Getting it Together

The electrician came out to inspect the leak and will be coming back Monday to take down the ceiling (again!).  We went through this just last year and it was a hot, hot, hot mess.

It also coincides with my first official day back to school.  Oh Joy!

So, i’ve been proactive.  i let Sir Raven know the instant the workers showed up via text, read through my entire syllabus for one class and started reading my assignments for week one, and meditated.

i’m wondering if i’m not having hormonal issues.  i never suffered from PMS before but i’m thinking i may need to get on the pill again.  My periods are tough, all over the map, and are making me feel rage for no actual reason.

Yesterday, i felt angry and hurt when Sir Raven kept telling me to “be quiet” and ignoring me while i was so tense because medical environments do that to me, as i explained in the last post.

So it occurs to me that i should explain that it is an absolute routine matter for her to tell me to be quiet.  It happens when i’m in mid word because she wants to watch her favorite commercial. It happens when something comes up for me that could include my past, and she tells me doesn’t want to hear it.  Today, she mentioned that she has never seen a photo of my mother.  i was surprised, wanted to show her one and she said she wasn’t interested because she doesn’t want to hear anything about her being a model again.  If she even thinks i might need to talk about anything deep, she employs the “be quiet” mandate.  So, anyhow, it’s common place.  It shouldn’t have upset me yesterday.  i wanted her support.  So fucking what.  She got me there on time and made the final decision about what was going to happen next.  Those things are hers alone, because she owns me.

i have no say.

Personally, i find it strange that i will quietly submit to a medical procedure that frightens me and find a way to accept the idea totally within a few days.

But i got hung up yesterday on her being attacking and disconnected.  Today, i feel ridiculous about it and should have let those things just float on by like i always do.

The constant admonishment in our community is to Communicate.  No one tells you that you might get a Master who prefers to steer every conversation, quiet you on a whim, will speak to lots of friends rather than you, or come right out and tell you they are not interested in what you are thinking.  Heh.

Today, i’m thankful that i am getting my head back on straight and that i know i’m here for her pleasure.  i’m thankful that the house is clean, her beer is cold, and we have a nice weekend planned with friends.  I’m thankful for being mindful and for a chance to apologize for feeling upset yesterday.



Messy Mind

Once upon a time, i had a beautiful mind.  As a child, i memorized The Lady of Shalott, which is 1,010 words.  i wanted to see if i could do it, and how long it would take me.  It took two weeks.

i used to recite it in my head, during particularly brutal beatings, to keep myself conscious.  Sometimes little pieces still float up, generally at inappropriate times.

There is more important poetry in the world.  Yesterdays was Chrystos-What did He beat you with, the doctor said.  Not He, She. I curled up inside of myself like a bound foot.

That is what i’m thinking of en route to the CT scan, trying to drown it in music, other poems. Anything at all.

When we arrive, the receptionist has me put my hand on a little box which will identify me by my palm print for future visits.  It makes it so easy, the woman says, and i nod mutely and do what she is telling me.

i’m thinking of my mother, her wild eyes, and then the peace that comes after.  She says that social security numbers are the sign of the beast.  She makes us practice what we will do if my brother and i are asked to deny Christ.  There are little capsules, one for each of us, that she reassuringly says we will take before the end of days.  i ask if suicide isn’t a mortal sin, but she waves this away.  The capsules are green and i hold them in my palm for a moment, feeling safe.  She locks them in the safe with her diamonds.  Reminds me where to find the combination, which is printed on the underside of an obscene clown figurine that plays music.  We practice like a little army of three, and my mother is on the look out that the government is the anti-Christ.  She isn’t alone, didn’t develop these ideas by herself.  We go from Catholicism to fundamentalist Baptists, which didn’t last long because her front lobe damaged husband liked to be wheeled to the front of the church by her boyfriend to declare that my mother was Jesus Christ.  When he got put slobbering on himself from the car wreck back into a nursing home, our family went to Jehovah’s Witnesses.  i think that is where the cyanide idea came from.  We then joined a fundamentalist Pentecostal Church with the Benny Hinn, where my mother was duly informed that my brother and i were demon possessed.  By that point, i was hoping for the little green pill.

