Chronic Illness and slavery

i have fibromyalgia, which is a miserable and painful condition-it’s like a terrible flu on a good day.

i have had arthritis since i was 19, have several degenerative discs, and herniated disks in my back and neck.

i have migraines and i’m legally blind, with flashers and floaters.

i have been asked many times lately how i manage to serve Sir Raven and push through these factors.

Today’s list had 18 chores to get done during the day, plus errands and my evening chores.  i got everything done, including a trip down to Fordham Road, and cleaning out a bunch of stuff in the bedroom.

So, here is what i do when the going gets tough (pretty much in this order):

1. i remind myself that service is my Master’s love language and pushing through will show her my love and obedience.

2. i make a list every day, which i turn into Sir Raven.  i know if it’s on the list, i’ll do everything humanly possible to do it.

These two things alone are often enough to get it all done.  But, if not:

3. i remind myself that i’m a slave-and slaves obey and serve.  In other words, this is what i signed up for.

4. i take (extra) medicine when i need to.

5. i plan tasks that require strength (hauling groceries, for example) earlier in the day, before i’m exhausted.

6. i take my nap, early if i need to.

7. i talk to Sir Raven (via text, usually) as early as possible if it seems that i might need to ask for permission to do anything different from what she is expecting from the list.  If she tells me to get it done-i obey.  If she tells me to rest-i obey.

i’m just really determined that illness isn’t going to dictate my life, pain isn’t going to stop me from giving everything i have.

When i asked Sir Raven if she could think of anything helpful to add, anything she knows i rely on to push through for her, she said, “Yes.  You aren’t a pussy.”

So, apparently, there is also that.  😛



i woke up with the song, “Wrecking Ball” in my head.  Fitting.

i noted Sir Raven was awake, having already poured her french press, and went to brush my teeth.  She greeted me with, “Did you wake yourself up talking?”  Evidently, i woke her up talking.  i’ve always done it, at times driving my insomnia to epic proportions-spending days awake, because i was terrified of what i might say in my sleep.  Like my plans to runaway or when i was very nearly raped when Dawn locked me out of the house.  Cymbalta makes it worse.

i sleepily took my meds, poured french press, and started beading before i finished my first cup of coffee.  Happily, there was a bit of hot water, so i showered, letting myself be fully immersed in the experience.  i have to do everything in order.  i shave every day but even shave my legs in order.  Then, i towel dry off inside the shower, wipe down the walls.  i put oil of olay all over my face, throat, and breasts hoping to stave off aging.  i make the bed, put on panties and a bra, and go back into the bathroom to scrub the toliet and wash my hands.  i put on eye shadow, eyeliner, blush, plum colored lip balm, and powder before slipping a dress on and cleaning the sink.

Sir Raven says, “Hi, Beautiful” as i walk by, and i beam at her.  It took me years to realize that she was telling me this with every photo she takes, every time she said she liked my dress or nails, or scent.  The words, though?  It makes me feel beautiful.

i make a second pot of french press, serving her Ancestors by their photos, adding a generous amount of rum.  i love this part of Sunday.  i wake the other Altars by lighting a candle and go to see about fixing her breakfast.

There is something soothing about making the same breakfast every Sunday.  She gets four slices of crispy bacon, two hashbrowns, and two eggs over medium with cheese.  i serve her meal  and bring her a glass of apple juice before returning to clean the kitchen.

i might slice up some fruit or have some yogurt later when i break my own fast.  i have a second cup of coffee and finish off my bead work while she eats.  She generally has breakfast in bed Sunday but she is busy wrapping my beading around the loom and watching videos on youtube with her headset on.  i have to wave her down to get her attention, asking permission for various things from having a friend over to picking up my meds from the pharmacy on Monday.  i also ask about going back to TJ Max for more earbuds, and she laughs, since i was talking about that in my sleep.

i straight up my playpen, fixing the pillows and folding up my nap blanket before peacefully return to beading.

Sunday is my day of rest, from extra chores or errands, most of the time.  i mop the kitchen and bathroom only.  i keep the kitchen clean and prepare meals, but am otherwise free to relax unless she has other orders.  She doesn’t complain about me beading because i have to keep up the pace.  We are finally at the halfway point.  Eventually, the hand beaded looms will be turned into dream catchers, a gift for the Elders in her Spiritual Family.

