It took me forever to fall asleep last night.  Sir Raven magnanimously turned the fan on for me, which was nice.  My mind was racing a bit.  Sometimes, I get these strange feelings and then it becomes clear later that I was picking up on someone else’s emotional states.  It seems that once connected to a person, I have to work like mad to sever the cord.  Over and over again.

Other times, it is perfectly fine that i’m picking up on what someone is feeling.  It is nature’s way of preparing me for a hard conversation or process. 

I find that when I actively try to tune these things out, I am a little numb and a more unable to access my own emotions.

I don’t have the traditional female virtue of being able to cry.  Not for weddings.  Not for sad songs.  Not for an emotional moment that seems to call for tears.  When every other woman around me is crying, i’m not.  People tend to think that means i’m not feeling anything, which isn’t true or fair.

It is pretty rare that I find myself in a state that I slowly (really, really slowly) become aware that I need to cry.  Even when I know that, I can’t do it.  I just (shrugs) can’t. 

I have cried exactly twice in a cathartic sense from S/m.  Countless other times, it was assuredly the goal of the Top, but I was evidently more determined that this would not happen.  Looking back, I can see that I was obviously struggling to keep control for myself.  I wasn’t about to go gently into that good night.

It seems like a huge thing to ask.  It’s not exactly a conversation starter.  “Hey, do you think you could make me cry soon?”  Yeah.  It doesn’t exactly roll of the tongue, now does it?

Sir Raven has been reading the new book discussion book to me.  It isn’t available as an ebook (Boo!).  I realize how much effort it must be to read it aloud and I appreciate Sir Raven doing it for me.  

In one essay, the author writes about cathartic floggings.  Surprised, I asked if it wasn’t enough to form an intent, and then proceed with whatever tool you had?  Sir Raven is practical that way and agreed with me.  Well, there is that, and there is the one time she made me cry it wasn’t with a flogger.  I have enormous doubts that I could do much with a flogging besides fly, fly, fly.  The heavier the better.  I don’t know that I could reach catharsis from a flogging because for me catharsis infers going someplace dark, deep, like being submerged into the sea and then rising slowly back toward the light.

I could hazard a guess that if someone sat me down and said, “Hey, jade, so what is going to happen today is a cathartic beating and you are going to cry.”  i’d be thinking, “well, good luck with that plan,” because I know just how unlikely that would be for me to be moved to tears.

That person had pretty much have to have an iron stomach to follow through on that one.

Thankfully, Sir Raven has the stomach for doing the job so if I wished her luck (and I have), i’d mean it more in a co conspirator type of a way.  Like, “yeah, i’ll do what I can to help you out with that.  But it’s gonna be a Bitch to make that happen.  i’ll just be down here, not actively resisting your goals.  Good luck, honey.”

I wouldn’t perceive it as a challenge.  To be perfectly honest, I have in the past, with other people.  I knew they didn’t have the stomach to do it and I wanted them to have to face that as much as they wanted to make me cry.   

A couple of months ago, Sir Raven turned on a podcast for me which talked about the concept of Bad Daddy and it was fantastic. The way the man talked about the concept was that Bad Daddy can be a Bastard for no reason at all. He can be cruel. It’s not about you. Everyone understands that.

It was interesting to me because Sir Raven’s ethics as a Master dictate that she wouldn’t do anything to me which might diminish my ability to be useful. It’s not at all unusual for her to want me to get up right after an hour long beating and prepare a meal. She gives me a few minutes but the point is that she is generally unwilling to leave me in such a state that turning on the stove would prove to be a mistake. Heh.

Bad Daddy, however, doesn’t give a shit about that. That part of her shrugs and points out that she knows how to fix herself a sandwich. I humbly submit that it was absolutely Bad Daddy steering the ship when she made me cry.

People seem to associate the Daddy concept with a nurturing persona. I myself do not. The word Daddy is sexualized to me (shut up, Freud). It reminds me to leave myself a little open, a little vulnerable but also that I’ve retained the ability to charm her. It is the leaving myself open for her that lets myself be effected.

In the traditional sense of the word, her Mastery is far more nurturing. There is the idea that I am a reflection of her in all ways, so my accomplishments are hers, de facto. There is not much of a separation of us as distinct people, in some ways. We are a unit, in a sense, working together for the same goals even if we are doing it in a different way. We complement. We Balance. I am just a part of her body, folding clothes while she is riding the train home. She works hard to hold the tension just right, to make sure I know where I can go, what I can do.

