Surrender

In the end, it was nothing more than hubris.
Why should I surpass Odysseus
in managing to flee my fate?

I bragged.
Sure, I'm sluggish.
Yes, I'm eating all the wrong things
and plenty thereof.
Me and the squirrels outside my window.
Fattening ourselves up for winter survival.
But no depression.
Not me.
Not this year.

Ha!

Like the sadist himself, SAD is a predator, watching his prey, gauging vulnerability, watching for the little drops of blood left like breadcrumbs by the unseeing victim, complacent in her seeming safety from the worst of his tortures. He plays with her, swatting her across the floor, leaving little scratches while holding back from the last hard blow to the head before sinking his teeth into her jugular.

He knows just the right spot.
He pierces it year after year,
sucking out her soul,
deadening her eyes.

He knows she'll rise again in Spring.
But the wounds never wholly heal.
And unlike the cats
who mourn the loss of each mouse killed,
he knows he'll have his favorite prey
to play with once again come Fall.

Year

after year

after year.

The Solstice can't come soon enough.

"I'll beat the shit out of you until you learn"

He hurt me.
A lot.
But then I hurt him.
So I suppose that's fair.

If only we all had such a direct, physical way to respond to those who hurt us emotionally.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And that, aside from a few jotted notes, was as much as I wrote on Tuesday about the sadist's visit.

And sadistic it was.
Sadistic and cruel and painful and deserved.

He did beat the shit out of me.
Well, maybe some of you wouldn't have felt it as such.
But for me?
Definitely.
And I'm still in pain.

He beat me again and again with the strip of cherry wood he uses as a cane. There are impressive bruises forming on both butt cheeks, with noticeable swelling on the right one. He scratched his initial into the soft, pale skin of my belly with the tines of the fork from the delicious and healthy salad lunch I prepared for him. He went over and over on the same spot, scraping, digging, marking. There are bruises there, too, as well as remaining marks from the fork.

He beat my pussy.
I lay on my back with my head hanging over the end of the bed
and he beat my pussy.
My head hung over the end of the bed
and I sucked his cock
and he beat my pussy.
Hard.
Repeatedly.
Not with my lovely flogger.
But with the wooden spoon.
The back of the wooden spoon
smashing down again and again
so that bruises have formed there, too.
He beat the shit out of my pussy
and it hurt like hell
and after a while I could not keep my legs open
and he kept beating me
and I was told "No frozen peas."

He abused me emotionally.
He said so himself.
He deliberately said things to hurt me
and he did hurt me
and I deserved it
because of how I hurt him.

And now?
We're talking.
He's trying to help me.
He's being cautious,
convinced that if he is too nice to me
I'll see him as weak
and lose respect.
I don't think it's that.
Or maybe mostly not that.
I don't know any more.
I'm not liking myself all that much.
Yesterday I hated myself.
I'm seeing things...

But we are talking.
I'm trying to understand.
Trying to learn.
Not because he beat the shit out of me.
But because I belong to him.
And because I love him.
And because the only way I want to live is on the end of his chain.

Hard times come again once more

It has not been a good week.
On many fronts.
I don't feel like writing.
So I won't.
Not now.
Eventually.
I suppose.

o.g.

depleted

i have been quiet.
i have been tired.
i have been feeble.
i have been sick.

nothing fatal. just a nasty cold that has sapped all my energy and left me weak and coughing. i finally went back to work on Monday. if i were still commuting into town i couldn't have done it. 10 minutes door to door in my little Honda was about all i could manage, and then i went home early. now i stay full days, but i eat lunch down the street. no energy to run home for lunch. no energy for writing.

i'm so enervated that i have trouble motivating myself to go to bed, which makes me even more tired the next day.

i probably won't fully recover for weeks.
i know.
i've been through this before.

there are some to whom this is attractive. there are predators who look for wounded animals on the side of the road as they prowl the countryside, looking for weakness.

i have little to give except my proffered throat.
sink in your teeth.
drink of my blood.
and then tear me to shreds.

Elsewhere

Nothing to say.
Absolutely nothing to say.

And yet I feel I should say something, you know... I don't want you to worry about me. And really, I'm quite all right.

Of course, you have to factor in a week spent more or less in isolation due to the snow. And the stubbornly loitering effects of a cold that has me waking up stuffed every morning. And the disappearance of the sun. That doesn't help my level of creativity, either.

And on top of that, the snow delayed the delivery of my latest batch of lithium, and I've been stretching them out to one every other day. Since the lithium boosts the effectiveness of my other meds, here's yet another blanket smothering my moods. (For those who are concerned the pills are on their way, and I'm hoping they will arrive tomorrow. Tuesday.)

