My Long Road

I wrote a long post about the things I have lived through in my life, and was trying to explain how this played a role in who I am. It got tedious and I didn’t want to write a novel, so here’s the short short version.

I had:

  • seen my mother held at gunpoint by the man I called daddy (my stepfather)
  • been thrown across the room trying to save my mother from that man as he straddled her and slapped her like a rag doll
  • been molested by that man from ages 5-9
  • been petted and degraded by his friends for favors
  • been held at gunpoint by policemen as our house was raided for a drug bust
  • lived in poverty for all of that time. We didn’t have phone services, occasionally ate Hamburger Helper without the hamburger, lived on government commodities and goodwill baskets.

  • Moved across two states with nothing more than what could fit in a minivan
  • struggled with leaving a small quiet country town for a urban school district with racial tensions
  • been molested by the brother I moved in with
  • been molested by the uncle I moved in with
  • listened to my grandmother call my mother no-good trash and say that I was raised by wolves
  • lived in a one-bedroom apartment with 6 people and a baby
  • shared a bedroom with my abuser until I was 13
  • sliced my abuser with a steak knife in a desperate attempt to avoid another beating
  • suffered through three years of attending a school in which most of my classmates had seen naked pictures of my mother screwing various items and men (not my father)

  • tried committing suicide twice before the age of 16
  • started drinking at the age of 13
  • started using drugs at the age of 13
  • started cutting at the age of 13
  • laid stoically through an attempted rape
  • suffered through my parents’ various mental illnesses and irrational fits of rage, which included throwing a stereo, scissors, booster seat, and various books at me at random times
  • listened to my mother swear she was going to kill me because I had the nerve to call her counselor and alert them to her being crazy again
  • deal with my father kicking in my door (and removing the lock for the rest of the time I lived with them) because I had locked it before I left for school to stop my parents from stealing my babysitting money
  • Sit through a long screaming lecture from my mother about how the cops said all the abuse I endured was my fault and that I didn’t love her anymore because I reported the abuse and neglect
  • Ran away from home after my mother and father got into a screaming match and my youngest brother was knocked over in a fit of rage
  • Was denied treatment for my mental illnesses (depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation and PTSD) because my mom felt the therapists were blaming her for my condition.
  • Sit through another lecture from my mother in which she informed me that *when* (not if) I got knocked up, I certainly wasn’t going to get any help or support from them, including having a place to live. That’s rich coming from a woman who had her fist child out of wedlock at the age of 16 and her second at 19. She also refused to give me access to birth control.
  • never learned to: drive, balance a checkbook, drink responsibly, apply for a job, apply for college, or have a meaningful relationship with a partner

Given all of that (and more that I just don’t feel like thinking about or writing about) it is no wonder I ended up in a halfway house for a week while my meds and treatment were ironed out. I spent four years in therapy, 5 years on medication. By the time I was able to get the help I needed, I had internalized the constant stream of negativity and abuse from my family into an auditory hallucination. I thought I could hear people’s thoughts about me, and it was *never* good. It was actually the negative feedback loop I had grown up with, being projected onto others to save my self.

And for once, I can say I am truly past that. I am whole and sane, with many interesting scars and stories to tell about them. I am a complex slave to own, with a trying and tricksy history that makes even the most normal of situations into a challenge at times.

It is that history that makes me confident in saying I know what abuse is, and how N and I live our lives is nothing like abuse. It is that history that makes me confident in saying I can fully offer my consent as a sane adult, because I know what it is like to be an impaired adult. It is that history that makes me able to fully appreciate what I have now: security, love, appreciation, and happiness.

I have walked through the fire, scraped my knees on the jagged edges of insanity, and am whole and pure in the face of the future. I am battle-hardened, sharpened to a wicked point by pain and endurance.

I am, who I am, and I love myself for who I have become.

C’mon Bessie, Just a Little Farther

Yesterday I was sent to my room for being an argumentative cranky slave. I’d reached the end of my tether, so there I was, hooves dug in to the deep earth, head down, backing out as hard as I could. There was N, holding on to the headstall and crooning to me, coaxing me, shaking the bucket of oats and murmuring “Just a little farther, tora. Just a little farther.”

Uh-uh. Ain't goin'. Oh, you have apples over there?