The bad Daddy part can be selfish. Selfish. It makes me smile in secret places when I see that glimpse of her. That dark disapproval. I smile because it is entirely selfish of her, and we both know it. I revel in those glimpses because it feels right. For her to take, take, take. Demand. Not care. This is the part of her that has the stomach to do anything, to force it, to not be counterbalancing or thinking about me or my usefulness.

The dark disapproval will come from any misstep on my part. Anyone who knows me at all knows that I grieve deeply when I don’t get things right. I also have a bit of a self-Sadist, who makes me feel a moment of giddy joy very occasionally, when I can see that part of her surface. What I want to say then is, “Well, well, well…welcome back, Fucker.” It is clean and bare and animalistic. Is has nothing to do with me as a slave. It is not a question of who will win. We both know the answer to that. It is more of a question of how long I can hold out, how long I can last.

My inner self Sadist will sit on the dresser and applaud, yelling helpful comments like, “Fuck her up!”

In my own way, I think of this scenario as cathartic too. It doesn’t end in a feeling of being washed clean or soft tears. It ends in snot and ugly and pure.

I confess that it is a very odd thing that I can be just as dispassionate to my own suffering as she is.

In some ways, I can be just as dispassionate over not getting what I want or what I need. i’m looking, maybe, to find a bit more balance there. I was never a person who asked for much, but if I opened up my mouth and asked for it, I pretty much expected that it would be done. I’ve never asked for one thing in my life without first weighing out the fairness or ease of my request. The pendulum has swung the opposite direction now. From expecting (and feeling horrible about that in my life) to not expecting.
Not expecting is being free from concern over the outcome. Perhaps that is catharsis in its own right.

noun \kə-ˈthär-səs\

: purgation

a : purification or purgation of the emotions (as pity and fear) primarily through art

b : a purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal or release from tension




i have several small things simmering in the background of my mind.

  • On: Looking in the mirror and seeing my mother’s face

Last week, i was about to put some blush on and glanced up in the mirror, my face an inch or two from my reflection.  i don’t know if it was the way the light was diffused and illuminated my face just right or what.  i can’t even say what i saw that was different, only that i saw something familiar there, something of my mother’s face.  i know because i had spent many hours of my childhood with a photograph of her at fifteen or sixteen strip searching my face, looking for any hint or sign that i might turn into something beautiful.  So, imagine my consternation that when i saw the undefined something that reminded me of her, i felt repelled a bit.  Confused.  i wondered if my face could have changed in the last couple of years and remembered the first time i fell in lust, came home to my mother leaving the object of lust behind, and heard her surprised remark that my face has changed in a couple of months.  She had noted, with some approval, that one half of my face more closely resembled her own.  i remember being somewhat dumbfounded because she had spent 21 years looking at my face and had never told me she saw anything of her own self there, peeking out.  i thought it was the falling in lust that made my cheekbones higher, changed me in some obscure manner. 

i’m not strip searching myself to find her anymore. 

Not for years now.  To suddenly see her made me feel something that i don’t really have a word for.  It wasn’t a happy emotion.  And though i try the other feeling words on for size, they don’t fit right.  There is just this sense of my stomach falling, the lurch you feel on a rollercoaster on the way up. 

i have taken to just putting on lip gloss and avoiding it, the mirror, the possibility that i might see her there.  i realize that it is silly and my sullen resentment about clearly having skipping over the objectively stunning vision of her in her youth to have arrived someplace else won’t change anything.  i was thinking back to her thirty-fifth birthday, standing with sunlight dancing on her olive skin, thinking she took my breath away. 

i let my belly fill with air, inhale carefully, and push it out through my mouth.  If there was a way to rid myself of any memory of her, i would.  Nothing good comes, not really.  There isn’t even a morsel of me that feels any longing for her, which is so very strange. 

On Sunday, Sir Raven and i watched the Liberace movie, and i played Devil’s Advocate on a person having full facial surgery on the whim of another.  i pointed out that it is extreme, yes, but not so very different from breast augmentation or a nose job to please another.  i also pointed out that if you love someone, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to look in the mirror and see their reflection staring back at you.  i did not point out the glimpse of my mother, or what it feels like to see a person staring back that you do not love anymore. 

  • Life as a Science Project…

One thing that is very interesting to me is the conversation Sir Raven and i had about the blog whereupon we ended up talking about How. Much. Angst. i felt before i decided to dial down my emotions on the topic of S/m.  What she said, when she noted my obvious angst, was “I wonder how much longer she can wait?”  Weeks rolled on and she just investigated it.  Took note.  Treated me like a science project.  Watched my process. 

