Objectification, again

There's a lot of material on this blog about objectification and much of it is positive. It's positive because in so many of my experiences where I am a 'doll' or a 'bimbo' or an 'object' or just 'it', it is so incredibly freeing. I love having my mind vacated and my body responds so enthusiastically to that sort of play.

For quite some time, many times, there was a feeling of being deeply connected to another person, a wonderful feeling of being intertwined in the play, because of the play. Trust is such an integral part of the play where objectification is involved and if the trust is there, that's very connecting, and soul sharing.

If my body wasn't responding to the play, just the mind, though I don't think that's technically possible, it would almost be enough. At its best, the sense of joy that floods the mind is its own reward. The facts are that the play was/is deeply arousing to the body, and much of the 'feel good' sensations come from that too. It's such a mind/body experience that it is hard to separate them into categories.

To be clear, for me it's about the Top wanting me to have that connecting and pleasurable experience as much as he wants to feel the sexual turn on and the connection himself. I operated on this understanding of the play for some time, in an intuitive sense, without spelling it out, even for myself.

I used to wonder a long time ago if I had a 'slave' soul. But, I don't. I don't have a slave soul, not at all. I've noticed for some time now, though I didn't have the words I have today to express the awareness, that if I am in fact treated like an object or a fuck toy, and it becomes very clear to me that my feelings and my pleasure have nothing to do with the event, I am thrown into a pit of despair that I don't crawl out of for some time.

Oh, I can camouflage those feelings of emptiness and disconnection. I can go about my life such that you won't notice much, or any, difference in my words, my tone, my behavior or my pleasure in life. I've become so able to live in the moment, to categorize the confusion and upset in a particular place where the day is hardly effected and the relationship is not affected in a veneer sense. Even if the sex wasn't right for me, harmful to me, I can find a sense of gratitude in many other moments in my life.

However, I become skittish, you see, about wanting to interact in a sexual way any time soon. It's such a dark place I go internally when I feel that I have been used as an object purely for the other's gratification, or pleasure or sense of power, or whatever the heck it is that motivates this behavior, that I will just about walk over broken glass to avoid any such similar interaction. It absolutely does not work for me if I don't feel a sense of generosity.

It is said that those with narcissistic behaviors aren't so good at thinking about the 'we' in sex; that they can view their partners as objects that satisfy their needs. In fact, rather than more sex bringing the two partners together in the case of sex with a narcissistic bent, it can cause further separation. When I read this research finding, it made complete sense to me.

What I think is important if the kink tends towards objectification play is that both people understand what lies behind the motivation for such play. Kink is kink and person specific, but in kinky play the motivation should be for greater connection for both players. If it isn't achieving that outcome, then it's just not working as it should. No kinky play is probably a much better outcome than doing it in a way where one partner causes emotional harm and disconnection. Whether that makes sense to a person who does not see sex in the 'we' sense, is the debatable question.

I want to add that I am not just talking about kinky play here. Any lover who is inclined to take his pleasure rather often without concern for the partner's feelings and body state will cause disconnection in the partnership. Those who are divorced may well be able to speak to this.

Lessons of the past year

For many years, forever, there has been a fantasy running through my head; that there would be a man in my life who would instinctively and completely understand my need to fall under his wing in every way.

The roles in this fantasy have always been well defined and in order to hone down into that space the fantasies are often a little cruel, when in fact the role I play for him, and him for me, is anything but that; deeply loving, caring, sharing; adored and adoring. I think when we are young there is a sense of wide open space and infinite possibilities that allow for such a fantasy in a young girl's mind and for decades it refused to die. It not only survives, it thrives, even though I am in my sixties now.

It's no co-incidence that I took special note of the story of Jane Eyre as a child. Loving Mr Rochester and him loving her back was molded into the roles they played for one another. I remember feeling at great peace for Jane in the final scene, and deep peace within myself as she sat on the ground right by him, him on the seat patting her head (at least that is the way I remember the scene). It's romantic love that I attuned to even back then but also the themes of maturity versus youth, femininity versus masculinity, leader versus follower. Which is not to say that Jane didn't have a wisdom or an innate understanding of Mr Rochester that she brought to the table. I've always thought of Jane as instinctively attuned to Mr Rochester; his ways, his needs.

It's very hard to let go of such an enduring fantasy and for many years I tended to have a thought at the back of my mind -  if I can't have it all, then I'll do without. But, that thought broke down many times over as I came to see that I was attempting to annihilate out of my life my innate self. The kinky mind has been with me for longer than most of the people reading this has been alive. It's an enduring, soothing thought. It's an important part of my sexuality. It is my sexuality.

As a Caretaker type, meaning a person who can put others needs ahead of their own needs, self-care was a foreign thought.  I said recently to a small group of people - maybe 12 of us, a very safe small group - that it was only very recently, perhaps  the past twelve months or a little longer, that I have understood what self-love even meant. It's been a huge year of self discovery in that sense.

The most important lesson of the year has been that I can't wait for and shouldn't expect 'Mr Rochester' to save me; to tend to me; to lovingly dominate me. Wonderful when it comes along, but silly to wait; to pine for, to wish, to feel resentment and sorrow when there is that lack in my life.

It's a commitment to giving up the victim role, the persecutor role and the savior role. It's akin to saying 'It is what it is' and 'We are as we are'. It's looking at the situation and seeing if there is a new way to resolve the fact that we are in fact very different people; neither better or worse, good or bad; just people whose attention is drawn towards different areas of life. It's recognizing we are equals, with strengths and weaknesses, and seeing if we can accommodate that individuality within a more fun paradigm that includes both of us being fulfilled.

We are as we are, all of us, and there are measures I can take to soothe myself when his attention is steered in another direction; to feel whole; to connect in with my intrinsic self. It's not ideal; not really at all like the fantasy that has endured my whole life, but nonetheless it feels right to care for myself as best I can; to have no specific expectations. This leaves room, I anticipate, for experiences that will satisfy within certain scenarios.

Gratitude is so important in life and I have so much to be grateful for.  I think as we age we develop some wisdom about that. A new home, a new baby, a new dress are all wonderfully exciting things in life in the moment, but so too is a great cup of coffee, the moment when the rose blooms, a cool evening breeze after a hot day, the touch of lips meeting lips; the wagging tail of a dog. There are sweetnesses in life every day if we are attuned to them.

Someone I have come to know was having lunch with Ram Dass one day (what a fantasy that is!) many years ago when she said to him, 'Well, it looks like I won't be having children'. He more or less waved her off. 'Well, there's always something we want we don't get,' he said.  Or, words like that.

This stunned her a bit. It wasn't a small thing she wasn't getting, after all. And yet, she took the point. It's the human condition to have to suffer the loss, or never to have at all, that which we covet. Ask anyone and there will be something in this life desperately wanted but not got - a loving mother, the respect of a father, the admiration of a child, to be an actress or a painter, to work, to not work, to love, to be loved, to have a mentor, to be in print. We all have our thing.

I recently read a quote of Brene Brown. 'Joy, collected over time, fuels resilience.' Like a habit of mind, when we go in search for joy, we collect it in abundance, and this builds resilience for the disappointments and sorrows in life.

As this year comes to an end I feel proud of lessons learned: a willingness and ability to take care of myself, when and if I must; pockets full of joy; resilience; promise that tomorrow will take care of itself.

Silliness

It would be reasonable to expect that on a meditation retreat there would be opportunities for disclosure of difficult thoughts and yet there was really only one conversation where I revealed myself a little or where anyone else dug below the surface.

