15 1/2 – Rated R Update

It’s been months! Somehow, weirdly.

I just posted a general, vanilla update. “Previously, in the life of S,” if you will.

This post; however, is an update on my relationship/kink aspects of life, because there has been somewhat more progress in those areas than there was in others and I felt that it honestly deserved its own little update, because I realize that not everyone who finds themselves interested in my general life is also interested in my “lifestyle,” and the other way around, as well.

So, that being said, here is a list of developments, milestones, and mayhem!

  • “Came out” to my sister – she came over last month and I just simply forgot to put away all the toys in the bedroom/bathroom. This led to her seeing a large dildo (not actually mine, but still . . . ), a harness for my new wand, and my new wand itself. She was chill, just laughed it off. I have an awesome sister.
  • He installed tie-down points on our bed – at long last!!! I would fib and say that I’m not sure how I feel about being tied down and used, but that would be a lie. I liked that he wanted to play rough, because we’ve both gotten so caught up in the other parts of our life that the more intense aspects of our dynamic have slipped a bit. I also liked being tied down, because I just like bondage in general. I didn’t like; however, being naked and all exposed the way I was. I’m self-conscious about that.
  • He also took me by surprise and carried out a long-standing threat by tricking me into the shower with him (don’t ask) in order to give me an *ahem* golden shower. I did not like that. Nope, nope, nope. Not my kink. It is one of his, though, and the fact that he waited six years to subject me to it does actually show a huge amount of restraint and respect, I suppose. It’s actually happened twice in the past month and the only reason I’m okay with it is because I know it makes him happy and I like for him to be happy. Plus, it’s not like I won’t get peed on as a nurse, from what I’ve been warned, so I guess I just need to . . . go with the flow? Hehehehe.
  • We’ve been, in general, more playful with each other. From just verbal banter to him running his hands through my hair to me giving more massages. It’s been nice, because we’ve both been so stressed out that we’d forgotten to just enjoy each other’s company. I’m making more of an effort to not “grr” at him and he’s trying hard to be understanding of the fact that my schedule is more demanding than it was previously. We’ve found a nice balance, for now.
  • I’ve been forced to summon up something I didn’t know I had – a controlling/dominant side! It’s not easy to call it up by any means. I’m sub/slave through and through. Being more assertive, more in charge, is difficult. It’s also necessary, given that I’m learning to become a nurse. I cannot be idle or passive, as a nurse, or even as a nursing student. It’s fine for me to defer to Him in my day to day life, but I have to be able to stand up without Him, too. That’s still a work in progress, but I’m getting better at it and even my classmates have noticed that I’m “coming out of my shell.”

I believe that hits all of the highlights, as far as those things go! There’s more I could write, of course. For instance, I could write the golden shower or being tied down on the bed as a bit of erotica and I may actually do that, if anyone expresses interest. I’ve never actually tried to right erotica before, but I enjoy reading it and may like to try my hand at it in the near future.

As ever . . . thoughts, questions, and other comments are more than welcome.

Until next time – and I promise it won’t be so long!

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13/52 – Partnership

On a whim, as I was trying to decide what title would encompass this post, I looked up, “What’s the difference between a relationship and a partnership?”

A consensus emerged, without my actually clicking on any of the links. Blurbs are wonderful things, when one is in a hurry, aren’t they? In general, the distinction was that anyone/everyone has a relationship – with their parents, with the cashier who scans their groceries, even with strangers and/or deceased individuals. Relationship are, well, relative. True, the word relationship often adopts a romantic, or at least familial, connotation, but it isn’t inherently or strictly limited by those boundaries. So, relationships, technically, just are a byproduct of existence.

On the other hand, there are partnerships. Again, in general (based just on my quick skimming of the blurbs), partnerships seem to be characterized by two distinctions that relationships aren’t. 1) They are more active. Individuals in partnerships are involved in an active give/take/compromise process. Technically you have a relationship with 7 billion other people on the planet, but  it’s mostly passive – you share a connection, not a conversation.  2) Partnerships are more structured. Now, that’s not to imply that partnerships are never random or short-lived, because they can be, but unlike relationships, partnerships are not necessarily byproducts of existence (though I expect it could be argued that they’re byproducts of civilizations or communities).