The way i have deadened my emotions on the topic are not what she may have wanted.  It wasn’t her intent.  She says it may have been different had i not written about it, that doing so made it somehow separate from me and us.  Like she was outside of the process, watching. 

For me, of course, the act of writing is a lot like being totally nude in a room full of people i can’t see.  It is supremely private and open, at the same time.  If i take the time and effort to write about something, it has great meaning for me, particularly if i am devoting energy to exposing a thing that makes me feel unhappy emotions.  i don’t– i can’t–write to look at it from the outside.  It is more about my insides than anything else i do, except S/m. 

i thought that was very interesting, that we come at writing from an opposite place.  i write in one sitting, sometimes choosing words with great deliberation.  i don’t edit later.  i let it enter the world as it is, as i am.  If i’m going to get nude, literally or on the page, i might tease my top off.  But, more likely, i will just be bold with it.  In a this is me manner.  It is a matter of humor, to me, that i will expose myself.  It is a matter of something near humor, to me, that Sir Raven can observe me from a distance this way.  i wonder if it has occurred to her just how Sadistic it is to be fully and consciously aware that i was dangling by my fingernails in need.  She knew it, understood what it was, that it was not about “do me, DO ME” but about something else entirely.  Something emotional beyond words.  Something pressing and unyielding and exhaustion. 

i wonder if she realizes how masochistic it was of me to keep pointing this out, well aware that it was likely to not change anything at all.  Like cutting myself with dull razor blades willing the blood out. 

It occurs to me that it must be emotionally masochistic to feel good about her being able and willing to stand back and do nothing at all, just to see what would happen.  What happened was that i quite literally turned myself inside out for her.  

It is the singular way i have had to do it.  Slowly, painfully, agonizingly aware.  Like the frigid falls that i went to as a child.  It was so cold it made you unable to hold your tears, your bladder.  Your teeth would chatter, you would go numb, you would lack control.  i would keep walking out further, the strange sensation of blasting heat on your head in stark contrast to the cold wet.  Finally, as your body would adjust a bit, the pain would stop and you’d feel something like relief. 

You never heard the sun say, “hey, i was suffering your cold limbs and aching toes too.”

But that is what Sir Raven said, that i wasn’t dealing with the need alone.  It is not as if she was getting her needs met elsewhere.  Realistically, i imagine that she wouldn’t get the same core needs met with someone else, just as i could not.  i could do S/m with another person, in theory, but it would be more for fun and relaxation.  i’m not even sure i would want to. 

i think there might be something sacred in the waiting.  It’s an offering of sorts, just like anything else. 

In the meantime, i am content and relieved to not be full of angst, wondering, mentally lashing myself.  It has become something far more simple to just notice and dismiss. 

i have noticed that, along with this business of letting go of uncomfortable things, the tapes that started playing from the social security stupidness are less persistent. 

  • Roll Tape

This tape, the crazy tape, is not my favorite by far.  i’d rather listen to the ugly tape. 

i rather think that it would be readily obvious to a sane person if i was crazy.  i think i’d know if that was the case.  We were warned, early, that future doctors who study mental illness will strip search themselves for a while.  There were years, several of them in my youth, that i believed i was crazy.  It did me damage, that whole thing, mostly because i learned to not trust my own perceptions as valid.  That was how i earned the crazy tape.  By trusting myself.  To get rid of that tape means that i am trusting myself fully and deeply.  Considering how i earned the crazy tape to begin with, by spilling secrets when i thought they couldn’t hurt anyone anymore, it can be a messy thing to trust myself. 

The thing is, simply, that i trust her.  i trust that she is capable and smart and would clearly see if i was crazy.  What is healing and freeing is i suspect she wouldn’t really care.  She gave me a chance, even though i disclosed the history of abuse, the history of PTSD.  She is not affected much by either on a daily basis. 

The thing is, simply, that i trust myself.  i trust that i am capable and smart and could see it if i was struggling.  It would be here, on the page.  What i consider is that my brain was bathed in 33 years of stress hormones and people who were only too happy to open wounds to salty air, cause new scars, and watch with dispassionate glee.  Not living in that makes it only too clear that much of the pain of being me was deliberately invoked from the outside.  i know because i am largely happy, peaceful, and content now. 

i’m thinking i deserve to at least edit the crazy tape, if not outright destroy it in the light.  It is a strange, sobering thought, that it wasn’t me.  i didn’t author that particular tape.  i didn’t deserve it.