Sometimes, i still wake up with the horrendous fucking songs in my head.  It makes me feel a little bit crazy, a little angry, like my mind is trapped in a confined, dark, and too hot room.

i ask Sir Raven if she didn’t find the forced hand print thing odd, and she tells me to be quiet.

When they take me back to wait in another area alone for the CT scan, i pass a woman who i know is soon to die, despite her youth.  This is the part of being an empath that i hate the most.  The fear and anxiety that chokes the air of the hospital, that i can feel and smell.  i try to meditate and note the woman soon to die is light, peaceful.  When Sir Raven and i are alone, after the scan, waiting for the doctor i ask how she deals with the feelings in a hospital being an empath.  i voice my suspicious that she can turn herself on and off emotionally at will.

She tells me to be quiet.

i want her to be able to comfort me just now, or at least know that i’d appreciate a comforting word, a touch, anything.  The room is too cold.  Too quiet.  The pain in my tailbone goes up and up and up.  It feels like a hammer hit it and i’m fighting anger.

What did he hit you with? The doctor said.  Not He, She.

Onward Christian Soldier-

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

Breathe.  Just breathe.

Sir Raven’s angry voice interrupts my thoughts.  “What is going on with your face?” she demands.


i look down at the floor.  i’m disgusted with myself, with my bones for revealing the decades of abuse, for the goddamned music, for how much i need her to tell me everything will be okay.

Her tone has been snippy all morning, rushing me through the crowds, sighing when i drop my white cane and then getting annoyed when i apologize.  i’m worn out by all of it, especially being calm and meek in reply to her clear annoyance at me.  She can be grouchy, condescending, overbearing, disinterested.  i can not.

When it’s all done, when we can finally leave NYU, we find a bar with good food and a champagne happy hour.  She has been gruff and disconnected from me and  i’m only too happy to watch her drink and make her laugh.

i careen wildly between thinking she got a raw deal with my medical stuff and i’m grateful she can be counted on to get me safely to places on time, to thinking that she goes out of her way to make a stressful situation worse.

To have an uncharitable or angry thought about her seems wrong to me.  i try to stamp it out, but i’m exhausted.  i try to meditate, but there is too much noise in my head.  i walk the mile to the pharmacy to get our meds and return home calmer, sweeter.  i’m trying so hard-so very hard.  Her tone is still sounding frustrated though which i finally point out in a very quiet, very neutral tone.

This makes her angry and she goes on to say that i’m wrong, that she wasn’t frustrated but now she is, like i spoke it into existence.  She tells me to fix my face, and her hand touches her belt.  i hear it, don’t know if its conscious or not, but don’t want to find out.

She went to bed without telling me and without putting the collar back on, which causes a night of nightmares fueled by the anxiety of the month.

Sir Raven calls from work to ask if the Super has been up to inspect the new leak.  That is what i woke up to, trying to navigate around a bowl catching water through the hanging light switch.  She leaves for work without kissing me, and i feel bereft.

When i hear her voice on the line, its like the sun shining through a cloudy day.  She tells me she forgot to put the collar on last night, in a gentle tone that listens when i say i had nightmares with it off.  That i kept waking up touching my throat.

She doesn’t tell me to stop talking, just assures me that she will fix that when she gets home.  And just like that, i’m okay again, able to happily chirp about what she wants for dinner and that i’m hoping to find her special beer again.

The past is sealed back up for a time, my head stops reeling, and i can focus on pleasing her and getting my list done.  i’ve already been working for hours and the house smells like Mr. Clean, coffee, and scented candles.  My tailbone still feels like it’s been hit by a hammer so beading will wait a bit, but i have plenty to take care of and feel like i can face the day with a smile.


One of the things

Loving Mr. Darcy

Sir Raven had a long weekend off of work.  i was surprised to find that she had something planned for each day.  We are introverts, after all.  It’s a testament to her growing friendships with other Masters and slaves that she will invite them into our home during a time that she could be luxuriating in silence.  Make no mistake, i offer silent service a lot of the time.  Karida recently mused that there are times i may only get that brief chance during the month, and all of my ideas come out in a whoosh.  She is likely right.

