hands

An early memory, taken aback at the tenderness in my mother’s voice.  Not the tone, really, just that it was meant for me.

i was looking up at a grey sky, the sun barely visible, flapping my hands.  My mother said, “Oh, how cute, she thinks’ she is a little bird.”

She had moments of mother feelings for me, before the rest.  i didn’t remember a time when she loved her awkward bird, the one that always wanted to fly.

Later, she would hiss, “People are staring at you.  They think you are retarded, like the doctors said you would be.”

When my mother would tell people about me being “a miracle,” she would try and make her voice sound like honey.  Later, she’d say, “You are a fighter, girl.  You fought your way out of that incubator and fought every day since.”

Flapping hands are bad.

Hands “playing in water” is bad.

Hands that mess up anything are very bad.  My hands messed up a lot of things.  i was learning, at four, to channel anger inward, to hurt myself.  To bring blood and anger to the surface and not have fear.  Hurting myself was shorthand to get from fear to anything else, quickly.

My hands got bit a lot.  My arms would be covered in bruises, blood, and his teeth marks.  My mother would hold him, just stop everything for once, and hold him.  He’d stare at nothing after his rages on me, stare at nothing and suck his thumb.  It was like looking into a shark’s eyes.

Hands don’t get moved when it hurts.  Hands go behind your back.  Protecting your face is cause to get it smashed.

No one would leave their hand under an iron long enough to produce two second degree burns.  

How do i explain that hands should not be moved?  That i was trying to grab the ironing board and iron as it all fell and hit her carpet and there was something else to punish me for.  And so i saved the carpet before my hand.

It was my left hand, and it still carries the scars.  Painful months of deep burning.  Shame.  My dominant hand.  i remember thinking that i’d have a wedding band there some day and it would have to live alongside the scar.

My mother said time heals everything.

She is a liar and the original Magnificent Cunt.

i know every line i should say, exactly how she wanted everything done, my hands always in my mouth-biting.  Quiet hands.

Now my hands are busy again.  My hands are my eyes.  They examine the world, starving, eager, wanting more.  Energy is my eyes.  Blind sight.  i do not know when i’m flapping.  Or rocking.  Or playing in the water in the tub for an hour.

i am back in that mode.  There isn’t much else to say on it.  Failure to thrive people who thrive desptie a less than one percent chance of survival should not have to justify how they move through the world, even if they say, “i’m sorry.”  We stim.  Oh well.  i already think i’m the most awkward person, ever.  lol.  i realize how often i’m stimming in some manner, though i’ve learned to hide it very well.  i think.  ?

Really

i’m just a little bird, flapping under a grey sky.

C is no longer for cookie.

What i desperately wanted to write back to my instructor:

“I understand.  Well, in that case, C shall just have to stand for cunt in my house.  Less than one motherfucking point?  Are you kidding me right now?  Take that half a point and go fuck yourself with it.”

Instead, i wrote a very scholarly, politely worded: FUCK YOU.

And she wrote back a very terse, clearly annoyed, I AM THE PERSON WITH THE DOCTORATE DEGREE AND YOU ARE NOT.  I FUCK HARDER.

i apologized, rightly, for my previous tone.  i also told her that i’d have definitely gone for the B minus, but i wouldn’t have appreciated my tone, and the tone would have kept me from giving a B.  The .35 difference here could effect my loans and grants.  i also pointed out that all i was focused on was the half point and not the big picture, and that i agreed she was a generous grader overall.  Then, because i had to think of something that i actually gave a shit about right now, i added that it wasn’t right of me to ask her to teach me and then tell her how to do it.

Evidently, i sounded appropriately morose over telling someone who outranked me to go fuck them selves (but politely)

because she let me know that she had checked with her Supervisor (the Dean of Psychology) and they said to give me the C.

My name is on her desk for other reasons right now, and they aren’t for a happy gram.  When i taught We had a school wide behavior chart, which was splendid.  Best Blue, Good Green, Okay Orange, Yucky Yellow, and Rowdy Red.  i couldn’t stop saying rowdy red like i was in a fuck-you-rodeo for a moment, because let’s face it-rowdy red is sometimes a good time.

Eventually.

i’m not gonna say you don’t have to endure some shit first, some white-knuckled, hanging on i’m-never-gonna-break kinda stuff first.

i used to have to add a little, “oh, that makes me feel sad in my heart.  Tomorrow is a new day,” anytime after i said “rowdy red” to the kids.  The fact of it was, basically, that if they were not on Best Blue when they went home they were going to get their asses torn up and we knew it.  We were also in between a rock and a hard place because they were trying to back us up at home.

i learned, very quickly, that some children don’t respond to anything but a beating, and the sooner you get that out of the way the better.