We were asked to work in pairs on the final morning for a few minutes, each taking turns to talk about any shifts or revelations that had occurred over the week.

I happened to be seated next to David, a very pleasant man around my age who had been open about his thoughts on a number of subjects over the course of the week. When it came to compassion or unconditional love or forgiveness he wasn't of a mind to include psychopaths. No matter what the teacher offered to convince him that all people must be included David held strongly to the view that if you act inhumanely that makes you something other than human and hence not worthy of his forgiveness or compassion. I knew David would listen to me intently but I also knew he wouldn't hold back on his assessment of my words.

I told him I had always operated primarily in my heart space, not my mind space. I had a strong tendency to please, to keep the peace, and to live peacefully. Yet, assessment of my life made clear to me that still some more changes had to be made. Developing a sense of self love this year, I had determined I needed to "give myself permission" to open the gate and walk through to a world where my needs were heard and given some allocation, either by myself or others in my life."

When talking to someone I think there is a tendency to hold closely to the words. I noticed there was a bit of tendency for David to see himself as one up. It wasn't overt. He was polite and kind. Still, I felt one down and I don't always feel that way, hardly ever feel this way in conversation with people other than my husband.

Then, there's the matter of expression in ways other than words. I smile a lot and I giggle a great deal. I tend to offer the other person joy, because that is what I have to offer. I tend to see the quirky side of the world and I tend to have an irreverent Irish sort of humor. It's hard for me to be around people who don't smile much. David doesn't smile. Nor does a girl my age who was there who I had known all my life. It was my friend who pointed this out to me.

It's a strange sort of an observation, a bit unsettling. Here I am with this desire to have my silliness bubble up and find expression and yet I have been married to a serious person all my life. I'm not sure that has been good for me, not allowing my quirky, silly sense of humor to seek the sunshine as often as would be natural to me.

It's interesting to note that when I get with my brother we tend to collapse into laughter at the drop of a hat. We each make other laugh a lot. My mother makes people laugh all the time. Even the day before he died my Dad had the staff of the hospital smiling. 'I'm in more trouble than a pregnant nun,' he said.

Both my youngest sons have the loveliest sense of humors and many times a week they share jokes with me, U tube clips, comedians, silliness. My eldest son is a little different. It's not a daily thing for him but when he lets his hair down he is the silliest of us all.

There are numerous elements to my bimbo identity. There's the undeniable pleasure. Then, there's the arousal response, the letting go response, the satiation of my innate personality; the seeking of joy and total relaxation.

Then, there is the silliness. Before my daughter married earlier this year the happy couple got together with the marriage celebrant and she listened to them talk. At the service she said that my son in law is dependable, rational and reliable; her rock. That's definitely true. She is soft and creative and silly. That's right too. They are polar opposites and he loves that she is silly, that she is creative; emotional where he is rational. They both were attracted to what they did not see in themselves.

I think going forward I need to acknowledge more my own quirky way of operating in the world. I am capable of immense joy. I am so lucky in this way. I can feel intense happiness, peacefulness and love. My cup can runneth over. I need more of that; much more silliness. I need to allow myself expression of my natural delight in being alive. This is an important element of my authentic self.

Mind/body reading

In the process of helping out a friend I recently volunteered to have my body 'read' to aid a student of mind/body practice. In the course of doing so it was determined that although I have an open 'third eye' and a particularly loving and giving heart - that is to say not all the chakras are blocked -  I have considerable pain stored in my body. Fundamentally, I hide from the world, so the student said.

Whether we are speaking symbolically or literally, I related to the message. I certainly didn't, nor couldn't refute her words. I grew up on the top floor of my parents' business, which they worked seven days a week. They were devoted to the business and to their marriage, so being hid away, out of sight and mind of men who went there to 'drown their sorrows' was central to my life.

This childhood of mine together with being born with a quiet, contemplative disposition was a complete mismatch. I needed nurturing, to be integrated with my parents before I could go out into the world to feel safe. Unfortunately, that didn't happen.

It was decided on the day of the reading that my intuition was high, an openness to new ideas apparent, but that this wisdom could be impeded by intellect. This is rather interesting to me since I am quite happy to become 'lost' in academia at the same time as I believe my value and truth is best explored through story - exploring the universality of being human on this earth, together with the specificity of character.

Also, if someone has been through the rigors of academic training the openness of ideas can only go so far before the mind springs back and asks about a person's qualifications to make certain statements. I will ultimately seek some sort of evidence; use my rational thinking mind to make an assessment about an alternative therapy.

In fact, I am by far the most joyous when I dance. My body craves rhythmic movement. There was no mention of this sort of thing, that this body that they were analyzing to death actually would have loved to move to the music in the background. I guess they were looking for the problems to fix. It's important to remember this when offered a therapy. We are all made up of attributes and deficits and a practitioner, almost by definition, will focus on the 'problem'.

Generalizations are not easy and there are always exceptions to a rule. Generally speaking, writers, particularly of fiction, hide away. That's what they do. Alone, they commune with the world through the process of writing about the world, based on their observations. They watch. They listen. They write. Apparently, I'm a watcher. No surprises there. In fact there were no surprises anywhere. I had to admit that the observations made of my body did line up for me, in one way or another. It was how the observations might be interpreted that was at issue.

I was labelled a 'submissive', not by the student who wouldn't have known that terminology but by the teacher of the student. I wasn't happy with the inference because it implied that in some way I wasn't being honest, part of the hiding. It also implied that I was not being my true self.

It's not straightforward because these sorts of people who bunker down into their modality of choice seem to suggest that there are choices when there are not necessarily choices at all. I didn't bother to say that to him exactly. I did say, 'Well, when you live with someone who insists on the dominant role, what other role is there?' I said it, not really in an open way, but in a 'let's deal with reality here, shall we?' way because two people can be sarcastic. I'm not the pushover he thinks I am.

The pushover thing, that was brought up too. My nose spoke to them, that there is a fire underneath the quiet disposition. Go too far and you'll meet my ire.That is not news to me either.

This 'combat' between the teacher and myself, some sort of effort to get me to react, was compounded in a physical way, a very strange minute. There was some doubt as to what to call my pelvis, a slightly 'tilting' pelvis perhaps. The string came out to better make that judgment until the teacher decided that the best way was to press on my pelvis. He did so, not in a careful doctor/nurse kind of way but with such force that I was in considerable pain and discomfort. An angry red weal formed on my skin. It still hurts as I write this in the middle of the night. Why did he do that?

Some of the material they wrote in their conclusions, I had offered to them, and they concurred. I told them that I had only recently played with the notion of self-love and was working on generating those feelings in myself. I was working on being a separate person, not enmeshed, not responsible for the decisions made without my input and with any desire for my input. Though, I was angry about that, the lack of input and I said that, but in a controlled way. I decided to remain controlled in a day of stupidity really.

In fact at times I actually chose to disassociate from what was happening to me. I chose not to listen as they said confronting things about me as if I wasn't there. I only really got angry when I left. I said my goodbyes hastily and rushed for my getaway car only to find the garage locked. Back in again to get the code and as the gates slowly drew open the thought of leaving prison entered my mind, how that's how it must feel, free from the clutches of people who could taunt and taint you.

I felt stuck, they concluded, not an unreasonable conclusion. I have a need for safety and that feeling hasn't been available to me for some time, and yet is leaving this place a safer place? To their credit there was no suggestion of this sort of thing, no attempt was made to 'solve' my dilemma outside of certain recommendations that related to deep tissue work and emotional release work to get at the locked emotional pain in my body.

