
“I’m exceptionally good,” I joke.
“You are definitely exceptionally good. One of a kind.”
I love how Brad makes me feel so special. And wanted — no, desired. I feel sexy as hell.
“You don’t mind if I finish myself off, do you Brad?”, I ask, reaching for my discreet vibrator. “I have a little battery-operated friend who can help.”
“Is it shaped like a massive cock?”, he asks.
“Shame,” he says.
I laugh. Probably a little too loudly. Oops.
“Then just imagine my hot tongue keeping your hard clit wet while you make yourself come,” he says.
I lay back on my bed and flick on my vibrator. I spread my legs apart and let it do its job. In less than five minutes, I feel my head exploding. I’m floating. I love reaching orgasm; it makes me feel so satisfied but very, very sleepy. I feel the vibrator drop from my hand. My eyes close.
I forget to exit the chatting app.
I feel myself violently shaking. Someone is holding me by the shoulder and roughly trying to wake me up.
“What’s going on?”, I say. “What are you doing?”
I see my husband’s face and get scared.
“What’s the matter,” I say. “Is it the baby?”
“The baby’s fine,” he says. “Sit up.”
I let my eyes adjust and sit upright.
My husband is holding a phone in his hand. My phone.
“Who is Brad?” he asks.
I stare at him in shock, unable to speak.
“WHO THE FUCK IS BRAD?” he repeats louder and slower.
“Is this what’s been going on behind my back? Why you take this fucking phone with you everywhere? I’ve been doing everything around here, looking after the kids, cooking, cleaning — anything to give you a break — and you’ve been fucking some guy. What the hell?”
“I haven’t fucked anyone,” I stammer. “He’s just some guy I met online. We talk.”
“TALK?”, my husband spits out. “Yeah, I saw what you talked about.”
“It was nothing,” I say. “It wasn’t real.”
“Did you ever met him in person?”, he asks.
I pause. “Yes, twice.”
I see tears well up in my husband’s eyes.
“Then it was real,” he says.
“No,” I protest. “Please listen to me. I’m telling the truth.”
“The truth?”, he says, “How can I ever believe anything you say to me? You’re a cheater and a liar. Carrying on an affair like it was nothing. You make me sick.”
Affair. Affair. The word makes me sick to my stomach.
“I was having a bit of fun, that’s all. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
“Oh, OK, as long as you weren’t TRYING to hurt me,” he says. “Why, WHY did you do this to me, to us?”
“I wasn’t doing anything to you,” I try to explain calmly.
“I treat you like a fucking princess and this is how you repay me?”
A princess? I feel anger rising within me but I stay calm.
“I felt neglected,” I say. “You were constantly criticising me, belittling me. I didn’t think you even cared about me.”
“How long has it been going on?”, he asks.
It’s as if what I’ve said hasn’t even registered.
“About six months,” I say.
“Six months,” he repeats.
“Please, honey,” I say. “I love you. We can get past this.”
You love me?”, he says, the sarcasm dripping from his voice. “You don’t love me. Don’t you ever fucking say you love me. A person who loves someone doesn’t fuck around like you did. Whore.”
The word plunges into my heart.
That’s what I am to him now. A cheap, nasty whore.
What have I done?

I’ve been writing this on and off over the past two weeks. It ended up a few thousand words longer than I anticipated, but it was worth it and has given me a new perspective and some more clarity about my husband’s affair.
It’s been a real eye opener for me, having to really think about how this entire scenario might have played out if our roles were reversed. What I would have said, what I would have done.

These are my conclusions about why people cheat:
• People cheat when they’re bored.
• People cheat when they yearn excitement in their mundane lives.
• People cheat when they feel the need for something new in their lives.
• People cheat when they feel they are missing out.
• People cheat when they feel overly flattered by the attention of another person.
• People cheat because they think it will magically transform their lives and make everything better.
• People cheat because they think it’s fun.
• People cheat when they think they’re entitled to do so because their partner isn’t treating them well.
• People cheat when sex is offered freely to them.
• People will cheat if they are simply cheating assholes.

What I also realised:
• It’s so easy for a flirty conversation to escalate into so much more very, very quickly.
• It’s not always possible to tell who crossed the line first.
• The other woman has zero interest or thought about how the affair is hurting the married man’s wife (or children).
• The overriding thought of the other woman is to make herself feel better.
• Cheating is rarely about the sex.
• The married man who is cheating is not out to intentionally hurt his wife. Read this one again. The married man who is cheating is not out to intentionally hurt his wife.
> This was a difficult conclusion to come to. I spent a lot of time asking “how could he hurt me like this”, and “how could he do this to me?”. The truth is, he wasn’t doing anything TO ME. He was having his fun, without giving me any consideration at all. Yes, it ended up being devastating, but that was not his intention — to hurt me. His intention was to have fun, feel needed, feel important, feel validated. MY interpretation of the events was that he set out to intentionally hurt me.

