BEFORE that vomitous purge, I had gotten into a conversation about dark things...as in sadistic twistings that fascinate and frighten me.
"How do we get involved in these conversation late at night?"
pixiemschf: *laughs* Because during the day, we are distracted, and because such things BELONG in the dark
Perhaps it is also not wise to START the day with such thoughts, but there was another bit of the conversation that I am worrying away at. Submission. D/s. All of that stuff.
Five years ago, in April 2007, I was held for about two hours against my will because I was thought to be a danger to myself or to my child. I managed to alert Beloved that I was in trouble before I was literally dragged from the lobby, threatened with anti-psychotics, denied MY doctor's advice or even their doctor's evaluation. Beloved...the man is amazing. If he had charged in, guns blazing so to speak, I probably would have remained. Instead, he politely, professionally thanked each person for their assistance and asked to speak to their supervisor, until at last he was sitting with the president of the hospital who finally agreed to actually evaluate me. I was released and walked out of the hospital, my baby in my arms, Beloved's arm around my shoulders.
In that moment, I belonged to Beloved. I was his to protect, to have and to hold, and no outside "authority" had any power to deny him. How grateful was I! How I longed to make that feeling last!
In the days and weeks that followed, I delved into new words, trying to find that secure and treasured place in the nebulous world of my stay-at-home confines. Odalisque, slave, submissive. Owner, Master, Dominant. I also began the spiral of Big Pharma, hoping that the little blue pill would satisfy my aching depression and let me dance again.
By August I wore a "collar" and by December I decided to start blogging my thoughts. From time to time, I have glimpsed the peace and confidence of my place, but mostly I was frustrated with the labels, the demotion from a VIP who was once invited to Washington DC to serve Congress to a *mom* whose major accomplishment was a load of laundry half-done or vacuuming. Beloved and I have sampled different lifestyles, tried to mold our lives into someone else's definitions, and generally aren't satisfied with the results. For five years, I have struggled and screamed, at times hating everyone and everything around me, always doubting my success because I never feel truly successful.
"It is a process." Namaste's words haunt me. While I am turning over ideas and searching for a new path, I am also frozen in fear because there is no finish-line, no "successfully completed" measurement. Typing that, I can feel the panic like a vise around my chest, making it hard to breathe. The well of bitterness and resignation opens up and threatens to swallow me. I have not found grace in submission...I have only found other ways to withdraw and hide until it is over, and now I am told it will never be over.
"Is not this simpler? Is this not your natural state? It's the unspoken truth of humanity that you crave subjugation. The bright lure of freedom diminishes your life's joy in a mad scramble for power. For identity. You were made to be ruled." ~Loki, The Avengers
The moment in the movie is poignant, rallying defiance. At the same time, I wonder if there isn't a deep truth to it. After all, isn't that precisely what I have been struggling with, lusting for? The mad scramble for power, for identity when what I really crave is that security I felt on that April day five years ago.
*sigh* I'm not completely undone, at least I don't *think* I am. There is a lot going on in my life, and sometimes the centifuge begins whirling, and posts like the one below happen. bleech. Apply salt liberally, and definitely avoid biofreeze in the eyes!
We are never all one thing or the other and that balance changes with time. Be Well
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