We all do it; we all project what we want, what we desire, what we hope, sending it out into the ether, the universe, or Twitter. Usually, and less obvious to our best selves, we project it upon others. I am guilty of it as well – though I am still struggling with the word “guilty” as the best description. Guilty makes it sound like it all needs to go away… and I am not so sure that’s the case.
This is a post, an admission, a missive long in the making. I have concentrated many experiences and conversations into this blog. Mostly based on my need to understand where I was both coming from and wanted to go. I have had the pleasure and privilege to meet some amazing people lately and I was running into similar conversations about relationships, connections, and idealized, fantastic expectations. They had to be based in something, so I started looking at how I talked to or about people in my life.
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… but it’s the only one I have at the moment.
“Sir, I broke your toy.”
“Life broke my toy.”
When I originally decided to blog this week (finally!) I was going for a catchier title and, in fact, a more upbeat theme in general. I have a few sessions that I need to write about (among them a seriously hot – public – kicking, trampling and punching scene that still makes me swoon, and the one where I had to change my clothes… whew, is it warm in here?). Those would be ultimately more entertaining to read, I am sure.
But if I am to be honest, I need to share that I feel rather useless of late. It’s a holistic feeling; I am mentally, physically, and soulfully cracked, breaking. I am not broken yet, at least I don’t think so, but I feel like it may not be far off. My head, my heart, my core being, and my body are all dealing with some sort of injury and need to heal. The hardest part is that no matter how well I think I am doing, I feel like I get a daily gut-check that sets me back a few steps. The exchange, above, that leads us into this post has had me thinking that maybe I am, in fact, in need of more time/help/love than even I knew I needed.
I am not writing (although I did manage a page in my leather-bound journal that represents my collar), I am not creating, and I am not really talking. I have had the same three conversations repeatedly because I am afraid to branch out into the hows and whys of everything that is bothering me. Hence, this post. This is my outlet today. I will try and keep it cohesive for those who do honor me by reading it, but I also recognize and celebrate that it’s mine to write as I please and as I need. That said…
My mother died on May 15. If you know me at all (and some of you do) you know that she and I didn’t have the most loving of mother-daughter relationships. But we were working on it. We were finally headed in the right direction. She let me tell her anything and she would ask deeply personal questions to which the answers were often shocking to her. She loved me and accepted me and cared for me in a way only she could and in a way that was only appropriate for her and me. It took us the better part of 37 years to get here, most especially the past five and a half years since my father died. Double whammy, right? Today would have been their 42nd wedding anniversary. I guess kicks to the gut come in threes?
Aaaahhh, the number three. As in, the number of siblings who have abandoned me since, well, before my parents died. They started when dad died and finished it when my mom died. My older brother didn’t say but three words to me at her interment. He never wished me a happy birthday. The younger sister and brother sent a text, and that was it. I have come to accept that they hate me because they are envious. Narcissistic much, Gem? Well, I haven’t done anything to wrong any of them. I didn’t stay married to an abusive addicted asshole and I didn’t pop out babies… that must be it! I earned two degrees and have a great job that allows me travel and entertainment and supports a life and lifestyle that (aside from all being shared in this missive) I love. I go to Burning Man and I love BDSM and I am creative and love to share with like-minded folks. This must mean I am the most underhanded asshat on the planet! Oh, wait, there’s more. I am the only kid who wasn’t living off of mom’s bank account. Damn me and all I stand for.
OK, they don’t make me sad. They can fuck off. That’s a post for another time. Moving on.
I missed Seattle Erotic Art Festival this year. Not only was there incomplete communication regarding art submissions (i.e. I didn’t even get a review), the general logistics were not something I could embrace to truly enjoy the trip, the space, and some of my favorite people. I was happy for the people in my life who got to go, enjoy, and be a part of the amazingness that is SEAF. This year was the 10th anniversary, how could it not be the perfect time to go? And yet, I couldn’t. I wasn’t in the circle. For some who may read this and disagree, please accept that this is NOT about faulting anyone else for their decisions. I lived vicariously through your posts and sharing and I am supremely happy that it was fantastic. I am simply acknowledging that I had to make a choice to not be there because it would not be the same without certain dynamics. This was my decision to make. It still sucks, yes, but it was MY choice to remove myself. Add to this the already fucked up head space? No go and not good for anyone. It would not have been fair to anyone if I were to go and not be totally in the moment.
I have amazing friends and friends who are unable to/afraid to/don’t want to/can’t be amazing. I know that everyone has their own pile of WTF to deal with everyday. It’s true; perspective is a good thing and what may bother me may not bother you, and vice versa. I know friends who are going through their own losses, their own battles, their own version of broken. The hard part for me is that some people are more special to me than others and it’s when they can’t or won’t be a part of a shared healing that I hurt the most. The stable, logical, fair person inside me tries to say, OK, s/he is dealing with _____________, and I need to step back. We all have our ___________ to deal with. The selfish, needy, please-love-me person inside me says, Hey, I was there when you needed ___________, and when you had to ___________, and when we _________________ed, all for you. Help me! Give me the same consideration! Give me some time! I try not to say and do this out loud too much. Like I said, I am adult enough and aware enough that I can understand it…. well, mostly, or I wouldn’t be writing about it, eh?
My head is in such a state of flux that I wonder which of my Gemini personalities will take over each day. Usually it’s a decent blend and I am me, do it all, do it well, do it with gusto! But lately, I am torn between, “Hey, get your head out of your ass and do your daily thing; you can do this, you can get through, you have a great life and need to continue living it!” and “Um, fuck the world, I want to get off and go hide in bed with a bottle of booze.” Thankfully, I am a tough cookie and a smart cookie (Nabisco, watch out!)… I know when to unfunk myself, usually, and do what I have to do. I can put on a smile, a genuine one, even in the face of blah, and be social and do my work and highly function. Doesn’t mean it’s not all there in the back, I just think I have an OK handle on how and when to sit down and think about it.
