These walls don't stand....

It has recently come to light that my grand/mother isn't going to make it this time.  The doctors can only help manage her pain, the cancer is in her bones... and now we just have to wait.  The doctor said maybe a year, but she feels like it will be sooner.

This is, subsequently, tearing our family apart.  She has -always- been the foundation that this entire family is built on. (at least those of us local- my biomom, sister, aunt, cousin, me, grand/father, etc.)  I really don't know how any of us are going to come out of this- I have my theories as to how everyone else will fare, the way they're going to react when the time comes... based on previously observed habits they have regarding loss/emotional trauma/etc...  

But mostly, I don't know how I'M going to react to all of this.  It changes, moment by moment, day by day-  some days I'm "okay", but most days I'm a defensive bundle of nerves.  In true Cancer form, I've made myself comfy deep inside my protective shell.  This is not doing anything at all to help my marriage, because X is hurting, too- ... and struggling to accept the fact that he's never going to get 'his' life back.

We were planning on moving back to Massachusetts in June-ish, we were planning on grandmama getting better... but she's not... and I can't abandon my little sister.  I've already promised her that I will not leave her alone with 'the crazies'.  There's so much more to this situation that I just can't write about right now... I have the words, but I just don't have the energy to deal with them.... but suffice to say, I can't go anywhere for a while.  Possibly another 2 years, possibly more.  Or I might have to move to Ft. Worth, TX... but that is the worst case scenario.

But I have to plan for all of these scenarios- from the "best" (yeah, right) to the "worst" (aren't they all the worst?).....

Neither X nor myself can handle any of this by ourselves, but because we're both mourning our own losses, and stressing about our own, mostly separate issues-  we really just don't have much of anything left for each other.  I can't burden him with my feelings, mostly because I don't even really know what my feelings -are- yet... they change at the drop of a hat.  I can't even keep up with them myself inside my head, much less hope to express them coherently to someone else and expect -them- to keep up with them.  I'm so wrapped up in my own grief, confusion, anger, despair, sorrow, frustration, and ... ... .. well, the list goes on, and it's always -changing-... I'm so wrapped up in all of that, trying so desperately to keep it all together... like I'm carrying a million plates, and I keep dropping them; struggling to salvage as many as I can...

.... and I'm sooo wrapped up in it all, that I don't have much, if anything, left for X.... and it's breaking my heart.  I'm trying, so, SO hard, to keep my own stuff under control so as not to burden him, but because of that, I haven't got anything left to help him with -his- stuff.  We need to find some middle ground, where it's no longer 'his' stuff and 'my' stuff- it's just 'our' stuff, a universal pile of "stuff"... that we can both take care of, both tend to, both struggle to keep up with...

It looks good on paper, but so far, we just can't.  We keep having the same fights, over and over and over.  They all end the same, with me shattering into tiny pieces, sobbing... him apologizing for yelling or whatever, and both of us agreeing that we can't go on like this...

.... and then we do just keep going on like this.  I can't take it any more.  I CAN'T TAKE IT ANY MORE.

I can't handle his homesickness, I can't handle how miserable he is here, I can't handle how heartbroken he is that he'll never get 'his' life back, I can't handle his jealousy of my lack of 'responsibility', I can't handle that he thinks all I do is sleep and party, I can't handle how he accuses me of being self-absorbed and selfish, I can't handle his envy, I can't handle his declaration that he's "stuck" here, I can't handle the fact that he blatantly said he can't handle me changing my mind all the time, I can't handle his inability to deal with my mood swings, I can't handle his lack of understanding, I can't handle any of it.

I can't handle my own stuff, either, you know.  I can't handle my inability to process this flood of emotion, I can't handle how miserable I am here, I can't handle how heartbroken I am that I'll never get 'my' life back, I can't handle how completely worthless and unproductive I am, I can't handle my insomnia, I can't handle my insomnia, I can't handle my INSOMNIA, I can't handle being alone any more, I can't handle feeling like the most selfish creature to walk the earth, I can't handle my own envy - envy of his job, his separation from this impending, tragic loss, I can't handle knowing that I'm stuck here, too, and I most definitely can't handle my violent mood swings... I can't handle ANY of it.

I hope these grief counselors at hospice are prepared for me, prepared for this.  There has to be a tip, a secret of the trade, SOMETHING to make this easier-  I'm not expecting any of it to be easy, but maybe they have some secret that I just haven't discovered yet.  Maybe they'll help.  Maybe they really do get paid to do this for a reason.  I sure hope so, because as it stands right now...

.... I am completely lost.

So... since I have been dealing with the stresses of my life currently, it has lead to regular, insufferable insomnia.  My schedule is non-existent, which leaves little time for X and I to do... well, really, much of anything.  Much less find time/energy for kinky sex.  Or any sex, really.  

Also, the three-day weekend he got was ruined by my Aunt Flo'.  Thanks, Aunt Flo'... I just love it when you visit me unexpectedly like that!

So after 9 days of no sex, and 7 of that with no orgasms, I've been feeling like I could explode at any moment. 

Last night I took a long, hot bath. I shaved myself smooth, then did nothing but stare at the computer screen for a few hours before I crawled into bed to pass out.  I just didn't have the energy to do anything. :(

However, when I woke up this morning, I just couldn't take it any more.  Without a second's hesitation, I began to gather the ingredients for one(1) Juicy Orgasm.  Clothespins?  Check.  Toothpaste?  (One of my new favorite things on the planet... wow it hurts!) Check.  Vibrating dildo?  Check!
Pile of pillows on the bed?  Check.  Mirror across the room for my kinky viewing pleasure?  Check check check.

So, after clipping both nipples with a clothespin and adding one on either side as well, just for good measure, I was already positively aching for release... and by the time the other six clothespins were attached to the girly bits, and the toothpaste was gently applied- I was practically writhing with need.

I pulled and teased, pressed and rubbed, fanned and squirmed, watched myself, rinsed and repeated.  It was delicious, and I couldn't wait for the grand finale.  I might even get two out at this rate!  It felt wonderful.  The dildo pulled roughly at my pinned pussy lips, aggravating them as it penetrated.  My finger was furiously working my clit into a frenzy... I could feel the toothpaste inflaming the entire area until it was puffy, sore, and super sensitive.

I got impatient then, and began to work everything harder, faster, deeper.  Then I felt something odd.  I slowed a bit, and concentrated entirely on the penetration, sliding the purple rubber cock ever-so-slowly in and out of my swollen pussy.. and then.. yes!  There!  That's it!  

The G-spot!  Hallelujah!   

I had found it before- and had partners find it before while fingering me- but I had never fully accomplished a true "blended" orgasm, or "G-spot" orgasm before... the mixture of clitoral and g-spot stimulation... well, damnit, this was the time and the place, and I was going to have the best, screamingest, OHMYGOD orgasm EVER!

I started pounding and rubbing again, and for those first few seconds, it was ecstasy- I couldn't wait to feel the explosion that was just around the corner... closer... closer... closer... !!!!

....and I MISSED it.

Wait..   What?   How the fuck does THAT happen?  I've had orgasms that didn't feel quite as good as others, but I've never legitimately missed an orgasm before.  So, apparently, my body got the message that I had come... but no other part of me had.  My clit was too sensitive to continue rubbing, my pussy was spasming and clenching and throbbing the way it does when I come, but... ..... .... nothing!  I didn't FEEL it!  So, for all that time and energy, I'm no closer to where I want to be.

I really just desperately want X to come home, tie me down to the coffee table, gag me, blindfold me, beat me until I can't take any more, and then fuck me until I can't walk.  Is that okay?  Can I arrange that somehow? 'Cause this just isn't cool. :(

The past few days have been very, very difficult for me... on multiple levels.   The politically charged rant of my last entry was brought about by intense stress, PMS, and discontent.  I was angry all day.  I have been on edge for days now.

I'm trying to focus on my GED class, despite the drama of ... well, the whole month, really.  I just know that I have to get my GED.  I'm tired of being worthless.  I've discovered a wonderful person in this wacky world who genuinely believes that I have value, that I'm worthwhile... and more:  he makes me want to believe I have value, too.  To accomplish this, as my poor health prohibits me from expressing it by bettering myself physically, I am attempting to compensate for it by proving my worth and value by staying as calm, collected, and stable as I possibly can through this turbulent time in my life. I am also actively attempting to better myself in other ways by pursuing my GED and trying to be a good housekeeper- both things I've been avoiding like the plague since I was 16.

I'm trying to write tonight because I'm suffering from insomnia again- badly- and it's all bottled-up-stress related.  I have that weird kind of writer's block, where the words are there, somewhere swimming around in my overcooked brain-soup, but every time I dip the spoon in, I can't find them.  I just wind up with rubbish.  Meh.  I'll have to keep trying... maybe if I can manage to explain where this is all coming from....

My grandmother, as I mentioned in my "life story" post, raised me.  When she and my (step)grandfather adopted me at 5 years old, they became my legal guardians- my legal parents- and my only true means of support for my life after that.  My grandmother and I were very, very close as I grew up... she was very strict about quite a few things, but also very lenient and understanding about others.  As a little girl, I hated to disappoint my grandparents, I made exceptional grades, went to church, did what I was told, was respectful and polite, and overall well-mannered.  Those were all expectations.  But I was always allowed to speak freely- as long as I wasn't horribly disrespectful- and I always felt that my grandmother -tried- to understand me, even if she didn't manage to, the effort wasn't lost on me...  I came out as no longer being Christian at 14 and shortly after admitted to being bisexual at 15, and despite being quite a devout Lutheran woman, she took it remarkably gracefully... and has never truly judged me for it.  For those of you astrologically inclined, I am a true blue Cancer (with liberal amounts of Leo/Sag in my chart), my grandmother is a textbook Scorpio (with lots of Taurus and Capricorn), and my grandfather is a Pisces (I'd love to tell you what he's actually like, but I just can't... I don't know.)  All three water signs under one roof.  Whee!, right? :P

So you can imagine, my grandmother and I got along famously.  But we fought infamously.  We both wielded the same razor-sharp verbal weaponry, double-reinforced impenetrable defenses, and what can only be described as emotional depth and passion.  Growing up, that's exactly what it was like... When we got along, we were best friends- the picture perfect ideal of the closest, best mother/daughter relationship anyone could possibly have. But when we fought, we fought to the death.  We always went for blood, and we both knew how to manipulate and push each other's buttons.  It was absolute hell.  Our only saving grace was her ability to throw her hands up and scream, "I DON'T CARE ANY MORE! [about the issue]" and (mostly) mean it.

After we'd have a vicious fight like that, even if I wound up "Grounded For Life" because of it, we both always felt a little vulnerable and a little guilty.  So many of my best memories of my grandmother are of going to Wal-Mart or Target for some cheap, easy, fun retail therapy and then to Braum's for some ice cream after a particularly bad fight.  We were always more open then, having ripped each other apart metaphorically usually just short hours before, and in those moments before we had the chance to rebuild our walls, we were closer and more considerate than ever.

Until I tried to use that to my advantage and get something I wanted out of her, then she'd happily put me back in my place. *sheepish grin*  Once a brat, always a brat...

My grandmother raised four children of her own- the two oldest going on to lead happy lives, one rather successfully, while the other two were unable to... for whatever reason.  My mother and uncle floated their merry little way to the bottom of society- alcoholism and drugs.  My grandmother had fought every step of the way raising those four kids, and for a good chunk of it, she was alone.  She was married 4 times throughout her life- one of the lucky few in this world to have truly fallen in love twice.  She has worked every day of her life starting in 2nd grade.  She raised her sisters, then her children, and then me.  Now she has legal guardianship of my little sister, who is 12.  She has always done the best she possibly could with what she's had to work with.

I'll be the first to tell you, I put her through hell.  I was a troubled kid, between my off-and-on health problems throughout my life, and the inevitable issues that come with puberty and adolescence... on top of a dysfunctional, abusive relationship with my biological mother, a hatred for school, and a general disinterest in life... well, you do the math.  I was depressed, I was injuring myself, I considered suicide way more often than I am comfortable to admit- and once, at 14, I actually attempted it.  I won't go into detail, because it's not pleasant at all- but suffice to say, I really, really wanted to die.  When I did it.  But once I realized I didn't want to die alone, in that moment of weakness, I called someone... and the pain my friend expressed to me in that weak moment, to my drugged, hazed mind...it brought me back enough to realize how selfish I was being.  So, 14 and afraid, I called for help, and obviously, I survived.  I have a few lingering unpleasantries related to the botched attempt, but it's nothing I can't live with.  I haven't attempted suicide since, and hopefully, I never will again.  That was my lowest moment, ever.

I think it nearly broke my grandmother.  I have never seen her more upset.  I will never, ever forget the look on her face when she walked in the that door to find the mother of one of my best friends there in the house, on the phone with the local hospital, with me laying on the cold tile floor, looking up at her...  She had brought home a pizza to surprise me - it's pretty much my favorite food ever - but that night it went wasted and untouched, completely forgotten.  For some reason, the image of her carrying that pizza in from the garage, the look of horror and fear and despair that crossed her face in that agonizingly long moment once it occurred to her what was happening... that look is burned into my brain- and I am filled with remorse even to this day for my immature, selfish stupidity.

But somehow, she kept her resolve.  She was strong, despite not knowing at all what to do with me.  I was impossible.  Nothing she did was right, all I wanted was what I couldn't have.  I hated everything.  Michele was telling me I was worthless, I looked to the future and saw nothing worthwhile, I wanted to disappear.  To fade into nothingness- into void.  I didn't fear death or dying, and most nights before bed I prayed that I wouldn't wake up.

She got me doctors, desperate to help... the best doctors our insurance and money could buy.  They made me worse.  I remember hearing her cry sometimes at night, though it happened rarely.  I always thought she was just as miserable with her life as I was with mine- it didn't dawn on me until her admission, years later, that she was crying because of me.  Out of concern, confusion, and love: for me.  

Eventually, when I finally put my foot down to her about how the medicine was affecting me, and how I felt that I was strong enough to deal with my issues by myself, without the use of drugs- she eventually agreed and adamantly supported my decision, going against the wishes of my doctors at the time.  I moved out shortly afterwards, 2 months before turning 17; desperate for freedom after dropping out of school- ready to start my own life, by my own rules... and she was devastated, but realized she had no choice but to let me go... and pray that I found whatever it was that I was looking for.

Something she always used to berate me for was my inability to control my emotional reactions to things.  "You can control your emotions." was a lesson she tried to drill into me for years, starting as soon as she thought I was old enough to understand the concept (13-14ish)... but I just couldn't get it.  I argued vehemently that no, I in fact can NOT control my emotions, hence why they are -emotions-... I still don't understand the concept of someone being able to control how they feel.  It's a completely foreign concept to me. As I got older though, and as I began to really experience life in the 'real world', I eventually learned how to detach my perspective and I figured out how to step back and recognize the difference between thoughts/reality/logic and emotions- and while I can't "control" my emotions, I am MUCH better at controlling what I -do- with them... which I think was the whole point of the lesson in the first place, really, anyway.  This contributed to our relationship becoming even closer, and quite a bit more peaceful, in my late teens/early twenties.

