If we shadows have offended,Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream...
Beloved is perhaps wiser than I would like to admit. I asked directly what I had to do to earn a collar. He said that I had to prove I wanted it. So I asked what I have to do to prove it. He said I have to write out what a collar means to me, then test my acceptance with a trial week, then we have to discuss it.
The quagmire of emotion is overwhelming. I'm furious, heartbroken, resigned, and despairing.
All my life I wanted to be something else...someone else. My childhood was filled with imaginary friends and adventures with Robin Hood, King Arthur. I would go for walks when it got foggy, hoping but not-quite believing that I might wander into some other time, place. I wanted to be special.
I survived into the young adulthood and exchanged those daydreams with ambitious goals of getting into politics and changing the world, saving the environment, making a real difference. I wanted to be special. I got as far as a job offer in the US Senate that I was unable...unwilling...to take.
So my life got reinvented again. I had a child. Perhaps with children, I could regain the joys of the imagination, recover the fascination of holidays, find the magic again. I wanted to be special, but apparently someone has to do the work to make such things appear real, and I am now that someone.
Disillusioned, I scrambled to find meaning in my status, some way that I might possibly give up everything I had imagined and be content with the "American Dream" of a house in suburbia, two kids, pets... If I could surrender to it, if I could submit and had a Master to care for me and keep me sane, maybe then I would be special...
But over and over and over I fought against the labels. *wry smile* I'm a fiesty, flighty PIXIE...right? I'm wild and fae and stubborn and cannot be collared by any one! Not even my beloved husband wants to risk it without written essay, trials, and discussions.
After simmering in bed and then coming downstairs and sobbing, the conclusion I come to is that he's probably right. I'm enamored with the image, the idea, the perception of what submission is. I forget that I already have a collar and I cannot escape it.
The names my collar bear are WIFE and MOM.