It’s something i need to work on.  It’s frustrating to have an idea that i know will float off and be lost if i don’t speak it right then.  i should keep a notebook or something next to me, so i can keep my energy small and quiet, the way it is about 80 or 90 percent of the time for Sir Raven.

She invited a Master and slave over for lunch.  i woke around 7:30 and got started on my morning chores, did the shopping, and had food prepped around 11:30.  We had fajitas and Karida made fresh salsa.  Karida and i also made these three layer brownies that were absolutely worth every single calorie.

When the Master joined us, she brought more of the hard-to-find beer that Sir Raven enjoys.  She said that she had a treat for me, every time Sir Raven had a beer.  There was a chocolate bar in the bag, and i was delighted, thinking i got a bite of candy for every beer she had.  Though the case of beer was in my lap at this point, i never saw that next to each glass bottle was another Hershey Bar.  Sir Raven did, from her chair across the room, and told me to bring the beer to her, which i was standing to obey though i was confused.  Much merriment ensued as i discovered that there was MORE candy!  Yay!  i was nearly betrayed by my own Master.  She was trying to steal the candy.  i just want to be sure that everyone knows.  😛

The conversation was good and lasted til around nine or ten that night.  i’m always happy to get to spend time with Karida because i like having the female energy around me.  Plus, there is the joy and familiarity of having my sister around.  i also really like the Master that came.  It’s taken me time to accept that she somehow knows i’m in pain, no matter how well i hide it.  It used to make me feel exposed in some hard to define manner.  Now i find relief in it-mostly because she can understand that if i’m dragging around my stupid leg or walking weird or was just rocking and staring into space, i’m still getting up to refill that drink or reclean the kitchen.

Saturday evening, Sir Raven had an event to go to for work.  This is my second (second!) Karoke party, which is vaguely terrifying for a girl who literally can not carry any tune.  Sir Raven knows this and waves off my begging for a promise that she’d never make me sing.  i doubt that she would though, not because i’d find it humiliating (though i would) but because she has heard me sing a few times and wouldn’t subject innocent people to it.  Her whole family has singers and though she downplays it, she harmonizes beautifully.  So, anyhow, there we were in a very hot room with at least twenty white people belting out the best of the 90s.  It was pretty funny actually.  i talked to her boss, who i have heard enough about to know how to be “charming.”  i’m feeling pretty good about that, seeing as this situation contained several things that made me totally uncomfortable at the same time.  We stayed as long as we could possibly manage without mutually melting down-about an hour or so-and made our leave.

Sir Raven suggested different options for dinner, but knowing that she really would prefer to get back on the train, i jumped at her suggestion that we order Chinese from the little place by the house that we like.  We laughed about the Karaoke party, enjoyed sesame chicken and went to bed fairly early to recover.

Sunday was a hastily scheduled podcast, with another Master and slave couple, both of whom we consider close friends.  We had mimosas and brunch.  Sir Raven made fritatas and i made steak.  We had fresh fruit, which i think no one ate.  Apparently, all of our friends know of my weakness for chocolate and they brought my favorite of all time: red velvet cupcakes.  Woot.

This led Sir Raven to repeatedly point out how i ate “an entire tray of brownies” (a bit of an exaggeration) and chocolate candy bars the day before.  i was feeling shame, i guess, hyper aware of how much i had actually tried to be self-controlled the day before.  Aware of my eating disorders and how i use food when i’m angry.  With her.  i get angry at her, feel shame for feeling angry with her, and bury it.

Whatever.  Anyhow, she later went on to discuss at length that she said i make her sound like she couldn’t do anything for herself before me.  It’s not that at all.  i take a significant amount of pride in the fact that Sir Raven doesn’t have to do anything inside of the house and that she has lots of free time as a result of my efforts.