Even though I've used her house like a hotel with a revolving door, an in-between place to rest my head before running off on another crazy adventure, even though I owe her more money than I could probably even calculate at this point... even though she's had to endure some pretty shocking stories and admissions from me...  her door has always been open, she's always been there to make sure I've been taken care of, and she has never passed judgement on me.  She loves and accepts me for who I am, and encourages me to keep growing, keep questioning, keep fighting to become who I want to be.

I could not have asked for a better mother.  I could not have designed a more perfect mother.  I will never miss anyone as much as I am going to miss her.

My grandmother- ... my mother... has cancer.  This is the second time- the first was 16 years ago, right after she adopted me.  I only have vague memories of her chemotherapy then, I think I've probably blocked them out intentionally.  But this time... well, it's been a roller coaster, full of ups and downs and twists and turns... it's been nearly 9 months... but these past two weeks or so, it's become pretty clear.

This is almost assuredly going to be her last Christmas.


I have to get my GED.  I have to get healthy.  I have to get better.  X loves me- I am his priority, thus I have value, I have worth... it's time to prove that he didn't make a mistake when he picked me.

I have to get better.  My little sister is depending on me.

I have to get better.  My aunt and cousin are counting on me.

I have to get better.  My grand/mother deserves to see that her hard work paid off.  She deserves to see me happy, because I know that will make her happier than anything else.  I owe everything I am to her.

I have to get better.

I've never been an intensely political person, though politics have always interested me.  How can they not?  Politics determine, in a very real way, my quality of life.  The quality of life of people I care about.  The people in charge of -my- government.  When people say they "aren't political" or "don't like to get involved in politics" I smile and nod because, hey, I understand- politics are dirty and confusing, and run from the obtuse to dishonest, from fanciful to fallacious.  Why would you want to muck up your otherwise cozy little monkeysphere with that crap?  That's fine.  I get that.  I can even respect that, really.  Just stay out of it... that stuff is for 'wiser heads', for fancy suits, the socio-eco-elite.  That's just how they roll.  That's cool.

But if you take a hands-off approach, please, I'm begging you: just don't bitch.  GOD, just DON'T BITCH when the government isn't exactly how you want it.  That's like letting a young child run MAD in your house... they're moving everything, breaking stuff, tearing it up, you know?  Then you, sitting back on the couch, scowling, shaking your head and saying, "I can't believe that!  The nerve of that kid!  Somebody ought to do something about it!" -  Yeah.  YOU.  So just shut up, please.  If you vote, if you care, if you participate, if you research, if you learn about these people in this strange (and often retarded) political world  do what you want... until then, shut your fucking face.  Or get involved.  More people should get involved.  Even MORE people should just shut up.

I consider myself a moderate independent, because it's easier to brush people off like that, but really I tend more towards being a moderately liberal democrat, with republican views when it comes to the military, justice and, correspondingly, punishment.

What does that mean exactly?  Well, let's run over the 'sensitive' issues-

The first, and trickiest, is abortion.  I'm not expecting to win any friends with any of this, just so you all know, but neither am I intentionally trying to antagonize or attack anyone (okay, maybe a few people- but hopefully no one that reads this).  But as my icon says, "Let me know if I say anything that offends you.  I might want to offend you later!"

While I believe that abortion may not necessarily be "right", I definitely don't think it's "okay", I'm not going to throw a stone at a woman who's had one, or picket to make them illegal.  I'm Pro-LifeChoice, I guess.  I think anything before X months (5 or 6 isn't it, in most states?) should be a legal alternative to giving birth- have you seen the world's current population?  Seriously?  The LAST thing we need in this world is another unwanted kid.  There's plenty of kids out there that need adopting- you're not going to deprive some worthy family of getting a child by getting an abortion.  At the same time, I believe it is ending a life, even if it's just a tiny, worthless one, and that makes abortion clearly NOT an option for me. I couldn't do it.  But I'm not going to say that just because -I- wouldn't do it, -you- shouldn't do it.  Until that kid's born, it's not a person. I'm sorry to burst anyone's bubble with that.  Hell, I think most kids aren't real -people- until they're about 12/13.  Doesn't mean that they're not precious or valuable or worthwhile by ANY means (I really do love kids, I want to be a teacher), but before that kid can even breathe oxygen with it's own lungs it isn't a kid.  It's a fetus, it's not a child.  Thus, it has only the value you assign it- as the 'host' or 'mother'.  Don't want it?  15 years old and can't even take care of yourself?  Terrified of childbirth?  Get an abortion.  That fetus is worthless.  Discard it while you have the chance, before it becomes a person and thus, no longer worthless. Love it from the moment it's conceived?  Are you barely 18, but willing to work your ass off to make that child's life as full and happy as possible? Then that fetus is the most precious, valuable thing on the planet and should be taken care of. 

In MY opinion.  I don't claim it's right, it's just what makes sense to me.

I understand where Pro-Lifers come from, don't misunderstand me.  I'm not really as cold and calloused as I sound. 'The spark of life, it's life, it's precious, if you have an abortion it's MURDER'-  it's the murder part I disagree with in those arguments... 'murder' ... murder is the killing of another human being.. and I'm sorry, but an unborn child is not a human being,  it's a -fetus-.  Is extinguishing that life heartbreaking?  Yes.  Is it psychologically damaging?  For most people.  Are abortions replacement for birth control?  Unfortunately, yes, all too often young girls have strings of abortions instead of practicing safe, responsible sex.  Is that heartbreaking?  Yes.  But don't picket the abortion clinic or try to make the act illegal- the clinics are there for people legitimately in need... instead of making those girls feel worse than they already do, why don't you spend your time/effort/money for better sex education?  Or donating to help discover the next prophylactic to help our horny teenagers keep themselves from becoming parents prematurely?  Or parents, I don't know, maybe TALK TO YOUR KIDS?  That's a novel idea.  Maybe if more parents were willing to sit down and actually talk to their damn kids, the world will be a hell of a lot less judgmental, and a hell of a lot less fucked up.

I don't understand the whole gay rights issue.  I really don't.  I can't believe that in a nation as advanced and civilized as ours that I can't marry a girl if I want.  What the FUCK is up with THAT?  I wish I could write a tangent about it, but seriously, what else is there to say? SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND STATE.  Marriage is a LEGAL binding contractual union with LEGAL benefits and consequences that is LEGALLY recognized and upheld.  Marriage is not sacred in and of itself.  If your religion dictates that it's sacred, then your marriage is sacred to you-  but LOTS of people get married, and do so rather happily without religion.  Atheists can get married.  My husband is an atheist.   So where is the problem?   Protecting family values?   Bigotry, judgment, and hate.  Those are our new 'values'.  The fact that this is even an issue still burns me to the core-  we are actually still having to fight for gay rights?  Seriously?  It'd be hilarious if it wasn't so sad.  But at the same time, it's the same thing the women did.  The blacks did.  We can do it, too- hopefully.  It'll just take some time.  Just gotta wait for these religious zealots to back down and/or become overpowered.  So what IS with all these religious weirdos, spouting their misery and hate disguised with love and forgiveness?  Oh yeah.  We asked for it.   We INVITED all these freaks here, didn't we?  Years ago?

"The rest of the world hates you?  Really?  That sucks.  Hey, you should come over HERE.  We're tolerant and free!  You can be insane and/or retarded over here, and we won't care! Promise!"

We did it to ourselves.  We really did.
(and they DO care, bastards. what's religious freedom? i don't know.)

Which leads me to immigration... which seems like a deceptively simple issue blown out of proportion, too.  Yes, I think immigration should be reformed and revamped.  It's been how long?  It should be totally tweaked, and by "wiser heads" than me- I won't lie (unlike the dirty politicians)- do I think we should round up every single illegal and deport them?  No.  Do I think we should make them citizens just because they managed to get here and find a job in a lettuce field somewhere?  No.  Do I think we should give them welfare and/or foodstamps because their children were born here and they can't provide for them?  NO.  YOU came over here illegally because you were either too impatient or too stupid to do it legally.  If you have the guts to illegally enter an entirely different -country-, you have the guts to take care of YOURSELF.  If you can make it, GOOD for you!  If you can't?  Well, maybe you shouldn't have come.  If you're not a citizen of this country, just because your kids were born here doesn't mean we owe you anything.  Honestly, we don't owe them anything more than a public school education- they can work for more themselves, just like you can, just like anyone else can.  I don't owe you welfare.  I don't owe you a damn thing.  Do I think we should be building a fence at the border to discourage more illegal immigrants from coming and wasting our money?  ....Well, uh... why?   So they can climb it?  Or dig under it?  Waste of money if you ask me.

But it's all one big waste of money, you know?  Tax breaks for big companies that are sending our jobs overseas?  What the fuck is that?  Where is the EDUCATION reform?  Have you looked at our public schools lately?  I can't speak for the rest of the country, but I know at least my state's public schools fucking suck.  Teachers are underpaid and underappreciated, and for some schools in my area, the district doesn't know whether to PAY THEIR BILLS or PAY THEIR TEACHERS.  Also, priorities are sooo skewed.   My sophomore year, my High School got brand new computers in just about every classroom-  but THREE of them were RUINED because of the leaky roof.  Does that seem funny to anyone else?

Where is the money for health care reform?  I'm not even talking anything grandiose, something small would be better than nothing... but if you wanted to go all out, you know Canada's doing some stuff right with their health care.  Of course, they're doing stuff wrong, too- but can't we just get a bunch of those 'wiser heads' together, use Canada as a study, and come up with something even BETTER for us?  No, would that make too much sense?  Oh, I'm sorry.  

So you're saying because I can't afford insurance right now because I can't work because I have a debilitating digestive disease that I can't get treated because I can't afford insurance because I can't work... that I'm just screwed?  

Yes?  

Fuckers.   

More clinics, better government-sponsored healthcare (Come on, Medicaid/Medicare. What the fuck are you playing at?), better schools, better teachers, better curriculum, less catering to Big Business, less out-of-country jobs, less frivolities MORE SUBSTANCE. 

War on Terror/War in Iraq.  You know, I'm not even going to fight this battle again, because I'm sick of it.  I'm. Sick.  Of.   It.
I am Anti-War, I tend to be a pacifist, you know... but I am Pro-Military.  All the way.  (Raised an Air Force brat, in a military town.)
Support our troops, they're just following orders.  Those boys and girls (most of them are just boys and girls) are over there, doing the dirtiest, most horrific job imaginable- because they have to.  They're doing it for ME.  They're doing it for YOU.
If they WEREN'T doing it, YOU'D have to be over there doing it- if nothing else, those troops deserve our support, our gratitude, our praise, our love, and our understanding.  Period.  Anyone who says otherwise should be sent overseas and dropped in the desert... and possibly given leprosy. 

Crime and punishment... oh the laws need to be rewritten so badly, and so many of the punishments are fucking ridiculous.  Have you looked at the difference in some of these laws?  How long you can be put away by getting caught selling one of the harder illegal drugs, but how easy it is to get out if you molested a child?  Seriously.  Look some of those things up, it might surprise you.  Or depress you.  Probably both.  Particularly the difference between drug offenses / violent offenses / sexual offenses.  (*note* BDSM involved in that violent offense link) Injustice is everywhere- the laws are obsolete, the punishments don't fit- obviously!  If the punishments better fit the crimes, it's my theory that there'd be... *smacks forehead* Duh! Less crime!  Would you be as likely to commit murder if I told you I was going to dismember you if you did?  Possibly cut off your arms and legs?  No?  Brutal, sure, but it'd sure keep you from killin' somebody, wouldn't it?  Rape somebody (not in the good Las Vegas way) or molest a child?  How about I cut your balls off and keep them in a jar?  Get caught with a sack of pot?  How about instead of locking you up and then putting you on ridiculous amounts of probation and basically ruining your life, we just LEGALIZE it?  Or decriminalize it, Canada's doing okay... since they've decriminalized, there haven't been riots in the streets... or we could just put that shit in packs, tax the shit out of it, and sell it at gas stations with our tobacco.  The tobacco is actually worse for you in most instances, you know.  There's some money in the bank though, that vice tax- that can go to EDUCATION, HEALTH CARE, SUPPORTING OUR TROOPS, AND COMMUNITY-IMPROVING PROGRAMS.  Also, the $3 billion we've wasted on the "War on Drugs"-  that can go into education/health care, too, you know.  Somewhere I dunno, worthwhile?  Wait... is that too brutal for you?

Brutality.  You know what else is brutal?  The huge dividing line between "Red and Blue", "Right and Left", "Republican and Democrat", "Liberal and Conservative"-   you know we're not really one country any more, right?  We've deteriorated into middle schoolers having a food fight in the cafeteria- we're the Divided States of America.  Red Shirts on one side of the cafeteria, Blue Shirts on the other.  Let's see how much damage we can cause.... go!  Sling that mud!  Day-old refried beans? Right in the face!  Take that, Ann Coulter!  Have at thee, Hillary Clinton!  Take that, bitches!  Republicans are obviously all religious nuts who are bigots and bible thumpers and self-serving judgmental assholes.  And -naturally-, all Democrats are godless and heathen, promoting sin, trying to help everyone and thereby not helping anyone and self-serving judgmental assholes.

Name-calling, mud-slinging, beat-that-decomposing-dead-horse-some-more-please!

Until finally, like a ray of sunshine, a glass of refreshing spring water, a cool breeze on the hot summer day... someone says something that makes sense.  Thank you, Barack Obama.  This is a jewel, and I wish -everyone- could read it.

"Yet even as we speak, there are those who are preparing to divide us, the spin masters and negative ad peddlers who embrace the politics of anything goes. Well, I say to them tonight, there's not a liberal America and a conservative America - there's the United States of America. There's not a black America and white America and Latino America and Asian America; there's the United States of America. The pundits like to slice-and-dice our country into Red States and Blue States; Red States for Republicans, Blue States for Democrats. But I've got news for them, too. We worship an awesome God in the Blue States, and we don't like federal agents poking around our libraries in the Red States. We coach Little League in the Blue States and have gay friends in the Red States. There are patriots who opposed the war in Iraq and patriots who supported it. We are one people, all of us pledging allegiance to the stars and stripes, all of us defending the United States of America."

Can we please starting acting like it?

Please?

I really was planning on having this entry be about how X and I got married, but... I think that's why I haven't updated in so long.  I can't plan my writing... as soon as I do, the ambition dries right the fuck up.  C'est la vie.

So, what to write about, then?  How about last night?  Okay!

