What is enough?

What follows is the sort of self-examination that I do not indulge in often. It is borne of uncertainty, deprivation, and cabin fever. It will most likely be lengthy. It will probably not be rational. I anticipate many rhetorical questions. I expect it will get messy. You may wish to simply move along as though none of this ever happened. If you choose to stay, I suggest you don your hip waders. You’ve been warned.

Today while showering, I happened to glance down and notice a faint purple tinged line running along the top of my thigh. I knew immediately this was the remains of a mark from my last play. It was the last vestiges of the hog slapper’s handle. A smile chased across my face. My body does not hold onto marks any more. This pains me. I used to rely on them to remind me that my experiences had in fact been very real, however dream-like they might seem. I don’t look for marks anymore. I give myself 24-48 hours to spot them and then I stop looking. I assign them too much weight. Their absence combined with sub drop can turn my emotions very ugly very quickly. I can’t tolerate the compounded aftermath.

Today when I saw this faint stripe, this simple mark, in the solitude and quiet of the shower, my mind immediately went back to that session, nearly a month ago now. I thought about how devastated I had been that weekend. I thought about how intensely sad I had been. I thought about how I almost staid His hand, thinking it would be better for me not to play when I was internally that much of a mess. I thought about feeling ashamed after the scene because I felt I hadn’t been enough, my pain tolerance wasn’t enough, I hadn’t taken enough, been hard core enough. I was so crushed that it followed me for more than a week after the fact.

This mark … nearly a month later. On my body that barely ever marks anymore. On my body that, when it does mark, they are gone in a few days. If this reminder is still on my thigh then the play must have been more intense than my perception of it.

The next station on my train of thought was Warped Perception Depot. I thought about all of the areas of my life where people often provide positive feedback that I do not hear, that I am unwilling(?) to accept. Talented creative, wonderful mother, asset to the community, graceful submissive, positive roll model. I have no trouble hearing, giving validity to, internalizing, and beating myself up repeatedly about anything negative that might be said, regardless of the quality of the source. When will I believe I am enough? When will I develop the ability to say Pfft, they’re a first class douche canoe! Their opinion holds no water?

I looked back at my life two years ago. I mentally cataloged the changes, the goals I set out and achieved:

I wanted to get in shape. I dropped 60 pounds. I exercise often and have a toned, fit body. Not good enough says my self-talk. Look at that paunch I say pinching the inch or so above my c-section scar. Where’s the full six-pack? Not enough.

I wanted to be happy. I wanted more. I wanted power exchange to be part of my life. I wanted to serve. I am owned by an amazing Master. My family has grown into a poly family. Seamlessly connected. Communication hurdles behind me. This relationship has enriched my life in ways I could not have imagined. My marriage is rock solid and we are happy. Not good enough! shrieks my inner demon. My memory is horrid but the demon has no trouble clinging tenaciously to every error in my submission, from the smallest misstep to the most grievous fuck up. If I think about them, I can feel each and every one as if they happened this morning. I have fleeting moments of selfishness. No matter that I am human. Not good enough.

I wanted my child to excel academically. He has been on the honor roll his entire academic career in spite of his disability. This year he was accepted into a prestigious school that admits only the best of the best. He maintains his position on the honor roll in spite of all the new challenges I pushed on him this year Sorry. No Mother of the Year for you. He still has no friends. This term he was only honors not high honors. He still has a few behavioral issues. He still has to be brow beaten to do his homework properly. He would still rather watch TV than read. At least once a week he fails to clean his room before breakfast. Not good enough. Not even close.

I wanted to waist train and learn to tight lace. My first corset was a 36. I’m now at 23 inches. People in my community come to me for advice on getting started. I’m considering teaching a basic course. Where’s that last inch, eh Corset Girl? You wanted 22 inches. So what gives? Why can’t you get it done? Never good enough.

As I mentally filed these things, and several other relatively minor accomplishments, I thought Jesus Christ! Are you EVER going to be kind to yourself? Ever? Even a little? And if the answer to that is “no” then what the fuck are you doing here? If you do everything in your power to be the perfect wife, the slaviest slave that ever slaved, Super Mom and it’s still not enough for you … why bother trying? What exactly are you working toward? It’s clearly not the goals you set out for yourself because you accomplish those and still find yourself sorely lacking. Seriously, what the fuck?

I believe there is always room for improvement in everything and everyone. I don’t know how to adhere to that belief while simultaneously being accepting of myself, my best efforts, and my accomplishments.

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Fun fact #136

Training makes my horny. I had forgotten. I have felt bad for so long I nearly forgot I had lady bits. I trained today and it was as if my body said “Oh! That’s right! There they are! I remember those. Thanks for reminding me. Now that they’re awake let’s do something. What? What do you mean we can’t? Well … fine then. You do what you want but they’re here and I’m gonna make sure you don’t forget that for a very long time.”

