Thoughts on Submission

I’ve been thinking about how I relate to the word submission as of late.  I was prompted by being asked why I had objected to the word applied to me and why I was viewing it differently in the last several months.  Then, I read the post above and it helped crystalize some of my thoughts.

I do experience a sense of shame due to the word doormat being linked to the word submissive.  Submissive doesn’t feel like a strong word to me.  It isn’t coming from a strong place in me.  Whereas, slavery is strong and coming from a strong place in me.  It can take an iron will to bend myself, to stay focused, to be willing to fly in the face of a culture that endlessly promotes the Individual. 

Being submissive may not be coming from a strong place but it is my natural place in the world.  It doesn’t resonate in some ways because I can’t relate it to strength and I know myself to be a strong person.  This character trait is neither something I am wanting or able to change in myself.  What I want to do is find a way to make peace with it.

As the writing linked above notes, the boundaries I have for myself are largely non existent.  My sense of “being taken advantage of” is non existent.  There are a million examples I can think of offhand where anyone witnessing the situation told me, directly, that I was being taken advantage of but I had no intrinsic sense of this.  I can see how this factor makes me vulnerable, how it has contributed to me getting into situations where the conditions did nothing to help me thrive as a woman. 

The place where I diverge from the pattern is that I do have ambition.  I’ve always had a strong drive, a strong work ethic.  And it’s been used to further other people’s education, careers, wallets, desires.  These last couple of years is the first time I’ve demanded success that was in my own name.  I’ve earned a Master’s degree in Exceptional Education for someone else while my own grades suffered under the strain of attempting two simultaneous full time course loads, parenting an infant, doing all of the housework, cooking, and laundry for four, and holding down a full time job.  Even thinking about those years, I can’t honestly say that I felt taken advantage of.  Yeah.  Non existent personal boundaries.

I have boundaries as they pertain to other people.  I learned well as a child to make damn sure no one stepped on my mother’s toes and that lesson carried over to how I will respond when someone thwarts the Alpha in my life.  I think in terms of a ranking order and in the end, there can only be one on top. 

So, instead of having a fight-or-flight instinct or a flight-or-freeze instinct, what I have is a fight (for others) or freeze (for myself) instinct. 

I can see how that too has left me open season. 

What more could a predator want in life?  In me, they have had a person who has no natural personal boundaries, who will fight to the death for them, remove any obstacles to their power, and will otherwise obey without question. 

If you show me your teeth, I will inevitably cave if I feel threatened and know that the person can and will overpower me.  In other words, I won’t give what they can’t take.

This fits in with the familial cardinal abusive rules:

1. Back down to a threat. 

If there is any hint whatsoever that I was not the epitome of deference, the situation would escalate into savage abuse.  That means no eye contact, hands behind your back, no crying, no emotion, soft or no speech.  The idea here was that the mother was not to be challenged in any manner.  Any idea that I was not backing down to the threat meant I had “stepped into a woman’s place” and should expect to be treated as another woman, as a threat, so the swift escalation to punching and kicking was entirely my fault.

2. Never beg.

Begging implies both weakness and is disgusting and should be obliterated.  It also implied that the mother was abusive and cruel and if that was the case, if that is what I was communicating, then it was time to “show me what abuse was” and the fault was mine entirely for provoking it.

That speaks more to the predator and prey concept, the idea of being overpowered but only by a person who has it in them to fuck you up.  The abuse model is abhorrent to me.  The truth though is that I respond to people who are able and willing to take me down if I needed it.  I can’t respect or understand anything else, not in an animal sense.  Deep down, what it feels like is I will give you everything of my own free will, provided we both know that you can take it the moment I stop offering.  That feels right to me.  It makes sense to me.  Why would I offer myself to a person who was incompetent to take it?  To me, that seems demeaning.