It is good to have peace, to accept the tight control of performing the same tasks, over and over.

i’ve been having a lot of nightmares.  Technically, they are actual things that happened, just stuff i haven’t thought about in years.  Last night’s feature was the time i was so exhausted from the humidity, that i fell asleep on the school bus, just long enough to miss my stop and ride to the next.  i was in the fourth grade and should have been more aware but was disoriented when i got off the bus and headed home.  Florida has tricky weather and thunderstorms can begin and end in a fury.  This day, the rain started softly right as i was almost in front of my own yard.  i heard a car going too slowly and turned to see my mothers face, full of utter disgust and hatred.  “You disgust me,” she hissed.  “Get in the house.”

i couldn’t imagine what i had done wrong.

i didn’t have to wait long to find out.  My mother’s beautiful face was contorted in rage, the blows seeming to come from all directions at the same time.  She said, “I was driving down out street and thought, ‘oh, that poor child doesn’t have the sense to get out of the rain’.  Then I notice she is so disgusting that her slip is showing.’ 

She said the last bit, an inch from my face, spit flying from her contempt.  At was, at least, a break from the blows.

“Imagine my surprise,” she said, “when I realized that disgusting idiot is my own child!”  At this pronouncement, she had grabbed something and the pain was sinking in with the shame.  i remember next somehow being in bed and getting up to use the bathroom when i stepped on something painful.  A wire coat hanger, bent into an unnatural state, tossed aside when her fury subsided or when she took me knocked out to my bed with the strawberry shortcake sheets.

“I came to see if I could bring you anything,” I said quietly to my mother’s door, which was open just a crack.

“That would be very nice,” she said, sounding pleased, as if everything had been righted.

i was always-always-trying to prove that i would be good, would be perfect, would try harder, would give more.

It’s hard for me to not ask if anyone needs anything.  When i’m in a lot of pain and distracted by that, i’ll revert to older training, and ask every time i walk out of the room.  It makes Sir Raven annoyed.  She likes that i’ll dump and clean her ashtray and refill her drink every time i get up.  She hates it when i ask.

I did it last night.  I asked.

i felt like an idiot when she said, “jade, why must you do that?  I have chicken, waffles, water, cold beer, cigarettes, what else could i possibly need?”

i tried to cover my feelings with a joke.  “A lap dance?” And then i apologized and went back to beading until she was finished and it was time for me to clean the kitchen.  When she turned on, “Modern Family” for me to watch while she had her headsets on watching something else, i figured i was forgiven and could relax.

i try and remind myself that the other programming, each lesson learned, has made me into something good for her.  Someone who pushes through pain, smiles through frustration, and almost never thinks she is wrong.

i try and remind myself that she is patient with my deficits, and i try to be patient too.

My dreams alone reveal the struggle, the work.  i’m still the same girl in some ways, mystified as to what i did wrong, determined to find a way to not have it happen again.  Fortunately, it’s my work ethics and determination that she might love the most in me.  i steady myself today by clinging to our little rituals, the routines, the lists.  Today, i am thankful Sir Raven said i was beautiful when she had no idea how much i needed to hear that today.

Raw Truth

We love seeing raw truth and openness in other people, but we’re afraid to let them see it in us. ~ Brenee Brown

One of the things that really matter to me-to us-is that i write my raw truth here.  i’m not inclined to express anger, grief, or frustration openly.  It’s a matter of trying to stay healthy to have a place to express myself without constantly being pleasant.