It seemed like any other evening, except X and I were unwinding a bit earlier in the night than usual.  We have a tendency to be social in the evenings these days, hanging out with any number of our friends throughout the week.  Last night though, I'd had enough.  I was ready to just lock the door with a sign that said "FUCK YOU, WORLD" nailed to it.. and sit at the window with a sniper rifle.  Really.  (PMS)  Until X came home, and then I realized I could spend the whole evening just snuggling with him, and I felt a bit better. 

So I cooked dinner, we watched some television (Daily Show, Colbert Report, Futurama, Family Guy), and just enjoyed each other's company, sitting together on the couch... it was great.

Except for one problem: my PMS.  It's been killing me for the past two or three days- I feel like I'm dying, really.  It's a particularly bad month, and I'm just ready to -start- already and get it over with.  My boobs hurt.  Bad.   I'd been whining about it all day, massaging them and cradling them tenderly- they really, really hurt.  I don't think my boobs have -ever- hurt this bad... and it's just PMS!  Also, I'm moody as hell, but we don't really need to go into that...

Needless to say, X couldn't help but notice my whining and thereby, notice the perfect opportunity to hurt me.  It started innocently enough, with him grabbing, squeezing, pulling, and twisting at my swollen, tender boobs and nipples- I tried to curl deeper into the corner of the couch, whimpering- it really hurt!  That just fed fuel to the fire, and he pulled roughly at my nipples until I cried out from the pain.  He roughly grabbed me by the hair, stood up in front of me, dropped his shorts, and began shoving his cock in my mouth, giving me a few thrusts to adjust before forcing himself down my throat.

But it had been a few days, and we were both incredibly horny and impatient at this point... so he dragged me by the hair into the bedroom and bent me over the bed, pulling my PJ pants and panties down to my knees.  Our queen-sized bed is just the right height for me to bend over with my ass perfectly poised and presented for beatings.  He blessed me with a quick but firm hand-spanking, just enough to feel that delightful warmth spreading over my skin; just enough to make me wiggle and whimper.  
He then suddenly pulled up insistently on my hips, lifting my rear in such a way that to hold position, I was straining on my tip-toes.  My calves were already screaming in protest when he filled me- sliding into me from behind.  The first few strokes were testing, teasing, preparing... before I knew it, I was being pounded- my sore breasts pressing and rubbing cruelly against the mattress beneath me.  I balled my fists, arched up as much as I could while trying to ignore the agony from my calves, and I moaned.  Being taken from behind is my favorite position on a normal day, but this was just amazing.  The pain and discomfort wove intricately together with the intense pleasure of his strong hands gripping my hips and his deep thrusts; probing, driving, nailing, fucking.

Before I knew it, I was coming- and hard.  I'm not a quiet person, really... during sex, during scenes... I moan/groan/gasp, I talk dirty, I ramble, I babble incoherently, and anything else you can imagine... it just depends on the situation.  So when I'm bent over the bed, my intensely sore boobs pressed hard against the mattress, getting brutally spanked and fucked... I'm gushing, I'm spasming, and I'm nearly screaming with the intensity of the orgasm wracking my body.

Also, my knees buckled- and my calves felt like they were being stabbed by thousands of tiny daggers.  So we relocated, because I literally couldn't support myself in that position any longer.

Hot, sweaty, grunting, wild, tangled-up-in-each-other sex ensued.  (I will never get over how amazing our sex life is. Seriously. Best lovers ever.)

 ...I can feel his approach like a fire in my blood.

(This entry brought to you by "Holding Out For a Hero" by Jennifer Saunders. Cute video there, lyrics here.)

Now that I think I'm mostly done processing the overall 'ick' of the Florida Story... It's only fair that I write a little about my beloved husband, and how we came about.  A happy love story to balance my journal out, right?  Sounds good to me. BDSM aside, I still think it's a story that's worth telling.

This entry is inspired by the song above- it's what I've been listening to pretty steadily the past two days- because it reminds me so much of Chris.  So, SO much.  (There's TONS of songs that do, but this one has been speaking to me lately- considering the subject that's mostly occupied my mind these past few weeks.) That, and it's just a neat song. I love this version. Again, technowhore. ;P

Ahem.  So, where to start....?

Chris and I met in... I'm wanting to say 2000ish, when I was 14 and he was 19.  We met on a MUD, two strangers from opposite ends of the country, coming together online and beginning a friendship based on common interests.  He called me frequently over the years, and our phone conversations were never anything but enjoyable.  We got along famously, with enough in common to keep conversation flowing, and enough difference between us to keep it ever-interesting.  I admit, I definitely had a little crush on him, off and on, all throughout- particularly when I was 15-16- but alas, I was jailbait, and across the country, and well... we were just friends.

We roleplayed together on the MUD, chatted online, and on the phone all during my life and travels and through his life's trials as well- sometimes going months without speaking, but never falling out of contact for too long.  Every time we got back in touch, it was as though the hiatus had never happened.  We always picked right back up where we left off- laughing, bantering, sharing, and enjoying each other's conversation.  

He never judged me, even though he was subjected to quite a bit during my oh-so-turbulant teen years- my depression, angst, and drama.  He was always patient and understanding, encouraging and supportive.  He was fond of telling me that my family life "couldn't be -that- bad", and I got the "just suck it up, kid" talk a few times... but it was always just what I needed to hear.  In return, I was a happy and willing audience for his rambling stories, humorous anecdotes, and witty tangents.

This past summer in Oklahoma, right before I went to Florida,  I constantly had the phone attached to my ear.  I spoke with Brel often, as well as another good friend of mine in New Jersey (who I haven't gotten to visit yet.. *pout*), and of course, Chris.  But something seemed to shift between us, and our conversations became longer, and more frequent.  

While I was eagerly anticipating the physical release of my vacation to Florida, and looking forward to all the great things awaiting me in New Jersey, there was something different about my friendship with Chris.  We were talking way more often, and I found myself thinking about him more and more in my daily life.  I sent him text messages a lot from work, while I was on break.  Little messages, just to let him know I was thinking about him, and I hoped he was having a good day.  I looked forward to our chats, and never wanted to hang up the phone.  

Talking to Brel left me jittery and eager; on edge.

Talking to my friend in New Jersey was similar... I felt physically needy/eager- but he left me feeling just as *mentally* stimulated; also, 'short' phone calls for us seemed to always turn into -hours-... hehe.

But with Chris... our conversations just left me feeling. 

I couldn't tell, then, through the rush to completely ignore my heartbreak... deep in the pursuit of the 'feel good'... but I was already falling in love. 

I've been on a 'candy' kick apparently. I woke up today with Aqua's "Candyman" stuck in my head, and promptly ran to the computer to find it on Youtube. The following entry is the result of this random obsession of the day...

Now, I've always had a soft spot in my heart for the song "Candyman" by Aqua. I can't really say why, except... well, come on.
"Oh my love, I know you are my Candyman, and oh my love, your word is my command..."
It's hot. :) And I am kind of a technowhore. Well, okay, I'm a music whore... I won't lie. But I really enjoy techno/dance. A lot.

However, I don't really like the actual video Aqua did... I vastly prefer this Anime Music Video with clips from Sailor Moon.
(Don't judge me. It's still a neat song.)

( Aqua -  )

Christina Aguilera has done it again with her single "Candyman". I just love and adore her voice, it gives me chills. The power and range she has... it just blows me away! She is beautiful, and talented. This really caught my attention- while I was looking around at videos with a 'candy' theme. ;)
It's a uniquely interesting song, with all kinds of different genre elements.. and a uniquely done video, too!
Very 1940s, very hot.

( Christina Aguilera -  )

Not embedding anything for this last one, because I really don't like the rest of the song, like, at all... but I was listening to the radio the other day, and Amanda Perez's new song "Candy Kisses" came on... I ignored most of it, until part of the chorus jumped out and grabbed me. So I thought I'd share. It's too cute.

"... cause he's my, my letter on a rainy day, always seems to take my stress away, he's my sugar daddy, I'm his candy girl, we got the sweetest love in the whole wide world.."

Too, too cute. :)

What good are ghosts in kevlar vests?
With backbones like a jellyfish...

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My sleep schedule has been rearranged, finally.  Just in time for my GED classes!  I'm so proud of myself for this, because it wasn't something Master implicitly ordered- but I knew it would make him happy and proud, and I knew it would help me better both of our lives... so -I- took the initiative.  I'm very, very proud of myself. I think he's proud of me, too.

It's been hard to convince myself to sit down here and finish this. 
I thought, before I started here, that my recent pain and discomfort came from the abuse that was heaped on me while I was with Brel.  I thought the horrible, degrading things he did to me were the cause of my mental instability... but I've learned a harsh, bitter truth throughout this process.  What kills me more than any of those things is my own shame.  I am so ashamed that I stayed as long as I did.  I can only blame myself for that.  I can only blame myself for this -entire experience-.  *I* went there, *I* stayed, *I* allowed all this to happen.  I was stupid enough to stick around.  I completely deserved everything he did to me.  I stayed.  And seeing just how long I stayed, what he had to finally do to me to get me to leave... it's astounding.  My own stupidity is astounding.... and it's a very, very hard pill to swallow.  I want to cry and blame him.  I want to point the finger and accuse him.  I want to play the victim, because it's easier.... but I can't.  It's my own fault...


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November 2006 -  Panama City, FL

On top of the new "rule" that I had to be in bed with him when he went to bed, "or else", he had thrown in a healthy dose of humiliation to go along with all the pain and dominance.  In this hazy in-between of October and November, he started trying to break me down mentally- to better possess me physically. 

A prime example: once, he picked the lock on the bathroom door while I was in there, snapped a picture of me on the toilet, and ran off.  Completely, utterly humiliating.  I cried, I sobbed, I screamed, and eventually I got him to delete it- and apologize even!- but the damage had been done.  That bathroom was the only sanctuary I had in that entire house, the only place I could go, lock the door, and truly be safe and alone.  He had violated that, and -every time- I went into that bathroom after that, I remembered.  It wasn't my space, I wasn't safe, I wasn't alone.  Ever.

Another example was his favorite tool- anal sex.  At this point, my only -real- experience with anal had been forced.  I had been raped, brutally, with no lube, and no sympathy.  It was agonizing, painful, and I hated anything and everything that had to do with my ass.  He took this tender topic and twisted it to his benefit whenever possible- frequently bringing it into play during sex, or even when we were just sitting around hanging out.  He would physically overpower me - it's shocking how easily he could do that, even with me putting up a REAL fight to get away - and brutally begin to fuck me in the ass.  I would fight back the tears, the protests, as much as I could... I didn't want to give him the pleasure of watching me suffer.  But I always broke... I always, always had to submit.  It hurt, and I hated it.  Often he would make me do humiliating things to get him to stop- consent to him taking a video of me giving him head, licking the toilet, etc.  Use your imagination.

All the while I fought with myself, indignant and afraid... the two parts of me constantly warring, loving and hating what he was doing to me.

My friend, Ginger, had come over one evening to visit with me.  I don't remember the events leading up to this memory, but I remember sitting on the bed with Brel, with Ginger standing in the doorway, chatting about (insert topic here)... when Brel put his arm around my neck from behind, in that position that I was all-too-familiar with... I felt him flex- and I reacted the way I always did.  I froze, tried to relax (that makes it easier, it hurts more/makes it harder if you struggle), and sat there- completely and utterly terrified.... and turned on. (But Ginger couldn't tell that last part.)

That was her first clue that all was not right in my relationship.  She was constantly concerned after that- that's when she knew Brel was abusing me, and again, not in the good Las Vegas way.  She asked me about it frequently, offering to help me in any way she could.  She didn't even know the half of it.  At this point, the relationship had moved well beyond my established boundaries, and I accepted it out of fear- and... I don't even know what else.  I really don't know, 100%, WHY I stayed as long as I did.  Lots of little reasons, I guess.  But Ginger knew enough, and I'm thankful she did.

Brel used to joke about killing me.  Starting in my first week there.  He would calmly, evenly tell me that instead of taking me back to the airport, he was going to rape me and strangle me and leave me in a ditch.  This trend continued throughout our short-lived relationship, and the topic of him raping/strangling/killing me if I ever decided to leave was frequently discussed.  He even drove me down by where he said he was originally going to leave me- as though he had planned it all out.  Naturally, he'd have to find another place now, probably out at sea, but.... y'know, these things happen. 

It was just a joke, I'm sure... I highly doubt he ever had any inclination or desire to murder me.  It would be taking too big of a risk with his life and his career- which were the most important things to him.  But even so, hearing things like that, even when 99% sure that it's just a joke.... well, it's a twisted joke, and there's always that 1%.  More mental/emotional control.

I had managed to stomach going to bed with him most nights, and the nights I couldn't, I managed to convince him to let me come into the bedroom whenever I felt sleepy.  We tried to compromise.  It seemed to work, most of the time.

Until one afternoon, early in November... we had the house to ourselves, the roommates all gone to work or play- and no one would be there for hours.  I don't remember what I did.  I must have done something to warrant the treatment I received next, but I've completely forgotten... and I will probably never know.

Before I get into this next scene- which will be the hardest of all for me to write- a tidbit of background information on me that I realize I forgot to mention earlier on.  I love weapons.  I love all forms of weaponry; swords, daggers, bows, crossbows, spears, shields, tridents, whatever.  You name it, I love it.   Except guns.

I.  Hate.  Guns.   I can't explain why, I just do.  I hate the way they look, I hate the way they feel, I hate the way they sound, I hate the damage they do, I hate that anyone can pick one up and pull a trigger and DEAD.  No honor, no skill, no strength, no nothing.  Cowardly and impersonal.  I hate them.  I hate them.  I hate them.  I am irrationally afraid of them, and I think they're disgusting.

I told Brel this before I went to visit- and my first week there, he humored me and kept his gun hidden in a drawer.  Once we decided I was going to live there, it came right back out onto his nightstand.  I just did my best to ignore it.

So, alone with Brel in the house all afternoon/evening.  I knew there were a few errands that needed running, a bank trip and possibly a trip to the store- "I might even beg for a trip to Starbucks, so--- hey, wait? What did I do? What are you doing?"

I was suddenly forced onto the floor, my hands cuffed to a leg of the bed, laying completely prone on my back.  I struggled, but there was no way I was getting up.  He laughed at me, a short, cold laugh.  He pulled my shirt and bra up, twisting and pinching painfully at my nipples.  I winced, biting back against the pain.  He slapped my breasts a few times, and when he was satisfied that I was sore and tender- he went for his gun.

I began to panic. Any part of me that had been turned on by the forcefulness of his actions disappeared. Quickly. Completely.

He slowly pulled it out of the holster, admiring it.  I closed my eyes tightly, terrified, unwilling to watch. I heard some clicking and clinking, and then I felt cold metal against my stomach.