The animalistic sense is that I will push back if I believe I can win.  Intellectually, especially.  Because, when it comes to intellect, I don’t have any natural inclination to link it to emotion.  I only understand that as a concept because I have seen it hurt people and I hate hurting anyone for any reason.  It doesn’t make sense to me how it would hurt anyone but I accept that it does and that is a good enough reason to me to continuously hold back.  The singular time that I will express myself without concern is in a full blown rage, which is deadly calm and punctuated with a beautifully hidden vocabulary.   

Physically, I have been shown throughout my life to be weak.  Ineffective.  Ineffectual.  The times that I fought back physically and won where under the direction of the Alpha person in my life or under my protection instinct for them.  About those times, I feel nothing.  Physically, I have otherwise been continually reminded in life that i’m an easy target, that I couldn’t fend for myself and survive.

When I broke that myth, I walked away from a strangle hold.

I had life-long believed, until a few years ago, that I would repeatedly face rape and homelessness and near starvation without the aid of an Alpha person.  Without their good will.  And I would work to ensure my own survival, linking it to theirs, giving everything I ever had to them, as a tribute to keeping me safe(ish).  Every time I had tried to step into the world alone, I was shown that my mother and the child I had raised were left open to abuse, igniting my fierce protective instinct that kept me coming back.  And I was shown that another Alpha, a more cruel one, would step in with my amazing lack of personal boundaries and prove that I wasn’t capable on my own to defend my Self.

Walking out on the myth that I would face danger and death on my own turned out to be the thing that saved me.

No matter what, I know I will figure things out and land on my feet.

Without that knowledge, I would have never found Sir Raven and would have never fit here.  I would not have been able to understand her motivations to have me retain my intrinsic sense of self.  I would not have understood her not coming up with petty reasons to be cruel and hurtful.  I would not have come to her a whole person, one who had broken free from at least blatantly abusive people, blood or no.  I take immense pride and satisfaction that I walked out on my own, leaving behind the people who would have kept me permanently ashamed and cowered.

This single choice changed everything for the better.  It was not easy.  I knew hunger, freezing temperatures, unsafe living conditions, and a new set of people who told me to be afraid.  I listened to myself and kept listening to myself. 

Now, I need to release the shame from my nature being used against me by unscrupulous people.  It really is their shame.  They knew what they were doing and as long as I link submission to shame, i am doing my Self a disservice. 

Through Sir Raven, i understand that an Alpha Wolf need not be entirely self-serving, need not be cruel.  She shows compassion, often.  Hell, she has times that she absolutely treats me like a princess.  For the first time, i have aligned myself with a person who is entirely capable of taking whatever she wants from me but her goal is never to make me weak or codependent or afraid in the world.  We are interdependent.  That is the goal and its not a hidden agenda.  My strength is her strength.  My success is hers.  There is no hidden agenda. 

i don’t have to agree that she isn’t an Ass at times, insist that she isn’t a control freak when she can be.  Her power isn’t about a myth that i have to repeat on demand.  It’s clean.  She can be cruel because it pleases her and we are openly aware of this.  It is her nature, just as it is my nature to bare my throat for her knife, to lunge into it.  i can beg for her to beat me and beg for her to stop and its not a threat because we are not lying to each other about what is happening.  We are acting out our true natures.  It’s clean and honest. There is no hidden agenda, no lies that have to be told, and no shame.

When i asked her, last night, to read that link, i found she already had.  i was looking down at the bed when i said that i felt some shame about it, about being me, being that way.  And she pronounced, in her steadfast and calm manner, that i was perfect.


In my entire life, no one has ever used that word in any reference toward me.  I’ve been a “good” (girl, daughter, wife, lover, child, friend) and a “great” (mother, lover, student, teacher).  But never perfect.  Not about me or anything I’ve ever done. 

What she meant was perfect for her.  That who i naturally and really am is perfect for her.  And if i am that, ever, even for singular moments in time, that is everything. 

