Temporarily Defeated

It's not that I mind being independent… 

       I'm honestly glad I can stand on my own two feet.

But still, sometimes I really, REALLY wish I had someone to lean on.

Not to encourage me, I have that.
I mean to LEAN on.

       Like, heavily.

Just for a while.

Just until I catch my breath,

until things look manageable again.

(*pause*)

Oh well.

If I did, I'd probably forget how to stand up straight… 

       and I doubt I'd like that any better.

(*trudges off to kick something.. and retrieve her big girl panties*)

(oh, just in case you're wondering, this is simply life, not a BG thing...)

Ten to One - Day Ten

(Editor's note: so, how telling is it that I wrote a post about my fear of losing my mind, and gave it the wrong title?? I've changed it from the incorrect Day One to the correct Day Ten -- just because I'm persnickety, but I freely and publicly admit that I laughed pretty hard at myself over that one…)

Day Ten: One confession (obtuse or specific)

Wow. How does a person answer this?

One of the definitions of confession is "an acknowledgement of incompetence."

Well, that's pretty much this whole blog, 

     but I can't cram five-plus years into a single post.

I could also take the "acknowledge or disclose sin or guilt" approach.

And certainly, my sins are numerous ... but they pretty much all fall within the purview of "fallible human" - and I'm not sure that that really counts.

Yet once again, I'm stuck with answering the question as it stands.

     hmmmmm….

OK, well, it's not pretty or amusing, but I'll go with confessing my biggest fear:

     I am scared to death of losing my mind.

I've got all the same contributing factors of Alzheimers that my dad had - and I was right by his side as his faculties slowly deserted him, so I got to see the devastation up close and personal… It's a horrible, frightening, merciless way to go -- and I won't even have a loved one around to help me, should that be my lot.

...

I'll also confess that I didn't enjoy buzzkilling your entire day on you.

So here's a grin for you, to make amends...  ;-)

At least we can call the ten day thing over, anyhow!  :-)

Introspection

How do you measure achievement?

What matters to you at the end of the day?

Do you evaluate yourself against goals set and reached?

Do you aspire to certain standards?

Do you need status symbols?

money?

Do you value spiritual growth?

happiness?

helping others?

Do you want to sculpt your own life 

     or make a difference to someone else in theirs?

These questions have been occupying my mind...

I had to go to a memorial service the other day -- one of those where they invite people to come up and share memories about the departed. Now, certainly, there are always one or two people that come up and say something nice. I've never known anyone who wasn't cared for by someone.

But every once in a while, (and this was one those,) the stream of bodies that rise to speak is virtually endless. Everyone from nearest and dearest right down to dentist, car mechanic, and "someone who once rang up their groceries" will come forward and tell you a story of how this person touched them, how this person mattered to them, how this person made a difference to their lives…

It's beautiful to see.

And yet somehow (selfishly) demoralizing, as well.

Because lately, I have been considering what makes a life well-lived... 

  and I have been feeling the weight of reproach -- both other people's and my own. 

I'm not exactly failing anyone, per se…

but there are hints of disappointment,

and ever so slightly dismissive tones.  

Because… 

I haven't lived up to my potential.

I haven't done the "great things" that were foreseen.

I haven't become a famous writer, carved out a stellar career, married a wonderful man, birthed the next Jonas Salk, or cured cancer.

And, you know, you can't argue with the truth.

I haven't done any of those things…

     Like, at all.

Largely because none of them were on my agenda, of course.

But all this introspection has made me wonder if what I have done amounts to anything, either. Because, really, what HAVE I done that counts?

Who have I mattered to?

Who have I touched?

Who will come forward to say I made a difference?

It's not really a happy contemplation, I must say.

(Not to mention the dispiriting realization that if I have to rely on my people skills to warrant a glowing send-off, I'm gonna need a lot more savings for the paid mourners!)

Dolor-Sub-Rosa

Before I move on to answering the kinky questions, I need to put something out there.

Here's the deal:

As might be expected, I'm suffering the common after-effects of a break-up: hurt, sadness, lowered self-esteem, anger, resolve to never put myself through this ever again, thank you very much… the whole nine yards.

This time, however, I'm finding my post-breakup struggles to be even more arduous than usual, because BG & I didn't "break up"… Rather, he dropped our relationship - a way that was both cowardly and cruel.

His choice of actions made it pretty obvious that he didn't actually consider me to be "his slut" (in that wonderful, desired, possessive sense of the phrase) but simply "a slut" -- as in, some easily available, drive-thru fuckmeat on offer.

I was apparently nothing to him but two tits, three orifices, and a willingness not to call the cops.

    It denigrated me and everything we'd done together.

    It denigrated my submission.

    It tainted my views on dominance.

And I'm furious.

At myself -- for not seeing it, 

                -- for believing in him.

