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Soon, I was spending hours in the parallel universe of cyberspace, often through wonderfully wide-awake nights, uninhibited in a way I never could be in reality.

When the time was right for both of us, we would work through our problems and come back to one another. I shed my regulars and concentrated on just one, a man younger than me by almost two decades.

And it was harmless, until I fell in too deep and wanted more than his messages.

Some people can handle guilt well, and can happily juggle more than one life.

I failed – the guilt was profound – and so began the painful but necessary process of erasing one and focusing solely on the other, the one that had come first.

I was a latecomer to counselling, having previously considered therapy a largely American pursuit. By the time I reached that landmark age, without children and in a marriage that was beginning to lose its fairytale glow, my daily life was beginning to feel not unlike a soap opera.

And I did, pretty much, and I was perfectly fine - until suddenly I wasn't.

And so our long-nurtured virtual affair became real.

He was young and beautiful and I couldn't believe that he wanted me.

I got to know – or as much as possible online – a couple of regular men, with whom I conducted tentative conversations that were thoughtful and sweet, and that only developed into something more suggestive after much respective vetting and, on my part, several glasses of red wine. That initial separation, I later learned, all but ensured I would never be able to successfully bond with her.

I'm in my mid-40s now, and our relationship remains every bit as complicated today.

Bringing it to life brought only complications, albeit occasionally exquisite ones.

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