This empty life…

He called me “hon”.

He is not prone to terms of endearment. This isn’t a man who slips into language like a diner’s waitress.

After no communication for days. Maybe a week.

I’ve lost track of time.

These days time is like taffy. Stretching, clinging, sticking.

The point is it just slipped out so casually.

And I want to bash my head into a wall repeatedly.

There’s a reason I grew up loving paperback mysteries, Stephen King, and Wes Craven movies. This isn’t a girl who believes in fairy-tale-happy-ending bullshit.

I am my father’s daughter.

And I know better.

I know that there isn’t some white knight who is gonna swoop in at the last minute and make all the hurt disappear. There isn’t even a constant weight on the other side of my bed, much less in less explicit facets of my life.

I am on my own. Always. Regardless of where I’m stuck in time.

Only a single friend has told me “You deserve to have him stay. You give so much.”

All others are silent. And it shows me what I already know, in that deepest heart of mine. That truest heart. That constant companion that’s been there since when I was little.

There’s no point in giving. There is no deserving.

There is only the taffy stretch of time and the constant stickiness of pain.

“Cigarettes” by The Wreckers

Pride/Humilty

Pride

Stiff rigidity and tempered steel.

To bend this habit is like breaking bone.

But in the days following my stark refusal to release my pride…

It’s sharp regret.

I find myself unable to say what I think is expected.

It’s like dirt in the throat. Sand in the mouth. Broken glass along the tongue.

Wishing I had learned differently.

Grown up in a house of strong affection and open emotions.

But such is not my world. I wish it were.

It’s entirely a weakness, pride is. I know this. I know this with every fiber of my being.

And yet I still cannot break the habit.

The masks, the boxes, the robotic responses.

Co-dependency crippled me all those years ago. I carry a scar so long, so deep that I can feel the rippling skin tightening with thought. So calloused yet so paper thin.

Don’t show weakness. Don’t show need. Don’t show want.

Don’t break character. For the love of god, do not cry.
Do not ask for help. Do not show desire. Do not be vulnerable.

Just let him go. Just like you let them all go.

Pride is a prickly bedmate. A cold companion.

But I know no other better.

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Humility…

That fear bubbles up and locks my tongue so neatly when I think to be otherwise. And the moments happen more and more. I think of every bright shinning piece of the past years.

When he’d go out of his way to check on me when I had been my quiet, reclusive self.

When he knew what joke to make to get me to smile.

The way the heat rushed through me so easily when he brushed his fingers over me.

The natural way my head tilted against him when I sit close.

The way he knows to stroke my hair when I’m feeling nervous.

The way he gets just the right level of teasing and sarcasm to make me smile.

The way he kisses the top of my head as an afterthought of affection.

The way he knows I carry all my tension in my neck and shoulders.

The way he recognizes the look of self-loathing in my eyes and knows the right words to make me actually feel solidly beautiful..

I miss that syrupy thick feeling while lying on the cool sheets and allowing his fingers to dance over me.

But that fear, that victim mindset leaps to attention.
It hisses-snarls-screams at me…

“Remember what happened last time.”

The one time I tried handing my heart over. I tried full, unconditional trust.

Unconditional trust is overrated.

Unconditional trust is what turned me into the victim.

Conditions are safe.

Source

Subspace/Sub-drop versus Depression

Trigger warning: BDSM, kink, and sexual experiences talk (healthy and non-healthy/abusive both)

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Subspace: a mental space for those who identify as submissive in BDSM play and sexual situation/scenes. It can be spiritually and viscerally deep for many. The endorphins released for a sub during a scene make it very similar to the high many drugs offer.

Sub-drop: the sharp change in mental status that can happen to a submissive after the endorphins disperse. It can happen at any point from right after the scene ends to hours, or even a day later. It is called “drop” because it is a empty sort of feeling; akin to depression.

