Dust

We had friends for dinner last night...  Friends who are curious about BDSM and our collection of toys.  So, after dinner, we opened up the flogging frame, and began dragging out the toys:  floggers, and paddles, and quirt, and canes.

Almost everything was covered in dust, lots and lots of dust.

One friend commented to me that he thought I should have "cleaned the toys after we played with them the last time."

"I did."  I told him.

Being Honest

It is a widely held tenet of the BDSM lifestyle that honesty and transparency are important.  Even foundational.  Necessary for this thing we do to work.

I've often heard it said that this person or that will absolutely not tolerate dishonesty.  Mistakes in judgement -- yes.  Carelessness -- OK.  Plain, downright stupidity -- sure... even that. But not ever, never, no way will we tolerate dishonesty.

It makes sense.  I guess.  But I wonder what we really mean when we say we demand honesty and transparency.  No.  I wonder what I mean by that.  Me.

Because here's the thing.  I have been kinky since I was old enough to masturbate, and that was just not that old.  Actually, I've been kinky since way before I was old enough to realize that being the way I am was not OK with the rest of the world.  I learned to pretend that I wasn't like this at a very young age.  By the time I reached the age of majority, I was a practiced liar.  Mostly, at that point, I lied to myself.  I was pretty naive, but I knew that if I were to live the "happily ever after" dream that was the background to every girlish imagining, I was going to have to play the part of a good girl / nice woman.  No dark fetish tinged longings were allowed in the planned for future of marriage and family and successful career.  So lying became the garment that I wore closest to my skin.

And the guy I married; he lied too.  First he lied when he promised to take care of me and my children.  That wasn't something he was prepared to do; able to do.  He tried to maintain the illusion, but it just wasn't in his makeup.  He was who he was -- good hearted, sweet, loving.  He was no bread winner.  Nor was he strong and protective by his nature.  He might have convinced the 19 year old I was then that he was my knight in shining armor, but he knew it wasn't true.  It was just that the lie was required if he was to have the life he wanted.

Somewhere along the line, I began to itch under the weight of the lie I was living.  I began to "come out" as the freakish, fetish driven, weirdo I really was.  Telling even some of that truth turned out to be no panacea.  Honesty is not always the best policy.  Standing in front of the man I'd married and telling him the truth about what I was and what I wanted created a whole new level of intimate dishonesty.  What, after all, was he to do with that information?  He wasn't any part of that dark world.  He neither understood it nor wanted it.  He only wanted his "comfortable, normal, socially acceptable" life to go on as it had been.  So, he lied again.  To meet my need, my demand, he tried to take on the guise of the dominant partner in my little personal movie.  His dishonesty was understandable, I guess.  My insistence on that dishonesty was unforgivable.

But the sad tale doesn't end there.  Needs denied are wicked things.  They whisper in the darkness.  The hunger is never sated, and the longings never stop.  It is a kind of madness swirling out of control.  Anyone who has ever passed through the attempt to shove a fetish into some kind of back corner, or box, or closet, knows the futility; knows how the squashed down, buried, hidden desires come roaring out, demanding their day in the sun.

I found my way to get that dark drive fulfilled.  I don't think it was conscious or planned.  I only knew that when the opportunity came to get spanked, flogged, and caned by Tom, I was not about to walk the other way.  Married?  Yeah.  I was.  He was. I was willing to toss those vows in the can; willing to move away from my children; willing to quit a good job; willing to sell the family home.  There was nothing I wasn't willing to do or give up in order to get what I wanted.  That simple.  I wanted, and that was all I knew.  Turned out that my commitment to being wife or mother was only sort of that.  Commitment? 'Til death do us part?  In sickness or in health?  For as long as you both shall live?  Once upon a time, long long ago, I said yes to all of that.  I lied.  So.

Probably, in the rush and excitement, I lied to myself.  I told myself that I could give up everything, give up my self, be nothing at all.  I think I tried to believe the fiction that I could lose myself and be fulfilled in that loss.  I'm sure that I wasn't honest with Tom.  I let him believe that I was that "perfectly" submissive who needed only him, and really, only as much of him as he was willing to give.  I let him believe that I could just join the stable of butts and it would all be fine with me.  "Whatever you want, whenever you want."  That is what I told him; what I told myself.

As it turned out, there was no way to talk myself into that story either.  I did try.  But we are who we are.  No matter the stories we tell ourselves.

I don't know the lies others tell.  Maybe, some never do.  Tell lies.  Maybe some are as open and honest and transparent as I've read for all these years.  Maybe there are those who do not carry around dark secrets and shameful hidden failings.  That must be so, because, to demand that level of truthfulness from another person, you would have to live up to that standard yourself.  Wouldn't you?  Wouldn't I?

Sl-ub-ottom

I've been contemplating the path I've taken, in terms of BDSM, to where I find myself now.  To make any sense of that, I need to rehash my meanderings through the various down-side labels that I've used for my part inside of power relationships.  Now, before anyone jumps all over me, I know that my view of all of that is particular to my experience, and it may not match up with your views.  I get that, and I'm really fine with it.  I am trying to sort my own path out here.  Not trying to be prescriptive.  So, if you can, try and be patient with me.  Or enter the conversation.  Or just click on to the next place.  It's all good.

In the BDSM bestiary, there are labels applied to roles and we are inclined to cuss and discuss the varieties of "beast" described  by all the words we use.  On the "down" side of the power based relational dynamic, we find (among a widely shaded pantheon of others) bottoms, submissves, and slaves.  In general, those three are viewed as nesting subsets; each part of the larger set that umbrellas over it.  Hence:

• All submissives are bottoms, but not all bottoms are submissive.
• All slaves are submissive, but not all submissives are slaves.

What else, one might be tempted to ask, is there to know?  Pick your "level," and you are ready to "play" at this thing we call BDSM.  Except, of course, it is never, ever that simple.  Well, maybe it is.  For some people.

We BDSM types borrowed the notion of "bottom" from the world of gay men, where the word "bottom" denotes the passive, receptive partner -- especially in anal/oral sex.  Appropriated by the, not-necessarily-gay, BDSM community, the term is generally understood to mean the passive and receptive partner:  the one who submits, suffers, obeys, serves.  In my experience, bottoms are BDSM players who take on the receptive role for a negotiated, pre-defined, agreed to period of time (a scene or an evening, or a weekend).  Some who enjoy the part of "bottom" play regularly with one or several partners who take on the role of "top."  It is a complementary relational arrangement that tends to work for both partners when they can reach a balanced understanding that allows them to play congenially.

The submissive is, most often, a bottom who enjoys giving up some measure of personal autonomy to a partner who will accept the responsibility for those parts of her/his life -- the dominant.  While it is common for bottoms to be passive within the context of BDSM play, the submissive's willingness to allow the dominant to control what happens may extend to a few or many parts of life.  "It is not just play," or, "I'm not just submissive in the bedroom," are the claims made by many submissives.  It is pretty easy, especially if one is new, young, or inexperienced, to believe that being submissive is a level up from being "just a bottom."