Nothing else matters.



i’ve been fighting a cold since Monday.  So, i’ve been resting a lot because my body really need it and Sir Raven told me to.  At first, i was hoping it was just the rainy weather that was making me all stuffy and miserable.  But no.  

Sir Raven was supposed to be going to something after work yesterday but texted me at five to inform me that she may just come straight home.  i had been dopey on the chaise most of the day, gotten as far as sorting the laundry and looked apprehensively at the piles on the floor.  i had not fixed anything for dinner because i wasn’t expecting her home til nine or ten at night.  

i took some more cold medicine and had a shower.  i got everything piled up and hauled down to the laundry mat.  Feeling better that she would at least have clean clothes for work, i ran into the grocery store for creamer and ingredients to make turkey meatloaf.  It was a hot mess in there since i forgot it was food stamp day and i could hardly get through the aisles.  i was getting annoyed with standing on line because i was sick and didn’t want to listen to the bitching in English and Spanish around me about the line.  It’s like repeatedly honking your horn.  It doesn’t make the traffic move faster.  

Sir Raven texted that she was coming off the train to meet me and then called to find out exactly where i was.  Um.  Damn.  It’s one thing to waste my time but quite another to inconvenience her time.  i was getting more and more tense as the line moved inches at a time.

A good slave, i think, would have had her chores done.

It’s like living with slave Jiminey Cricket on my shoulder and i do everything in my power to shut that up because it just isn’t helpful right now.

Someone behind me is blasting rap music loud enough that it drowns out some of the bitching.  Some guy breaks line and there is more bitching.

The same guy steals his chicken and everyone is incredulous.  

i just want out of that line.  Sir Raven is waiting.  i’m feeling dizzy.  i’m annoyed because the slave jiminey cricket voice is correct.  i could have gone earlier.  i should have gone earlier.  i thought i had several extra hours and was thinking that another hour and i’d feel better.  More medicine and i’d feel better.  A quick nap and i’d feel better.  All day long.  

The line took so long that i was surprised when she was outside the store, waiting, and not amused.  i didn’t have much to say for myself.  What could i say that she didn’t already know?

She carried the groceries home and watched me put the clothes in the dryer, dejected.  She went home and i got everything folded up and packed back up.  

When i got home, Sir Raven said she had to fend for herself, noting the empty bowl beside her that had contained a cinnamon bun and ice cream.  My head hung lower at the evidence.  i wasn’t home to greet her, she had to make do and wait for me.  

i was going to cook but she decided on having breakfast for dinner.  i always thought that was fun when i was a kid.  i got the bacon in the oven and the clothes put away, feeling sick and miserable.  

After she eats her bacon, eggs, and hashbrowns i ask if she is still mad at me.  


She can’t understand why i can’t remember what days are the food stamps days.  i thought it was the first and the fifteenth.  She can’t understand why i waited so late in the day to go get things done.  She says that i will have to break my plans for today to walk through the Botanical Gardens “for my romp” if i don’t feel better.  

i giggle then and point out that it sounds like she is letting puppies out of a cage to roam around.  

She reminds me that i won’t be getting out of my cage (the apartment) if i’m not better.

Evidently, she decides to put aside her irritated Master feelings to kiss my forehead, note that i’m clammy and then give me a hug.  She is used to me being prepared, having things done.  Not this slovenly approach.  i was relieved when she finally hugged me close and accepted my apology.

The morning is slipping away from me.  i’ve been trying to work on my laptop, which will no longer launch windows and the system restore isn’t working.  i’m frustrated, to say the least.  And i’m stuck in the bedroom, i’m behind in homework again, and i just realized i forgot to get the other card to get into the botanical gardens.  Apparently, i’m not romping anywhere.  Damn.  

i have all kinds of stuff to get done in the house and another trip to the store because i was in the five items or less lane last night.  Sir Raven is off tomorrow and might want to eat something.  i’m sick of being sick and am glad it is starting to get a little bit better.  