My other creative output is choked by writer's block. Maybe it's spilling over. I'm trying to finish the first draft of a story and it is resisting. I know what some of the issues are, issues specific to the story, and am trying to trick myself into renewed producton. And I haven't gone completely dry. There have been some poems, along with more than the usual intense declarations of devotion to the sadist.

Ah, yes. The sadist.

[she disappears into a reverie]

Yes.
Where was I?
There.
I was there...

And since then,
I haven't
been
quite
here.

[she smiles contentedly.]

I think I'll go back there now

A Sign of Sparkle

Another episode in my personal saga of better living through modern chemistry.

As some of you know, if you've been hanging out here long enough, I am afflicted by a whole assortment of ailments, especially of the mood disorder type - SAD (winter and summer both), ADD, garden variety depression, a touch of bipolar disorder. I am personally keeping the pharmaceutical industry in business in order to maintain for myself some level of functionality.

Now the problem with my collection of pills and capsules is that while they fix one problem, they exacerbate another. A year ago, I finally, after years' of resistance, agreed to go on a very small amount of lithium for my relatively mild bipolarity. Magic! Kitten stabilizes. Well, more or less...

But eventually, this spring, I became hypothyroid - too little of the stuff.

Today, I finally started taking thyroid supplements. My first day. One little pill this morning. And poof! My brain and energy are back.

Now I do tend to respond very rapidly to mood drugs, much more rapidly than is supposed to be possible. But one little thyroid pill is not enough to correct the imbalance in the space of a few hours. However, what it does do is potentiate the mood drugs, so I feel as if I were taking a whole lot more.

By this evening, I was feeling pretty damn perky.

Happy kitten.
Relieved kitten.
Horny kitten...

Still a very busy kitten, but no longer a comatose kitten, so I do hope you get to hear more from me in the coming weeks.

Again, as always, thank you for your patience.

A partial answer

I do know part of what's going on.

Not why I'm angry, unless I'm angry at fate.
And you can't revenge yourself against fate.

But I do know why everything is suddenly so hard to take.

I have always had a hard time with loss.

Having grown up in New York City, I took the attack on September 11th very seriously. I didn't stop crying for 2 weeks - not until I took a half of a magic pill which stopped the tears cold. Being in DC when it happened, being evacuated, that was scary. But New York? That was my city they attacked. I went into a clinical depression that lasted 2 years.

Well, now I'm truly starting to face my parents' mortality. Not that I'm all that close to them. More walls of protection there. And not that I thought they were immortal, although somehow they seemed to be and are living so long (88 and 91 now) that we are all starting to wonder.

But my mom had a bad fall backwards and is now doing better but still in pain and using a walker and feeling depressed and I'm fearing that it will send them both downhill and I just don't deal well with loss. And in some ways it's even harder when your feelings were ambivalent. Oh, the guilt!

Love and loss. Here we go again.

Which all cycles back to rejection. Of not being good enough.

And of not wanting to have to face the inevitable alone.

So yes.
I'm struggling.
I'm depressed.
I'm not handling anything well right now.
Except when the sadist calls me angel.
When he says I'm a good girl.
When he manipulates me with these little rich truffles of approval.
And then I would do anything for him.
Because at least he is giving me something.

And you can do a lot worse than chocolate.

That which is missing

not all that often
just now and then
ghosts walk
like now
when i pushed a sock
down past my ankle
pulling it off
to throw in the wash
and my hand was surprised
at the lack of a chain
a paper clip chain
that linked me to you.
sometimes
absence
is a presence.

I've been feeling absence lately. Voids. The sadist is sick. Really sick. It's hard to imagine him being felled by bacteria, but so it is. I picture him beached on his sofa, a giant whale held in bondage by tiny creatures too small to be defeated, powerful in their unity. Poor Gulliver. There is a temptation to chuckle at the image of him weak and silent and sleeping for days, he whose hand has hit me almost as painfully as he allowed that nasty wood strip to impact my butt. But I can't laugh. I admit to a fondness for him. I miss his stern words, his imposed control, his arousing words thrown at me like Mardi Gras beads into a crowd. Except he throws them only at me, to be woven into poems and stories for his pleasure alone.

I shouldn't.
But I like him.
And I miss him.

