Emotional wound

I've been working on the basis that to heal an emotional wound you have to trace it back to the event or events that happened.

I am starting to think that there are two elements in place, not one; that one is a harmless sort of thing and the other is a wound that needs to be healed, as best I can.

First, the kinkiness: light, fun, harmless play. I think I probably developed it at a very young age. Remember when I was young, in the 1950s, spanking was a normal sort of thing, though not for me.

I think I was curious. I think I connected it with  a sort of loving approach, to the extent that the child received attention. I think I was starved for attention and so maybe that resonated for me.

I saw movies. I noticed my reaction to the scenes where there was a power dynamic of some sort.

In short, spanking was a turn on for me. Still is.

For whatever reason, feeling helpless, in a good way, is a lovely letting go response for me.

Much later, I got hooked into an objectification sort of kink, which fed me in some way at the same time as it was a power dynamic that humiliated me. It could leave me feeling heavy and damaged; angry and flawed.

Feeling a need to try to remember my childhood, I began to realize, piece by piece, that I carry a great deal of shame for my early years and probably carried even more then.

It isn't just that the circumstances of my exterior life involved shame. That's about 20% of it.

The major part of the shame comes from the fact that my parents spent very little time with me; an incredibly small amount. And, that I was so different to them in nearly every way. That I had no belief in the value of expressing my feelings. That I felt it a waste of time to have needs.

On the contrary, I developed a strong need to aid my mother in her emotional life, to prop her up when needed. Seeing clearly that my father had a great many needs, needs that he seemed to feel that only my mother could fulfill, that left me to handle life on my own, and to do for my younger brother whatever I possibly could.

It wasn't that they looked out for me but rather at a tender age, I looked out for them.

This seemed to set me up for an adult life where I didn't feel it my place to have needs or to express them. I looked after other people. I was even proud of my ability to do so.

At the same time, giving and giving, I worked on the basis that if I gave over my agency to another, he would do the right thing by me. If I was brave enough to express my needs, he'd do his best to fulfill them.

Eventually, I did express my needs.

But, I learned that over the long haul, that wasn't enough, for the special people in my life had wounds of their own; needed to control their world, and me.

Somewhere in there, my needs got prioritized further down on the list, rarely to make it to the top of the pile.

This is when I started to pay attention.

Why was I carrying around these days a great big boulder, a heavy heart?

The experts say that I have to develop more self love and self esteem. I have to understand that people rarely change and that I have been putting my faith in the wrong people. That I need to be assertive. Mostly they say it is best to go my own way.

I'm astounded at the depth and intensity of this wound. I don't really expect it to ever heal completely.

I wonder what my untapped potential would have been, if my life had been different from the beginning.

It's tempting to think this is one of several lives; that there is a lesson in all of this, preparing for the next merry go round.

Or, maybe, life will unfold from here in wonderful and positive ways; open up for me like the petals of a flower. It's a bold statement, but I think I deserve that outcome.

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.

The blank page

There's that old question, 'In a perfect world, who would you invite to your dinner party?' People tend to choose people such as Nelson Mandela or world leaders whom they admire, which makes sense. Me? I'd forgo the dinner party for one really good, long meal in a quiet restaurant with the superb Irish novelist, Colm Toibin.

It's not just that I enjoy his novels so much; that I find him such a skilled writer, but also that he is so generous in sharing his practice and thinking with a wider audience. Since my thoughts and his thoughts often seem to collide, it would be so comforting to talk to him one-on-one and get his reassurance that my ideas, small in a way, very female thoughts and preoccupations, are worthy of exploration in story form. I think he'd say to me something like,

'Yes, forget the literary theory that you've been taught. That's no use, quite right. Those thoughts that have been simmering in your head for years, have the confidence to put them down on the blank page; fill it up with details of how your protagonists thinks and show, page by page, in a progressive rhythm how her mind and her behaviour starts to shift.'

I'd nod and say,

'That's okay? I don't need to be more clever than that? No back story? I can in fact just lay out the story scene by scene, slowly watch her evolve and transform...?'

And he'd smile and then look serious before he said,

'Absolutely. No back story. You don't need car crashes or fires. Just let her go about her days; that's fine. Don't trouble yourself with similes and metaphors; that's not your thing and it isn't required. Let your reader morph into the protagonist and let them come along with her, support her even when she's not behaving well. Don't worry about that. Trust your instincts. Stop taking advice from others when your instincts are working just fine.'

And, he'd emphasize the fiiiiiine in his gorgeous Irish accent and smile, and I'd look at him as the literary genius that he is and feel a glow of relief and gratitude that someone in the world took the trouble to put another writer's mind at ease.

But, more than that, I'd love to talk to him about his self-knowledge that he has different elements of him that can't really be fused together. My goodness, I relate to that. And, I'd love to discuss with him that sense of his separateness to other people; those moments when he walks by them and wishes, for that moment in time, that he could be them. I heard him say recently that he'd passed a group of revellers drinking beer on a Friday night in Dublin and he envied them their lives in that moment, when he, shopping in hand, was going home alone to work some more on his book.

Some university researcher recently wrote to me and asked me to complete a survey about why I wrote on the Internet. I started the survey, it seemed not too much to ask, until it dawned on me that the question was imbecilic, self-evident, and that I would decline to co-operate.

I write because I must write. A fully formed, integrated person is unlikely to have the need to write but a person who feels compelled to investigate not just their own lives but the lives of others has no option but to write. I don't write because I need people to respond and my lack of comments on the posts make that clear. I continue to write regardless of lack of comments. I write on the Internet in order to have an audience, naturally, but it can be a silent audience, just as a novel writer has, mostly, a silent audience.

At the heart of every piece of writing - be it a journal entry, blog post, a short story or a novel - is a preoccupation with something about living life. It might be a current pre-occupation with an issue such as loss, or (dis)connection, or silence and its effects, or some element of sexuality that needs unravelling in the writer's head. It's their way - my way - of expressing those thoughts that ramble about in the head and need some answers, exploration, breaking down, breaking open; moving past.

One of the elements of writing that has really troubled me is the morality of writing about characteristics, quirks and idiosyncratic aspects of people that I know. There was lots of discussion about that in my writer's course and I left the course with the sense that it was all too dangerous and maybe immoral. 'Not at all', Colm would say to me over the dessert. 'If you are not prepared to write about what you know, see, hear, and live, then I'll see what I can do about getting you into Law where you can put your morality to work. You're not a writer if you are skeamish about that.'

I'd give a quiet 'hooray' when he'd say that and I'd press on, a little less scared about the consequences of people finding themselves in my book, in some shape or form. 'I'm afraid it is part of being a writer', I'd explain to them when the complaints come in, 'that I use the material that surrounds me.' (Still, it terrifies me, that they'd know my thoughts in this way...)

I sometimes listen to a female friend speak, a happy sort of women, preocuppied with pleasurable endeavors such as planning the next holiday or shopping expedition. Or, those women I know that enjoy spending their time playing tennis and bridge. I so often think, 'Why can't I be more like them? Why does the thought of Bridge fill me with dread?' Should I share this thought with Toibin he'd probably take his hand up to his bald head and then bring it down again and make a sort of claw with his fingers, as he in inclined to do when making an important point.

'You can't be what you aren't. Writers tend not to be fully baked, you see, not integrated. That's why we can morph into other people, get inside their heads. We can't be like them. We must be solitary a good deal of the time. We must fill blank pages and that is all there is to it. Make peace with it. You can't change it.'

