Without a shadow of a doubt, there is something profoundly wrong with me. Think about it. At the ripe age of 20, I chose the only boy who had the balls to make it clear from the get go that he was in charge. On our very first date, he told me off in no uncertain terms that I had parked my car in the wrong place at his dorm. I was literally stunned at the way my error put him in a dark mood and let's face it; any sensible girl would have got back in her car and headed as far in the other direction as she could get, as fast as she could get.
I often didn't take kindly to his lectures and I still don't always take kindly to them. My sense of my place in the dynamic has evolved such that I am largely at peace with it. Rest assured, however, that I still have my feisty and even bratty moments when I express my displeasure. He didn't take kindly to that over 30 years ago and he still doesn't take kindly to it today.
I talked about openness recently but it has to be said that openness with highly dominant men used to getting their way is a dangerous proposition. I simply can't put onto the airwaves any further comment about openness without that warning attached.
I tried, ever so politely this morning to point out to my darling husband that there was strong evidence over a period of decades to point to the fact that he was a control freak. He rejected it as out of hand. In fact, he said he was insulted that I should say that. Well, I have thought it for eons and perhaps that is where the thought should have stayed - locked in the recesses of my mind. Let's face it. He has passed the mid way point of his life. He has the courage of a lion and is not afraid to take anyone on. What makes me think that just by being open, I can effect any sort of change in him? As far as he is concerned, he does what he does with good intention and that should be good enough for me.
My training tells me this as well. I don't have any control and that is an irrefutable fact. Yet, I have powers of persuasion available to me and I should use them, eating the lion one bite at a time, so to speak. There is no use in walking up to the lion and telling him you want him to change, or move, or not eat you or anything else, now is there? You need to be more subtle with a lion than that. Where does openness get you standing before a lion, for heaven's sake?
And, that is not the only reason I think something is wrong with me. Look at my other choices in life. When I returned from the US what job did I take? What job did I actively seek out simply because I found the man who interviewed me so devilishly opinionated and dominant to the point of being difficult and stubborn? The job where I would need to be submissive to that man; thats what job!
Not to mention that I have a mentor who loves to push me; to instill notions into my head that I am an owned girl; that I should know my place and my purpose. What sort of girl willingly; nay, enthusiastically seeks having that in her life?
All my life, and I don't just mean all my adult life, but all my life, I have gravitated to men who exude a desire and a need for control. And, when they chose to control me, I loved it at the same time as I sometimes hated it.
Yet, it happens time and time again. I blissfully accept the control until I don't and I rebel. Then, there is upset for this reason and this reason alone: the dominant does not want openness at all if it means the submissive says something he does not want to hear. If what she wants to disclose disrupts his control over her, it totally destabilizes him and nothing can be put to right in his mind (or hers) until the submissive is back where she belongs: back in her place. So, what does she do? Of course, she gets back where she came from and she throws the notion of openness out the window as she goes.
I continue to believe that openness is a goal worth striving for but in reality it is ever so much easier said than done.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Restrictions
Heer da ting: Cindi took a l'il break from her pluggiz n wen dat situ8shin reveeld, cindi had her pluggiz taken wey. If cindi nut appreshe8 dem n decide 4 hessef nut 2 yooos dem, den she ken hab l'il rest n nut eben tuchi dem 4 5 deys.
At ferst, dat nut such a bed ting 4 cindi. It neba comfirtibl dat she in da bed books, but she beri bizi n 4 few deyz she nut mynd. She nut reeeli miss dem. She wer at certin speshel momins in da dey dat normilli she wood poot pluggi in at dis tym, n it feel odd, but she funshinin ull rite so far. Or, so she tot. Onnir wood nut gree wif cindi bowt dat. She ashoooli aktin silli n ovareaktin n jus emoshinel. As eeach day wor on, she missin her pluggiz mor n mor.
Dis mornin, da restrikshinz ova. Tanki gudness! But, cindi nut hab chans 2 poot in pluggi as yet n wen reeeli evalu8 da situation, it a hol 9 deys since she pluggi. Dat far far far 2 lung! Wen onnir talkiz wif cindi dis mornin she nut behayd well n he nut et ull impressd. He tyrd of cindi n go wey 2 da jim n tel cindi 2 stop dis bed behavyor meed8li!
Wen onnir get bak he c dat cindi hab dat certin look in her iz - dat gilti, notti l'il bimbo look she gets - and he pick up da wide, flat wooden spatula n tek cindi bi da hand 2 da bedroom. He tek off her kimono n he now poot nakid cindi ova da bed n tie her hanz 2 da posts of the bed. She well stretched owt. N he tel cindi it tym she remynded of how she expekted 2 beehayv.
Cindi sey, "Pweeeeeeeez!!", but onnir def 2 her pleees. He thwack da horribl wooden tingi on2 cindiz bottom beri hard n she hooooowwwwwwl 2 da moon. Boy, duz dat sting! N den he do it nudder 5 tymz. Eech tym cindi hooooowwwwl n pull on da ropz, but she nut goin enewhere - nut eben ken mooov an inch. Her paw bottum beri red n stingi.
"Am gettin trew to cindi?"
"Yessiiii, def gettin trew."
"Sure? Nut need ene mor paddlin?"
"Noooo tanki."
"Well, it tym da bimbo yoooosd. Tinki best yoooosd in da ass cunt. Cindi gree?"
"Wuteva onnir wans."
"Gud cindi."
Cindi gotsa plenti yooos n she beri gr8fool, of cors. Bimboz liki dat.
"Cindi redi now 2 hab gud dey?"
"Beri redi."
"Wut cindi sey?"
"Tanki onnir, 4 da currekshin n 4 da yooos."
"Gud bimbo; in2 da showr n onnir wash his bimbo."
Der a morel 2 dis stori: Bimboz need der pluggiz n if nut get da yooos from da pluggiz, dey ken get owta cuntrol. Wen owta cuntrol, dey stert aktin silli n get bit miserabil. It jus nut a gud ideuh.
So, tankfooooooli, cindi bek 2 pluggeen eberi singel dey. Dat best. C, it liki dis. Pluggi da sem 2 a bimbo wut a secoooriti blanki liki 2 a babi. Unfortoon8li, it nut until it taken wey from bimbo ocasinli dat she ken c dat pluggi essenshil. She unastandz dat now n so happi 2 haf her pluggiz gin. She alredi stertin 2 feeel gr8 n she hab beri fun dey!
Sumtymz u donna no wut u got til it gone.
At ferst, dat nut such a bed ting 4 cindi. It neba comfirtibl dat she in da bed books, but she beri bizi n 4 few deyz she nut mynd. She nut reeeli miss dem. She wer at certin speshel momins in da dey dat normilli she wood poot pluggi in at dis tym, n it feel odd, but she funshinin ull rite so far. Or, so she tot. Onnir wood nut gree wif cindi bowt dat. She ashoooli aktin silli n ovareaktin n jus emoshinel. As eeach day wor on, she missin her pluggiz mor n mor.