So i didn’t take exception to the beating they were getting but i wished we could have met on the same page about when the beating should be going on.  Good Green could mean some shit went down at circle time, but the kid worked all day to get themselves back up on the chart, showed an interest in moving up.  Does that deserve the same beating as rowdy red?  Or a beating at all?  Never would in my book, but those kids were not my books.

i have to say it’s been …..damn….years since i’ve been here.  It feels like a rollercoaster at the top, you can’t stop anything and whats left is to make the sign of the cross and let go.

But anyhow-rowdy fucking red.

i’m at rowdy red, everything is raw inside, i’m exhausted.  Today, i miss the kids that understood me best of all.  i miss the “wish necklace” i wore, it had a little box locket that opened up and i collected happy wishes inside.  Everyone knew that they could come to me for a hug, fresh tablets and crayons, a secret snack.

The kids who understood me the best right now right now is the funniest kid i ever knew.  I’ll call one boy Corey.  He got up on the monkey bars, saluted the Elementary school by grabbing himself, while rapping, “To the window, to the wall…”  It was my job to get him down.

Elaina, the heart stealer upper, who could be a one girl cyclone.  Tearing up the room, her work, and then she would stop a second.  Try to regroup.  She’d stroke my face with her hands, “It’s okay, little baby” she said, gently.  But then someone would overstimulate her again.  And Kaboom.  She would also get the giggles and couldn’t stop, a nervous behavior, but to other people they saw a kid enjoying throwing the sensory objects and paints and puzzles all over the room.

Later, she would be spent.  We both would be.

i remember going home on those days wishing somebody could beat the bad out of me because i could relate a little too much to each of the kids.

i am trying, but seriously, everything is a heinous effort at this moment.

So, to some up…

C is for Cunt

and

i’m on rowdy red.

Hitting bottom

i’ve been holding on, avoiding the numb abyss.  i loved the monkey bars and had callouses to prove it as a kid.  i liked the sensation of almost falling and finding something to make you make it across one more time.

Sir Raven correctly noted last night that when i think of structure, i think of everything having a predictable pattern.  This is true, likely as a result of seeing what happens to some men when they are without that safety net of the Navy giving explicit instruction on everything.  They cling obsessively to ritual or fall apart totally.

Contrary to movies, Officers of a Superior Rank don’t run around screaming and cursing.  They are exceptionally polite, actually.  If you don’t understand what they expected, their original reaction was that they had failed to coney the message and they would show the person what they wanted, with a faster check in.  They also don’t waste an opportunity for praise and indicating that what they were doing was exactly what was wanted.

So, yeah, i think literally and in frameworks.  i think schema should always be considered.

i like to plan, to look ahead, knowing what to expect, and make predictions that are accurate.  i am a human animal, after all.

i’ve been trying to keep myself in tact, but i’m going through some major events, and i lack the strength or dignity to rise up right now.

i’m completely drained.

To top it off, the scientist in my head is doing check-ins, screening for PTSD flare ups.  i had lived with it “in remission” was how i thought of it.

i’ve even tried to keep the outside going, pretty and sweet, hardworking me.  i’m just so exhausted.

Princess of Tides

My life has become flooded by sturdy memories.  It’s not bad, sort of like watching “The Prince of Tides,” calm flashbacks happen while our hero cooks a meal.

i dream about my brother, my mother.

The most brilliant man i know tells me to knuckle-down-memories are trying to surface.  i can’t toss aside the truth of this.  He is calmly waiting.  i soak the sheets with sweat.  The insomnia is mind bending.  i hear music from my childhood, music i don’t listen to anymore.

Barbra Streisand.  Carol King. Sweet Baby James. Nina Simone. Any love ballad my mother sent me on drunken voicemails, pleading with me to come back, telling me she is half dead without me, that she needs me.

Any music playing when my biological father called me in sweaty, tense, tight with emotion calls.  Especially the one where he was clearly drunk, and asked me if i love him.  For one heart beat, i thought of how i had a poison dagger right now.  i could hurt him and i knew it.  But i told him the truth, that i loved him.  During our last call, that fucker literally ordered me home to take care of my mother.  When i pointed out the woman had literally just come after me with a pair of scissors screaming I’ll kill you in front of two babies, he laughed.  When he spoke next, His tone darkened, and despite everything, all of the absence and prison visits, i understood him.  His hand, i knew, had just reflexively gone to his belt.