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For the first time in years, I agreed to let Army try his hand at a true BDSM-centered “scene”. It involved wax play, breath play, and spankings- in addition to actual rough intercourse. Some of the kinks I have not partaken in since Katherine, despite enjoying immensely.

We staged the scene during the mid-afternoon (2-3pm) when my house was deserted. In spite of this, within minutes of us finishing, Army fell deep asleep.

I tried to control my breathing and pushed back the “crying sensation”. Or what I call the crying sensation- never actually cried. Not sure if that would happen if I didn’t push it back. I’ve always pushed it back. Curled into my normal ball.

And the sub-drop hit.

I’ve never been one of the parts in here to really struggle with depression. I suppose I’ve been touched by it during our co-conscious period when depression would hit. But I’ve never soaked in it.

I soak in sub-drop.

Katherine was initially good at aftercare. When we first delved into the world of BDSM, she read all about how to be a good “domme/dom” and we would frequently watch Disney movies or a musical and she’d make me a grilled cheese. There was lots of soothing cuddling. No conversation required, which isn’t really something I can manage while still in semi-subspace.

Then our relationship soured. The honeymoon period ended. And she became harsh. Or lazy. Or both. The end of a scene was the end of her commitment to pay attention to me.

I soak in sub-drop.

Like gin, I learn to make the bitter taste sweet and steep my insides in it.

On the tail of this deep depression that’s been spinning around in the brain the past couple weeks, this sub-drop is more bitter than sweet. My normal tricks and masks aren’t doing it. Perhaps I’m losing my knack.

I’m still doing my best to fight it.

Sometimes it’s just better to squeeze the bruises or brush the burns/welts to try and release some remnants of euphoria. Anything to avoid becoming like one of the cutters. Ugh. I will not be like Victoria.

I soak in sub-drop.

Spiraling

The path isn’t a straight line; it’s a spiral. You continually come back to things you thought you understood and see deeper truths.

-Barry H. Gillespie

I was doing well. I was. I have a house. I own it 100% outright. I’m doing this adult thing. I even traveled this year.

But life isn’t a straight path. It’s a spiral and half the time, you come right back around to where you were.

And where I am now is not good.

My life is a spiral.

The Boyfriend and Mental Health

Things are tangled today.

My thoughts, my feelings, my very self.

This past weekend Army and I spent a couple days together at my new house being couple-y and domestic. Something we’ve been giving some more thought to since I have a house now.

And at one point, mental-health came up (in a round about way, not in regards to me). Especially personality disorders.
In the past, Army has been understanding of depression and PTSD, but I think that is because he’s struggled with it. It is empathy as opposed to sympathy. He’s never really been able to truly grasp sympathy, even though I think he wants to. At least with me.

I’m trying to keep this post from degrading into a bitchy rant about his inability to be sensitive. We’ll see how I do.

Anyway, personality disorders came up.

And he immediately gets riled up and goes on a soapbox about how Sybil is a big, fat liar and so all personality disorders are crap and schizophrenia is the only “semi-legit crazy issue”.

I was floored. I am floored. I am completely at a loss. I tried to push back and explain that, just like the [multiple] people who’ve falsely claim to have Ebola it doesn’t void the legitimacy of the whole disease.

But I am not sure if I truly got through. I wasn’t brave enough to use myself as an example. I was terrified at him calling me a liar and faker. I’m a coward. And he refuses to compare physical health to mental health.

And now I question myself. Am I liar? A faker? Is all the issues I’ve struggled with regarding my identity since that abuse so long ago just a ripple in a pond? Caused by those pebbles I tossed in myself?

I am at a loss.

I feel lost.

Being Thankful

(I don’t want to keep that last post up at the top any longer)

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Today I am thankful.

Despite all my pain and depression and health issues still looming over like a dark cloud, I am thankful.

