THUNK!

THUNK!

I'm a city kid. Born and bred. I've never actually lived where a person would have to draw water from a well with a bucket, but I imagine that, "THUNK," is the sound that a wooden bucket might make when it hits the bottom in a well run dry.

Here in the midwest, it might not ever really get to be much of an issue because it tends to rain regularly and intensely, and the rivers and streams stay pretty full most of the year. It seems likely to me that wells dug in this part of the world probably don't often run dry. In the more arid western U.S. that I'm still far more familiar with, the notion of a well running dry is just not that far fetched. Water is a valuable and precious commodity there. People grow up knowing that there is just only so much of the stuff, and that it is indeed possible to use it all up.

It is that "well run dry" image that has been in my mind these last days as I have gone about the business of trying to keep myself "in" my slave self, and hold onto some sense of hopefulness about this life of mine and ours. I've felt myself hauling the bucket of my own personal, internal, sprit up from the depths -- and finding it dry as dust. That dryness has been disturbing and frightening.

Power exchange is a unique sort of relational "economy." Those who are unfamiliar with it; who do not understand it well, or who see it only from the outside/fictionalized point of view are inclined to perceive that the benefit in this lifestyle accrues only (or mostly) to the Top/Dominant/Master side of things. It is easy to understand how that is the way things look. The "reverse" side of the exchange is more difficult to see in terms of the "positives" that are gained by the one that particpates in that fashion. The reality is that, when this works, both parties "win," and get their needs met in equal measure within a relationship dynamic that is, by definition, "not equal."

That said, there is the need to "give" from the depths of the spirit in this type of relationship. Long-term, committed power exchange relationships demand an intensity that requires partners to "go to the well" of personal integrity, personal discipline, personal courage, personal committment, and personal honesty day after day after day regardless of the apparent rewards. Master or slave, it doesn't matter, you can't play this game based on some sort of accounting system that keeps score. It just doesn't work that way. You have to be willing to give what you say you will give; what is asked; what is required; what is demanded without making mental tally marks and keeping some sort of balance sheet in your head.

However, there is no such thing as a bottomless well. All springs need a source, and all rivers need the replenishment of the rains of springtime. It is possible to go to the well, and go to the well, and go to the well -- until finally the bucket hits the bottom and makes that thunking sound that reverberates back to us of utter and complete exhaustion and desolation.

I think I've been there -- or nearly there these last weeks:

• Desolate with the loss of any meaningful sexuality
• Powerless in the face of a medical establishment that seems careless and frankly unconcerned about an "old, used up woman, past her prime"
• Frightened of my inability to see any alternative path to a solution
• Angry with Master for letting it all happen, and for taking His pleasure just the same while it has happened
• Unsure of my footing, my identity, my rootedness -- not clear where I belong
• Lost and out of control and flailing in the currents
• Stunned that He has let me be so wild, so pissy, so completely without a rudder

To be fair, I think He's been frightened too. Doing His own grieving. Carrying His own load of doubt and guilt. I remember reading somewhere that when loss strikes in a family, one of the great dangers is that they cannot support each other, because they are each grieving, and so unless they figure out how to lean together, they are in danger of falling apart. We have been in that kind of risky time.

Late last week, though, something inside of me started to shift. I had called the doctor back to ask about an alternative to the HRT which was not accomplishing any noticeable change in my sexual response. When her nurse called me back and told me that Dr. Yadayada wanted me to keep on taking it for another month and see what happened because sometimes it takes awhile for the hormones to build up in the system, I snapped!

"ANOTHER MONTH! ANOTHER MONTH! EXCUSE ME? NO! THAT IS NOT OK! IT HAS ALREADY BEEN FIVE MONTHS! THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE! DOES DR. YADAYADA "GET" THAT THERE IS NOTHING HAPPENING?!?!?!?!"

Now, I suspect that health care staff people are not accustomed to patients going off in outraged tones about the inability to fuck satisfactorily. I am beginning to think that most gynecologists assume that most women my age are more than happy to be done with sex, and that if having a hysterectomy gives them and excuse for that to happen, then well and good. The somewhat stunned nurse person asked if I'd like the doctor to call me... I told her, "Yes!"

When the doctor called back just a few minutes later, she was not particularly warm. She, too, wanted to tell me that I needed to work with her because sometimes these things just took awhile. I went through my whole frustrated, angry discourse with her, and finished by telling her that I was really feeling that I'd been given the runaround, and that what I wanted was some honest information: "how long was "awhile?" -- what could I honestly expect? After all, she was the one who had told me before the surgery that I'd likely not experience any significant diminishment in my sexual enjoyment." At that point, she told me that I was being very negative, and that it was my negative attitude that was impacting my progress. Oh please!

Our conversation deteriorated significantly at that point. In the end, she agreed to increase the dosage and the frequency on the HRT, and we hung up on less than cordial terms.

I was furious, but feeling empowered for the first time in many, many weeks. I knew that:

• I needed to find another doctor
• I needed to track down a source for the Damiana that blue recommended
• I had to figure out what was going to feed my spirit
• I needed to stop waiting to be rescued and save myself

So... I did find the Damiana over the weekend. The doctor has called in a prescription for a higher dosage of the HRT. I've found another medical professional (not a gynecologist) who treats women with female sexual dysfunction related to hysterectomy, and I'll be seeing him next week -- and I'm very excited about his credentials (and hopeful). I've had faint but recognizable stirrings of desire in the past couple of days. That has not happened in many, many days. I think there may be hope.

For the first time in an awfully long time, I am not exhausted; I am not angry; I am not desolate; I am not suicidal. I feel as if I have awakened from a very long sleep.

Perhaps the spring has finally come. Perhaps there is healing and hope. Maybe I will let down the bucket and find fresh, clear, cool water -- and not dust at last...

swan