And then there's the philosopher. He says he's having a very hard time. He says he's down, but I shouldn't worry. That he'll be ok. But I do worry. It was a very hard week for me and I needed him and he wasn't there. I had, I think, a couple of short messages from him. Maybe three? I can't remember. It was a very hard week and all I could feel was that I was scared and torn and needed to be a shoulder for my sister to cry on while there was nowhere a shoulder for me.

He must be having a very hard time. I know what it's like. I do. You're depressed, you're empty, you have nothing to give. That was one reason for breaking up with me - to relieve him of that responsibility of being there for me, of looking after me, of putting up with me, while he went through the trials of his dissertation. And when he allowed himself to admit that yes, ok, we are still more than friends to each other, I promised that there would still be nothing expected of him till he was done. Till he could handle it. He would allow me to write as much as I wanted to - needed to - and I wouldn't expect a response. I offered this, in good faith, and mostly I can stick with it. Because it's this or nothing, and I've already had nothing, and I don't know of anyone I would want instead. Before or now.

But still.
I missed him.
I needed him.

And now I'm worn out.

Things are better. My mom is better. They cemented her vertebra back together (really!), the pain is reduced, and they sprang her from the hospital to the nursing section of the place where they live. My dad doesn't have to commute to the hospital any more - good thing, because I hate to think of him driving at all.

I feel like I'm getting a cold. Probably from the stress. Not from my demon muse, as I haven't seen him since my birthday over 2 weeks ago. It's the stress. It depresses the immune system. But if it doesn't blossom I'll drive up there Friday and come back Monday and then I'll really need someone to look after me.

I wish I could take Marko with. Unfortunately, he hates to travel and would yowl the whole way. But I wish I could have him there. Staying near me, snuggling against me for warmth and love and reassurance.

I know what that feels like.

The poem that began this post... I wrote it for the philosopher. It started as an e-mail. And then I brought it here. I'm not sure why. Maybe so it wouldn't feel like a throwaway.

I'm finding myself wanting to address him as master. I haven't done that since last summer. Since he broke up with me. I don't know why it keeps coming into my mind now.

"i miss you, master..."

It feels good. And yes, I know why... because even as there was perhaps always a slight bemused detachment behind our D/s interactions, I always felt taken care of. For-real taken care of. And I need that right now.

But I'll be ok, John.
I'll come through.
Taking care of me isn't your job right now.
Now
it's my job
to take care of
you.

A short note of thanks

It's the third night of Chanukah.

I lit one more candle tonight.

Theoretically, the light is increasing.

Theoretically. Because of course I'm still struggling, I'm still morose, I'm still weepy, I'm still feeling sorry for myself.

As my mother used to say, after sniffing my little feet and pretending they smelled bad:

Feh!

Enough already, before I drive you all away!

Well, I'm trying. I really am. And you all are helping, whether you comment or not, but especially when you comment. I need to feel taken care of, and you guys are doing that for me.

I need to feel taken care, and after a while I need to be told to cut the crap, and I need to be made to think, and I need to be reminded to open myself to the delights of the universe because who knows what is waiting for me behind the next star... and that walking around with too big a cloud over my head might scare away happiness.

One advantage of having you all as a support system is that you can read, you can comment, and then you can go about your business. You don't have to see my mopey face all day, you don't have to worry that some innocent phrase will send a tear to loiter in the corner of my reddened eye.

On the other hand, you can't spank me, which would be very effective right around now.

Ah well.

You've all been great. Truly. But I want to make special mention of Greenwoman, who has said some stunning things. She made a great comment about rituals a while back that I would love to put into a post all its own. Do go check out her blog (one of a few), especially as she, too, is going through a lot these days and could use support of her own.

So she left this long comment on yesterday's post, bits of which I'd like to leave here since I suspect most of you don't get into the comments. And because these are things I want to remind myself to think about.

So here it is. With thanks.

I was thinking that it's likely you are right that the worst of this feeling sad is the 'sorry for yourself' stuff that comes with SAD. [ . . . ]

I was just thinking to myself how much I've thought this to myself. Will I always be alone in the deep places of me? Is it even possible to have someone who can touch all of me? Is it even a reasonable desire? Does it even matter if its reasonable?

Yadayadayadayada...

The truth is, love is something that should be without stint or condition.

The truth is, if I'm not saying can't/won't/never...then whatever it is that's abundant in the universe; and that's pretty much everything; can get to me.

Can't/won't/never leaves me behind walls. Abundance is not something that arrives with big construction machinery so it can toss something I need over the wall.

Only Gratitude, willingness and an open heart gives it an unimpeded entrance to my life from any direction and what's more, this prepares the ground for every good thing to grow in my life.

Its just true.

