Hard Things

This is just a ramble. I don't have any direction in mind. My head is full of words tumbling over themselves. Feelings running every which way -- many of them negative and dark. I really find myself wishing that I could take all of this and put it somewhere else where no one else would see it; where I could simply say it all to myself and have no one looking. I imagine starting another "anonymous" blog that would be the dumping ground for all kinds of stuff I feel like I can't just say here because I'm not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings or embarass myself or annoy anybody. But that is not in line with how I've done this from the start. This writing has always been honest even when it has been less than elegant or eloquent or tidy. Right now, I am not feeling elegant, tidy, or particularly insightful. I don't think there is a lot that will be instructive here. I only know that the words are making me crazy. They need to be out of my head.

I wouldn't recommend reading this. Actually.

Confidence. It might be possible to play around with the edges of BDSM if a person has issues with personal esteem. When the nature of the games being played are fairly low end, and the stakes are really only about sex and a little bit of mutual pleasure -- the sort of thing that really comes down to Top/bottom negotiations, then I suspect that there is really no big danger inherent in folks messing around with this who have wobbly self-concepts. On the other hand, when you take your life and lay it out for another person, or when you take another person's life in your own hands, you should probably have a very healthy ego structure. I came into my explorations of this without a great deal of understanding of my nature, but I believed in my own self. I was sure of my strength and sure of my courage. I believed that I could walk the path that was ahead of me. I trusted my body; my mind; and my heart. I am no longer so sure. I feel betrayed within my own self. I don't believe in myself anymore. The last year has left me uncertain, wobbly, scared, confused -- without answers that I once believed were within my grasp. I am not a bad slave because I behave badly. I am a bad slave because I don't know who I am anymore.

Learning new approaches. It is clear, after more than a year, that my sexual responses are never going to return to the levels that they were before I consented to the hysterectomy (female mutilation). I've spent this year chasing hormonal and assorted pharmcological cures; many of them off-label because they are usually only prescribed for male impotence. I've been medicated for depression and submitted to psychoanalysis to see what it was inside my brain that needed fixing so that I could achieve something that resembles the kind of sexual release that I used to take for granted. If I spend enough money and take enough medications, then every now and then, randomly, I hit the jackpot. We still don't really know what the magic formula is. Of course, the witch's brew of hormones makes me have 2 or 3 blinding migraines a week -- not a recipe for a great sex life; or much of anything else for that matter. So...
The truth is that I've become afraid of sex; afraid to try. It is simple mathematics really. The odds are that, in any given encounter, I'm not going to make it, and then I'm going to feel like I've failed the test again. In the beginning, that didn't really occur to me, but if you fall flat on your face often enough, it gets pretty hard to not start wishing you could avoid going splat the next time. It is just simpler for me to do the things that get Him off, and let it go at that.
He often asks what would be good for me. The truth is that I don't really know the answer to that anymore. There are places inside that are still sore and tender. It takes forever for me to get turned on. FOREVER. I can't easily explain to Him what works; it is so fragile and fleeting and subtle. It takes such patience. I don't lubricate quickly, and I hate all those icky gels and things that they sell. AND, if we put those all over me -- then I'm no good for Him because I can't feel what I need to feel to do what I need to for Him. I start out scared -- sure that it won't work (again); then end up worrying about how long it is taking; then feel bad that I'm not taking care of His needs; and finally just get frustrated with the whole business. Almost always, long before it gets anywhere close to being "good," I'm clear that nothing is going to happen -- and is it any wonder?
I have no idea how to learn how to do this any differently, and I,m really sure that they don't make a pill that will fix it.

Fantasy and Reality. I want things that I'm afraid to ask for. I dream dreams of a life that I wish we could have. I want to invite a closeness with Him, but I'm afraid that if I open a door that I can't go through, that I'll see that look of anger and disappointment, and the distance between us will grow even harder to cross. So I don't talk about my dreams anymore.
It's my fault. I understand that it is my responsibility to share more openly with Him. But He has so much going on right now and life demands so much. It is impossible for Him to deliver the kinds of energy that my "imaginings" would take to bring into being. He needs that easy masochist that cums at the sight of a paddle. I know I fail Him daily as I cringe through every spanking.
I want more SM. I want more intensity. I want it more regularly. We've fallen off and fallen away from each other. I know that is my fault. Because I don't like it. There's the truth and the paradox. I really don't like it and I crave it and need it -- and we need it. What would help me would be if I were supported by His voice, His hands, His commands, His direction, His intention (before, during, and after)... it would connect me to Him rather than leave me in isolation. It is a style difference that I'm not sure it is possible for us to cross. For Him, it is the spanking itself that is the thing. I hear Him counting under His breath -- just counting. I'm there wishing He'd touch me, make it feel like the sexual connective event that it is, tell me who I am for Him in that moment, guide me... but I suspect that for Him to do that would bring Him out of His space.
I wish we would fist. We have tried a couple of times. But I am terrified. Always at the point of His final entry, I lose it and tighten and spasm up and panic. I have this mental image of lose pipes hanging in a dark basement -- I just know that's how my parts must be... and I'm scared to death that He'll punch through the end of what's left and leave me bleeding through that empty pipe at the top of ... Still, how I wish we'd find a time to start slowly and with whatever time we needed to get to the point where I was just ready... How I dream that there were a way to ensure that I could not end it at the critical moment -- some kind of restraint. Honestly, I imagine that we would use the tie down points on the coffee table. It is made for that, after all. Enough time, enough preparation, enough space to get there, and then His will to take me through the point where my courage fails.
I wish that we would play with knives in ways that would leave marks; scratches that remained for a time - or perhaps more. He loves those knives but we never really use them for anything much, except to scratch His feet...