So it hurt.  It hurt a lot.  She made it all seem like a bad thing.  There are a lot of times that i put myself in her shoes and try and look at life from her perspective.  This isn’t something i can understand really.  If all i had to do was wipe my own butt because my slave cared that much about me, i’d feel ten feet tall.  i’d probably tell every single Master i knew.  i’d probably feel even better about it because in this case, she owns a slave who is ill, who has to struggle to serve and is willing to because of being devoted.

So, it hurt.  Especially when i felt like she was making fun of me, calling me “the perfect slave.”

Especially when, somewhere around eight pm, my body started to give out and i was visibly struggling to refill drinks, dump ashtrays, and keep up beading the entire time.

There are times i feel like i’m in a no-win situation.  i accept that she behaves coldly like Mr. Darcy, isn’t given to praise, and is not inclined to remember for days that i need a hug.  Even if i ask, there is a fifty-fifty chance i’ll get rejected on a good day.

By the end of the night, i had been angry for several hours.  Felt rejected, humiliated, and in pain.  i don’t bother to talk about it.  When i try and do so, it makes matters worse.  Plus, it was going on midnight when our guests left and we needed to sleep.

Fortunately, i had the kitchen already clean and french press set up.  The other slave and i took turns running out drinks, washing some dishes, cleaning up.  i really appreciate that she does this.  i also enjoy her company.

Monday came and i worked on the house.  It is the day i tend to do the clothes, but Sir Raven decided since it was a holiday, we’d chill a bit and watch a movie.  i beaded and cleaned the bathroom and mopped the kitchen.  Otherwise, though, it was quiet.  i was thankful for that.  i needed to let go of my feelings because they were not going to do anything good.  i went out to replenish our juices, bottled water, and green tea.  When i returned, she declared nap time, and i went to bed but couldn’t sleep.  She came in and started tapping with the cane i like, but then wondered back out to watch her program.  When i padded out, she laughed, and told me that had not been an hour.  i said i thought the rest of my body was jealous of my thigh and she agreed to beat me.

It was enjoyable.  Very.  She seems disinclined to go over the edge with me, ignoring my pleas for her to do the one thing that would push us both over the edge together.  Still, i was surprised and appreciative of her efforts.  It was once again amazing to spend three or four blissful hours without my whole body screaming at me in angry pain.

We both needed the down time before she returned to her job today.  i’m glad for it, especially because i woke up feeling like i’m fighting a cold again.  The water is turned off to our building all day long and she thoughtfully filled the tub so i can at least wash my hands and flush the toliet.  The goodliest Master considered taking me to work with her but was worried about my pain levels when there isn’t anywhere i can lay down or get comfortable.  i turned on the air conditioner, have dealt with jackhammering all morning, and may try and nap while they are on lunch break.  My body needs the nap, she is right.  i can really feel it after several days without one.  Then, i need to do laundry and go to the pharmacy and work on some other chores.

i wish she was home.  i’m already missing my Mr. Darcy.

Photographs and memories

The first time i dressed Sir Raven in her chaps, i was on my knees looking up, and whispered, “Goddamn,” like it was a prayer.

i could not understand how something that sexy, that mesmerizing, was into me.

Tonight, i had a hard -to- find and favorite beer in the frig for her as a little surprise.  i had spent the day toiling on chores, laundry, and shopping.  In between i enjoyed texting and planning, smiling deep inside for so much good.  The leg behaved and didn’t try to drop me all day.  The house is clean and i’m ready right on time, with candles lit, make-up freshened, all smiles and hugs for her.

She enjoys the rest of the black bean chili i made earlier and then has me dress her in her chaps.

The view is something i admire greatly, and i steal photographs.  In one, she brings her boot down as if to stomp on me.  i had tried laying down on the ground, wanting a different angle.  While she disappears behind the wall for a few moments, i take photos of myself, semi-nude.  i grin and remind her of the list, it had a raunchy item on it for three days this week.  She grunts in reply, has me adjust her chaps, and walks back out to see herself in our only full length mirror.

i offer to send her my dirty girl pics, but she says she doesn’t want to see them, that she prefers to take her own of me.