And after reading here for awhile, I think you know all this just as well as I do...but just like me...when in the middle of the shit you can't remember shit, never mind what's True.

All one can do at a time like this is try not to let that crap take root with too much time and energy letting it twirl in your head. All you can do is keep on keeping on and trying to find your grateful button and poke it hard as frequently as you can find it.

I'm feeling very grateful right now. For all of you. Whether you're saying anything or not.

SADder

There are many forms of evil in my life.

There is my demon muse, of course,
And the pinching imps of memory.

But for pure evil, no redeeming social or erotic value, I need look no further than the inside of my head. The grey inside my head.

SAD is winning.

I'm going down. And it's not an enticing descent such as topples me in subspace. This is grey going into black. This is an inability to think. This is tears hovering on the edge. This is self-esteem being vomited up on the lawn outside the front door.

This is feeling utterly worthless and unwanted and seeing no evident reason to get out of bed.

Luckily, I haven't maxed out my antidepressants yet, so there is hope once the extra dosage kicks in. Till then, I just want to dissolve and be gone.

And I want something I know I can't have.

Over my head

Kitten had to play therapist today. Two different callers. Clinical depression. I've been through it enough myself to know it when I hear it.

Two separate desperate people. One, a 74-year old woman, so angry and discouraged she rejects all options as not worth trying. The other, a 60-year old man (not that old any more), crying over the phone, but ready to do what I say.

Promise me. For me. What are you going to do for me? You're going to call the hospital. You'll ask about support groups. Ask about a mental health clinic. Tell them you are very, very depressed. Tell them you need help. Promise me.

They need antidepressants. Both of them. Not that I can say that. I'm not a doctor. I'm not a therapist. But I know. I've been there. The man might get some. But the woman? No. She's too far gone. Too hopeless. Wants to be dead. Won't kill herself but wants to be dead.

I know that one, too. Used to happen to me late ever fall back in Michigan. November on top of clinical depression is a nearly lethal combination, except when you are so paralyzed by autumn and/or life that you have no energy to hurt yourself. So you just wish yourself dead.

She won't kill herself. And she won't get real help. But she called me right back after I hung up the first time. I'm not a therapist. I'm not a counselor. I'm not trained. This isn't my job. But by the end of the second, long call she sounded a little calmer, she was saying nice things about me, she was grateful... it was a start.

This isn't my job. I'm not supposed to do this. But they were desperate. I can't turn my back on the clinically depressed.

A lot of people thanked me today, blessed me today, were grateful for me today. That helped.

But when I hung up from the crying man, I put my head in my hands and sobbed.

Liberation Day

Ten years ago today, give or take maybe a week or so, I climbed into a U-haul truck with my cat and my best friend and drove east, away from Michigan and an emotionally abusive marriage.

I've been aware for a while that I've been here for 10 years, and every time that milestone crosses my mind, my reaction has been "Oh? really? has it been that long?"

Until this morning. For some reason, the realization that I had been here for ten years sent me into a fragile state.

Perhaps it has something to do with the collapse of the economy. Not that it is making all that much difference in my future. I'm nearly 60 and for quite a while have already been thinking that I'll never be able to afford to retire. I'm nearly 60 and I suspect I will never be able to afford to live alone. Do you know how demeaning it is at my age to have to worry about whether my housemate will be around to hear my screams when the fiend beats me? I'm still dealing with the psychological damage inflicted by ex-hubby #2, so can you blame me for wanting him to die so I can collect my widow's benefits from Social Security? (Yup, it seems I do still get the pay-off, even though he's got a new wife, because of how long we were married. I guess there are some specks of justice in the world.)

I've been thinking a lot about my submissiveness, and realizing that I was in fact very submissive with him. Except that he wasn't holding up his end of the contract - largely, I suppose, because he wasn't aware of the contract and didn't even understand the implication of the marriage contract. Both require some measure of attentiveness to the other person. A dom can't just ignore his sub. He can for a while, but eventually the relationship won't exist any more. The interaction is key. It takes some effort to control, and there does have to be at least some form of praise every so often. So ultimately there I was, trying to do everything, trying to be pleasing, drowning in depression and Seasonal Affective Disorder (this was Michigan, after all) and being told that if I wanted to spend the winter in the Southwest I could just go.

One of my darkly favorite memories was from one late fall night when he was carrying on at me for not having balanced the check book for months. We were standing in the dining room, and I was leaning against the wall in a serious state of clinical depression. Finally I said "You're upset about my not balancing the check book, and I'm wanting to be dead!" I was safe from suicide... you need energy and some measure of a focused mind to kill yourself. But I would consciously think that if I came down with cancer again it would be ok.

