Ambushed (Again)

I ran into one of life’s inevitable sequence of events the other day.

You know the kind I mean:

Get the credit card bill paid off? 

        Something large and expensive and utterly necessary will break.

Late getting out of the house in the morning?

        Every school bus in the world will be on the roads - right smack in front of me.

New pants?

        I will snag the selfsame spot on the front right thigh the first time I wear them.

Break up with someone?

(Well, okay. I suppose there’s more than one thing you can absolutely count on in that situation…  But one that gets me every time… that I don’t hear a lot of other people mentioning…)

        Get reduced to tears by condoms.

Yep. Completely ridiculous tho' that is, that's what happens to me.

Every single stinking time, at some point, I'll have a crying jag triggered by unused condoms.

To make matters worse, I’d thought I was safe, that I had gotten out of jail free this go-round. 

But I swear, those damned things are like ninjas - they lurk in the background, biding their time until you’ve been lulled into a false sense of security, then, *BAM!*, when you least expect it, they leap forth from the depths to assault your self esteem. Darting and feinting and singing, “Never, never, never again!”, they bludgeon you emotionally: calling you disparaging names, taunting you with their approaching expiration date, and mocking you for daring to contemplate the possibility that you might actually ever get the chance to use one of them again.

It's a relentless attack that continues until you’re sobbing with The Futility Of It All, then they have the nerve to retreat for cover behind the one small shard of hope that still clings tenuously to life in the back corner of the the drawer - so that even as your hand reaches out to throw them away, you hesitate. Sneaky, rat-bastard sons of latex…

GAD, I hate this particular aftereffect!

As The Dust Settles

Sometimes I wonder why any of my long-time readers still show up here. I’m DELIGHTED to see those who do, don’t get me wrong. But my blog has certainly changed from what it once was and I’m not always sure why those who showed up looking for tales of sex and submission keep coming back, now that it’s mostly memes and silliness.

ARB started as a blog written by a hopeful, sassy woman embarking on a great life adventure. There were ups and downs, to be sure, but that was okay, adventures are like that. The adventure ended badly, however, leaving behind a very muted version of that woman.

Still a wise-ass, still capable of enjoying daily life… but disappointment has taken its toll on the attitude behind it all. Hope and adventure have become things of the past, not the future. (Disclaimer: Not all of this change stems from the breakup - there were other, simultaneous rollercoaster rides that ended in disappointment, as well. — I don’t know that you could call it a “perfect” storm of disheartening circumstances, but it was certainly a “pretty darned good” one, at any rate.)

I’m doing my best to deal with it all, and I am getting there, but this stuff takes time - and there are consequences to the effort. One of the side effects that’s making me the most nuts is how all this grappling has effected my writing. For quite some time now, a large part of my internal processing has been dedicated to working through all this “feelings” crap. You guys know I’m not great with feelings to start with, nor am I much of a one for public emotional vomiting, so I’ve shied away from dumping all the angst here. On the other hand, however, by bracketing that off of the “possible subjects” list, I’m left with remarkably little that can be addressed in the maybe half an hour a day that I have for blogging. Just stopping the noise takes up a good half of that time, then I still have to find what I want to say… and then figure out how to say it...

I don’t want to give up on this blog. I want to be able to sit here and just talk to you all.

But memes and silliness are much easier, my friends. Much, much easier. 

I don’t intend to stay stuck in this track forever but unfortunately, there’s still a ways to go. There are decisions to be weighed and changes to be made - plenty more hard stuff ahead. 

So it’s quite likely the memes and silliness will hang out for a while longer.

In the meantime, however, I wanted to thank you all for your patience - and your continued visits. You are appreciated.