The advice is not unlike that I have been given for years here, in this power dynamic arena. 'You're designed to be an objekt. No thinki is best for cindi'.

It's not entirely possible to stop thinking, for me at least; not just random thoughts about 'to do' lists, but thoughts about characters and why they do what they do; how they think; what matters to them and what will happen to them.

So, the opportunity to close off the mind, the opposite of endless thoughts, is a great relief. It is, in fact, more than a relief. There is a feeling of being moored again; no longer swimming about in a turbulent sea, but tied to the pier; anchored. There is a sense, a visceral sense, of being cared for and understood for the entity that cindi is, in love with the no thinking, deeply felt physical state. There is a peace that transcends over her; a state to which  I am always going to want to return.

 It's a funny thing but it doesn't really matter, I don't think, that nearly everyone doesn't get that; doesn't get who we really are and what we really need to do, so long as someone gets it; so long as we can make peace with ourselves. People can't change us all that much and that makes sense given the struggle that we have making changes in ourselves. I have had a pen in my hand since the earliest age, my mother tells me, so it makes sense that I feel compelled to spend time with the blank page. It, I, must be filled.

Tolerance

I'm a person who has considerable ability to endure. That's a relative statement, of course. I was saying to my son in the car this morning that I'd have died long before Hugh Glass (The Reverant), right about the time the bear mauled Glass. That I wouldn't have thought to eat a fish live, or the inwards of a bison, or sleep inside the carcass of a horse would be quite immaterial since I'd already be dead. But, relatively speaking, I can endure difficult situations. That my husband has wanted to live in a way that isn't in my comfort zone, well, I endure it. I tolerate it. (Note: Perhaps I should explain that the word 'tolerate' is one of my favourite words lately, in honour of a comedian who did a hilarious routine telling people with food intolerances to "tolerate it".)

Of course, when we hold in frustration, it comes out at the most unexpected moments. We were sitting outside in the gardens of the National Gallery sipping on a coffee when my husband made the statement, 'You don't want to make any decisions about business'. I went quiet. When he tried to engage me in discussion later I said, 'Of course I want a voice, why wouldn't I want a voice? You don't want me to have a voice.' Over the weekend we got into this a bit further, and guess what was the outcome? No change. Like always, no change.

Years ago, I said to my boss one day when he wanted to do something his way as per usual, 'Well why bother expressing an opinion since I don't have a vote.' And he replied, 'No. No. I want to discuss it with you at length. (Pause) And then we'll do it my way.' (Another note: Then, he smirked, loving the fact that he could have this repartee with me without me chuckling a wobbly.)

My eldest son who is up there at the Partner level of his firm made a similar statement to me one day, that he recognizes that people need to have their say, to feel listened to, and once he very respectfully does that listening, he explains that as good as their ideas are, things are going to happen the way he has determined them.

A friend of mine tried, genuinely and empathically, to convince her partner for a more rounded relationship. When the discussions completely faltered, in other words when he made the declaration that he wanted things his way and only his way, she called an end to the relationship, but misses him dearly, and I think from all accounts, he misses her. I imagine there is the possibility that things could be reignited but only if she can accept that nothing will have changed or even can change. He needs to have his way.

I've a close friend who keeps our relationship tightly managed, according to his dictates. Every now and again I freak out and explain that it's too bloody tight for me. Shove over and give me some room, some space, some allowances. But, there must be an insane side of me because as Einstein said, only an insane person does something over and over again and expects a different result.

From time to time I forget about the rigid nature of some individuals and think to myself, 'Surely this is just belligerence, and if I point it out logically and calmly, the other will see that they are being belligerent and bend.' But, this is to forget the rigidity of the rigid personality. They don't change because they can't change. They are who they are: committed to what they want. It is their nature.

Of course, no-one has just one facet to their personality. My eldest son, for example, on so many levels, is a relaxed and carefree individual. I heard him say a few days ago when a brother said he'd enjoyed wearing his jacket that he'd borrowed, 'Keep it.' Possessions aren't that important to him. He's happy to do something impulsively, last minute, if he can, and he can go with the flow in a number of ways. But at work, projects need to be done completely accurately and proficiently, meals need to be interesting and well contrived, girlfriends need to understand his desire for order and efficiency and get ready for the comments if he opens a cupboard here and discovers it is stacked with useless takeaway containers. He needs things to be a certain way and he's never going to change. He's not being churlish, he's just being himself.

I'm not at all unaware of the fact that there are rigid elements of my personality. Sometimes when I am trying to entice my husband to do a project around the house or garden and I don't get any traction I might say, 'If you think I am going to change and be the sort of person that doesn't care about the state of things at home you'll be waiting a very long time.' I am me and some things about me won't ever change. Having said that, is it not the submissively natured people of the world who are most likely to change enough to tolerate the rigidity in the Other? Sure, I blow up, but then I blow off and everything goes back to normal, me in the passanger seat.

I must surely have mentioned that I do Sound Healing Meditations and one time late last year I coughed. Bear in mind that we were laying down flat on the floor and when certain sounds were made with the Tibetan bowls I coughed, choked really. Later, the session convenor spoke to me about it and said that my voice chakra was blocked. I didn't think too much about it but in the last session a couple of weeks ago, it happened again. I mention this because in the two weeks after this I found myself voicing what I had held in; in one case, what I had held in for three years. I found myself saying what I had never properly said before; simply had not been able to find the words to stand up for myself.

Whilst it is remarkably onerous, futile really, to alter the dynamic of an exchange between certain people, finding one's voice is a whole other matter.  I wasn't asking, in that case particularly, for a change in the dynamic but I was stating absolutely categorically what was not on the table. I hadn't expressed my boundaries until then; hadn't spoken of what I had found to be utterly unacceptable. I'd just tried and tried to make it work, even though I knew it never would. And, why was that? Because what I was being asked to do was something that went against my personality, my sense of the fitness of things; my understanding of the role I play in this world; what I can do and what I can't. Because the dynamic worked I figured that I didn't have a voice; could not have a limit.

Of course, people have limits that are negotiated every day. But, dolls don't and in that particular dynamic I was 'the doll'. I can't begin to explain how vulnerable I am in that role. I enter that persona much as Leonardo became Hugh Glass - completely and persuasively. Do objects, dolls, fucktoyz have opinions, limits, boundaries? How could they when they don't even compute those big words!

It's captivating play: freeing, uplifting, mesmorizing, addictive; joyful. I do feel, however, that it is important to check in with 'the girl' at times. 'Is everything good?' you might ask a bimbo/doll and being in that slutty/object state of mind, what isn't good? Very important then to give the gal a voice from time to time. Rigid natures she can handle without complaint. Obedience is second nature to her. Holding her tongue is what she does best. But, does the girl who embodies the doll feel the same way, about every last command? It's important to ask the right persona particularly poignant questions about her life.

Regardless of a very naturally submissive nature, I do feel that everyone needs to feel in some sort of control in life; over their own behaviour, their own needs; for a sense of safety and security. It's a divine thought for me to think that a person can give their whole self over to another but it's a bit of an impossibility. We can stop our brains from thinking some of the time but we can't stop thinking all of the time. Our survival instinct demands that we use our minds. An animal, for example, may rely on an Owner for food but if the Owner is caught somewhere and cannot attend to the animal will not a smart animal do what is necessary to survive? So it is with humans. We think.