So the residue of 20 bad years - on top of the self-hatred for being so weak and needy and dependent and afraid of a future on my own that I didn't escape the marriage until he decided he didn't feel like being married any more - all this toxic sludge rose up into my overly susceptible psyche today and had me feeling weepy. Not good. Not good at all.

And then I did something either really stupid or really brilliant, depending on whether you look at the act itself or the outcome. I wrote a self-indulgent message to my sadistic Svengali.

I knew right away that it was stupid. He has assigned himself a certain role in my life, and maintains a certain persona. Personally, I know that this is not all there is to him, but it is all he chooses to activate in dealing with me. So he was by no means sympathetic, and gave me a good kick in the ass. Actually, a better characterization would be a kick in the face. Followed by a writing assignment. And it worked, like in the movies where the correct response to hysteria is a slap in the face or a bucket of cold water over the head. I snapped out of it, and started scrawling all sorts of goodies in my little notebook which now just lack editing before I send them off for his amusement. You will never see them. They are his, and they contain personal details that should not be shared with the public.

However, I won't leave you empty-handed. This seems an appropriate time to post here an amusing little piece I originally wrote for the delicious blog Smart Girls Who Do It. Do check them out. It's the least I can do for them, since that one piece is the only one I've delivered since being invited to join.

The assignment was to write about one or more of the firsts in our life. Which is why I called it You never forget your first.

Climbing back out of the hole

the storm has passed
the spell has lifted
the gloom has cleared

not, i think, because of the lithium. it really did feel like an evil spell, this hormone storm, albeit probably the worst i've ever had. another one is due in 2 weeks. i'm hoping the lithium will smooth it out a bit. the last one was 2 weeks ago. and we all know what happened then.

thank you all for taking care of me. my master used to take care of me. but now he needs to focus on taking care of himself. and even so, he couldn't quite leave me to drown. he did call last weekend. he's a good man, my master, my lover, and still my best friend.

plus he knows i have all of you looking after me. people i've never met who, in some very important ways, know more about me than the very dear friends who live just a mile or so away.

of course, you have an advantage that the poor philosopher didn't have. if you can't take it for a few days you can just stay away. you know that at least one other person will be here to toss me a life-saving hug. the philosopher was on duty whether he had it in him or not. and he was here for me last weekend, despite his own struggles.

he has a lot to wrestle with now. please save some hugs for him, too.

ps - i do have a follow-up visit already scheduled. and a blood test tomorrow to check levels of all sorts of things. i've got LOTS of experience with medications. just not this one. this is the only one i've ever refused to take. until now.

pps - i worked out again today. 2nd day in a row. and today the weight loss finally showed up: another pound and a half since last week. i'm about 6-1/2 pounds lighter than when my master first met me. and my hair would be shoulder length except for how curly it is now.

ppps - and i wore pink panties again today.

watch for more sexy stuff soon!

Bedtime stories

Tell me a story.
Tell me that you've read my words and hunger for my ass.
My nipples fill your nights.
Tell me how you'd ravish me if only I were flesh and real
and not some e-mail fantasy
for lonely horny men.

Tell me a story.
Tell me you're a woman who can make me kneel and cry.
Teach me how to serve.
Tell me how you'd train me as a slave to female power and
release me from my passion for
those lonely horny men.

Tell me a story.
Tell me that you miss my wake-up murmur in your ear.
My sorrow fills the night.
Tell me that you miss my laugh and moans and talk of politics
and tell me that you want me
and that I am yours again.

Tell me that story.
True or not, I need a fairy tale to soothe the pain.
You're all I want.

Status Report - Week 2 of 9

Weight Loss: held even, which is a good thing.
Exercise: 3 days at the health club (inc today), plus last Saturday an hour and a half helping friends move. unloading the truck meant weight-bearing exercise carrying boxes and aerobic exercise going up and down stairs. somewhat mitigated by the great (and big) meal they took us all out for as a reward, but there was plenty of roughage so not all that bad.
Tears: less than last week. but still there. like a couple of hours ago.
Panties: pink. all the time.

i don't know about this lithium business. i've had 4 little white capsules by now (4 days) and should start feeling some improvement, some leveling, but from the beginning it just seems to have ... i don't know... i keep describing it as feeling submissive. which is different from how i felt more owned again after the philosopher called last Saturday. i feel a little out of it... and thirsty all the time, drinking a lot of water (required), peeing all the time from all the drinking, my head doesn't feel quite right. i could be having pms again, and i could be down from real-life issues (bad things with work). my right eye is twitching, my head hurts, and my spark has gone out. i'll jack up my regular anti-depressant and hope i can short-circuit this before it becomes full-fledged depression, but right now i feel like a pretty pathetic kitten.

i just deleted a big emotional melt-down section - exactly the sort of outburst the lithium is supposed to prevent. time to curl up in bed with a cat or two and have a good cry.