Slaves are those who are willing to turn over all of the control, within whatever negotiated limits may be specified at the beginning of the relationship, to become the property of a master.  No rights.  No property.  No options.  No way out.  Slavery is, arguably, the most extreme form of bottoming.  It is also, in some weirdly convoluted sense, the most prestigious manifestation of bottoming.

I came into the BDSM lifestyle, thinking that I might, maybe, possibly be submissive.  I wasn't all that comfortable with the idea.  It really didn't fit with my sense of who I'd worked very hard to be in my life, but it did seem to answer to something that I wanted in some deep, shame-filled, neglected part of my being.  So, I tried to learn how to be submissive.  I read a lot.  I corresponded on lists, trying to learn from those who seemed to know more than I did.  And I wrestled with my inner voices (and a cadre of inner demons) until I finally came to some kind of internal sense of peace over the whole business.  I submitted; giving up control; giving up choices; sinking into silence; swallowing the words and the ideas behind the words; making my mind to conform itself to another's.

And I kept reading, learning, or so I thought, learning to submit; learning to be a better submissive.  I steered a course that avoided the depths where it might be said that I was "topping from the bottom," and so, from day to day and week to week, I said less and less.  Pushed down the thinking that might have given rise to opinions and ideas that would run counter to those of the ones to whom I'd given control.  Except the thoughts were still there.  The ideas never really went away.  I was quiet on the surface while the chatter in my head pushed me further from the true connection that I sought.

Somewhere along the way, I came to believe that the "best" of the downside roles was that of "slave."  Now, in retrospect, I question who, exactly, I thought it would be "best" for.  For him?  It wasn't his idea; not in the beginning, and probably never once in all the time we practiced that particular mode of D/s relating.  I do not think that I was ever "slave" in his perceptions except when putting that notion out on the table might win him an argument; get me to acquiesce to whatever it was that he wanted in the moment.  For me?  For me the idea of belonging totally to someone meant a trade off -- I would give up all the rights given to any adult human if only...; if only doing that would give me safety and security and the assurance that I'd be wanted and treasured, cared for and protected.  The child I was wanted all of that, even as I made choices from the perspective of a grown woman.  He of course knew nothing of that bargain.  It was all in my head.  He never agreed to any of that.  Never made any of those commitments or promises.  That bit of negotiating never happened anywhere except in my own mind.  What came about later ought to really be laid at my door.  Negotiating is not a solitaire game.

Which brings me back around to the "beginning;" if it can be said that bottoming is the "beginning" of all of it.  I have never spent any time bottoming.  It seems to me now, that bottoming is purer if not simpler than its more laden corollaries.  I do not pretend to be any sort of expert at bottoming.  Just bottoming.  I am new to this.  I bottom when he is willing to top; and I do it for me.  Just me.  And I do not feel guilty or selfish about that.  Surprisingly.  I think, when he is choosing to top, he is doing it mostly for him.  The way he wants to do it.  He may be aware of what is happening on my end, but it really isn't his concern.  He is involved, in the event, with getting what he wants out of it all.  As am I.  I used to white knuckle my way through sessions because it was all about him, and for me to SAY anything about what I liked or didn't like or wanted or didn't want -- all of that fell into the realm of "topping from the bottom."  So, he topped, and got whatever he got out of it.  And I suffered.  Because I was trying to be a good submissive; a good slave.  Now, I bottom.  I play because I like to play, and if it gets too intense or there is some part of it that is not good, I say so -- because I want what I want.  Too.

I still take care of him on a number of levels.  I still listen to what he wants and needs.  I still treat him with respect and love.  He still watches what he wants to watch on television, and he seldom thinks to ask me about that.  And that is OK.  With him and with me.  There at those bits of submission and slavery that work for us, and I don't feel the need to reject those parts of who we are.  But it is just the fact that some of that was wrong for us.  Unhealthy for us.  Destructive for us.  Better gone -- a bit of interpersonal history to be noted and recognized and left to move on along the currents of time.

Perhaps it is true in BDSM as in other facets of our lives, that none of us are all one thing or another.  Most of us are conglomerations, mixtures, combos, collages that are built of the parts that work from the ideas and experiences that we encounter along the way.  Spiritually, politically, physically, sexually, intellectually, personally, inter-personally, we take what works; what fits, and leave the rest behind.  I've tried on the trappings of submission and slavery.  For a time, I claimed those labels for myself.  No more.  At present, the best I will claim is to be some mixture of the subsets:  slave, submissive, bottom -- sl-ub-ottom.

But, How can...?

And… Rhonda again:

“But. How can what you have with Tom even classify as a "power exchange" sort of relationship? He checked out a long time ago in that arena, if I've read this all correctly. You can submit to that nothingness all you want. Doesn't make you a slave. I mean, sure, you can still decide to Be a Slave in your head, but are you really? It's akin to the failed marriage you went through, isn't it? You promised forever there, but forever turned out to not be realistic. Sometimes we make promises that turn out to be not so good for us. Why should we punish ourselves forever when life says we should probably do something different? I dunno. Just don't really understand why you accept such a painful existence. Nor do I understand why you think your miserableness is a way that anyone else should accept as their way of being.”

Rhonda, I am going to continue to treat your inquiries as if they are being put forth in “good faith.”  That is, from my perspective, an artifice that allows me to discuss topics of my choosing, and has nothing at all to do with my actual evaluation of the validity of your opinions on this subject (since, as near as I can tell, you are a faceless Internet handle with nothing at all of substance to offer).  

To answer the question about how my relationship with  Tom can be classified as a “power exchange” sort of relationship, I’ll offer as a starting point, this definition supplied by Tarnished Halo:  A power exchange relationship is a relationship in which one of the partners consensually gives up a specific amount of control of their personal lives to another partner.  Frankly, most relationships are not power neutral.  Even those relationships which might seem to you, or to any other casual observer to be pretty “vanilla,” include elements of power exchange in that one or the other partner cedes a degree of control in one area or another.  Power exchange isn’t synonymous with “kinky.”  

My relationship tends, naturally, toward an unequal or uneven power balance.  He is, by his nature, inclined to take control; to want things done the way he wants them done.  That drive has been quieter in these last few years as he has healed.  I am, by my nature, inclined to give that control over to him when I can.  I prefer the safety and security of that imbalance.  The practice of that has required me to refine my expectations and modulate the receptiveness of my power antennae, as I have healed.  You have not, obviously, read it all correctly.  You clearly do not comprehend subtlety or delicacy or anything other than the hot, steamy, juvenile, simplistic, Fifty Shades of Grey characterizations of BDSM  porn.