It’s not factual.  It’s not needed.  It has almost nothing to do with me or my life now.

All i needed was a chance.

She believes in me enough to have offered that chance.

i believed in myself enough to take it.

It is so much more than enough. 


I have a few days off of school and I hardly know what to do with myself, it happens so very rarely.  Mostly, one class ends and the next one begins the very next day.

Sir Raven was home for three peaceful days and i’m wishing she was back already.  Even if she is doing something else in the bedroom or she is watching television while I cook, I enjoy knowing she is here.  There is a tremendous comfort being able to just be near her.  We don’t have to be doing anything special for the time to be special.

We talked about the blog, and I asked if I sound like a whiner (!).  She doesn’t think so and offered the opinion that this is my process.  I surprised her, I think, by pointing out that I write here in the same way that she has a private journal.  I used to keep a pen and paper one in childhood but can’t see the point in that now, for a variety of reasons.

I realized something, later, while we were doing art.  Sir Raven was showing me a different way of layering and I was feel anxious because I couldn’t see what was going on and had no idea what it should look like if it was done “right”.  She was patient with me, moving the stencil and holding it down.  Washing out brushes so I can stay still and work.  She will even also choose colors for me sometimes or cut out pictures.  Other times, I do art more on my own.  That is a process too and it helps me work through anxiety.

I realized while I was painting that I may have been misusing a word, associating the masochistic urges with frustration when it might be more correct to say anxiety.  Things that are outside of her control make me feel anxious and I well imagine that S/m works for me because it physically demonstrates she is in total control and relieves the underlying anxiety.

Very few things are things I can let myself “let go” into the experience.

Writing is one, especially because of how I practice it.  My entries are meant to be something of a snapshot.  I don’t edit.  I write once and post very deliberately.  I tend to spell check, because God knows that can be atrocious, but that is all.

I think that my emotions show through clearly in the written form.  When i’m speaking, I have a very expressive face, though only if the emotions are mostly positive.  I can say that i’m feeling angry or scared but my face is inscrutable, from what I’ve been told.  People tend to downgrade what i’m saying because my face doesn’t match, my energy and inflection doesn’t match, and that is understandable to me that people would go with what they can observe.

It is hard for me to express being dissatisfied or unhappy.  I can say the words but that is about it.  This led my mother to wonder if I wasn’t actually autistic though she is patently insane and physically abusive.  One would think I would consider the source and ignore it.

The DSM has decided to omit Asperger’s as a separate category which has made me think more about it.  Some things certainly fit, though if it is a byproduct of not being able to see faces right or being hit for not seeming happy or grateful enough, there is no good way to discern.

What made me think of it at all was reading something about hand flapping, and realizing that I do this often, when i’m anxious about messing something up.  It occurs to me that I do it whenever Sir Raven makes me toss something across the room at her because i’m anxious i’ll hit her in the head or something.  i do it when i walk into things.  i do it. 

One thing that I really do love about O/p is that outside information doesn’t really change things.  If the world’s leading neurologist said I was autistic, that wouldn’t really make any difference to my life with Sir Raven.  It wouldn’t make a difference to her.  It wouldn’t change anything, certainly not in the sense of limiting what I can or should do.  If I required outside help, she’d make sure I had it, but she has a good and strong notion of who I am and where i’m likely to succeed.  She knows how to get what she wants from me.  Sir Raven thinks it is a product of abuse that i seem unable to fully express “negative” emotions.  i tend to agree, mostly, but i also think that maybe it really doesn’t matter. 

Whatever I might have been had I been raised in structure and without abuse, i’ll never know.  i keep thinking of how the autistic kids i worked with were not able to function without routines, structures, downtime.  Even if that is a part of me, it suits our life that i will respond to structure.  It took me a damn long time in life to learn how to do downtime because my downtime was to hole up in my room with fifteen books and devour them.  i would reach points that i just couldn’t deal with the outside world and needed to be alone for a while. 

i wish i didn’t have to leave the house today, actually.  i need to get medicine, do the laundry, and buy some groceries.  We are out of coffee, which qualifies as an emergency in my mind.  Sir Raven let me have an extra cup while she was home.  It is truly funny to me how enjoyable little things can become.  i tease her that i am drinking pots of coffee all day but i dare not.  So it was a welcome thing to get to make myself a special cup in the afternoon after we took a brief walk to find a shady Summer spot to make art by the gardens.  We would just go to the gardens but we can’t drink wine there. 🙂