And despite the ludicrousness of it all, i smiled despite myself.  Game on. i always did enjoy any situation that makes a mans dick hard, in particular when he can’t do one thing about it.

i flatly told him i wasn’t going back and evenly asked him how he could judge me.  My tone was meant to remind him that if he had handled a situation, the only time i have ever asked for help, that we wouldn’t be having this conversation.  i am resentful.  i think of John the Baptist, his head on the platter.  It was a single cool demand.  i should have had to ask once.  Hell, i shouldn’t have had to ask at all.

i have memories.  i have them.

Trying to push them down isn’t helpful and i’ve already hid myself as well as i can.  i have made myself invisible to men.  The price is a bit of self hatred, of disgust, rage turned inside out.

i need to focus on my art and spirituality for awhile.  i’ve neglected these things, just not enough time.  Not enough energy.

Sir Raven wants me to not swear.  As in, “ever.”  i presume that she is okay with the word “fuck” as a verb, cause i have to keep that one.  🙂  i figure it doesn’t matter here but that reminds me to ask.

i’ve fortunately gained some maturity over the years.  The tape in my head singing, “fuck, fuck, fuck. Don’t say fuck” is at least silent.  Seventeen years ago, i walked into my first acknowledged M/s relationship and poly household.  It took me close to two weeks to figure out that he actually meant it.  You’d think i may have figured it out the first time i was sitting with difficulty, and he merely smiled quietly, praising the meal.  We had cornish hens, fresh rolls, and i had tried my hand at cooking real vegetables galore.  After the meal, i had served iced tea with mint on the front porch to the two of them.  i was returning to mop the kitchen floor and polish the table when i stubbed my toe and absent minded at the pain, i swore.

Then i tried to roll over him with a list of all of the things he hadn’t covered, because the poor Navy Seal Mr. Man had thought life would be simple.  You know, that he’s say, “Hey, quit swearing,” and i’d just stop.

The lovely irony was that he physically resembled my biological father tremendously.  And so i quite enjoyed winning our little power struggles.  He’d be lecturing, and i’d interrupt his thoughts with a glance.

i wasn’t mature enough to force myself to do the best i could for him.  He didn’t have the stomach for the job and i rolled over him.  After that, i chose more carefully.  What that meant is that people who are most attracted to me have something dark inside.  i can pinpoint which person wants what and if they can go about taking it, if need be, when i meet them.

Few people surprise me.

Loyalty

i was raised to believe that if you have abandoned your family loyalty, you have lost everything.

Family is such a loaded word when you are Italian.

Yes all forms of family, starting with blood, if you are lucky.

i’ve done a lot of things that i personally strongly disagreed with, stood in between fights for hours without getting upset, used myself as a shield, prayed my body wouldn’t be found so no one would be hurt, handled items that were not good items to be touching, taken the fall, lied in court, shown up in the middle of the night-no questions asked, had my shoulder dislocated and still kept him off of my mother.

i cleaned the house religiously.  When i could do nothing else, i worked energy magic and cleaned and baked ferociously.  My mother started shopping, bringing home less and less food each week.  The boys were only to happy to get what i could make in bulk cheaply-homemade bread, mashed potatoes.  i kept a beautiful garden then.

My brother would get high, come in my room, and truly exhale.  It was his favorite room in the house.  i can remember his eyes when he would tell me he did something i was going to hate him for.  i told him i had unconditional love for him, due to my loyalty.

i do, actually.

Weeks ago, i asked Sir Raven if i could write a letter to my brother, to be delivered after my death.  Stunned, she reminded me that the only thing that would tear us apart and immediately revoke our relationship was any contact with my family.  i didn’t realize this would extend beyond my death.

She asked me if i knew what the word, “any” meant.

My loyalty is undivided now.  So appreciate it when i say, all i can do is be loyal and obey.  My identity is tied too intricately, and permanently, to these ideals that i’d cease to be me if i attempt to turn my back.

i’m loyal.

This is an entirely black and white thinking issue for me.  It’s a pass/fail.  It’s spiritual bootcamp.  When someone takes from your core, can you still be loyal? When you hate more than you love, can you still?  When your grief runs so deep that you want to remove your womb, can you be loyal?

Maybe your relationships don’t involve any of these things, or all of them.  One of the most important virtues is loyalty.

i have to be.

i’m also the runaway child inside.

i’ve proven that too many times to count in my misspent youth.

Twice in my adulthood.  Three other failed attempts, besides the two successful coups.

i’m never quite forgiven-but it’s always the sense of loyalty that brings me back.  Well, except for the failed attempts.  Then it was being out of money, and being exhausted, and having no place to go.  Especially having no place to go.  There is never any place to go, perhaps by design.  No matter.

i promised loyalty, and i promised to never run away again.