My “failed marriage” is in no way comparable to this personal and intimate endeavor in relatedness.  That was a bad agreement, entered into by two naive, inexperienced young people.  It was a terrible mistake.  We were badly matched.  We accepted the social norms that dictated that we ought to marry in order to raise our children.  It was, as I look back at it from the vantage point of nearly 6 decades of living, a failure of the teachings of society and church -- and not our failing.  We ought to have let one another go much sooner than we did.  If we had, we would both have been happier, and probably, so would our children have been.

I do not claim the title of “slave” anymore.  Perhaps I never should have.  I don’t feel, at this point, the need for the label.  My relationship is what it is this day.  It is different than it was a dozen years ago, and it will be different still in a year, or two, or ten.  That is the reality.  I have chronicled the days and weeks and years of this relationship in more words that I can count.  Unlike you, Rhonda, I have plenty to lay on the table in this discussion.  I am not just talking silly fantasies, and unfulfilled dreams and desires.  I have taken the risks and endured the bumps in the road in order to actually LIVE this life.  I don’t just read what other people write, and then make snide and snarky comments, I do it; have done it, and continue to do it.  If you have anything to offer beyond your faceless anonymity, then lay it out, and we’ll talk as peers.

I am not punishing myself.  He is not punishing me (which may be your issue).  I am not miserable.  I have had tough days.  We have had a tough passage.  That is not a failing.  That is how life carries us all.  The difference, I suspect, is that I put my vulnerable and broken places out here for all to see.  I write it honestly, knowing that there will be some, like you, who delight in pointing out the ugly, messy, broken places (as if that somehow makes you righteous).  We’ve been broken.  It is true.  Breaks heal.  Often the broken place heals and is stronger than it was before.  I don’t know that I can claim to be stronger, but I can claim the healing.  

Whatever you want to call my relationship, Rhonda, please know you are welcome to that label if it makes you somehow feel better.  I do not care.  I am where I choose to be, living the life that I have been given to live. What I know; what you clearly do not seem to know or understand, is perhaps best summed up, with a bit of a baseball metaphor, by Anne Lamott:  “We stick together, and love bats last.”

Bob and Jan's Collaring Song

Years ago, when my "then" husband and I were still living in Colorado, we hosted a group of kinksters from around the country in our home, and together, the bunch of us spent the weekend at Thunder in the Mountains.  Tom and T were with us that weekend, along with a couple that lived in Toledo, Ohio, and another set of online friends from Eugene, Oregon.  We had people all over the house, and mealtimes were quite the production, gathered around our big table.  We rented a mini-van, and so we managed to shuttle back and forth across town to participate in the play parties and presentations.  It was a wild and busy time.

Part of the festivities of the weekend included a collaring ceremony between Bob and Jan, our friends from the west coast.  We all gathered one evening, before we headed for the play party, to witness to their promises to one another, and to support them as they embarked on a new phase of their journey in their life together.  It was a simple ceremony that included, at one point, a paraphrase of a hymn that they had heard at their church.  At the time, I'd never heard the hymn by John Ball called "The Summons:"

Will you come and follow me if I but call your name?
Will you go where you don't know and never be the same?
Will you let my love be shown? Will you let my name be known,
will you let my life be grown in you and you in me?

Will you leave yourself behind if I but call your name?
Will you care for cruel and kind and never be the same?
Will you risk the hostile stare should your life attract or scare?
Will you let me answer prayer in you and you in me?

Will you let the blinded see if I but call your name?
Will you set the prisoners free and never be the same?
Will you kiss the leper clean and do such as this unseen,
and admit to what I mean in you and you in me?

Will you love the "you" you hide if I but call your name?
Will you quell the fear inside and never be the same?
Will you use the faith you've found to reshape the world around,
through my sight and touch and sound in you and you in me?

Lord your summons echoes true when you but call my name.
Let me turn and follow you and never be the same.
In Your company I'll go where Your love and footsteps show.
Thus I'll move and live and grow in you and you in me.

Now, there is plenty of discussion, within the "church music" types about the relative merits of this song.  Some find it insipid, sing-songy, badly written, and derivative.  Church music people seem to take this stuff awfully seriously.  I don't really care that much, to tell the truth.  I "attend" mass once each week with my Catholic school students, and the music is part of the experience that I can sometimes enjoy, given that I am the resident heathen...

But every few weeks, with amazing regularity, I'll head over to church with my kids, and there, posted on the board, part of the music programme for the service, is "Bob and Jan's Collaring Song."  It always makes me smile...  if they only knew!!!

swan

Flogging

I keep starting to write this, and then finding myself stuck.  For someone who has the capacity to blather on and on and on, I feel strangely awkward; like a newbie; as if all those many, many years (documented in this blog and The Swan's Heart that came before), count as so much nothing with regard to BDSM play.

The weekend days are so precious, and as I indicated in the last post, my Saturday was spoiled to a large degree by a nasty migraine headache.  If I say the "M" word to Himself, that is the death knell for any sort of spanking play or even plain, old, garden-variety sex.  My headaches are taken so very, very seriously, and He won't do anything to make them worse, or make me any more miserable than I already am in the throes of an attack.  So... that was the story on Saturday.

By the time I got sort of over it, and began to feel better, it was late in the evening.  Too late.  And so, we sat up together, watching football (yes, it is the season), and probably baseball (that season, too).  It was well past midnight when we finally headed off to bed.  And so, we slept very late on Sunday morning.

It was a nice waking up time.  I felt pretty good.  He rolled over and put His head on my belly, and I rubbed and scratched His back.  We talked.  Nothing heavy.  Just chatting -- the sort of drowsy, just coming to awareness sort of back and forth that I've always loved.  Back and forth; sharing ideas and tidbits of our lives.

But then, we get hungry, and given our various blood sugar issues, there is no way to delay that -- when it is time to eat, it needs to happen as soon as possible.  Nothing for it.  I piled out of bed and hustled out to the kitchen to put together some pancakes and scrambled eggs and bacon and coffee.

We ate, and then I got busy doing the various weekend chores:  laundry, school work, baking, cleaning chores, garden stuff...  He gets wrapped up in watching the digital video recordings of the Sunday morning news programs; and then, the Sunday TV sports programs -- football/baseball.  Somewhere along the line, in the midst of all of that, I start to figure that the weekend is basically over, and that, since we tend to only spank in the mornings before we get up, it isn't going to happen...maybe next weekend.  I really try not to get all bent out of shape over that, but I can't claim to be entirely easy and sweet about it either.  I miss that intimacy.

So, I was a little surprised when, after dinner on Sunday evening, He looked at me and suggested that maybe we could set up the flogging frame...   No.  I was not just a little surprised.  I was amazed.  And thrilled.