I’m thinking about this subject, now, because of the events of my last post and the events that have happened since. To recap: my SO and I got into an argument that basically boiled down to a lack of communication . . . or, more properly, a lack of active listening. I was depressed by the situation, because I felt misunderstood and believed that my point of view was being overlooked by my SO. It was made worse, in retrospect, because he thought he was taking actions that were actually helping my situation, whereas I felt that he was just trying to prove a point.

In the end, we were both probably in the wrong. I should have been more understanding that he was only trying to help me in the way he knows how to, and he should have listened to my concerns. We were both making the age old mistake of thinking that the other didn’t have anything important to contribute to the situation.

We went to bed – if not angry, then at least not happy. The following morning, we went out separate ways – me, to work and school; him, just to work. That afternoon, he picked me up from the campus and said he needed to run two quick errands before taking me back to work. I said that was fine, because he seemed to be in a better mood and I wasn’t willing to let the argument continue to be a barrier in our normally very relaxed/open dynamic. He went to a parts store in an effort to locate an obscure bolt, stopped to get gas, and then stopped at an office supply store that neither of us usually go to.

Now, for the unaware, our argument had been over the existence and the availability of index cards with ruled lines on both sides. We’d looked for them in three places, I was ready to admit defeat, but he was refusing to accept that we couldn’t find them in any of our usual stores and wanted to extend our search radius. I was already at the point where I wanted to move on to studying another way, because my exam was only two days away.

Him, being him, spent his lunch break searching for the index cards. He found them.

I won’t say that I wasn’t happy. I was. I appreciated his effort and proceeded to very happily use the index cards to make flashcards for my pharmacology exam. I will continue to use them as I enter next quarter. That said, I kinda wish he hadn’t felt the need to be “right” regarding the existence of said index cards. Even so, that night, I washed dishes and made dinner, as thanks.

One of the other defining characteristics of a partnership is an element of symbiosis. An “I’ll scratch your back, if you’ll scratch mine,” type of mentality. Or, more kindly, maybe, “Let’s pool our resources to have more together than we could have separately. Let’s take turns standing guard, so we’re both are safe and rested. Let’s alternate carrying the weight, so neither of us stumbles.” It’s teamwork, and loyalty, and mutual appreciation.

That’s the specific kind of relationship I wanted as a kid. I didn’t care about romance, per se. What I want is the intimacy and security of a solid partnership. If there’s romance, that’s great, I guess, but the lack thereof has never been a deal breaker, for me.

Of course, love is another matter. I crave being loved, partly because I fear that I am un-lovable. I know this is probably an unfounded fear, because I know that there are people – my family – who love me . . . but there are also times when I fear that their love is more biologically engineered and happenstance than anything else. If they just randomly met me, would they still love me? I don’t know, but I hope so.

I’ve noted before, in another post, that my SO doesn’t love me in the traditional sense, but that I do love him in the traditional sense. It’s something that’s complicated and sometimes painful and sometimes a blessing. I’m sure that it will continue to be all of those things, but I’m okay with that, because we’re still in this . . . this dynamic? partnership? . . . . together. We’re still supporting each other, making sure both of us are okay, and helping each other to do the things we want to do.

It’s not a typical fairy-tale, but I think it’s better than anything Cinderella ever dreamed of while she was scrubbing floors and talking to the birds. In my humble opinion, Prince Charming ain’t got nothin’ on my SO.

9/52 -Naked? No, thanks.

I know there are people on this planet who are comfortable with being naked.

My SO is one of them. The first time I met him, he was wearing only a towel and that’s because it was the middle of December and he felt a bit chilly. While not a nudist in the modern sense of living in a special community, he’s certainly got a proclivity towards being nude. He’s not self-conscious about it and it actually strikes me as odd when he happens to be wearing shorts while in the house – even weirder is when he’s fully dressed.

He takes off his clothes upon coming inside like other people kick off their shoes.

I, on the other hand, avoid being without clothes as much as I possibly can. I change quickly, I transition from dressed to a towel to the shower and then back again in fifteen minutes or less. I sleep in a minimum of a tank-top and pajama bottoms. I even swim in shorts and a sports-bra style top. Even during sex, I’m reluctant to remove my shirt and if it’s long enough to cover my hips, then I consider it a bonus.

It’s not that I’m hideous or particularly overweight – I’m 5′ 4″ and weight roughly 160lbs, but the weight is all the “right” kind of curves. He says often enough that he doesn’t consider me fat and likes the way I look. That’s great and all, I suppose, but it doesn’t alter the fact that I’m not at ease with my clothes off.