For now, though, you must excuse me - I have things to go do…

In Which Siri Is Not My Friend

Tiny Woman and I had arranged an outing and I’d been meaning to confirm with her all day - but I am swamped in the summers and had no time. So, I took a chance while driving home and tried using Siri to email her. I pressed the home button, settled my very new phone on my lap, and proceeded to address my thigh:

          “Siri, email Fiji”  (Tiny Woman’s nickname)

                  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

          “Siri, email Fiji”  

                  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

          “Email Fiji” 

             Mail opened, at least. (yay!)

               But then…

                  “I’m sorry, I cannot find that name.”

Hmmm.... OK, I haven’t proofed all my contacts yet.

Well, Mail is open anyhow... maybe her recipient name…?

(enunciating carefully:)

          “Fiji... Hall” 

                  “Got it!  Calling BG…”

NOOOOOOOO!!!

I pretty much drove off the side of the road as I fumbled to "Cancel-Cancel-CAAANCELLLL!"

And then sat there for a few minutes, panting, while the adrenaline rush subsided.

My first thought was, “Yikes! That was close!”

But then, right on its heels, came, “Maybe he’ll see that I called, and ….”

*sigh*

There is no idiot like a congenital one...

This, on a T-shirt, please.
Actually, six -- size large.
Thank you.

Betwixt and Between

On my way to the library this morning, I passed an indigent soul who called out, “How do you look so happy all the time? I want to know your secret!” 

That surprised a laugh out of me and I quipped back, “It’s pure fake-it ’til you make-it… but it helps!” He grinned and waved in acknowledgement as I continued on by.

I had to shake my head at the timeliness of the encounter, however, as I’ve had more than one conversation over the last couple of days about this very thing. It started with SP the other night, when he asked, “How are you? I cannot tell from your blog.” 

Well, no, one can’t - because I’ve been sticking to the light and fluffy. I’ve been superficial, not digging deep because, truthfully? I don't have much to dig into at the moment.

In a way, that’s good - because “not much” includes heartbreak. That, thankfully, has moved on. I’m no longer constantly bereft, no longer wondering how on earth I’m going to make it through the day before I’ve even gotten out of bed in the morning. Time has allowed the hurt to dissipate - for which I am very grateful.

However, the vacated space hasn’t been filled yet, either. Not even with contentment, much less joy. And while it’s great not to harbor sorrow within your soul, having *nothing* there isn’t really anything to write home about, either. "Nothing to feel" is remarkably similar to “numb.” 

Dull… Uninterested… Apathetic, even. 

(None of which, can I just mention, are good places from which to write.)

But I know this is all a process, so I make myself go through the motions. I get out and do things with my friends... and I genuinely do have fun. There’s a ton of teasing and laughter and very real enjoyment. It’s just that all of that pleasure is superficial, only going down to… about my shoulders. Below that, I’m Hollow Woman, whose heart and soul are still off on walkabout together. Which is okay. Time will continue to do its thing and pretty soon, they’ll come back, and the good stuff will start to trickle into the void, and I will once more have fodder for something deeper than a silly meme.

But in the meantime, enjoy the fluff.

Cuz it’s still better than this, I think:

Ha! You thought I’d forgotten Spock Sunday, didn’t you??

*WHOOMP!* There It Is!

When you’re hurting, there’s always a shoe or two that you just know will be dropping. Maybe not right away, sometimes it even takes so long that you forget to brace yourself for impact, but you always, always, always take it on the noggin at some point. 

Well, I had my first falling shoe injury the other day.

You know that “particular, distinct, ringing alert tone“ that I assigned to “BG only” on my devices? Yeah. It’s not one of the more common ones you hear, so I’ve been lucky so far… but I knew my luck couldn’t hold… and it didn’t. 

There was maintenance being done in my office… by a man who was having an extensive text exchange with his boss. Care to guess what alert tone pierced the silence on a regular basis? (No, you don’t win any prizes for guessing correctly - I’m giving this one away!)

♪*ping!*♪ ♪*ping!*♪

♪*ping!*♪ ♪*ping!*♪

♪*ping!*♪ ♪*ping!*♪

Repeatedly.

