We're living a soap opera.
Not, I know, a very surprising statement.
And the writers adhere to a very predictable pattern. Moments of happiness, ecstasy, or the sweetest of intimacies are invariably followed by catastrophe. A darkness. Disruption. Misunderstandings. My Master goes off the deep end, often (in my eyes) an over-reaction but occasionally justified to some extent. Sometimes I do commit a grave sin, sometimes we're just seeing things differently, but whatever the root, it takes a long time to make our way back.
It too a long time to make our way back from the last time. When I did do something very bad, for which he would not consider the cause. Still, I was very wrong, very thoughtless, very hurtful - I did hurt him very much, I take full responsibility, and it took a very long time to make our way back. It happened last July and only recently - was it just last Saturday? - did he welcome back into his arms his banished little girl.
And then catastrophe struck.
I won't tell you what happened.
But I wouldn't.
I haven't signed a contract to reveal all.
There are things that should be private.
I'll tell you this, though.
It was all his fault.
And he knows it.
He says so.
Taken the blame and said he was truly, truly sorry.
A number of times.
Which he usually doesn't.
It's a feature of his psychopathology.
He doesn't apologize.
But he is now.
And I know that's a big deal.
I'm not smiling here, you know.
No triumphal gloating.
I'd rather we were whole and blissful again
than endure this pain
that we both are suffering.
It's a matter of trust.
Not an omission.
An actual lie.
I never walk away.
I know that.
But I hurt. I worry about a part of me always staying slightly to the side, holding back, protecting my soft, vulnerable heart, never letting myself fully accept anything he says. There's a hard knot inside me, which could dissolve in tears at any time, and did dissolve at times throughout the day. I slip into feeling close and then am reminded and my stomach has been all queasy since Monday, I'll bet. I got the news on Monday, though something happened on Sunday...
Don't speculate, please.
Don't try to guess.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is making our way back.
We always do make our way back.
Which in itself is some sort of tribute.
Or else testimony to an odd folie à deux,
a romantic delusion of five years' duration
that we are chained together,
both of us slaves in a Sisyphean chain-gang,
pushing the rocks up hill.
smashing them at the top,
only to trip on the debris and tumble down,
our bruised naked bodies all in a jumble
until we hit the bottom
where we piece back together our
battered hearts and painfully begin
to push them up the hill
closer to heaven
hoping the sun that we
shine on each other will
wash away our suffering
and bring us some peace.