As I sit here I ask of myself, 'are there negative emotions' stuck in the body?  I feel it in my throat quite regularly now and I could release it onto my mother but I don't and I won't. The constriction in my throat troubles me but it's not trapped either. It's just sitting there under the banner of 'frustration'. I see it for what it is. I work with it. I talk about it even but not to the person in question, that's all. That's reasonable, since she couldn't cope with any dissent or suggestion that her behavior hasn't been good enough.

In thinking more about this, that feeling in my throat, the constriction which they identified as 'soft tissue' also relates to my understanding over time that only intensified as we aged, that any idea I expressed to my husband would receive an immediate response. That is to say, his strong tendency towards verbal impulsivity meant that conversations could often be compromised. In the past few months, I had, I admit, given up trying.

I think my truth, something they seem to think I am keeping hidden, might actually be twofold. I'm a person trying to break free of the past, coming to terms with my past and unmet needs. I'm a person trying to break free of roles designated, putting other peoples' needs ahead of my own, such that it looks like I have no needs. I want my needs to be taken seriously. I want to feel nurtured in the same way that I have nurtured.

However, and this is the twofold aspect, there can be no doubt and there is no doubt in my own mind, that I revel in the submissive/feminine role. I feel most instinctively and naturally joyous when my heart, mind and nature is free to be me. I feel more naturally me in a dress or skirt, soft, light, free, content. This sense of abundance is felt in the submissive frame of mind which means, as I search for words that explain this feeling, that there is a dominant presence somewhere in my life, if only on the periphery.

There is the case for someone who is responsible or protective being identified as a dominant presence, but this isn't exactly what I mean. I acknowledge that no-one is rational all the time, or reasonable all the time, or even available or nurturing more than occasionally, due to their own needs and demands, or preoccupations. I take this into allowance because I must. But, acting dominant - responsible and protective - is not the quality that allows me a sense of freedom leading to a sense of submissive joy. A lawyer could be responsible and protective, or a doctor. There must be more.

To feel happy and content I need to feel safe. To feel safe, there must be calm, some element of steadiness as well as some acknowledgement of my presence. The truth is that if left to my own devices I would create the environment for myself and the life that felt most innately, creatively and aesthetically pleasing for myself and my loved ones. I really could do a better job of this than anyone else that I know. That I don't do this speaks to my submissive nature wherein I continue to allow sub-optimal outcomes to please other people's sensibilities above my own.

When I was in my late teens I was working as a part time waitress when a couple approached the Menu written on a blackboard. He was attentive to her, touching her and smiling at her. I thought, 'That's what I want, that attention and interest in my pleasure. I want to feel cherished.'

It's not having the spotlight on me, or needing someone to be there endlessly. Introverts don't want anyone there all the time. They feel they can't breathe when that happens. But, they do need regular little reminders of their worth. They do need to allow their light side to be given freedom to play; to levitate even. When the world is relatively calm such there is a sense of safety in this way, the path is cut for entry into the submissive space where I can glow on even the gloomiest day. All the body reading in the world won't pick up that subtle truth of mine. I'm not going to waste my time trying to explain to them what they don't want to learn. You on the other hand might just get it.

A joyous New Year

On the morning of the last day of the year, I'm reflecting a little on this year about to end. It was a relatively quiet year for me with few major highlights. My personal highlight was my time at the retreat in New Zealand. I am so happy I took that risk and flew my wings.

On a relationship level, my mind immediately flew back to a morning in the country, mid-winter. My husband and I had rented a darling little cottage. He asked me what toys I had brought along and I told him of a ripple-y butt plug. He asked me to produce it and he had me lay on my side as he put it into position.

He told me later that the transformation had been immediate; something that he would not have believed possible if he had not seen it with his own eyes. One minute I was a girl and the next I was a toy; soft, compliant, suggestible; hungry.

There is little point in dismissing the life blood of this toy inside the girl. She's hardly a fabrication of my imagination when she rises up and is visible to others.

When this toy gets an opportunity to be fully alive, it's a wonderful time for those in her company as well. There's something about her presence that makes me, and my husband, abundantly filled with joy. I'm younger, more carefree, and what's exciting is that those benefits don't last for a minute or an hour, or two, but for days and days. Here I am writing about a morning in early June, six months ago now, feeling all the delight again of remembering the time of "simply letting go".

I listen to a CD regularly where the man talks about this: "simply letting go". "More and more" he will say in a voice that lulls one further into the trance-like state. "Deeper and deeper", he will say, and a little smile is formed because I wait for that phrase, softening a little more each time he says it throughout the meditation.

The toy (aka bimbo or cindi) and a spiritual state became blended in my mind quite some time ago. I give in to both experiences and I benefit from both experiences. In the main, I need some guidance to get to both states, but I can go solo, if necessary. I can meditate alone and that's good; beneficial, always. But the meditation in a group has a quality that I can't find in meditating alone. So it is with the toy. I can take measures to sink into the toy state; a more, mellow mind. However, it is only with the guidance of a 'top' that bimbo can really come alive. She needs someone to guide her, to play with her; to provide her with experiences that she can't provide herself.

I have a number of goals for the coming year, but none is really more important than seeing to it that the toy has more time to call it's own. She's sweet. She's giving. She's loving. Okay, she's slutty. But, her joy is infectious. More joy. That seems a perfectly acceptable new year resolution, I think.

Wishing you a joyous New Year.

Update

I thought it was time that I recorded something in this journal. Frankly, it can feel so self-indulgent, all those 'I' statements that one inevitably writes in a journal such as this one. There are three already! It was my husband that asked about the journal and it was his thought that writing again here wasn't a bad thing. I really didn't think he read here. One never knows.

It's been about a month since I wrote and somewhere in there I drifted into a sort of 'depression'. I'd noticed that my mind was chattering away at such a constant and demanding rate that I took the positive step of buying a book about depression, How to lift depression [...fast]. I find it a wonderful aid and I've been working my way through it marking it up so that I can remind myself of the messages whenever I need to do that.

The primary message of the book is that 'depression is always secondary to another problem'. The authors speak in detail of the 'human givens', those elements that all human beings must have  in their lives, and they encourage the reader to do an audit of their lives. First, a depressed person must be calmed and whilst there are various techniques for this I find focusing on the breath in a 5/9 pattern works wonderfully well. So, I inhale to the count of five and exhale to the count of nine.

I was aware before buying the book that I had developed a sleep issue. I was waking far too early in the mornings regardless of when I went to bed and I was aware I was dreaming; lots and lots of mental activity going on in my sleep. The authors explained that a depressed person who inevitably ruminates on issues during the day, deeply in an emotional state and not a rational one, has disrupted sleeping patterns, specifically related to REM dreaming.

If someone dreams excessively to work through the day's upsetting thoughts, they can wake up exhausted. Such people may wake early and find they can't get back to sleep because 'their brains are unable to 'take' any more emotional discharge by dreaming'. This made complete sense to me. I had suspected this. After reading the book, one morning I used the 5/9 pattern and managed to get back to sleep and stay asleep for a couple of hours. Hallelujah, it was working!

The audit of my life is something that I am in the process of doing. I'm in a transitional period of my life and some tweaking of my life and how I live it needs to considered. I might work a couple of days a week, or volunteer for an organisation weekly, or something else new. I might take myself to the library for several long stints of writing each week to make progress on my writing project. Getting the next stage of my life sorted to my satisfaction is a work in progress, but it's not what had me thinking dark thoughts.