Dis mornin, da restrikshinz ova. Tanki gudness! But, cindi nut hab chans 2 poot in pluggi as yet n wen reeeli evalu8 da situation, it a hol 9 deys since she pluggi. Dat far far far 2 lung! Wen onnir talkiz wif cindi dis mornin she nut behayd well n he nut et ull impressd. He tyrd of cindi n go wey 2 da jim n tel cindi 2 stop dis bed behavyor meed8li!
Wen onnir get bak he c dat cindi hab dat certin look in her iz - dat gilti, notti l'il bimbo look she gets - and he pick up da wide, flat wooden spatula n tek cindi bi da hand 2 da bedroom. He tek off her kimono n he now poot nakid cindi ova da bed n tie her hanz 2 da posts of the bed. She well stretched owt. N he tel cindi it tym she remynded of how she expekted 2 beehayv.
Cindi sey, "Pweeeeeeeez!!", but onnir def 2 her pleees. He thwack da horribl wooden tingi on2 cindiz bottom beri hard n she hooooowwwwwwl 2 da moon. Boy, duz dat sting! N den he do it nudder 5 tymz. Eech tym cindi hooooowwwwl n pull on da ropz, but she nut goin enewhere - nut eben ken mooov an inch. Her paw bottum beri red n stingi.
"Am gettin trew to cindi?"
"Yessiiii, def gettin trew."
"Sure? Nut need ene mor paddlin?"
"Noooo tanki."
"Well, it tym da bimbo yoooosd. Tinki best yoooosd in da ass cunt. Cindi gree?"
"Wuteva onnir wans."
"Gud cindi."
Cindi gotsa plenti yooos n she beri gr8fool, of cors. Bimboz liki dat.
"Cindi redi now 2 hab gud dey?"
"Beri redi."
"Wut cindi sey?"
"Tanki onnir, 4 da currekshin n 4 da yooos."
"Gud bimbo; in2 da showr n onnir wash his bimbo."
Der a morel 2 dis stori: Bimboz need der pluggiz n if nut get da yooos from da pluggiz, dey ken get owta cuntrol. Wen owta cuntrol, dey stert aktin silli n get bit miserabil. It jus nut a gud ideuh.
So, tankfooooooli, cindi bek 2 pluggeen eberi singel dey. Dat best. C, it liki dis. Pluggi da sem 2 a bimbo wut a secoooriti blanki liki 2 a babi. Unfortoon8li, it nut until it taken wey from bimbo ocasinli dat she ken c dat pluggi essenshil. She unastandz dat now n so happi 2 haf her pluggiz gin. She alredi stertin 2 feeel gr8 n she hab beri fun dey!
Sumtymz u donna no wut u got til it gone.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Openness
If I understand correctly, what I am now being asked to do is to reach out and grab freedom - to let go completely and say whatever is on my mind; to not restrain myself or hold myself back but to simply reveal myself.
I've been around these parts long enough to know that 'openness' is part of the deal. The submissive is meant to open herself to the dominant/top and put herself in his hands. It is the beauty of the dynamic, is it not, that one soul can reveal itself to another, warts and all?
I think my hesitation and even confusion and resistance to the idea right now is that I have felt that I have made progress in my life - with relationships, with self-control, with finding my happiness and peace - by holding myself back. I learned to not refuse ideas just because they were not comfortable at the outset. I learned to accept my husband's will and way by holding myself back. And, I learned to stifle emotional pain by holding myself in check in various ways. If, for example, I was hurt by someone, I learned to find ways to compensate, or understand or even not to allow it to hurt me by hiding the hurt away.
It is fair to say that I have dealt with some of life's more difficult moments by burrowing deep inside of myself and putting on a pretty darn good show that I was perfectly all right and well able to cope.Then, in a moment of great vulnerability (I write this on the one day of the year that is personally difficult for me), I found myself being asked to not hold back any longer.
But, what if I said something that was not at all pleasing? What if I sounded impolite or disrespectful, I wanted to know. Then, in that case I should take my correction and learn from it. Dolls learn from correction, do they not?
Dolls do. But, I have kept a cocoon of safety around myself for so long now, I find myself wondering if I really can sloth it off.
One evening, long ago, I was with my mother alone at her house and it was completely still. The only sound was the fire. My little family was on the other side of the world and my very sick father was fast asleep.
"There's something very wrong, isn't there?" my mother asked me.
I began to shake. My mind tried to sloth off the hard shell of protection yet at the same time held onto it with all its might. And, finally, in a tiny voice that did not belong to me, I told her what I had held onto with a tight grip for several excruciating months. She listened patiently and reminded me that there was nothing she had not heard. The business she ran meant she knew about people and what happens in people's lives all too well. I unburdened myself and in so doing I think I freed myself from torturous pain.
This morning, whilst I did my Pilates class, my emotions were right at the surface and several times, I teared up. I fought with them until it was the relaxation component and my eyes were closed and then I let them fall down the sides of my face until there came a moment when I knew I had to get myself under control. I began to breathe deeply. I began to visualize calm and I listened to the instructor's words.
I was on a mountain top when she said, "Set yourself free". With the glider on my back, I took the lead of faith and soared into the open air, gliding effortlessly. I had set myself free. The tears dried up and I felt only exhilaration.
I didn't stop for coffee but hurried home to write here, only to find a message from my daughter in London - a divine message that any mother in the world would hope for with all her heart. And, now the tears flow again - good tears.
To be loved; to love: it is all I have ever wanted. So, perhaps it is time: time to embrace the openness that a good power exchange relationship demands. The time has come and what a perfect day to choose as the first step in the next chapter of this glorious dynamic they call a power exchange.
I've been around these parts long enough to know that 'openness' is part of the deal. The submissive is meant to open herself to the dominant/top and put herself in his hands. It is the beauty of the dynamic, is it not, that one soul can reveal itself to another, warts and all?
I think my hesitation and even confusion and resistance to the idea right now is that I have felt that I have made progress in my life - with relationships, with self-control, with finding my happiness and peace - by holding myself back. I learned to not refuse ideas just because they were not comfortable at the outset. I learned to accept my husband's will and way by holding myself back. And, I learned to stifle emotional pain by holding myself in check in various ways. If, for example, I was hurt by someone, I learned to find ways to compensate, or understand or even not to allow it to hurt me by hiding the hurt away.
It is fair to say that I have dealt with some of life's more difficult moments by burrowing deep inside of myself and putting on a pretty darn good show that I was perfectly all right and well able to cope.Then, in a moment of great vulnerability (I write this on the one day of the year that is personally difficult for me), I found myself being asked to not hold back any longer.
But, what if I said something that was not at all pleasing? What if I sounded impolite or disrespectful, I wanted to know. Then, in that case I should take my correction and learn from it. Dolls learn from correction, do they not?
Dolls do. But, I have kept a cocoon of safety around myself for so long now, I find myself wondering if I really can sloth it off.
One evening, long ago, I was with my mother alone at her house and it was completely still. The only sound was the fire. My little family was on the other side of the world and my very sick father was fast asleep.