I think that we grade our relationships; grade those relationships where rigidity abounds and we assess whether the frustrations and the downsides are worth the upsides. Knowing as we eventually do that nothing is going to change and the rigidity will endure, we determine if we can tolerate it. I think there is a lot of love in this type of dynamic; empathy; tolerance; acceptance. It is a vital component.

The Bends: Going down, coming up too fast

The best way I know how to explain my state of mind is that when a certain amount of time goes by of dealing with day to day life, the ups and the downs, I can sense within myself the need for something intense; something 'connecting'; enabling; settling; pacifying.

Only migraine sufferers would understand this, but the white light so prevalent this Spring can make  my days most challenging. I want to keep going and to achieve; to be helpful, cheerful, bright. However, all the positivism in the world does not stop my head from feeling foggy and dim.

If at all possible I take to my bed and let sleep take me over, but the weariness is still there when I wake. The yawning begins as if, like Rip Van Winkle, no amount of slumber is ever quite enough. It bores and bothers me. The weather of this city and its effect on me makes me wonder if there isn't some other place to live, where the sky has made up its mind and wouldn't dream of producing a thick layer of dirty cotton wool to hang over my head.

You might garner that I'm not myself and need some cheering, but perhaps not really understand nor appreciate the reasons why this would be so. You might think that a visit to a wonderful exhibition at the City's Gallery would pick me up, and you'd be right. The opportunity to feast on beauty does wonders for the spirits, but home again, and there it is again; that miserable murky white/grey crud called 'cloud' which makes my head spin to the point of feeling unbalanced and unsettled all over again.

There is nothing else to do but take such a girl to her bedroom, undress her and put her miserable head into a tight, black latex covering. Relief is to be found in the abyss; the dark nothingness below the surface of the rubber; the slow breathing of the Objekt; the mindset that she is just a thing, a toy with which to play.

Objects, chairs for example, don't complain, and nor do slutti fucktoyz. You can spank their pussies really rather hard and they will barely register the ruckus. The pinching of the nipples that a girl might have something to say about is purely play to a fucktoy, an enticement.

When such a fucktoy puts her hands to the top of her smooth, shiny, rubberhead, she wonders, 'but where did the fucktoy's head go?' for the brains have been banished. It's part of the great 'nothingness' now; peace.Yet, sensations surprise the toy. If she could speak she'd say the only 'thought' on her mind.

'Fuck the bimbo. Fuck the bimbo. Fuck the bimbo.'

It would be tempting to 'take' the bimbo, wallow in the Objekt; thrust away, cum. But, an opportunity would be missed to blend with the bimbo; watch the Objekt transform. Think of Dana becoming Zuull in The Ghost Busters and you are right on the money. Why not interact with the entity? Why miss the show?

As luck would have it, it was at this moment of the proceedings when there was a knock on the bedroom door. Deep in the Objekt head, all tied up, plundered, news came of the catastrophic event, a friend's death. The girl was needed immediately.

I can confirm in a very real way that it takes time to come back to reality; to resume one's footing in a vast, forever moving and random world; it takes time and space.

BDSM and a peaceful mind

Spiritual leaders will tell you that 'more' is our challenge. If we are poor, we want more. If we are rich, we want more. We work towards something, achieve it, feel a sense of pride that very soon flickers out. Shouldn't we be moving onto something else, we ask?

I am profoundly guilty of this state of mind. My mind is such that is always in search for the next thing to do, or achieve. I can feel the restlessness, the confused mind; the trying to put things in their rightful place. Don't I have an appointment card at the bottom of a handbag? Now, which handbag was that? Maybe, I have double booked myself. How can I know when I haven't written all the dates in my diary, I ask myself, berating myself as I go. I don't really need anyone else to come down hard on me, since I do an excellent job of flogging myself. If only I was perfect. If only I was more motivated, more organised, more...

Sometimes, I ask, 'What have you actually achieved today? Anything??' That's delusional thinking of course since I can't sit still much at all, nor really ever feel satisfied with my output. I'm usually confident that, if more efficient, I could have achieved so much more.

There is no question, from anybodies perspective, that I could, indeed, achieve more. Time is spent on tumblr. Time is spent reading articles on Buddhism, or talking to friends, or trying to  settle my mind as to what on earth it is that I really should be doing before the day comes to an end. I am a disorganized, organized sort of person. I get there in the end, but I have to push myself to get there. Seriously, quite honestly, I'd rather not think, and that's nothing new. I have been aware of this fact always. I'm dreamy. It is what it is.

Doing my writing course worked from the point of view that there were outside forces insisting that I do my work. Of course, nobody insists that you get Distinctions and High Distinctions. This is self enforced and comes from egoic thought, but there it is. If I was putting my name to it, it had be of high quality.

In the process of assisting my son make a film I chatted with a wonderful psychologist who, whilst waiting for the lighting to be 'perfect' (Oh gosh yes, I passed on these genes...) told me many stories about past patients (all anonymous, of course). He told me he had one woman submit a paper for her post graduate degree that barely passed with a push. Under no circumstances was she to submit a paper that earned more than a P. She had got it into her head, he explained, that she was a failure in  spite of all that she had achieved. She was a failure if she didn't get a HD, and if her baby cried in the night, well, more evidence that she was a failure at parenthood too. So, he nipped it in the bud by taking her as close to failure as he dared and showing her that she would survive the 'ordeal'.

The story was terribly, painfully close to home, although I never let on. Of course. But, it did occur to me that if I were ever to put my trust in psychology again (highly unlikely), this was my man. It helped that he had a brilliant sense of humor and that the irony was that he was as uptight about his own son's VCE year (final year of school) as any of his clients. He said to me that "we have so much to do over the holidays", and then we shared a knowing look. Yep. He was a perfectionist, anal retentive too. Over-achievers are painstakingly boring and predictable, and there are so many of them around! (It takes one to know one.)


I've mentioned before that I meditate in a group, though Tuesday was my first group meditation in two months, far too long between cushion time for me. My meditation leader is a fabulous woman who has become a good friend. I'm suffering jealousy right now because she is in New Zealand at a retreat that I dearly wish I was at, but I chose Japan with my husband instead, and that was the right decision. Still. It's hard right now. I wish I was there.

Anyway, as spiritually evolved as she is, she gets tense. She worries. So, I asked her what to do in those situations. What does she do in those situations?

'You must go to your cushion,' she says. 'It is the best place for you. The feelings will pass. Clarity will come once you sit and let go.'

I have had many fleeting thoughts, not always 'caught', about BDSM,  about dominance, being similar to a spiritual life. The Top, as I have experienced it, insists, absolutely insists on control, and with that categorical control, provides the sort of space where thoughts can be let go. Whether that it is through pain, or pleasure, or some of both, he empties the head of obsessive thoughts and worries and provides a space where the submissive can surrender to life; find the true essence of oneself, free of concerns about what to achieve in the material world.

Eckhart Tolle, whom I recommend to you as an easily understood spiritual leader, said in a short UTube clip that "every moment offers you the choice between conditioned reactions or conscious Presence". The goal is to bring some space into the stream of thought, and that is what happens when beaten, when bound, when contained, when reduced.

Once, in the very early days of my investigations into domination I read of a man who had a big chair in the corner of a room and when his girl was fraught, over anxious or overwhelmed, he told her to sit there and not to dare to move unless he gave her permission. She would sit there, angry, smoke rising through her nostrils and up into the air, but as time went by the negative energy began to dissipate and she began to think clearly. Then, they could talk it through, calmly and with clarity.

