i keep thinking about the complicated dichotomy of TTWD. It’s a strange comfort knowing i’m not the only one who finds both fulfillment and pain in the same union. It’s a comfort i’d readily do without.
i can’t find the post that got me thinking over at sofia’s blog. Sorry sofia. In it, she writes about her amazing Man, who she clearly loves for lots of reasons. The thing that brought them together though, the BDSM, the need so profound…..isn’t being satisfied. It seems that he has Reasons. And he shares them with her, though i din’t know if any of them make sense to her.
Every time there is a need to shift in my relationship, to accept, to bend, to understand, to acquiesce….it’s always me who capitulates. It’s my job to orbit around her. Of course it is. Most of the time, i just accept it and move the way she needs me to move.
There is so much good.
We are playful together, like the other morning when Sir Raven was ironing her shirt for work. She prefers to touch it up herself and i prefer to ingest french press the moment i open my eyes. Hopefully, i peeked around the kitchen doorway in the direction of the coffee i can smell. Wordlessly, Sir Raven turns around and sprays me with the water bottle she uses to iron. i protest i’m not a kitty but we giggled.
She is steadfast. i never have to worry about getting to the doctor, having money for food, having her come home to me. She provides me with a sense of security. i know who i am because i am Her’s.
We truly enjoy each other, in the easy way i’ve never seen modeled. We take pride in each other. Sir Raven noted once that we complete each other.
i feel a sense of wonder at us, sometimes, because who has all of this good?
i feel a sense of shame at myself, sometimes, because who has all of this good and still wants an elusive more?
All of the shame in the world can’t change how i’m wired, or the culture i grew up in. We are a hyper-sexed culture, one that promotes sexuality everywhere and simultaneously shames women who want it. We watch movies where couples argue and then sex is shown-like a cinematic nod that everything is okay again. We use sex like is a barometer of the overall health of our marriages. A lack of sex denotes a kind of personal failure in a marriage. A lack of sex suggests a lack of attractiveness somehow.
Then there is another layer: s/m.
It’s not just about the physical. It’s the emotional gratification of something inside so deep, so intense, that we’d move heaven and earth to have it. Those moments of utter perfection. Those moments of effortless peace. It’s a sense of alignment, that there is a complete agreement between my body and what i feel inside.
A few weeks ago, talking to a trans person who has modified their body to match how they feel, he tells me that everything feels “off” when your body doesn’t match up with who you are inside.
Thinking about this for awhile, i think that i know how this feels. My sexuality, my gender expression, my sense of self is dulled. Not because my genitals don’t match. Thankfully, they do. But because my sense of agency and desire is destroyed, my body and soul detached.
For me, four years in, it’s become too painful to have hope spring up and get dashed. It doesn’t stop me from thinking what i’m always thinking: that if i could find the right words, the right way to express needing her touch/her body/ her dick/ her pain…everything would mesh and work.
i realize something painful in the last few days.
i don’t care anymore.
i’ve paid a price for that, a huge weight gain, punishing myself for feeling and wanting until i can’t do either anymore.
My self confidence is replaced by moments of intense loathing that sends tears spilling down my face. Maybe it’s easier to blame myself even if Sir Raven tells me that it isn’t a problem for her.
i tell her that i need her to tell me sometimes that i’m beautiful. i know it’s silly, i do. But i don’t even know what she finds attractive about me physically, in part because she isn’t inclined to often say anything. She says its because i rebut her, but that is even more reason i need it to sink in.
i realize how numb i am inside, everything replaced by repugnance at myself.
i do what i’ve always done-turn the anger inward onto me. With food.
But i’ve achieved it, Master.
i no longer care if we have sex, if you beat me for fun. i can understand why no one would want to touch me like this. And as i write this the tears flow, the private ones i never let you see. It isn’t pleasant, the silent tears.
Last night i realized how much i just needed touch, needed to be held. And i ask. Because we are supposed to communicate and that is supposed to fix everything. But it doesn’t. Instead she holds my hand and i stare dumbly at the space in the bed between us. She uses me body heat to warm her frozen legs and feet and removes them once she is warm. She won’t hold me, not even for awhile. In her sleep, she withdraws even her hand holding mine and i feel a flash of rage. Self hatred. Shame. i turn away in the bed, face the wall, and unconsciously stim for a long time before i realize what i’m doing and silently cry. i remember the documentary on failure to thrive children, watching them rock themselves laying down, just like me.
i need to not care about this too. i tell myself i’m being stupid. It’s not a big deal, touch.
There is so much good, and that is what i focus on. i’m the problem here, wanting more. i am desperate to loose the weight but keep falling into binge eating to keep myself numb. i have no delusions that weight loss will change anything other than my feelings of self-hatred, but right now that would help a lot. i know i’ll find my way to acceptance about the situation, but i need to get some control over myself. Somehow.