At him -- for allowing, even encouraging, my obliviousness 

           -- for ruining the joy I'd found in submission.

And at… what? I'm not even sure. 

          Dominance? Submission? Life? The fantasy of it all?

Whatever. I can't pin it down yet.

All I know for sure at this moment is that:

  A- I can't stand the thought of intimacy again,

  B- Even thinking of being dominated again infuriates me,

       and 

  C- I am an idiot.

No, I haven't forgotten how wonderful it felt to be Slut Beneath The Table. 

But I no longer trust that there was anything more to that than the fantasy in my head.

I've lost my faith-

  In him, in men, in D/s, but most importantly, in myself.

Those may come back, I do realize that.

(At least, the men and D/s parts. I will get over being angry at him and those feathers will unruffle. Trusting myself again, however…? I'm not so sure about that one. I failed myself big time on this. We'll have to wait and see…)

In the meantime, though, I'm nothing more than one very large bundle of conflicting emotions. (Because, did I mention, angry as I am, I also haven't yet stopped missing and caring about him?)

Say it with me…

"I-D-I-O-T"

Anyhow, the moral of this whole ridiculous story is…

Well, there is none.

I guess I just wanted to tell you.

Maybe ask you to bear with me if my tone seems off at times...

(And yes, I'm taking the chicken-shit route and turning off comments. This was informational only.)

Elephant Handling

Back in August, nilla and I went off on a side track, discussing the elephant in the room behind one of my posts. She made the observation that naming the elephant is like saying "Rumplestilskin" … that by breaking the silence, you make things visible, fracture your cage, neutralize it's power.

You may still have an elephant on your hands but at least now you can start dealing with it, maybe shrink it down to purely ornamental size… 

And I got thinking...

I haven't ignored my elephant but I've dealt with it quietly, by myself. Cuz that's just how I roll. But despite that working perfectly well for me, I realize that there's a positive plague of pachyderms out there -- and maybe a show of solidarity would not go amiss.

So, here goes...

A long time ago, I had a date that left me bruised -- and decidedly NOT from consensual behavior. Legally, clinically, and emotionally, it was date rape. 

I know a lot of people don't believe that this is something that is real. They figure if you went out with a guy in the first place, you carry some degree of complicity in your fate. Or if the sexual violation is oral, as mine was, it's somehow not valid, it can't really have been that traumatic… "So you had a bad date -- get over it!" 

There is, of course, a kernel of truth in that. You do have to get over it, because life has to go on. To the surprise of no one but those who've never actually experienced assault, however, it's just not that simple.

Yes, I was young and stupid, but only because I was trusting. I had no external factors impairing my judgement -- even in hindsight, my only mistake was to believe that a guy would accept that "no" means "no" - especially if I was yelling it into his ear.

But he was bigger than me, he was stronger than me, and he had no compunction about slamming me into the furniture to get his own way.  He used violence to coerce a participation that I most certainly did not consent to.

Which left me sickened, shocked, trembling, horrified, violated … and completely pissed off -- at myself. Because whether that's reasonable or not, the fact remains that I'd experienced an epic failure at taking care of myself -- and that makes a person feel like an inept fool.

Plus, the real kicker is that misery doesn't even turn out to be the hard part.

No, it's afterwards that the real challenge begins, when you start trying to figure how to get past it all… How do you ensure, as you move forward, that you both learn your lesson and keep the experience from rotting your innards?

I knew for myself that I didn't want to stop trusting people but I sure as shootin' had no intention of ever letting myself be that kind of stupid again, either. 

So I had to find a balance between vulnerability and caution. 

I had to develop the skills of internal listening, examining, evaluating - while not completely losing sight of spontaneity.

I had to respect the healing process of my psyche, yet keep poking at it, to make sure it was actually healing and not just closing off and letting itself atrophy.

That's all difficult, draining stuff -- and seemed for a very long time like it was WAY more work than it was worth. (Would it really be that bad to just wave at the world from inside an impermeable bubble?)

But tempting tho' BubbleLand sometimes sounded, it was not really what I wanted. That kind of existence would be all wrong for me, on almost every imaginable level. So I took it in stages and persevered… heck, I persevere still. 

Because, as I wrote to nilla, one thing I find completely maddening is that even after 30-odd years, this one jerk will still occasionally rise from the dead and blight my sexual enjoyment. I've worked long and hard to take that control back and for the most part, I've succeeded. That he's still not completely banished is frustrating, irritating, and really MUCH more attention than he ever deserved in the first place. (Brief return to that "being pissed off at myself" place…)

So no, elephants aren't exactly like Rumpelstilskin - they require lots more time and patience to tame than just a one-time shout out.

But it's a start. It is certainly a start...

(and don't worry - comments not expected on this one. just getting it out there)