I might have said it before, but I’ll say it again: It’s just N and I. There isn’t anyone we can reliable count on to have our backs, other than each other. While I’m cool with N having me to rely on, I don’t want to burden Him with all of me. And really, I want both of us to have a breather space where we can just step back, take a deep breath, and have room to hug. That’s not our reality right now, and I was harshly reminded of it the other day. I looked into the future and realized that it won’t get any better. I’ve seen a lot of people come and go through my life, and N’s always been there. While we can depend on each other, there isn’t anyone we can depend as a couple.

It can be a bleak life at times. We don’t go out much. We don’t have folks in. Its hard to celebrate big dates. Its hard to find times for us as a couple. Its hard not to let life grind us to dust.

Somehow He always manages to coax me into going a little farther. He can convince me life is better just beyond that hill, just beyond that month. He soothes me and tells me that if I just lean on Him, let Him lead, if I trust He knows the way, we’ll get by.

He’s been right each time. I haven’t died. I haven’t even lost my mind that much.

So yeah, He might be the only person I can rely on, the only person who is down to ride n die with me. And you know what? He just might be the only person I need. Because I sure as shit don’t have anyone else, and yet I thrive, grow and live underneath His thumb.

Each time I dig my hooves into this black gumbo earth, it takes Him less time to soothe me back to complacency. I’m hoping that at some point before He dies I’ll learn to just keep plodding along and not need the full stop snitfit anymore.

I really don’t like timeouts. I also don’t like when He charges at me from across the room. I’m sure those are also pretty convincing reasons to stop.

 

So in honor of being the only people we can rely on:

Nothing Else Matters by Metallica

So close, no matter how far
Couldn’t be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
and nothing else matters

Never opened myself this way
Life is ours, we live it our way
All these words I don’t just say
and nothing else matters

Trust I seek, and I find in you
Every day for us something new
Open mind for a different view
and nothing else matters

never cared for what they do
never cared for what they know
but I know

So close, no matter how far
Couldn’t be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
and nothing else matters

never cared for what they do
never cared for what they know
but I know

Never opened myself this way
Life is ours, we live it our way
All these words I don’t just say

Trust I seek, and I find in you
Every day for us, something new
Open mind for a different view
and nothing else matters

never cared for what they say
never cared for games they play
never cared for what they do
never cared for what they know
and I know

So close, no matter how far
Couldn’t be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
No, nothing else matters

The Overflowing Storage Closet

Alright kiddies, gather ’round…its Imagination time!

Imagine your life as a bunch of events. Events that defined you, refined you, scared you shitless, made you laugh until you puked, cried until you went hoarse. If you were to put these bunches into individual boxes, how many would you tape shut, wrap with kevlar, heatshrink shut again, chain and padlock, then shove into the deepest darkest corner of your closet you could find?

 

Ah. That should do it.

 

 

Three? Five? Ten?

I’ve got entire years shoved into little mental safeboxes, crammed into the closets of my brain. They are so breach-proof that I wonder from time to time if I am keeping that shit in the box or keeping me out of the box.

Every so often I come across a group of people on Fet that make me re-evaluate my stockpile of “The world would end” boxes. I am amazed at their dedication, their zest for not only opening their boxes over and over again, but how they can take the things out of the box, play with it, manipulate it, and sometimes be able to just throw it on the trash heap at the end. Other times the box they put it back in to is smaller and needs less tape and chains.

They write about these encounters, and I seek them out religiously, vicariously experience the freedom and terror that is confronting the scariest, most damaging times of your life and coming out the other side still relatively intact. I can’t fathom why they do it. I can’t fathom how. Just reading their accounts makes me queasy, agitated, and I often remember something so much more pressing that needed to be found half way through, like, say, I don’t know…Lolcats for example.

 

Given their ability to domesticate the common Homo Sapien, I say it is a fair bet they would speak refined English. 🙂

 

Invariably I find myself back at their writings, forcing my self to mentally masticate what they have exposed to the light of day. I try to analyze why it makes my head hurt and I get spastic. Just words on a (net)page, right?

Wrong!

It all boils down to the constant realization that I am not strong enough to meddle in my past, to air it out and eliminate its hold on my psyche. I spend a lot of time convincing myself that putting it all in boxes and pretending that didn’t happen is good for me, that I’ve put it behind myself and everything in that closet has nothing to do with who I am now.

Complete and udder bullshit. (get it? haha. Yes, I know, bulls don’t have udders. Shut up.)

What is in the boxes has made me who I am now. To deny the contents of all of my boxes is to deny the forces that shaped me into the delightful derelict that types before you. I can ignore the closet as much as I can ignore my freckles or my penchant for dry British humor.