Over the course of 45 minutes.

Forty-five Very Long minutes.

I lived, of course.

And it was probably a very helpful first step in inuring me to future pain, so that part’s good.

But I’ll admit to a few minutes of very real distress.

Until the absurdity-loving portion my brain decided to kick in and tossed me this lifeline…, 

which gave me both the giggles and a very real earworm with which to battle the pings.

So, naturally, I’m gonna share it with you! :-D  (you’re welcome!)

Nope... Not Yet.

So… Somebody flirted with me the other day.

It was a guy I’ve kidded around with casually for years - but he’s been upping the ante the last few times I’ve seen him. He’s very nice, considerate, attractive, age-appropriate… 

All in all, I could do worse. So in an attempt to prod myself into moving forward, I took a moment to seriously contemplate developing a crush on him … and almost burst into tears. (Or vomited - it was kind of a toss-up between the two…)

Now, that’s certainly not an unusual reaction when you’re recently de-coupled. While the wounds are still fresh, you never want to think of anyone else touching you… Ever Again. (Or at least, I don’t. YMMV on this.) But even more than giving me that particular sucker punch to the heart, my momentary fantasy also provided a jarring reminder of exactly what I’m facing in life after my first D/s relationship.

I mean, you always think, “oh I’ll never find another guy” (altho’ so far I've managed it) but, man, have I complicated that likelihood by adding “submissive” to my list of “on-offers”!

Because it’s no longer just, “Find a guy you like, hope he likes you…, then hope you like his dick.” (‘Cause, sorry guys!, that’s not as much as a given as you may assume it to be.)

Nor is it even, “Find a guy you like, hope he likes you, hope he likes BDSM…, then hope you like his dick.” - because there are about 86 million different permutations of BDSM to worry about. 

Instead, I’ve ended up in a position more like, “Find a guy you like, hope he likes you, hope he likes BDSM, hope you can trust him, hope he’s someone you can open up to, hope he likes Weenie Girls, hope you can respect him as a Dom, hope the naughty things you each like align, hope he wants to balance BDSM and vanilla, … then … hope you like his dick.”

Now, considering the fact that I generally stall out at, “Find a guy you like”, (much less getting past,“hope he likes you")... I am feeling seriously challenged at the moment.

Plus, truthfully, I’m wondering if I even want to worry about all that anymore, anyhow. Not that I’m swearing off kink, per se… but I’m not sure I know how to find my trust again, so I’m not sure that kink has a place on my wish list, either - altho’ I also can’t imagine a fulfilling relationship without it, so that’s kind of problematic…

And all that trust and opening up stuff?
Way down the road right now. 

Way down. 

Waaaaaay way down…

Oh...! And have I mentioned the dread engendered by doing all this while now pushing 60 and hitting the nadir of my physical attractiveness?

I think I need to just swear off the whole crushing / flirting thing.

(Or at least the crushing — the flirting may be beyond my control…)

Channeling Lovey

You know, much as I dislike this whole “change your eating” thing (next blood test coming soon - wish me luck!), it has given me something to focus on when the emotional rollercoaster becomes too much. When the, “I’ve seen my future and it ain’t pretty” nausea becomes overwhelming, I can turn to this unnatural obsession with calories to distract me. And conversely, when “hanger” threatens to hijack my mood, my broken heart is more than happy to jump in and say, “OK, let’s talk about ME for a while!”

On paper, this combination certainly doesn’t sound like the healthiest symbiosis ever, yet the teetering balance between the two keeps me juuuust above the emotional quicksand — and that is good. I may not be happy but, so far at least, I’ve stayed out of the vast, sucking mire of depression that usually becomes my stompin’ ground in these situations. 

Now, I had known that you should try to distract yourself when you’re unhappy…, but it had simply never occurred to me to try distracting myself with something else that causes me distress. But then I realized that I’d actually been given that advice at a very early age.