The flogging frame has not been up since long before His shoulder replacement surgery.  Before the surgery, His shoulder was so painful that there was no way we could contemplate wrestling the heavy top off the flogging frame, and even if we could have managed to get it up, the arthritis in His shoulders would have made flogging just impossible.  After the surgery, the recovery and rehabilitation period extends for a full year.  His shoulder healed perfectly, but by the time He was feeling capable of swinging a flogger, He needed another knee replacement.  That was last summer -- just over a year ago.  It wasn't easy, even as knee replacements go, and the rehab course took longer than we anticipated.  Then, His other shoulder started to hurt...  and so it goes.  We are definitely headed for another shoulder replacement.  It is only a question of time, and probably not a lot of time either.

So...  I was torn.  Of course I wanted a flogging, But things are complicated for us.  There is a tentativeness between us that is hard to navigate.  But, beyond that, I did not want Him to hurt that shoulder.  Actually, I didn't want Him to hurt either shoulder.  Not with the flogging itself, and definitely not with the sheer brute strength required to set up the flogging frame.

We wrangled back and forth, considering the possibilities... until, finally, I suggested that maybe we could use the spanking bench instead of the flogging frame.  THAT was the ticket.  He quickly agreed.  I went and pulled the bench out of the bedroom and into position in the living room.  I messed and messed, trying to remember how to get onto the thing and be halfway comfortable, and He rounded up a pile of floggers... and other things.  Of course.

It was good.  The floggers fell this way and that.  He used His hands and a variety of knives, and had me squirming, feeling sensations that haven't visited this part of the world for a very long time.  From soft, sensuous suede and the heavier buffalo flogger; working up to the sharpness of the kangaroo-hide cat, the flogging was amazing.  There were paddles, of course... and the rattan cane, and one of those birch-rod styled thingys.  All the way along, I was entranced and fascinated by the waves of sensation He was causing to play through my body.  It seems I've finally found my way back to "it."  Finally.  Yeah.

It was good.  Good.
swan

Reminded

I have always taken a dim view of submissive partners who require continual attention and reminding of who they are and what their place is.  I've always believed that the purpose of the "one down" partner in a power relationship is to make the Master/Owner/Dominant/Top's life easier and simpler.  Really, the submissive shouldn't require a lot of maintenance.  That is what I believe, and that is what I've said all along.

And then, I found myself in a circumstance where the One Up partner in my power dynamic stopped actively engaging in that "role."  Note, I do not think He has stopped being that.  I still believe that dominance is His innate way of being in the world, and I don't think He can change that.  Still, the reality is that He has had other things on His mind, and His heart has not been in the active work of "keeping me in place."

I have been less that sweet and graceful about that.  I have been sad, lost, pouty, and lonely without the sure sense of His power in my day to day life.  I have felt that as abandonment; as a decision that I was no longer wanted or appreciated.  I have sometimes whined, cajoled, and blamed Him for making that be the way I felt.  I've acted in opposition to all of those things that I have ALWAYS believed and thought.  I've behaved like the bratty submissive I never, ever wanted to be.

But even a brat can learn given enough time.  Here's what I have learned:

He is my Master.  I am His.  Always and all ways.  Master is who He is, not what He does.  I do not require Him to control or micromanage me in order to behave as I know He would have me behave.  I know what is expected, wanted, and needed.  I have the voice of His dominance in my mind.  His voice.  I have the face of His dominance in my mind.  His face.  All I have to do is listen and look inside, and all of it is there; all of the many years of learning and growing in His sight; all of the work and effort that it took to become His.  It is there and I can hear it and feel it without His ever saying a word.

I have not lost my Master.  I can never lose Him.  If He chooses to be quiet for a time; if He chooses to remain quiet for a lifetime; still He will forever be in my head.  I can follow Him as surely as I might walk in His footsteps along a sandy beach.  I remember now.

swan

Journeying -- Somewhere

I've been to subspace a few times.  Time was, I would go off to subspace in the midst of a session; not often, but occasionally.  I've tried to describe the experience at least a half dozen times.  Search subspace here, and you'll find a wealth of words on the subject.

Like many submissives, I find the subspace experience to be pleasant, satisfying, and just a little mysterious.  The times when I've managed to launch off into that different sort of awareness have been some of the best parts of being who I am and what I am inside of my intimate life.

Recently, though, I've found myself, in the midst of sadomasochistic play, traveling to a different sort of mental place.  At least, I suppose it is a "mental" place.  It might be.

I used to battle my way along through most sessions, believing that I was, mostly, working to please Him.  Sometimes, rarely, I got off into my own good place, and even more rarely, I'd get turned on and find the whole event thrilling and sexy.  At some level, I believed that when that happened, He had allowed it in some way; letting me go and permitting me to find that path way.  I felt that it was a sort of indulgence; a release from the suffering that He most enjoyed from me, and so a gift of sorts.

As everything has shifted in our lives, I have lived for better than two years with the awareness that sadomasochistic play between us is not what it had been. I sense that there is a banking of the fire that once drove His sadistic urges.  Even as I continued to feel the inner urge to submit and fold into the belonging that was once the norm for me, I confronted the fact that the place where that was possible for me no longer exists between us.  I have, very slowly, evolved into a mindset that allows me to play and take away from it what I need.  Understanding that I may not always be able to do anything to please Him has given me the space in which to please myself.  And I am still a masochist at my core, and so the occasion of masochistic play has become an opportunity for me to go where I will inside my own person.

I used to get through spankings by chanting away inside my head.  Most often, those repeated, mantra-like chants were of a couple of forms:

• Yours always and all ways, Yours always and all ways, Yours always and all ways...
• I love You, Sir, I love You, Sir, I love You, Sir...

Sometimes, in my darker times, the repetition would sound more like:  You are just the butt, You are just the butt, You are just the butt...

Either way, I avoided anything that seemed like counting.  I used that repetitive, mental chattering to help me regulate my breathing, and anchor me to the present.  It worked to keep me from imagining that the pain would go on forever, escalating ever upward, until I would simply cease to exist in any viable sense.  It prevented panic and rage.  It allowed me to be what I believed I should be; what I wanted to be.

Lately, though, I've found that I do count; not strokes but more of a breath count like I once used when I was learning to swim.  I've found that I tend to fall into an eight-count; two counts as I breathe in, and then two as I breathe out.  Repeated over and over:  one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...

That count seems to take me into a place that is different that the subspace I have known.  It seems to take me "down" into some kind of passage, and I can hear myself talking to myself:  "Go deeper, deeper..."  I believe that the path I travel is akin to the shamanic journey that I've learned about, but never been very successful with.  I travel along, counting to eight, and following some sort of tunnel into a space where I remain quite aware of my surroundings and the events of the session I'm engaged in, but with a detached place where I find the ability to ask my questions, and find my own answers -- or be shown those answers.