I've had better meditations than last Tuesday but none more still and pain free. I sit with my knees folded under me and, maybe it was all the walking we did in Japan, but it was perfectly comfortable to do this for the entire hour. My meditation leader once said to us that sometimes it pays to go to the pain, not hide from it. She counsels people with cancer and it is a strategy they use, not to fear the pain but to consciously experience it and come to the resolution that it is a do-able pain. I did this and discovered that I was more or less pain-free. I maintained my focus in my body very well indeed, stayed with my breath, returned to my body when thoughts came; refused to give in to the thinking mind; banished it. It takes practice. The words 'coming home to the body' resonate with me now.

This is part of the whole understanding that in meditation we 'come home to the body'. Focus is put on the breath, or perhaps the feet. Focus is taken away from the thoughts, or at least we acknowledge the awareness that thought has happened, again, and now we return to the body, to the open spaced Consciousness where we just exist; that space between thoughts. One way to achieve this is to focus on the process of breathing, not to engage in it but to watch it. The body will inhale when it is ready; will exhale when it is ready. And, in between the inhalation and the exhalation there is a space. It's thrillingly quiet and calm in that space.

In some ways, the smarter you are, the more challenging life can be. Why sit in the car and chill when you could put on a CD and learn another language? Don't think for half an hour? Are you mad? Some super brainy surgeons feel this way. But, I need to submit for more reasons than one. I need a strong dominant because I need to feel that authority to achieve what I can't achieve on my own. If you read some of the forums on Fetlife about 'Mental BDSM' you'll see that I am not at all alone. Streams of people want very much to engage in non-thought activities because instinctively they know that this is what is good for them; that endless worry and thought isn't getting them where they want to go in life; in their lives inside their heads where we all reside.

Of course, in the 'Real' material world we all engage in activities and pursuits. We all have a purpose of some kind. At the same time, Tolle reminds us that as well as this we share a life purpose - to find that which is our essence, that which has no form. Nothing really is more important than that, especially given that there is really only one Consciousness of which we are all a part. The more people at peace, the better, for our material world is a mirror image of what our inside world looks like. It is much too noisy. I think we can agree on that.

Understanding

It's fun to play 'house' like all the other gals, and some days I can read the local newspaper or watch the 'PBS Newshour' with a real fascination. I'll converse with my husband about the evermore bizarre decisions of the Liberal Party here, truly wonderous at how people could get it so wrong. Messing with Medicare, putting power in the hands of University Chancellors to determine fee structures, giving a Knighthood to Prince Phillip...what will they dream up next? And, what made them think they could get away with these notions? Australians only put up with so much disturbance of our way of life and if they don't know that, they don't deserve to be in power.

But, the truth is that I can't sustain for too long an overwhelming interest in the everyday world. I'm constantly lured into the world of literature, of  Radio National, classical music and dance. When my husband opened up conversation at a lovely dinner out last night, telling me how much he enjoyed my Tumblr recently, it seemed an invitation to speak more of my inner landscape. I had heard an interview that day and I told him something of the wonderful Graeme Murphy who guided the Sydney Dance Theatre for many years to world acclaim. If you have seen 'Mao's Last Dancer' then you know something of Graeme Murphy's superb choreography.

'If we had boundless cash, and I know we don't, I'd take out a subscription for us to The Australian Ballet and the MTC and other companies.'

'Well, maybe we should just go ahead and do that anyway...'

After nearly 40 years together we've come to accept one another for who we are. He no longer says to me when I ask some political question I should know the answer to, 'How could you not know that?'

And, I no longer suggest that maybe he should read a novel some time, knowing full well that it will never happen.

We are as different as chalk and cheese and yet he has met me more than half way when he treats me like the object that I love to be; uses me without waiting for invitation or acceptance of his advances; helps me into that space where real life completely melts away and where I am most free and...me.

He recognizes, and accepts, that I live in my head, probably too empathic and sentimental; probably too prepared to forgive. It can't be an entirely good thing to wake up early each morning now wondering if the two imprisoned Australian men (of the Bali 9 group) in Indonesia who attempted to smuggle drugs have been transported to an island to await the firing squad, and to feel pain on their behalf.

And, yet, I do. If it is not possible to make the case of true and real transformation, if there is to be no forgiveness, then what does that say of us as people? We can't make a decision if we don't know the whole story and the whole story is only known by so few. The lawyers are fighting for every minute because as each minute goes by the debate over capital punishment is louder.

'I'm thinking of volunteering for Lifeline', I tell my daughter.

'Oh, I don't think so, Mum. You won't be able to switch off from the pain you hear.'

I'm not an outlyer of society but rather someone who feels too much. Lord knows, "the woman with emotions" isn't nearly as appealing as the girl who bunkers down into that object space, and that's especially true from my vantage point let alone anyone elses perception of my value.

Writing impulses

Writers sometimes keep journals about their project(s) and within those journals are all sort of contemplations about why they are hooked on a particular topic or idea, who their characters are and why they do what they do. These diaries can be filled with contemplative reflections that go on in a stream of writing way for pages at a time, or just a note; some little snippet of an idea to be considered on some other day.

I'm deeply immersed in one such diary at the moment and considering the motives of the two main characters in the story. I feel I know what she wants but I am not entirely sure of what the male character stands to get; not at all sure what is motivating him. Well, sometimes, I am sure of what he wants and sometimes he just confuses me. But then, is that I, the writer of these characters that is feeling different today than I did yesterday, just as all our emotions and thoughts fluctuate somewhat from day to day, or is it my vision of Daniel that is seeing things in some sort of new light; something that I didn't see there before? At the end of the day, it is all perception, not some truth of the matter, I think.

Of course, we don't necessarily want to be seen under a bright, neon light. We may have no desire whatsoever for someone to understand us in our entirety and so it is with the writer's process - some characters are tricky; some choose not to reveal themselves in any complex and complete way. That's why we write notes, trying to pin them down; to make sense of behavior that seems to have no logic of its own.

Diaries are used for catharsis, too. Moments of anger, frustration and joy ask to be cataloged in a diary. I've no idea why exactly except that for some people there's an instinct working that tells them to 'write it down' and so we do; the heartbreaks, the moments of happiness; a sudden burst of understanding about a situation. We write down changes too. We notice, our intuition notices that there has been a change within us and our intellect goes to work to try to figure what it was that our intuition noted. Since we learned language we've felt right about getting things down.

I've noticed all morning that I feel different than I did, say, last week. Yes, a weekend away in the country stimulates my senses and getting out of the city is enlivening for my spirits. But, it's more than that. My body, over the past five days or so has been stimulated (used) and having expressed myself in this way (that is, felt deeply and contentedly objectified several times over) my mind is in a state of peace; not empty but slowed right down. I've no desire today to do, but rather just to sit with myself. Never mind that I have writing to do. I'm doing the writing that I'm not required to do, as you can see.

This is no permanent 'fix'. There's still a long way to go before I could feel that the situation has settled such that every day is an authentic day, or a day in which all is in its place in my world, but I don't feel any longer that sense that I'm living in my own little nightmare, unable to make it go away. It's back to that feeling of contentedness (even though nothing has actually changed other than the use, and my sense of things, and my feelings about all that), and that understanding of the contentedness that it is no permanent state. What I mean is that I know that I am a slew of emotions that alter and change without my being able to set them in a particular way. All I can do is notice them; be aware of them; celebrate them when I feel as I do now; as if I have walked out of the primordial swamp intact; alive. "I am alive!" What a wonderful feeling is that!