It’s easy to toy and be malicious with these things.  Thanks, Catholicism.  i’d pretty much have to believe that a person would keep me by force to never try it.  i don’t know.  The sense of broken defeat is so huge when i didn’t make it during those failed tries.  i had to do so much to be trusted again, the focus ever on my sins.

Loyalty matters, especially when the chips are down in life.

Or maybe thats just me?

This is the part where you find out who you really are.

I am well and truly happy for slaves who manage to routinely get their needs and wants met.  i’m happy for you if you had a hot scene, fucked all weekend, got spoiled with time and attention.  Really.

i’m somewhat less inclined, however, to deal with what passes for thought on fetlife.  Mainly, this occurs when a slave goes thorough a crisis or major problem and they are smugly informed by other slaves that inside of their home that would never take place because they chose so well.

Well, goodie for you.

i’m not that interested when you are getting so much of what you want, all of what you need, and your Master never makes a decision that is contrary to what you’d like to have occurred.

You know what I think?

It’s bullshit.

There have been many times i have silently obeyed my Master when i know for sure she chose something for me that isn’t what i would have done on my own.  She has made numerous medical decisions alone that i would have done differently.

She has the right to decide what she thinks is best, for me, and for us.

She won’t be right every single time.

And that is okay.

Accepting the inevitability of some difficult decisions made for me going wrong is important too because

It gives me a way to demonstrate my faith, in concrete terms.  It gives me a chance to grow closer to my Owner.  It gives me a chance to prove myself.

What good is my obedience if it’s only offered on the condition that things go my way?

What good is my pleasant demeanor if, truly, i’m always pleased?  i am fairly certain that my Master is happiest of all with my pleasant demeanor when i am well and truly angry, in pain, or exhausted and she need not know.

What good is it to her if i want to second guess every choice, every order?  i might as well be my own Master, if that is the case.

You find who you are in moments of sheer darkness, inside of the loss of hope, within despair or just plain discomfort.

The moment when you think you might buckle without a way to cry, vent, express-and you have to claw down the strongest instincts you have-

because you must

focus,

show determination,

immediate and cheerful obedience

and push forward…even if you are not sure you feel a path under your feet.

That is the part where you find out who you really are.

i’m a slave.

i obey.

Roll Tape

The shame tape is playing.  Loudly.

The nightmares start with the sensation of falling back into my body.  Fear turns to rage quickly in my body, and i’m turning to some extra medicine to deal.  Everyone that wasn’t invited to the party in my head showed up, pieces of memories shifting inside of my dreams.  The strongest memories exist without emotion, it’s like having a phantom limb where feelings should be.

Numbness.

Anxiety.

Keep working.

Smile.

no. Smile.

Remember my mother’s eyes, wild with hatred.  Her face a mask of revulsion.  She’d be delighted to see me this fat again.  i remember she told me that two things would happen at my end of my thirties-that memories would surface that i’ve always recalled parts of, and that i’d get a huge sex drive.

She was wearing a body stocking.  My job was to get the too tight skirt on, and get her shoes on.  She feels sick and fragile in my arms, but my inner anorexic intones, “one hundred pounds is the perfect weight.” i remember making her bed while she applied make-up and offered her predictions.

“Oh, stop,” she’d say.  “Don’t look sad.  You can’t help what you were born with, honey. I can’t help that I didn’t know to pray that you’d look like me.  You don’t look like anyone. Just be glad you don’t still have those bug eyes.”

She was right.  On all accounts.

Damn her.

Right now, i’m just paying attention to whatever is going on inside.  It’s containable at a low level of anxiety.  Worry and anxiety won’t help.  Yet, For the first time, i can’t leave the house alone.  i’m too anxious.

i’m also barely mobile.  The steroids have me swollen everywhere.  i look pregnant, so i can at least forgive them for checking me again at the last lumbar epidural.  Heh.  All i have to do is think, “stairs” and i’m feeling unable.

i’m surprised.  i don’t let myself stay housebound too long.  i’ve deliberately had agoraphobia trained into me before, at several key points in development and trauma.  Since the trackwork is already down, i’ll only buck rarely, if those were my conditions again.  Actually, what i’d do is try several times early on, and watch the reactions.  If they were consistent, i’d understand to adapt to it.

i said that to someone who met me about seven years ago, someone who chuckled and said, “Of course that is what you would do.  You just described the behavior of a wild horse.”

i’m also ordered to work on two major school projects, so that is keeping me busy.  One instructor wrote just today to ask me to please send along this huge project tomorrow.  She said disabilities accommodations would have her turning in grades late and having give me a Inc or something.

i’m so exhausted.

Perhaps if i could just get some good sleep, i’d be right again.  A good rest might be all i need.  🙂