It took me a few days, but i responded to the letter from my lawyer’s secretary about the social security situation.  Every time i think about that, i literally feel like i could throw up.  Not to mention, various and sundry people from my past all started emailing me within a few days of each other for no apparent reason.  Sir Raven is helping me with learning how to tell people to not bother me, but to do it in a way that is not mean because that feels wrong to me.  i think she might understand, at this point, that it fills me with anxiety to respond.  i don’t know how to do anything besides ignore people or “walk out like a lady” and not embarrass anyone.  i don’t know how to be direct and blunt, in a sense.  i can do it, but i have to not feel anything to do that.  No matter what the situation is, it seems to me like it’s my obligation to be kind.  i try to look at the total picture and feel some compassion for everyone as long as people did the best they could in that space.  

Very often, i can see situations from a variety of perspectives and can feel different ways depending on whose perspective i am taking.  i take my own perspective(s) last, after considering everyone else.  Not to mention, i may think in a way that is very different from how i feel.  i become flustered and i recognize that i need help.

i won’t often say that something is beyond my capacity but going back in front of a judge who wants to put me on trial might be something i can’t do again.  i keep trying to picture the whole thing and i just can’t.  i pick it up like a rubic cube or a puzzle and then have to set it aside again. 

i will say though that I’ve managed myself pretty well on putting aside the S/m need.  I’ve surprised myself, in a good way.  Sir calling, people from past relationships emailing, the judge who was actively combatant towards me, all within a few days-is a lot to me. 

It was very welcomed to have help putting these things aside, to focus on Sir Raven being home, finishing my class, and art.  She really is very good for me.  Steadfast, strong, calm, loyal.  Interdependence can be a good thing, a great thing, and i’m thankful for a Master who takes care of me even though she could get her own needs met without doing so.    

Inspired comment

i read a comment on another blog that absolutely stopped me in my tracks.  He said, “slaves need physicality.”

It made me stop and think hard.

All of the angst i’ve ever felt trying to supress it, trying to hold it down, lusting after pain, that all-consuming thick need.  Finally, finally, i forced it away and have become zen-like. 

i am:

Ready to devour the pain whole.

Calmly waiting.

And….finally….a reason to forgive my body for wanting, craving, needing. 

It could be a natural urge?

i mean, of course it’s natural but damn.  Yeah.  Every slave i’ve ever known does need physicality.  Some do it through pain, force, sex, restraints at night, tangible physical reminders. 

Many of us go through a hell of a lot of grief when we don’t get the need for physicality met.  i figure the sense of guilt, shame, it’s wasted.  it serves no greater purpose.  It certainly wasn’t adding anything to Sir Raven’s life for me to get angry with myself for something as natural for me as breathing.

i am the one who decided it was better to distance myself from the want of it.  i certainly wasn’t asked to.  What she said on the topic was that she did not want me to distance, did not want me to be numb. 

i didn’t have a better way to deal.  i didn’t have anything else i could do. 

i’d like to understand what the difference is between a slave needing physicality and a Master needing it. 

They seem to be better at compartmentalizing, or something to that effect.  i’m just not sure why or what it means.

i wonder if they understand what is behind that need for slaves? 

i wonder if it is universal for slaves.  Even apart from outright pain, which i get not everyone needs, physicality can come in a million shades. 

Though entirely anecdotal, it seems we do all crave this. 

If it is a natural thing, then maybe it should be natural to ask, acceptable to have a need, as understandable as needing a drink of water. 

Slaves need physicality is a value-free, judgement-free way of thinking about it.  It resonates for me.


The house was a little bit messy because i’ve been focusing on this last push of homework before this class is wrapped up.  Yesterday was devoted almost entirely to two papers and today is all about padding my grade like its a delicate fabrige egg. 

i don’t need to, an “A” is in the bag, but i can’t seem to help myself until i see the grade book.  Plus, i have one more test to do before Sunday. 

It’s been a few long days, sick days.  i had started to wonder if the endless fever and pain was something else going on but whatever it is seems better today.  i woke myself up talking in my sleep. At one point, i was pleading with her to make the pain stop, because apparently my inner child believes she can control everything.  i hope she slept through it because it nauseates me when i turn into something remotely like a whiner.  i can’t stand people who whine. 

