Products of the Past


We are, all of us, products of our past. The daily bullying for years on end that caused horrible self-esteem. Family abuse that normalized the temper-laden outburst. Service overseas that makes the 4th of July a hellish night riddled with flashbacks. The life long love of baseball because it was the one reliable way to lure Dad into conversation. The slight limp on cold days from that splintered femur on the Homecoming field. Marital abuse that causes a voice raised in anger to evoke fight or flight. Daily compliments about pretty hair making it the one thing she loves about her appearance.

All of these things that may have happened as long ago as the day we were born, or as recently as only yesterday, make us who we are. Some of the results can be changed, habits reformed. Some of them are so ingrained that it would be easier to remove muscle fibers. How much should they divulge? How much do they explain to those they encounter? Do the people they consider family have to make excuses to acquaintances for behavior that may seem odd until the reason is exposed?

Furthermore, should they expect the people they love to be sensitive to their past and take it into consideration during interactions? To what extent should they be accommodated?

If Angela were in a wheelchair, we could reasonably expect modifications to be made to her home, perhaps inconveniencing those she lives with, but necessary nonetheless. Her disability is obvious, visible, unchanging, unchangeable. On the other hand, if Fred can’t tolerate the sound of fireworks without having trauma associated flashbacks, what is to be done? Is a petition filed to have his town’s fireworks canceled? Does Fred take a couple of weeks off from work and travel to a country that doesn’t celebrate the 4th? Does he stay and sedate himself into oblivion after dark? How responsible are others for triggering responses to the past? Should Fred be expected to “just get over it”?

When family and loved ones say it’s not a problem, they understand, and then, nearly daily, illustrate otherwise … then what? What happens when being compassionate becomes teeth grindingly maddening? What happens when tolerance becomes “Yes, I understand. I love you and I can’t take your fucking issues anymore”?

At what point do those deeply affected by their past decide they should not inflict their phobias/disabilities/habits/coping mechanisms/all of the above on those around them? That wanting to be loved is selfish? That expecting tolerance is unreasonable? When that point is reached, what do they do? Become shut-ins? Hermits? Become creepy snake guy or crazy cat lady?


Blind Faith

My brain has had idle time today. As so often happens when things are quiet, my thoughts turned to You.

I have been revisiting our time in front of the sink frequently since my return home. It was a relatively small period of time, given how long We were together for that visit. It is huge in my mind. I don’t know how much processing it will take to make it smaller.

I was there in front of You, adoring You as I have before, desperate to touch You in ways that are not permitted … wanting to get closer to You than the laws of physics will allow. Loving You with an intensity I hadn’t thought possible – an intensity that can still catch me off guard and steal my breath.

You placed Your hands on my head and I instantly wanted to scramble away from You, You who are my world. I was able to fight my instinct and tell myself that I was safe. That it was You. That You would never harm me. That You were pushing, not threatening. That I wanted … needed You to push this. That leaving this baggage behind would be beneficial to Us both. Then You removed Your hands and I thought Thank god. We’re done with that.

I had a few minutes to come back to myself before You nested Your fingers in my hair and aggressively held my head. I wish I had words for the instant, full-blown, shock/panic that I felt. I said the same things to myself as before; Master, pushing, safe … to no avail. I couldn’t return to You fully. The best I could do was keep myself from crying and work to not actively push You away – fearing for my safety and sitting with that fear because I had the ability to rationalize that the fear was groundless.

I knew I was with You. I was able to hold onto that much. I suppose that’s progress. It bothers me still that I couldn’t completely divorce myself from that other place/time/person. It was You pushing me to get past this artifact from my past. You. No one else. You who has done nothing to deserve the reaction that is indelibly ingrained.

In these moments, it is not You I am afraid of. Please know that.

Today I am grateful for: positive outcomes
Today’s funny moment: dueling remotes
Sad moment: n/a
Protocol: One should not drink to one’s own toast.
Water: 4 liters
Corset: 24″ am, 24″ pm
Hood: 2 hours

Pushing through

I wrote rant on ball gags and deleted it in its entirety. I will do this thing. I will not bitch about it (except to myself and I will work on keeping that to a minimum). It’s a stupid thing to be afraid of.

I had a really good day today and I love You. The rest does not matter.