I was watching Gilligan’s Island - the episode where, for reasons lost in the mists of time, Mr. Howell ended up dressed as his wife. He particularly disliked the high heels and asked, “Lovey, how do women stand to wear such uncomfortable shoes?” “Oh, that’s easy… We think about how much our earrings are pinching!”

Mrs. Howell’s School of Practical Living

Apparently, I am a graduate.

     Cum laude.

My Search For The Other Replacement

This one's not for another dom, tho'…

No, I’m having to go through the process of finding another massage therapist again. 

(Note to universe: If you must yank away a person’s primary source of human touch, you really should consider leaving them the only alternate they have in place - at least for a while. You may think you’re helping them downsize but in reality, you are just making their life bloody difficult. … ’k? Thanks! Love, Jz)

It’s funny how individualized touch preferences can be, even in the strictly platonic world. Or maybe (maybe?) I’m just too finicky for my own good…, but I’ve spent ages looking for my very own Baby Bear therapist. (“This is juuuust right!”) After a number of abortive attempts over the years, I was lucky enough to find one for a while - but she was a peripatetic soul and took off a year or two later, chasing her latest butterfly. 

Since then, my tactile life has been a jumble of confusion. 

     (bracketing BG and ThatThingWeDid)

I had one therapist who was so short, she had trouble reaching the entire way down my back (and attempted to compensate for the lack with excessive attention to my feet - which are ticklish;) a military wife who swept in, delighted my muscles, then went, “oopsie! transfer time!” and left; a sweet, gentle woman with very good hands but no self-confidence, who lost her office space and gave up her practice as a result; a Valkyrie with phenomenally strong hands, no sense of rhythm, and an unnatural fondness for horse liniment; and the most recent - a capable and efficient woman who was perfectly good, if lacking in magic. She has seen fit to move on, however, and I am once again Clueless at Square One.

But while I may be content to let the BG-shaped hole in my life go unfilled, my back won’t let me leave a massage-therapist-sized one open. So, the search has begun again. And yesterday was my first appointment with the latest candidate. I’m not absolutely certain that she is going to be The Next One but there are definite possibilities there. 

She’s another small woman, with tiny little (strong!) hands and a technique that is like nothing I’ve experienced before - but she definitely found the sore spots and worked on them with a nice level of pressure. Her methods are a bit unorthodox… She didn’t so much stroke the muscles as she did play them with vibrato, causing the table to rock rhythmically on the uneven floor. And when she picked my arms up, instead of leading them down gently over the side of the bench, she hopped right up onto the table with me, draping them over her thigh. That was a bit unexpected - particularly as she smooshed a goodly portion of side boob with one of her landings - but it wasn’t unpleasant, either. (Well, ok, the side boob thing was a bit twingey but not that bad. It wasn’t so much of a pinch as it was a displacement, if you see what I mean.) But my muscles felt very good and quite relaxed by the end of the session.

I think that once I’m more used to her style, she could prove to be a keeper, even if not an actual Baby Bear. We just have to see how we make out with the Deep Tissue Test.
Stay tuned...

Let's Not Do That Again Soon

It wasn’t a particularly comfortable week here at casa de Jz…

Woes ran the gamut:

       stomach flu, agitated doctors, crashing networks, and a “talk” with my dom.

Well, not so much a talk. More like I yelled at him.

       Without actually yelling, of course.

              Because…, me.

In the general run of things, I have very little trouble telling people what I think or feel - but by nature, I am not confrontational. Blunt, occasionally tactless, and frequently oblivious, yes… but not confrontational. Disagreement is fine, but drama is not my thing.

But there was no way I could say what I needed to say without it being pretty clear that I considered him to have screwed up - which tends to make a person defensive, which makes me need to defend my viewpoint, and before you know it, you have a confrontation… and those often get ugly quick. 

Add onto that the fact that this was my dominant I was about to scold… 

Well, if you think that came easily, you’re living in a very different world than I inhabit. 