Then she turns on the television and i remember that i said i’d blog today.  So, here i am.

i have at least half a dozen photos of her in chaps. 😀

She is fed, the kitchen is clean, the french press set up for a new day, a new list started for tomorrows chores.

Finally, i have time for some quiet, after a long day of chores and too many sounds of something being sawed and hammered next door.

Today, i am grateful that i can still be surprised, can still surprise myself, and have the devotion i need to get it all done.

Peace, Be Still

Night Owl asked why Sir Raven doesn’t outsource the s/m needs i have to a secondary party.  It’s a valid question, and there are a few reasons why:

1. She is a control freak but would not really want to watch another person be that intimate with me, so she couldn’t maintain total control by being there.

2. She says she isn’t, but i have plenty of anecdotal evidence to suggest that she is, in fact, highly possessive over me.  Thankfully, i interpret that as a part of love.

3.  If you want to know how i feel, one would have to read my blog.  If you want to have any influence over how i feel, one would have to beat me.  Sir Raven and i both don’t want any other person to have more weight, or influence over my feelings than she does.

4. It’s her responsibility.  It’s one of the things she signed up for by choosing me.  The inconsistency has always been a problem but going into year four, i’ve run out of my ability to endure it silently and patiently.

5. It fosters feelings of dependence, interdependence, our way of “in love”, and increases my feelings of respect.

6.  Respect is nearly a zero-sum game for me.  i can’t stay and serve if i don’t respect a person or their character.  i can fall out of love and still stay and serve.  i can not like a person and still stay and serve.  Respect, though, needs to be as close to absolute as is possible.  S/m is incredibly important to that, as is good discipline and punishment.  It’s a muscle memory thing for me.

Yesterday, i had cleaned up the house and went on errands.  When i came back home, i asked if i could sit by her and she agreed.  i was comfortable on the floor pillows, in between her knees, beading.  She rubbed my shoulders for awhile, tight knots giving way beneath her strong hands.  i love her hands on me in any capacity-i think her hands are perfection.

She was working on editing a podcast and wanted me to do an intro.  Apparently, i sounded frustrated because she said she was going to take care of my sassy attitude.  In reply, i frowned at her, which was not too bright, because she growled, “Fix your face, girl and get in the bedroom.”

The strap came singing down, and i’m always surprised as it’s always more painful than i remember.  i focus on breathing, and try to not scream or kick her.  She tells me to lift my skirt, and my hands make slow work of what should be a simple task.  It’s a summer dress, a thin material, but it offers some small bit of protection.  i try and make my mind focus on counting, but the numbers come out weird in my head, mixed up with colors and growls.  She expects me to stay still for this, and i somehow do it.  i know i do, because i’m not being dragged across the bed or hearing threats to tie me down.

She leaves then, telling me she is coming back in half an hour.  i wonder how long she has been gone, since my ass and thighs are still on fire when she returns.

This time, she beats me with the short rubber whip, the tarse, and whip.  i am near tears but we aren’t quite ready to go over the edge together.  i notice the stress leaving her body, she chooses each tool with care and precision.  Time stands still until i hear myself intoning, “please, please, please, please, please” as if it’s the only word i’ve ever known.

i don’t know if i was begging her to stop, or to fuck me, or to never stop.  It doesn’t matter, not really.

When she is done, she makes a satisfied sound, and covers me up with my nap blanket.  It’s not a tuck in, she just sort of dumps it over my body and leaves.

i make use of the pain and force, which combined to make me ready to come.  Several orgasms later, i drift in and out, peace restored.

The most wonderful thing was the hours and hours where my body wasn’t eating me alive in pain.  Everything surrendered to the whip marks on my ass and thighs.  My hip stopped feeling like bone rubbing bone.  My middle back stopped feeling like it was going to slide out of place, leaving me immobile.

i got permission to stay in bed and watch Netflix.  i saw a great documentary called, “Sex Baby” following three women through their lives and changes.  A thirteen year old girl navigates sexuality in a world that surrounds her with imagery, even more so since she lives in New York.  A twenty-something gets labia surgery.  A former porn star talks about the difference between animal fucking and making love.  Based on her description of making love, i felt grossed out, unable to imagine who would want to have sex “so beautiful it makes you cry.”  Apparently, i’d make a better stage fucker than a “normal” woman.

i fixed hot ham and cheese sandwiches and popcorn, and we settled in the livingroom to watch the ever sexy Queen Latifah shine as “Bessie.”  i got to enjoy the entire movie undistracted by pain or fever.