I just watched half of an excellent program, tracing the human genome back to our roots.  The idea that race doesn’t exist inside of our DNA is somehow very pleasing to hear, though I’ve known it for years. 

I was laying awake in the middle of the night last night, thinking of all of the African art and texts I managed to collect over the years and no longer own.  Sir Raven would have loved some of it and its really only in the context of thinking of what she would have enjoyed having around her that i think of what I once owned. 

Anyhow, I thought it was a matter of humor that when I tutored in areas where I was the only white person around, I was always in good company because their walls inevitably contained portraits of a white Jesus.  Some homes features white saints.  One was a living room which was entirely white, save a huge colorful portrait of Mary that made me gasp it was so beautifully done.

If they had come to my house, they would have seen black Jesus figures and black angels, and African masks all living together.  Statues of the Goddess were stone.  I did have one Mary bust, with a slightly broken nose, as a nod to my childhood roots, while everything else was a nod to my human roots.

Actually, some students did come over the years.  One kid made me laugh til I cried when he noted the art, nodded approvingly, gave me a huge hug and told me that he knew I was really black.  When I told him that everyone came from Africa his eyes were huge and he didn’t quite believe me, which was fine. 

I wondered to what extent my life long attraction to these things, black women in AME churches who mothered me, and my mother’s assertion that I would grow up and marry a black man were a nod to me being on the path to Sir Raven. 

The show I watched also reminded me of some research I read several weeks ago, which considered that submissive behaviors are less a personality trait and more of an adaptive trait or characteristic.  Some submissive people survived.  The idea is that there is likely a wiring that is inherent in submissive people and then nurture can exacerbate it.  That makes sense because I’ve known plenty of people who had similar violent childhood experiences to my own and they grew up to be people who were profoundly uncomfortable in any types of submissive expressions. 

Sir Raven and I were talking about the journey into slavery the other night in bed.  Though I have often heard people remark that it is on par with the kind of commitment you make to your children, I have found that we disagree.  Parents know that from the time children can communicate they are happily asserting themselves.  We know their favorite toys, colors, activities, characters.  From the time they can toddle off, they are moving farther and farther away from our influences and on their journey to independence.  That is our parental goal and obligation, to form people who are successfully independent.

Slavery is almost the opposite of the parenthood journey.  We are moving closer and closer to being interdependent and malleable.  Being able to see that we might have what we think is a better idea or a better way of going about something and willing to put it aside.  In some homes, you might be encouraged as a slave to express it if you know your Master is about to make some kind of error or if you have a way that is better.  In this house, it is largely considered just a tool at her disposal.  The trick is, she may or may not use my limited areas of expertise.  It’s my job to be okay with that and to know how to offer my skills in a way that feels right to her.

There are times it feels like she has a bit of a love/hate relationship with my body of knowledge.  She affectionately refers to me as “book” but doesn’t always want research cited from memory.  I can get very excited by learning and forget that not everyone wants to hear the minutia of data on a project i’m working on. 🙂

I’ve mostly learned how to pull back on that one, though i’m still finding a feeling of balance there. 

The path of slavery is often about balance to me. 

I tend to default to too quiet and I think it makes me seem overly verbose when I do speak.  i’m still looking for the right balance there.  I realized I don’t have it when I felt like I wanted credit for spending days quiet or being happy to only speak as much as i’m invited to by Sir Raven.  The very fact that I wanted credit, wanted her to acknowledge this, makes me think that I need more balance there. 

The journey is good here.  I think I can see where we both are developing traits that are complementary and stronger for our journey together.  From the human journey to my personal one, you can’t ask for better than that.   

Getting it Together

If anyone had asked me a couple of years ago about slavery, I would have responded first about responsibility, chores, and demeanor.  And of course, those things matter.  Service and how I give service matters around here. 

What trumps those things?

Obedience to Sir Raven’s will.

Even when what that means is me having to work until past bedtime, and four more hours today, using both laptops.  Her priorities matter to me and it shows at me pushing through this class, which I hate on many levels.  It makes me feel inept and frustrated and small. 

