Sometimes, everything begins to feel like a gigantic, “Fuck you.” So, that kind of explains where i’m at emotionally, at the moment.
i’m pissed that i need to quit smoking again, that i’m down to a few precious pain pills, that every day i look at them in pain and get my endless lists done without, that i measure a good day by how many items i can get done, that there are literally 26 things left on my list for today, that my self-esteem suffers because of my relationship, that i have to work at it to remember myself as a sensual woman.
i measure success by getting more than one kiss a day, by cooking fantastic meals, by putting maximum effort into every fucking thing i do, like i’m in a constant competition with myself with one mandate-do more, give more, try harder.
Privately, i think if there was a “perfect slave,” that bitch wouldn’t have to work so hard at it. Because god damn.
In theory, it makes perfect sense to live by Sir Raven’s idea, that if she isn’t complaining then everything is good. In practice, that means the majority of the feedback i get is negative and there is nothing to balance it out and i no longer believe her silence is happiness. And it’s my job to be unflappable, warm, light and breezy, tightly self-controlled in the face of something that feels detached. The small wins are listening to her day, being that person that can be counted on no matter what. Not need anything back.
When i do need, when i come right out and directly ask, i’m rejected. It takes a shit ton of self control to be all of those things i listed while feeling rejected. There is also very little difference in my mind between rejecting my service and rejecting me when it becomes a pattern. i silently repeat, “Service is what she says it is,” like its a Bible passage that can save my soul.
One of the most fucked up aspects of me is that i reach this place where i actively don’t want s/m or sex or touch from her. Where i want to reject her. i hate myself for even having that thought, though i would not reject her because i find that to be immoral behavior. Unethical to my station and my self. Same reason why if i do something day one that you enjoy, i won’t take it away. Ever.
i think that giving affection, putting effort into myself, working as hard as i can each day, should have exactly nothing to do with however i may be feeling at the moment. i also find that the act of doing something to please someone else isn’t compatible with wanting to act out. It takes the anger away. Makes me refocus on what matters-Her -and being able to hold my head up because i know i’ve given my all to everything i do.
That is what i can control. It is self-love. i have every excuse, every valid reason, to not bother-and who could fault me? Me. That’s who.
And so the days to by; i do what i must. i make sure she enjoys the conversation, that she has next to no worries about anything not work related. i return again and again to my core. i know who i am. i know what i’m worth.
i remove hope, my life is much easier without it. Fuck hope. Fuck love. Fuck being sick for weeks and days and years. Fuck the hole in my eardrum, the hearing loss, another specialist. Fuck the weeks of antibiotic and feeling like shit all the time. Fuck the school work and totally ignorant students in my classes. Fuck looking in the mirror and thinking if i were just prettier, everything would be different, everything could have worked out, i could have been your drug, the fix you need in your veins but i’m not and the only thing left to blame is me because i can’t blame you.
Fuck the anger that you couldn’t say it to my face, that you know deep down that you could have never looked me in the eyes and deny me. That much a drug knows. You could have never believed the lies you told yourself with me right there. It was the cowards way out. Fuck the reminder of how goddamn good and effortless it feels to be the fix you needed, that peace that floats, the private paradise. That is the real reason we can’t be friends now. You reminded me of hope, and i can’t forgive you for that. i have been a drug too many times to not understand that sometimes people are afraid they will be lost in the high.
i get lost in the need to be the fix you seek. Because that kind of euphoria exists, never goes away, not really. i dream about your hands around my throat and wake up too soon. i dream that my doctor tells me i’m dying, and i smile brightly and tell her to write out a script for morphine. i’m going out with a high, one way or another.
The list calls. That is all there is. i remind myself this is the only way i can hold my head up, the only way i can find to be clean.