Sir Raven has told me to stay in and rest as much as i can the last couple of days.  Yesterday, she noted that i was moving strangely.  That happens, when it feels like my leg can (does) go out from underneath me, and i’m sort of wobbly.  i don’t like that she has to deal with this stuff, i’d shield her from it if i could. 

i think i can do All Things and feel a little pouty when i’m told to rest.  Privately, of course.  It is one example though of how control wins out over service around here.  i’d have pushed through, one way or another, but am likely starting to get better because i obeyed and didn’t run myself into the ground. 

i woke up late this morning, not until 8:30, and Sir Raven was at work already.  i hate it when i end up sleeping in though she could wake me up if she wanted to, of course.  i’m far happier when i wake up to make the coffee, or at least serve it before she has to leave.

It’s fifty degrees, raining, and windy here. So much for summer coming. Still, it’s a long weekend for us. Sir Raven said we might hide from the world. She mentioned wanting to take her time beating me, and that would be nice, i must admit.

i went out for wine, a whole chicken to roast and make chicken salad later, and some other groceries. i wanted to make sure we had some things in the house she likes, like her new favorite snack.

Last night, she came home and meticulously glued on about two hundred jeweled beads onto a graduation cap for someone she works with. This is one of the many reasons i love her. When i pointed that out, watching her work, she downplayed it, saying only that it was a craft and she enjoys being crafty.

She has been instrumental in helping this woman stay focused on her goals, has watched her blossom into a woman. i would say that she has been a mentor to her and her pride is clear in the glued on beads and the shadow box frame she gently placed the cap inside.

Sir Raven puts herself out there when she doesn’t have to and i love her for that quality.

Tonight, despite the lousy weather and knowing she would really rather be home, she is taking her coworker out to dinner to celebrate her graduation.

These are the things that fill me with tremendous pride in her. She knows being a Mentor means being there to listen to a person when they struggle, kicking them in the ass now and then, and celebrating when they make their goals.

i’m thinking about a comment i read, about how slaves seem to need physical reminders. i can’t seem to formulate my thoughts well enough to write on it. But i think the Dominant who wrote it is on to something. More later, maybe.



It’s been a busy week so far.

Monday was an errand day, where i went to five stores, the laundry mat, and walked a few miles.  i also worked some on the kitchen, to complete the project Sir Raven and i had started over the weekend.

Even though Sir Raven knew, in a general sense, what i had done that day, she still asked about my day and listened patiently.  She knew the various jobs and standing on line took up the majority of my day.  What did she do?  Ask about school work and what i had gotten done.  i love her for that.  She also joked about my hair, which had turned into something of an afro in the high humidity.  She is unused to seeing me a hot mess because by the time she gets home, i do make some effort to look presentable.  She isn’t ever ugly about what i did not do, especially when she knows something i am working on is time intensive or that i’m not well.  But she will point it out, regardless. 🙂

So, on Tuesday, i had my hands full getting caught back up for my class, which is coming to an end this week.  By five, i was showered and presentable, had my paper turned in, and was ready to start dinner preparations and receive her guest. 

Dinner went well.  We had salmon, baked potatoes with onions, and string beans.  We had a good conversation, all three of us.  i was busy in the kitchen while they talked after i greeted Sir Raven and poured her wine, removed her boots, got her settled.  i found myself smiling as i worked on the meal in the kitchen, not really hearing most of their conversation, but still pleased to hear their laughter. 

There were a few points in the conversation where i had to be hushed.  i gave it some thought yesterday, realizing that i revert to female ways of speaking that i don’t do with Sir Raven.  You know, the way close women speak to each other: over-speaking, touching, finishing each other’s thoughts, interrupting with points and questions but able to hear each other at the same time. 

i have to be more aware of this.  i had not thought about how i speak differently with Sir Raven: waiting for her questions, waiting for a longish pause before i speak, not touching while we talk, asking a question and then being silent for several moments, directly asking if i can speak if i’m not sure or waiting for her to pose a question directly to me.  There are times that i am…maybe more impulsive and less aware if we are just joking around…but the waiting/pausing is mostly how we communicate.

i pointed out that the female customs (over speaking, etc) imply intimacy but i understand that she has a strong dislike of it.  That is a good enough reason for me to be more aware.  We talked about the differences in male and female speech patterns last night, and also that it is harder for me to talk in a group because i can’t see faces.  Seriously, try having a blind conversation some time, and you’ll see how it complicates matters.  🙂

Sir Raven is generous with overlooking my errors to a point because of the sight issue.  She might say, “jade, quiet” or “stop talking,” but she isn’t really upset with me and i’m not upset with her, even when this happens mid-word, which is not infrequent.