One of the human givens is 'volition: a sense of autonomy and control over our lives'. Really, all my married life I've not had that much autonomy. Once I started having babies my husband was happy for me to be with the children and he took virtually full control of our finances. He decided if we went on vacation or did up a home or what we invested in. Yes, I have made suggestions and he's not unsupportive of my suggestions, depending on whether or not he feels that he can manage something. He's generous when he feels that he can be generous.

The situation has often demanded that I display a good deal of patience and I think this is when the lack of autonomy has been felt the most. I'm so much more someone who would prefer to stay away from high risk, whereas high risk is his game. Just lately we talked about this in a very honest way and he listened to me and said that he had been thinking along similar lines, to break down the risk by taking a particular action.There are not my decisions, but he is doing something soon that will enable me to feel much more comfortable. I already feel more comfortable knowing that this is in the pipeline.

I suddenly realized, having re-read what I have written so far that it is so important that I explain that I am not the sort of depressed person that can't get out of bed, or go to the gym or the theatre, or for a walk, or make a meal, or see friends, or visit my mother. I am fully engaged with life whilst at the same time knowing within myself that I am not operating at full speed. My batteries are still operational but delicate, as if at short notice they won't work for a time, and then they do again. I can still enjoy a film, a piece of music, a passage from a book, the birds singing, a conversation, cooking, writing, the light when the sun hits the trees in a certain way in the morning, dressing up, a meal; the business of living. I really do love life and all that it has to offer but I hate my mind when it won't leave me be.

This morning I had an urge to wear pink and realising that I didn't have a lipstick pink anything, went in search of such an item on the Internet. The exact colour I want to wear was not to be found but I shall keep my eye out for it. Depressed people probably aren't nearly so concerned about finding the perfect pink top or dress. I suspect not. It's not that I don't have happy thoughts but simply that I have too many thoughts and some of them aren't that pretty. That's what upsets me, that I can't control that.

Returning to the 'human givens' one such vital category is 'attention: receiving it from others but also giving it.' From a few comments my husband has been making lately it is clear that I don't give him enough attention. In the foggy thinking that makes up depression, that tendency to say 'woe is me', I'd forgotten that he needs to receive attention just as much as I need to receive attention. Four children later, all adults now, he wants his share. I've been remiss here. I really have. Intent on service of a dominant kind I've been a taker more than a giver. I dropped the ball when it comes to pleasing him and making this right has been a great aid in bringing us closer and in getting that chattering mind of mine to take a hike. I can explain this further some other time for this post is already long.

Griffin and Tyrrell write 'What helps is getting the depressed person to stop worrying and get their basic physical and emotional needs met, stop brain exhaustion and rebuild their energy levels and self confidence. We call this the human givens approach to therapy'. They are convinced that depression is not a biological illness and I agree. They believe however that 'there is a biological element to depression' and that depressed people have low levels of serotonin, a consequence of depression.

It is now 10 years since I asked my husband to spank me for the first time. I have come to know myself well such that I know what can give me an enormous boost; make my life feel that I have abundant riches. Taking me into that realm such that I can be a sexual slut is unbelievably enriching, though slightly scary since once bimbocindi is out of the box it's hard to put her back in for some time. There's a greedy, slutti, demanding, voracious side to her, and a childlike, stamp her foot side too. 'I want...' she can ultimately demand when thoroughly discombobulated (though never in scene) when she doesn't get her way, sounding more desperate than she cares to admit. It's embarrassing, truly embarrassing to see her like this. I am not always especially impressed to know her and yet she is a part of me.

In all my experiences in the past ten years it remains the case that to be beaten is the most uplifting of all experiences. To get to that total sexual surrender such as I did on Saturday is gorgeous, but the next day when my husband bent me over and spanked me as he wanted, it put me into a tail spin. I wanted the serotonin (or whatever it is ) that is released after a proper beating. I desperately wanted that, not anything else. I wanted to walk on air. I wanted my drug. I wanted to be satiated such that I no longer wanted.

This is the sort of attention that I want, and need. Yes, I need it. I need to be tied up, tight; a gag in my mouth. No way out. And then, over a period of time, beginning with a warm up, beaten harder and faster, until I am absolutely spent. Then, the serotonin kicks in. My love for him explodes. My world is set right. I am deliriously happy. (Footnote: Re-reading this I've not made mention of the other way to get serotonin in my life, a daily kinky ritual that went somewhat unattended during the depressive cycle and is likely the culprit as well, but that's another story for another day.)

My intellect tells me that to get someone to do something you want them to do it is necessary to make it appealing for them. Of course, some people have a predilection to spank as much as some people like me have a predilection to want to be spanked. Failing that, how does one get to a point where it is a desire on both parts for this interaction? I have no definite answer, but possibly it is part and parcel of him seeing me happy immediately afterwards and for days later. Since it rarely happens in a comprehensive way, how can I entice him to partake, not just this time, but in a more regular way? This is what I am working on and thinking about. 

Does this mean that I have an obsession? Sure. Of course it's an obsession. A need. It's addictive. But, it's not like heroine or some other drug. I've never taken a drug in my life, so I'm surmising a bit here, but the point is that kinky happenings won't kill me.  To be restrained and to receive adequate sensory stimulation is my medicine.

We're talking about this which is a good thing, better than not talking. Perhaps he will read about my feelings here too. God knows I don't go to the rack willingly. You do know these sorts of beatings hurt like hell, right? But, the fact remains I need it. I really do think that if I could just be taken to the rack in a somewhat consistent way, with full understanding of the enormous benefits of this practice to me, that as a human being I'd have all that I could possibly want. Isn't it the strangest thing that someone who is so devoted to me in so many other ways can't understand this.

Awareness of the good stuff

These are the hallmark characteristics of a person who has OCPD, which stands for Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder:

1. A preoccupation with details, rules, and schedules to the point in which any joy in the activity is lost.
2. A sense of perfectionism that interferes with getting tasks accomplished.
3. Friends and family members play a second or tertiary role in life.
4. Excessive rigidity and stubbornness. 
5. Over-conscientiousness and inflexibility about his or her values.
6. He or she resembles a hoarder. 
7. The person often can't let others work for him or her because they often don't meet his or her standards.
8. An unhealthy use of money -- often excessively hoarding money or being miserly.

In one form or another my husband has hallmarks of all 8 indicators of this type of personality, which is why I have encouraged him to seek help for a mind that is working overtime.

Of course, he hasn't done that and he won't ever do that, but this morning, he did indicate to me that he has some personal awareness of what I am saying to him. Naturally, as expected, he felt there was good reason to determine that only he has the wherewithal to do most of life's tasks himself, but he did acknowledge that I perceived the situation as such that it appeared to me that I was being neglected.

I stayed completely calm. Truly. I don't expect different sorts of responses to the ones he gives me. I know that the condition is deeply entrenched, in some ways genetic and well established in childhood due to his upbringing and life's circumstances at the time. I was simply appreciative of the fact that we were talking about it in a civilized fashion.

Once again, I said it was unfortunate that he refused to seek help to deal with thoughts that were not serving him well. However, if I was forced into the role of healer (it's either that or watch him stew in his soup without hope of living with a happier partner) I said that I'd like to start with one simple strategy. Only one. Each day I would ask him to tell me one thing that had made him happy or joyful that day. Had he enjoyed the taste of a particular food, heard a bird singing on the walk through town; been lifted up by a conversation with someone; enjoyed a memory; felt gratitude?

I'm going to focus on tipping the scales in the direction of joy and happiness, of living life well, because although Malcolm Fraser brought into our everyday vernacular the phrase, 'Life wasn't meant to be easy', truly, there's no-one who ordained that it should be hard either.
 