  The trick seems to be that I need to remember to be asking the question when I get to wherever it is that I go in these moments.  The big question that I've been asking for a long time now is, "What can I do to lessen the emotional distance and separation between He and I?"  We live, these days, with a gentler, softer, but limp seeming emotional space.  The fire and passion is simply gone; a memory of another place and time.  I am torn.  I do not miss the dangerous, scary, and mean parts of the "unhealthy" co-dependence that characterized our former life, but I often feel as though we live more as roommates than lovers.  To be sure, there is nothing much left of our power dynamic (although I continue to act out that relational style by habit and internal conditioning).  

So, I have been making the "shamanic journey" wondering, asking, what to do to bring the two of us closer, and then, just a week or so ago, I came back up out of that purple-lighted deep space with the, seemingly, obvious answer:  If you want to be more connected; if you want to close the gap between you; if you want to reduce the separation; then you must stop separating from Him.

OH!  Duh!  Here, I've gone along believing that it was Him who was creating the distance, and insisting on the arms-length space between us.  Imagine my surprise when the answer made it clear that it is me.  ME.  I am the one who has been pulling away, like the frightened child I once was, I have reacted to His struggles and His pain and His anger by hiding my self.  I have banked my own emotional fires, and convinced myself that the appropriate thing to do was to simply stop pushing, stop needing, stop caring, and stop wanting the close, intimate connection with Him.  I have reverted to that strong, rigid, Amazon woman that I was when I first entered into this life.  I have gone back to the claim that I can take care of myself, that I don't need anyone.  It is a lonely and ugly place, and I have put myself there.  He has not done it to me; to us.  It is me.  I am the one who needs to take down the walls, curl up in His arms, and let it be OK to be there.  I need to stop making the separation happen between us.

swan

Stages, Seasons, and Nuances

We are all familiar with the relational vocabulary we've created inside the lifestyle:  M/s, D/s, OP, TPE.  The various acronyms are labels we use with one another to describe the types of power exchange at the foundation of our disparate relational dynamics.  We alternately insist that those relationships descriptors mean exactly what we say they mean, and then we back track and declare that each relationship is unique, and each set of partners defines the norms for themselves.  We can, and do, argue endlessly about what is what and who is who.  I've been engaged, personally, in more of those conversations than I can count, and I have no intention of revisiting that old wrangle.

However we define the power dynamics for ourselves, I believe the labels are too simplistic, too one-dimensional, too short-sighted to serve for the long-term discussion of the ways in which we live our lives together.  Our relationships may look different, in a wide variety of ways,  than more traditional relational models, but just like our brothers and sisters who might be inclined to the "vanilla" approach, our lives together are fraught with stages, seasons, and nuances.  We cannot simply declare ourselves to be "this" or "that," and then proceed as if all the questions and variables have been answered and resolved.  Would that it were so easy!

Relationships go through shifts and changes as they develop over time.  As people grow and learn their way into the patterns that form between them, there are recognizable stages to the relationship.  Just as we realize that children pass through stages as they grow and mature, relationships have stages, too.

In the very beginning there is the stage that is built out of a mutual attraction.  In vanilla relationships, and in many lifestyle pairings, this phase involves “falling in love.”  Our culture tends to see romantic love as the ONLY kind of love.  Those of us who practice BDSM sometimes have romantic love as part of our relational foundation -- just like anyone else.  We might also be attracted to a number of other characteristics, depending on our particular inclinations. It might be that we "fall in love" with the sense of power or control. Maybe we really get taken with someone's Dominant/submissive nature, or their sadistic or masochistic bent. There are lots of different things that might "ring our bells." Regardless of how we might characterize this stage, it almost always leaves us feeling as if we have found “the one.”  In the throes of this early stage of relating, we experience our partners as nearly perfect; we feel alive, excited, and passionate.  Euphoria is just part of the reality in this stage.  I know that we, early on, believed we were star-crossed, meant for each other, bound together at the level of soul and spirit.  In those early days and months, it was easy to believe in forever; to see ourselves holding hands into the mists of a future we could not even remotely imagine.

In time, of course, reality sets in, and all relationships have to adjust.  It turns out that real life can’t be all roses and/or whips forever.  Inevitably, predictably, reality rears its sometimes ugly head and partners have to confront the demands of life and living. No matter our early dreams, we discover that our “perfect” love is human.  Small (and sometimes large) conflicts occur, and the fantasy begins to crumble.  The demands of work, the strains of managing finances, the demands of family and work, the minor daily irritations of personal habits and quirks, betrayals, mismatched desires and needs, all of these and a thousand other hurdles line the path along which we must all travel eventually. Conflicts, anxieties, disappointment, struggle, and hurt replace the effortless rapture of those first, breathless days.  This is the point where we first lose our relational innocence.  It is the stage where we learn that our once perfect love is not likely to live up to each and every one of our hopes and dreams.  It is at this point when we have to figure out how to negotiate through the sense of loss, of being somehow cheated by life and love.  Now, the real work of relationship begins as we start the process of learning how to deal with conflict, and create the intimacy we seek, and interweave that with the independence which is an essential part of our human condition.  Of course, inside our deliberately unequal power relationships, the incongruities and confusions are more sharply drawn, and navigating this stage is often more complex and more treacherous: How do I tell you that I want and need your control and attention without, simultaneously, creating a circumstance where I am, in fact, the one who controls?

As we struggle to adjust to the reality of our relationships, disillusionment deepens, and we tend to disagree more.  We may argue more.  Partners dig in their heels and battle lines are drawn.  What was once, sweet, sexy, and thrilling turns into a battleground as we find ourselves mired in a daily power struggle.  No matter the agreements, and whatever the labels we adopt, this stage is part of the relational work for those of us in power based dynamics just as it is for the more vanilla couple.  All of our lifestyle specific trappings cannot protect us from the work of this stage.  We are not immune from the requirements of this stage:  learning to listen, to negotiate, to seek mutual solutions, and to care for ourselves and one another.  As we struggle with our disappointments and broken places, we (hopefully) choose to stay in the relationship, even as it may seem tempting to leave.  If we stay; if we manage to weather the storms and battles of this stage, perhaps we will have the chance to grow and strengthen the bonds that will hold us together into the future.  It is, often, an exhausting, wrenching, painful process.

Sooner or later, all is laid bare.  Over time, we learn to really know who our partner is, limitations and all.  Whereas the original commitment we make is typically based on projections of fantasy, now we can ask and answer the essential question:  “Knowing all of it, do you still want to stay?”  This is the time of re-evaluation and, perhaps, reinvestement.  Especially for those of us in power-based relationships, this is a passage through uncertainty -- a time when the hot, sexy passions fade into memory.   Unless partners are willing to do the hard, personal work of understanding their own part in the disappointments; unless we are willing to confront our own fears and wounded places; unless we are willing to endure a period of limited gratification and security; unless we are each up to the task of staying present and honoring our commitments as we develop as separate people; there is a real likelihood that our once luminous dreams may crash and shatter.