"There's something very wrong, isn't there?" my mother asked me.
I began to shake. My mind tried to sloth off the hard shell of protection yet at the same time held onto it with all its might. And, finally, in a tiny voice that did not belong to me, I told her what I had held onto with a tight grip for several excruciating months. She listened patiently and reminded me that there was nothing she had not heard. The business she ran meant she knew about people and what happens in people's lives all too well. I unburdened myself and in so doing I think I freed myself from torturous pain.
This morning, whilst I did my Pilates class, my emotions were right at the surface and several times, I teared up. I fought with them until it was the relaxation component and my eyes were closed and then I let them fall down the sides of my face until there came a moment when I knew I had to get myself under control. I began to breathe deeply. I began to visualize calm and I listened to the instructor's words.
I was on a mountain top when she said, "Set yourself free". With the glider on my back, I took the lead of faith and soared into the open air, gliding effortlessly. I had set myself free. The tears dried up and I felt only exhilaration.
I didn't stop for coffee but hurried home to write here, only to find a message from my daughter in London - a divine message that any mother in the world would hope for with all her heart. And, now the tears flow again - good tears.
To be loved; to love: it is all I have ever wanted. So, perhaps it is time: time to embrace the openness that a good power exchange relationship demands. The time has come and what a perfect day to choose as the first step in the next chapter of this glorious dynamic they call a power exchange.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The Training School - chapter 5
Nicholas closed the door and rearranged the chairs so that he was sitting directly opposite Lucille. He crossed one leg over the other and made himself comfortable. When he was settled, he stared at her for what seemed to her like minutes. If he was trying to make her feel unsettled he was doing very well. She called on her ability to appear cool and unflustered on the outside, even though she was a jumble of nerves inside.
“Lucille, tell me, what word do you use to describe your vagina?”
“What word?”
“Yes.”
“Well...I say “vagina” if I am at the doctor.”
“And if you are not at the doctor...?”
“Then, I say ‘pussy’.”
Lucille did everything she could to hide the fact from him that she was rattled. She purposely kept her body still, consciously trying to project an image to him that this was not at all difficult for her. The last thing she wished to do was to have him know of how uncomfortable he was making her and how much she longed to walk out that door and away from his disturbing questions.
“And, what word do you use to describe your anus?”
“Gosh! Well, I think I use that word.”
“What word?”
“Anus”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Well, I might say ‘ass’.”
“Mmmm-hmmmm”
Nicholas got up and walked over to a set of filing cabinets. Lucille was agitated now beyond the point where she could fully control it. She felt an internal upset that presented as a deep desire to express her distaste for him and his questions. Yet, she maintained an awareness that she didn’t want him to win by reacting in an out of control way. She felt like a fast cooker at risk of losing its lid.
He seemed in no hurry and his sudden distractibility only heightened her annoyance with him. In spite of her best efforts, she moved about in the seat and crossed her arms over her body until she was holding her shoulders. Finally, he found whatever it was he was looking for and he glanced through a file and then put it on his desk. He returned to his seat and crossed his long legs again.
“How many cunts do you have?”
“How many cunts?”
“Yes.”
“One.”
“Is that so?”
“Isn’t it so?”
“How many holes do you have?”
“Holes?”
"Mmmm-hmmmm”
“Counting my ears?”
“Answer the question.”
“Three”
“Name them.”
“Pussy, mouth and ass.”
“What is the true purpose of these three holes?”
“Well, if you mean what other purpose do they have other than the obvious they can be used for fucking me.”
“They are your three cunts.”
She could barely believe him; his audacity, the smug way he had of making such a statement and not blinking an eye.
“Are they?”
There was a hint of attitude in the response. She didn’t even try to hide it.
“Certainly.”
“Name these three holes again.”
Lucille simply couldn’t respond. This was ridiculous.
He waited.
“Nicholas...Sir...honestly, what do you want me to say?”
“Again Lucille, my command is perfectly straightforward. I will not repeat it.”
The hairs on Lucille’s arms were standing up in response to her upset.
“Pussy cunt.”
“Go on.”
“Mouth cunt.
“Good”
“ Ass cunt.”
“Repeat that. Name your three cunts.”
“Pussy cunt. Mouth cunt. Ass cunt.”
Repeat . Keep saying them until I tell you to stop.”
“Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.”
She looked at him suggestively, seeking some confirmation that she could stop.
“Keep going, Lucille. Don’t stop.”
She must have said that line twenty times before he told her that she could stop.
“Good girl. Now, why should these holes be referred to as ‘cunts’?”
“Well...I can be entered in any of those places, I guess...”
“What is your status, Lucille?”
“My status?”
“Mmmm-hmmmm”
“I am submissive. Is that what you mean?”
“What status are you in the relationship? Top or bottom?”
“Ohhhhhhh, the bottom, of course.”
“Mmmmm-hmmmm”
“And, what is your role in the relationship?”
“My role is to obey.”
“and to be used.”
“Used?”
“Certainly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that your role is to be available for your owner’s use in whichever cunt he wishes to use.”
She willed herself not to respond to this talk in an uncontrolled way. He was pushing at her and she wanted to close down to protect herself.
“From now on, you will use only these words to describe these holes. Now, what word would you use to describe William?”
“He is my husband.”
“Anything else?”
“My dominant.”
“He is your owner.”
“My owner?”
“Of course.”
“You own dogs and cats, Sir, not women.”
“There is nothing at all different between the relationships of a dog to its owner and yours to William, Lucille. You are an owned girl and you have an owner that you must obey.”
She was holding herself in as best she could but she had an urgent desire to tell him what she thought of his “tutorial”.
“Ohhhhh, do I? Comparing a grown woman with a dog, Nicholas is just not on. You really have a nerve! Just who do you think you are?”
She was up on her feet now and ready to walk out that door.
“Sit down immediately or I will tether you.”
“So, now you are going to tether me like a dog, are you? Just because I won’t take this bullshit?”
“Now, now. Surely William has a cage or a pole for tethering you when you display this temper...”
“A cage???”
“Certainly”
“Nooooo, as a matter of fact, he doesn’t have a cage at all.”
“Then, we shall have to correct that anomaly.”
“Nicholas...”
“Excuse me?”
“Sir, if you speak to me like that, naturally I am going to get angry.”
“Naturally?”
“Yes, naturally. Surely it is reasonable for a girl to be angry when she is provoked. It isn’t healthy for her not to express herself.”
“She is welcome to express herself so long as she is safely secured. I do not allow my dogs to run about the farm when they are worked up and barking. They are secured. This makes them feels safe and they are free to bark at their will. You too are free to express yourself, Lucille...to have your little tantrum...in the safety of a cage, if you wish.”
Lucille was breathing hard now. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d get up right now and punch him. She took a long, deep breath and tried to settle herself down.
“Sir, I am not having a tantrum.”
“What would you call it?”
“I am simply disagreeing with you.”
“Lucille, the sooner you understand that you are your husband’s property and that he may do with you as he pleases the better. For now I will do with you as I wish.”
