I have been sitting apparently staring out the window at the falling snow, while in reality seeing nothing but the scenarios rolling through my head.

I’m heading to the dungeon tonight, assuming the snow stops as forecast. For the first time, I will have my own play bag with my own toys. I already feel like a conspicuous imposter. I’ve been exploring my switchy side for a a bit now and I’m taking that side out on my first planned adventure.

I wrote fet notes to my dungeon compadres, taking an attendance straw poll, hoping for a couple of friendly faces as I officially begin this phase of my journey. Neither of the two women who I look for most often will be there. I was(am) truly disappointed.

This got me thinking about how different things are in the lifestyle. These two females, whom I barely know anything about, I call friends. In the muggle world they would be considered friendly acquaintances yet, in the dungeon, they are friends.

I mentally cataloged the things I know about them. I don’t know any of the tidbits I would know if they brushed my daily life. I don’t know what either of them do for a living. I don’t know the cities in which they live. I don’t know their living situations.

I do know one of them is divorced. I do know the other is not married. I do not know if her husband died or if they are divorced. I know one of them has children. This is only because of the “Hey are you going to [insert event]? – I don’t know. It will depend if I have the kids that weekend.” conversations.

I have seen both of them naked. I have helped both of them dress. Both have solicited me for advice – some casual, some significant. I have seen one of them consensually beat, shock, and torture people. I have seen the other consensually bound, beaten, and crying.

How strange it is this sect which we populate. How interesting the shifting definition of “friend”.


Since the birth of her child she had felt alone. Her husband returned to work as if nothing had happened and largely absented himself from the home when he was not on the clock. When the diagnosis was handed down, her friends fell away and alone was no longer a feeling, but a reality.

Aloneness became a continuous theme. Alone for feedings. Alone for firsts. Alone juggling the budget. Alone managing the house. Alone administering therapies. Alone, alone, alone. While she was capable, while she did not need anyone to help her in these things, support beyond “I trust you. Do whatever you think is best.” would have been welcome.

Her abilities to juggle and manage and problem solve became her husband’s freedom from worry. Freedom from everything. Problem ‘A’ + Wife = No problem. While she appreciated the vote of confidence in the beginning, eventually it became a burden. Because he never worried about anything, she worried about all of her concerns plus his.

As her child grew, the concerns connected to the child gained gravitas. The minor worries of vomiting every time a textured food was introduced, grew into epic level worries that the child would never have the wherewithal to hold a job. The epic worries gave birth to a host of other worries. Still, she was alone. Alone with “Whatever you think is best. I trust your judgement.”

Then she wasn’t. She met a man who changed her life. Such a simple phrase – “changed her life”. Three words with untold dimension and depth. This man, over a relatively short period of time, became irreplaceable. He became the center of her universe. He offered friendship, assistance, advice, genuine concern, support and … she loved him. Love in its purest form. Love with an intensity she would not have believed possible.

This man was a pragmatist. Matter of fact statements about finding someone else if she were “hit by a bus tomorrow” occurred with some frequency. She often raised the bus scenario to see if the answer would change, wanting to believe she meant as much to him and he did to her. The answer never did change, each time reenforcing her belief that she was not good enough, nothing special, disposable. This inserted itself into the litany of her worries. One false move and I’m out the door. She saw this as fait accompli. Not an if, but a when. Eventually, he would be done.

The pressure of this particular worry threatened to crush her on a daily basis. She would wake in the morning and think of him, wondering if today would be the day. Is today the day her world would come crashing down? Is today the day it ends? Once, when the universe called into being enormous levels of stress in her life simultaneously, she woke thinking that something had to give. She could not maintain sanity under such pressure. Of the three arenas in her life, only one could she let go.

This arena also happened to be the one that often brought her the only happiness she experienced on a given day. Being who she was, she decided, again, as she so often had since becoming a mother, that her happiness was not only unimportant, but undesirable. She had seen, time and again, that when she put her needs first, terrible things happened, ingraining the belief that she was not allowed to be happy. For whatever reason, perhaps for something she had done in a past life, karma had decided that in this life, she did not deserve to be happy for any extended length of time.