I opened my eyes, positively horrified.  He was slipping the gun into the waistband of my jeans, the tip nudging just beneath my underwear.  The tears started then, as well as the incoherent begging and pleading.  I begged him not to do this.  Begged him to take it out.  I cried.  He laughed.

He left me like that.

I don't know how long he was gone, I really could not tell you... five minutes? Half an hour?  An eternity?  I really have no idea.  My best guess, judging by the errands that we had discussed previously, is probably close to an hour.

But an hour is a long time to lay completely still on the floor, bound, all the while praying desperately that the gun shoved in your pants isn't loaded.

He came back in, finally, and removed the gun.  He continued to tease and torture me, pulling on my nipples, biting and slapping me, causing me great amounts of physical pain to pair with the mental anguish I had suffered.

Then he stood up, and started playing with is gun again.  He talked to me, in a calm and even tone, explaining to me how the gun worked- the bullet and chamber and... well, honestly, I don't remember it all. It was technical, and I was scared and in pain.

What I do remember is him saying, "Now, I've got it fully loaded, but it's an older pistol... so if I cock it like this, and a bullet flies out of this part right here, I know that it loaded correctly, and there's a bullet ready to be fired."  Or something along those lines.
He cocked it.
A bullet came out.
There was one in the chamber, ready to be fired.
He showed me, clearly, that the safety was off.

He teased me with the loaded gun, dragging it along my skin, pointing it at me, freaking me out.  All the while I was bound, but not gagged, so he could hear me sob and plead.  Which, naturally, I did.  I was too afraid to use my safeword.  I'm not even sure I remembered that I had one.

Then he put the gun in my mouth.  And let go.  I was left, balancing the heavy gun with only my tongue, teeth, and the sensitive skin of the top of my mouth.  It hurt, feeling the metal digging into those sensitive parts, and I began to sob. I must have looked a total mess, a blubbering pile of fear, tears, and snot, with a gun sticking out of my mouth, barely balanced.  It was heavy and cold... and ugly.  And loaded.

He began to talk again, as always: calm and even, but darker now. He explained the physics of guns, how they worked, what it took to fire a bullet from a gun. He knew that I was completely ignorant, and graciously warned me that if I were to turn my head and try to spit it out- the force of the fall would likely ignite the gun, and if it did, I'd wind up getting shot... and we didn't want bloodstains on the carpet.

So he watched me there, bordering on pissing my pants, and laughed.  Teased and tormented me some more, playing with my breasts and pussy while I tried to keep myself under at least enough control to keep from getting myself shot.

Eventually, I'm not sure how long after, he took the gun by the handle, said... I don't even know what, I was far too afraid to be paying attention....

And he pulled the trigger, with the gun still in my mouth.

Now, you see this happen in movies sometimes- you think a gun is loaded, but it isn't, and you see the trigger pulled while the gun is in someone's face... and they're jolted, look a little freaked out, but they get over it.

Oh my god, FUCK Hollywood.

I am very, very surprised that I didn't lose bladder control.  I was more afraid in that moment than I have ever been in my entire life... I had no idea that it wasn't loaded.  In fact, he had made a big to-do about it, showing me that it -was- loaded...

I broke.  I sobbed, I screamed, I begged, I pleaded, and I submitted.  Completely.  For the first (and so far, last) time.

He was apparently incredibly turned on at this point (and looking back, I guess it is kind of a hot story- if it would've happened to someone else >.<) and uncuffed me, forcing me to bend over the bed.  Then, he demanded that I -beg- him to fuck me.

What else could I do?  I was broken.  Done.  I was pliable and submissive and his.  Completely.

He fucked me, -hard-, for about ten minutes- obviously he was VERY turned on by the ordeal- whirled me around, shoved his cock in my mouth, ordered me to swallow every drop of his seed, and then casually pulled me into the shower and began the unwinding-from-a-scene process.  Like nothing had happened.

After 30 minutes in the shower, mostly spent just standing under the hot water, I looked at him- shaking and seething just below the surface..

"Okay. Seriously. That wasn't cool.  At all.  I seriously don't ever want you to do anything like that ever again."
He looked at me, grinning a half-crooked grin, "Well, I can't promise it won't ever happen again...."
I immediately spit back, "Then I can't promise I'll stick around."
He shrugged, obviously not phased in the least, "You can't really promise you'll stick around -anyway-."

This was the beginning of the end.   I left him about a week later.

The week leading up to the fight that caused me to leave... well, it's uneventful.  More of the same.  He tightened his fist, and changed the rule from, "If you're not in bed with me, you might as well pack your bags."-- and other assorted, super-controlling demands.  I started spending more time with Ginger, and another co-worker, Thomas.  He didn't like that, either.

Either way, after a painful week of fighting and struggling, I finally left.

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I got drunk one night, and spilled to Ginger and a co-worker of mine what he had done to me, they encouraged me to leave.  Without their encouragement and support, I don't know what I would have done.

I also spilled to a friend of my now husband/Master's.  The same goes for him.

Between Ginger, Thomas (my co-worker), my supervisor, and the rest of my Best Buy family- I was well taken care of when I left Brel.  I moved in with Ginger, and everyone took very, very good care of me.  I wish there was something I could do to thank them, now.  But what can I do?  Send a gift basket?  That hardly covers it.  I am, forever, in their debt.

When I had to leave Florida due to lack of a place to stay (lots and lots of drama involving Ginger's family whom she was renting her house from), I was heartbroken.  I loved it there, I loved my job, I loved Florida... but Master and his friend helped me relocate to Massachusetts.  I was very, very excited to meet Chris (Master)- after so many years of friendship... and then, well, one thing lead to another.

We were married in January- but that's a whole other weird, funny, fucked up story... for another entry.

I expected to feel better after getting all of that out.  I guess I'm a little relieved.  Now I'm off to do something considerably less emotionally-taxing... maybe listen to some music.

I can't procrastinate any more. I can't.  My sleep schedule has been totally destroyed by the nightmares, of which I'm having fewer now thanksforasking, but I still have this aching, heaviness in my chest that I know won't go away until I'm done. It's time for October. I'm halfway done- but this is where it gets hard.

I've gotta get into the mindset of writing again. I feel like I'm forcing every word out of me, like squeezing water from a rock. :\

"What good are ghosts in kevlar vests?", "ghostsinkevlar", and all of my entry subjects up to this point are assorted lyrics from a band called Fair to Midland that I've been rather obsessed with as of late. I can't explain why I love them as much as I do, but there have only been 4 bands in my life to touch me this way. Usually, when I decide I like music, it's one song... or maybe even a select few songs... by a particular artist. In any genre, I'm not really picky, I like it all. But for some reason, this entire album speaks to me, and I adore it. Fourth time it's ever happened, and it's neat. You should check them out.

This entry is inspired and brought to you by "Vice/Versa" by Fair to Midland.

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October 2006 - Panama City, Florida

I thought my life was looking up when I got the job at Best Buy. It would soothe my bruised ego, piece together my shattered self-image, rebuild the ideal of "equal partnership" Brel and I had originally come into this relationship sharing. I just knew it. And I was getting paid more an hour than I had ever made before to stand around talking about computers all day. What's not to like? It seemed like the perfect opportunity. I loved everyone I worked with, I loved the work, the hours, everything.

And it was great, for the first two or three weeks. Things were running smoothly, the power exchange stayed (mostly) in the bedroom, and I was content. The days were getting shorter and cooler, the crisp beauty and serenity of Autumn both calmed and re-energized me. I reaffirmed to myself that this was, indeed, where I wanted to be. I absolutely loved and adored Panama City, Best Buy, and Brel. I was happy, and I was home.

Then, suddenly, there was a shift. A violent, abrupt shift. Looking back, I can't say what, precisely, triggered it. Was it my paycheck? My ego and self-image being rebuilt? My happiness with work, my ability to escape his control? The fact that I had made a friend?

Oh, yeah. I made a friend. A real friend. Her name was Ginger, and I adored her.

She worked in Appliances, which was a neighbor of the Computer department- and my first thought when I saw her was, "Wow. She's... really, really cute." and immediately, a girl-crush was born. Unfortunately, while she had bi-curious tendencies, apparently I was stuck in the friend/sister zone. C'est la vie. However, we did form a fast and trusting friendship- we hung out a few times, always chatted at work, talked on the phone, etc. It was lovely. Apparently Brel didn't approve- though he never quite said so outright.

Ginger had her suspicions about mine and Brel's relationship early on- especially into that third week of working, roughly the second week of October. I had bruises regularly, and usually, visible ones. On my arms and my neck, from where he'd grabbed, pinched, or bit. I laughed them off whenever they were noticed at work, shrugging and smiling, "My boyfriend is Army Infantry, and trains MMA and other UFC-type fighting/grappling stuff. We wrestle around a lot, and I get bruises. It's no big deal. I bruise easy." - and it was, basically, the truth.  No one thought much of it.

Someone in another department would notice a mark on my neck, and joking scold, "You need to tell your boyfriend to leave those hickeys a little lower!"

The part of me, that small, sick part of me that enjoyed every last bit of what was happening to me smirked, "....It's not a hickey.   .... It's a bruise."

But due to all of these things, the control started slipping into every day life again. There had been a shift, and little did I know, but it was the point of no return.  Brel's schooling at the Police Academy had stepped up in difficulty, as did his drill weekend that month, leaving him impatient and irritable. My work schedule interfered a lot when it came to his desire to "spend time with me", which made him even more particular about how our time was spent when we were together. My medical condition started flaring up again around this time as well, an unfortunate byproduct of lots o' stress. I started getting sicker. Yes, things were definitely slipping. Quickly.

I still could never win a fight.  Ever.  I never walked away from a single argument feeling justified or appeased.  I never got a sincere apology.  He was -always- right, even when he was completely, utterly wrong. And we started fighting a lot. I was stretching my wings, enjoying my newfound freedom with Best Buy and my new friend. For example, if I didn't have to, I didn't want to go to bed early. I'm a night owl, I really enjoy staying up late and sleeping late. It's natural for me. I think I'm actually nocturnal... :) But Brel didn't like me staying up late, doing GOD knows what with our roommates, or with people online. He was particularly jealous of a number of people I spoke to online, on a MUD I frequent. He wanted me in his bedroom, in his bed, whenever he was. Period.

I balked and railed at this, naturally.  "It's not MY fault you're insecure. I haven't given you a damn reason to think I'm unfaithful."  The most I'd ever done was flirt socially with a friend online, and had never, EVER flirted or made suggestive conversation with his roommates. Ever.  But insecure he was, and he was -certain- that if he went to bed alone, and I stayed up for another few hours, that the only logical reason for this was because I wanted to fuck our roommates. Yeah.  Totally, crazily, ohmygod irrational.

We had a lot of fights about that, and who I talked to online/about what.  It was "inappropriate behavior".  I shouldn't want to stay up late to hang out with other people.  They were inconsequential.  I should want to go to bed with him, cater to him, pamper, please, and serve him. Because if we were really partners, then he should be my priority - just like I was his priority. Right?

It's a compelling argument when it's being wielded by someone as unwavering and charismatic as Brel. Completely irrational and and extreme- but with just enough of an undertone of truth and sanity and idealism that I could never come up with a reasonable, logical rebuttal. I always, always lost.

Sometimes I bent, sometimes I didn't. Sometimes I'd take my laptop into the bedroom and lay in bed next to him, surfing the web or talking to friends while he slept. It was uncomfortable, but it was better than fighting. Sometimes I stayed up anyway- when he didn't physically force me to do otherwise, but I always apologized... and always felt like the big loser.

One night I had managed to stay up without him, and was hanging out with the two roommates and a friend of theirs, out on the back porch drinking and puffing away on our cancer sticks, enjoying the cool Autumn evening.
Beth, the friend of the roomies, was a very outspoken and dominant, forceful personality. Friendly, extroverted, and fun. (In small-to-moderate doses) She quipped, obviously a bit buzzed, "I don't let nobody or nothin' control my life but me! -I- control -my- life."
My roommates laughed, one of them adding, "My son controls a lot of my life, but past that, it's all me."
The other shrugged, agreeing with Beth that he was in full control of his life.

I stared for a moment, pondering. I took a sip of my beer, a drag off my cigarette, and without even realizing it, I spoke.
"Brel controls my life."

It was a simple statement, and it chilled me to the bone.  "What?!" I screamed silently to myself, "Do you hear yourself, Rina? Do you HEAR what you just SAID? Not only to yourself, but to these PEOPLE?! You're pathetic!  Why are you letting him DO this to you?"

But as they all stared at me, Beth shaking her head sympathetically, "That ain't right.".... that small part of me tingled, warm and excited by the prospect. (I recognize that now to be what I've heard others refer to as the "slave spirit", I think. It was waking up.)
After a few moments of disbelief from all of them, and a few gentle words to try and convince me that I wasn't living a very healthy lifestyle, we changed the subject. 

But that moment is forever etched and burned into my brain. 

That night, I had acknowledged and accepted that I was, systematically, relinquishing control of my life, my -entire life-, to Brel... and it set me on edge, creating an internal conflict between the independent Rina I had always been and the dark, secretly well-contained desires to be a 'kept woman', a 'submissive', a 'slave', a 'pet'... which became considerably less well-contained; causing more stress, more complications, more discomfort and doubt.

I got sicker.

All the while, the pressure points, joint locks, nerve strikes, and other assorted extremely painful techniques continued to be applied- and intensified. If I defied him in any way, in front of the roommates or otherwise, it was always pain.  Pain-compliance.  Always.  Like I was one of his subordinates, or one of the many misguided youths he was responsible for at the Panama City boot camp for juvenile offenders. (He wasn't involved in that boy's death, but his chosen career-fields say something about his character, hm?)

The more pain-compliance he used on me, the more I -made- him use. I was indignant and angry, insulted and degraded, which is just what he wanted me to be- but I wasn't going to make it easy on him. I was going to fight, tooth and nail, every step of the way. And I did. Pushing myself to my limits, pushing him until I couldn't push any more. I never, EVER submitted easily to him. Ever. Every submission was a fight, and often it was intense. It was always painful. Often, excruciatingly so. It was my way of fighting against myself, as well.  I hated the voices in my head.

---  "Of COURSE I don't like this.  How could I?  This man has raped me, beaten me, choked me into unconsciousness, controlled me, and ABUSED me! Oh god, make it stop!"  
---  "But you're still here.  You like it.  See, when he wraps his arm around your neck like that, and squeezes... just that little bit, look.  You're helpless. You're soaking wet.  You're a liar, and a slut, and you deserve everything he gives you for being such a liar and a slut."
--- "No!!! No! NO!  I DON'T like this, I DON'T want this.  I LOVE him, I -ache- for him, I've seen his pain, I've FELT his pain... I've cradled him and adored him, helped him and supported him, been his friend and his lover... I don't want this, but I can't just leave him.  I love it here, I'm happy here..."  
--- "You don't want to leave because you like it."
--- "No, I really, really don't.  I hate it!  But I like it here, and when it's normal, Brel and I get along so well..."
--- "You want him to hurt you.  All the time.   You want to be put in your place.  You want him to break you.  To push you.  Admit it, you filthy, lying, slut."
--- "NO!"