Nicholas got up and gathered an exercise book and a pen and ordered Lucille to come to a single, school style desk and chair that was to the side of his desk.
“Sit down, Lucille.”
She sat.
“This is your discipline book and you will use it to write your lessons down. You will sit here and write down in this book 300 times,
‘This girl is the property of her owner.’
“Make sure it is in your best hand-writing, girl. I expect you to take pride in your work here. You have just enough time to get the work done before it is time for you to prepare for the evening.”
Lucille picked up the pen and wrote the line down. She tried to calculate how many lines there were to a page and how long this was going to take her. It was a tedious and boring task and yet she could feel bubbles of excitement emanating from somewhere in her throat. She had never written lines in her life, not even as a school girl and this had a sense of novelty and arousal about it. Even when her hand began to hurt, she carried on writing the lines in a dreamy sort of state, as if some deep longing was being satiated. She remained incensed at his words but it did not prevent her from feeling a level of enjoyment in the task.
Meanwhile Nicholas sat at his desk; worked on the computer, paid bills and made calls. All the while he kept a close eye on Lucille. If she slowed at the task or looked up he was right on it and chided her to get on with it. It made no sense to her but she felt a sense of care as she sat there under his tutelage and it comforted her.
“Lucille, tell me, what word do you use to describe your vagina?”
“What word?”
“Yes.”
“Well...I say “vagina” if I am at the doctor.”
“And if you are not at the doctor...?”
“Then, I say ‘pussy’.”
Lucille did everything she could to hide the fact from him that she was rattled. She purposely kept her body still, consciously trying to project an image to him that this was not at all difficult for her. The last thing she wished to do was to have him know of how uncomfortable he was making her and how much she longed to walk out that door and away from his disturbing questions.
“And, what word do you use to describe your anus?”
“Gosh! Well, I think I use that word.”
“What word?”
“Anus”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Well, I might say ‘ass’.”
“Mmmm-hmmmm”
Nicholas got up and walked over to a set of filing cabinets. Lucille was agitated now beyond the point where she could fully control it. She felt an internal upset that presented as a deep desire to express her distaste for him and his questions. Yet, she maintained an awareness that she didn’t want him to win by reacting in an out of control way. She felt like a fast cooker at risk of losing its lid.
He seemed in no hurry and his sudden distractibility only heightened her annoyance with him. In spite of her best efforts, she moved about in the seat and crossed her arms over her body until she was holding her shoulders. Finally, he found whatever it was he was looking for and he glanced through a file and then put it on his desk. He returned to his seat and crossed his long legs again.
“How many cunts do you have?”
“How many cunts?”
“Yes.”
“One.”
“Is that so?”
“Isn’t it so?”
“How many holes do you have?”
“Holes?”
"Mmmm-hmmmm”
“Counting my ears?”
“Answer the question.”
“Three”
“Name them.”
“Pussy, mouth and ass.”
“What is the true purpose of these three holes?”
“Well, if you mean what other purpose do they have other than the obvious they can be used for fucking me.”
“They are your three cunts.”
She could barely believe him; his audacity, the smug way he had of making such a statement and not blinking an eye.
“Are they?”
There was a hint of attitude in the response. She didn’t even try to hide it.
“Certainly.”
“Name these three holes again.”
Lucille simply couldn’t respond. This was ridiculous.
He waited.
“Nicholas...Sir...honestly, what do you want me to say?”
“Again Lucille, my command is perfectly straightforward. I will not repeat it.”
The hairs on Lucille’s arms were standing up in response to her upset.
“Pussy cunt.”
“Go on.”
“Mouth cunt.
“Good”
“ Ass cunt.”
“Repeat that. Name your three cunts.”
“Pussy cunt. Mouth cunt. Ass cunt.”
Repeat . Keep saying them until I tell you to stop.”
“Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.”
She looked at him suggestively, seeking some confirmation that she could stop.
“Keep going, Lucille. Don’t stop.”
She must have said that line twenty times before he told her that she could stop.
“Good girl. Now, why should these holes be referred to as ‘cunts’?”
“Well...I can be entered in any of those places, I guess...”
“What is your status, Lucille?”
“My status?”
“Mmmm-hmmmm”
“I am submissive. Is that what you mean?”
“What status are you in the relationship? Top or bottom?”
“Ohhhhhhh, the bottom, of course.”
“Mmmmm-hmmmm”
“And, what is your role in the relationship?”
“My role is to obey.”
“and to be used.”
“Used?”
“Certainly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that your role is to be available for your owner’s use in whichever cunt he wishes to use.”
She willed herself not to respond to this talk in an uncontrolled way. He was pushing at her and she wanted to close down to protect herself.
“From now on, you will use only these words to describe these holes. Now, what word would you use to describe William?”
“He is my husband.”
“Anything else?”
“My dominant.”
“He is your owner.”
“My owner?”
“Of course.”
“You own dogs and cats, Sir, not women.”
“There is nothing at all different between the relationships of a dog to its owner and yours to William, Lucille. You are an owned girl and you have an owner that you must obey.”
She was holding herself in as best she could but she had an urgent desire to tell him what she thought of his “tutorial”.
“Ohhhhh, do I? Comparing a grown woman with a dog, Nicholas is just not on. You really have a nerve! Just who do you think you are?”
She was up on her feet now and ready to walk out that door.
“Sit down immediately or I will tether you.”
“So, now you are going to tether me like a dog, are you? Just because I won’t take this bullshit?”
“Now, now. Surely William has a cage or a pole for tethering you when you display this temper...”
“A cage???”
“Certainly”
“Nooooo, as a matter of fact, he doesn’t have a cage at all.”
“Then, we shall have to correct that anomaly.”
“Nicholas...”
“Excuse me?”
“Sir, if you speak to me like that, naturally I am going to get angry.”
“Naturally?”
“Yes, naturally. Surely it is reasonable for a girl to be angry when she is provoked. It isn’t healthy for her not to express herself.”
“She is welcome to express herself so long as she is safely secured. I do not allow my dogs to run about the farm when they are worked up and barking. They are secured. This makes them feels safe and they are free to bark at their will. You too are free to express yourself, Lucille...to have your little tantrum...in the safety of a cage, if you wish.”
Lucille was breathing hard now. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d get up right now and punch him. She took a long, deep breath and tried to settle herself down.
“Sir, I am not having a tantrum.”
“What would you call it?”
“I am simply disagreeing with you.”
“Lucille, the sooner you understand that you are your husband’s property and that he may do with you as he pleases the better. For now I will do with you as I wish.”
Nicholas got up and gathered an exercise book and a pen and ordered Lucille to come to a single, school style desk and chair that was to the side of his desk.
“Sit down, Lucille.”
She sat.
“This is your discipline book and you will use it to write your lessons down. You will sit here and write down in this book 300 times,
‘This girl is the property of her owner.’
“Make sure it is in your best hand-writing, girl. I expect you to take pride in your work here. You have just enough time to get the work done before it is time for you to prepare for the evening.”