Summary: i'm still going up and down, am feeling like a failure at everything, and am rather despairing of anything coming out right. i don't do well with rejection.

kitten gets her hair stroked

he called.

first he left a message early this afternoon. was i in the shower and so didn't hear the phone? no one else calls me on the cell phone. i wouldn't have been listening for a call.

"you never told me that lithium was the way you would control your mood swings. i didn't realize it was that serious! why didn't you tell me these things?"

he sounded almost angry. the way my father would be angry when we would be sick. or like when, as a teenager, i sliced a strip of skin off the back of my thigh while shaving my legs. he forbade me to use a razor again.

he was angry, my master. but in the most wonderful way. as if i had deprived him of the ability to properly take care of me by not telling him the whole story.

but i didn't hear the message till now.
till after he called me the second time.

the cell phone rang and i knew it could only be one person.
and i knew exactly why he was calling.
i didn't write that post to get him to call.
i wrote it because i needed to.
i write everything because i need to.

but i did wonder if it would worry him.
i did wonder if he might want to call.
and he did.

(though i never spotted him in the stats this time. i wonder whose computer he read it from? sneaky master...)

so the phone rang. and he was angry the way an owner should be angry at being kept in the dark. and he was reassuring. he had done some research and seen that lithium was standard treatment and not that big a deal, just a mood stabilizer. you didn't have to be crazy psychotic to be taking it. which i suppose was to reassure himself as well as me.

he reassured me in another way. he gave me a tremendous gift. he said it was ok... what he had said... the mood swings weren't really all that bad...

and that did make me feel better.

and he said he wouldn't read here if i didn't want him to.
and i explained it made me feel better having him here.
it makes me feel that spark of connection,
a trace of the old glow inside me.
and he said it was ok that i was crying,
that he knew it was because he had called.

and i told him i had gone back to wearing pink panties.

i'm glad i've gone back to wearing pink panties.
i was wearing them when he called tonight.
they make me feel a little owned.
and his call... his call
took me back
to feeling owned.

it was the kindest thing he could have done.

i feel owned.
i feel looked after.
i feel like my head has been stroked.
i feel like i am serving him with my silence
while leaving little coded messages in
the hollow tree of the blog.

i only wish i could help him start writing again.
he hasn't been writing. and if HE wants to write,
then i want him to write. and i would do
whatever he needs to serve his desires.
not because i'm submissive
not because i'm a slave
not because he owns me
but because...

you know why, sir.
you know why.

i feel safe now.
i feel strong.
i'll be all right.

ps - that first dose - it wasn't that bad - tho i delayed for hours going to sleep to delay for hours taking the little white capsule. i took it and sobbed and sobbed and then finally fell asleep - until 11 this morning. tonight will be better. tonight i'll know you're looking after me. and eventually, it will be just one more pill.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

a little while later...

i find i am feeling much more submissive now, after he called. i don't feel cut loose any more. it's as if i know he is watching over me, reading the blog, aware how his property is doing. i feel less like an unwanted toy that has been put out on garbage day and more like a favorite toy that was too distracting and has been put in its box at the back of the closet until he has time to take me out again. true, he may still decide he is done with me. but not yet. it is NOT a case of out of sight, out of mind - because he is still keeping me in sight after all.

i might even manage a smile...

Lithium

10 days ago i proposed
a 2 month hiatus.
silence for 9 weeks.
minus 1 day.
a lot of numbers
but no words.

10 days ago i proposed 2 goals. goals that would make things easier and better for us each even if we didn't reunite at the end.

his was to work on his dissertation without the distraction of a demanding, mewling, crying slave kitten crawling around his feet and scratching at his pants leg for attention.

mine was to get my mood swings under control. which meant only 1 thing.