Today I am grateful for: follow through
Today’s funny moment: “Sorry, Julio. I just ate the last one.”
Sad moment: n/a
Protocol: n/a
Water: 4 liters
Corset: 24″ am, 24″ pm
Hood: 1 hour

Oh. My.

They came today. A full day earlier than expected.

I revisited Secretary. I spent the majority of the day finishing Your jodhpurs and was horny as hell. I really didn’t need any more of that type of stimulus. I don’t know what it is with me that when I’m feeling lusty and know that I should distract myself, I tend to feed into it instead. I did not have time to finish the film before family life intervened. This is probably for the best. There are only so many times a day a girl can change her sodden undergarments before it becomes weird. I was right on that line.

I saw much of myself in Lee. One thing did not jive, and would have triggered me if I hadn’t been so randy, Lee was salivating over marks caused by punitive action. This brought up for me the times I have had marks resulting from the same. As desirous as I am of having Your marks on my body from play, having punitive marks is the polar opposite. If I could scrub them off I would. If they are married with marks from play I avoid looking at all of them. They taint the happy memories that I usually associate with marks. They are flat out shameful. I do not understand how Lee could provoke more of this. Frankly, she pissed me off, but then, I don’t hold much truck with attention seeking brats to begin with.

All that aside, I’m glad I finished Your garment. It is carefully folded and sequestered in my closet. Safe from being pressed against my face and inhaled deeply … well … safer. I almost hope the tailoring isn’t correct so that I’ll get to keep them again. Almost. I’m quite pleased with how they turned out. It would be sad to have to tear them apart again, however, I’m nearly expecting that to happen since I did not have Your body to size them during my work.

Today I am grateful for: fresh laundry
Today’s funny moment: Thinking “No good can come from watching this. Why am I torturing myself?” and needing to watch it anyway.
Sad moment: n/a
Protocol: n/a
Water: 4 liters +12 ounces
Corset: 24.5 am, 24 pm
Hood: 1 hour


  • Every once in a while You assign attributes that do not belong to me. Today, I was crabby and out of sorts for no identifiable reason. I said as much to You. You said You thought You were not getting the whole story, that I was keeping something from You.

Please hear me: I do not/will not/cannot withhold anything from You. The last time I willfully kept something from You was when I had my health scare. I thought it was the right thing to do at the time because I didn’t have all of the answers. That was just about a year ago. I am no longer that person. You are my chosen Mate. You are my Master. You are my Best Friend. I tell You absolutely everything. I can no longer imagine it being any other way. Please know that if I know what’s going on with me, even if it’s just a whisper of an idea, I will tell You.

  • Twice this past weekend You did something for me. Twice You held me when I needed it, without my saying a word. I don’t have words for the impact those two gestures had for me.

– You held me smack dab in the middle of play. I don’t have a complete memory of this. I remember only that I was having an incredibly difficult time of it. You were pushing me, driving me ever harder. You gave pause and allowed me to hold You. I remember clinging to You as one drowning clings to a life ring thrown in the water. I remember my disbelief that it was being allowed. I do not know how long I held onto You. It may have been seconds – It may have been several minutes. I know only that it gave me a second wind, the ability to say the words “I don’t quit” with conviction.

– You checked in with me some minutes after a reprimand. I sat at the table and was having a hell of a time not crying. The pain and general stress of the weekend had caught up with me and was now muddied with the knowledge that I had disappointed You.

When You called me to You, I thought You had remembered something else I had done wrong that needed to be addressed. I thought I would be crying by the time I reached You. Instead, You were gentle. You talked with me. You held me and suddenly I was able to take a full breath again. (I’m swallowing a lump in my throat even now thinking about it.) The correction still hurt but knowing You were not angry and/or disgusted by me helped. It gave me mental space to process what You had said I needed to work on, instead of having my head space jangling with worry about anger.

  • Thank you for loving me enough to be gentle. I don’t have much of that in my life. I need/crave Your touch. You ground me with it. You keep things in perspective. You quiet my mind. You heal me.

Today I am grateful for: The sound of Your voice
Today’s funny moment: n/a
Sad moment: the inexplicable pall that covered most of my day
Protocol: n/a
Water: 4 liters
Corset: n/a
Hood: 1 hour