Lucille picked up the pen and wrote the line down. She tried to calculate how many lines there were to a page and how long this was going to take her. It was a tedious and boring task and yet she could feel bubbles of excitement emanating from somewhere in her throat. She had never written lines in her life, not even as a school girl and this had a sense of novelty and arousal about it. Even when her hand began to hurt, she carried on writing the lines in a dreamy sort of state, as if some deep longing was being satiated. She remained incensed at his words but it did not prevent her from feeling a level of enjoyment in the task.
Meanwhile Nicholas sat at his desk; worked on the computer, paid bills and made calls. All the while he kept a close eye on Lucille. If she slowed at the task or looked up he was right on it and chided her to get on with it. It made no sense to her but she felt a sense of care as she sat there under his tutelage and it comforted her.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Active versus Passive Submission
The notion of submission being active or passive as discussed in David's post is intriguing to me. I consider these sort of ideas in terms of how they refer to my own submission so that I give them 'grounding' and I'd like to suggest that my sense of submission has elements of both passive and active submission that relate to how I think and to the requirements of the dominant.
Let’s start with how I think. The subliminal messages we send ourselves are made up of all sorts of life lessons; what our parents and teachers said; what our friends say; what we read and how we process all that information. Somewhere along the line, I got the message that a submissive woman like me should not ask for things. Rather, when and if the dominant was ready he would give me what he thought I needed. As David said,
“Submission that is a restrained response, because the girl is often restrained, and it sets a tone or pattern, and she often feels that is what is expected of her. That she is expected to be quiet and calm and still and respond, and certainly is not expected to initiate.”
In the context of my life, that notion did not function so well. I have a busy husband with lots of thoughts to distract him away from what the inner needs of his girl might be at any particular time and being passive and biding my time proved to be frustrating and debilitating. I thought I had to wait for him to notice that I was in need of his attention for it to be a legitimate submission and so not only was I out of kilter but I felt that we were out of kilter. That road of passivity had many slippery slopes.
In fairness, I have always been encouraged to ask for what I want/need and if I went to my husband in his study and asked him for a spanking, he would accommodate me, at least nine times out of ten. Unless he was on a conference call, I think I could seduce him too, at least nine times out of ten. He is not impartial to some impromptu tender loving care and he would rise to the challenge presented to him. (Yes, I did enjoy typing that sentence.)
But, for far too long I had this inner thought that this was not the way it was meant to be. He was meant to be the all-powerful, all-knowing Dominant/Top and my place was to be passive and wait.
I am over that sort of thinking now and our conversations are much more fluid. I certainly recognize that tact at such times comes in very handy and politeness is a prerequisite, but I do not feel it is wrong or bad to be active in my submission any longer and I operate on a basis of co-responsibility as to my sense of my submission and how that is playing out in my life.
Yet, a submissive can easily go one step too far in pursuing an active style of submission. David noted,
“I think submissives often feel that they walk that fine line between expressing themselves, and drawing his wrath for being un-submissive and attempting to grab control, and I suspect it tends to make a girl very passive.”
This is not an uncommon mistake for me to make and I offer a couple of examples of the sort of situation where active submission can get out of control.
Recently, I felt a certain apprehension about a situation and I made that point to my mentor. He listened carefully, as always. Perhaps it was my tone or perhaps he had a sense that the matter had spilled into that grey area where my trust in him to handle things was put into question. It was my turn to register his state of mind. Did I not think that he had taken these matters into account?
I immediately recognized that my point had been made and noted but that I was within a hair’s breadth of damaging the fine balance of our relationship and I immediately reverted back to my place; reclaimed by status as the bottom/student. As I see it, one can walk up to the line and even peek over, but one really must not venture over to the other side. There is a sense of order and fitness of things here and one gets to sense that within the relationship and adjust one’s modus operandi accordingly. Hence, submission is a flowing sort of entity, with some parts of the river requiring passivity and other stretches requiring an active submissive response.
Another example would be conversations with my husband about financial dealings where he tells me what is happening and I listen. I am welcome to ask questions always but I am highly discouraged from asking the same question twice or from offering my advice too freely. Our dynamic has evolved in that my trust in him is expected. I may not fully agree with the process he used to get us where he wants to go but I should know this and I should know it well: he will take care of me.
I suppose that sounds rather passive. I am not active in the process. I have not initiated too much except to request clarification, or ask a question or expression concern over something. But, in my life, according to my dynamic, that is enough. The sensitive balance of who leads and who follows requires that degree of passivity to function well.
Much of what I write, here in this post or in the journal generally is about a loving relationship or a relationship with good intent and tenderness. It is a relationship in constant movement and back and forth and one where balance will go awry, even ever so slightly sometimes. Adjustments and corrections are just part of the deal and thus my submission will move – from passive at one time to active in another. One feels one’s way through this because at the heart of submission is that one wants to please. I don’t think it is possible to get away from this notion in the submissive’s mind.
A submissive will look to her dominant as a guide as to how to conduct herself and I would like to suggest this thought. If he says he would like to see her show some initiative, then the time has come for her to cast off her preconceived ideas of submission. If he wants to feel her return his kiss passionately, then why not?
I find myself intrigued with the quote from BDSM: A Kinkster’s Guide in David’s post:
“"I don't want to be told not to sit on the toilet seat or denied an orgasm. I want to be conquered. I want to be dominated. I want to be subdued.”
It is the submissive mind set, I believe, to want to be subdued. I live for those moments when my husband comes to me and without fanfare takes me, is rough with me even and has his way. It goes to the core of what makes me feel alive; feminine; cherished (as odd as that may sound to some ears).
But, I cannot agree that I don’t want to be denied an orgasm necessarily because my mindset is that I do relish being controlled, be it subtle control which I find incredibly erotic or forceful control. In my mind, obedience is part of control and control is part of feeling the submission; or better put, part of feeling that I am interacting with the dominant. There is passivity to these situations and I think it is a passive submission for a reason: because I want to be dominated.
At the end of the day, each relationship will function according to the people involved but for it to truly work well I think the dominant has to get across how he would like his submissive to behave. This is often not a well defined statement of law but something said in passing and I have learned to listen carefully to the dominant. His preferences are there somewhere just as he observes her closely to determine best how to control his submissive to keep her happy and in her mode. I think the submissive needs to be light footed, moving effortlessly from a passive to an active submission according to the needs of the day.
The best thing she can do, in my opinion, is to throw out the door preconceived ideas of what a submissive does or how a submissive should act and instead interact with her dominant in a cohesive, interactive way.
P.S. I've just realized that today is Love our Lurkers Day! This is the day once a year when bloggers invite those readers who have never left a comment before to say hello, or tell us what is on their minds. I just adore it when someone new takes the plunge and leaves me a comment and I invite readers to take this opportunity to join the fun and comeraderie. You are most welcome as are the regular commenters, of course. And, thank you to Bonnie at My Bottom Smarts for continuing this initiative.