Writing yesterday’s post was cathartic and also made me aware that i felt some shame.  I feel shame when i feel angry or resentful toward Sir Raven, no matter how fleeting the feeling.  i think that a better woman would somehow never feel these things, even for a moment.  i try and be rational-it’s not her fault that i have fibromyalgia.  She isn’t obligated to make me feel better.  She isn’t obligated to deal with my feelings or listen to them.  Yesterday’s topic came wooshing out, in part because i’m silenced when i try and talk or ask questions or propose possible avenues for help or change.

i have to will myself to not care about what i say with my writing, since i’m counting on it to help keep me sane and healthy.  Still, i don’t like that sometimes what i write hurts her.  For one thing, i don’t understand why truth hurts.  For another, i figure that if she doesn’t like something, she can always change it.  Amend it.  Try something new.  i don’t have these options.

i don’t ever want to do anything to hurt any human being.  i have a lot more tolerance for anger in others instead, in that if what i say makes you angry but i spoke the truth-then use that anger to do something about it, you know?  i get angry at the fibromyalgia and push myself harder.  i get angry at stupid people staring at me or getting in the way of my white cane and use the anger to push myself harder.

i’ve had to learn to let my feelings come and go, like clouds.  i can’t do that if i’m busy ignoring or stuffing or silencing.

Then, after that, i think of everything in my life i feel grateful for.  When i finally went to bed last night, i carefully crawled over Sir Raven’s long legs, got under the covers, and made a gratitude list in my head until i finally fell asleep.

Yesterday, a friend asked me to take a picture of the most amazing thing i saw all day.  So, i snapped a photo of Sir Raven, freshly home from work, sitting in her chair watching something on her computer with her headset on.  Life is incredibly fragile and i’m constantly thankful that my Master is in good health, comes home safely, has a great job she likes, and loves me.

i am constantly thankful that my Master really is a control freak, and i can always count on her to need that control over me.

i am constantly thankful that we are not living under the poverty line and my life contains many luxuries like fresh fruit, never having to worry about having the lights shut off, and a cozy apartment we both love.  i can always afford my medicines, to see the doctor, and to enjoy scented candles and manicures.  All of this is due to Sir Raven’s hard work and dedication to our family.

i’m thankful that Sir Raven turned on a Winne-the-Pooh movie for me, and i beaded while i watched it.  Then i got up and showered in somewhat warm water and gave thanks for being able to take two showers a day.  i pulled my hair back up in pigtails and put on my sleep pants and she kissed my forehead.  i snuggled on my playpen with all of my stuffed friends and felt calmer.  Ready to accept what is, instead of what i wish for.  Ready to be a better slave.

Hope is a murdering Bastard

So, for many months now, i kept perspective.  i held my needs down, found the zen spot, realized contentment is easy to achieve.  i hoped i had achieved her goals, namely the absence of needing her attentions.

Hope can kiss my ass.

Weeks ago, i sent her an email, a sexy love letter, hoping she’d feel good about it.  Then two weeks went by, one of them she was off of work for and had time to relax.  i asked about it, in a teasing way, kissing her hard.  She said, “jade, stop that!” like i was a naughty puppy.  A few days later, when she took me shopping for a new purse because she was obsessed with being sure i had something that wouldn’t irritate her, i grinned and said, “So, how about that email?”  She said we needed to focus on the shopping trip.  i knew Sir Raven needed a new wallet and had already looked but she had made it clear she wanted to buy this herself.  So, i led her in the direction of the bags.  We laughed a lot, because little ms frugal (me) can’t see price tags, and everything i picked up was in the 150 dollar range.  It seems that i like Coach and Lucky and Fossil.  At one point, i found a perfect bag for Sir Raven but she had misread the price.  For a stunning moment, we thought it was 75 dollars for the butter soft leather bag, far better than the Fossil bag i purchased for her for summer a week earlier.  But no.  Try 475.  Heh.  We found two purses in an appropriate price range, around 40 dollars, and i couldn’t decide.  She bought both.

She also solved my painful earbud problem by purchasing a pair of earbuds designed for women, for 14 bucks.  i love TJ Max.

Anyhow, she was exhausted after that trip.  One store, and Daddy is done!  So i knew that we were not about to get to any sexy funtimes that day.  She sent me off to finish my list, running errands and cleaning.

By Saturday, i became very aware that our week together was running out and so i had asked point blank.  And she said she wasn’t really thinking about sex or bdsm.  i pointed out how long it had been, how many weeks: nine for s/m.  i was not getting my needs met again, despite her agreement months earlier that we would do something once a week.  i had been patient.  i had been understanding.  i had hoped she’d think of it on her own, want me on her own.

