The journey

From time to time, I worry that the casual reader here may be left with the feeling that submission is a state that came easily to me and that over time, I have had no doubts that the road I was on was the right road for me. That is just not true. At times, I have had serious misgivings about my desire to submit. My husband has wondered what was going on with me. Deliriously happy one day, angry the next, he was having trouble keeping up with me.

When one is going through a transition in life, or a crisis, there is often a particular process. Psychologists can warn us to expect to feel denial, anger, sadness, and ultimately acceptance, or whatever the emotions of that particular situation. With submission, the process seems to be much less well defined. The dominant man or top can have little way of knowing if his girl will respond negatively or positively to a situation until it actually happens. His aim may have been to turn her on; thrill and delight her. Instead, he may find himself with a girl sobbing her heart out. He really has to be prepared for all eventualities; to change direction at the drop of a hat if things don’t go the way he expected.

Over time, those swings of emotion, back and forth, have become less dramatic for me. Sometimes, I try to plot the journey I have been on; to establish for myself why things should be so much easier for me now. I still fall off my ‘good girl’ perch at times, but the fall is not as far and the time and energy it takes to climb back up there again is much less.

There were opportunities along the way to reconsider my decision. I’d reacted poorly to something and the question was asked if this was really what I wanted. I certainly didn’t know if I would ultimately succeed, if I could succeed, or even if I should succeed. What I did know, no matter when that question was asked, was that I wanted to succeed. It was never a question of will for me. I knew what I wanted all along, every step of the way. My emotions were like riding a rollercoaster but my will to succeed stayed firmly planted on the ground. I knew in my bones, somehow, that submission was right for me.

At times, this ‘knowing’ lacked all reason. At the same time as I would be miserable about something, or unable to obey, I would still insist that I wanted to keep trying. In my mind, I think what I felt was that there were such sublime times to be had at the end of the journey; that if I kept moving down the track, somewhere around the next bend, I might catch a glimpse of the rainbow.

Many times, I felt that my dominant would give up on me. Surely, I felt, no woman in the history of D/s relationships had ever been this much trouble. Surely, no wife had ever given her husband so much cause for concern when giving her what she told him she so fervently wanted.

Finally, a few months ago, at his wit’s end, my husband felt he had no choice but to bring out ‘the big guns’. He needed to draw a line in the sand and have me decide for myself, once and for all, if I was prepared to embrace my submissive nature. He withdrew his dominance of me. He asked nothing of me, over and above the normal routines and tasks of my life. He stopped spanking me or providing corrections. There were no rules or rituals over and above those of our regular vanilla lives. I should take all the time I needed to mull this over.

With the taste of freedom in my mouth, I choked. This was horrible. If this was freedom, I wanted no part of it. I felt that my supports had been taken away; that a life lived with only the taste of vanilla wasn’t living at all. I was going through the motions of living, but I didn’t feel alive.

This sense of things was relayed but not entirely accepted. I should write it all down. What had gone wrong, and why? What did I want? How did I feel? What did the future look like to me? I wrote it all down, carefully and completely, and whilst my writings were acknowledged, no response was immediately given. It was crystal clear to me, but in true dominant style, my husband took his own sweet time to ‘blow his whistle’ declaring the opening kick of the game. When he finally told me that he accepted my explanation and my declaration of resolve to be a better girl, I felt relief and a strong sense of commitment.

“I won’t ever do it again” may be the words of all girls in compromising situations who wish the discipline to be over, but I meant it. I couldn’t guarantee to never disappoint again, but I could assure that calling it off was not going to happen again. My time without a dominant had been tough and I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that if there was a problem, next time I would ask to sit down and discuss it. I wouldn’t blow my top and call it off again. I discovered it was not only *I* that could walk away. The dominant could also release himself from the burden of me. Perhaps, he didn’t like that time any more than I did, but nonetheless, to make his point, he was prepared to stop dominating.

Have I become the perfect submissive? No, not yet. My husband can still test my patience and my equilibrium. A relationship built over decades is a complicated thing and he needs me to exhibit strength when his frustration overflows. His perfectionism means that I must endure long periods of time without his attentions and his tendency to allow his temper to flare means that I must not be overly sensitive. This challenges me to the core.

Yet, I know to the depths of my heart that he means well, that he cares for me as deeply as any man can, and that he is giving me as much of himself as he can, at this time in his life. My submission to him gives me the structure and the stability to overcome the difficulties and to know, that if I wait patiently enough, he will come to me and make me whole again. He will feed me with his dominant care and fill me with a life force that will make my heart sing again.

The English Gentleman once said to me that my greatest difficulty would be finding the patience required to submit. At the time, I wondered, if that were the case, what a slim chance of success I had! For me, exhibiting patience will never be easy. Finally, however, I think I’ve found adequate patience to accept that submission is not just about the good times, but rather, about living my life on my terms. I have the nature of a submissive woman, and even when alone or lonely, my submission lives in me and nurtures me. As I turn the corner, I see the path widen and open up, and in the distance is a stunning rainbow of colour. I gasp. I think my journey may be nearly complete.