But things needed to be said.

So naturally, I fretted about “the talk” for three days ahead of time. (Which, btw, did not help produce a blood pressure reading to soothe my doctor’s soul.) Mentally rehearsing my words, anticipating his possible reactions, repeatedly exhorting myself to calmness…

There was no sleep in Jzville, I can tell ya.

As it turns out, however, the yucky conversation went well. We each said our piece, with no escalation, no drama (ok, maybe I did flail my arms and huff audibly at one point, but that passed quickly) and we both affirmed that we wanted to work on this, rather than end us.

I disliked every moment of it (except the hugging part at the end) but in a lot of ways, it was a good thing. Because this was actually the first time I've had to force a conversation like that - and that the process was unknown made it a scary thing. Not that it will ever be easy but at least now, we’ve got one successful head-butting under our belts and I can have a little more confidence the next time one rolls around.

Plus, ridiculous as this may sound, it was the first time we’ve actually verbalized commitment to our relationship. Mostly, we’ve just gone along happily without actually touching on the “C” word. And when you’ve never tested the strength of your relationship (and your partner is renowned as a Man of Few Words,) you cannot help but wonder (or at least, *I* cannot help but wonder) if he stays simply because it’s easy. You like to think that isn’t the case, but it’s uncharted territory, and what if you’re really just kidding yourself?

(Self-doubt, thy name is Jz)

So I was pretty happy that we survived it…

Conquered some of it, even.

Now if we can just resolve the original issue, the world will be a beautiful place!

Meanwhile, I think we should celebrate with cookies!

Here She Goes Again!

So…

He's added something to his wish list for the future… and much like when he broached the “slut under the table” scenario, I'm struggling.

Unlike the table thing, however, I find no heat in this wish at all. Usually, even if I can’t jump right on board with his ideas, I can at least understand them. I can see them as hot, even if it’s a heat that doesn't touch me.

This one leaves me cold, however.

He's looking at a hood.

A very pretty lace hood, I grant you.

But a hood.

And that, once again, is sufficiently objectifying that I’m really not comfortable. 

Yet, on the other hand, it’s not the kind of thing that I feel I can fairly call “Limit!” on, either. I've always believed that anything short of a hard limit needs to be tried before I squawk too loudly. (You know, like a child with a new vegetable…) 

BG says the point of the mask is not objectification, it's the mystery, the hint of forbidden naughtiness that it evokes. Which I guess I can see… sorta.

SP offered an explanation with a slightly different slant: 

"The anonymity is fake and is sexy only because it is fake. If my woman came up to me wearing a mask and started to blow me, it would be very sexy. If it were someone I did not know, I would politely retire, and certainly would not have her blow me." 

Yeah, I guess I can see that too…

Still, this is dancing on the trigger edge of a whole bunch of sensitivities. 

There's distressed vanity, fear of lashing out in self-protective defense, fear of retreating so far into my crustacean's carapace that I might get stuck in the back corner… and fear that something I may find deeply unpleasant might become a regular feature on his request list.

Of course, I also fret that my worries cause me to do a disservice to him, as well. He has never, ever, made me feel belittled or dehumanized during any scene we've played together. I know I've said this before but he is phenomenal at using precisely the right words to keep us both right smack in the mood he wants. 

And after all, look how popular the slut sous la table has become with each of us, despite my nearly-identical initial fears. Proof that my imagination usually paints a picture that is far, far worse than reality.

But still…

hood…

(Remind me of this angst next year when I'm posting regularly about wearing my little hood… probably under the table!)

Just for the record...

That few days break when I couldn't write?

I wasn't upset or hurt or feeling down -- nothing emo like that.

I was simply temporarily stumped.

The words I had written that brought about the discussion with my friend hadn't seemed self-deprecating to me. Even when it was pointed out, I sort of had to squint to see them in that light. I did eventually see the issue… but it was subtle, nebulous… more of an undertone than an outright statement.