• I am thankful to have a roof over my head.
• I am thankful to have the ability to have food in my fridge (sometimes I choose not to restock due to mental-health, but that doesn’t need to be addressed in this post)
• I am so very thankful to have Zoe: the best dog in the whole world (to me; I know many of you have the best dogs in the world as well 😉 )
• I am thankful to have some of the best friends that exist.  I am thankful for their gentle understanding mixed with firm encouragement.
• I am so very thankful for Army.  I may bitch and moan and skitter back from that whole complicated mess of feelings, but he truly has been nothing but helpful during this circling of the drain.  He has been the drain catch that prevents me from fully going down the pipes.
  

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Things are moving forward.  And that is what keeps the dark thoughts away.  It is stagnation that breeds the negativity and urges.

Some good bits of info on my life moving forward:

1. Zoe and I have been attending a local obedience class and it’s going fantastically.  She isn’t attending because she’s a dog incapable of responding to basic commands (in fact she’s impressed the trainer with her grasp of all the basics: sit, down, wait, come).  It’s the socializing and structured environment that is needed.  For both of us.  Plus, something for us to do together.  She and I are seriously working on heel for the next week; her weakest area of obedience.  But it’s my fault- I’ve always had her off leash (her recall is excellent) or on a harness that prevents her from pulling physically.  I need to get to that mental zone of no pulling.  She’s finding it frustrating, but is working hard.  She’s such a good girl and I can see how much she wants to please me.
   

   Zoe practicing “sit-wait”

2. My best friend (Texas) is getting married in July.  I’m so happy for her.  The man she is marrying is a great guy and has become a good friend to me.  It doesn’t hurt that he’s bailed me out of a couple car fiascoes (he’s a mechanic/engineer).  They’re just doing something small and private but it’s still a big step.  They’re also getting a house together.  Which brings me to the next item…
3. I’m on the road to purchasing my first home.  It’s due to a couple items coming together, the big one being some settlement money from a class action lawsuit (that’s been going on since I was a little girl) finally coming through.  I’m going to use some of it for a large down payment and finally get that elusive homeowner title.  I’m doing mostly research these days to make sure I make well informed decisions and choose the best possible house for me.  A large yard for Zoe is definitely on the list of wants! It’s also in the plan that Army (and Sofya) will move in with me and surprisingly I’m eager for that.  I suppose that’s how I know I’m ready for this step forward- when Army suggesting living together a year ago I balked.  Now I can’t wait to be able to just cuddle every night (or at least every week, depending on his EMT schedule) and not have to worry about if I have enough energy to drive over and see him.
4. A raise and possible promotion is in the pipeline at work again.  Probably not until the fall, but I’m still eager for the next step.  I do like the company I work for and would dearly love to stay with them- but I’m getting enough education, experience, and responsibility under my belt that I can’t justify staying with them at my current wage for over a year.

Those are the big items going on.  So despite being at a big roadblock in my health, I’m looking past that to all the wonderful things I have coming in the next year.  I’m determined now to keep truckin’ and see these things all come to a successful conclusion.

And I cannot thank all of you enough for your kind words on my last post.  I know I didn’t reply to the comments and I probably won’t (the post is a hard one for me to read and I want to avoid it for now); but please know that your words were heard and meant a great deal.

Lots of hugs to all!

Secrets

I know her secrets.

I know when she says “I miss you” she means “I love you”.

I know when she says “I wish you were here” she means “please don’t leave me”.

What a dumb bitch.

I do like that she’s screwing herself over though. Less work for me.

He is getting too close. Wanting too much. We don’t need that. That is badbad. Dangerous. Notgood.

Alone is better. This whole “romance” bullshit just drags everything into darkness and destruction.

…though destruction at least means things won’t be boring.

All these secrets she keeps from herself. Just going to collapse. Soon soon soon.

Victim of Vulnerability

I am the victim of vulnerability.

Co-dependency crippled me all those years ago.  I carry a scar so long, so deep that I can feel the rippling skin tightening without thought.  So calloused and yet paper-thin.