Let’s start with how I think. The subliminal messages we send ourselves are made up of all sorts of life lessons; what our parents and teachers said; what our friends say; what we read and how we process all that information. Somewhere along the line, I got the message that a submissive woman like me should not ask for things. Rather, when and if the dominant was ready he would give me what he thought I needed. As David said,
“Submission that is a restrained response, because the girl is often restrained, and it sets a tone or pattern, and she often feels that is what is expected of her. That she is expected to be quiet and calm and still and respond, and certainly is not expected to initiate.”
In the context of my life, that notion did not function so well. I have a busy husband with lots of thoughts to distract him away from what the inner needs of his girl might be at any particular time and being passive and biding my time proved to be frustrating and debilitating. I thought I had to wait for him to notice that I was in need of his attention for it to be a legitimate submission and so not only was I out of kilter but I felt that we were out of kilter. That road of passivity had many slippery slopes.
In fairness, I have always been encouraged to ask for what I want/need and if I went to my husband in his study and asked him for a spanking, he would accommodate me, at least nine times out of ten. Unless he was on a conference call, I think I could seduce him too, at least nine times out of ten. He is not impartial to some impromptu tender loving care and he would rise to the challenge presented to him. (Yes, I did enjoy typing that sentence.)
But, for far too long I had this inner thought that this was not the way it was meant to be. He was meant to be the all-powerful, all-knowing Dominant/Top and my place was to be passive and wait.
I am over that sort of thinking now and our conversations are much more fluid. I certainly recognize that tact at such times comes in very handy and politeness is a prerequisite, but I do not feel it is wrong or bad to be active in my submission any longer and I operate on a basis of co-responsibility as to my sense of my submission and how that is playing out in my life.
Yet, a submissive can easily go one step too far in pursuing an active style of submission. David noted,
“I think submissives often feel that they walk that fine line between expressing themselves, and drawing his wrath for being un-submissive and attempting to grab control, and I suspect it tends to make a girl very passive.”
This is not an uncommon mistake for me to make and I offer a couple of examples of the sort of situation where active submission can get out of control.
Recently, I felt a certain apprehension about a situation and I made that point to my mentor. He listened carefully, as always. Perhaps it was my tone or perhaps he had a sense that the matter had spilled into that grey area where my trust in him to handle things was put into question. It was my turn to register his state of mind. Did I not think that he had taken these matters into account?
I immediately recognized that my point had been made and noted but that I was within a hair’s breadth of damaging the fine balance of our relationship and I immediately reverted back to my place; reclaimed by status as the bottom/student. As I see it, one can walk up to the line and even peek over, but one really must not venture over to the other side. There is a sense of order and fitness of things here and one gets to sense that within the relationship and adjust one’s modus operandi accordingly. Hence, submission is a flowing sort of entity, with some parts of the river requiring passivity and other stretches requiring an active submissive response.
Another example would be conversations with my husband about financial dealings where he tells me what is happening and I listen. I am welcome to ask questions always but I am highly discouraged from asking the same question twice or from offering my advice too freely. Our dynamic has evolved in that my trust in him is expected. I may not fully agree with the process he used to get us where he wants to go but I should know this and I should know it well: he will take care of me.
I suppose that sounds rather passive. I am not active in the process. I have not initiated too much except to request clarification, or ask a question or expression concern over something. But, in my life, according to my dynamic, that is enough. The sensitive balance of who leads and who follows requires that degree of passivity to function well.
Much of what I write, here in this post or in the journal generally is about a loving relationship or a relationship with good intent and tenderness. It is a relationship in constant movement and back and forth and one where balance will go awry, even ever so slightly sometimes. Adjustments and corrections are just part of the deal and thus my submission will move – from passive at one time to active in another. One feels one’s way through this because at the heart of submission is that one wants to please. I don’t think it is possible to get away from this notion in the submissive’s mind.
A submissive will look to her dominant as a guide as to how to conduct herself and I would like to suggest this thought. If he says he would like to see her show some initiative, then the time has come for her to cast off her preconceived ideas of submission. If he wants to feel her return his kiss passionately, then why not?
I find myself intrigued with the quote from BDSM: A Kinkster’s Guide in David’s post:
“"I don't want to be told not to sit on the toilet seat or denied an orgasm. I want to be conquered. I want to be dominated. I want to be subdued.”
It is the submissive mind set, I believe, to want to be subdued. I live for those moments when my husband comes to me and without fanfare takes me, is rough with me even and has his way. It goes to the core of what makes me feel alive; feminine; cherished (as odd as that may sound to some ears).
But, I cannot agree that I don’t want to be denied an orgasm necessarily because my mindset is that I do relish being controlled, be it subtle control which I find incredibly erotic or forceful control. In my mind, obedience is part of control and control is part of feeling the submission; or better put, part of feeling that I am interacting with the dominant. There is passivity to these situations and I think it is a passive submission for a reason: because I want to be dominated.
At the end of the day, each relationship will function according to the people involved but for it to truly work well I think the dominant has to get across how he would like his submissive to behave. This is often not a well defined statement of law but something said in passing and I have learned to listen carefully to the dominant. His preferences are there somewhere just as he observes her closely to determine best how to control his submissive to keep her happy and in her mode. I think the submissive needs to be light footed, moving effortlessly from a passive to an active submission according to the needs of the day.
The best thing she can do, in my opinion, is to throw out the door preconceived ideas of what a submissive does or how a submissive should act and instead interact with her dominant in a cohesive, interactive way.
P.S. I've just realized that today is Love our Lurkers Day! This is the day once a year when bloggers invite those readers who have never left a comment before to say hello, or tell us what is on their minds. I just adore it when someone new takes the plunge and leaves me a comment and I invite readers to take this opportunity to join the fun and comeraderie. You are most welcome as are the regular commenters, of course. And, thank you to Bonnie at My Bottom Smarts for continuing this initiative.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Unconditional love
I am partial to listening to interviews when there is enough time given to really explore a life and get beyond the surface details. Thus, I found myself quite engrossed in the life of Carrie Fisher as I listened to her being interviewed over the period of an hour. She's a remarkably honest woman and she spoke of her drug taking and her diagnosis of manic depression. (She says she doesn't say 'bi-polar' because it says nothing about the condition whereas 'manic depression' does, not to mention the fact that 'bi polar' sounds like one is describing a gay polar bear.)
I listened carefully to the words she used to describe the condition and I made notes (of course!). She noted that there are two types of bi-polar, 1 and 11, and that one is more difficult to live with than the other. Whichever one is hers,(she wasn't sure) it is the more difficult variety. The least difficult of the two bi-polars is, she said, "more portable". You can take that variety to a party.
In her case she said that she felt that either "the tide is in" or "the tide is out". Either life is "all good" or you are "not insulated" and "everything hurts".
In the manic phase, you "go faster than everyone, even yourself" and "your thoughts get banked up". The two phases definitely did not have equal time, she said, although it was hard to tell since by the time she knew she was in a certain phase, she had probably already been there quite some time. As well, there is a third phase, she said, somewhere in between those two extremes.