Of course, the idea is that when one is enlightened enough, one simply accepts each new day and each new set of feelings as they change and transform as being 'right'. If one is simply awareness, one looks in on the situations of life and accepts all that happens; all that one thinks.

I'm not explaining it well, because at this moment I am writing as if I were writing in one of my hand written diaries, none too worried about being logical; just exploring an idea. The best I can do is to say that I am very aware of this moment where my fingers are gliding over the letters of the laptop; where I sit here at the big round table with myself, surrounded by pages that offer endless ideas about the creative process and feel...content. I have no particular needs. I'm not even focused on doing the task at hand (as is obvious) but rather sitting with myself, whoever that is.

As I woke this morning I remembered, quite out of the blue, that I had a conversation with a woman about two years ago now. She used to look after me when I was a little girl, She cooked for me mostly but she also talked to me a lot. There had been a gap of about 20 years since I saw her last and the first thing she said to me was "I'd have known you anywhere. You haven't changed at all." I didn't like to ask then what I woke up wishing that I had asked. "Who is that little girl you know so well? What was I like? Tell me about myself."

I'm beginning to think that no matter the subject of our writing, at the end of the day we inject every situation and every character with a part of ourselves, because the most fascinating part of any human being's journey through life remains the eternal question, 'Who am I?' We may never know.

The object state

Ruth sat in the front passenger seat and felt the sun warming her face on this autumn morning. Her eyes gradually became more heavy and at some point she began to drift off into slumber. As her mind began to let go of the effort to remain fully awake she squeezed on the anal plug she was wearing and as she did images floated before her closed eyes; images she had not called up but had made an entrance into her mind without invitation.

She felt the long, thick cock enter her pussy cunt and as it did she let out a soft groan, overcome with the pleasure and surprise of the thrust. Her mind fell much like an elevator that jerks in deceleration. Instinctively, she opened her mouth to form a hole for any other cock that was also in need of the use of her body. To those people in cars passing by, thankfully, this was a woman whose mouth opens when she falls asleep; nothing more.

Very quickly, Ruth had transformed into her object state. She was there for their use and she knew it; wanted it; thrived on the thought. No matter how hard she tried with the force of her will, of which she felt she had an abundant store, to not think about such scenarios, this thought repeated in Ruth's mind many times a day. As surprised as she was to experience this so haphazardly, on the way to an event, the scenario itself was well known to her.

Whether she had been trained to believe in her object state or whether it was there all along she knew not. All she could really say for sure was that she had no idea how to make it go away, and that she didn't want to. Ruth had only been fucked in her mind's eye but she enjoyed it nonetheless, as always; took great pleasure in the meanderings of her mind, as usual.

Objectification desires

I was talking to my husband this morning; one of those talks when I try to be intimate with him, by way of words. I told him that I had given him a very hard task in life really. He wasn't expected to be just my husband, but also my father, my brother; my dominant lover. I acknowledged that it can't be an easy task.

Of course, I did have a father and I do have a brother, and I'm loved, but neither man loved me in such a way as to want to nurture me, I think. I don't think about it too often because it is simply my reality; a reality I can't change. Still, I wanted to acknowledge to my husband that there hadn't been a male figure in my life in a family sense who could aid my husband to nurture me in any way. This had probably made his role all the more difficult.

I also shared with my husband a situation that had occurred during the week. Lorraine (not her real name) and I  were the last two women to leave a group of women having coffee after an exercise session. Lorraine wanted to share with me details about her marriage of 37 years which ended in divorce 6 years ago. She wanted to tell me of her experiences at dating since the divorce and her man of the moment who appears to have no assertiveness. She wanted to know what she should do. She's spent the majority of her life with an assertive/take charge man and was it even possible that she could come to enjoy a much quieter and less assertive man; someone who after four months of weekly dating still hasn't got beyond a kiss goodnight?

"Is it me?" she asked me.
"You want intimacy. You want to be as close with a man as you can. You have a particular nature and it is hard for you to be the instigator of things. I understand that," I replied.
"Yes. I do. I may be 61 but I want intimacy and I am used to a man taking charge of the situation."

It was my pleasure to talk with her. I don't mind at all listening to people express themselves, but it did occur to me that this happens to me quite frequently and it causes me to reflect. Any emotional anguish I experience takes places behind closed doors and here in this web journal. So, to meet me what you see is a well dressed woman who smiles frequently; a woman who appears happy, content, stable, financially secure and happily married. I guess I must also come across as non-judgmental, open and willing to listen, but not smug, or so wrapped up in her own life that I am at all a threat.

For instance, a woman, a stranger to me, did the same thing yesterday afternoon at the afternoon tea after a funeral where she told me, over the course of an hour, about her son's autism, the behavior training methods they had used and so on. I did share a little bit of my own knowledge - I happened to know an autistic boy who snow skis with her son. However, what I shared did not relate to questions she asked me about myself because she didn't ask me any questions about myself.

Rightly or wrongly, my emotional pain takes place with myself fairly exclusively, except on those rare occasions when the distress spills over in my own home, or occasionally over coffee with my mother. Even then, I recover as fast as I can because what alternative is there? What ails me has no solution, it would seem, which is galling because I do love to say to the children, 'Every problem has a solution.'

In a nutshell my problem is that is I need a large helping of intimacy on a regular basis. To be more specific, I need my intimacy in a particular way. To explain that a bit more, I enjoy instruction. I enjoy the discipline of receiving instruction. I don't so much enjoy to initiate myself as I enjoy that someone takes from me.  This is the transference of energy from them to me that I crave.

When intimacy is available to me and I can bunker down into that deeply meditative and blissful state of being 'taken', my spirits rise and life becomes easy. The emotional pain I might have been experiencing is washed away. I am able then to offer kindnesses and compassion; to be, in essence, the initiator after that. However, without some dominant display I remain, as my husband likes to say, "the dolly on the shelf." I can't come down until I am brought down. Conversely, I can flirt, but when I feel the dominant energy is present or will be appreciated.

Alas, I'm all too aware of this failing of mine. It might be early morning and I contemplate waking my husband with some advance, but if his dominant energy towards me has been absent, a move in his direction is like asking me to put my hand out and pat a poisonous snake. I am just not going to be able to do that and so I remain 'on the shelf', perpetually in wait. I am hurt really. I feel rejected and abandoned and in that state of mind it's awfully hard for me to ask for intimacy.

Randomly, this week my husband told me he had read of anal stretching being associated with an increase in oxytocin. Of course, we all know that sexual pleasure is a wonderful way of relaxing the body and the mind, but anal intercourse or use of a largish anal plug can create feelings of euphoria that, in my experience, go beyond your everyday orgasm. Whether it is oxytocin or something else entirely I cannot say but my body certainly creates some sort of pleasure drug. I refer to it as being "opened". My body and my mind are opened up in very special ways and these experiences are very happy ones for me wherein any sort of identity is simply unnecessary and unwanted. I'm in a state of objectification, something I do for myself, that makes it possible for me to flourish as a human being. My mind is opened to all sorts of perversions. Gosh, I love that. And, my body is tuned and turned on in a way that makes me feel totally alive.

I'm well aware that with a deeply perverted man I truly would flourish. He could buy me masks that cover my face tightly. He could put me in a latex dolly suit and watch my identity melt away. He could call me his doll, his slut, his fuck toy, it, or 'hol' and I'd not just be okay with this. I'd relish it. I'm so aware of all this potential inside me for delicious debauchery; objectification; the possibility to let go in the deepest way and just enjoy whatever comes. I'd adore him for it. He could do what he will to me, and as a result of that intimacy, that care and trust, I'd hold him in the highest esteem. Truly, I hunger for that outcome every day of my life.