I learned quickly that he hated pain, and any little bit of pain that I inflicted back on him sent him into a rage. This became my downfall on more than once occasion, because it brought me great joy for that split second to see him recoil in pain that -I- had inflicted.  I almost always regretted my decision afterwards, as he found new, creative ways to make me suffer for my disobedience.

He never struck me, you know.  Not outside of the bedroom, that is.  I got slapped in the face a few times during sex, but he never, ever raised a hand to me outside of that. (Unless he was punching me, repeatedly, in the same spot on my arms or legs- stupid nerve strikes)  I kind of wish he would've, because I would have left much, much sooner if he had.  But he knew this, and instead, I had to learn the hard way.

One night we were both free and clear of responsibilities, and had the entire evening together to hang out. We decided to play World of Warcraft, and we were having a grand time until I came across a small group of strangers who were roleplaying (I play on RP servers, I'm a REALLY big nerd) and I just had to join in.  Brel joined as well, being an exceptionally talented roleplayer himself, but quickly became bored with it and wanted to go do other things- quest, grind, farm, whatever.  He ran off, but I stayed, enjoying the social aspect of the game, and making new friends. One of the guys in the group I was chatting with offered to take me to get better equipment, since I was a low level and poor (being on a different server than my main).  Brel threw a -fit-.  Quiet one, at first, but a fit nonetheless. He logged off, and went into the other room, making it clear that he was displeased, but not outright telling me anything.  He just sulked off.

"Fine.  You want to throw a temper tantrum instead of communicating with me, you go right ahead.  I don't know what's wrong with you, and I don't care.  I'm having fun," I thought.

I didn't get to think that way for long, before he came out in full-on rage.  He began berating me for "leaving" him for "another guy", irritated that I was willing to flirt (even though I really wasn't) with some stranger just to get better equipment, when I could easily just keep playing with him and eventually get the same result.  He was so angry and offended that I had dared to want to talk to someone other than him, when he was obviously only playing this stupid game because he wanted to spend time with me.  Also, I was the worst girlfriend in the history of girlfriends for not logging off when he did, and immediately rushing into the other room to make sure he was okay/ask what was wrong.  "I made it very obvious that something was wrong, and you completely ignored it.  You didn't even ask me if I was okay."

I fired back with everything I had, I was determined not to lose this time. This was just RIDICULOUS. I raised my voice, and started making low blows.
 "I am not a damned mind-reader. I will NOT follow you if you leave a room; obviously you're leaving for a reason. If you want to talk to me, then fucking talk to me. I will not chase you down to drag something out of you. It's not MY fault your mother never paid attention to you as a kid.  It's not MY fault she cared more about meeting guys on the internet than taking care of you. Don't take that shit out on me. I'm not your goddamned property, and if I want to talk to some stranger on some game to get better equipment, instead of spending EVERY FUCKING SECOND with you, you'll just have to GET OVER IT."

Needless to say, he didn't like that... at all. A dining room chair got thrown across the room in my general direction, which unsettled me. Which was the desired effect, I'm sure.  He yelled, fumed, stomped, threatened... and I went outside to smoke a cigarette, to try to calm down.

Long story short, I wound up apologizing for that fight, too. I also wound up paying for it.  Dearly.  I think this was the last fight that cemented his desire to control me, to manipulate me into the mold he wanted me to fill.  To work me into shape, to fill the spot his ex-wife had vacated.

And I continued to get sicker.

It was shortly after this fight, and sometime in the hazy in-between of October and November that he decided if I wasn't going to go to bed with him, I could sleep on the couch... because he was tired of waking up every time I came to bed late.... and that set the tone for the two weeks or so of November that I stayed with him before he finally pushed me too far.

Who's a happy, lucky, little brat?  Me!!

X is off work for the next THREE days!

So not only do I get to spend quality time with the love of my life, but I'll be done with my wretched Aunt Flo', and I get an -excuse- to procrastinate on finishing The Florida Story™.

I may or may not write October between now and Monday- but it's likely I won't be writing anything. (Except maybe some smut if I feel particularly inspired this weekend. ;P)

Ta, and enjoy the weekend!

So, I asked Chris this morning when we got out of the shower what he wanted me to call him here.  He jokingly responded "X", which is how he signs his name to just about everything online.  So, fine.  One-letter names are kind of weird, but X works.  It stands for "Christ", too, and his name is "Christopher"... so I guess I'm okay with it.

X it is.  You asked for it.  *sticks tongue out*

I can't wait for X to come home so I can beg him to go shopping.  This period won't last forever (hopefully only another day or two) and when it's done, I want to be ready for some fun!

I really need to write October, I need to stop procrastinating.  Not that anything -drastic- happened in October, but it was definitely the crescendo leading to the crash in November.  Ugh, but it always upsets me.  The problem with wanting to re-live this abusive, dramatic point in my life is the fact that... well, I have to re-live it!  These emotions have been stuck, buried, corked, and locked inside of me... it's time to let them out, so I can process them.

But it hurts.  NOT in the good Las Vegas way, either.

Maybe I'll do it later, or tomorrow.

I feel myself slowly regressing from my recent surge of, "Yay! I'm going to write! More than I've written in... well, years! Whee!"

I don't want to regress.  I really, really don't want to.  So, I'm forcing myself to write something, like Chris (my husband/Master *teehee!*) says: don't get it right, get it written.  So, I'm gonna.

All the nightmares and stress and etc. have left me getting very, very little sleep lately- and at very odd times. I have no semblance of anything remotely resembling a schedule.  It's frustrating, on multiple levels for multiple reasons.  Sleep deprivation has a powerful effect on the mind!  I've discovered that first hand.  Who needs drugs?  Sheesh.  However, last night thankfully brought some relief.  The nightmares persisted, but I was just literally -too exhausted- to care.  I slept, I slept, and I slept.  Twelve whole hours.  I felt really lethargic and 'bleh' when I finally woke up- and was made even more miserable when I realized it was 5pm.

Uuuugggnnnhhhh.


I'm never going to get to sleep tonight.  I'm never going to have a schedule again.  I'm fucked.  Downright doomed.

Speaking of, I need to endeavor to look for really cheap/some assembly required toy ideas.  The "cane" (stick of some variety that I picked up somewhere that -HURTS-) and the leather belt (which I like -way- more than the cane) are lovely, but I need some variety.  I see all these toyboxes on other blogs, and I admit, it makes me jealous... Suggestions?

((Edit:: Okay, not fair to Chris, he's not -that- mean.  We have rope and handcuffs, and I have a vibrator.  I'm not totally toyless... I'm not that deprived. I really want a gag of some variety, more whippy/stingy/floggy thingies, and clamps.  I've never played with clamps before.  Anybody got a suggestion for a not-too-evil set of nipple clamps for a newbie?))

Also, there's a lot of weirdness going on in my head about what to call Chris/husband/Master here. Maybe I should ask him? He'll probably just tell me to call him whatever I want.  He's "Chris" to me, pretty solidly.. you know, for like, 7 years.  Master is still really new and kind of weird to me, just typing it... saying it IRL is easier, and flows really well/feels really good to say... but even then we only really use it when we're in certain moods. (That might change with time.) Then there's the petnames... he's "Dear", "Darling", and "Honey" more than anything else-... 'my husband' and 'Sir' just seem very impersonal.  I have absolutely no idea... Who knew this would be so complicated?

Completely not-so-random thought of the day:
Is it easier to build a relationship when the D/s dynamic is introduced from the start, or to transition it carefully into an existing, previously 'equally balanced' relationship? Is it "better" to do it one way or another?
 ("healthier", "more stable", whatever your definition of "better" is. Please elaborate.)   Why or why not? 

I understand the "right" answers to these questions are, simply, "It depends on the person/relationship." and I don't mind that answer, but I want more.  I was going to task myself to answer those questions tomorrow, but it's 6am... I might as well stay up until Chris wakes up, and keep him company in the shower and until he goes to work.  So, more ramblings from someone who, really, shouldn't be anywhere near a keyboard right now. My answers:

I have a hard time answering those questions decisively, because both forms of entering into a BDSM lifestyle offer pros and cons.  Now, having said that...

Knowing and understanding the power exchange beforehand seems like it would be 'easier' to me.

Not to say that it wouldn't be difficult, there's always the problematic "groundwork" to lay...  Figuring out where pleasures lie, where issues lie, where the lines and borders and desires and fears and buttons are.  Not to mention just adapting to each other and discovering each other as humans- fetish stuff aside.  But, you have the added comfort of knowing you are both going into it with the same state of mind, sharing desires that run closely in the same vein... even if there are variations and discrepancies in those desires, with honesty and open communication they can be compromised.

On the flip side, when you are attempting to transition BDSM lifestyle into an existing relationship, there's a lot of fear.  For example, in my situation, I have 7 years of a wonderful, strictly platonic (except for me crushing off and on) friendship added to 9 months of randomly being blissfully, ridiculously, spontaneously, overwhelmingly, happily saturated in the joys of being MADLY in love.  Words cannot convey to you how this man makes me feel, and never will.  But because we have all of this... Introducing this new, unusual, wild card into our relationship has left me feeling shaky.  I feel bad for that, somehow like I'm betraying him... I'm pushing so hard for it, it seems.. I'm so needy, and demanding (yesterday was -not- a pretty day, but I don't want to talk about that) that I don't know how he hasn't just gotten fed up with me yet. 
He reassures me that he's interested, he has his reasons for what he's doing, relax, it's fine, we're fine... etc. etc.  But it's still really difficult.  I don't really feel like we're forcing it so much, but we're still very awkwardly (and really, humorously) trying to figure out how we fit together now.  We worked really well together and made a great team while we were vanilla in our daily lives with kinky sprinkles in the bedroom; can we still work together that amazingly with a real power shift?  I sure hope so.  Does some huge part of me wish we'd have just started the power shift thing 7 years ago? GOD YES! *laughs*  I really think it'd be easier.

Is it better to do it this way?  I'm not too sure.  To cheat and use the answer I didn't want to hear, "it depends on the people."  Or more specifically, it depends on what you're looking for. An existing, healthy vanilla-lifestyle relationship will come pre-packaged with a very strong sense of respect and partnership, making it the "better" option for someone seeking those elements to be primary in their relationship. Not to say that this relationship would be more stable, though, nor necessarily even healthier. 

When the lines are clearly established and the power is securely distributed early in the relationship, I would imagine that would make things run a lot smoother. It seems like it would offer a more healthy environment for the relationship to grow and develop the respect, partnership, and affection from the sturdy foundation originally set by the power exchange. It would bring more security, more certainty, more comfort. Transitioning is definitely one of the most emotionally chaotic experiences I've ever encountered, despite how well my husband and I communicate with each other.  Or maybe I'm just a unique case because of what a fucking bratty little slut I am.  I don't know. 

I can't say which way is "better", because they both offer quite a bit in the way of perks and drawbacks.  I dig that Chris and I have a lot of love, admiration, and respect for each other that has been building for years... but the fear of this wild card turning against us somehow really shakes me to my core, and has introduced some insecurity into my relationship.  That's not healthy, and I'm damn determined to work through it so both of us come out better and happier for it.

What do you think?  What do your friends/family members/Masters/subs think?  Are you/they biased by your/their own relationships?  (Success/failure stories welcomed and encouraged! I wanna do a freakin' study, heh.)

 What about if you're just introducing a playstyle? Ever start a vanilla relationship and then try to get them into BDSM? How'd that work? Easier/better to meet someone you know is BDSM up front, and go from there? Tell me, I want to know!  Comment, or please feel free to take the question and write about it yourself.  :)

Have you ever gone searching for a word before, only to find that the word you needed simply did not exist within this language, or any other you were familiar with? Let me describe the meaning of the word I'm looking for, and then make a bold move that only a philosopher would dare make: suggest a word that might fulfill the meaning I've described.

Within each of us is a delicate balance to be recognized as an individual and to have a sense of belonging to the whole of humanity around us and the whole of life around us. To illustrate in simpler terms, if we were with but one other person, the discussion would run something like this: "I wish to be recognized as me, independent of you, a separate thing, worthy of recognition, and praise. But because I recognize you as such a thing as well, being independent and praiseworthy, I care more that such self-recognition of me comes from you. I wish to feel importance within your eyes, a sense of understanding and acceptance for my shortcomings, and a sense of recognition for my achievements. I wish to give all of this to you as well, so that you might know that I am here and that I might know that you are here."

The terms of "individuality", "belonging", "mercy", "acceptance" and "love" all seem to go in here. But all of them are so hopelessly loaded and lost in other meanings that to use them to adequately describe this sense of the basic human emotional, intellectual, and spiritual need would be too lengthy to be of any use. Rather, I would propose that the word that best fits this sense is this: "Theoros". (Granted, it's not a word that would get thrown around in regular conversation, but hear me out..)

To look at its roots briefly, theos - referring to a personal god, a divine being who is intimately concerned with the affairs of men. eros - referring to erotic desire and personal drive towards union (often physical). That is really what is going on.. we have seen the divinity of another and our own divinity, desire to have that divinity seen with us and shared. We desire to bring our divinity together with theirs.
I could go into long dialogs on how it is no strange coincidence that man looked to god for his purpose and fulfillment in the ancient days. How much easier is it to take that than it is to sit down and work through this union of the divine with another fallible human? But we cannot stay infants forever. If there is a personal god, it is clear that he desires for us to seek this theoros with one another, for he would not have placed the need so strongly within us if he did not. If there is not, how much more do we need this union from one another? Let us cling to it all the more strongly, abandoning it for nothing.

What about you?  Do you have a word you think better encompasses the meaning I've assigned?  Other thoughts?

Go on, paint the whole town red.
I'd rather follow who cleans up the mess,
And so I will.

After a long, open, honest conversation with my husband, we've decided to give this 24/7 lifestyle thing a try.  He still doesn't want to jump in too quickly, because he doesn't want either of us find ourselves in over our heads, and despite being impatient and demanding and wanting it -now-, I agree and understand.  See, this is why I wanted to do this in the first place!  He's very responsible and practically-minded, where I'm... well, I'm all about the "feel-good".  I'm far, far too hedonistic for my own good.  Left to my own devices, I'm actually pretty worthless.  (He'd disagree, I'm sure, but I really am a huge disappointment most of the time, I think.)

He does have hesitations though, but he shared them with me... and if there's anyone out there (I'm slowly working up the courage to approach random people and get some kink/taboo-friendly friends here) who can help with advice, I'd sure appreciate it.  The biggest deal-breaker he mentioned, and his biggest fear, is losing his respect for me.  I get that.  I mean, 24/7 power-exchange type relationship... he's afraid of looking at me one day, and instead of seeing his love and his cherished pet who he occasionally likes to objectify for pleasure, actually seeing me as an object, thus in his mind, losing my value to him as a mate.