Achievement

I was late for my mammogram this time. Owing to a close family member having had breast cancer I am on a two year schedule, but in fact it was closer to three years since the last check. I felt a bit aberrant about that.

The woman took the usual group of pictures and some minutes later returned to say that the radiologist wanted one more. That led to her returning a few more minutes later again to say that she needed to take one deeper into the left breast.

I co-operated completely and quietly. But, by now, I was secretly, internally, shaken. Left in the room by myself, I had an urge to run. Remembering Eckhart Tolle's advice to simply focus on the breath I closed my eyes and did just that.

Now, another woman entered, bright and breezy; some story about how funny it had been, she and some other woman drawing straws as to who would do the last ultrasound before lunch. This sort of blithering surely had to mask bad news, I was sure.

'Is there something wrong with the mammogram?'

'No, we didn't see anything on the mammogram. The ultrasound is routine. We like to cross-check. If you could come over to the other side of the hall with me...'

She rolled her equipment around one breast at a time. She sometimes chatted away almost to herself, how I should keep the pictures safely at home for next time, and how pictures spoke in a way that words couldn't in a report, and sometimes she was silent. It was when she studied the screen intensely that I closed my eyes and began to think how to spend the rest of my life, however long I should have.

Joy. I wanted joy. Not a single thought of accomplishment, or lack thereof, came to mind. My children's faces, as they are right now, came before me, one by one. The thought of death didn't bother me. Leaving them behind without me in their lives. That did.

When I was left alone in the room again, whilst they did their comparing of information gathered, I remember thinking, 'It is what it is', such that it was an anti-climax when she bounced back into the room and said, 'That's all fine now. Here are your films and if you could just give this  invoice to the girl at the desk, we'll see you next time...'

I hadn't realized just how worked up the exercise had made me. When I mentioned it to a friend immediately thereafter, tears gushed down my face. It was a mini look into the face of death and I hadn't cared for it at all. I had to agree with Woody Allan that "my position on death remains the same. I am against it."

Although I tried hard to focus on the future in the worst moments, I have to admit a tinge of resentment crept in; that the last few years had been short of joy here at home. Back home, it led me to consider in detail this business of 'achievement' in our lives. I admit that it has not been my focus. Or, it has been my focus, but perhaps not in the usual, expected way. The happiness and wholeness of my children have been my focus; the offering to the world of four happy, well-adjusted people who understand the role of joy and laughter in their lives. (Would it not be a better world if mothers were to make this more of a focus?)

In my reading on achievement yesterday and today an example was given of a man accruing some millions of dollars in the bank. For some people such an achievement  was deeply satisfying, for this had been one of their goals. For a person whose goal was to give to others of himself, the achievement of plenty of money in the bank would not have the same power or value.

Achievement is something that only we can define for ourselves. It has to be said that the lack of achievement of our goals, whatever they may be, can make us miserable, and this is what happened here at home; to both of us, but in different ways and for different reasons. Our goals in the past several years have been different; our own individual goals that tended to push us apart.

I am absolutely fine, but, when I pushed up against my own mortality yesterday I thought not of money, or achievement in terms of a novel to my name; none of that. I thought of how I might live for the rest of my time on this earth with joy. And, I thought of my children and how I would prepare them for a life without me here with them. I was prepared, it seems, to die as I had lived; to think of achievement on my own terms.

Introducing Lucille

Although he did most of the work, she was the one that was ravenous afterwards. She'd showered thinking of her stomach. When they reached the bistro, would she have the Spaghetti Marinara or the Lasagna? Definitely red wine, and if he allowed it, later she'd have a spoonful, maybe two, of his Tiramasu.

She'd not had to make a decision all afternoon or evening. He'd bound her when and as he chose, fucked her in all of her holes, as it suited him. Nothing seemed to be enough for him. Just when she thought perhaps she could drift off to sleep for a while in a state of utter bliss, he produced a 'gift', a beautiful and tasteful latex maid's outfit for her to wear. Today, he wanted to be serviced in every way. He was the King of his Castle and she was to know it; physically, emotionally and spiritually. He was her King and she'd pay the appropriate homage; do his bidding; give him what he wanted and when he wanted it.

It hadn't been easy for her to stay in role; a French maid on her hands and knees checking for dust underneath the table; ensuring that his apartment was absolutely spotless. She checked herself from actually laughing, but she did smirk on occasion, such was her pleasure in these humiliating games. He debased her, made every effort for her to feel her place, but her spirit would rise up no matter what he did to her. She lived for these moments; had trouble preventing herself from lauching into his arms and hugging him until she winded him. My God, he made her happy!

At the table in the quiet restaurant, for it was now quite late, it was irksome to stay in her seat, and yet she knew she must. She wanted to reach into his face and plaster his thick lips with kisses. She wanted to stroke him, paw at him, and let anyone watching know that he was hers.

She did none of this but instead grabbed his arm and held it tight. She simply must touch him, touch his skin, somewhere.  It was against the rules. Touching in the restaurant was against the rules and he went right up to her face; brought his big, green eyes up close and personal with her deep brown eyes. They said, 'Return your arm to its rightful place', and she did.

She would do whatever he said. She would charm him. Seduce him. She would make it impossible for him to live without her.

It was working. He had never intended to enter another long term relationship; never again. But then he meant Lucille and all bets were off.

Fantasy and life

My husband and I were exchanging thoughts recently about fantasies and I made the comment that sometimes fantasies were merely fantasies. I didn't necessarily want for all my fantasies to become my reality. He disagreed. He felt that sexual fantasies were dormant desires. We didn't say much more than this, but I have been quietly thinking about the conversation ever since.

My fantasies have a theme about them. I don't fantasize about a renovated house, a trip around the world, or a romantic dinner,  but I routinely fantasize about finding myself in very strict, tightly controlled situations. I'm either at some sort of institution where I've been sent, not so much to procure an education and have a career, but rather to understand my place as an owned (but precious) possession, or, under the control of an extremely strict man who has the support of a housekeeper whose main task it is to supervise me when he is busy. Let's deal with the institution today. There are many rules at this institution but they all boil down to one rule in essence: that I obey.

There is absolutely no leniency at this institution and what I find interesting (and just realized this very moment) is that there is a dress code. Like the other girls sent there I wear the same style dress every day, one that accentuates the figure and provides ready access, but certainly fashion trends are not part of our lives here and we don't spend any time at all in wondering how to dress.

We are kept in a state of arousal. Anal plugs are a part of most of the day and all of the night and when we shower, or go to bed, or eat...all of this is pre-ordained and set in stone, except in highly exceptional situations. Owner tags are pierced through our nipples and pussy lips early on and a chastity belt is ordered for each one of us as an important part of our limited wardrobe. We are never to touch ourselves without permission, we are told. Rather, what we must appreciate is that we are there to adapt to the headspace that our satisfaction is immaterial and quite secondary to the pleasure of our Owners. This is the purpose of the chastity belts, for us to understand and accept our containment and purpose.

Corporal discipline is an integral part of our experience there - punishment for the slightest misbehaviour and routine maintenance paddlings and whippings. The whistle of the wind as the cane bears down on bare bottoms is a regular sound to our ears as we pass the master's study on our way to another part of the large house, discreetly tucked away behind high brick walls and surrounded by a lush garden. We fear the Master's cane without a shadow of a doubt and do all we can to avoid it, but meetings with it are so inevitable that we go close to making our peace with it. Pain is our lot.