If i have something important to communicate that i know i’m likely to need to get out without being hushed or distracted, i write.

Anyhow, i need to work on this speaking thing and i have a plan in place in my mind, so that’s good.  i really like the way Sir Raven and i can talk a thing out where we are different and not judge each other.  She thinks and speaks in a more masculine style, where communication is less about intimacy and more about hierarchy and demonstrations of respect and understanding.  So, i can understand where it would feel like some kind of unstructured free-for-all to listen to women speak. 

Yesterday pretty much sucked.  i didn’t feel well and was happy to hear Sir Raven’s voice when she called from work.  She told me to rest, even though i tried to downplay how i was feeling.  So, i cleaned up the house and stayed inside. 

i got an email from my representative.  i’ve been fighting the insane social security system for years and may have to see the judge again.  i wasn’t expecting any news, though we have been waiting an additional year and a half to hear something as it wove through the court system.  The entire thing makes me feel tremendous anxiety, for about fifty different reasons.  Frankly, what it feels like is that you are on trial, you have to prove your case with limited resources and then are penalized for everything.  Who in the hell wants to be disabled?  Really?  And then to have to fight the system?  Not to mention, the judge was a perfect Asshole.  i have naturally curly hair, and he made the snide comment that i must be able to see enough to fix my hair.  Had i been able to use a hot iron and produce a head full of ringlets, i might be able to see his point.  However, he did not ask me, he had assumed and i have no way of knowing if my response was on record or not.  He wasn’t there to critque my hairstyle, he was supposed to be examining the evidence and not considering anything else.  That did not stop him from doing so.  Now the judge is being ordered to review parts of the case he refused to acknowledge or rule on.  i can only imagine that won’t improve his demeanor.

Last time, i had support.  i did not have to worry about how i was getting there, getting lost in the damn building, or getting out of their in a hurry before i flipped out.  It was that stressful to me.  Not to mention, anything to do with the system is humiliating.  And i’d be away from Sir Raven. And i’d have to fly again.  Just…ugh.  i don’t know how to deal with this.  i’m very tense.

i’m also tense that my next class is math, and i might not be able to pass the class without huge help.  i’d be freaked out if i could see a calculator.  i’m more than that now.  It starts in about a week.

Meanwhile, i’m having a bitch of a time with this last week of work for the crisis intervention class.  i have to say, i’ve loved this class, even though its been hard.  i just am feeling really physically bad, really tense, and over tired. 

i’ve worked so hard at redirecting myself, redirecting my thoughts, when i’m feeling stress.  It isn’t working today.  It just- isn’t.  i keep thinking about Sir Raven’s belt, and though i hate belts, they force me to be calm.  Right now, i want that explotion of peace….Very, Very badly. 

i’m mad at myself because i am not getting stuff done.  i’m frustrated to have to think about that damn judge. 

i am just not great so far today.  i hope it gets better, soon.



There is something i’d like to write about, but i don’t know how to start, where to start.

Right now, it is just the first taste of good chocolate melting in my mouth.  Or a secret you want to hold quiet for a moment.  The more something matters to me, the more i tend to hold onto it for awhile, unless i force myself to write what needs to be seen in the light of day.

This…this is something different.

My sense is that it could be something special, that it could be something healing, that it could be something Sir Raven wants.

Looking back, at us, i was thinking of how many signs i missed, how much i didn’t see …when she was clearly telling me of her feelings.  The first time she kissed me, she turned a song on her ipod, and went out on the balcony to smoke.  The song said, “I see the girl with the broken smile, I ask her if she wants to stay awhile-she will be loved.”  Later, she sent me a song called “Thunder” by Nuttin but Strings and if we were a song, that is what we would sound like together.  Later still, she wrote that i had “bewitched her” and i had not formed the connection yet to the rest of that quote by Mr. Darcy.  When i did, i thought she may not have meant to say that.  That it may have just been rolling around in her head, the way she makes poetry and thunder roll in mine.

And so i’m looking, quietly, for some sign of her feelings for a woman.

i have what i have been told is a strange ability to stop my feelings before they start, or in mid stride if i need to.  There are points that i can pull back.  i depend on my logic, i depend on my neatly handwritten pro/con lists.  i have made no such list here, for the possibility, i’ve just noted the potential.

i enjoy the woman’s  feminine energy, the way she can turn from masculine to feminine on a dime.  The way she walks down the street with me, steering me with the small of my back, intently focused but in a different way than Sir Raven.  Quite possibly, the difference is merely that she has been trained to kill, and that training took shape and colored everything.  It is pleasant, that thought.  i am Italian, after all. 