It's all very strange, now that we're really doing it, not just "what-if"ing about my fantasies.  Where is that thin line that he's talking about?  How far down can we go before one of us has to come back up?
He doesn't, at any point, want to look at me and genuinely lose respect for me as a human being.  I get that.  I get how it could happen.  My dilemma comes in figuring out how we can avoid it, but not lose the fun and purpose of the power exchange in the first place.  What do -I- do, as his wife and pet, to avoid this fate?
He doesn't want a slave, he doesn't want me to lose my independence.  He doesn't want to ever look at me and feel that I am truly inferior to him, or feel that I've become worthless to him.  He wants to continue to be able to respect me, love me, and relate to me... even with the power shift. 
I think I'm okay with this, I'm not thinking that it should be a problem.  I'm hoping it won't be.
I guess to keep him from losing respect for me, we'll just have to keep the conversations flowing, right?  I don't think I'll be calling him 'Master' on a constant basis, or always asking his permission for things/questioning his opinions/etc.  I'll just have to work it out and learn by trial-and-error what things he wants me to submit to, and what things he doesn't.  It'll be fun, right?  Right.

On a positive note, it all really hit home tonight over at this couple's house we frequent.  Frankie and Sharon are probably our best friends here, the people we spend the most time with.  They're -kinda- kink friendly, so at least I get a girl I can giggle and gossip with sometimes. :)  Anyway, we were doing a load of laundry over there because we're broke and apartment-living.  Usually when we do laundry over there, he takes care of it- not sure why, just does.  (Okay, I know why. I'm a huge brat, and he spoils me rotten.) But tonight, he just looked at me and said, "You should go check our laundry." - simply, and subtly, but with that look and that tone.  I wrinkled my nose and pouted at him.  He lowered his head, raising his eyebrows, and I about melted.  I pouted and sulked and stomped all the way into the garage to move the laundry over, and the whole time I was throwing our wet clothes into the dryer I was complaining in my head, "Ugh, it's HOT out here.  It smells funny.  My back hurts, going back and forth like this is hard work.  Their washer and dryer are oddly spaced apart.  Meh, this isn't fun at all."  and honestly, when I went back in the house and sat down afterwards, I just felt so glowingly pleased with myself.  When our friends had left the room, he smiled at me and asked very sweetly, "Did you put the clothes in the dryer when you went out there?"  I grinned and replied proudly, "Yep.  I did!"

It was such a great feeling.  A feeling of 'right'ness.  I really want this to work.

Afterwards, when we went to pick up some odds and ends at Wal-Mart, I asked if we could mosey through the pet department... just to look.  We browsed the dog collars, and WOW!  There were some really, really cute fashion dog collars with matching leashes and everything!  (Seriously, said 'fashion collar' right on the cardboard!) Cheaper than a lot of collars and leashes I've seen online... and cuter than a lot of them, too. I really, REALLY wanted one, but I know we can't afford it quite right now.  Ol' well, I'll have to wait.  But I really, really want my collar. :\   (Brat.)

And on a slightly different note, something I feel I should mention... another pro to this lifestyle will be that it will really teach me to be less of a spoiled brat!  I have some confessions to make, and they won't be pretty, or easy to admit.  But the thing that really appeals to me about this lifestyle, more than anything else, is how real, open, honest, and out-there you really have to be with yourself, and with your Master... the only way to really make it work, and have it be fun, healthy, and productive.

So, as a fun little way to start the new lifestyle, here's 15 Confessions!  Forgive me, Master, for I am flawed. :P  (-Very- flawed.)


I really am a brat, and hopefully, with my husband (and new Master!!) to help me, I can overcome these character flaws and instead of him looking at me and losing respect- he'll gain even more, because I'll be trying to better myself, under his guidance, both for his sake, and mine, and for our future life together. :)

Yay!  Now it's time for Master's pet to think about crawling into bed... I told him I wouldn't stay up until 5am again tonight, and... oops. :(  Sigh. Stupid nightmares... I'm actually, legitimately, too scared to sleep..

Ol' well, I'll try anyway.

I think I'm going to continue slacking today- I really should write October, but I don't want to.  I look at the story I've written so far, and it's so jumbled... I can barely make sense of it myself, much less expect anyone else to get anything out of it.  I'm starting to question why I've bothered to make this journal in the first place.  Is it making me feel better to get it all out?  Not really.  Not yet.  I keep hoping that once it's all done, once it's all out... that I'll feel better.  But the more I look at it, the more I realize that I really won't.  I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad I'm getting it out of my system one way or another, it's better than nothing I'm sure... but it seems pointless.  The real problem is, I keep defeating myself with negative thoughts like, "No one's going to read it anyway. Why does it matter?" -  "Even if someone does manage to sit there long enough to read your crap, no one's going to care."  Then I feel just like that little girl again, screaming into the internet for attention- any kind of attention will do, thanks.

Ugh.

How did people write journals just for the sake of writing journals?  It puzzles me.  Why would you write something if you don't want anyone to read it?  It's always seemed silly to me, which is why I've always sucked at keeping a real journal.  My online journals tend to become networking tools, a means to keep in touch with people and keep tabs on them as opposed to places for me to really branch out and feel comfortable expressing myself.  Mostly, if I'm going to express myself at all, I sit down with someone and -talk- about it.  How I feel, why I feel that way, etc.  But there are times (lots of times!) when I can't do that.  Either because I just don't want to -talk- about whatever it is I'm feeling, or because there's no one around I feel right talking to.  I love my husband, more than anything, our relationship is practically my -everything-... but y'know, there's just some things I don't want to talk to him about.  Or can't talk to him about.  There's even -more- stuff I don't want to talk to my friends about.... if I told them half of what goes on in my head, or even a fraction of what happened in Florida, I really don't know how they'd react.  It's hard to keep a lot of this inside my head... I'm such a social person, I -need- human contact and communication.  I need that feeling of togetherness, and I'm aware enough of myself to admit it.  I'm needy.

It may be 'wrong', I may be 'unhealthy'- maybe I should learn how to be comfortable and happy by myself... but WHY?  I don't want to.  I like people, I like having people around me (irl and/or online), I like being able to connect with people.  Superficial conversation is for acquaintances, I can do with or without that.  What I crave, what I need, is real, solid, steady human contact.  People I can connect with, be open with.  If that's wrong, then I don't want to be right.  I need validation, I need reassurance, I need respect and affection and acceptance.  It's just how I'm made.

Anyway, the point I was trying to make with that is (man, I'm verbose!) that I want this journal to -stay- a place for me to write.  About life, feelings, myself, people I care about.  I want this one to work, damnit.

So here goes, random thing on my mind today. 
I haven't been cutting my story, and I will continue that trend.  But regular entries like this that might get a little lengthy, (little? I've already written a novel!) I'll go ahead and cut for any potential reader's sanity.

Variation on a Safe Word

While contemplating the use of a "safe word" in BDSM play, I remembered reading a journal of a woman who was actively the "slave" in a 24/7 Master/slave relationship (one of many I read these days)- consensually living a life of discipline, punishment, and service.  Who was loving every minute of it.   ...Almost. 

There were often communication difficulties, and initial friction in establishing likes and dislikes, ways of understanding each other on a human level enough to make their lifestyle feasible, fun, and safe, and the slave in particular had difficulty with wrapping her head around the fact that there were some things that her Master needed to know that were -really really important- to her, and it seemed that when she tried to tell him those things, he took her as being petulant and bratty and headstrong, and it always made bad situations worse.  The drama eventually got worked out, but the process was a lot more painful (not in the good Las Vegas way) than it should have been (mostly emotionally) - that even though the damage healed, and their relationship continued to thrive... it was still an unnecessary situation... if there was just a way to communicate clearly, respectfully, humbly, but honestly!

A "safe word" defeats the purpose, right? "Topping from the bottom."  The traditional, "sub is really the one in control" line.  But that's not why they were doing this, it was a -total- power exchange.  A better high, you might say.  For whatever reason, it fit for them and that's how they wanted it.  So a safeword is right out.   None of that.

I find myself these days steadily drawn to these types of lifestyles- addicted to reading the blogs of people who are in them.  I understand that most of the ones I love to read about are far, far too hardcore for me... I'm really not built to be a slave.  I'm more the pampered pet type- definitely around to please Master, definitely gets punished when it's needed, but also fairly independent.  I like free will, I like choices.  I just also like having those interrupted sometimes.  So I need to compromise a "safe word" somehow in my mind...

I was given three tasks today by my husband, but due to a monthly visitor and other such unpleasantries, I was excused from them.  Though a firm beating was implied, it hasn't been expressly stated.  I don't feel well after writing my -last- entry, I'm cranky and sore and sick feeling, a beating would just rile me up again and make it worse.  Maybe after I've curled up with my husband and feel better- it would be more enjoyable later tonight.  But how to communicate that to him, clearly, but respectfully? Without sounding bratty? (That's a HUGE issue I have.  I am -SUCH- a brat.)

"Seriously" has always been a happy safeword for me.  It works so well, really. It's versatile, concise, and easy.
"Seriously, I really don't feel like getting spanked right now, okay? It'd make a bad situation worse. Just let me curl up here for a while, and we'll go from there." --  That can sound bitchy, terse, and has a sting of rejection. Demanding. For the woman I described earlier, it probably wouldn't get her much of anywhere. More beatings for being a brat about it. Particularly if it's punishment.  In my situation?  My husband wouldn't press it, he'd understand, but there is still the undertone of rejection, command/control, bitchyness.  I still want to avoid that. So... would this work?

"Seriously, because of the day I've had, that would make a bad situation worse. I'd like to just curl up and relax with you for a little while first, if you don't mind. Naturally, I won't argue or fight you if you demand it now anyway. I understand. I'm just communicating my feelings to you and being honest. I'm a little broken right now, and I'd like to get centered emotionally before you help me center myself mentally. I'm sorry?"

The word helps convey a strong conviction, but the submission isn't lost. It's still Master's choice. Right? Would that work? It's verbose... how to shorten that?  Wow, it is a dilemma! I like the idea however, the middle ground it offers to those of us a little less able to keep up with the hardcore demands of a true sadist in a hardcore 24/7 M/s relationship... the safeword becoming not a sub's "Get Out of Jail Free" card, but a means to communicate depth and seriousness and severity without "topping from the bottom"...

I think that just might work.

For example, I say, "Seriously, I'm not in the mood for that tonight, honey."  -  sweetly, demurely, sincerely.
My husband will know that I'm not feeling a scene or a punishment or whatever right then. Does that mean he'll listen? That's up to him. Then it's at the discretion of the Dom whether or not to press the issue, and why.  If the Dom feels the need to ignore the sub's wishes, naturally, they'll do so.  That gives the opportunity for the sub to go afterwards and inquire as to why they did it- and learn a lesson.  Or be told that it was simply done because that's how Master wanted it, and they'll just have to be satisfied with that.

I think that's the "template" we'll use, if we really get into this. It's tempting. It makes sense to me. It's a safe word without being safe. :)

I read back on my journal entries from September, the second month I spent in Florida, and discovered that I didn't write... anything.  Memes, stupid quizzes, and that's all. It doesn't surprise me... What could I write? I'm going to try to get this out in such a way that it makes sense, but it won't be easy. It's blurry, hazy at best. I don't remember what order he did most of this in, so my first excruciating arm bar might not have come before my first knee bar... I really just can't remember.

This was the first time I had ever lived with someone, in a relationship, that involved... well, I guess what I would consider "real" BDSM.  I suppose everyone has their own definition of what that is, and I'm not here to start any trends.  Previous to living with Brel, I had minor experience with age play, verbal humiliation/degradation, submitting to aggression/following commands, very light bondage (handcuffs), and light beatings. (Spankings/slaps to the face).  Nothing crazy, things seasoned members of BDSM communities would chuckle at- and I knew it, and I wanted more.  I did have the opportunity, once, to get -really- beaten... and I loved it.  Once, just one night, a good Dom friend of mine (who I'm sure I will talk about later in this journal) beat me until I broke, screaming his safeword and curling up at his feet.  It was one of the best times of my life to date.  I knew I wanted needed more.

I was already on edge with Brel, after hearing the horror stories of his ex-wife.  The beatings, the humiliation, the loss of identity.  The 24/7 Master/slave relationship, what he and his ex-wife had. (They didn't label it, though)  I was open minded... well, I tried to be.  I tried to remind myself that she could have left, at any time- the door was always open for her to leave, she didn't have to stay... but the more he told me, the sicker I became.  I couldn't -imagine- a relationship like that!  (I was still pretty vanilla, huh? .... Naive, I had no idea...) REAL relationships were about partnership and equality - power exchange was healthy in the bedroom, but when it leaked into real life, that was dangerous!  I understood that I had no room nor right to judge either of them- it was his taste, and apparently hers, too, because she stayed.  Their own fault.  But it still scared me, it left doubt lingering in my mind.

Brel had only really ever been with his ex-wife.  That was his only true relationship model.  Really.  I was so desperately craving the brutality of BDSM, but so terribly frightened of losing my identity or allowing him to consume me.  It left me unbalanced, unstable, and unhealthy.  Right from the start.  Especially because he and his ex-wife had started just like he and I- equals, partners, in a relationship with BDSM sexual undertones.  Until one night he ignored her safeword, and raped her.  He told me, in more detail than I would've liked, with pride ringing in his voice... exactly how he had taken her, how she fought, used her safeword, and was brutally ignored.  How she didn't put up the classic rape fantasy fight; she didn't moan or cry when she realized it was futile, she definitely didn't enjoy it, ... she just lay there, and he used her and then silently took her home.  The next day -she- apologized, and told him it would never happen again.  Their relationship changed forever after that.  I was angry and afraid at the same time, furious and determined that such a fate would -NEVER- befall ME, and fearing with every fiber of my being that it would.

It's so hard to do this.  You really have no idea (whoever 'you' are) how hard it is to take these thoughts, these memories, and put them out there.  For anyone.  I've kept them inside for almost a year-- almost a year!!-- and now suddenly I'm trying to force them out.  Not just force them out, but -look- at them.  Remember how they feel, how they sound, how they taste.  Remember how I felt, before, during, and after.  You have no idea how hard this is.  But I'll try.