It’s hard to move forward with such a scar.  But I try.

And recently, I’ve managed to build this rickety relationship with someone who cares; but like a birdhouse made in a high school shop class, it doesn’t show much proficiency.  It sort of leans to one side and the pieces don’t quite match.

But somehow it manages to keep the rain off the birds’ feathers when it storms.

Despite this precarious creation and it’s deepening intimacy, I find myself unable to say what I think is expected.

It’s like dirt in the throat.

Sand in the mouth.

Broken glass along the tongue.

That fear bubbles up and locks my tongue so neatly whenever I have that moment.  And the moment happens more and more. It’s almost casual now.

When he’ll go out of his way to check on me when I’ve been my quiet, reclusive self.

When he knows what joke to make to get me to smile.

When runs his fingers through my hair in that slow, gentle way I like.

When he makes sure he can be there during my upcoming surgery.

I lov-

I want to say it.  I do.  But that fear, that victim mindset leaps to attention.
It hisses-snarls-screams at me…

Do not give him that power.

No one ever deserves that knowledge, that ability to damage you so completely.  No one does ever again.

Remember what happened last time.

The one time I tried handing my heart over.  I tried full, unconditional trust.

Unconditional trust is overrated.

Unconditional trust is what turned me into the victim.

Conditions are safe.

I stare at that birdhouse I’ve created, and part of me wants so badly to sand it, varnish it, paint it.  Make it something of beauty that will last a long time.

But that victim-voice reminds me that it will only make the pain sharper when the birdhouse finally does crumble.

And it will crumble.

Photo Credit

She

She is supposed to live three states away.

She is supposed to have no friends to visit.

She is supposed to be long gone. A figment.

A long ago relic of my foggy past.

It is a lie.

It’s always a lie.

She still knows my passion for Halloween. For this charity event. She knows. She always knows where to be. How to twist the knife.

It’s been almost 4 years.

My body retches. My mind flutters. Every single fucking stride I’ve made over these past months…

Dissolves.

Breaks.

Shatters.

Those ice blue eyes see right into me. The lips curve with sadistic glee as she recognizes the switching. The shattering. The fracturing.

The chatter of friends is faint. I know, distantly, that they are trying to bring me back.

I am briefly grounded by the warmth I feel at Army and Rogers not only getting along well, but both attempting wholeheartedly to bring me back around.

She speaks about many things. Mostly mundane. It is only as I start to duck out (she notices how early I am leaving) that her mouth forms poison. It begins innocently enough.

“Are you here with Army?”

I manage an affirmative. Her eyes narrow.

“I thought you were done with that immature phase.”

I hear a whispering of what isn’t said. My stomach shrivels, my throat dries.

My cowardice is still strong with her.

I run.

Surgery

My surgery is scheduled.  November 22nd.

Cons

1. It truly doesn’t seem far enough away.
2. They added on extra to what was initially planned, which has wrecked my psyche a bit.
3. I hate hate hate surgery.
4. And doctors
5. My surgeon is a guy. I am more uncomfortable with male doctors than anything.
6. Due to my precarious health, this surgery is going to have to be in a hospital, even though it’s normally an outpatient procedure.
7. I hate hospitals
8. It’s going to be a long recovery time: 10+ days.
9. Though I finally got through all the red tape to get off work without getting fired (my company is too small to qualify for FMLA or short-term disability), it’s going to be pretty much entirely unpaid leave.  So I have to eat that financial hit.
10. In addition, I have to pay for surgery (my insurance won’t pay even 50%- more like 30%)

    ____________________________________________

I suppose there are pros. Maybe.
Army has said he’s going to figure out how to be off work. That’s nice. All my friends are talking about bringing me ice cream and jello. Also nice. This surgery should not only solve my high blood pressure, but also possibly my migraines. That would be most excellent.

But I’m mostly just terrified.

November 22nd is not far enough away.