So when I made a conscious decision to try eliminate that tone (that I hadn't noticed in the first place) I ended up over-thinking (quel surprise!) and second-guessed myself right into complete, uncertain silence. 

It was a classic example of trying too hard and I just needed to step back for a little bit.

But in my brevity (because words felt highly unreliable at that point) I may have mis-represented how I was feeling. And while I don't mind occasionally missing the boat with my writing when I'm just blathering in general, I don't want my friend to think there was damage or misunderstanding between us.

I'm fine. We're fine.

And I'm back.  :-)

I loved getting the suggestions, tho'.

I might have to miss the boat a time or two more, if it will bring in more of those!

In Which I Am Flabbergasted

After the last bout of discussions with BG over his wish for an MFF, I once again turned to SP and poured out my concerns. (Really, one day that man is just going to tell me to grow a pair, and hang up on my email in disgust…) 

His response (since that day has not yet arrived, however) really brought me up short.

He wrote that, were it him, he would not choose to ask me for a ménage (altho' he's a fan himself) because he knows my gut reaction to the proposition is too far removed from the excitement he’d want to elicit. So he considers the idea off the table.

BUT… (and here’s where it gets interesting) that choice isn't based on any disappointment in me, or because he is caving… Rather, he says it’s because he knows that if we proceeded, he would never be able to assure me of his unshakable primary connection with me - which he would experience as a personal defeat. And so, “selfishly”, he would prefer not to go there - for himself.

wait …

       … … …

    What…?!?

You mean the onus isn't entirely upon me?

     hmmmm…

I'm gonna have to think about this one...

The Curse of The Lower Brain

When you’re thinking of embarking on a “do-over” in a relationship, one of the first things you have to determine is if you can let go of the injuries of the past. Because if the attempt is going to work, you must dig deep and allow yourselves a clean slate.

This I have done, with a willing heart.

But letting go isn’t the same thing as “forgetting”, is it?

And just as the body has muscle memory, emotions have learned responses based on memories, as well … and those don’t retrain quite so easily.

I'm finding that things crop up which, in the past, would inevitably herald a forthcoming disappointment and annoyance for me. Now, in the nine months that our rapprochement has been in place, not once have those same words or situations led to any kind of distress… 

Yet every single time, they still catapult me into a defensive space, braced against disappointment and mentally rehearsing how I will express my unhappiness to him.

Every. 

Single.

Time.

And that makes me absolutely crazy.

Both because it puts me through the emotional wringer, but also, how unfair is that to him? Imagine how that would feel, to always be having the past thrown in your face...

Luckily, I have sufficient higher brain control that I am able to override my knee-jerk limbic system pretty quickly…, so that part’s good. But irks me nonetheless that I still have not been able to shake that initial, immediate reaction of preemptive ire.

Like any struggle in life, it just takes time, I know. 

Nothing can be done about this other than to carry on with what I’m doing… to give myself a good talking to and sit tight until it becomes clear that I am a nitwit. And I’m sure the sensitivity will eventually decrease to the point where I’ll be able to pink-slip the inner cop.

But man, I wish we could speed the process up…!

The Week in Review

I've had a rough time in here in SlutWorld this past week.

He raised two back-to-back questions that really caused me a great deal of inner turmoil.

In fact, I was pretty nearly bludgeoned to death by my own insecurities. 

To the point that I've actually started wondering if I shouldn't just give up… throw in the towel and let him find someone who won't disappoint.

That's one of the downsides to being a submissive, I think.

Even if your head understands that it's okay to have difficulty rising to a challenge, you feel like a complete failure when it happens.

Which means I catastrophize it.

Which tries his patience.

Which adds to the feeling of failure…

Can I just say, "Ugh"...?

(and maybe get an "amen"?)