I’m still not strong enough to open them and take stock again. I still don’t fully comprehend the why behind the other people doing it. I wonder if inventorying my closet is really that important. More important than, say, more lolcats. I wonder if the screaming and puking and scalding dark showers really need to be experienced again in the name of being truthful with myself.

When does it stop being healing and start being pain for the sake of pain?

Do I want to come anywhere near finding the line?

Rant Collection (05-18-2010)

A few things have been sticking in my craw lately, so I’m going to share them all with you, my lovely readers. Have fun.

1. Littles. This shit drives me fucking nuts. If you want to act like a 4 year old in your house/relationship, hey whatever, knock yourself out. I’ll keep my opinions of how stupid you sound and look and act to my Owner and I. But when you go onto public forums that don’t involve “littlespeak or littleacts”, keep that shit to yourself! Don’t be subjecting me, non-consensually, to your stupid-ass role playing. It’s “with”, not “wif”. It’s “doggie”, not “goggie”. If my actual 4-year old son talked like you “littles” talk, he’d be in speech therapy post-haste. If he behaved like you littles behave, he’d be sitting in the corner learning how to interact with the rest of the world properly. I come onto adult forums to discuss adult topics with adults. Do you get the main point in that last sentence? Adult. So if you want to type like a brain-damaged preschooler, why the fuck are you on a sex-themed adult orientated website?!Which one is it: are you an adult who likes to sound like a kid who’s mom drank way too much, or are you a 4 year old who is somewhere they shouldn’t be? My 4 year old doesn’t get to use the computer. He sure as hell doesn’t get to go to websites with naked men and women splashed around. You want to talk and act like that? Go to a littles board. Don’t be dragging the rest of the adults into that babyshit when you are on regular fora. Dont like that? Go eat your fucking crayons and piss your diapers.

2. My neighbor seems to think that it is perfectly fine to lie and receive benefits form the state, because, well, the immigrant Mexicans get so much for doing nothing. Also, she doesn’t believe this is a racist statement, because, well, it’s true, she says. She is oblivious to how much of a dumbass she is. She seems to believe that because she is white, she is somehow more deserving of the state assistance than those damned Mexican immigrants she’s always bitching about. She whinges on about how she is getting her food stamps cut off because her man returned to work after a scheduled lay-off, I’m mumbling uninterested grunts in response, then she starts rambling on about the shit she bought at an auction for her kids, who have so much shit already that you literally can not take two steps in their rooms without stepping on or running into toys. Or the horse they bought. Or the big-screen tv. It’s a clue, you stupid white-trash racist bitch. Get one.

3. Being fat doesn’t mean I have “issues”. I had issues, and they had a great deal to do with the weight I put on over 5 years ago. I’m still overweight, now that the issues are dealt with, and I’m slowly getting back down to where I should be. It takes a lot of fucking hard work and dedication to lose weight that’s been stuck to you for 5 years. Medications can really pack a wallop on the scale, especially that hard-core anti-psychotic shit. So can the Depo shot. I had both. On top of that, they had me on a sedative, which is not conducive to getting up on a treadmill to keep the other drugs from weighing me down. Now that I am not on them, it will take me a few more years to undo the effects. Don’t dismiss my hard work and effort by lumping it all on a case of not enough determination or honor for my Owner. That isn’t it, not by a long shot. Anyone who wants to judge me by my weight now is free to see me again in 5 years, when I’m back to a fighting weight and would happily kick your ass. At least it won’t hurt as much then, as it would now, with my extra 80 lbs of weight behind each kick and punch.