Finally, most relationship experts assure us that if we can survive, relationships re-awaken.  I have to rely on the experts here. We are, I think (I hope), at the beginnings of this part of the work.  My sincere hope is that they have it right.  In the re-awakening stage, people understand the realities, and decide to try again.  Now, knowing about all the differences, and with a shared history of conflicts resolved, we have the tools needed for growth and change.  Once we come to the point of accepting that life and love are never going to be “perfect,” and that we really can’t change another person, we are ready to start working to create an honest, genuine intimate relationship. In this stage, partners finally get that no relationship can ever “save” us.  Whatever scars we bear, they will not go away just because we are in a relationship.  However, now  the war is over, the conflicts are accepted, and there is a sincere desire to learn how to work through the issues, and find a satisfying place to live together.

Some relationships make it.  Most don’t.  According to the people that do this kind of research, only 5% of couples ever reach the final stage of "complete acceptance." This is the point at which, each person takes responsibility for their own needs, for their own individual lives, and also for providing support for their partner. And that is a scary thing in a relationship that self-defines as unequal.  I think that it is particularly hard for the “one down” member in a power dynamic to understand that they do have a responsibility for themselves -- a responsibility that has to be fulfilled if the relationship is to survive and thrive.  Does the “top” of the dynamic have the same ambivalence about all of that?  I cannot tell. It seems to me that this is all very convoluted, and my efforts to untangle it, from my perspective are likely matched by Him. How He perceives all of this -- you would have to ask Him.  In the end, if it all comes together, couples develop relationships filled with warmth and balance.  They learn to navigate through the inevitable conflicts, and they mostly avoid resentment and nasty surprises.  Once you have dragged each other through all of that “stuff,” you know what you are getting -- no denial and no fantasy.  Working together with clear vision, couples who have learned to really accept one another learn the ways to maintain their connection AND their own identities.

From what I have learned, the stages of our relational lives are pretty consistent.  Most of us traverse the various stages, assuming that our relationships endure long enough for that to happen, and that is true no matter how different our relationships might appear on the face of it all.  Navigating all of the various stages can be a challenge.  There are difficulties to spare along that path.  However, the structural stages are not the only set of issues that most relationships must deal with.  There are “seasons” to our relationships as well.  

Just as our familiar, annual calendar cycles through from spring to summer to autumn, our intimate lives experience passages that mirror that cyclic shifting.  We have periods in our intimate lives that seem lively and fresh and new, and we have corresponding periods of declining heat and vigor.  The events of our physical lives push us through the highs and lows of our days and nights, and we respond to what IS with shifts in our energy and vitality.  I imagine that anyone who has spent much time in a close relationship has experienced times that might be compared to the seasons of summer or fall or winter or spring.  Just as my spring tulips bloom and wither to be replaced by the phlox and blanket flower of July; just as the blazing oranges and reds of the autumn give way to the stark blacks of bare branches against winter gray skies; the intimate connection between us ebbs and flows, blooms and fades -- over and over and over.  

The trick to riding through the seasons of our relationships is that the seasons overlay themselves on that other pattern of stages.  There are ripples and reflections and interference patterns in our lives, and it is easy to get turned around and disoriented by all the variations and nuances.   Add in some days of moodiness, exhaustion, frustration, illness, loss, and all the other bits of being a living, breathing, human animal -- and there should be no surprise that things get bumpy.

I don't have the fix for any of that, and I don't imagine that all of that sort of "heady," intellectual babbling will make the least bit of difference to anyone but me. I can't picture the me of eleven years ago believing that the bright promising future that I saw from that vantage could possibly hold so much trauma and turmoil. Funny how that works -- we can never see beyond what we can see. And so it is and so it will likely always be. I've often thought that some of this writing is about leaving signposts for those who might wander by. So here it is -- another one of those signposts.

swan

Meaning

When I went to the emergency room last month, I was cared for in the very first minutes by a big, deep-voiced, brusque but very competent, African American nurse who was the first person to ask me about the cutting on my back in ... forever.  FOREVER.

I know it is there.  I know that people, especially medical professionals see it.  The technicians who do my mammograms see it.  The dermatologist sees it.  Probably there are others who have seen it over the years, but it never evokes any comment.  No one seems the least bit interested in what it might be, or what it might connote.

And so, the question coming as it did out of the blue after years and years, caught me off guard:  "What does this T E on your back mean?"  I muttered something about it being a very long, very old story, and let it go at that.  So did she.  But, I have been plunged into a month of wondering, after almost eleven years, what those old scars do mean.

I know what they meant then, when we did it.  I remember how intensely I wanted to belong to Him, and I remember that having those marks meant that we were connected in blood and flesh, but also in spirit, mind, and heart.  I remember what He said they meant to Him ... that He felt He had freed marks that were on my soul to become evident on my flesh.  To Him, and to me, it was that cutting that signified our bond and our commitment to one another.  I remember the long period during which we did not allow the cuts to heal, working instead to cause scarring that would remain visible -- and it has done that.  I remember the burning and itching that drove me to distraction; that can still flare up and live, even now, in the flesh on my shoulder blade.

Of course, we have passed through fire and storm, and nothing is as it was.  Today, the marks remain.  We are alive, and our love continues.  The marks are still, obviously there.  But the trust and the faith and the simple belief that we were meant to be?  All of that is gone.  The willingness to hold onto each other and risk everything is blown away.  I don't think we'll ever find that again.  And so...  if there remains any meaning in the marks on my skin, it is the meaning that one finds in any bit of history...

swan

Spanked to Tears

In the very very early beginnings of my spanking life, I remember that I longed to be "spanked to tears."  It did not happen.  Between my own appetites, which were huge, and my former husband's proclivities in that realm (which were pretty low key), it never happened.  We tried, on a number of occasions, but I never managed to squeeze out a single tear.  Not one.

That was a long, long time ago.

Now, I find that spanking is an enormously emotional experience for me, and I never seem to know what will come bubbling up from my heart? subconscious? mind? gut?  Sometimes, I end up responding with joy, or horniness, or softness, or love, or anger, or power, or sadness, or loneliness, or connection...  Any one of those can bring me to the point of tears and sobs.  Not always, but sometimes -- and I never know what to expect.

We didn't spank last weekend -- I was sick with some sort of flu-ish nastiness that left me feeling wimpy and washed out and not fit for human company.  I managed to get my school work done, but not much of anything else.  And then it was an insane school teacher week, crammed with evenings full of parent teacher conferences -- long days when I left home at 6:30 AM and returned around 9 PM.  It was a week where the word "tired" took on gigantic proportions.  We snuggled a lot -- at least, I think we did... but then I was most often asleep before my head hit the pillow.  So what do I know?