When she woke under the stress and worry of life’s obstacles, multiple issues weighed her down, making getting out of bed nearly impossible. That same morning, when she had not been speaking to him for very long, several negative thoughts were expressed. OK she thought I’m being selfish sharing my worry and stress with this man. I’m creating problems in his life. I’m draining him. I’m toxic. If we cannot both be happy, then he should be. He deserves joy. It will be harder now that I know what it is to have this but I can return to who I used to be. He deserves everything I cannot give him. He’s told me he can find another. I will leave him to it. She tried to be firm, matter of fact, about it. With raw pain infusing her voice, she stated the reasons she should not be in his life. She hinted around the edges of saying goodbye for quite some time. She couldn’t form the words. Ultimately selfish, she could not say goodbye.

Several days later, he said a thing. He often said things, offhandedly, seemingly unaware of the impact. Again, with his pragmatic way, he spoke in facts, as if they were all equal in weight and value. He told her, more fully, differently than he ever had, exactly, simply, how he felt about her. He said this as plainly and unaffected as if he were stating the color of her eyes. This statement was spoken in conjunction with other thoughts and ideas. Those that came after, she did not hear.

With the gift of his words, color flooded into her world, suddenly, in the impossibly vibrant way witnessed by Dorothy. My god, she thought, holding her breath, I had no idea. Yes, I knew he loved me. I didn’t know he loved me, loved me. I am not replaceable. I am not a place holder. I am not disposable. I am significant, important, meaningful, to this man who is my world. I’m not alone in the depth of my emotion. Maybe, just maybe, I am good enough, worthy, deserving. Maybe, she thought, feeling as though she were tempting the fates of the universe, maybe, I am allowed to be happy.

Demons of Doubt

Because I am not worth the time
Because I am not worth the effort
Because I am not worthy of Him
Because I am a white elephant
Because the best service of which I am capable is an absurd parody of what anyone else can do effortlessly
Because He is rehearsing for life without me
Because I am weak
Because my brain is worthless
Because my best is not, nor will ever, even approach being good enough
Because Yes, I am that fucking stupid
Because I worry. About everything. All the time.
Because I am a pain in the ass
Because proximity and convenience are exceedingly more important than anything I offer
Because there isn’t a single thing about me that is special and cannot be easily replaced
Because if I have any hope of remembering, it is in asking why
Because I am not universally welcome there
Because I am incapable
Because I cannot accept compliments with grace
Because I internalize
Because if I’m going to remember something that was said you can be sure it will be negative.
Because He is tired of me
Because starting from square one with someone else is still easier than dealing with me
Because I am not enough
Because if there is a way to assign blame/guilt to myself I will find it, no matter how twisted the logic, usually with very little effort
Because there is nothing I do that cannot be done better, more efficiently, and without discussion by someone else just down the road who will not forget in ten minutes
Because I have more baggage than a transcontinental air bus
Because I have zero self confidence
Because I believe compliments are almost always little white lies people tell in an effort to make me feel good
Because I have no trouble believing that insults, spoken in the heat of the moment, are the cold, hard, unvarnished truth revealed when anger obliterates the filter of kindness
Because I cannot understand what anyone sees in me
Because He has grown weary trying to show me
Because I expect the worst
Because familiarity breeds contempt and I am contemptible
Because we have talked about [insert thing] multiple times and I don’t remember any of it
Because writing down absolutely everything is impossible
Because He has to look for reasons to endure having me in His life
Because I will only remember how I feel
Because the effort:return ratio is abysmal
Because I get headaches
Because I have arthritis
Because I’m only going to get older
Because I am fallible
Because my only consistency is failure
Because He has finally seen me the way I see myself

The Swimmer and The Lifeguard

It is as if a marathon swimmer narrowly escaped drowning immediately after a near fatal shark attack. The Swimmer, who so once loved the water, can now barely stand a whisper of the idea that she might, perhaps, at some point, get the tip of one toe damp while standing safely on the shore.