Lithium.

the drug has been haunting my horizon for years.

among all the other diagnoses i've had to accept over the years, this has been the hardest, even if not at all arguable. bipolar with depression. not really severely bipolar, but bipolar nevertheless. it makes sense for someone who hates to be put in a box, even as i've longed for my master to keep me in a cage. there have always been 2 sides to me, and i've always resisted being defined by one side or another.

as has been pointed out to me, the real value to the diagnosis is how i am treated to control the mood swings. i'm not the crazy kind of manic depressive, veering from grandiose schemes and wild behaviours to deep, dark, bottomless depressions.

but my father-in-law was.

and he committed suicide.

it was quite a while ago. i can't remember exactly when, i think the first attempt was in the mid-80s. that one failed. but it was horrible. i won't tell you what. but it failed. a number of years later, he didn't take any chances. he jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge.

and then-hubby #2 and i couldn't blame him. he was debilitated from the first attempt, and in such psychological pain that he couldn't go on. they had tried everything. and nothing worked. none of the medications worked. there was only one route to stopping the pain. and he took it.

they didn't have the fancy newer drugs now. i've tried some of them but had allergic reactions. others were ruled out for other reasons. the only thing left for my really pretty mild case is lithium.

and i've been refusing it for years.

because to me it's all tied up with my late father-in-law, whom i loved. an unusual man, a sensitive and wise and creative man. a rare person whom i hardly every saw because ex-hubby not only saw his parents even less often than i saw mine, but rarely spoke to them, either. he was special, my father-in-law. you couldn't help but feel it in his presence. just as you couldn't help but feel his fragility.

and he jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge.

maybe i'm afraid that by taking lithium i'm saying yes. i am truly horribly mentally ill. i have this horrible disease that drove him to kill himself.

i don't know.
i really don't know why i've resisted so hard.
all i know is that any mention of my taking it would make me cry.

like now.
like this morning at my doctor's office.

she's a very wise women, my psychopharmacologist. i admire and respect her greatly, and this is the only thing i've every totally resisted her on. until today. when the philosopher accepted my proposal of the 9 week silence, i said i would tell my doctor that i would go on lithium. she's known all along that all she had to do was wait.

and today i walked into her office and sat down and told her i was ready.
and started to cry.

she assured me all i need is a very small dose.
just to stop the bouncing up and down.
way under the normal therapeutic dose.
as if i have just a touch of bipolarity
along with my bisexuality.

i had made up my mind.
i had promised to rein in my mood swings.
so i sat there and cried and said ok.

and tonight i take the first dose.

i'm taking so little. and it's really so safe. and even so cheap. there's nothing to be afraid of except memories and connotations, nameless terrors and waterlogged ghosts.

i've resisted for years.
i've feared it for years.
but i'm doing it now.
for you, master, for
you and for us, if
there is such an us.

i'm crying and grieving for a man long dead and normality long fled and i know it will help and at least i'm facing the state of my disordered brain and taking the help of some sort of psychiatric personal organizer to get the clutter under control. looking at it that way, i suppose there's no harm in using some mild soap to clean up a little of the accumulated sludge.

i suggested the comparison of the lithium to mild sandpaper, smoothing away the rough surface. she said it wasn't even as extreme as that, especially at the dose i'll be taking. she compared it to a chamois cloth instead. now that doesn't sound so bad.

so i'll take the first dose tonight, and try not to cry too hard, and have faith that it will work.

and i'll lie there in bed, and try to conjure up the comforting stroke of his hand on my hair, and i'll try to recall the safety of his arms, and i'll listen very hard for his lilting whisper in my ear...

don't cry, kitten...
don't cry...
there's nothing to be afraid of.
everything will be all right.

meanderings

he didn't sleep well last night. at 4:30 in the morning he was up reading our blog. i'm sorry he didn't sleep well. he needs to sleep. i want him to get work done so he'll feel good about himself.

i'm afraid he'll start thinking he can't do anything right. not his career. not relationships. i can't speak to his career, but the relationship? grad school is hell on relationships. everyone knows that. but it's not a guaranteed killer.

i think he doesn't believe in me. he doesn't believe that i feel the things i say i do. he doesn't believe it's that good for me, he doesn't believe in that glowing ember i carry inside me. he doesn't believe it's that good even when i don't see him. and i wonder if he doesn't believe in himself, and that he could really make me feel that way. so obviously i'm delusional. on top of being afflicted by a 2-week hormonal cycle.

he's right that he was cowardly about not making clear how little visiting he could handle. it would have been hard. but it would have been easier. i've learned a lot about myself, exploring my submission. i do well when clear limits are set for me. i do well when i know where the edges of my cell are. i do well when i can feel the collar tight around my neck and the chains restraining me if i try to go past my boundaries. i wouldn't do well with one of those invisible fences. and i need to be scolded and beaten when i disobey. or when i complained. or when i had weepy tantrums. perhaps he felt too guilty to be that hard on me. i don't know. but i think if we could manage to go forward, that would be the way to do it.