Sunday night, she said, “I’ve got twenty minutes before my show comes on.  Do you want me to beat you?”

First, she has never, ever asked me before.  It’s nonsensical really, seeing as i can’t say no.  Not to mention, it’s a total turn off. i felt angry for a moment.  She has had three weeks off of work in the last nine that i have been without her attention.  And now she is telling me my worth is twenty minutes!  i had to push the anger out of the way with all of my will-i wanted to tell her not to bother, out of anger.

So, we played for awhile.  i dunno if it was twenty minutes.  i do know she didn’t miss her show and i didn’t cry or float or cum.  But it was nice and appreciated, even if she did forget my one request: which is that if i ever become angry during s/m, beat me til i sob it out.

Monday is her long night so i prepared a comfort food meal.  i worked on my list, which i always seem to put twenty items on, and then push myself to get it all done.  Heh.

Tuesday came, with damp and cold weather.  She mentioned her shoulder hurt.  i remarked about the forecast and she informed me that it was the play that made it hurt.  i asked her to go see a doctor since she hasn’t been to one in at least three years.  She won’t go.  i hoped that a doctor could provide meds that help, PT or a massage technique.  Something.  Anything.  So we could have a normal s/m life.

Wednesday i had my traditional intense desire for pain, for sex, for connection.  Why my body is set to three days post-play to rebel and scream for more, i’ll never know.  It’s always been this way.  i had cooked bacon and cut up veggies for our homemade pizza.  i brought her a cold beer and straddled her lap, kissing her neck, and told her i missed her.  She said, “When is my dinner going to be ready?”  “Oh.  Of course,” i said with a smile, moving into the kitchen to bring her meal.

She doesn’t want me.  She wants pizza.

So i’ve been going through a few weeks of this endless need.  i need to be fucked, to be hurt, and hurt and fucked again.

And i hate myself.  i hate myself for needing.  i try and repurpose the energy, put it into an always cleaner house and better meal and soft, feminine energy.

i kill the hope inside.

i cut my soul open, unsure how to leave myself open to my Master, while not needing her.

i remind myself that her version of a perfect slave is mostly me, if i can remove any pressure or desire or need.

i do mental gymnastics.  This way that we live is CNC.  And so if it’s her pleasure to not discipline me, not give me release, then it should be mine as well.  i can be chaste.  i can be chaste.  i can be chaste.

If i would concede her right to intimate rape, and i have, then i have to concede her right to keep me celibate.  It’s just the opposite side of the coin.  i am chaste.  i have been.  What’s one more month, or hour, or year?

If i concede it’s her right to beat me, it’s also her right to not do so.  i can have grace about this.  i can bend. i will bend.  i will be graceful about this.  What’s one more minute, one more day, one more month?

What if it’s forever?  And i think of the days, calendars ripping into shreds.

She doesn’t want me.  She. Doesn’t. Want. Me.

i’m a servant, a slave, and i serve.  That is where i bring her joy.  That is how i show her love.  And so i go back to beading, baking cookies, put on my lipstick, ignore my eyes in the mirror, serve her turkey meatloaf, scrub the floors, the toilet, the desire for anything else.  Look pretty, put bows in my hair, lotion on my skin, it’s an invitation-of course it is.  That is how i will keep myself open, by continuing to always be ready for her dick, her desire-should it return.  If not, i will continue to be content, focus on how i have so much good in my life and shouldn’t be such a selfish cunt.

i kill my hope, spoon confidence into the coffee each morning, i can do this.  i will.

photo (3) photo (5)

The good, the bad, and the sexy


1. Sir Raven and i were able to laugh at the Horrible, Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Summer of 2014.  i said if i ever ran away again, i’d be running up her tab at the Plaza.

2. The weather has finally become Spring-like.

3.  i’m beading between four and six hours per day to make the May 30th deadline.  In due time, the hand beading will be a part of gifts of dream catchers for the Elders in her Spiritual Family.

4.  i’ve discovered that a fucking machine exists.  i asked Santa for one.  i’ve been a good girl this year.  i may be asking for real diamond earrings or a pony next.  Who knows?