4. What is with people on the ‘net trying to dictate what my Owner should find pleasing in His slave? I keep stumbling across shit like “a slave should be seen and not heard” or “a slave should be graceful, demure and soft, an example rare of the feminine flowering self”. Or my personal favorite, exhorting slaves to “let the Man do the hard work, and relegate yourself to the feminine domain; taking the trash out, yard work and the likes do not enhance your women’s mystique. These are things best suited for men. Do not challenge His ability to do so without help, for you may be unwittingly challenging His manliness.” I’m just going to say this: If my ability to drive a tractor, run a rototiller, haul wood and water or wrangle animals threatens His manliness, that’s His issue, not mine. And we would definitely not be a good pairing. This is the fucking country. We can’t afford to discount my ability to assist Him out on the grounds just to maintain what some jackass and his melting slave of submission feel real slaves should look and act like. The Man demands that I be able and ready to help out on physically demanding jobs from time to time. It’s what He wants in a slave. A female slave. He finds the concept of my strength and willingness to work appealing, just as He can appreciate when I’m dressed in a skirt and heels, makeup and hair carefully coiffed. I’d posit that an owner who finds a slave who works hard and has a certain hardness of the personality so horrifying and unpalatable take a good look at why he needs a weak-willed stuffed doll of a slave to make him feel good about his masterliness. I am a workhorse slave. I work for Him as He sees fit, and He finds pleasure in me being by His side doing something demanding and tiring. He finds pride in seeing me able to do typically masculine manual tasks that would have never occurred to me to try. I can schmooze and charm at parties, I can carry myself with dignity at dinners, I can fuck like the best of ’em in bed, and I can go get the whatzit from the toolbox or chain up a deadfall the way He wants it. I dare you to tell Him I am doing it wrong.

Restless Insecurity

Things have been going okay here. No sudden meltdowns on my end, no baffling withdrawals on His. i’m still trying to feel around in my head, trying to sort out all the mixed signals i’m getting from my own brain. Emotional eating has resurfaced, but i haven’t been able to identify why. This is hugely frustrating to me. If i can’t even identify any anxiety or resentment, i can’t neutralize it and end the emotional eating.

i know something in my head is off. Everything seems slightly off-kilter now. i used to have a grand ol’ time pointing out cute chicks for Him to ogle. Now, i see Him appraise one and i squelch a sudden urge to drag her by her hair to the parking lot and rearrange her face, then come in and claw my name on His forehead so He can’t forget who He is with.  i’m not generally one for jealously and violent insecurity. Hell, i’ve shared partners in the past without much in the way of issues. So what is it now, that makes me getting all tetchy and anxious when He appreciates other girls? Why can’t i appreciate what i have with Him? Part of me thinks it’s territorial. i’ve struggled long and hard to find comfort and peace at His feet, and i don’t want to have to give it up or even share it with some new plaything. Which is darkly hilarious, given my penchant for threesomes and the fading hope of finding a sister for me. Another part of my rage regarding Him seeing other girls is the fact that i often don’t feel fully nourished or cared for at the moment, a hazard of the job of living with Him. It would infuriate me to be left at home, hungry for Him and lonely beyond belief, thinking of Him charming another girl, touching her like He used to touch me… but even more than the infuriating, i would be crushed. Possibly beyond much repair.

Why can’t i take Him at His word?

Part of me wonders if it isn’t residue from the complete uncunting i had a while ago. He did minimal repairs, and i appear to be up and running fine, but there is a little part of me that doesn’t wholly want to submit to Him again. This niggling part of my brain that finds glee in running amok, whispering sweet nothings in my ear like “What happens when you are too old to serve Him?” or “How’s He going to want you once the kids are grown?” or my ever favorite “Just wait until He finds a lil hawt thing with perky tits and a defined waist that *likes* being facefucked…won’t you feel stupid for handing yourself on a silver platter?!”

i didn’t have trust issues a year ago. i didn’t come uncunted like this a year ago. i didn’t want to hit Him over the head with a Corel serving platter a year ago. So what changed? Was it being isolated by neccessity, with only a complete airhead as my only r/l friend? Having had to squash my desires and some of my wants for so long that i’m disillusioned? Having had my life vanilla-fied to the point of whitewash?

i find myself avoiding talking to Him about these things lately. For once, i’m not doing it out of some fear of exposure on my part. i’m avoiding it because He’s stressed, He’s tired, and feels more than a bit like a failure. i don’t want to be a part of His worries. i don’t want to make Him feel like more of a failure, which is certainly how He’d interpret it if i went to Him tonight and blurted my fears out.

What’s more, i hate myself on many levels for limiting Him with my stupid emotional bullshit. Of course He should be able to ogle any woman He wants. He should also be able to do it without having to slip xanax in my soda afterward. i hate that i sound like an ungrateful whiny bitch. i hate myself for not being able to live with what i have.

i hate myself for having so many flaws and not enough stamina to fix them.

i have a two track mind right now…something i perfected in elementary school. On the surface, i’m fairly at ease, i’m coping well, i smile and laugh, i love and appreciate life.  Go any deeper and you’ll find a deep and murky river, full of fear and resentment, pain and aching love, confusion and longing and an absurd need to protect Him from myself.

It’s draining the river and putting up dams and baffles that is the exhausting work.