Leave me alone for a couple of weeks, without any spanking play, and I start to fantasize and crave and long for it.  I dream about His hands on me, and I ponder the sensations created by the various toys we have, and I wonder if He still wants me in that way -- because I know I still want Him in exactly that way...

And to further complicate things...  These days, we tend to sleep and sleep and sleep when the opportunity arises.  More and more often, we wake up very late on the weekends; and then -- well by the time we come around, we are both HUNGRY -- and not for sex and spanking.  So, it is off to the kitchen to whip up some waffles or pancakes or French toast to ward off impending starvation.  Sigh...

So...  When "the opportunity" presented itself this morning, I was more than just willing.  I was eager.  Ready.  Hungry for that connection between us.

But...  I was also trailing the tendrils of a very dark, very scary dream -- of being lost, separated from Him under very difficult circumstances, and of not being able to figure out where I was or where He was -- or how to find Him.  The emotional hang over from my dreaming was heavy and sad and lonely feeling, and I hoped that the spanking would help me find my way back in the present reality.  I really wanted the ghosts of my dream to be dispelled.  I wanted to feel myself pulled into Him.  I needed the reassurance of His calm and steady presence, and I needed the pain and the energy of spanking to get my head cleared.

He started off with lots of hand spanking, and it was good.  He stroked me with the tip of a knife, tracing the lines of the cutting on my back.  I followed every move with a transfixed intensity.  Then he moved on to a fairly light leather tawse, and it was sharp but I was there with it -- feeling it, breathing with it, following His lead.  There might have been one or two more fairly low intensity toys, but then He began to smack me with a paddle.  I don't know which one, but it felt like a short, thick, heavy club to me.  I tried to keep on breathing.  It just hurt.  HURT.  And, very quickly, I tipped over into feeling lost and alone and sad.

The tears came, unbidden.  I could hear myself sobbing.  I was ashamed, and disappointed.  I wanted so much from this spanking, and I felt like He'd barely started when I "wimped out."  I think He paddled for awhile while I clutched a pillow and whimpered and wailed.  Then He went and got a paddle from the living room -- one we keep on the wall (more as a piece of art than a spanking toy).  It was heavy, but not awful, and I was slowly starting to calm down.  But then, it was over.

I thanked Him for my spanking.  Snuggled into His arms.  Apologized for being so wimpy.  And that is when He told me that I'd been "sweet."  His word.  Sweet.  And all the angst, sadness, and loneliness melted away.  Or maybe they washed away in all those tears.

swan

Adrenaline Addiction

Any idiot can face a crisis - it's day to day living that wears you out. 

~~Anton Chekhov~~ 

I don't do "crazy" stuff.  At least, I don't think of my life that way.  I don't get into "extreme" sports, or NASCAR, or mountain climbing, or sky diving, or...  Well, you get the point.  I wear my seat belt.  I don't smoke.  I try to eat healthy foods.  I at least notice the need for regular exercise in my life, and sometimes, I even manage to make that happen.  

On the face of it, I would say that I'm no adrenaline junkie, but then I wonder...

Some people (and I may be one of them) thrive on crisis.  When I think back over the years of my adult life, I can see plenty of times when I was mired in crisis -- and I recognize that there is something about that circumstance that works to "assure" me that I am alive.  

The "signposts" of my personal history read like a script for an old fashioned TV soap opera:  alcoholic parents, wayward children, philandering husband, death and loss, economic hardship, betrayal, addiction, and just about anything else you can think of that makes for "craziness."  Through all of the hard, bitter, difficult years, I told myself that "someday" life would settle down and I'd be able to just relax and enjoy things.  But, the truth is that that "wild, crazy, continual round of crisis" reality gave me a rush that helped me know that I was really, truly, wholly, fully alive.  

I think that, for much of our time together, He and I practiced a style of BDSM that fed into that NEED for crisis and chaos and a continual sense of threat and danger.  There was a part of what we did together that fed my inner "adrenaline junkie."  

Then, of course, the level of personal crisis became overwhelming.  The catastrophic events of the past two years provided an ongoing adrenaline overload that was too much -- even for a lifelong crisis addict like me.  He has worked hard to recognize, understand, escape from, and recover from his compulsions -- and in doing that, He set the stage for me to confront my own.  Life is quiet here now.  We are comfortable and happy and sane.  There is no threat; no danger; nothing to set off that adrenaline rush.  For awhile, I have questioned whether there was still anything left of our power exchange dynamic.  Can there be Dominance and submission without the drama, without the push and pull, without the constant struggle that told me who I was and where He was?  I have not been sure of the answers to those questions.  

The people who study these things; compulsions and addictions; are learning that they "travel" in packs -- where you find one sort of compulsive disorder, there are likely to be others.  That is true for individuals, and it is true for families.  My adrenaline addiction wrapped itself quite nicely around His issues, and my codependent behaviors fed off the chaos created by His addictions.  We were quite the pair.  As He has recovered and learned His way into a new, healthier, saner way of being, He has been insistent that what would come to be between us would have to be something new and inherently different than what we had before.  I have felt that as a denial and a sort of "pay back" for my part in the crash that we experienced.  I could not comprehend how we could ever BE D/s partners without all that high drama -- without the place where I would have to battle my own feelings and impulses in a never ending struggle to BE His submissive.   I've been a mess.  

The good news about compulsions, though, is that if you quit indulging them; if you resist the cravings; if you simply wait through the incredible pull to fall back into the old, destructive habits; things quiet down and it becomes possible to understand and appreciate the life that is given.  I am beginning to feel that I am catching up to Him in recovery, finally.  In the last few weeks, I am noticing how really good it is to be His without struggle, without the chaos.  I AM alive here -- and safe -- and secure.  I do not have to be continually on guard anymore.  I do not feel the need to remain ever vigilant for any shift in the relational winds.  He loves me, totally.  I love Him more and more with every single day.  It is a joy to be allowed to see this man that has fought so hard to come to this place.  I am truly proud to be His, and I feel lucky that He still loves me and wants me.  

swan

"Car Talk"

Car Talk is a radio talk show broadcast weekly on NPR stations throughout the United States and elsewhere. Its subjects are automobiles and repair, and it often takes humorous turns. The hosts of Car Talk are brothers Tom and Ray Magliozzi, known on the air as Click and Clack, the Tappet Brothers. 

I have never been a fan of the radio show, "Car Talk."  I find it jarring and jangling.  The hyena laughter annoys the crap out of me, and I tend to feel like the callers are hand picked for their willingness to appear stupid/foolish on the air.  It is, to my way of thinking, a clear sign that the force that drives the universe is perverse and mean-spirited, that I keep ending up in relationships with people who just love the show -- who would rather do almost anything except miss a "Car Talk" broadcast.  Mostly, I just grin and bear it.  One of those "submission" things they don't tell you about when they are trying to convince you that it is all hot and sexy all the time.