If I am looking to arouse myself, not necessarily even orgasm, but simply 'edge' or let time stand still for ten minutes, I go to these particular thoughts. They centre me, relax me and, of course, arouse me. But, it's a big stretch to say that I would like to have them acted out. It's the harshest of institutions where my every move is observed and determined. I have no privacy there at all. Even showers are nearly always taken as a group in a bathroom with mutiple shower heads and the Mistress remains to observe this, inspecting us for cleanliness when we step out of the shower, inserting our anal plugs that we will wear throughout the night. Naked we will kneel by our beds to say our prayers and the Master will come to hear these prayers where we offer our good wishes to our authority figures at the school and thank God that they will guide us well. I can't begin to imagine such a situation in real life, the relentless discipline and rule following.

Maybe, the fantasy is simply the extreme scenario of a real life situation where I am indeed subject to some rules determined by an authority figure; where there is no breaking of rules without punishment, and where my joy and happiness comes through an understanding of my place; a place which is secure, a life which is relatively simple - challenging in ways but deeply spiritual and restful to the mind.

Truthfully, I still think of an intense orgasm as the happiest of experiences, the experience that feels to me very close to Godliness; the experience that lifts my spirits like nothing else can. But, my experiences have been such that I have been more willing to entertain the notion that this isn't my right at all, but rather a treat that I am given on rare occasions at the behest of an Owner; the owner of my body and my spirit. Truthfully, it's a huge surprise to me that I could think this thought at all, but if fantasies are a guide, there is no doubting the fact that I get off on the thought of containment in all its manifestations.

The call of the simple life

I happened to find this post in my 'drafts', written a long time ago, and rather liked it. A similar feeling has just washed over me. Darn, but I am a homebody...

I'm flooded with a sense of happiness right now - feelings of love. From where do they emanate? Well, my husband and I saw the Australian Ballet over the weekend perform 'Chroma' and that was a wonderful treat, a really lovely sharing experienc for us that followed a delightful meal and wine at the Arts Centre. We'd left early enough to have no fuss or anxiety about getting there on time and we both were dazzled by the performance. It's going to be heading to New York and other cities so if you get the chance, don't miss it.

The following evening my son treated us to dinner at the city's most prestigious restaurant and we used up a voucher he was given at work. We didn't hit the hay until 2 am - a lovely, lovely evening with he and his girlfriend.

Today I had one of my rare outings to a huge shopping precint to buy them a slow cooker for their little house that they are renting together and it was fun to do that - bought my book club book, just simple things, but fun.

Is my sense of happiness to be found in those events? I doubt it. It was lovely, privileged, but it's not why I feel so darn content as I type away, I don't think.

I have the big living room/kitchen to myself right now. Both sons are in their rooms upstairs and I am about to complete making salmon patties from scratch and fry them up. My eldest son has just left with the washing I did for him because the washing machine in the new little Victorian rental broke down. I'm playing some superbly restful, peaceful guitar music. I've already done my weekly assignment...

No one thing in particular is great cause for this happiness that has washed over me. Yet, I feel so 'at one', so calm, so peaceful, so content, as if this is where I am meant to be at this moment in time; my home. I feel this tremendous welling of harmony in my life. The work surrounds me on all fronts. My son has a huge amount of work to chew off this evening. Tomorrow, I must write my heart out to get along with deadlines.

And yet, right now, the world stands still. I'm as peaceful as the clay Buddha that sits at the back wall on my desk, oblivous of all the paper and efforts that take place on this laptop. She sits in eternal peace, her half closed eyes denoting the peace within her. It is as if she has cast her spell over my mood, made me eternally grateful for this privileged life I lead, so full of love. I note the stillness around me. I observe the stillness within myself.

Sometimes I wonder why it is that when I play this guitar music of a Hobart man, that every single time it puts me into this place of peaceful surrender to the love of life. I remember him, I remember his wife and I remember thinking, they are peace, they are love. I want that slow, meaningful, peaceful life too.

Tasmania calls to me so often. I adore it there. I'm happy there. One day I will buy a little house there and the children can come and visit me and let that dear, little island make magic in their lives too.

Endings

Endings are difficult. Where does one end a story, a play, a novel, a blog? Often, one ends a story with the protagonist in much the same place as they were at the beginning of the story, but changed in some important way. I've been writing in the power exchange arena since late 2008 but in many ways I am still living the life I led when I began writing on these pages.

Yet, I've changed. I'm a great fan of Brene Brown and her research into vulnerability and shame. Over time, I  think I was responding to some negative feelings of shame and vulnerability, feelings that I wanted to shake off.

As Brene says, if courage is your value then you have to walk through vulnerability. You have to embrace that feeling in even the hardest moments.

I've talked about looking and finding joy in my life and like Brene I believe that joy comes into your life when you practice love and gratitude. Look for moments of gratitude in your day and you'll start to feel joy.

One of Brene Brown's big statements, one that Oprah likes too is "when we lose our tolerance to be vulnerable joy becomes foreboding". We just have to accept, as human beings living on this planet that vulnerability is part of the package. To be 'the man standing in the arena' is what is important, to demonstrate courage.

To find my courage. This has been my big life lesson and one that being 'overseen' assisted. I've certainly no regrets about exploring life through power exchange relationships because that arrangement helped me to acknowledge my true, best self. It has brought me great joy.

It's time for me to move on to other endeavors. It's been a wonderful experience for me to have had the opportunity to write in this web journal but it is, quite simply, time to move on. I'll keep the journal up for a time but no further entries will be made. There's time to interact with me if you choose to do so, but about the end of the month, I'll close this journal to public readership.

Thank you for reading. Be well.

Restoring peace strategies

I recently had reason to return to some material written years ago on this web journal and the most curious comment I came across was that someone had noted that misery was not my kink. I had written about an episode in my kinky life that implied it was a miserable situation (challenging, yes, but miserable, no) and that's what prompted the comment. She is quite right that misery is not my kink. Other people's pain affects me deeply, in fact, and perhaps it is because of the fact that I am so affected by that pain that I need to restore my sense of peace using various strategies.

If you look at the early entries I'm pretty bubbly - both in a happy bubble and full of glee, really, to be in this space at all. I made the comment to a friend in chat, says the record, "It's been a bit of a dream come true for cindi." Honestly, if it all stopped right now, or I stopped living and someone read this record, may the record show that I was happy beyond all measure to have had my time in the sun here.

This is the whole point. cindi may have moments of angst, challenge and even sadness but apart from those moments in her life, she's full of light. She shines. She glows. I try, every day, to give her a little time to herself. That's not always easy, and sometimes unachievable, but on the whole I give her permission to be in the sun routinely.

Often, that cindi time is spent alone, not because it is preferred to be alone, but circumstances don't allow a partner in the play as often as she would like. The hood comes out and gets stretched over the head. She lays there quietly breathing, taking in big gulps of air through the nostrils, her only form of oxygen, and she feels the lightness and empty headedness return. She feels free and carefree.

Or, she takes the bulbous butt plug and by her own hand pushes it into her and waits for its effect to take over her mind and her body. No longer empty, she feels far more at home; far more authentic; far more alive.

No, misery is not my kink. That's an absolutely true statement. I'll do almost anything to be uplifted; to seek the joy; to find the trapdoor. Happiness and joy: that's my kink. Definitely.

Meditation

Meditation can, on the best days, open us to extraordinary inner experiences. I had such an experience last night and I am going to do my best to reconstruct what happened.

The story begins yesterday morning. I received an email which I read just before I left the house for a Yoga session. It's the sort of email that just has you sitting back on your chair, emotionally altered by the words. A correspondent had compared me to a novel character and as I re-read his words I realized he was right. I was very much like this woman in very fundamental ways and it is why I had such a visceral response to the story, I suppose.

