Last Weekend

We've been a family for just over five years. Our relationship is older than that by a couple of years. We have, in that space, ironed out an awful lot of the wrinkles in our day-to-day relating, and settled into the power exchange dynamic that is at the foundation of our lives to such a degree that it really isn't something that we spend a great deal of time thinking about consciously. We have very few "rough" places. Our lives cruise along pretty smoothly for the most part. Early on, He and I would occasionally get "cross-wise" with one another, and those dustups could be pretty spectacular (although, mercifully, short-lived). T and I have never fussed at one another. We are two women, living in the same household, and we function in remarkable harmony. We simply don't fight.


At least we haven't fought. Until Sunday.


On Sunday, I was like a cat with all my fur rubbed the wrong way. For whatever reason, I was just about as nervy and jittery as it is possible for a human being to get. I was, literally, a human bomb, walking around with my little short fuse sticking out, just looking for a spark. It didn't take me long to get myself lit up. A seemingly inconsequential thing -- the making of some applesauce and the offer on the part of T to help peel the apples -- sent me into a full on boiling rage (complete with screaming, door slamming, and throwing things). I ended up on the floor in the bathroom in tears, and she ended up baffled and furious. We were off to the races -- our very first ever "girl" fight while Himself looked on in utter amazement and bewilderment.

When the initial explosion was over, T and I were squared off, hands on hips, faces flushed, angry and hurt and, I think, both just rocked to our toes by the sheer violence of the storm that threatened to destroy our little world.

She left -- headed to pick up Grandma's laundry; determined to continue on and visit with her mom. I dragged all the household trash to the dumpster and then stomped myself into the kitchen with the blood still roaring in my ears to make applesauce. Quarter, core, peel, slice... repeat. Over and over and over...

Eventually, He began to try to talk to me about what was going on. At first, I didn't have a lot to say. I was shaken. I was angry. I was frightened. I was confused. I was feeling completely out of control. Somewhere in the midst of the storm, I know that T called and talked with Him, and He convinced her to come home. When she arrived, we sat and talked, and things between she and I arrived at a semblance of calm. Still, though, I was boiling and seething inside. When T left and went back to her side of the household, I began to rant and rage again.

This time, He was my target, and I didn't spare any of the tender spots. I went right for the kill. I railed against the unfairness of the "poly" arrangement of our lives -- how He gets to make dates and connections and I have no chance to hook up with anyone who will make me feel "good." As He threw the fact that a Master/slave relationship might not be "fair" at me, I retorted that ours was a M/s relationship in name only. "What was it about what we were doing that had anything to do with M/s," I demanded. We hadn't done anything that was really M/s since His knee surgery -- that was my assertion. I claimed that He only noticed me when He decided it was time to beat me, otherwise, I sputtered, I might as well be just another piece of furniture. On and on I went -- about how unsatisfactory my sex life is, about how much I wished I had someone who would make me feel like a woman again, about how angry I was at Him for letting "them" do this (the hysterectomy) to me, about how T hated having me here and always had, about how I had ruined their lives by coming here in the first place -- how it had all been such a dreadful, horrible, terrible mistake. When He asked if I was talking about ending our relationship, I replied that I didn't know -- Maybe it was the best thing, I admitted. I don't have any idea how long I carried on, but it took a really long time for all that pent up misery and venom to come pouring out.

When it was done, He was devastated, and more than just a bit angry. I was just stunned at how deftly and determinedly I had just destroyed my entire existence. The evening was grim to say the least. We managed, somehow to get through our dinnertime, to complete a work project that we had to finish together, to prepare to sleep, and even to spend the night together (although at the farthest reaches of our big bed). By Monday morning, we were physically and emotionally exhausted. I got up, showered, dressed for school, choked down some breakfast and prepared to leave. I didn't have the faintest notion how I was going to make it through the day ahead. I was completely emotionally wiped out. As I started out the door, He gave me the gentlest of hugs. It was as if I'd be given a gift. I had become convinced that He might never touch me again at that point, and I was certainly clear that I'd not blame Him in the slightest. Leaning into Him that morning, I dared to hope that there might be some way to salvage something from the wreckage I'd created.

I went to school and the students arrived right on schedule. I tried to focus. Tried to breathe. Worked hard to fight off the urge to just crumple into a ball and sob. Teach. Teach. Teach. I was in agony. It hurt to breathe. Standing up required conscious effort.

When I could get a break, I checked email and there was a note from Him... "I hope you are OK. I am not..."

"I'm not OK," I replied. "I didn't sleep, and it hurts to breathe. I feel as if I've destroyed everything. None of this is your fault. I know I need to find some help. I'm not OK. Don't blame yourself for my mental illness... I have to fix this. I only hope it isn't too late. I am not sure if I can come home. I don't know what to do, but I don't want to give up..."

Back came the reply, "You can always come home. We will find a way through this. Mine always and all ways."

It is Wednesday and the storm has calmed, but I am aware that it isn't going to just vanish. Something happened and it wasn't a "phantom."

There are lots of explanations and there are things within my life and within our dynamic that we can point to in terms of "what might have set it off." I don't know and I don't care. I only know that I don't want to go there ever again. I want to find a way to some sort of reasonable, solid, stable emotional state. I do not want to ever again lash out and attack those I love. Spanking and power exchange can achieve only so much. They cannot substitute for needed mental health care.

I am better today. I am not convinced that I am well. I am determined to find a place where I will BE well.

swan