When we went to bed last night, i thanked her for taking care of me.  i had already thanked her and pointed out how my body wasn’t racked with pain because of her efforts.  i felt safe, taken care of, loved, and the burden of holding in all of my tension was eased as i fell asleep last night.

Thank you, Master.


For the first time yesterday, i felt really odd about publishing what i wrote.  i was concerned that someone might misunderstand and think i was suicidal or that i had no respect for the journey of the dying.  Neither is true.

The documentary made me understand that in some ways, i have more in common with the dying than the living.  i give thanks for being able to get my lists done, just like they do.  i get frustrated not being able to do common things without help some days, like getting up to use the bathroom.  The last two weeks of one woman’s life contained the sharp intake of breath, the inability to talk through the pain, the sitting down and staring at nothing-just like me.

The difference is she was doing well, for long months, on a small amount of morphine.  And i remember the half year i took it myself, the same small dose.  i was a totally different person.  The anxiety comes from the pain.  When i wasn’t constantly trying to determine some algebraic model of comparing work that needed to be done with pain involved with doing it, the anxiety went away.  i wanted to do things.  i wanted to fly to Europe, actually,  i wanted to hike, to ride a horse again, to make love, to dance.  i wanted to do All The Things.

This morning i’ve had coffee and meds, scrubbed the toliet and tub, showered and put on make-up, vacuumed and moped the house, washed the counter tops and made the bed, washed ashtrays and got the recycling together to carry down.

That’s it.  It’s my daily morning chores.

And my hip feels like it’s ripping, my calf muscles feel like i’ve been walking in place on top of a camel all night, my skin hurts and i’m running a fever.  Again.

As a patient, i think i have a right to palliative care.

i wanted to tell my doctor about all of this, but by the time i get there, i’m weary and my pulse is high from the pain and i feel like i could vomit and i want to shake her i’m so fucking angry.  i can’t articulate clearly, can’t remember what was said thirty seconds previously and have to turn to Sir Raven to ask.  It’s too much, too damn much, and i spend most of my time trying to behave like a normal person.

So i retreat.  Into myself.  “Zone out,” Sir Raven calls it.

She is annoyed when i don’t know where to get off when we take the bus.  “It’s been two years,” she points out.  i was off by a stop.  That was my best effort.  i want to scream at her, hiss at her, but instead i apologize and follow her off the back of the bus, thinking i might throw up on the street when i have to navigate a step down that is almost longer than my short legs.

As a slave, i don’t have rights.

i can’t demand she be reasonable, ask her to get off my ass, make her slow down, ask her to be comforting, expect her to do anything other than get frustrated with me.

i feel guilty about the seemingly endless parade of doctor’s this month; she shouldn’t have to do this.

When we get home, i wash my hands and put away her jacket.  i bring her ice water and maybe fix her something to eat.  i crawl into bed and cry silently, pray for sleep, try to not make a big deal out of it.

i certainly can’t make her take me home, beat my ass with the strap-anything to take it all-all of the pain, the anger, the humiliation-and tuck me into bed.

i wonder what it would be like, if i could at least count the days til release.

As a slave, i have the right to medical care, housing, food, and being controlled.  i’d also add that i should have the right to discipline, punishment, and knowing what to expect.  But meh.