But I sat here and got this week’s work turned in.  At least what was due is done.  I have to study for the upcoming test but the bulk of the pressure is off for now.

If Sir Raven were trying to devise a way to make me miserable, this math class would certainly accomplish that.  She isn’t quite that Sadistic.  🙂

Obedience to her will kept me working at it, even when I desperately wanted to stop.  She isn’t the kind of Master to come home forcing or threatening or beating me into the task.  Maybe because of that, she has to have a high degree of trust that when she tells me to get a task done, it will be done, even if it involves numbers and weird symbols. 

Thankfully, tonight I won’t be stuck back in the bedroom frantically working til bedtime.  It’s time for pizza and salad.

To everyone who sent a message while I was sounding the panic button, thank you.  It is an awful feeling to be that kind of anxious and it helped to know I wasn’t alone in that.  The websites were good too.  I recommended one to the teacher who makes me smile because she calls herself Miss Marsha.  She puts animated cartoons in the notes when students got things right.  I had to ask what was bouncing around all over the page.  Sweet right?  Like the online version of stickers on our pages. 

And teachers thought I was weird when I let kids call me Miss jade rather than my cumbersome Italian last night.  😀


Le Sigh

No word back from my professor.

When Sir Raven heard about the homework being eaten by cyberspace, she was characteristically nonplused.  What she said was that if everything wasn’t caught up, I might be able to get help on Saturday, and if it wasn’t done by then I wouldn’t be leaving the apartment even though the book discussion is Sunday.

I imagine this wasn’t meant to be punitive.  It damn sure felt punitive, especially with the lack of seeming upset for me.  Sometimes, she thinks silently listening without responding much (or at all) is beneficial and supportive.  I imagine i’d appreciate some verbal response even if I could see her clearly.  But I can’t and so it is like talking to a piece of impressionist art.  There are times I end up talking more than what I needed to because when I get silence and no touch in return, my assumption is that I didn’t make sense.  Or I will just quit talking because I figure the other person has checked out.  It’s not the best situation when i’m already frustrated.

It isn’t her job to make me feel better.  It’s mine.  I am just not in control of this math situation and it bothers me to recognize that there is realistically only so much I can do.  I am math learning disabled.  It was diagnosed in the fifth grade, when I scored at a second and third year college level on everything but math.  Math was stuck at close to a fifth grade level when I was in high school.  It is nonsensical that I have to think so hard about simple math past adding, subtracting, multiplying, and diving.  Yet…I have memorized formulas and can do algebra.  The problem is…what I was doing was memorizing and it lacked any significant meaning for me.  I had to work my ass off to memorize what formula worked with what kind of problem because it didn’t mean anything to me.  I understand, from living in the Math Lab, that other people do understand why a formula works with a type of problem. 

Some things are definitely related to my lack of sight.  If I can’t touch it or feel it, it doesn’t make any sense to me.  I can’t accurate gauge driving a mile down the road, for example.  It doesn’t really mean anything to me.  I can’t predict anything spatially-related.  I can’t draw three-D objects.  I think I didn’t appreciate how I don’t accurately understand 3D. 

I know at Blockbuster, where they had the pictures of the DVD’s, I couldn’t distinguish the difference between the flat card with the picture of the DVD and which place contained the actual DVDs.  I would stand there, feeling all of them to see if it was a picture of the DVD itself.  My brother would hiss at me to stop that, it was embarrassing to him. 

My brother can do Math.  My mother can do math.  Neither are readers or artists or writers, as I am.  It never made sense to me that I could read music once upon a time, I could play music, and if I could touch a painting I could make something similar.  I took years of ballet.

The thing is that I can’t remember any of it.  I can’t remember how to play anything whatsoever on the piano.  I can’t remember the basic positions of ballet.  These things were hammered into me, practiced for years.  How could it just be gone?