The Swimmer always loved the water. Always. Always wanted the buoyancy. The sparkle of the sun on the waves. The communing with sea life. The working of muscles against the resistance of the current. The burning in her lungs as she pushed the limit of her physical endurance. When The Swimmer was not in the water, she thought about being in the water. She longed for it. She pined for it. She counted the days until the next time.

Maybe next time, if everything was perfect, she could spend an entire day swimming instead of just a couple of hours. She imagined how grand it would be to never have to come out of the water. Wouldn’t that be something?, The Swimmer thought, I could live with the fish, as a fish. Never to return to dry land. Surely, if I just try hard enough … maybe with just a bit more training … maybe then …

Then the thing happened. It was so much worse for being beyond The Swimmer’s control – for the lack of causality in spite of repeated examination. Mercifully, most of the memory of it has been banished to The Hall of Lost Memories. The Swimmer is pretty sure this is a good thing. Mostly sure. The Swimmer wants to believe this is for the best. The Swimmer also has a nagging voice that says perhaps the key to getting back in the water lies in The Hall of Lost Memories.

The Swimmer sits, swim suit in hand, toes buried in the sand, watching the water, trying to recall the joy. She sits next to her personal Lifeguard, close enough to feel the Lifeguard’s body heat. This is the very same Lifeguard that pulled The Swimmer from the water that horrible day. Though much is lost to The Swimmer, she remembers clearly, being held in the aftermath, with a gentleness that belies The Lifeguard’s strength and size. How The Lifeguard called for assistance and there were two holding The Swimmer. The Swimmer recalls this living fortress. Feeling completely safe while she recovered.

The Swimmer logically understands that it is statistically unlikely that the shark will be there when she braves the water once again. Logically, she does understand that. Logic does not slow her pounding heart when she smells the water. Logic does not regulate The Swimmer’s breathing when she closes her eyes and tries to imagine being submerged in the place she once loved more than any other.

The Swimmer understands that staying on the shore will not bring back her love of the ocean. The Swimmer pulls out her suit every night, pressing it to her face, inhaling the faint scent of salt that no longer washes out, wanting desperately to have the increased heart rate be due to anticipation instead of terror. Wishing it were so.

The Swimmer knows unshakably that, on her return to the ocean, The Lifeguard will be there. He will keep The Swimmer safe as He always has. The Swimmer knows if The Lifeguard had seen the shark coming it never would have happened. The Swimmer knows there is no way to predict the return of the shark.

The Swimmer knows there is no benefit in going back to swim class at the local Y. The Swimmer knows there will be no time spent in the shallow end of the pool. The Swimmer knows she must jump off the pier. She must close her eyes, hold her nose, and jump feet first.

The Swimmer knows all of this. The Swimmer understands. What The Swimmer does not know, what The Swimmer cannot begin to imagine, is how she will ever find the courage to simply stand on the pier … much less jump off it.


We have observed some situations in Our play that scare me. These things also seem to be arousing. I have been giving this a great deal of thought. I’m wondering if it is the fear or the thing behind it: The knowledge that You own me and can do whatever You wish with me.

I know it was, in fact, You exercising Your ownership of me when I struggled with asking for the shocker, that was incredibly erotic and had me all wet and bothered. Pussy and brain were vehemently opposed. Being property, being Yours, won. I believe it always will.

Today I am grateful for: better living through pharmaceuticals
Today’s funny moment: Sitting with LM in a treatment room waiting for the doctor “There I go again” (He said this with a heavy sigh) “What’s wrong, Bud?” “Nothing, Mom. It’s another erection.”
Sad moment: The decline of my back with housework
Protocol: n/a
Water: 5 liters
Corset: not worn – back pain
Hood: n/a