Harder to manage is my heart which, in fact, is beyond the cracking of everything else and may actually be broken. It threatens my ability to smile, process, and cry. My heart physically hurts. I can’t expand on that any more than I have. I have given it away, had it thrown in my face, and watched it get run over by a truck. Then, as I was healing a lot of things I had to take real time to heal, I lose one of my last real bastions of heart, understanding, and support. The wood chipper analogy comes to mind. If I could trade away my heart for another, or simply just be done with it, I would. Because, for all my bravado, all my “OK, am an adult, I can handle all this and more” dialogue, I am lost, hurt, sad, and falling apart because of my heart. I am too sensitive for my own good, I love too much, too hard. I am usually grateful and defensive of my ability/curse to feel so much, and then on days like today, I want to be a cold, unfeeling statue. I want to not care. I want to carve it out and fill the hole with ice. Numb is preferable at this time.
So, if you’ve read this far, what’s a tad longer? Add to this complete clusterfuck of what-else-can-possibly-happen-to-me, and I share with you that I blew out my knee. I am all but certainly facing surgery and I am hobbling around on crutches. Between time and money (yay for health insurance?) I will be like this for a while. As I said to a friend the other day, “all this episode did was to add injury to insult.”
Put all this together and I feel useless. I said to Deviant that I was going to learn proper bootblacking, leather, and vinyl care, as I can do that sitting here. I also offered to be a bathmat, a welcome mat, or an oil mat for under his cars. (Insert here a wry smile at poor attempt at humor.) I feel lately that I am not a good submissive for my Sir; I feel like I am fucking something up but I don’t know what or how. I feel that I am failing as a friend because I can’t seem to get people to be a friend back to me. I feel that I am losing a grip on my ability to build and keep relationships because of everything going on; when all I can do is try to process all of this… people are tired of it and I feel like I can’t change the subject. I feel physically unable to do anything other than sit on my ass and allow people to serve me as needed (not as fun in the moment as I had hoped).
I feel needy and lost and that I may be searching for answers in the wrong places, if they even exist. I feel like I have said too much but, rereading it, like I haven’t said enough to truly touch on everything on which I have such a frail grasp. I have, a smart thing to do if I say so myself, started grief counseling. I keep coming back to “do the adult, smart thing, take care of yourself, you can make it all manageable and get back to you.” Hopefully this step helps and an uninvolved third party can help me shake down that which I can’t do on my own or in a blog.
I hate that this is so dark, so painful. I am grieving not only losing my parents (one is hard enough, but now both?). I grieve for lost opportunities, lost friends, lost sharing. I grieve for losing parts of me and parts of you and parts of us. I grieve losing my siblings and their families. I grieve my inability to be physically and fully present. I grieve grief itself, which concept makes it hard to breathe most days. I hate that my first post in so long all but celebrates this bleak, black place. But this is also how I process.
Let’s hope that processing occurs.
I miss you. I miss my Sir. I miss specific people and I miss my friends in general. I miss writing for fun (yours and mine, always my hope).
I miss me.
I tell people I love them, I appreciate them, and that I support them. Sometimes more often than they need to hear it… but I share these sentiments because *I* am the one that needs to share them. I tell you because it is important to *me* that you know you are important to me.
Don’t miss out on your opportunities to celebrate your friendships, your family, your important connections… As much as I am grateful for those who choose to share my life and all it is with me, it’s fair to acknowledge that I am there by my choice, too. I don’t want accolades, truly, but a little personal acknowledgment goes a long way.
Life is good. It really is. I am beyond blessed. But some days…
(Note: This is, in the background, turning into a more formal blog post. I felt that I had to say this now… the rest I shall post soon. Thank you.
The leadup to that Friday night was… interesting… to say the least.
I was told that I would be forever changed and that I was ready for some next-level BDSM play. I was assured that when the night was over, I would experience new things and be ready for more elite play. I interpreted elite to mean not only the intensity of the play but the players themselves.
On more than one occasion, Deviant offered and then declined to tell me what I was facing. In part because I know that he, too, was excited, but in part – I have zero doubt – to fuck with my head. He’s good at that, if you haven’t noticed, and had me wondering, pondering, even fantasizing about what I would go through during our session.
I arrived a few minutes early. After greetings and hugs I spent some time chatting with his wife before he joined us in the kitchen. We continued talking for a short while longer and then it was time for us to begin. I made my way up to the play room and lit the candles. There was music already playing… but not in the play room. I found that a bit strange – we usually play music from an iPod docked in the room with us – but it wasn’t totally foreign. Aside from the initial consideration, I didn’t give it another thought until I saw the iPod on the bondage table.
Sensory deprivation was on the menu. I didn’t need any more confirmation than that.
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Day One: Friday
I felt defeated.
I skipped the gym, lunch with friends, and went into hiding in my office. I spent an inordinate amount of time on Twitter (which, from a self-professed social media whore, is saying a lot). I was looking people in the eye less and less, there was no spring in my step, and my voice was flat. Online I could keep a good attitude, no one could see me crying. No one could see the pain in my eyes, the discomfort in my wan smile, or the growing sense of vulnerability and deflated value.
People noticed that I was behaving differently. It was obvious that something was different about me, something was making me uncomfortable, and taking away from my happiness. The gas station patrons eyed me with a wary caution, the FedEx agent asked me what was wrong, and my coworkers had to deal with tear-shined eyes and monosyllabic replies. I used email more than ever, because I didn’t want to be bothered to interact with anyone more than I had to.
Before that, however…
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