This is coming up, today, because he left the house this morning and instructed me to be naked when he comes back. “Naked?” I asked, hoping I’d misheard him somehow.

“Yes. Naked.”

“. . . like, with a towel on?”

“No. Naked.”

“. . . can I be in bed under the blanket?”

“No. You can be on the bed, on top of the blanket. Naked.” My silence made him raise an eyebrow at me. He eyed the paddle to the side of the bed. “Problem?”

It was 6:30 A.M. and I was too sleepy to fight, but . . . “. . . I don’t wanna be naked . . .”

“I know, but you will be.” And he left.

This is when being his becomes problematic. Submissives – such as I – are supposed to . . . well . . . submit. That’s not an issue for me, usually. I am naturally inclined to be submissive and to “go with the flow,” as it were. Getting his drinks, washing his clothes, going where he wants, even leaving him in control of the finances and major purchases is all fine with me. The second sex gets involved though . . .

I mentioned during the last post, I think, that I’m just not that interested in sex. I like to masturbate, sure, but the mechanics of actual sex just make me feel awkward and uncomfortable. Partly because of the need to be naked during most of it, but also just because I continually worry about doing something wrong.

*sigh*

There are always choices. In this case, I can choose to be good and be naked in 45 minutes, when he’s due home. Or I can choose to be bad and not be naked . . . and end up naked anyway, of course, because if he wants me to be naked then he’ll get me to be naked.

He’s got my permission to force me to be naked, of course. I’m his and it’s consensual even when it’s not – which is always so much fun to try to explain to people. *sarcasm*

Even among those in the lifestyle, I’ve realized that my relationship with him is an extreme that very few can actually fathom. In BDSM, it’s not unusual to find people who identify as being in a M/s dynamic. However, if you start talking to the majority of them, it becomes clear that we have very different ideas of what that actually means. For most of them, it’s a fantasy that they choose to live. One of the first things I ask when someone says that they’re a slave in the BDSM sense of things is whether or not they have hard limits. If they say yes, my next question is whether or not their “Master” is allowed to break those hard limits – for instance, “golden showers” is a popular one.

In every case, but one the person in question said, “Well, of course not. That’s why it’s a hard limit.” And in every case, but three, they didn’t then understand why I started giggling. In my opinion, you’re not a slave if you’ve got limits (which is, incidentally, why I don’t think of myself as a slave, even though He thinks of me as one). I tell myself that I have limits, but in reality, I wouldn’t be angry with him for breaking those limits, because I’ve given him permission to do so by calling myself His.

I’m one of only two people I know who doesn’t have limits – short of dismemberment/extreme mutilation and/or death. He doesn’t usually push me, because I’m lucky and he respects that this part of our lives is only one part of it, but if he wanted to, he could push it.

To me, the question of limits is not a question. I’ve been rereading 50 Shades in light of the new movie coming out and I keep giggling at the concept of a contract and limits and negotiating. It’s outside of my reality and playing like that would actually be more of a “fantasy” to me than the M/s dynamic I’m already in.

Here’s a really good example. I don’t call him Sir or Master. I never have. Not once in six years. He doesn’t require it of me, and I think of him by his first name. I only tend to capitalize “Him” in this blog, because I want to avoid using his name here. He calls me by my name, or pet, or slave – depending on the situation. When we used to go to play parties and munches, everyone was always somewhat put off by this arrangement. They either doubted my “submission” or questions his “authority.” Eventually, the core group got used to it, but it still raised some eyebrows here and there.

Now, if I were to call him Sir or Master, I would consider that part of a fantasy role-play.

I’ve killed half an hour, writing this, but I’m still not sure if I’m going to be naked when he gets home, or not. Decisions, decisions . . .

_________________________________________________________________

Normally, I don’t do direct questions to you, the reader, but in this case, I’m curious about two things and I’m going to go ahead and ask . . .

  1. Are you comfortable being naked? If yes, was that always the case? If no, why not?
  2. If you are in a BDSM style relationship, what do you think about the differences between being a slave and a submissive? Is it a matter of limits, time, semantics, or something else?

I’m genuinely curious and welcome any/all input!