September 2006 - Panama City, Florida

With the cooler temperatures came a peace and happiness that I hadn't felt in years.  It was strange, torn between these conflicting emotions.  I loved Panama City.  I loved the people, the atmosphere, the neighborhood I lived in, Brel's friends that I had met from when he worked for the Boot Camp, our roommates, our roommate's children who visited... I loved it all.  I wanted to wrap everything up in a huge bear hug and never let go.  I felt so serene, so 'at home' and taken care of.  He pampered and spoiled me, doting on me- making sure all of my physical needs were met... he cooked, he cleaned... he was R.A.- Regular Army.  It was in his nature, and he didn't mind doing it.  I helped periodically, after all, I wasn't working yet - I ought to do -something-.  But I'm lazy by nature, and we were both easily slipping into daily roles and routines. He always called me 'beautiful' or 'gorgeous' or 'sexy'- always. Not as compliments, as forms of addressing me.  "Hello, beautiful."   "How are ya, gorgeous?"    "How ya feelin', sexy?"   I wasn't used to that.  It took a long time to get used to, and damnit, I enjoyed it... because he was so sincere, so genuine with it.  So casual, so honest.  I -believed- him when he called me beautiful, and that's something I've really never been able to do... before him, or after.  It's so hard for me to take compliments.... damned if he wasn't the sweetest man a girl could could want, petting and loving me so completely...

....Except when I did something to make him unhappy.  There was no arguing with him... I tried, I really tried... and even when I -knew- I was in the right, when I -knew- he was being just plain ridiculous... I never won a fight.  Ever.  I always apologized, I always accepted blame.  It was infuriating from the start- when it was good it was wonderful, when it was bad it was horrifying.  Accusations he would throw at me stung me to my core, angering me to outrageous proportions... but somehow he manipulated every argument, using whatever he could against me... I always took the blame, I always accepted his wrath and disappointment, and I always backed down.  These were not common traits for me previous to living with him, and it drove me to the brink of insanity.  Little things, too.  Like wanting to do something for myself, or making a decision by myself for myself, that had little to no bearing on him whatsoever... he'd flip.  One of his favorite words was "inappropriate".  I behaved inappropriately a lot.  Usually that was just the blanket fight for whenever I disagreed with him.  About anything.  Especially in front of other people.  It happened often, but not regularly enough to completely ruin the happier, fluffier part of the relationship.  He continually built me up to tear me down- I see that now.  I'm not so sure I did, then.

We used to play fight a lot, wrestling around and goofing off.  We were both very playful people.  Unfortunately for me, he was trained to fight and kill, I was not.  I've actually pretty much been a pacifist my entire life.  I've never been in a fight. Not a real one.  But sometimes he would toy with me intentionally, go easy on me, tease me... just enough, before locking in an incredibly painful submission hold... and it would rile me up.  Irrationally.  He would laugh, he would taunt and prod at me, and push my buttons.  -Try- to get me to berserk, to flail and kick and scream and bite.  He encouraged me to violence- pushed me towards it.  With the pain, with the discomfort, and with his words.  It became a game to him, and despite my peaceful nature, I began to like it.  There was something almost  therapeutic about losing control and fighting against him, wailing on him... fighting back so thoroughly, -trying- to hurt him... just to have him whip out some new pain compliance technique, make me scream in agony, and then I'd either keep fighting through the pain or give up. It amused him to do things like this to me, another form of control.  Another form of building me up to tear me down.  I always felt bad afterwards, lying in his arms, broken and bruised and exhausted... wondering what power I had given him over me.  I bent so readily at his whims, I played so easily into his hands.  I wondered.

But as the month progressed, things started getting tight, with neither of us working, his classes at the Police Academy and his signing bonus being incredibly late.  I started job hunting, putting in applications and negotiating with Starbucks to let me go back.  But it was slow going, being dependent on him for transportation, and searching for places nearby that could work with me around my medical issues as well as my hours of availability... Starbucks wanted a doctor's note, from a specialist, before I could be eligible for re-hire.  I was wondering how we were going to make it through, and expect to be able to afford to go to Oklahoma to get all of my stuff when his signing bonus -did- come in....

....The independent, selfish part of me started rearing it's head, and began to resent his control on my life.  I started antagonizing him intentionally, in every day life.  He would tell me to do something - leave the company of his roommates in the living room and go to the bedroom, go with him to the store, etc. - and I would argue for the sake of arguing.  I RESENTED him so much, who did he think he was?  This was mistake one.  He started using the same joint locks and nerve strikes -  choke holds and pressure points to... encourage me to do whatever it was that he wanted me to do.  Pain compliance became an every day part of our lives, in the bedroom or out- I was often 'punished' for disrespect and disagreement... but somehow it was always subtle.  Subtle enough that it never made a huge scene in front of anyone, it was discreet.  Always.  Painful, yes, but damaging?  No.  Domination and control wrapped in a thin layer of playfulness meant to get me to submit to him. I can't explain it other than that, honestly.  I look back and I see so clearly what he was doing to me-  how easily I was allowing myself to be manipulated and used... which is the worst part of all of this.  I stayed for so long.  ...and I knew better.   It's shameful.
To make things more complicated, it even got trying in the bedroom... I would force him to dish out so. much. pain. before I would do the simplest of tasks- like call him 'Sir' or 'Master'.   Even now, none of this makes any sense to me at all.  But I'm trying...

One of my more vivid memories is an evening watching TV with the roommates, enjoying a drink or two, and having a good time.  He wanted me to go into the bedroom with him, to hang out until he had to go to bed- and he wanted me in there with him.  I argued, even politely - so as not to make a scene in front of the roomies - that I wanted to stay and drink and watch TV.  Not because I was trying to challenge him.  I'm just a night owl by nature (ask anyone who knows me) and I just wanted to stay up and be social.. After arguing only a few moments, he quickly wrapped his arm around my neck and began the process of the rear naked choke.  I had been through this (at this point) many times before (oh yes, he choked me out multiple times. more later.) so I knew what was to come if I didn't obey him... I knew he had no qualms about choking me out to unconsciousness in front of the roomies.  I whimpered, and submitted to his will.   Indignantly. (Yeah, the roommates laughed and said they were staying out if it.  Had nothing to do with them.)  These things were commonplace, and the entire time, the two sides warred within me... some small part of me enjoyed the control, the domination, the degradation and humiliation, the pain... being subservient to him, knowing he was right, he was Master, he was priority. The other, larger, part screamed to me, through my angry, pained tears - "This is SICK.  WHY are you still HERE?  Look what you're letting him DO to you!  How can you stand this?  What are you doing with your life?  WHY ARE YOU HERE?"

It took far too long for that fight within myself to end, and for me to just PICK one.  It was agonizing.  I wonder if he knew?

Storytime.  After choking me out a few times, early in the relationship, he realized that it was indeed a heady, powerful thing.  Rendering me so completely helpless, literally taking my life in his hands.  It was an amazing powertrip, and I hated it.  But I became like Pavlov's dog, and to this day, when a firm grip is held on my throat- particularly from behind, the classic 'rear naked choke'- I soak my panties.  It turns me on so much it's literally disgusting.  The fear, the blind terror, the total submission, and the arousal all blend together to make a very odd sensation.  One that I love to hate.  I loved to hate it from about the third time he did it to me.  He told me then, that he had a plan, for something truly horribly awful. He was going to choke me out one day, when I wasn't expecting it, and I would wake up to something brutal that would really test me.

We were mid-fuck one evening, doggy style (my favorite), when he threatened to choke me out.  I whined and begged him not to (I really do hate it, even though my body totally betrays me)- to which he demanded that I sit up, lean back, and kiss him- RIGHT THEN.  I figured the faster I obeyed, the better sub I was, I could prove that I didn't -need- to be choked out, I knew what I was doing, right? I was a good sub.  I was trying.   I kissed him quickly, deeply, still whining- and he grabbed me around the throat so fast, I didn't know what hit me.  I clutched desperately at his arm, more terrified than usual by the unexpected trick.  I gasped for air, my head feeling heavy.  There was a faint 'buzz' in my ears, my heartbeat steadily pounding 'dun DUN dun DUN dun DUN', the room began to shimmer like a photograph covered with black glitter, I felt weak (and wet), and I heard him laugh... deep and dark... in my ear.  I clawed and pulled at his arm desperately until I lost the strength to move.  I watched the room with detached disappointment then, just for a split second, and then it was black.

The next thing I felt was pressure from behind me, I felt my face smooshed uncomfortably on the bed, my rear was high in the air.  My body tingled, the numbness fading away and sensation returning.  I slowly began to remember who I was, where I was, who I was with.  Then the fear again, and in a flash, reality rushed back to me.  Then there was pain.  Unbearable, excruciating, second-worst-pain-I've-ever-felt-in-my-life. (The first being a really bad burn, no comparison)  I sobbed out, I cried out, anguished.   I was being anally raped.  (I had only ever had anal sex once in my life previous, for all of maybe 2 minutes before I decided it felt weird, and I didn't like it.)

I begged, I pleaded, I bargained, I screamed and cried.  I bit back my safeword with every fiber of my willpower, so afraid of what that would do to us.  What that would do to me.  I screamed, "I'll do anything! Please, just stop! IT HURTS!"
He was thrusting so hard... no lube, no build up, no gentleness.  Just brutally taking me places I didn't want to go.

He slowed then, "Anything?"
I sobbed, real tears staining my face, "Yes! GOD! ANYTHING!"

He laughed, pulled out, grabbed my hair and pulled me to him roughly.
"Clean it off, then.  With your mouth, slut."

I was horrified.  This thing had just been in my ASS... and he wanted me to put it in my mouth? EW, EW, EW.
But I was only horrified for a second, because, goddamnit, I was in record levels of pain.
I did what I was told, because it was better to feel dirty and gross and be disgusted than it was to have that back inside my ass.  Thankfully, it wasn't messy at all, nor did it have any particular taste... it was just the knowledge that broke me.
He fucked my pussy until he came, and .... well, it's fuzzy after that.  The relationship just kept getting darker.

So many times I wanted to scream my safeword at him, tell him I didn't like it, I didn't want this... This wasn't what I was looking for, I hated it, I resented him, this wasn't right... but every time, I was too afraid. I was too scared.  I didn't know how it would change things, and I -loved- Florida... I didn't want to leave.  I loved him, I cared so deeply for this man that had shown me parts of himself he had never shown anyone else.. I felt responsible for him, for his emotional well-being... even though I knew I wasn't -in love- with him. I was also afraid of the trauma it would cause if this man that I loved so deeply (despite not being head over heels IN love with him) were to ignore my safeword and continue to hurt me.  Then I'd -have- to leave, and I'd lose my friend, my lover, and my opportunity for happiness and security in Florida.

I was caught in a bind- but not a bind he had made for me, a bind I had made for myself. Those are worse, I think.

Then I put in an online application at Best Buy, randomly, realizing that it was close by, cool, and because I hadn't smoked pot the entire time I'd been in Florida, I could pass a drug test. Two days after, they called me and set up an interview.  I was excited, a bit nervous, but mostly just stoked. Forgive me the moment of conceit, but I am an incredible interviewer and I was pretty sure when they called that I was going to get the job.

I went to the first interview, the manager conducting it was incredibly, INCREDIBLY hot and super-nice to boot... which make me a bit nervous and jittery, but apparently I made a good impression.  It landed me the second interview.

I walked into the room that day, for the second interview, and saw three men.  Two in chairs sitting across from one, lonely chair (very much like an interrogation, no table in between: very easily able to read body language) and one sitting nearby at a computer.  I have never been so nervous in an interview EVER.  But they were all so funny, and so open and friendly, it put me at ease right away.  They convinced me not to keep going for the job I had originally applied for (cashier), telling me that my charisma would be wasted behind a register, and that they'd love to have me on the sales floor.  The two active interviewers both worked in the Computer Department, as supervisor and senior, and wanted to know if I'd be interested in working in their Dept.  Two incredibly cool dudes for direct supervisors?  Get paid to stand around and talk about computers all day?  Sweet!!  Hell yes I wanted to work in Computers!

Scored the third interview with the GM, bonded with him over my Starbucks experience (he met his ex-wife when she was a barista at a Starbucks- she became a store manager), took the drug test, passed, and began one of the coolest jobs ever in late September/early October....

This should help the relationship. Time apart, more money, feelings of accomplishment for me... yes, this was going to make everything all right. I was sure of it.  He'd see me as more independent and self-reliant, it would definitely help shift the scales back towards the way of partnership and equality, keeping a majority of the BDSM in the bedroom where it belonged. Right?

I was so, so wrong.

As I stood in the shower today, I thought about this entry that I desperately need to write.  The chronicle of my time and experiences in sunny Florida. The water was even more hot than usual, scalding my skin. It hurt, but the joy came in watching my skin turn red beneath the streams. I deliberately left the fan off, choosing instead to allow the bathroom to fill with steam. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to stand under the water- "I have to get clean," I repeated over and over to myself, "I am dirty. I have to get clean."

There are multiple sides to every story, and any given situation can be perceived in a myriad of different ways. I am hesitant to write about Florida, and my experiences there, because I'm not quite sure how to do it.  Logically, I can look back at those 4 months and see most aspects of them.  I can see the actuality of the circumstances, my thoughts on them, my feelings on them, the perspective of the victim, the perspective of the villain.  But what do I write?  Which is the closest to the 'truth' of the matter?  Or more importantly, what needs to be written?  What will take this burning ball of agony and discontent from me and send it away?  I just want it to go away. I want to feel every barb, every sting, every burn, every abrasion... I want to feel it all, one more time.  I want to process it, accept it, own it... learn what I can from it, and let the rest go.  Before it kills me.

If I were merely talking to someone about this; if by some miracle I could afford a counselor to process all of these things as opposed to just screaming in vain out into the chaos of the internet, I wonder if it would be easier? At this point in the story, I guess I'd go into a bit of background on why I went to Florida in the first place.  All right, I guess I'll start there.

Brel and I had been friends for 2-2.5 years or so, having met on the same online game.  We became fast friends, and pillars of mutual support as I was struggling with the arrest of my fiancee, my life in Kentucky, and moving to Seattle.  He was struggling with a divorce, and a very ugly one at that.  He was broken, drunk, and miserable.  We spent hours on the phone, piecing each other back together, having in-depth conversations about all the things we had in common, comparing aspects of our personalities that were radically different, etc.  It was a lovely friendship- he was a monster, and wasn't shy about it.  I respect and admire that... horrible people who can admit that they're horrible, instead of pretending to be saints.  It appealed to me... at that time, I was still very naive (18-20) about human nature, despite my life experiences. I was a generally good, loving, compassionate person with a bit of a martyr complex, begging to be abused- and he became available conveniently the summer after I left Seattle.

He had since put himself together, enrolling in the Police Academy and joining the Army National Guard.  He was a roommate in a 3 bedroom house, making his own way fairly comfortably.  He had a motorcycle, a signing bonus on the way, classes to look forward to, and an easy job working security at a private beach.  I was in Oklahoma, having been forced to quit my job due to my illness pending doctor's release, miserable, and alone.  When he offered to buy me a plane ticket to take a vacation, to spend a week with him, I jumped at the chance.  There had never been anything romantic between us ever, and only occasionally was there ever a hint of sexual tension.  But I had my hopes.

.............