5.  My school finally (finally!) approved my appeal and i return to classes June 1.

6.  Sir Raven and i had a forthright discussion about how i will need a really short leash while i get back to school.  She agreed, even if that means the strap.  That is better than not making an A.

The bad:

1. The MRI results reveals that i have a lot of back damage and one of the herneated disks is pushing into my spinal cord and may require surgery.  We see the doctor on May 4th.  Sir Raven has already told me that i will be having the surgery if it is recommended.

2.i’m feeling somewhat emo about this.  The damage is the result of abuse and the car wreck that my brother caused deliberately and could have killed all of us.

3. i feel like i need to cry it out and wish she would do that with me.  And then i feel like a bitch for needing her because it seems to not be a priority. Therefore, it shouldn’t be on my priority list.

The sexy:


2.  Sir Raven spent a while beating me on Sunday.  It had been such a long time and keeps being such a long time that i don’t know when we will ever make it back to the blood, snot, and tears that we do so damn well.  My sense is we both need it.  Frankly, i’ve offered she just use the strap and fuck me, as that is the fastest path to get over the edge and she loves it.  We’ll see.  i’m becoming more interested in just getting the trapped and strangled emotions out.


One of the important jobs Sir Raven does is something i think of as gatekeeping. Recently, at MAsT, we had presenters who had been together for 45 years and the slave remarked that they have learned to keep people at a distance, so by the time they are “friends” they have really already become family.

i could really relate to that.  Sir Raven encourages me to have other slave friends, to offer support and accept support.  She does decide how close to let people, both physically (in our home) and emotionally (letting me know when supporting them is effecting me negatively).

i think it is part of being both Leather and Lesbian that i understand how and why friends are your chosen family.  And we are blessed in that part of our lives.

i have friends who understand when i’m super busy and we can naturally pick up where we left off every single time.

i have friends who call and instead of saying, ‘hello’ they say, “Are you beading?”

i have friends who have seen me at my absolute worst, and who showed up for me.

We have friends who are capable of holding space for us, who will listen when we need to share, who do not judge me for coming home, where i belong.

Recently, Sir Raven made a rare allowance, for friends who are family to come back into my life.

They met me when i was with the monster, who eventually understood i had been kidnapped, who encouraged me to deal with her and stop running scared.  They took me to court many times so i could file an order or protection.  They understood why i wasn’t pressing charges.  They calmly carried loaded guns for me.  The Monster was not afraid of going to jail again and had made death threats against all of us.

i’d do damn near anything for our friends, as would Sir Raven.  We are both people who feel friends are family, we’d show up for ours in the middle of the night, if need be.

i feel blessed that Sir Raven takes her role as Gatekeeper seriously and that this has resulted in friends who are chosen family.

When you live as a slave, it matters to have support because there are rough moments.  i think there are things that only another slave can understand.

i’m sure the same thing is true for Masters and i encourage her to make time for those friendships, even when that means that i happily take the back burner to create time and space.

Sir Raven understands that slavery contains isolation and that having people who “get us” is a hard thing to find.  i’m isolated as a condition of slavery-at times it is for my health, to give me adequate time to get everything done that she orders or expects, to keep my focus on her above all else.  And i willingly agree to the condition of isolation, even when i do not like it.  Often, the reason is for my health as Sir Raven chooses when i may leave the apartment.  If she hasn’t ordered me to stay indoors, i send lists that document where i may need to go (laundry, groceries, liquor store, pharmacy) each morning.  If the weather isn’t good, i may be ordered to stay indoors or there could be restrictions on what i can do, such as today’s order to do only one load of laundry and to do it around late morning hours.

The isolation helps keep me safe and i do not do anything without permission.  i am thankful that she acts as a Gatekeeper because it helps both of us consider carefully who is allowed into her Nest.  i know that Sir Raven tends to be an idealist, a long-term thinker, a dreamer, and a person who remains hopefully that people will do the right thing.  Because of these admirable traits, i know it’s an act of love and possession that she is the Gatekeeper and i am thankful.

It’s taken some time, but we have a solid crew, and it’s because we blended our best ideals and paid attention to each other when new people were coming into the fold.

Today, i am thankful that my Master keeps me safe and that my obedience to her will is the most important obligation in my life.