Life that interferes. We are all so tired. We keep putting one foot in front of another. We keep being glad that there are three of us, and wondering how people do it when there aren't three... We keep telling ourselves that this is just a rough patch, and that eventually things will settle down and life will get easier and smoother and we will be better able to live our lives the way we envision them. Yet, we also know, that we've been smacked by one crisis or another for what feels like forever. In our "up" times, we remind one another that six years ago we would have been thrilled to be able to sit down together and just BE together. And that is true. The very good news is that we are together and loving one another. It is a gift and we are grateful. The hard truth is that we struggle against the tide, and it wears on us all. We just never seem to get a break. That sucks. We are looking forward to a vacation this summer. It will be the first time ever that the three of us have vacationed together as a family for more than just a weekend here or there. Even as we plan it, we wonder if we can actually manage to take the time. Sigh.

Fear. I am afraid. Of myself. Of the future. Of what I do not know. Of what I cannot see. Of what I want, and of what I do not want -- because they are often the same thing. My fear drives me to push, to bluster, to swagger. I need Him to know what that is, and I'm not sure that He does entirely. It is difficult because of my outside/inside lifestyle. Out in the world, I have to be larger and stronger and more expansive than is good or appropriate inside my inner life. It isn't always easy to drop that persona at the door. Still, there are roles that I assume within the context of slave that "need" me to push a bit... did He take His pills? has He gotten His mouth guard in? tried the new less drying shower product yet? Finding the balance isn't always easy, especially when I'm feeling so off balance anyway. I am afraid. I don't feel comfortable and I am not entirely sure where I fit. Sometimes -- like Sunday, when I say that to Him, it hurts His feelings, and He simply suggests that if I feel like my life is so bad that perhaps we need to end this. That does not help to ease my fear. If there is anything that will scare the willies out of me, it is the belief that I can say the word, and He will just let me go...

Aging. It is just this simple -- there may not be any good alternatives, but getting older sucks. We noted this last week, that I am now the same age as He was when I arrived here. We've fought the good fight against the depredations of the years. Still, there have been real losses and we can't deny them. Neither of us are as strong or sturdy or energetic as we were five years ago. Perhaps we are wiser(I don't know), but we are surely older. These are not, in my view, golden years.

Communication. This is the almost cliched watchword of lifestyle relationships: communicate, communicate, communicate. All of us tell one another that it is critical to make sure that open, honest, transparent communication is the heart and soul of these dynamics. Still, I find that it really just isn't that simple. I edit what I say. I filter how I say it. I manage my tone of voice. I interpret what He says. I look at body language and facial expression and find meaning in every single nuance. Even when He doesn't really MEAN anything, I extract meaning. The air around here literally quivers with communication even when no one has anything to say; even when no one says anything. Sometimes that is good, and sometimes that is a problem. Our dynamic is intense and our life is intense. We can get enormously stressed. So when all of us are stretched out to the limits of our endurance, the phenomenally wired sensitivity can cascade into some pretty wild communication tumbles. I tend to hang onto things and then pour it all out into emotional cloudbursts... Baffling for everyone else in the household, I suspect.
I like wandering, going nowhere conversations. About nothing in particular. The sort of chatter that might turn up nuggets if left to their own devices. That sort of comradely back and forthing is leisurely and lazy. It takes time and space and quiet. Our house is never quiet. It is the single, biggest rub point for us all -- and the place where I am most likely to make the rest of the family nuts. I get lonesome because, from dawn to dusk, the televisions play in every room in the place. No one talks when the one-eyed monsters are holding forth. It seems I am the only one who gets bothered by it. The only one who feels the isolation between us. I just go around trying to remember that it isn't MY place to say differently -- until I can't stand it anymore. Then the dam bursts and they look at me like some weird space alien has landed in their midst, and we go on from there. I doubt either of them will ever understand.

Comparisons. I try not to compare. I really know that what I do is appropriate to me and us. Some of what I read makes me want to take people and smack them or shriek or simply say, "you have got to be kidding!" I try to remember my manners. It isn't my job to tell anyone else how to do their thing. Still, it is hard to be the only one doing things in a particular way, or the only one like this. Loneliness is awfully damn lonely. I wonder if I haven't spent most of my life as the odd one. Have had very few close friends. True when I was an adolescent. True as a young adult raising my children. True as I lived through my marriage. Remains true to this day. I have always felt that I simply did not fit. Still feel that way.

Anger. It is very hard to not want to shriek in anger. When there is so much that other people can do and have that I cannot do and do not have. Forgive me if I remain quiet. It is better than the sounds that I would make if I came roaring out in the full throat of my unbelievable anger. I know that it is inappropriate to unleash the rage I have at what seems terribly unfair on those of you who are young and healthy and flush and horny... Somedays, I simply want to shut this all down so that I do not have to look and know about any of it.

Frustration. There, maybe I have poured out most of the frustration. I have to go back and see the "sex" doctor next week. Blech. He is making noise about making me go see the shrink again. I really, really, really do not want to do that. I am not strong enough (I don't think) to go sit with someone who sits and listens and smiles and pretends to understand; who seems sympathetic and kind. I know he is getting paid to be nice to me. I know that he can't be anyone in my life. Still, I am so needy. I can't do this. It will break me. I just can't balance that right now.

Icky, icky post.

swan