I'm not sure where to go from here.  There are so many ways I could go about this- I could detail nothing but my experiences with him from here on out, I could write a descriptive novel-like detail of -all- of my experiences in order from here on out (but that would take for-ever-, and probably not really accomplish quite what I'm trying to accomplish)... I can do chunks at a time, detail a month at a time on the surface, and then again underneath... I just don't know.  There's just too much.  Way, way too much.

.............

August 2006 - Panama City, Florida

I arrived on the 2nd, so excited and nervous I was shaking.  The airport was small, and finding him was easy.  He stood out.  He radiated sex appeal, and I began to shake even more.  I couldn't believe I was finally meeting him... it was terrifying, and exciting.  I immediately ran outside, after hugging him, to smoke a cigarette to calm my nerves. I was making a complete fool of myself!  He laughed, obviously amused at my nervousness.  He seemed deathly calm, and just kept smiling at me.  After a bumpy motorcycle ride back to his house, we set about the 'getting to know you' routine.  He showed me his things, we talked, we flirted.  He started showing me his knives, pulling one incredibly sharp one out in particular.  I adore all forms of weaponry that aren't guns, so I was immediately excited.  That excitement was amplified by the way he slowly started dragging the blade across my skin, lightly, teasingly.  He kissed me, then, at knife point.  He was a wonderful kisser, strong and confident; I loved it.  The knife made it's way to my throat, and remained there steadily as his other hand undressed me.  It was passionate, and he was dominant, but not overly brutal.  It was mostly just surprising that it happened so quickly- I allowed it to happen, and easily succumbed to his will.  We went out and had a lovely dinner at T.G.I.Friday's, continued chatting, remarked on how surreal it was to be together face-to-face, had a neat evening getting to know his roommates, and slept.

My second day.... that was the first real red flag.  From here, the days get blurry- it's funny how that works, huh? Isolated incidents are clear in my memory, but August particularly is mostly a blur. The first day is so clear... I can still completely immerse myself and remember standing outside in the heat and humidity.  The smells, the sounds, the feel of the moisture constantly dancing across my skin.  The way he looked, what he was wearing at the airport, what I was wearing.  The way he smiled at me.  The way his skin felt, the way his lips felt, the way his voice lilted with that damnable Southern drawl.

That second day, though... it was evening, I remember his roommates were leaving... going out somewhere, to do somesuch.  We had been invited, but we declined- we would rather spend more time together, as our time together was obviously somewhat short.  I was doing something in his bedroom, folding my clothes and getting somewhat organized for my week-long stay when he came up behind me, wrapping his arm around my neck.  I remained calm, he had startled me, but I took the gesture as a sign of affection- a rather dominant from-behind hug. 
He stepped back, somewhat surprised, "You know I could've just choked you out right there." 
I paused, my mind flashing back briefly to the position he had me in before nodding, "Yeah, I believe it."  
He looked slightly confused before I offered, with a shrug, "I figured you wouldn't.  I trust you."
 He laughed, challenging me, "You really think I wouldn't?"    
I didn't hesitate, I just smiled, "Yeah.  I trust you.  I mean, obviously, I'm here, right?"  
He stepped closer to me, more devious, still challenging, "Last time, are you -sure- I wouldn't? You're positive?"  
I wanted so desperately to prove to him that I trusted him, that I cared about him, I held my head up and replied, "I'm positive." 
I was nervous, but it felt like the right thing to do.  I did care about him, deeply.  I had cradled him over the phone in his drunken tears, we had talked at great lengths about life, the universe, and everything... and seemed to have great sexual chemistry to go with this awesome friendship.  I ached for him to know how I felt... I wanted him to know that he was loved.  I had to wonder whether or not anyone had ever made him feel that way, truly... I tried to show him that because I loved him, I trusted him.

He came behind me quickly, wrapping his arm around my neck one more time in what I now know as a rear naked choke.
I remember my hands going reflexively to his arm, pulling at it helplessly.  It became hard to breathe, and even harder to keep my balance.  I struggled in vain to take a step toward the bed, I knew I was going to lose consciousness in a matter of seconds.  I remember being terrified, and then there was a brief moment of just nothing.

I opened my eyes, and the sound of his roommates piling out the front door and into their cars hit my ears in a jumbled roar.  I saw his face directly above me, his blue eyes sparkling as he smirked down at me.  I was sitting on the floor, my back against a wall, and that's all I knew.  In those early, hazy seconds upon awakening, I had no idea who I was, where I was, or why.  Then it flooded back.  All of it.  I was terrified again, and still very light-headed.  The rest of the night is a haze, I remember cuddling with him, and wondering what I had gotten myself into.

He took me to the beach, and it was the single most empowering experience of my entire life.  I really am more at home by the water than I am anywhere else.  I still ache to go back to Panama City.  The Southern atmosphere, the flora, the fauna, the beach... everything.  I loved it.  It felt like home.

By the end of the week I had decided that Florida was better than Oklahoma.  My family wasn't there, and all those wonderful things listed above -were-.  Who cares that I needed to see my doctors?  My condition was doing better here in Florida, there was less stress! I decided to stay another week.

Throughout this time, Brel and I had amazing sex, I had managed to maintain consciousness, and we were doing great.  I shared my safe word with him, and the brutality began.  It was everything I needed after a year of nothing but vanilla.  But he was very dominant in every aspect of his life, not just the bedroom.  The red flags of controlling behavior flew up every day.  I knew, even then, that we were incompatible... and that it would bring nothing but disaster.  But I stayed.  I wanted the disaster.  I needed it.  I was young and broken, naive and dancing along the border of losing my innocence and becoming dark, jaded, and bitter.  I wanted to.  I wanted it.  I wanted it almost as badly as I wanted to purify Brel, to save him, to heal him.  To show him that he wasn't really a creature of darkness, that he was comprised of duality, like all humans.  I stayed.

He told me horror stories about his ex-wife.  The things he used to do to her, the things he would make her do.... things that go well beyond my established boundaries of 'fun play'... and in my mind, at least, that's saying something.  He told me the story of how he ignored her safe word because she "used it all the time to manipulate him and get what she wanted"... he told me the story in almost graphic detail of how he raped and abused her. I was appalled, and terrified.  He assured me that he wouldn't do something like that to me, that he would always respect my safe word, but added with a sly grin, "As long as you don't use it the way she did."  
I used my safe word with him once in my entire time there, and even then, it scared me more to do it than any of the things he had done to me. 
For some reason, it was okay in my mind to just take the abuse he heaped on me, in the bedroom and out of it... that was less psychologically damaging.  Imagine what it would do to me if I actually used my safe word, and it was completely ignored by someone I cared so much about?  That would be -real- trauma.

After the 2nd week, and after discussion with Brel and his roommates, I decided to stay.  Indefinitely.  Once he got his signing bonus, we were going to go to Oklahoma, UHAUL all my stuff back down to Florida, and life was going to be peachy.
My family and friends were all unhappy to hear this decision, and almost all of them warned me that something wasn't right about it. I ignored them, of course.

(Even Eris told me to leave. I flipped a coin twice, both times it told me to go home. But I stayed anyway.)

August was just the beginning.....

Fuck this shit.  I have some twisted, psychological need to make this journal perfect.  I don't know why, it's some brain chemical issue I'm sure - as that appears to be all life is anyway. Brain chemicals.  Well, fuck them.  This journal won't be perfect, it won't be witty, it won't be thought-provoking or inspiring.  It's going to be brutal.  It's going to be honest and probably pretty damned ugly.  This is me screaming.

In every day life, I tend to be an optimistic, upbeat, friendly person.  It's the natural state of things.  That's cool and all, but when I need to just FUCKING SCREAM, I can't really do it in my traditional settings.  So this is my rotting podium; my old soapbox atop my broken stage.  If you don't like it, don't read it.

I've been having nightmares. Horrible, lingering nightmares.  Death and dying seem to be the primary topics.  This has left me sleep deprived, exhausted, and miserable.  I'm afraid to sleep.  I'm afraid to dream. 

It's not really unusual for me to have nightmares, I've had them since I was a child. No explanation for them: bloody, gruesome, violent, terrifying nightmares that I really had no right having... starting around the age of 2.  Battlefields of all varieties... swords, magic, guns, bombs, fires, demons, monsters, plagues, bugs, snakes, falling, crashing, you name it.  Been there, done that.  Can't run, can't scream, can't breathe... the list goes on.  My whole life, off and on.  Scattered here or there, enough to be a nuisance.  But lately, well... these dreams, they are just fucking ridiculous.  They won't stop. 

The nightmares, from my best approximation, are linked to my recent, dramatic, loss of control.  Control of everything.  When I say 'recent', I really mean starting in April of 06.  But the story goes back farther than that. To get the full effect, maybe I should start from the beginning.
 


I was born to an 18 year old future alcoholic/drug addict in California, July of 86. From my first day of life to five years in, I spent my time largely back and forth between my mother and father/or boyfriend at the time, and my mother's parents.  The nightmares started in this time, likely due to issues regarding instability and insecurity.  At the age of 5 grandparents legally adopted me, making me their daughter.  My mother rapidly deteriorated and became a drug-addicted alcoholic after signing the papers. 

We moved to Oklahoma.  My mother was only involved in my life off and on, holidays and other special occasions.  I remember being ecstatic and overjoyed when my mother was around.  I loved her very much, and even at a very young age, cursed the life situations that had put her in the awful positions she found herself in- abusive boyfriends, drugs, alcoholism leading to DUIs, etc. My grandmother and I were very close, despite frequent arguments that spawned later, early in my teen years.

My mother had another baby, a little girl by a drug-addicted, abusive scrap-hauler in Ft. Worth when I was 9.  I named her 'Kimberly', after the pink Power Ranger.  My grandfather stopped noticing that I existed after about the age of 11- unless he was yelling at me for something, which even through my rebellious teen years, was rare.  To this day, at 21 years old, when he yells at me I can't help but cry. 

I began realizing by around age 14 that life was really a horribly awful state of being.  It was hard, it was unfair, it was cold, and cruel.  I could no longer defend the choices my mother had made, and was disgusted by watching her continue to make horrible decisions- even though she still had Kimberly. My depression was out of control.  Though I had gone to private schools, gifted student programs, and been top of my class my entire life, I was failing anything that didn't interest me.  Many days I simply refused to get out of bed and go to school, my grandparents being unable to do much to force me. They took me to a psychologist, who ran a full evaluation on me- the results still mostly a secret to me. (I really should go back and get them, if the records still exist...) They then referred me to a psychiatrist... and at the age of 14, I was put on Paxil.  When I refused to take it, after horrible side-effects and a general feeling of 'ick', the psychiatrist convinced my family that it was a good idea to put me in an "Adolescent Behavioral" ward of a local hospital.  Great.  A psych ward.  I spent a week there at 14, and learned a lot more to solidify my belief that life was just a huge waste of time. Eventually, shortly after turning 16, I convinced them to take me off the medication. (I had been spitting the pills out every night probably for 6 months before they officially stopped giving me a prescription.) 

I was 16 when my mother (likely referred to beyond this point as 'Michele', possibly 'biomom') moved back in with the grandparents, bringing Kimberly, and it nearly broke me.  Every day she told me, "You're lazy!" ,  "You're worthless!"  ,  "I can't believe you're my child!"   ,  "You're so stupid!".... etc. etc.  At that time, and for a few years previous, I had been struggling with my depression still (having no help from the fucking doctors) and self-medicating with self-injury.  Mostly, I managed to keep it a secret.  But having the stress of her living with me just drove me into insanity.  I was slicing myself to ribbons.  Regularly.  My family sent me away for a month to live with a friend of the family, about 9 hours away from our hometown.  "Just long enough to find Michele somewhere else to live."  While I was gone, I can only imagine how much money  my grandmother gave to her, and how much she stole.  I came back, lived with my grandparents for about 2 months, and said, 'FUCK this noise.' 

I moved in with my much-older boyfriend, turned 17 shortly after, got engaged, and lived the life of a lazy stoner for 7 months before he got arrested.  Apparently, while I was too stoned to care, he had committed 8 counts of armed robbery.   Oops.  Well, fuck.  There goes everywhere I thought I was going with my life.  After that, I moved back home for 6 months, realized I still couldn't stand my family, and moved to Kentucky.  Turned 18, worked at Walgreen's, and fell in love. For real this time.  But he was in Seattle.  Well, fuck.  So I went to Seattle.  Visited a while, then moved there.  Lived in a constant state of fluctuation between elation and despair; head over heels in love, but hopelessly incompatible and far too young and uneducated to make a living in such an expensive place. Turned 19. Then I got sick.  Really sick.  (Look up Crohn's Disease if you care to know. Be warned though, it's not pretty.)  Eventually had to break up with my love, which left me battered and broken.  Went back home, stayed for just under 4 months, mostly ignored my emotional wounds from Seattle,  turned 20 rather uneventfully... and decided a week in Florida was just what I needed.

Now that you have My Life Story (ABRIDGED), I can zoom in on some of the finer details that will give the rest of the story a bit of clarity.

I have to admit, I'm hesitating writing this part.  It's kind of weird to admit out loud, and potentially to anyone that stumbles across this, some of these next tidbits.  I suppose some part of me is still a bit shy.  I guess this is a good thing?

My love in Seattle was unlike any love I had ever known before.  His name was Aaron, and he was my everything.  Unfortunately, I think one of the hardest incompatibilities we had was sexually.  Our sex life was amazing- there was great chemistry and overall, it was just really fucking good.  The problem came in the form of tastes.  He was passionate, expressive, and into it... but mostly, pretty vanilla. I was a submissive masochist, and considered myself more of a twist with kinky sprinkles- and it always left me unfulfilled.

In my time between Seattle and Florida, I did learn - and I will note - that I am not, actually, a masochist. It's an unusual condition, I think, but I'll try to explain. I am a sadist. An often horribly twisted, intense sadist.  Unfortunately, I derive very little to absolutely no pleasure from actually causing pain or discontent.  Dominating someone has next to ZERO appeal to me.  I am a second-hand sadist... I enjoy it immensely when someone hurts me, demeans me, humiliates me, etc. - but not because of the pain or the humiliation- it's because of the pleasure that person is getting from doing it to me.  The more sadistic my partner, the more domineering and uncaring they are towards me, the more I know they love committing these atrocities and shameful taboo actions, at my expense.. the more turned on I am.  Use me and abuse me, please.  It's hot.  Not that I really like being used and abused... I really find it most uncomfortable, but if you can enjoy me - use me like a doll, then I'm all for it. All the time.  Please.

So after a year of being pent up in such a manner, I was given the option of going to spend a week with my notoriously brutal, sadistic buddy Brel in Florida.  A vacation, to sunny Florida, beautiful beaches, and the hope of violent, brutal, domineering sex? Yes, please!

We'll have to leave it at that for tonight... I'll scream about Florida later.