Yup. Sounds about right. Oddly, I don’t mind. I’m just glad I feel well again.

 

Many a tear has to fall

Today I read this: https://fetlife.com/users/8612/posts/1970457

I had a scene once. I had been playing pretty much all day..with a spanking here or there with close friends.

Then another close friend that I trusted agreed to single tail me. And it hurt…and I cried. It didn’t hurt in the ouch too hard way. It hit something cathartic I cant explain and the tears just flowed. I trusted my friend, my walls were down and the sensation of crack searing my flesh was over powering. Like it hit my soul.

And I cried out and I cried–the tears flowed and I felt silly that I couldn’t stop them. I wasn’t sad–it was more a relief emotion.

And my friend showed instant concern and care–softly rubbing my back, whispering softly, asking me if I was ok.

My response shocked me. But with some sorta bravado and a giggle as the tears continued like a waterfall…I asked “Do tears scare you?”

And with a hint of a smile, and a very Domly voice commanded me to “Turn Around!” (That was hot!!)

And we went deeper–three rounds deep until I was uncontrollably and freely sobbing. To say it was wonderful to be able to trust and open up that much is an understatement.

Sometimes when I cry now, I remember this day. Not all tears are bad.

This made me think about the times I have cried during play. About how it makes me feel that I’m weak. About how ashamed I am that I failed to be strong. About how crying makes me feel less “hard core”. About how this often happens with my back turned. About how I dread the moment I turn around because I know there are people watching and I’m a mess.

There were several comments on the post, a good many of which stated that the one commenting had never cried during play usually followed with “I wish I could”. Not a single person said they didn’t want to cry, or that they are embarrassed when they do. A few said they find it, or would find it, cathartic. Cathartic!? I don’t get that at all. How is failure perceived as catharsis?

I can remember the early days of play when there were no tears. I wonder what’s changed. Is the play significantly more challenging now? Is it somehow more emotional? Is the pain that much more intense? Am I no longer guarded? Is it a combination of all of these? Is it something else entirely? I wonder if I could prevent the tears if I wanted to, but then, they aren’t a conscious choice. There have been times that I’ve not been aware of them. It just … happens. How do I prevent something that I’m not consciously aware of? Should I even try? Does it matter?

 

/rant on

https://fetlife.com/users/875590/posts/1962387

This is a very nice plug for a play space. Buried in the post is this bit of tripe:

Protocol often involves more than just the D and the s; many subs have rules when it comes to speaking or interacting with those outside of their relationship… I take zero issue with this, in part because I have never seen it forced on bystanders. For the most part, people are understanding if someone doesn’t feel comfortable recognizing the roleplay of others. And it is roleplay, no matter how immersive.

and she goes on to a CYA comment

That doesn’t give it any less validity. It’s what they’re here for. That’s where their happy place is. I can comprehend that in a very powerful and vicarious way.

Excuse me?!?!? Protocol is role play? Uhm … no … just no. I desperately wanted to tell this bit of a girl exactly what I thought of her statements. The unmitigated gall of this girl!

Is how one behaves during church services role play? How about the classroom? At a funeral? No, no, and NO! Of course not and no one would say that it is.

Protocol: a system of rules that explain the correct conduct and procedures to be followed in formal situations. Hmmm let me re-read that …. nope nothing about role playing there. Nothing at all. Why is that? Because it’s not role play!

Man, she seriously pissed me off. The thing is, she made the statement out of blind ignorance. I don’t believe she intended to offend anyone. I have to believe it was ignorance. The ignorance of a very young girl speaking without thought of consequence. Seems to me that she could benefit from some protocol of her own.

/rant off

 

See-saw

I’ve been thinking about the amazing balance of Our last playtime. I don’t know how You managed it. I don’t recall You having done it in quite that way before. I felt that I was a human see-saw. One side pain, the other side pleasure. Flog flog flog until the pain side very nearly hit ground and then pleasure pleasure pleasure until that nearly outbalanced the pain … back and forth and up and down We went.

What’s funny about this is my internal dialogue. I have somehow gotten it into my head that when I figure out what You’re doing, that I can prevent my body from reacting and, in this case, flipping to the other side of the see-saw. You know me so well, and are so damned persistent, that even if I can manage to alter my reaction for a minute or two You consistently find a way to push me out of my head back into solid sensation.

I love that there is nothing I can do to control Our play. Even when I think I have it figured out, You are still the one doing the driving. In hindsight, I am amused that I continue to try, as if it would ever change … as if We would ever want it to.

…………………………….
Today I am grateful for: productivity
Today’s funny moment: That’s no way to create the next generation. Humans coming out of other humans. It’s like some sort of dirty magic show.
Sad moment: Liar liar pants on fire
Protocol: n/a
Water: 4 liters
Corset: 24.5 am, 24 pm
Hood: 1 hour