Of course that DOES NOT make my husband’s affair OK. With this exercise, I sought only to understand the thought processes that got him to that point.
I’m sure more thoughts will occur to me over time, but for now, that’s what I’ve come up with. Feel free to add your own thoughts and perspectives.

This was a really interesting exercise, but I had to feel ready to go there. If you have been betrayed recently, my post above has probably made you feel like vomiting, in which case, I encourage you to start from the beginning of my story (or D-Day as it’s known, see link at the top of the page).
For those a little while out from D-Day, I’d be interested in your thoughts.

(If nothing else, perhaps I have a future as an erotic novelist…!)

© Shattered Wife 2016. All rights reserved.

The Fog is Lifting


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I had been down too long. Way too long. My brain couldn’t think straight, let alone make important decisions. I was snapping at everyone, including my husband, my children, my boss. My perspective on life was badly skewed.

I seriously questioned whether I should be locked up in a facility for crazy people.

I can finally feel the fog lifting. After what seems like months and months of being down in the dumps, I finally went and saw my doctor. I was an absolute mess.

I was stunned when she told me it had been 18 months since I last saw her.

Actually, that shouldn’t have been all that surprising, given I’d spent that time elbow-deep in Babyville.

But without realising it, I’d also spent that time falling deeper and deeper into the depression abyss and had no idea how to crawl back out again.

So, Dr D put me back on the same medication she had me on last time: venlafaxine. It works to conquer depression and anxiety by basically chemically altering your brain.

The first time I went on this drug 18 months ago, I was hesitant. VERY hesitant. You get started on an introductory dose of 37.5mg, then after a month you go on the full regular dose of 75mg. Dr D told me quite a few of her patients are on 150mg.

At first I experienced bad headaches and dizziness. Then I went on the full dose, and dry mouth syndrome kicked in. I didn’t like it. I took myself off the drugs after 5 months without going back to my doctor.

And then, without noticing, I went downhill.

My problem with taking drugs is two-fold: Basically, I don’t believe depression is a true condition (so therefore how can you take drugs for it?) and two, I don’t want to rely on drugs to get me through the rest of my life.

But I couldn’t take it anymore.

“My marriage is over,” I told my doctor a few weeks ago as big, fat tears rolled down my face. “There is no chance of reconciliation.”

Because in my head, it WAS over. I couldn’t think anymore. Everything around me was black. I felt I was walking with a shroud over my head. There was no point to anything. It was all over.

So when the doctor suggested, no, STRONGLY ADVISED, that I give the medication another shot, I nodded glumly but didn’t fight it like I did 18 months ago.

“Do it to be a better mother to your children,” she said. “They deserve to have their mother present.”

Well, she knew how to pull at my heartstrings.

She said I had to stay on the medication for at least 12 months for the chemical imbalance to be restored, and to come and see her in a month.

I took the script she wrote for me and headed to the chemist.

The person who walked into her office a month later was a very different person. I could feel the fog had lifted. I could see things clearer. Making decisions was a bit easier. I was smiling.

Even the Dr D was noticeably surprised, but in a good way. Right now, I’m taking 75mg of venlafaxine every night before I go to bed.

The depression has lifted and the anxiety has subsided. I don’t like having to depend on medication to get me through the day, but I will commit to 12 months, and review things at that point.

For me, feeling better HAD to happen.

The negative thoughts were destroying my well-being, festering and breeding in my brain, day and night. I was mentally exhausted. (It is currently 2 years and 1 month after D-Day.)

I haven’t forgotten the affair — it still hurts like hell. Triggers will still set me off, as will seeing my husband on his phone.

But the medication has cleared my head enough to begin seeing a new psychologist. I even sound coherent when I speak to her.

The medication can cause insomnia and make it harder to climax, but if that’s the cost to feeling otherwise somewhat normal, I’ll pay it.

Because going through day after day drowning in misery and blackness is no way to live.

I know I’m strong enough to walk out tomorrow if I choose to.

But I choose to stay.

My family matters more. I will do what I need to do, and that includes taking medication.

You have two choices when you discover your husband cheating on you: you can find a way to move forward, or you can leave.

I am moving forward.