 

 

Not the End of the World

I met him – my owner (who I call my SO for the sake of simplicity) – when I  was twenty. My best friend in the entire world, Harley, was moving in to the house that he also shared with his pseudo-stepson, D, and D’s at-the-time girlfriend, Tink. And their other mutual friend, Biggie. I’d known Harley since I was thirteen and we were going to a small school for troubled and delinquent girls (I was troubled, she was delinquent). I’d known D and Biggie since I was sixteen, because Harley dated D for about two years during that time and Biggie was his roommate then, too. Tink I’d met briefly a few times before.

He was the only unknown variable in a time when my anxiety had been – for months – so high that I could barely leave the house without it feel like death. But Harley needed me to help her move (she was leaving a bad relationship). I did my best to help her pack and unpack and honestly tried to ignore the man sitting in a towel on the couch, because . . . well what the hell was I supposed to say to the man sitting in a towel on the couch?

But – somehow – I did find myself talking to him. And the next thing I knew we were discussing all of my darkest fantasies over the FaceBook messenger. And . . . for the first time in months . . . I didn’t feel like I had to take a Xanax. I felt dizzy and off balance, but it was because he was tipping me, not because I was falling. I wanted to pace, but only because he was drawing me back out of my own head. It was like taking a cold shower after a nightmare. It was like being saved from walking off a cliff. That sort of awakening.

Within a month, I was wearing the collar. I held out six months before we had sex (and it was “only” anal and oral, because I wasn’t on birth control and neither of us wanted any risk of pregnancy). By the end of the year, I was spending about half my time with him. Two years after we met, I moved in with him. And we’ve been in our apartment ever since.

It’s strange to think of our dynamic in terms of years. We’ve been “together” since January of 2012. We’ve had four “anniversaries.” I know a lot of people both in and out of BDSM relationships who didn’t make it past the one year mark. Harley herself has never been in a relationship that lasted longer than three years. D’s longest was two. Tink hasn’t ever hit the year mark without cheating on the person. My own parents only lasted five years before they fell apart when mom came out as gay.

It’s weird. There’s only one other couple within our group of friends that has been together longer than us. That would be Matt and Iris. They’ve been together since 2010 (or 2011, depending which one you ask). They got married in 2013. Iris is the mutual friend that D and I know who encouraged us to go to school, because she graduated last year. They are quite happily planning their family and their future.

When that’s contrasted with my SO and I, I feel somewhat . . . cheated? jealous?

I guess that’s true. My SO and I do have plans for the future, of course. I’m looking forward to starting a career in nursing, he’s looking forward to being able to work less than 40 hours a week. We both are looking forward to buying land, building a house, traveling.

But there’s no wedding in my future. No plans for children.

When I was twenty and first met him, I didn’t expect that to ever be an issue. I was the one who told him that I feel marriage is overrated and having children would be insanely impractical . . . but when people tell you that your views on such things may change as you get older . . . they aren’t always wrong. I’d mistakenly thought that since I hadn’t wanted those things during my teens, then I wouldn’t want them ever. I was wrong.

Not so much about the marriage thing. Though marriage works for some BDSM couples, I don’t hold any thoughts that it would work for my SO and I. Partly, this is because I know his background. He was married when he was twenty, had a son with his wife, and then lost them both to his wife’s anxiety and paranoia (the irony is not lost on us that his second-longest running relationship is also with someone who has anxiety). He’s estranged from his son – who is now only two years younger than me, at twenty-two. He hasn’t actually seen him since he was seven. His attempts to contact him have all been met with silence. It hurts him on a daily basis, because it’s unresolved and unmentioned

Also, I do feel that marriage is mostly over-rated. I’m not religious so I’m not worried about living in sin or anything like that. But is bothers me that I won’t be able to give my mom the happiness of seeing me all dressed up in white, walking down an aisle.  And she makes comments about that pretty much whenever she sees me, because I’m now the age she was when she and dad got married – even thought that didn’t end very well.

So. Marriage. I can leave it. That’s fine. It’s not something I need from a relationship.

(I’ve been asked, a few times, what I want from a relationship that I’m not getting in my current dynamic, because my current dynamic does – sometimes – wildly depress me.)

Children. This is trickier. Thought I never let myself verbalize it, I’ve always expected to have a child. Just one, mind you. I don’t know why, but I never felt comfortable saying so. It never seemed terribly relevant, because I expected to stay single for forever and always sort of thought I’d end up with a sperm bank. That doesn’t really seem practical, now.

