Archive for the ‘The Healing Journey’ Category

The Politics of Ruination


(The proceeding interlude care of Norah Jones. Reflection and usual blogging to follow.)

You’ve ruined me now —
But I liked it —
But I’m ruined; do you have a plan? ‘Cause I’m in your hands.

You’ve ruined me now —
Though I liked it, now I’m ruined —
I had no choice when I heard your voice.

I know you said, ‘can’t be misled’.
Now I’m the one whose face is red.
You’ve ruined me now.
Though I liked it, now I’m ruined —
I’m trying to part with what’s in my heart.

You’ve ruined me —
And how I thought I liked it —
Now I’m ruined.
My whole world’s now turned upside down.

I heard me say, ‘I’m going away’ —
But now I write you everyday.
You heard me say, ‘I’m going away’ —
But I’m on the floor outside your door.
You’ve ruined me now.

You’ve ruined me now.
But I liked it —
But I’m ruined …
Do you have a plan?
‘Cause I’m in your hands ….

Yeah. Do I even need to add to that? Norah sums it all up rather nicely.


… Here’s where the story ends


So. Odd and uncomfortable as it might be, I’ve decided, (in coming to accept the end of that strange relationship) that there’s really nothing else logical to do except help to find him lots of women to date, so that I can get him swiftly into the next chapter of his life — now that I realize it doesn’t involve me.

He’s pretty clueless when it comes to the practise, (and very quirky, on top of that) so I figured he’s going to need all the help that he can get. Help, of course, with which I can provide him.

Not entirely sure how to go about this whole thing, though. In part, in my deciding that I can’t just resume some form of platonic relationship, or, as he would like, maintain everything but the sexual / romantic components, (be an ‘adopted sibling’ as it were) I’d prefer our lives diverge until such point I’m not furious with him — since I’m no longer hoping that a relationship will resume. I accept that it’s over, was probably a bad idea to begin with (even though, it did seem the smartest choice at the time — and might still be) and he hadn’t any of the tools to make it work, thereby leading to his need to ‘redefine the relationship’ (fancy term for breaking up, really) in such a way that it was no longer romantic, sexual, or D/s-oriented.

I discovered that that’s a lot more complicated than it seems. Forgive me for repeating myself here, but there’s much more involved in changing the way you relate to someone than simply breaking up. Oh, sure, if you’re no longer going to be involved, then there’s the more traditional option of foregoing contact until the dust settles. But if you were friends initially, or you work together, then you sort of have to suck it up and grin and bear it.

Easier said than done. (more…)

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… And this is for when you feel nothing.


Oh, depersonalization. You tricky devil, you.

I realized this evening that the power my former — whatever, for lack of better, we’ll say dominantly-oriented dynamic relationship — had over me is now gone. Lifted. Somewhat relieving, definitely a bit sad, and more than anything — fills me with a an equally powerful, almost inexplicable rage.

That part’s not so grand. But, hey. It is what it is, and right now, I feel nothing — or just rage over the fact I no longer know how to maintain an interaction with someone I know meant a great deal to me. That, and while I used to feel this sense of … well, power over me, as if I was just awaiting the moment he’d admit that he couldn’t really deal with it, either, and in a sudden, likely fevered moment, everything would feel right again — having returned to the way it was, which had become something that felt so incredibly right to me.

Except now … it doesn’t anymore. That feeling that what was can be regained, and exists just beneath the surface has been replaced by a raging apathy, oddly enough, or is at least being sufficiently drowned out by the fury to seem as if what was is good completely. I used to long for and want it back. As if that which I was raging against was simply the loss of it, and it could reaffirm itself in a matter of seconds. (more…)

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The flowers you gave me are just about to die.


God. I fucking hate being emo. I typically kick the ass of anyone attempting to be emo and blast the Eagles’ ‘Get Over It’ (which is a fantastic song, all the same.)


Thanksgiving. Giving thanks. Being thankful. Oh, and I am — don’t get me wrong. Very much so. I just wish there wasn’t more than one side of me — a side that’s so very different from the one I know so well. The one I hadn’t even realized truly existed until one, fucking, person brought it out in me. (Sort of like the fact that — I have to confess, most submissive men — outside of my friends and clients — tend to bother the shit out of me when they’re being ‘subbie'; just makes me want to slap the shit out of them and scream, ‘My God — be a fucking MAN, for chrissake!’ Naturally, this is the very thing my fiance craves of me that I -don’t- feel the want to give or do to him — except in rarer circumstances — because I actually -like- his submissive side, and want to cuddle, nuzzle and nurture it.)


It’s the other side of me that’s been bothering me, since it’s had to get stuffed back into the kink closet. Y’know. The -other- side. The one I -don’t- express, and since I’m naturally dominant … well … we can all guess.