And yet, here I am, faithful to a man whom I love, and with whom I expected to spend my days until death comes to me, who is experiencing a malaise that makes very little of this possible. I struggle. I struggle to accept these limitations and restrictions. I wonder how I can go on, knowing all the infinite possibilities for peace and bliss, for intimacy and care, yet denied them. Where the answer lies, if there is indeed an answer to my dilemma, I just don't know.

Pleasing the dominant

Those of us with a creative soul need to alter and adjust people and places to suit ourselves; to give birth to something in our own image. The talented hairdresser wishes to transform a woman into someone with self confidence and flair. The fashion stylist wishes to make the woman more beautiful and alluring when she wears his or her creations. Interior designers wish to create beautiful, comfortable rooms in which people can live happily and calmly; an oasis from the busy world outside. Novelists want to create a world which the reader will find so absorbing it will be difficult to put down the book. Musicians long for those evenings when the sound they create is sublime; never mind that it is just for an hour or so. They strive for perfection. They long to play better than they ever played before.

In the world of power exchange, the dominant can wish to transform a woman's mind. In order to get there he's likely to also want to transform her body. 'Owner tags', for example, are a permanent reminder that the person is 'owned'; that her body and her mind - her whole sense of happiness and fulfillment really - are at the behest of, and under the control of, the dominant member of the relationship.

It won't matter how much interaction I have with dominants. Their words cannot suffice to explain their head space such that I can explain it in my own words. I can only imagine what they might mean; what they might want. For a long time, I saw the exchange, at its most heady, as one person giving herself over to the other. By doing this, the submissive member of the exchange was giving her trust, and her love, to the other. He might want more than she wanted, more than she ever imagined she wanted, but over time his desires would naturally - by various means of persuasion - become her desires. Together, they'd experience unimaginably erotic highs.

He'd luxuriate in her ability to 'let go' and let him lead; to experience such divine eroticism. He would have created, and transformed, an average woman into a slutti, mindless, sex craved fucktoy. They'd both be unbelievably aroused and connected in the experience; the ultimate in sexual libido at its highest and pleasure in the extreme. He could wallow in her acceptance of his appetite. In the state she is hardly in a position to challenge or berate his behavior. She's just as bad; just as naughty.  Her appetite is just as voracious. Look in the mirror. Take note of the photograph. Evidence. A slut is born. This is really as far as my mind went.

I now think I see something that I had overlooked before. Some dominants cannot and will not be satiated. That is to say, enough will never be enough. An owner's tag can be heavier. A heavier ring through the nipples can hold a heavier bell or weight. A woman can be locked away, should he choose. There are chastity belts, a constant reminder of the 'owned' state. He can lock her pussy cunt; attached rings in her pussy cunt and padlock them together. He can 'request' a tattoo marking his possession, or he might want to see her in a corset, restraining her such that her waist is adorably small.

Some dominants want full control over the submissive's hair style and color, her wardrobe, her weight, her exercise regime. Other dominants might lead a woman to a new way of life; a different course of undertaking her days. 'Dom with Pen', a perfectly sane individual as far as I can tell, doesn't shy away from the fact that he wishes his girl were a housewife and not in the teaching profession.

What I am getting at is that the dominant position isn't necessarily one whereby it is about leading a woman to express and live out her own personal, unfulfilled and perhaps unexpressed desires. He wants waaaaaaaaay more than that. He wants her to do 'it' - whatever the 'it' is this time. He wants her to do  'it' because it would be pleasing to him.

I referred a few posts ago to the fact that the dominant may not accept 'no' as an acceptable answer. It's not the sort of arrangement where she can say - "I tried. I just can't." He's not going to accept that, this dominant. She needs to try harder. She needs to train more regularly. He's not whistling dixie here. He means it. He has decreed it and she will do it.

There is a persuasion of a similar kind that goes on with vanilla folk, I think. He wants the job in London and he means to have it, whether they have to uproot and she leaves behind all that she loves, or not. He wants to grow a beard and she has no choice but to accept his decision even though she much prefers him clean shaved. For some men, their will must be done. They mean to have their way - not in a selfish way, necessarily. There is a good chance that the decision is right for both of them, ultimately. But, his will will be done.

In power exchange terms, I suppose you would say that between the couple, there are no real limits and there certainly is no safe word she intends to ever use. He controls. She does his bidding. Now, not for a minute would I suggest that this situation is intended to harm or be in any way negative. In a healthy 'all or nothing' power exchange the dominant is so incredibly responsible for the submissive that he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. He is the 'all mighty' ruler and as such he understands he bears responsibility if something goes wrong. He needs constant and open communication with her in order to function. He'll always listen. But, he, ultimately will decide and she, ultimately, must concede to him. Never mind that these ideas are new; radical; outside of her knowledge banks, desires and wants. His wants are, inevitably, her wants. She, at the end of the day, if not before, will be enriched; praised; adored. Enticed?

Dress code

As a woman interested in fashion and an admirer of beautiful things, I acquired a relatively large wardrobe. As a woman who desired that sense of being owned to the point of adoring the object state, it wasn't going to be possible to hold onto that expansive wardrobe.

I divested myself of many articles of clothing and it felt ever so much better. But, what happened to me over the next few years is what happens to all of us if you aren't careful. Your wardrobe, your house and your life becomes uncomfortably filled with new things. I'd experience the pleasure of buying a beautiful scarf perhaps, only to feel low when I put it away with the many other beautiful scarves in my collection. Did I really need to buy another?

In fact, what had happened to me was that I had embraced the idea of having a wardrobe of clothing and accessories in good working order - not too little and not too much - but I had failed to take on part B of the dress code - that a purchase of a cardigan, say, meant that I needed to give away a cardigan I already had. To put it another way, if my cardigans were all still loved and in good working order, why was I buying another?

Sometimes, I see a bargain out there, a dress that is so well priced and flattering that I purchase it on the spare of the moment. The task in that case is to go home and find a dress to give away that this new purchase will replace. At times, this throws me into a bit of a state. I have to really search my wardrobe to locate something that is ready to be removed from the wardrobe. So far, I have always located an item because if I don't locate an item, back to the store the new dress must go. That's the rule.

Once upon a time, I would have found this dress code rule onerous and unpleasant. It would not have turned me on and I'd have felt resentful and underprivileged. Not any more. I thrive on my dress code, luxuriate in the time taken to consider an addition to the wardrobe and often discover that in the few days taken to consider the item I decide that it is an unnecessary purchase and one that I can certainly do without. If I do decide I want it and purchase the garment, it is with clear intention and understanding that the garment is needed, much loved and desired, and will be worn more or less immediately.

As time has gone  by I've realized that I honestly do thrive under control and my dress code is an important aspect of that control. It takes me deep into the object state which for me is very much desired.

The Things We Do

I'm currently reading THE  things THEY carried, by Tim O'Brien. He is a wonderful writer. As he writes, one shouldn't believe a story is a true war story until you feel it in your stomach. Whether truth or fiction, all his stories are felt in the gut. I could point to endless paragraphs that have deeply affected me but this one really resonated:

""To generalize about war is like generalizing about peace. Almost everything is true. Almost nothing is true. At its core, perhaps, war is just another name for death, and yet any soldier will tell you, if he tells the truth, that proximity to death brings with it a corresponding proximity to life. After a firefight, there is always the immense pleasure of aliveness. The trees are alive. The grass, the soil - everything. All around you things are purely living, and you among them, and the aliveness makes you tremble. You feel an intense, out-of-the-skin awareness of your living self - your truest self, the human being you want to be and then become by the force of wanting it."