The ballet part, was accomplished through moving my feet into position and using word pictures that went with the steps, so that is how I remembered it.  I matched that to the music and the story.  I memorized the piano pieces as well, which is what I figured everyone did. 

Parts of this are eye sight related.  I focused so much of my life attempting to behave like a person with sight, telling my eyes they had to work, that I never got any type of real help growing up.  No one discussed retinopathy clearly to me until a handful of years ago. 

Math is a reminder of how I am different.  The anxiety that any form of math test generates is really inappropriate for the situation.  My mind will literally just blank out.  It doesn’t matter if I actually know the material or not. 

I have survived Math through pushing myself relentlessly and having big boobs.  i’m not sure that it did much for my Feminist Sense of Self to shamelessly use my tits and a dumb girl persona to flirt my way to a higher grade. 

This entire thing is really making me feel stupid and inadequate.  i mean, yeah, i get that i’m not actually stupid.  i had a great deal of empathy for my gifted kids who would very often be LD in one area.  They often wanted to respond by giving up.  i don’t have that option.  My financial aid and loans and ability to take the last couple of classes on this part of the program all rest on this one class. 

My slave brain tells me to shut and get back to work. 

My inner child is flipping out and is quite irrational and pissed.

i’m exhausted.  i woke up dreaming about my biological father, who i almost never dream about.  i wonder if he is good at math.  He knows what a Kilo is and how to calculate gain time (laugh). 

Girl Math part 2

It has taken me four hours to do thirty-five problems.  FOUR HOURS.  

i really did mean it when it told girls that math needed them.  i did many rousing and enjoyable hours of Math with the gifted kids, though i did advise them not to pick me for their team before i had enough coffee.

Then, i cheerfully decorated my walls with the many notable Brilliant Folks who had flunked at least one math class.  That was for my benefit.  Heh.

But this?  Oh. My. God.

We are supposed to sitting around, reading each others steps, and pointing out where someone might have improved upon it.  Then there is the mind numbing homework.  After all of that misery, i managed a score of 89.  For the briefest of moments, i allowed myself to breathe.  i screwed up a lot of time by not knowing i had not put a common in where it belonged but the answers were correct.  

Then i went to look in the gradebook.  It says i took too long and logged me out.  There is nothing.  Like i did nothing.  

i sent a frantic email to my professor, who has the nerve to be a girl who can apparently do math.  

i feel like i could throw up.  This is a nightmare.  


Girl Math

If you should happen to not enjoy shameless whining, just ignore this whole post.  You’ve been warned (evil leer).

At this moment, I have spent the last hour reading the same five math problems over and over again.  I am so confused that I can’t even articulate what i’m confused about. 

Sir Raven and I came as close as we will likely ever come to a negotiation.  Behold:

Me: “How upset will you be on a scale of one to ten if I just pass this math class?”  (See? Numbers.  I know what numbers are.)

Her: Odd pause followed by clenched breath, which she swears she does not do.  She has to work to get this sentence to come out of her mouth: “A ‘B’ is a good grade.” 

Me: “Though it’s been a few years since I taught, I do believe that a ‘C’ means fair.” 

Her: Another restrained breath of constricted air: “A ‘B’ is a good grade.”

Topic Closed.

Note how she just side stepped the question I actually asked.  Yep.  Just like a nice little waltz, sans music. 

Really.  Fuck math.  There.  I said it.  And I was an educator, you understand.  They let me teach children.  To that end, I very dutifully spoke to classes about the joys of mathematics, and likely sounded a good deal like Sir Raven when she is trying really hard to not walk across the room to backhand me.  That is pretty much what I wanted to do to the math books.  Bah!

Seriously, yes, math is valuable for a million reasons.  (See? Numbers again.  I told you I know what they are). 

I can appreciate, from a very safe distance, that it makes my left brain work.  Incase no one figured this out yet, I shall reveal a secret of Epic Proportions: I am not a left brained person. 