During yoga I thought about how wonderful it felt for someone in the world to understand me so deeply and I was truly amazed at how much that meant to me. I had to squeeze my nose tight to stop my eyes from tearing up too much because I can become overwhelmed by this sort of emotion. Other than that, it was a usual sort of day, spent having pleasant conversation over lunch and time in the afternoon with my son watching 'The Perks of  Being a Wallflower'; more about that another time.

I went to the meditation at dusk. It was my first visit to this meditation centre and there were about 60 people there. I knew the background of the man taking the session and I felt immediately comfortable there. I looked about me and they were regular people of varying ages. Most of them had been there before, I learned.

Bill talked first about an article on his website about how not to worry and then we did some sound work. Ummmmm and Ahhhhhhh, whilst our eyes were closed. I felt the reverberation in my body. We all nodded that we did. Then, a woman took us through some gentle exercises. Finally, it was time to settle into the meditation.

Bill turned off the lights and for about ten minutes he made some gentle suggestions, prior to the period of silence. I don't remember what he said but I remember some thoughts bouncing around my head and my awareness of that and then, gradually, the thoughts were losing power and a complete stillness was settling into my mind. I had no sensations in my body whatsoever, just my thumb touching my index finger on both hands and I had absolutely no need to move a muscle. I did not. I was very open to the experience last night.

Just before we moved into silence I felt a huge wave wash over me. It was a wave of deep emotion and I was enveloped in a state of love. It wasn't a sense of love in that worldly sense of love that I recall feeling after an intense spanking; a subspace sort of sense of worldly love; that is, love for all man. Rather, my mind was spontaneously traveling throughout my life bringing up images of when I was loved, felt love and experienced love.

I traveled randomly through my life - Andy, someone who worked for my parents, teaching me how to ride a bike at the age of perhaps six, my father sitting beside me in hospital and crying that I was unwell when I was a teenager, my mother tying my hair into braids, one or other Maria cooking me food, the birth of my children, my wedding day, moments when I have walked home with the children, or been to their nursery school, my husband smiling up at me in the stairwell at an apartment in Connecticut; his making love to me in such an intense way that I was shaking and he needed to wrap me tight in a blanket. On and on and on the images came to me and as each one appeared it prompted another huge tear to fall from my eyes. I saw my life for what it was - a most privileged life - one filled to overflowing with love. I felt extreme happiness.

I didn't scoop up the tears until I had a conscious thought it was close to the meditation's end and I wiped each side of my face in turn, just so that I'd be presentable when the lights came on.  When Bill did turn on the lights he told us that it had been 36 minutes. I could have been 'under' for much longer. He spoke to us for a few moments afterwards and I felt incredibly peaceful and still. Words weren't an option. I was glad to be alive and to be here and yet I felt that I had traveled somewhere else; that I had a sense of what it was to not be here. I had a sense of heaven.

It is said that meditation is a construction of the mind and if that is so, for whatever reason I was ready last night to experience peace; love; joy; free-fall. I'm extremely grateful for the experience. I hope that you have such an opportunity yourself.

My journal

I'm so close to the end of the academic year that I can taste it. For the first time in nearly a year and a half I will have some spare time.What to do, what to do...

Well, first I'll play, for sure; do all the things that I have put on hold, meet up with friends, go Christmas shopping, start organizing a holiday for next year; boost up the exercise; see a play, read a book. There are limitless opportunities.

Then, with the long, hot summer ahead of me I imagine I might sit down to pursue a writing venture of my own. I've just read an article about a woman who was imprisoned for several years and whilst in prison she wrote 800,000 words in her journal. That journal became the source material for a one hour play about her journey. I've been quite fascinated at the process and  the collaboration with many others to term it into an art form.

Whilst finishing off a piece of work this afternoon I was reminded that I also have a journal of many hundreds of thousands of words that could also form the basis of a narrative. We all do, actually, my fellow bloggers and I.

One of my readers got in contact with me recently and told me that this web journal is forming the basis of the protagonist for his novel. Of course, this is the price we pay for having an online journal. The material is out there in the world for anyone to use as they wish. There really is no protection against this. He'd actually like me to fill in the dots because as he pointed out, I often spoke in mirrors, not quite spelling out what was real and what was fantasy, or what happened when and why. That, of course, was entirely intentional and my authorial prerogative.

I admit that the knowledge that this situation has eventuated leads me to reveal even less than I have done in the past. As I've said a thousand times before I'm a very private person and I'm not at all sure I want my thoughts interpreted. I am pretty darn sure that I want to be the person to play around with this material and mold it into a story. I've sat here this afternoon seriously wondering if it was time to pull the plug. Of course anything I've written is out there for good, but should I go on adding to this journal publicly? I am not sure.

I think that part of me is troubled by the fact that this material can be spun in so many directions; that what brought me much pleasure and happiness can be interpreted to be seen as anything but wise or meaningful; that there was and is a better way. Maybe so. I don't know all the angles of a power exchange. Perhaps there is a better dominant and a better way.

But, know this. I know what I feel. My instincts are very acute. I had the very best time. I learned things in the writing of this journal that gave me the thrills of a lifetime. There were moments, minutes, hours, days and weeks that filled me with enormous joy and satisfaction. I never imagined that I could be so happy; so filled with joie de vivre and excitement at a new way to live.

Every day of my life I am aroused by the erotic thoughts that play out in my head. My libido is high and my mind is on fire with the possibilities that will always be alive to me so long as I hold onto the doll inside me; that sweet l'il thing that lives to be fucked royally; to make others happy; to follow commands and to wallow in her own appetite; to always, always be hungry for the next meal.

To my husband I am 'cindi' and every time he uses that name I am reminded of the reality of my doll. She's very real to me; she's an aspect of my personality that sits just under the surface; always waiting and always ready to come out and play; to thrive in the presence of a dominant force that commands and demands that she rise up and revel in her own demise.

Nothing and no-one will ever convince me that it wasn't a good thing. Only I can make that judgement. Trust me. It has been the ride of my life.

The objekt state

After a hectic morning taking care of others, I needed  the sanctity of a Pilates class; just me and the mat. We began standing up moving our arms from side to side and as I watched my hands I was aware of my newly 'rebalanced' claws. I haven't cut them in quite a while and Peter used special creme on them this time instead of varnish. I loved the result and this morning I was very aware of my claws - dolly nails; nails that encouraged me into an objekt sort of space in my mind.

I was calm and relatively tranquil; trying to give my mind the opportunity to go where it would. I am so often looking for that it space, but it is not so easily found at the moment. I do what I have been trained to do and I love that I have no resistance to any of this - the nails, the bimbo switch; the anal training. It's all a part of my life now and I give thanks for that every day.

Yet, the feeling is there, more and more each day really; that desire for intense control; the opportunity to feel just like an objekt - peaceful, controlled. Somebody else makes the decisions and I comply. He says do this, and I obey, because I am a doll and dollies know no other way. Dollies want  no other way. This thought pervades my thinking and I relish it; play with it; relax with it and embrace it.

The Pilates mat is where I have sometimes experienced this objekt frame of mind, so I remained open to it; not forcing anything; hopeful...

And, it happened. I was in a crunch on my back and pulling up into a position with my legs up in the air when it simply came over me. I was a puppet and the puppeteer was pulling my strings. I only could move when he chose to pull the strings and up I came. Down I went, when he was ready for me to do so.