Sir Raven has waited some weeks before letting us write.  She occasionally asks questions of how she is doing or i’ll read from our emails aloud.  Sir Raven says that my writing style is why she waited, that it would fill anyone with longing, that is is bold and sexual.  She admitted that even when she reads about our scenes, she finds it sexy and feels a sense of longing.  The goodliest Master pointed out that people who don’t have that would feel longing for it.

i’ve thought about this since Sunday, off and on.

i think i provide a well-rounded depiction of us.  Our highs and lows.  Sometimes, the high of the day is food shopping when i am so exhausted it hurts to even think about standing on line or hauling it home….but then i go out anyhow, prepare the meal she had just been craving, and she pronounces it “delicious.”  Other times, the high is her beating me and then filling her mouth with wine and letting it go down my throat with the same eagerness i had just held my legs open for her whip. 

In any case, the woman has not been made privy to our blog, only emails, which is maybe a good thing, since i am a far better writer than speaker.  Or, i think so. 

i felt a little bad about the longing comment, not for the woman, but for someone else.  i felt a little crushed for him when i thought about it, and more than a little pain.  He has helped me see the innocent parts of me that i have never seen before because we mirror each other in some important ways.  All of my life, i have wondered how in the hell a girl so fucking smart could end up in so many blatantly abusive situations.  i have strip-searched myself and my motivations and my errors.  Of course, one factor is that i am totally shit at setting or keeping boundaries, another factor is that i did not have the normal milestones of dating and such that would have prepared me better to navigate in life.  But the most important factor is that although i see things with crystal clarity for others, and in general, when it comes to myself i often misunderstand other people’s motivations.  By the time i figure them out, it is too late.  This factor is huge, massive, and it is a fundemental part of me that even if i had been aware before now that it existed, i’m not sure i would have changed it.  Because it is a painful thing, to spend a whole life thinking you were never wholly innocent, not even when you were born. 

And so, in this way, he has helped me embrace myself and forgive myself and love myself even more.  That is such a gift that it defies explaination, and i doubt he knows my level of thanks, for helping me see something i needed to see.  His candor was not something i earned, it was a gift, and i cherish that.

The last thing, the last damn thing i’d ever want to do, is cause him pain.  The honest thing is, i long for him to have what he needs, likely far more than is customary for a friend. 

i was thinking, for a few days now, that i should be more careful, that i should avoid hurting anyone with longing.  And then i thought that it was a few brave writers who helped carry me through when i needed to keep the tiny seed of faith alive inside of me.  Some know who they are, or they should, but other writers i have never reached out to.  Sometimes i stumbled right into a hard concept, something i needed to mentally wrestle with, that i had never considered before.  Certainly, that helped me to get to this place too.  Sometimes, the writing reminded me that i was wasting time, entertaining an innocent girl crush, letting my life get over taken, letting myself die inside as a small doll. 

Words kept me alive.

Words continue to keep me honest.

They are all i have that i would claim as Mine, and that is good, it is as it should be.

They are what will exist, somewhere, when i am dead and gone.  Someone who mattered a great deal to me left behind her online journal and i held her words to me like a broken, sobbing child.  In one entry, she wrote of carefully printing out a few hand selected entries to a new therapist, and then discovered the therapist was blind.  i had just been wondering who would be willing to go see a blind therapist, and found the answer. 

i don’t know what parts of this blog will touch someone where they need to be touched.  i write for my Master and myself.  i’m honest about my failures, my blunders, my life.  i’m honest about this path, all of the ways that being property has affected me.  i don’t think i paint an overly sentimental or unrealistic portrait of us.  That is my goal, in any case.  To be honest and document our journey.  Most of the time, people are either not exceptionally honest in their portrayl or you are hearing of their journey after a decade together. 

We won’t look the same in ten years time. 

i want a record of the journey, the mudane and practical and sensational moments.

And, yes, the longing.

Because i long to become the slave she would have me be, today and in ten years and beyond.

Today, i savor the potential of the woman who will come share a meal with us this night.  Today, i savor the quiet, calm longing for more of Sir Raven’s marks, and

i savor the waiting and working to become the girl of Master’s dreams.