Mister P, of course, offers to explore this with me, (and back in the beginning, before he began submitting to me and it all clicked for me, I enjoyed it for its novelty — but then … it wore off) and it just … no. It’s not the same. I want -his- submission. I don’t need his dominance — or him to prove his dominance to me. Oh, it’s -there-, believe me. But he’s naturally a submissive man, and enjoys being able to express that. And, as I’ve said to some close friends (and him, too) if he were to ever suddenly decide not to submit to me anymore — it’d feel like the planet was just knocked off its axis. Not. Cool.

That leaves … the other. The hidden, unexpressed, briefly uncovered and explored side of me that now lies dormant yet again, resigned again to the latency it’s gotten to know all of my life, really, outside of those years I suffered a hell of abuse. (Rest assured — not the same.) Consensual exploration of submissive feelings — not the same as being non-consensually coerced into submissive behaviours due to cross-spectrum abuse. Just go ahead and clarify that one right now. So, off it goes, back to whence it came, relegated, yet again, to my fiction and its general fucked-up’ed-ness (of which there’s plenty).

God. I hate being fucking emo.

Unfortunately, right now, watching the roses on our coffee table surely wilt and wither, regardless of their having proper water, being appropriately trimmed, and not having suffered too much of a temperature shock — there’s no other way to be. It’s some kind of fucking natural order, I suppose. Nobody’s fault, really.

I have the one with whom I’ve chosen to spend my life. He satisfies every pragmatic and important part of me. Makes me deliriously happy on a daily basis. And, so long as I can forget the other side of me, and the way it felt with the one who’s now gone to find his own primary partner to whom he can belong and return home after slaying the day’s dragons — I’ll be completely happy. Again.

Goddamn. Why is this so bloody hard? Why does it feel, on certain days, to matter so much? It’s just a part of me — not all of me. Not even an aspect that has any use. And yet … And yet ….

God. I hate being emo.

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The Most Insidious Thing

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Obviously, being a therapist, I know the extent of abuse. I deal with it on a nigh daily basis — both from my own past, and through helping others along their own journey. Rarely, I’m so forcefully confronted with the spectral fingers of my own — even though it does still claw at my brain upon occasion.

I’m hardly masochistic; in fact, I hate pain. Really. Not a fan. Emotionally, physically, a combination of both …. I’m not even that big into catharsis except with very special reason. And even then, it’s tightly controlled. I don’t run from pain, per se — I’m done with that phase of my life. I confront, I deal, I regroup, and I get back out there. If there’s something I’m supposed to feel in order to move through something into the next phase of my life, I do it.

That’s why I’m not quite sure how I’m feeling right now.

Allow me to explain.

This morning, going about my usual routine, responding to my Facebook messages, I saw that stupid little, ‘Hey! This guy’s friends with one of your friends! Maybe you should friend him, too!’ box in the corner. Normally, I don’t give a shit. But when it’s my abusive ex-I-hesitate-to-call-a-boyfriend — I do.

And … I did the wrong thing.

I clicked it.


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And Contrariwise


Oh, my relationship with all-things-Wonderland runs deep, and stems from as far back as I can remember; traipsing about my grandparents’ mansion as a young girl, pretending that I was wandering a world far from this one.

It’s no wonder that my masterpiece would be a derivative works — for those unfamiliar, known as Hunting Alice, soon to be an audio drama series and broadcast on the Internet.

This, strangely enough, is not about that … exactly. This is about something else. Deeper. The roots of Roulette, in some sense. While I am always aware of myself, I do have momentary lapses of … treason? No. Season? Hmm, not quite. And ‘reason’ doesn’t cut it, since they’re not always unreasonable; but they do change me.

There are many people milling about in my head — many of which whom are my own creations, and present themselves in my fiction works. But sometimes, I get a bit too method. Certain characters, unfortunately, are so deeply ingrained within me that when something triggers them (or someone) it’s all I can do to keep firm hold of myself. It’s just so otherwise natural to slip into the masque of someone else.


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Buried In Your Basement


Have you ever been forced to be in the same room with a rape victim? It’s a deeply uncomfortable experience. They’re quiet — too quiet; or they can’t seem to stop crying for longer than every 5 or 10 minutes. You don’t know what to say, or do, because nothing helps. And you just wish they were gone. That you didn’t have to deal with it.

I once was myself, before I grabbed and threw her into the nearby closet. But it was too dark, and I could still hear her. She wouldn’t stop screaming, and now she was crying almost constantly. I couldn’t concentrate; got nothing done while she was there. So, finally, I beat her just long enough until she was quiet, so that I could transport her to our basement. While I knew it would no doubt attract some attention, I was out of other options. I knew there, underneath the floor, where her muffled cries would only be heard in the dead of night while we were sleeping, was where I would bury her alive.

She was seven.

I’m not a monster. I do what I do to survive. (more…)

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