Medication and shock treatment (ECT) were marvellous, she explained, but ECT was the best because it did quickly what medication does slowly. She encouraged her interviewer not to think of images like 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest' because these days it was a very simple procedure and very much to her benefit.
She acknowledged that it did make her forgetful, mostly about what occurred recently rather than long term memories and she did sometimes find it hard to find the right word. Still, she was more than prepared to accept these side effects to receive the benefits.
When not properly medicated, bi-polar made her feel that she "wanted to give up"; not suicidal because she would never do that to her daughter, she said, but it was an indescribably dark place.
Rehab provided her with the funniest moments of her life. "You find your community." You find the other people who have it and it is a sort of gallows humour, she explained. Certainly, I related to finding "my community"!
I related to Carrie's story in other ways too. I was reminded that my father had shock treatment when I was a very small girl. We didn't talk about it back then but I remember him telling a close friend about it; that he lost some memory but that it was a good thing and helped him, and it would help his friend too.
I remember being that little girl and finding my father in bed one afternoon and asking him if I could help him. "Where's your mother?" he wanted to know. I went and found her for him.
In fact, my father did not have bi-polar or any such condition but had convinced himself that his doctors were lying to him and that he was about to die and this spun him into a depression that the shock therapy lifted. I don't remember him being manic or depressed, but I do remember him being rather obsessive and needing everything to be 'just as he wanted it'.
He checked the lock on the door many times; that sort of thing as well. That is an interesting trait to me because I inherited that need to double check things and I made note when my third child said to me last week that he did the same thing. In many cases, we can't change who we are so being loved unconditionally is vital. Anyways, who of us doesn't have some trait that is rather 'odd'?
I heard a documentary maker talk of Glenn Gould, the famous pianist and Canadian readers particularly would know of him. The documentary maker had unearthed much new material about his life and the interviewer asked if he felt sorry for Gould at all?
He did. He said he was a man who needed to have things done in a particular ways - a perfectionist - and that stopped him having the intimacy with others that he so craved. It didn't seem a good enough explanation, I thought at the time of hearing that, but perhaps it speaks to the huge judgements we make of those in our lives and our inability to embrace them for who they really are. It is a very sad thought to think that a man who gave so much beautiful music to the world was unable to receive the love he so obviously craved.
I think I went through life not entirely sure that I was able to give my father what he wanted in a daughter. I didn't speak the language of cricket or football and he didn't speak my language of books and thoughts and ideas. Horse racing was the hobby we shared and I have fond memories of many afternoons spent at racecourses across this State.
But, I knew that I never could never give him the succor that only my mother could provide, no matter how hard I tried. They were deeply, profoundly connected. When he was dying, my mother, who cared for him day and night was exhausted to the point of collapse and I took a plane back home to give her some respite. I sent her into town to get her hair cut and have a few hours to herself whilst I cared for my father but it became a clock watching afternoon.
"When will your mother be back?" he seemed to ask every five minutes.
I really felt quite redundant.
My father's inexhaustible quench to live kept him going long after the doctors had specified and eventually I needed to return to my young family, back across the sea. I would telephone him, of course, but he was always rather into his own world after that.
One afternoon, with kindergartners about the house, I had an urgent need to talk to him and I rang him at the hospice where he had been for only a couple of days. We talked in the way we did. He was deep in denial and the hospice was a sort of hotel in his mind and he said the service was very good.
At one point I could hear a nurse asking him to end the call for her to do something and he said he had to go. We said our goodbyes but something deep inside me told me that I was unlikely to hear his voice ever again and I held the phone to my ear, waiting for I don't know what. And I heard,
"That was my daughter calling me from America."
They were the last words I ever heard from his lips. On some level, he had known it was me reaching out to him and those final words meant more to me than I could ever say. We didn't say "I love you" but it was there - there in his voice; there in so many moments of our shared lives.
He had loved me unconditionally and I loved him unconditionally too: accepted his idiosyncrasies as he accepted mine.
As we grow older, I like to think that we grow softer: more ready to accept, less willing to judge. We all want the very same thing: to be loved just as we are.
I listened carefully to the words she used to describe the condition and I made notes (of course!). She noted that there are two types of bi-polar, 1 and 11, and that one is more difficult to live with than the other. Whichever one is hers,(she wasn't sure) it is the more difficult variety. The least difficult of the two bi-polars is, she said, "more portable". You can take that variety to a party.
In her case she said that she felt that either "the tide is in" or "the tide is out". Either life is "all good" or you are "not insulated" and "everything hurts".
In the manic phase, you "go faster than everyone, even yourself" and "your thoughts get banked up". The two phases definitely did not have equal time, she said, although it was hard to tell since by the time she knew she was in a certain phase, she had probably already been there quite some time. As well, there is a third phase, she said, somewhere in between those two extremes.
Medication and shock treatment (ECT) were marvellous, she explained, but ECT was the best because it did quickly what medication does slowly. She encouraged her interviewer not to think of images like 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest' because these days it was a very simple procedure and very much to her benefit.
She acknowledged that it did make her forgetful, mostly about what occurred recently rather than long term memories and she did sometimes find it hard to find the right word. Still, she was more than prepared to accept these side effects to receive the benefits.
When not properly medicated, bi-polar made her feel that she "wanted to give up"; not suicidal because she would never do that to her daughter, she said, but it was an indescribably dark place.
Rehab provided her with the funniest moments of her life. "You find your community." You find the other people who have it and it is a sort of gallows humour, she explained. Certainly, I related to finding "my community"!
I related to Carrie's story in other ways too. I was reminded that my father had shock treatment when I was a very small girl. We didn't talk about it back then but I remember him telling a close friend about it; that he lost some memory but that it was a good thing and helped him, and it would help his friend too.
I remember being that little girl and finding my father in bed one afternoon and asking him if I could help him. "Where's your mother?" he wanted to know. I went and found her for him.
In fact, my father did not have bi-polar or any such condition but had convinced himself that his doctors were lying to him and that he was about to die and this spun him into a depression that the shock therapy lifted. I don't remember him being manic or depressed, but I do remember him being rather obsessive and needing everything to be 'just as he wanted it'.
He checked the lock on the door many times; that sort of thing as well. That is an interesting trait to me because I inherited that need to double check things and I made note when my third child said to me last week that he did the same thing. In many cases, we can't change who we are so being loved unconditionally is vital. Anyways, who of us doesn't have some trait that is rather 'odd'?
I heard a documentary maker talk of Glenn Gould, the famous pianist and Canadian readers particularly would know of him. The documentary maker had unearthed much new material about his life and the interviewer asked if he felt sorry for Gould at all?
He did. He said he was a man who needed to have things done in a particular ways - a perfectionist - and that stopped him having the intimacy with others that he so craved. It didn't seem a good enough explanation, I thought at the time of hearing that, but perhaps it speaks to the huge judgements we make of those in our lives and our inability to embrace them for who they really are. It is a very sad thought to think that a man who gave so much beautiful music to the world was unable to receive the love he so obviously craved.