What occurred to me is that there are moments in that paragraph when he could be commenting on a BDSM experience and the after effects..."the aliveness makes you tremble". I can only speak for myself when I say that experimentation in these activities somehow places me closer to my "truest self"; that pain brings me closer to joy; that there is an "aliveness" once I have been objectified.

As O'Brien makes clear, war is not just death and destruction. It's hell, mystery, terror, adventure, courage, holiness, pity, despair, longing; love. There are no generalizations to be made, just as there are no generalizations to be made about living. We all put one foot in front of the other and the story continues on. Our memories will fade, but if the stories are written down they will be immortal. Thus, we write stories, with the exact details being less important than the essence, the truth of the story.

I sometimes sit and remember an episode of sub-space; the extraordinary experience not just of those divine minutes, but the time thereafter; the experiencing of being alive in the fullest way. In ways, it is getting closer to death, or rather, to the time before one was born; the feeling of being reborn. It creates a very special bond between two people that just goes on and on. How could it not.

Doll dives deeper

It is a few years now since I was introduced to the notion that there was, perhaps, a dolly inside the girl; inside me. The notion immediately excited me, although I didn't necessarily understand exactly what that meant. But, I gravitated to it immediately and with the emergence and expression of each little new aspect of the doll, as I grew closer and closer to the feelings of the doll, I became happier. I have learned that there really isn't any aspect of embracing the doll into my life that I don't love. It makes me softer, more patient and understanding, more alive and very definitely, much more happy to feel my 'dollness' ever present in my life.

One aspect of the doll that I hadn't quite understood in a full and encompassing way until recently was that the doll is really always switched on, under the right regime. I'd understood that she understands that she was always to be ready for use, bur I hadn't fully understood that she may always be switched on herself (itself?); that she isn't necessarily ever in 'girl' mode; that the doll has to learn and understand that she (it?) has no choice but to accept the state of arousal 24/7 and to learn to work with that arousal; to work through it and to sleep through it; not at all an easy thing but a required thing and something that the doll eventually accepts as her way of life. I've learned that you can't fight it; you have to simply 'let go'.

The girl has to do real life girl things and there is no getting around that. But, the doll may be ever present in the girl's life and the mind of the girl may be aware of the doll inside her; aware of her sexuality, of her desire for control, of her acquiescence and of her constant readiness in mind and body to be taken.

I've been working away at incorporating this mindset into my life, at pushing the boundaries of my mind and my body and I find it a profoundly uplifting experience; one that makes my spirits soar. The more confined the doll feels, the more this woman floats. I think it must be that accepting myself for who I am has sustained me and allowed me to reach deep into my subconscious and embrace myself for all that I am. I have certainly never experienced such a coming together of my mind, body and spirit in any other way.

A friend yesterday told me of her sense of a lack of purpose in life at this time now that she is not working. I was sympathetic, of course, but the doll knows her purpose without a shadow of a doubt. Feeling myself and being able to express that entity, finding the deep sense of relaxation that that knowledge brings to my life is a priceless gift that I will always cherish.

I've no way of knowing how many dolls there are out there. I've come across only a handful of other examples in my life of this incredibly happy place for a woman in complete surrender; this deep deep need for use and for control. No doubt there are many others out there and yet it's clear I'm in a category all of my own with this web journal. I don't fit at all neatly into any category out there; not the spanking community, or DD or HoH. I've plenty of readers still and maybe they too are looking for a way into their doll, or perhaps they are doll makers who have a doll or want a doll.

The word 'objectification' doesn't terrify them or make them squirm for they know already, consciously or subconsciously, that this is how they want to feel too. One or two of these people have corresponded with me over time and it is always brilliant to read how two slightly odd (I know I am slightly odd!) people have come together to make a perfect fit. It always delights me. Dreams really can come true, if you are open to them.

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.

Doll returns

Perhaps the more people we know, the richer the life. It's possible. I'm open to the idea that every interaction can have value and meaning, however fleeting. However, I wonder, if you look at your lives closely, you might discover that there are only a handful of relationships that mean everything to you.

Even in those relationships and my guess is that you have a deeply caring and sharing relationship with those people, you need to tread relatively carefully. If you want to try to persuade and convince, to teach and instruct, to influence in positive ways, you need to be a skillful navigator of the human psyche. Come towards that person in the wrong light or using inappropriate words and the best of intentions go up in a cloud of smoke as they become defensive and close down.

It strikes me that the greatest asset at our disposal is our own self-control; the ability to pause and reflect before choosing words; to come at any matter with intention in order to effect a positive result.

I don't divide people into 'dominant' and 'submissive' when I speak of self-control because on both sides of the ledger, we need abundant self-control as well as to begin with the end in mind.

One of the goals of exploring the power exchange relationship was to improve my own self-control and I had that goal for various reasons, but all roads led to the fact that I wanted to have a positive influence on other people, but I didn't have all the tricks of the trade. I needed to learn to control my temper, anxiety and emotions , to pause and reflect when I didn't get the responses I was wanting and expecting, mainly because I let my temper get in the way.

Capturing and containing the doll is an effective way for me to be held in a small space where my responses are limited and expectations very clear. The doll has rules that make it almost impossible for her to break away from her place, not that she would want to do that anyway; just saying.

Cultural theories I may have studied, 'reading against the text' I may have done but absolutely nothing sustains me more than expressing that mindset and honing deep into the psyche of a happy, slutty fucktoy. Of course, it's not just that she (it?) may emerge and run free that creates the sense of enormous well being and happiness, but that there is interchange. Nothing is more doll enhancing than running up against control, expectations, appreciation and enjoyment of the object-state.

If you had the ability to observe my spirits soar,  my mind and body relax, the softness of being that is appreciated by all who interact with me when the doll has come out to play, you'd be completely convinced, Feminist, cultural theorist, academic and/or  naysayer of role play and BDSM that this is a very good thing.

The doll's free flowing thoughts

It can be awfully easy on a blog such as this to make statements that don't hold up in reality. We're so often in an erotic sort of zone when we read and write. It can be awfully easy for statements to roll off the tongue.

A spanking a day sounds nice

She would wear her plug every morning and all through the night.

She would only wear dresses and skirts.

I want to feel tightly contained.

However, life isn't like that all the time. I am not like that all the time.

In the olden days when I had a mentor he had certain expectations of me and they involved doing things every day. Sometimes, it all seemed so easy and other times I'd rail against it. To this day I have no idea if he really expected me to accept those every day ultimatums. I am after all, human.

I know I bucked. I'd try to discuss it with other Dom friends. They'd walk the line of explaining that he did mean it but he didn't mean for me to look into the abyss and imagine that for the rest of my life I'd be doing this, just like as a dieter you don't look into the abyss and imagine never eating sugar again. You take things day by day. You eat an elephant one bite at a time.

That helped. I tried to take it day by day but even then I felt resistance. We'd be talking and he'd have his expectations and some days, in spite of my best intentions, I'd explain that I was feeling "bellyus". He'd quietly push and then when that didn't work he'd push harder. What he didn't do was relent and in the end, fearful of tapping into his anger, I'd accept my fate.