So, thank you, for the kind remarks yesterday, for the virtual hugs, for the support.

i’m going to go and try to enjoy my day, a rare afternoon out with Karida. 🙂

Today, i’m thankful that my Master takes me to the doctor and wants to understand my medical problems.  i’m thankful that i never have to worry about food, clothing, or shelter.  i’m thankful for friends who try to understand, who don’t shame me when i’m already ashamed.  i’m thankful for slaves who are doing the work, just like me, with all manner of reasons they could use to not be bothered and choose to keep pushing forward on the path.  i’m thankful that i don’t need to be dying to savor the little things, the kindness of strangers, the perfect breeze, the kiss goodbye in the morning.  i have such an enormous amount of gratitude every day, so much to be thankful for and to really notice.  i never forget to be thankful, and that is definitely something to feel gratitude about.  In weakness, times of turmoil and anger, it sustains me.


i saw my regular pain management doctor on Monday.  i was hoping that she would finally consider giving me something for break-through debilitating pain, given that she is the person who sent me off to a neurosurgeon.  She still said no.

No to pain meds.  No to medical marijuana because there “isn’t enough evidence that it works.”  No to upping the cymbalta.  Just plain no.

i keep seeing this person because she talks to and listens to Sir Raven, and that is of extreme importance to me.  Obviously.

So, anyhow, i’m angry.

i’m tired of living in pain.  i watched a documentary about Death with Dignity and felt jealous of the people in the film.  Not because i want to die, because i don’t, but because they had something they could hold in their hands that would guarantee that there would be an end to suffering.  Plus, they had morphine.  They were gardening, walking on the beach with a smile, walking up a goddamned cliff, and dancing.  It was like watching a two hour long tampon commercial, except people die at the end.  They all died saying, “this is so easy.  People should know how easy this is.”

i’m not making light of the suffering of people with terminal cancer.  Nor would i.  It’s a tragic affair for everyone.

My point is that pharmaceuticals exist because the relief of suffering is valid in terms of medical care and the hippocratic oath.

And i’m suffering.

i’m suffering physically and emotionally.  i’m not depressed.  i’m not crazy.

When i realized my sight issues could not be fixed, i gave myself one day a year to feel bad about it.  So far, i’ve never used the whole day.  i am keen at focusing on gratitude, daily.  At being mindful, thankful, open.

This though?  The barrage of pain.  i need two days to lament, to feel irrational anger at the able-bodied people who move through the day with ease, to deal with the fact that i’m angry that i’m wired in such a way that the stress of it all makes me need to be beat until i can cry it all out.

i’m angry.  i’m resentful.  i’m seething.

Yesterday, i remembered after the car wreck that the doctor took x rays and used a machine that made a print out of my neck each visit.  It was damaged, out of alignment, curved strangely, but no herneated back or neck discs.

And in the midst of it, i’m reading, “Daring Greatly” by Brenee Brown and found that she is confused on a point.

She said that Sociopaths don’t feel shame.

i find this to be categorically untrue, and since i’ve had a lifetime to have many be attracted to me, i should know a thing or two.

They know they are monsters-they say so.

They know there is something wrong with them.

They say they are bad, a bad seed, something dark.

But instead of feeling shame about it, it’s a simple knowledge, no different from me pointing out that i have dimples.  It’s not that they don’t know what shame is in terms of naming it, they just don’t feel what we feel about it.

When i binge and practice self-hatred, i feel shame.  i feel that i am bad.  When bad things happen to me, or i am neglected and hurting, i feel shame.  i think, “If i were prettier, this would not be happening.”  And then i bury it and me under more fat.  i bury the anger, the shame.

If anything, there is a sense of bravado in a sociopath, a psychopath will be especially likely to enjoy being a monster. Depraved.

Do the people who abused me have to carry the weight of the shame?


i do.

i am the memory.

My bones are the memory i can’t deny.

i feel gratitude still, force myself to focus on that, give more, serve better, look nicer, smile often.  Underneath that though is a searing pain, because i’m not enough.  i can change nothing.  My pleas change nothing.  i keep falling down a hole, i tell myself to adjust the lens, view everything through Sir Raven’s eyes and needs and wants.  Forget my own.  They don’t matter.

And it works, for months at a time.

Right now, i’m too tired to fight myself.  i’m exhausted with need.  i can’t turn anywhere for relief.  So, i will rest awhile.  Give in for an hour.  Then, i’ll get up and put on a fresh smile and clean apron and cook.  Serve. Give thanks.