I think I went through life not entirely sure that I was able to give my father what he wanted in a daughter. I didn't speak the language of cricket or football and he didn't speak my language of books and thoughts and ideas. Horse racing was the hobby we shared and I have fond memories of many afternoons spent at racecourses across this State.
But, I knew that I never could never give him the succor that only my mother could provide, no matter how hard I tried. They were deeply, profoundly connected. When he was dying, my mother, who cared for him day and night was exhausted to the point of collapse and I took a plane back home to give her some respite. I sent her into town to get her hair cut and have a few hours to herself whilst I cared for my father but it became a clock watching afternoon.
"When will your mother be back?" he seemed to ask every five minutes.
I really felt quite redundant.
My father's inexhaustible quench to live kept him going long after the doctors had specified and eventually I needed to return to my young family, back across the sea. I would telephone him, of course, but he was always rather into his own world after that.
One afternoon, with kindergartners about the house, I had an urgent need to talk to him and I rang him at the hospice where he had been for only a couple of days. We talked in the way we did. He was deep in denial and the hospice was a sort of hotel in his mind and he said the service was very good.
At one point I could hear a nurse asking him to end the call for her to do something and he said he had to go. We said our goodbyes but something deep inside me told me that I was unlikely to hear his voice ever again and I held the phone to my ear, waiting for I don't know what. And I heard,
"That was my daughter calling me from America."
They were the last words I ever heard from his lips. On some level, he had known it was me reaching out to him and those final words meant more to me than I could ever say. We didn't say "I love you" but it was there - there in his voice; there in so many moments of our shared lives.
He had loved me unconditionally and I loved him unconditionally too: accepted his idiosyncrasies as he accepted mine.
As we grow older, I like to think that we grow softer: more ready to accept, less willing to judge. We all want the very same thing: to be loved just as we are.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Restlessness
I heard Hugh McKay speak the other day about his book, 'What makes us tick?'. He has identified 10 desires that we all have and one of them, of course, is the need to connect. No-one knows that better than me. I hate to think how many times I have typed that word over the past couple of years in this journal. We aim to connect in three important ways: with ourselves, with others and with the natural world/the cosmos.
In blogs I read regularly much thought has been given to the notion of balance and I can't deny that balance in life is important: time for oneself, time for others, time to work, time to play. You get the idea.
I feel extraordinarily guilty right now about that: that I don't have a balanced life. I still look after my family. I still have lovely times with my husband. We had a particularly connected day yesterday and I know that made him very happy. I still walk the puppies every day and I still engage with other people and place dates for events in the diary. I am still functioning all right on a superficial level.
But, on a deeper level, I know I am in trouble. I see a play or a musical event I'd like to see but have to really remind myself over and over, literally force myself to buy the tickets. I know I should arrange lunch with my mother but rather picking up the phone, I put it off to later. I would probably enjoy the Garden Day coming up but can't seem to be bothered to ring a friend to join me. At this time, I have such little motivation to engage with others that circle around my life - to arrange a dinner party or put together that outfit for the Derby.
I search my mind for the explanation for my ambivalence. Am I a bit depressed? Is a black dog chasing me, barking at my heels? I don't think so. The truth lies in the fact that at this time in my life I am engaging deeply with myself and that engagement with myself requires engagement with others who understand that process and don't find me barking mad for revelling in it.
I could sign up for the Garden Day. I could force myself to do it and I could spend a whole day talking about this and that. I suspect once I got there I'd enjoy myself as I almost always do: engagement with nature, a lovely lunch, possibly even some good conversation. But you see, the thought of it exhausts me right now; the effort required to dress up and say, 'Here I am as you know me to be. Here is Vesta. She will smile. She will engage. She will give you her full attention as you tell her about your trip, or your family, or your car park details for the Cup'.
I think what is happening to me is that I am becoming increasingly frustrated with splitting myself in two: one part "gurl" and one part bimbo, who seeks to be controlled and plenty of it. I am as trapped in the spider's web as any fly has ever been and the more I fight it the more bloody entangled I become!
I've broached the subject with my husband now three times; the possibility of heading out; catching a plane to see my daughter in the U.K. for a few weeks. "Where would you stay?" he wanted to know yesterday. "A little boarding house nearby," I suggested. And, I do desperately want to see her. I have been just fine about her being away but the need to see her enveloped me last Friday and the lack of her presence suddenly hit me like a shot. But mostly, the thought of running away from myself and my obsessive launch into this dark side of myself is incredibly appealing because the interaction with a unknown environment would force me to come to the surface and smell the fresh air; retrieve my balance.
To explore your own mind is very brave I think because once you start digging you just don't know what you are going to find.
In blogs I read regularly much thought has been given to the notion of balance and I can't deny that balance in life is important: time for oneself, time for others, time to work, time to play. You get the idea.
I feel extraordinarily guilty right now about that: that I don't have a balanced life. I still look after my family. I still have lovely times with my husband. We had a particularly connected day yesterday and I know that made him very happy. I still walk the puppies every day and I still engage with other people and place dates for events in the diary. I am still functioning all right on a superficial level.
But, on a deeper level, I know I am in trouble. I see a play or a musical event I'd like to see but have to really remind myself over and over, literally force myself to buy the tickets. I know I should arrange lunch with my mother but rather picking up the phone, I put it off to later. I would probably enjoy the Garden Day coming up but can't seem to be bothered to ring a friend to join me. At this time, I have such little motivation to engage with others that circle around my life - to arrange a dinner party or put together that outfit for the Derby.
I search my mind for the explanation for my ambivalence. Am I a bit depressed? Is a black dog chasing me, barking at my heels? I don't think so. The truth lies in the fact that at this time in my life I am engaging deeply with myself and that engagement with myself requires engagement with others who understand that process and don't find me barking mad for revelling in it.
I could sign up for the Garden Day. I could force myself to do it and I could spend a whole day talking about this and that. I suspect once I got there I'd enjoy myself as I almost always do: engagement with nature, a lovely lunch, possibly even some good conversation. But you see, the thought of it exhausts me right now; the effort required to dress up and say, 'Here I am as you know me to be. Here is Vesta. She will smile. She will engage. She will give you her full attention as you tell her about your trip, or your family, or your car park details for the Cup'.
I think what is happening to me is that I am becoming increasingly frustrated with splitting myself in two: one part "gurl" and one part bimbo, who seeks to be controlled and plenty of it. I am as trapped in the spider's web as any fly has ever been and the more I fight it the more bloody entangled I become!
I've broached the subject with my husband now three times; the possibility of heading out; catching a plane to see my daughter in the U.K. for a few weeks. "Where would you stay?" he wanted to know yesterday. "A little boarding house nearby," I suggested. And, I do desperately want to see her. I have been just fine about her being away but the need to see her enveloped me last Friday and the lack of her presence suddenly hit me like a shot. But mostly, the thought of running away from myself and my obsessive launch into this dark side of myself is incredibly appealing because the interaction with a unknown environment would force me to come to the surface and smell the fresh air; retrieve my balance.
To explore your own mind is very brave I think because once you start digging you just don't know what you are going to find.
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