I appreciated (and needed) this push; this insistence that the rule remained. However, what I came to see and accept rather late in the day was that I always had at my disposal the opportunity to argue my point of view. If the argument was made well and the line of defense accepted, there was room within the rule for an exception. (Realistically, I rather doubt it would have worked to do this except in very rare and exceptional circumstances.)

When something works on an everyday basis, really truly works, there is no need for exceptions. I'd hardly ask for an exception for the rule about acrylic nails, now would I?

I'd hardly ask for an exception to the fact that I am responsible for the household. It is set in stone.

I'd hardly ask for an exception to the rule that I must speak politely. I know all too well the response that a lack of respect earns me, at home or on the Internet.

But, some rules are not so ingrained and maybe they never can be. What I was being asked to do is very hard on a day by day basis. If you add into the equation the presence of the Dominant making it happen, then I think it is entirely possible. But, my husband isn't inclined to make happen what he doesn't see himself as do-able or necessary. There's no-one to insist; no-one for whom the rule is entirely necessary. And so, it is not achieved on a daily basis any more. Whom am I  pleasing? If I am pleasing no-one then why should I do something that requires sustained effort and will?

Yet, if I don't do the task on a daily basis, it is I that is the loser in this equation. I cannot enter into the doll's state of mind without doing that thing daily. Without that task achieved where is the 'on' switch?

I grapple with this; find it endlessly difficult to know that I must do this thing without the Dominant's desire being expressed; must do it by myself; for myself; alone.

Is the doll still a doll alone; without a dollmaker; a puppeteer to bring the doll to life? Is there a value to her simply to know that she exists; that she lives and breathes within the realm of the doll house, ready and wanting; available and prepared?

Of course, there is, there is. But, should she abdicate her responsibilities there is no one to check; no-one to care and she wonders, if no-one is there to see her or speak with her; if she cannot impress or please or give pleasure, is she really alive?

She can feel her heart beating. She is just a heartbeat away from rising to the surface; from bubbly over with pleasure and joy. She is always there; wanting to come out; sitting just below the surface; waiting...waiting...

How much I wish to see her, breathe her air, immerse myself in her, be her. How much I envy her. I've seen her happiness; her joy; her bliss; her sexual satisfaction and profound love of life.  Gosh, but I miss her.

Owners

I am familiar with the statement, "It's hard for owners." I have heard it a number of times over the past few years and I would be the first to agree. I certainly wouldn't want to be an owner. And, the more bimbo-like the girl becomes, the harder it is for the owner because her needs only grow. They never reduce.

Once a girl knows what it feels like to be objectified her taste for this sort of play expands and multiplies. If there should be a shortage of such play, she walks around just a bit dissatisfied with life. When you've been to that place of peace and bliss, your thoughts are firmly entrenched in getting back there.

So, what does it take? Well, it's a state of mind really but that state of mind is firmly grounded in a physical experience and response. Contain the girl, bind her in some way and her state of mind will soon sink down into a very settled and sexual space.

Training is a prerequisite. I imagine each owner has his own methods but anal training worked for me. Rope is good. Binding the girl so that her wrists are tied at night can take her deep into her bimbo-contained-blissful state self. One feels delightfully contained in a corset, of course, and mouth gags can sink you deep down into that 'you're not in control here' space very nicely. I don't have a chastity belt but just the thought of wearing one can take me several layers down into my bimbo loving place.

I like to be told that I can't talk. I like to be told to bend over a chair and get a good walloping; made to say thank you and to ask if I may rise. Paddling, whippings, canings: all those types of activities help a girl to feel very owned and to help her understand her place. Holes filled. Holes used. That's all ideal for a girl to let go of her muddled headed thinking and just retreat deep down.

To some people this all sounds very demeaning which is a bit of a joke because to objectify a girl like me is to give her the most priceless gift in the entire world: a sense of letting go; peace; glorious bliss and a totally empty mind.

We must appreciate and be good to our owners. Without them we may be more, but how can we become less?

Resting the mind and body

Yesterday was one of those days that was crammed full of activity. I got my son off the school, whizzed about the house to straighten it up, drove to my mother in another city a little over an hour away, spent five hours with her doing various tasks and conversing, drove home again, put on some washing and sorted the kitchen for dinner, drove to the market to get a few ingredients, cooked the meal, washed up, returned to the laundry and after that, stretched out on my bed with my laptop to do my Discussion post work for my studies until almost midnight. It has been 25 years since I was a student and each time I start a new subject of this Masters I go through a similar sense of feeling disoriented, out of my depth and feeling like it was a mistake to even pretend that  I am capable of this standard. (The feeling goes away a couple of weeks into the subject but while it lasts, it is darn uncomfortable.)

Once I had my shower and got into bed, on a rather hot evening here, my mind instantly went to thoughts that I knew would calm me and soothe me; my relaxation for the day. All vestiges of a functioning woman were gone. I was living with an unknown man. I am not sure of what he meant to me in my life. Perhaps it was a sort of arranged marriage, or perhaps I had been sent there for training, or perhaps we had both been living together and in this way for years and years. I don't dwell on that sort of detail all that often.

There are rituals to my day at that place and it was time for bed. I put on a beautifully patterned green cotton dressing gown (the one I have been admiring in a store here with imports from India, Bali, Bangladesh) and I knocked on the man's door. He called to me to "enter" and I stood inside the door and said, "I am ready for bed, Sir." He said to return to the bedroom and he'd be there shortly; that I could assume the position and wait for him.

I returned to the bedroom (don't know if we shared it or not) and I took off the dressing gown and was now naked. There is a wooden bench in the corner of that room and when you lean over it, the bottom is perfectly positioned for spanking. It is designed so that you place your feet apart on either side of two wooden legs and there is a bar in front that you can grip onto with your hands. The man can tie ankles and wrists should he wish. So, I bend over it and wait.

He comes to me in a few minutes and inspects me. He likes to stretch me and rub me and I like all those lovely soft feelings and try to stay in that moment because I know that what follows is a completely different sensation. Tonight, he takes out a paddle and he continues to paddle away until my bottom reaches the sort of colour he considers suitable; until the sounds that emit from my mouth assure him that I have received enough swats. He has told me on numerous occasions that a daily swatting is what I need and I don't argue about this with him (or about anything actually).

"There's a good girl, he says, because I've stayed very still and I have, with one exception, managed to keep my bottom up high for him to strike.

Without making any sort of a big deal about it, for this does happen every night, he takes a rather large anal plug from the cupboard in the bathroom and returns to me with it, along with lube and wipes and he places the plug inside me. He talks gently to me about how much I need this; about how I will soon feel complete and ready for sleep. When the plug takes over,  and he hears my little grunt he encourages me to squeeze on the plug and welcome it home and I do. I love this moment.

He bids me to stand and he kisses me and rubs me about my shoulders and back; tells me how proud of me he is; what a sweet "child" I am. And then  he escorts me to the bed, tucks me in, pulls the sheets high up to my chin and tells me to go straight to sleep. He gives me a light kiss on the lips and then he turns out the light and closes the door.

For a few moments I lay there in the bed alone; aware of my state; my objective state. My mind is peaceful; serene; empty. My body is filled; a hole is in use and I drift off to sleep in a perfect state of bliss.

She is me

Reflective this morning,
remembering a time when cindi ruled these pages.

"Which is more real?" I was once asked
 I ask myself that question right now.

At times, I want to kill her off
like a character in a novel that has to go.

Owner says I'm being silly -
that there is nothing I can do to erase cindi.

She was always there.
She is still here.
She  will be here as long as I live because
She is me.