Missing Out After Kids’ Arrival


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In a couple of weeks, it will be two years since I discovered my husband was cheating on me.
The past 24 months have been a violent ride on the infidelity rollercoaster. Bad days sprinkled with the rare good day have been the recipe for absolute misery.
I would really like to be able to say we are doing well. I’d love to be able to share some positive news.
But I have none.
In July, my husband and I went away to a health retreat in Fiji for two weeks without the kids.
It was bliss. We were in a good headspace, eating wonderful organic fresh food every day, and having sex every night. We felt closer than we had in a long time. Everything was going to be OK.
Then we got back. And things went sour.
I noticed that in our joint expenses program, there was an odd item. Condoms, $34.95. For a box of 140!
Since the last of our children was born, I swore I would not go back on the pill and my husband and I discussed him having a vasectomy. Although a little apprehensive, he agreed.
Then he goes and buys a box of condoms — 140 OF THEM!
Well, I lost my shit BIG TIME. Who the fuck buys condoms in such massive quantities? A brothel? A cheater?
I told him to go fuck himself. I refused to use even ONE of those stupid condoms.
And then the real kicker came a few weeks later with the Ashley Madison hack: he had an account, TWO in fact.
The description under his name read: “Thirty-something missing out after kids’ arrival.”
While I was struggling to juggle three children under the age of 5, he was busy lamenting he was missing out.
While I was busy preparing three different meals PLUS his meals, doing mountains of laundry, repairing my pelvis after suffering pubis symphisitis (splitting apart of the pelvis) from week 20 of the pregnancy, he was off checking out dating apps and affair websites. Because he was missing out. Selfish asshole.
When we were going through the post-affair shit in the immediate weeks following D-Day, I said to my husband “Lay it all out, I want to know everything. I don’t want to be discovering new stuff a year from now, two years from now.”
“There’s nothing else,” he said. Nothing else except a couple of Ashley Madison accounts, a secret email account which was immediately deleted, and now, a suspiciously large box of fucking condoms!
As you can imagine, things are not good right now. I cannot even pretend to be nice to him. In fact, I struggle to even be civil.
I gave him a chance to come clean about everything and he continued to hide things.
“I found your email account in the Ashley Madison hack,” I said to him that Sunday morning. “Why didn’t you tell me about that? ”
He drew in a deep breath. “It was all part of that same period,” he offered in the way of an explanation. The idiot even had the brains to use his real date of birth and OUR real suburb when joining the site.
“I signed up because I was curious, ” he said. “I never used it. I never met anyone from there.”
Given we now know there was something like 3 women for every 10,000 men, the chances of actually meeting anyone on Ashley Madison were next to non-existent. But no-one knew that then. So I suppose if some hottie had thrown himself at him, he would have turned her down? Not bloody likely.
So where does this leave us? Let’s see. We’re currently living under the same roof but we don’t communicate unless it’s to discuss the children.
If he attempts to make small talk, I cut him off – I’m not interested, dickhead.
“I’m trying so hard,” he often says. Too bad you didn’t try before running off to some skanky married whore, I say silently.
Why am I still here? I’m miserable yet cannot leave as I have little income and three children in private school/daycare. We have a shitload of joint assets. We have three young children that we both agree should be brought up by two parents together. Bleugh.
It’s a miserable existence. And I’m stuck in it until I choose to walk away.

Addendum: Thank you for reading my blog. I blog to clarify and to heal. It hurts that I am still with my cheater husband and I carry a huge amount of self-hate for still being here. I ask that you please not come here and say “just leave your husband already!” That might be what you did and that’s what was right in your situation, but please don’t pretend to be an expert in mine. We all move through this shitstorm in different ways. SWxo

Suck Shit, Ashley Madison Cheaters


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Dear Ashley Madison Cheaters,

Yes, I’m speaking to you. You thought you were so clever, having a discreet little profile on the world’s largest cheating network. A little bit of fun on the side. Your wife or partner would never know the reason you suddenly had to start working late, going to work functions, being called into work on the weekends. What a delicious secret!
Guess it’s all blown up in your face now. As the world’s media starts trawling through the data dump and identifying individuals, you’re about to get the biggest wake-up call of your life.
One ‘celebrity’ has already released a grovelling apology after being busted. He began looking for an affair partner on Ashley Madison a few weeks after his fourth child was born, while simultaneously (and hypocritically) promoting family values in his day job. What a disgusting excuse for a human being.
So all you cheaters who thought you’d managed to hide your clandestine activities have two choices: come clean or face whatever consequences are dished out to you.
And those who are arguing the “you-may-not-like-what-Ashley-Madison-does-but-this-is-still-an-illegal-theft-of-data” can fuck off, too. Cheaters deserve to be exposed for the morally bankrupt whores that they are. You’ll never convince a betrayed spouse otherwise.
My heartache lies with the pain and agony the betrayed spouses will soon experience. This will be the greatest pain you ever thought possible. Can your relationship survive an affair, especially one exposed so publicly? The rest of us may have cheating spouses, but the affair is only known to three people – the wife, the husband, and the whore. These spouses suffer the added embarrassment of publicity.
Nobody wins.
But as for the cheaters, suck shit. You deserve everything coming to you.