We’ve  – my SO and I – have circled around the topic. His bottom-line is that we must be financially secure and preferably living in our own house, rather than an apartment. I agree with those terms. But I would also personally prefer to have a child before I turn thirty. He hasn’t ever come out and said whether or not he would prefer to actually be the father, or if he would rather it be anonymous and he be more of a god-father/mentor.

If I’m honest, then I have to admit that I do want a child out of a relationship. But I’m pretty flexible regarding what role he feels comfortable taking with that. It’s a personal choice and I understand that he might make a different choice. I’m okay with that.

So What do I want from a relationship? I’m still not entirely sure.

He apologized, on Thursday night. I asked what he was sorry about – because I was curious about whether or not he felt his comments were over the line, or if he’d just done something else that he’d felt sorry about in a small way. But he said, “I over did it, Wednesday. I drank too much. I should have let you drive us home. I don’t really remember much after I fell into bed when you got in the shower.”

And I brought up his comments. About me, about nursing school. And he was shocked and asked if I’d taken it out of context. So I went back over the whole conversation and what had started it and he apologized. He didn’t remember any of it. He knew he’d snapped at me, because he remembered me crying, but he didn’t remember the conversation itself.

I’e been intoxicated and said things I later regret. And this was the first time in our relationship when he’s done it. He’s forgiven me worse. Way worse.

And so I’ve forgiven him.

And now that it’s been several days, we’re both borderline amused at the situation. And we’ve moved on. Because of something is broke then an effort should be made to fix it. And we’re not even terribly broke. Just a little bit. And that’s not so bad, really.

It’s sort of interesting how one night can seem like the end of the world until morning comes and puts things in perspective.

Deadly Introspection

Last night’s Untitled post was my effort to shove in my own face how deeply I’ve fallen. I wanted to have a reminder of it, this morning, because I’m usually able to do a wonderful job of minimizing those hurts and conflicts that are closest to the core of who I am.

I’m good at convincing myself I’m not really bleeding.

It’s not a femoral slash – only a paper cut.

But that’s a lie. And not even a comfortable one.

The reality is maybe in the middle. I’m bleeding out through a million paper cuts.

Bad day at work, yesterday. Troublesome customers who left me feeling totally worn out and pointless. Thoughts of the future (namely, nursing school) kept me leveled out somewhere between apathetic and calm. Got home and he wanted to eat out. Went to the place with .99 margaritas. Ate one taco and had a frozen strawberry margarita in the time it took my SO to eat an entire cheeseburger and down five margaritas. Back at home, took a shower, crawled into bed where he was already out like a light. Only 9:00pm.

Watched him sleep in between watching HGTV reruns. Smiled to myself when he started mumbling in his sleep – it’s been a while since he drank and he must have been having colorful dreams. Finally, about 10:30, I felt sleepy enough to curl up next to him, under the covers. A few minutes later he woke up and said that he needed to inject (his insulin).

I thought he already had, while I was in the shower, but he hadn’t.

He asked for a glass of water and downed it in about ten seconds. Wanted another one.

I was a little grumpy – having been on the verge of falling asleep, myself. I started to lie back down after giving him the second glass and he snapped at me that he still needed to inject. I was confused and defensive and told him that he’d just said that, but pointed out that was kinda a one-person thing and did he really need me to be awake for it?

He pointed out that I could bring him his injection stuff. I was doubly confused. He doesn’t inject in the bedroom. Not ever. He does it at his tray in the living room, because he stores all of his things in the minifridge that also doubles as a living room side-table and a snack fridge.  He needs a flat surface to check his blood sugar, before he injects. And laying in bed (which he was doing) is not something that I thought was conducive to injecting himself with the pen-style insulin injector. I asked, “You mean you’re injecting in here?”

And he rolled his eyes and said, “No. I want you to bring the stuff to Wal-mart. Thought it might be nice to do it there.” And he heaved a sigh and I tried to shrink through the floor, because I’d climbed back out of bed to get him his things even as I’d asked the question.

That little throwaway comment hurt my in a visceral reaction sort of way. It was mocking and it was sarcastic, but more than that it was a small and thoughtless cruelty.

I can handle him being deliberately sadistic – I can even get off on that. I’m his and our relationship dynamic is one that is on the extremer side of the BDSM scale. Mindful cruelty, mindful taunting, mindful cutting . . . I’m okay with those things. Sometimes I crave those things, because of the release that follows (for both of us, usually).

But I have trouble composing myself when I’ve unintentionally irritated him to the point where he is being reactively mean. It feels like a complete failure, on my part, because I’m supposed to be there to make his existence better – not to make him so frustrated that he automatically responds in a way that feels meant to reduce me or hurt me.