it's odd, writing like this. it's not quite like before, when there wer some posts that i was writing directly for him and you all were just eavesdropping. now it's almost as if he's the one who is eavesdropping, hiding behind the tree as i speak. and i know he might be there. so yes, i've lost some freedom. i probably won't rant about some things i might have otherwise. i do want to protect his privacy, even though none of you have met him and only 2 of you have met me.

but i don't mind that he's reading. i feel better. less isolated. nash made a comment that it was sadistic of him to read after i'd asked him not to and he'd agreed. but i feel it as a gift. i know im on his mind, WE are on his mind, he hasn't just been able to turn it off. i feel that connection again, even just a little. and that makes me feel safer. no matter what happens.

meanwhile, i'm sleeping again. i'm still eating a lot less, but at least i'm eating fairly healthfully. i've lost weight. i'm a good 4 pounds less than when he first met me. i went back to the health club. i was horribly depressed, and they always say that exercising is good for depression, it produces all those endorphins - just like a good caning but without the welts - and endorphins are good for depression. i hadn't been in ages. now i've gone 3 days in a row. yeah, it doesn't sound like much, but for me that's pretty good. so i'm losing weight and starting to be able to hold my stomach in. and my hair is still growing.

and i'm not crying as much...

- - - - -

what are you wearing, kitten?

pink panties, sir...
pink panties and shorts
and a sleeveless purple top
and no bra so my nipples stick out.
i had stopped wearing pink panties.
i couldn't bear to.
i put them all away in the little square drawer
along with the white apron
and the nipple bells
and the 2 leashes
(because we each had bought one)
and the pink dog collar
and the choke chain that you
carried in your pocket for
days after you bought it.
but then i knew you'd been here
and then i felt you closer
and then it felt ok.
so i wore pink panties today.
and after i exercised
and after i showered
i regarded the drawer full of panties
and picked out some pink ones again.
but not the cute ones, sir.
i can't manage the cute ones.
but the pink ones made me smile
almost as much
as hearing the order
to wear none at all.

sleep well tonight, master.
please sleep well.
but if not, if you just can't.
you're always welcome here.
this blog is your home, too.
the door is always open
and i check our private e-mail
and the phone is always on.

Solitary confinement

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Waiting for the callus to form

or is it callous?
same difference.
a hardening.
i need to harden.
right now i just hurt.

last night, i didn't really cry.
i was being strong, focused.
i was into the plan which was
my idea, anyway.

why do i keep having these ideas?
why can't i recognize a lost cause when i see him?

last night i didn't cry.
today
today i cried.

i cried when i read mamacrow's
words. i painted a good picture didn't i?
"so secure, so joyful, so selfassured in the
love
you
and he
share."

did we?
did we share it?

i cried when the radio said it was 9 o'clock
and i wasn't making my wake-up call.
did he miss me then?

i cried when i opened my e-mail at work
and saw the
wake-up call reminder.

i cried when i deleted
"the entire occurrence".
he said he'd buy himself an alarm clock.
did he miss me?

there was no sleepy
"good morning, kitten"
caressing my ear.
i missed him, anyway.
i missed
him.

i didn't cry when i chose
which pink panties to wear.
but i struggled.
i rejected the cute ones.
i couldn't bear the sight of the cute ones.
i am no longer a cute kitten.
we are no longer a cute couple.

i didn't cry over the choice of earrings.
i struggled.
i picked the ones i call my
slave kitten earrings.
i picked them out of defiance.
but it feels strange to wear them.

i was grateful to be at work.
it kept me from crying all day.
i could have cried all day.

i hope he didn't sleep last night.
i hope he won't sleep tonight.
i hope he couldn't work all day.

can i care about me for now?
just about me?
will someone care about me?

my whole life i've never been loved.
not really.
why should i have thought i might be now?

he said:
I can't blame you for being lonely.
There's just nothing I can do about it.
You need to find someone who can.

right. i'll go to the boyfriend store.
the True Love Department.
i'm 59 years old.
even if i look to be 40 or so.
and he?
the new eligible bachelor come to town.

but he's right.
i've been defending him
i've been protecting him.
but no more.
watch this space
i'll haul out the skeletons.
he's not reading here.
i don't have to worry about hurting him

why should i worry about hurting him?

9 weeks.
9 weeks of silence.
and by the end...
will i hate him by the end?
will i be able to hate him?

i'm watching So You Think You Can Dance.
and it's making me cry.