All better

He has such power, my Master.
He has such skill.
He knows what he wants and - almost always - he knows how to get it.

I call him my Master because he allows me to. He said I earned the right and gave me the gift of allowing me to call him my Master. On the one hand, it indicates my position relative to him. But of course, it also refers to his position. To his achievements.

The man... yes, sure, he has bewitched me, entranced me, hypnotized me, stolen my will and replaced it with his own. And gotten the best from me. Made me into more than I have ever been. Not just for him. But in terms of my own personal growth.

Of course, it's not supposed to be about me. It's about him. His needs. His desires. His orders. His ownership.

His ownership...

So dangerous.
And so...
I'm stuck.
I don't have the words.

I've lived so safely and suffered so much. The danger makes my heart beat faster. Makes my brain light up. Makes my eyes see magic. It's worth the risk to feel this alive.

He says it's all about him. And so it is and so it should be. That should and must be the focus of everything I do, of every breath I take. But what about something I think can be called collateral benefits? Is there a harm to my being aware of the benefits to me of being his? As long as I don't do things with the goal of benefiting myself, is it so bad if that is a side effect?

And if I am made a stronger person, a happier pet, won't that ultimately benefit my Master?

Whatever, never mind, it doesn't matter, although yes. I am happy, happy and owned and secure if living on the edge of destruction and loving it.

And oh yes, I'm feeling better. Did you notice? It didn't take much. A couple of messages this morning, that's all I needed. The right words, the right tone, a pretty gentle reminder of who is in charge. I read his words, cried a little, the knot of bad feelings opened up, and during the rest of the day I grew to feeling more and more embraced by his ownership and control.

I carry with me a burden of insecurity, of fear of rejection and abandonment. Every time there is a problem I worry that he - that anybody - won't want me any more. As I've become more and more aware of the quirks of my personality, of the poison for others of my mood swings, I've come to have less and less faith that anyone could truly want me after they see me for who I am. I'm always sure that the next problem, as minor as it may be, will be the last.

And yet, he accepts it all. He works at teaching me, at training me, at correcting me, while sighing and accepting that an artist is going to be a handful.

No one has ever given me more.
No one.

No one.