An Unexpected Pax

I never really know who's going to walk through the door when he comes over… he's an endlessly changing mix of characteristics, so there's no getting cocky about thinking I know who he'll be on any given day.

   Sometimes the dominant shows up, sometimes the sadist.

   Sometimes the generous lover, sometimes the man who simply takes.

   Most times, it's someone somewhere in between.

And that's okay.

Because they're all parts of him… and you may have noticed that I am rather taken with him? So all variations are welcome, -- and generally accommodated without a second thought. Sometimes there can be a touch of disconnect...

   Maybe the sadist shows up when I could use a little gentleness.

   Or he wants service and I just want to be fucked until I can't think.

But we've been good at navigating to the same page pretty quickly. (Or, more accurately, he is good at navigating us to the same page. I cannot claim to contribute anything to this process except the part where I follow his lead...)

So I don't really worry which version of my dom will show up.

Except, there's someone new who's been coming around lately. 

He's not someone I've really met before -- in fact, seeing him kind of makes me wonder if BG's body has been invaded by aliens -- but he feels like the BG my heart believes in and has stuck by, the guy I've always thought was in there, the one who knows me and gets me and maybe even can come to care for me. This may be the man behind the defenses.

And that's someone I'm surely glad to see.

But Weenie Girl isn't so sure. 

This BG kind of scares her…, although probably not as much as I scare her. 

She's afraid I'm just seeing what I want to, that I'll follow what I perceive as his lead, when really, it's only a dream -- that I'm chasing right off the edge of a cliff. 

She's not so chicken-shit that she wants me to run away, exactly… but she doesn't want me moving toward him, either. 

Weenie Girl would much rather I just sit tight for the moment.

And for once, I think I agree with her.

Out On A Limb

I had actually done some writing ahead of time, hoping to have a few things ready to post here during what I knew would be an awful month for down time.

You haven't seen any of those pieces, however, because to print them now would be a lie. I'm no longer in the same head space that I've occupied for lo these many months. (Well, except for the "Dolly Dimple doppelganger" angst. That's still ever-so-real.)

But I'm not ready to pour forth torrents of gushing happiness, either. 

I dare not. 

Because I have embarked on the ultimate crapshoot - a second attempt at a relationship previously deemed "Finished" ... and these are perilous waters.

In fact, it was a month before I trusted the rapprochement enough to even refer to it obliquely in these pages. I wasn't sure it wouldn't turn out to be just a flash in the pan -- and that would be a pain best held private. I also suspect it will be a while yet before he gets the same matter of fact acceptance that he had for so long. Because some important things have changed… but a few remain close enough to "the same" that I'm still cautious. 

The good thing about being pretty much over a breakup when you talk about getting back together, however, is that you don't have much to lose. With eight months of healing behind you, you really don't care if your new and somewhat revised attitude pisses him off. (What's he gonna do? Break up with you?? You're not even back together yet!)

There is a certain position of strength in that.

On the other hand, I'm still me... 

I'm not going to use that strength as leverage … but I am comfortable with being a lot more frank with him. I was honest before, but I used to try to frame things in careful neutrality. Which meant my points often got lost in Switzerland. So now I leave less room for travel. :-)

And just as I'm still me, he's still him.

He was not annoyed by my new attitude. He was braced for worse, actually. Because he knows what he did and he regrets that it hurt me -- but on the other hand, he won't apologize for doing what he had to do at the time. And I get that.

He's just not the type who will ever jump through hoops for anyone -- but I don't want him to. I don't get off on making anyone squirm, particularly not my dom. Nor am I interested in receiving anything that is not freely given.

I want meaning behind the gestures.

So we've talked, we've both agreed to some goals, and now we're feeling our way forward. That's about all there is to say right now.

I don't know how much of it will show up here but at least now you know what's going on with the woman behind the curtain… :-)

Closure

As you know, my life for the last few months has been one big struggle for closure.

See, I don't move on well. 