I would like to take out the bell tower for the University thrusting me into a class for which I must sit annoyed and zoom in, zoom in again, zoom in some more and scroll wildly about to look at numbers or scales or whatever horse shit is on the page.  Fortunately, its an online thing so there isn’t a physical place for me to take out.  My vitriol sent out into cyber space will have to suffice, though it is very unsatisfying.

Disability Services noted that this would be hard. 

I can’t even manage to copy and paste the problems into a document and I don’t know what to do about that.  Let alone the problems.  The real annoying issue, to me, is that I can sometimes solve the problem.  What I can not seem to do is explain each step of what i’m doing and why, which is what we are supposed to be doing.

I taught Special Education, you all.  In Florida and Tennessee and there is a reason why those states end up at the bottom every single year in comparison to the other states.  I grew up in both places, mostly Florida, and i’m a product of the sum total of their flagrant failure to teach mathematics.  I managed to teach myself once I got into algebra because that made more sense then the rest.  With a calculator, thank you very much.  When I taught the Montessori method, I had to memorize the puzzles because I lack all depth perception or sense of object permanence.  I ask you, how in the hell is a person supposed to understand geometry when they have no sense of these sorts of things?

I am miserable.  Just in case I didn’t make that abundantly clear already.

I have no idea how i’m going to do this.  None.  I keep thinking of dutifully sending Sir Raven my grades for the week and they are all zeros.  Maybe she doesn’t actually look at that stuff anymore?

In other news, I have been researching over the counter ways to deal with fibromyalgia.  They have discovered that taking a whole lot of the same medicine that stops the brain from coughing also will stop the signals that transmit widespread pain.  It’s likely they will commence with doping us up with this method in the future because the pharmacy can make a buck…uh…i mean a pill form.  Whatever.  Hello Robotussin DM.  Yep. 

I spent most of yesterday in a miserable ball.  I hate myself when that happens.  I can and do push through the pain the overwhelming majority of the time.  Showering was the crowning achievement of my day yesterday.  Even that had to wait for Sir Raven to be home because I was having that thing happen where my leg was coming out from underneath me and nothing was keeping the fever down.  If i’m going down in the tub, i’d rather share that joy with someone else. 

So, i’m trying the cold medicine.  I choose one that is alcohol-free, despite my better judgment that informs me that doing this math crap might become at least mildly amusing with enough alcohol in me. 

i’m not sure if the pain is less or if I just don’t really care and am distanced from it.  Either way…winning.  Yep. 

I could fill the page with inarticulate babble right about now.  Sometimes, i’m tired of being me.  The “burden tape” starts and I find I have to use all of my mental faculties to shut that up immediately.

I can’t imagine anyone likes feeling useless or sick.  Not even the munchausen people.  They like the attention.  I find it embarrassing personally.  Sometimes, however, I just need to admit that really and truly…it’s bad.  The neurologists are starting to acknowledge that fibromyalgia is a neurological problem that has symptoms that can and do leave you miserable.  In my lifetime, it is possible the scientists will get it together and figure out what in the hell is wrong with us.  I also discovered something i had never found before, which is a problem with your spinal fluid that mimics or can be diagnosed along with fibro.  Interesting. I want to believe they will find a cure or at least a way to make us reasonably comfortable.  In the meantime, I will keep trying to keep my head up and get on with it.  Wallowing in the misery doesn’t solve anything.  It’s unattractive. 

So, speaking of solving, I have Math waiting for me.  And I really, really, really don’t want my beautiful GPA flushing down the potty.  Magna Cum Laude has a nice ring to it.  I have already messed up Suma by one B. 

The rest of the Master’s program does not have Honors listed….which is just absurd.  I have no idea why this is so but when I finish that part of the program, i’ll be able to breathe a sigh of relief.  I can start to work again and Sir Raven will be able to retire in comfort one day.  That is the real honor that i’m working for.  I’ve got to keep my eyes on the prize.