From then on, for a blessed ten or more minutes, every move I made, I waited first for the puppeteer to move my strings. There was a breath while I waited and I was moved. This was an incredibly beautiful time for me; a time of great peace and contentment. The connection between the invisible puppeteer and me was rhythmic. Not only did he control the movements of my body but my breathing and my mind. This was a place of total harmony. No resistance lives here; no desire to do anything that has not been instructed. The trust is infinite. The desire to please is innate. The understanding that this is my purpose is complete.

Of course, when it came time for relaxation and I lay like a corpse on my mat with my eyes closed this state of bliss and peace brought tears to my eyes; tears that welled behind my closed eyes and when I was instructed to sit up I needed to brush away the tears that fell quickly so that no-one could see. Far from tears of unhappiness they were tears of great joy. I felt truly blessed.

Heavenly delights

When it all falls into place, when everything feels totally natural, there is no struggle at all. In the head space of the doll all instructions are good instructions because the doll doesn't struggle or have doubts or worries. She very much lets it all go and just bunkers down into that tiny teeny spot where she feels ultra comfortable and totally relaxed.

For a myriad of reasons we can feel anxious about aspects of our life. Some of us are inclined to be more anxious than others, often with good reason. Some of us had better starts than others and it's those first dozen or more years that really do dictate how tough that road will be.

How marvelous then that we have a vehicle with which to relax. In the space of the doll all commands make total sense because she's doesn't have the the slightest interest in control, or power, or struggle. She isn't worried about anything actually because she's only got one purpose. Keeping the focus this narrow guarantees that all day-to-day concerns can't fit into her head. It's such a teeny tiny space.

Not all men, but certainly some men find interacting with a woman who has let it all go, let her shoulders drop to the point where you can visually see the stress leaving her body, very relaxing as well. Oh sure, there's the voracious aspect about it - the fox with his mouth open and the saliva dripping from his jaws - but he also enjoys the fact that he is suddenly dealing with an entity without a care in the world, someone who wouldn't dream of not doing as she has been instructed.

The dolly head space, certain bars of music, vistas, words, sounds and thoughts can transform my everyday world into moments of heavenly delight and a lightness of being.  I'm really always on the lookout for those special moments that transport me above and beyond into some other planetary orbit, even if just for a few minutes, or even a few special moments. It's what keeps writers, painters, sculptors, landscape gardeners, musicians, chefs and many other creative beings doing what they do - trying to create something truly beautiful; a heavenly delight.

Tante belle cose

I love all things Italian and like Liz in Eat Pray Love I am getting a real kick out of learning some Italian phrases and rolling them around my tongue. I particularly love this particular phrase, tante bella cose reminding me that there are many beautiful things in this world; so much to be grateful for. This pretty pink flower, one of the many beautiful things,  reminds me also that happiness is really always just around the corner.  I feel myself opening up much like this flower, ready to bask in the light. I think I may have turned a corner.  Bella.

Light up the room

What motivates us to do something? My answer to that question would be pleasure. There are other factors to consider like duty, obligation, responsibility, desire for success; ambition. However, it is pleasure that drives us at the most basic level. I sometimes forget this. I think we can all forget how incredibly important it is to enjoy our lives.

Last night I found it hard to get off the couch and fulfill my final duties for the day. I was enjoying a rather long documentary about George Harrison, one of the Beatles. What an extraordinary life and what an extraordinary mindset! Of course I related to his spiritual journey and this rather intense desire he had to prepare for his spirit to leave his body. I have just the same fixation so I got what that was all about. He had a strong understanding that he would die, a constant understanding of it, and so he lived according to that knowledge. I've often said (in real life, I mean) that when people act so grabby and grubby, they're the people that haven't come to terms with the fact that they are going to die. Why waste the time being so nasty? Why not be friendly and enjoy your time here?

I've been thinking in the past few days what I have enjoyed most about a power exchange relationship. Of course, it is very heady stuff and there are so many factors there to consider. I love feeling that I am deeply connected to someone; so connected that I don't mind at all when they call the shots and tell me what to do. I love to be forced to do things actually. I think that's because I feel even more connected to them. I love how that makes me feel.

I enjoy being under the wing of someone. It makes me feel safe. I love to feel a part of a team, and I am comfortable not being in charge. I don't like the feeling that I have if  I get bossy or intolerant. I feel better about influencing someone in a soft and gentle way; a way that makes them feel good about my contribution to the situation. I like to feel soft within my soul, heart and mind.

And, this is what all this is driving to. The more I think about, learn about and experience a D/s exchange the more I realize that I want it to be a soft and kind exchange, even during those times I am being told to or made to do the other person's bidding. I don't want to be hurt by it. I want to be enriched by it, to enjoy it; to experience kindness and connection. I guess you could say, I would like to feel...cherished.

I'm not saying that I don't crave a harsher treatment sometimes because I really do crave that too. However, after the harsher treatment I want to go back to being cared for in a softer way. It's a funny thing, this mellow feeling that has come over me lately. Perhaps the product of a little tender care; perhaps a sense that I am moving forward into the light. It is said that when George Harrison died his spirit did indeed leave his body and he "lit up the room". His wife said that if someone had been filming the scene they would  not have needed lights. "He...he just lit up the room." Now, wouldn't that be a lovely ending to our stories.

The inner child

In my reading over the past few days about patriarchy, the term 'patriarchal voice' just didn't work for me. What I did was replace that term with another. I thought of this voice as a 'protective voice'. It's the voice that we go to for advice about what society deems we should do. This worked better for me. In taking advice from that voice, we can compromise parts of ourselves in that we may not set limits as to what is acceptable and healthy behaviour for us. Or, we may bury other aspects of our personality.

In many cases, I believe, we can lose the 'inner child'. This happens to both men and women as life takes on more and more responsibility and as we listen and take heed to societal pressures. It happens to all of us, in some measure.

During the time of my mentoring, my inner child was allowed free reign. Of course, there were rules and very specific ways of interacting. I knew my place and should I forget, the correction was immediate. For both of us, and I strongly believe this, we were two kids let loose in the candy shop. We were often joyous, child like; exuberant. Fun was very much close to the top of the agenda.

For ages, I wasn't really aware of this. I was too busy just letting out that part of my personality to think about it. I see very clearly now that what was so very special about the exchange (and there were other special things as well) was that we both allowed our inner child free reign.

It's a complex thing because I distinctly remember one time not wanting to do something and the child part of my psyche said so. He insisted that it must be done. There was no manipulation or strategic thinking involved when I replied, "But, wot if cindi sed pleeeeeez? He replied that it wouldn't matter. She still had to do as she was told. This floored me. Didn't little children get their way if they asked oh so nysssseli?? If they were adorable enough, didn't the person in charge say, "Oh, all right. Just. this. one. time." So, my inner child was allowed free reign so long as she understood the voice of authority.

When people listen too hard to their protective voice, they can become very serious. There are all sorts of reasons why they shouldn't do what they would like to do. Or, on the flip side, they want to please, if they are a pleaser, and they don't lay down some limits to protect themselves enough. I think this patriarchal voice that I have been reading about simply is the same thing that my psychologist spoke to me about. It was absolutely fine for me to express the very feminine side of my personality but I also needed to give expression to the side of my personality that wanted to achieve something in the real world for myself. I could be nurturing and doting and giving and submit so long as I put some boundaries around myself. It was okay for me to express all components of my personality. I didn't need to stick to just one entirely.

I look back on my mentoring sessions with great affection. It was my opportunity to let my inner child out in the sunshine to run free. Often gleeful, full of mirth and giggly it was a heady and happy time in my life; the loveliest of gifts.