My mind feels tangled.

i have too much to do and everywhere i look things are half done.  i have a ton of things to revise and write for school.  i spend my life writing, reading, thinking-all glorious-and with a constant stress to get it all done.

Clearly, i haven’t had time here to decompress.  And i need that.  This is my only outlet of free thought, of expectations that are my own.  Honesty wins out here over everything else.  Honesty wins.

i’ve been having extremely vivid dreams again: my brother, about ten, wrapped up in my arms.  i’m holding him tight.

i can’t ever think of him that age without also seeing him in the kitchen, my mother in a hysterical rage, things flying and glass breaking.  Her screaming glory has begun.  She kept telling him to take out the garbage, it didn’t get done, and she eventually got around to doing it herself.  She took care of the garbage herself by dumping it over his head, and there was coffee grounds stuck to him, an egg sliding down his face.  A single tear.

i drew in my breath.

i put my body in between them and got her down the hallway to get her away from him.  i mouthed the words, “i’m sorry,” and followed her out.

This was the tricky road.

It could turn on me at any time.

It was like playing a game of Russian Roulette with more than one bullet.

i always worried and wondered what he thought that i let her scream about him at me, her comments designed to be cruel-he was less than the garbage-we both were.

The rules were simple.  i had to agree, with enthusiasm, that she was correct.

So, yes, we were shit.  Yes, we ruined her life.  Yes, we caused the bad men to come in.  Especially me.  They could see i was a worthless whore.  Of course.

If she spit in my face then or bitch slapped and i had no reaction, but a bowed head, it could be over.

i had said, “i’m sorry,” enough.  The right way.

If i had not been sorry enough-

and really what is too much when you are a child who knows she is worthless, that no one wants her, and that bad people are attracted to me and hurting the whole family because of me-

So. Yes. i became sorry.  i bowed my head.  i said it with feeling.  i felt sorry.  i feel sorry.

My hands went behind my back, so there was no way to make a defensive gesture to protect my face and head.  i got a broken nose, black eye, and second degree burn scar to show for it when she thought i might have thought about hitting her.

i confess i did, as a child.

My brother said he was going to grow up and marry me.

So did my boys.  Well, my first was going to grow up and be Super Man, kill his father, and marry me.  So we had to work on that concept a lot.  i learned play therapy from doing it, and i’m not sure how anyone could learn that from only reading.  It takes a patience to find the story, see the teachable moment.  And it’s like magic.

If something happens in your day, and it isn’t pleasant, i do feel sorry that i couldn’t have found a way to fix it, prevent it, circumnavigate, clean, smile, repeat.

i’m an obsessive fixer.

i look every. single. time. i leave a room to see what i can do to make it better.

i don’t feel i’m equal to other people.  i am a slave as both property that belongs to my Master and as a social status marker.

And i do feel sorry.

Rage, fury, contempt, anger, frustration, and hidden fears-

they are all sorrow now.

i should have found a way to make it better.

i should have pushed myself harder.

That doesn’t mean that i don’t have self worth, or self esteem.

The very way i live, in M/s with Sir Raven, can cause struggle there.

Overall, though, i strive to be comfortable in my skin.  i know what i’m good at.  i take pride in myself and my work.  i am pleasant, hard worker, sweet smelling, femme, tender, sensual, and funny.  i’m also a good home-maker, cook, and whore.

i don’t feel bad about myself, as a slave or baby girl* (thanks to Master Kaddan, for pointing out the difference to me).

Sir Raven could have done way better than me in the figure department, but she took what she liked.

Every thought. Every. Single. One. drifts back into–i need to let this all out–please hurt me, please take this anger away, please force it out.  Hurt me.  Force me. Take me.

You are what i want to be tangled up in.


One thought on “Tangled

  1. morgianacontentlycaptured says:


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