(I'll just wait here a minute for the gasps of surprise to die down…)

Mind you, I don't open up well, either, but once I do, you're in. 

It's a lot of work to carve names on that membership wall, so I've gotta really want you off the list to go to the trouble of removing it.

To get to that point, I need to have let go of the emotional connection with you…

I need to have found closure.

Closure allows you to seal off the energies of an experience so that you can keep it with you -- but in a neat package. Contained, those energies won't continue to bleed, seethe, and seep out into the rest of your life. You can examine and enjoy them for what they were, without them interfering with what you are now.

It's the healthy way to keep your experiences with you...

But it takes a while. 

I don't think closure is a single event, I think it occurs in stages.

There's: 

finding it

accepting it

moving on

There's also, "getting that order right"

Because if you try to move on before you've achieved the rest, things aren't going to go so well for you. 

Or, at least, they don't go so well for me.

Perhaps your mileage will vary...

Patterns and Stories

"We are pattern finders -- We are storytellers.

We love to have reasons and this makes us find patterns when they simply aren't there…"

(Slightly paraphrased but pretty close, from a podcast on luck that I heard recently.)

*********************

Please tell me somebody besides me winced?

Because, really, I think I don't want to believe that life is nothing but your basic crapshoot.

My preference is to think that if you do right and try hard, you will receive something good at the end. Something other than just the satisfaction of knowing you did right and tried hard -- as you stare at your empty hands…

So I do try to analyze when things go wrong. I spend time, far too much of it, reliving the tale, trying to sort out where I missed the boat; where the tell was that I should have recognized -- because god knows, by now I should be able to see the pattern in all this. 

I search, so that next time, I can get it right.

It never helps.

And I never learn to stop doing it.

"Luck is just a word to describe the gap between chance and success."

Shoo, Fly...

My libido tried to stage a comeback over the weekend.

I stomped on that sucker like a bug.

Whap!

Forget it! 

Go Away!

And it did.  

*HA!*

(Or that's the story so far, anyhow. It may be lulling me into a false sense of security…)

But honestly? Nice tho' it is to think that I'm not permanently non-functional, I have no place in my life for any hankerings at the moment.

All they do is distract and lead to poor decision-making.

... and I've got yard work to do.

(No one wants to operate machinery in an impaired condition.)

:-)

Update

So, it's been three months.

(Four if you count from the Five Year Anniversary on which he stood me up and then dropped off the face of the earth, but three from "I Throw in the Towel Day" -- and that's what I'm going with.)

I still miss him so bad, I ache with it.

I have dreams of him coming back…

Of hearing my mail alert and seeing his name as the sender.

Of watching him get out of his car and stride down my sidewalk. 

  (On really bad days, he's even carrying flowers…)

I still cry hard on occasion, I haven't felt light-hearted in ages... But I'm forging ahead, as I know I need to ... even tho' the inner slut is wailing, "Come Back!"

Because that's a reaction to the emptiness.

Who really wants someone who repeatedly demonstrates that you don't count?

I think that, for a while at least, if I'd made a first move, been willing to forgive and forget one more time, we could maybe have gotten back together...

Except it wouldn't have been either "back" or "together" - because he made it clear just how little effort he's willing to exert in order to keep me, or our relationship… and to say that's OK, that I'll take him anyway, would make me someone I don't want to see in the mirror.

It doesn't matter that he's the Dom and I'm just the lower case thing. A dynamic is a two-way street. You don't get carte blanche just because you're dominant. 

You still have to earn my respect … and let me keep mine.

He knew he was on thin ice. I had knowingly and willingly made concessions up to that point -- but we hit my line in the sand. Any further concessions were going to have to start with him. 

(And we all know how well that turned out…)

I miss him like hell -- but I will not let him turn me into someone I don't like, either.

(I'd miss my self-respect if it weren't around, too.)

So I grit my teeth and go on.

Even tho' right now, it's the suckiest way in the world to go…