So, anyway...  Did I mention that we "played" on Saturday morning?  It is a time of renewal and "reinvestment" for the two of us.  We are spanking more and enjoying it more -- and that means that I am waking up to the sexual part of myself and the sexual part of who we are together.  Spanking, when it is good for me, is multi-layered.  It means a lot of different things at different times.  Spanking hurts.  That is a constant.  Always, there is the battle to get through it, into it, on top of it.  Spanking is connective for me.  The pain and the patterns and the rhythms, help me to feel Him and know Him more deeply and more intensely than otherwise.  I don't really understand it, I only know it is the reality.  And then, there is sex.  All of that pain, all of the energy, and the connection... can all serve to turn me on, make me horny.  Not always.  I am forever unpredictable and my responses are never automatic.  Especially since the hysterectomy, that experience of sexual excitement and arousal is elusive, fleeting, and fragile.  When I am "horny," I want.  I really want.  And that was the story yesterday morning after my spanking, after He and I had made love, after His orgasm...  I was ready to try for one of my own; to lie curled up in His arms and vibrate myself off into my own release.  

And that was when, He asked me to hand Him the radio remote so that He could turn on...  "Car Talk."

swan

Spanking and My Nose?

So...  We are spanking more.  And spanking more means that there are stories to tell about THAT part of our lives again.  Now, fair warning -- not all spanking stories are necessarily hot and sexy.  Sometimes, in the middle of a session, my mind is wrapped up around "getting through" whatever I encounter in the event.  This is one of those...

We didn't spank much over the last couple of years, but we are working our way back to it.  I don't remember having to "learn" my way into spanking play in the beginning -- but that was a long time ago.  As we move together back to sadomasochistic relating, I feel like a neophyte.  Spanking play is still erotically charged for me.  It is just hot and sexy, and as I have longed for it over the last two years, I think I imagined that, if we ever got back to it, I'd just jump right back into it where we left off.  That was probably silly...

So, here we are, and spanking is coming back into our relatedness.  It is good.  I want it and I want it to be good and I want to be good with it.  So, when we actually have time, and space, and we are both feeling good physically and emotionally, it is almost breathtaking if we actually get into spanking play.  That was this morning...

Yay!  Spanking!

One thing hasn't changed...  He still likes to jump right in just as soon as I manage to get bottom up.  I'm not even remotely settled in before He is smacking my butt.  One of the issues deriving from being "older" is that my joints creak and ache.  Things don't bend the way they once did.  I always feel like I need to rustle around and wrangle myself into some sort of halfway comfortable spot ... so that I can concentrate on the spanking and not be all wrapped up in the fact that my elbow or my shoulder of my back is screaming.  Blech!  So, from my perspective, all that initial wiggling and squirming is sort of necessary.  Otherwise, I'm fighting the achy old lady joints all the way through -- which just makes things harder than they need to be.  This morning, I finally got myself settled, and He was back there, behind me, whacking away on my backside -- and I suddenly realized that my nose was all stuffed up.  Breathing was suddenly very difficult.  All that panting and breathing that I tend to do as a way to process the pain and find the energy was nearly impossible.  Achy joints and stuffy nose, and still He was spanking me harder and harder.  I did finally find a tissue that had been stuffed under my pillow overnight, and managed to quickly, during a break in the action, blow my nose and clear my airway enough to breathe a little easier.  It was a huge relief!

And so, breathing in rhythm with the blows He was raining down on my ass, I found my way into the waves of energy, and slipped into the good place of it all.

It was a good morning....

swan

Making Space

On Marriage
 Kahlil Gibran

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. 


Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. 


Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

We have, as He indicated, both started back into therapy.  We had a relatively calm summer, without many overt symptoms related to His PTSD, and with very little of the acute craziness that I am prone to in reaction response to that (which seems to have no fancy name, so let's just keep on calling it "my craziness").  The therapist (Judy -- as He has indicated) is clearly going to focus on the harms done to Him by His abusive mother.  With me, she seems focused on helping me negotiate my own craziness with strategies and "friendly advice" about how to cope in the event.  While she is clear that I have my own abusive history, it is clear to both of us that my really nutty episodes are wrapped around His.  In general, I'm level when He is, and I am totally nuts if He is mired in a PTSD episode.  I believe that much of what Judy will try to help me figure out is how to make "space" in my life with Tom.  

I admit that I am afraid that creating separation between us will forever push us apart.  She assures me that is not the case.  She insists that a healthy space between us is necessary for us to come together fully again.  I can hear that, and somewhere in my brain, it feels true -- and I am still scared of the actual doing.  

I have, for ten years, lived and breathed inside of Tom's energy.  There came to be, over time, very little of our life together that was not directly or indirectly influenced by Him.  I willingly (for the most part) shifted my physical and emotional world to conform with what He wanted, needed, directed.  A lot of that was my own wish, my volition, my desire.  I wanted to be close to Him.  I wanted His approval.  I wanted His love, and I wanted to live out the love I felt for Him.  It seemed right and good and natural and easy (usually) to move into being "His" in that intense and intimate way.  I knew, as we moved along, through the years, that I was losing my voice; losing my capacity to say "no" in even the most elemental ways.  I understood, that, while He loved me, there were places where He'd let me be desperately unhappy rather than abandon what He wanted in the moment.  I kept on believing that, wherever I would find myself struggling, with those realities, it was a failing in me -- and never about something that ought to be examined and changed between us.  

Now, it seems that if we are to ever find our way to something that is genuinely good and happy again, we are going to have to fashion a different sort of dynamic between us.  Judy believes that we will again feel deeply connected and play again with the power we share, but she is clear that we will have to do that with a new set of understandings.  I think the phrase she used with Him was "codependent psychosis."  Not sure that is a "real" diagnosis.  I think it probably isn't, but it may be an accurate description in my case.  The trick I have to learn is how to express to Him how much I love Him; have always loved Him; will always love Him -- while not getting dragged down into the muck and mire with Him.  How can I figure out a way to make a space to stand that is safe enough for me, without somehow giving Him the message that I don't love Him even as He struggles.  Because I do...  Love Him just the way He is.  

Over and over again, as I have worked with Judy, she has asked me if I would choose this life and this love even if...  Even if the sex went away and was never ever fantastic again?   Even if the spanking stopped forever?  Even if He never does feel sure and confident and secure enough again to take me in and hold me and tell me I am His?  Even if He and I never find the place where we step into the flow of our shared power and soar off together?  Even if...?  Over and over again, my answer has been "Yes."  Unequivocably.  Forever and always.  The rules seem to have changed.  Radically.  I changed them  He changed them.  Maybe they never really were rules to begin with.  I don't know.  I only know that I love this Man.

swan