So. I got him his things. Watched him inject, because he doesn’t like needles and doesn’t like anyone else touching him when he has to use them. I put his stuff away, after he was done. He rolled over onto his side, away from me. I got into bed and sat up against the headboard, curled in on myself, because I already knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I’d let myself cry some of the hurt out. And it did hurt.

Another paper cut. Number one million and one.

But this happens, sometimes. Life isn’t perfect. Neither am I. Neither is he.

I kept my sniffling to a minimum, but he heard me blow my nose and asked (accusingly) if I was crying. I told him the truth as it came to me, because he wants me to always be honest. I said, “Yes, but it’s irrelevant. Go ahead and sleep. I’ll get over it.”

But he then pressed – still facing away and sounding half asleep. I explained that I was crying, because he’d hurt me with the mocking/sarcastic Wal-mart comment. I’d asked an honest question – one I’d felt justified in asking; he’d responded in an unthinkingly sharp way and it’d hurt my feelings. Plus, I was still sleepy and PMSing and had an overall lackluster day. I just needed some relief from that – crying worked, though it wasn’t one of my first choices (being spanked and/or being able to cum – neither of which could happen without further disturbing him/needing him).

And then he said, “Jesus Christ, toughen the fuck up, Sam.”

Another paper cut. Or maybe a scald. Or a fucking ice-pick.

I didn’t say anything. I was too shocked. I”d gone numb automatically, defensively.

He went on. “How do you expect to be a nurse? You let stupid things like that affect you.”

I want to think that I bristled at that, but really it just felt like I was sinking further into the ocean, into the darkness. I pointed out that I deal with disparaging remarks all day long at work, from strangers. I can deal with them as a nurse. From strangers. People I care about only in a professional capacity. “It’s different, because it’s you saying it. And I care about you.” It’s different, because I fucking love you so much it hurts.

But I never ever say the L word to him. Never. I don’t even say it with regards to other things, when I’m talking to him. Because he doesn’t love me back. And we both know it.

He said, “Well it shouldn’t make a difference.”

I was confused, again. How can caring about someone – loving them – not make a difference in how I respond to them? Doesn’t he want me to be driven to act in ways that please him? And isn’t caring for and about him the thing that most gives me reason to want to please him? And now he’s saying that I shouldn’t care more about his reactions than the reactions of the dozens of people that I talk to on a daily basis? What? How?

I was silent, because I couldn’t coherently answer him. And he fell back asleep within a minute and was once more snoring. And I was falling to pieces, silently. Breaking, without making so much as a sigh. Not an ice-pick. This must have been the destructive impact of an object traveling 2,500 feet a second. I was rendered blank by the chaos of it.

I don’t know, now, just exactly he meant by those words. I don’t know if he means for me not to be motivated to please him, because I care about him. I don’t know if he means for me to not show that I care about him. I don’t know what he wants from me.

When we first met, it was simpler. I didn’t start loving him until almost six months after I became his. It started out just as a strict M/s dynamic. My first, in truth. And then I realized one night that I loved him. It had happened without my intending it. And I didn’t know what to do about it, so I kept quiet. Because I knew then and I know now that he doesn’t see me quite that way. He’s said it before, in careful conversations.

Essentially, he does love me. “Like a sort of pet, or dog.”

Not in the way I wish he did. Not in a way that makes me feel anything, but failure.

I’ve loved him for four years. Day in and day out. And I’m his, totally.

But I am lost. And I do not know what he wants. And I’m afraid to ask.

Because what if he decides he doesn’t want me at all?

It’s too much. Way too much. And now I have to go to work and smile and ignore all of this, because my only other option is drowning. I must try to kick to the surface. Even if he’s not there to help me find it. I must try. Even if I don’t feel like it. Even if drowning seems like the more desirable path. Even if breathing seems ridiculous.

Objectively, these are just paper cuts. And I shouldn’t bleed out.

And who really needs ten pints of blood anyway?

Untitled

Almost midnight. Tearfully searching online for how to stop loving someone who doesn’t love you back – when avoidance isn’t an option.

Came across what may actually be the truest and most painful thing I’ve ever read anywhere.

“Unrequited love takes on a whole new meaning when he literally owns you.”

It does. It really fucking does.

#FML #BDSMslavegirlproblems