Have you ever been alone in a crowded room? Have you ever been alone in a relationship? Have you ever been alone while in bed with your spouse?

Until recently, in the historic perspective of my life, I was alone. I heard the word “we” often. We better get to work. We have to do something about his behavior. We need to pick up more detergent.

In all of these cases, and many more, the We really meant you – You better get to work because the team is going to miss the due date and it’ll be blamed on you. You have to come up with and implement a strategy that will get the little man back on track. You need to remember to pick up detergent at the market.

Then my Boy came into my life. He has said we from the very beginning. I’m sure of it, though I did not hear it until very recently. He and I were talking about one of my persistently fluctuating health issues. He said, and I will never forget this, which is saying something if you know anything about my memory, he said “We still don’t know what it is.”

He meant that we. He meant it as it is defined in the OED. He meant the two of us. He meant we will do this together, no matter what it takes. He meant I am by your side. He meant we are partners, facing whatever life brings.

I still hear the echos of that we. The we that was so very different from any we before. I hear it when I lay in the dark. I hear it when I obsess about all the things in life that are beyond my control. I heard it today when the little man asked how I was and I told him honestly. He replied “Maybe you should go to the doctor.” I thought, There’s that you, again. Then I heard we and was reminded of all the promise held by those two letters.

My Brain on Bondage

I think too much. I don’t remember it always being this way. I also don’t remember a time it wasn’t this way, if that makes any sense, though it probably doesn’t to anyone but me. I don’t sleep well, sometimes due to outside influence, mostly because my brain has no off switch that I can reach.

Much of this too much thinking revolves around worry. I worry about everything. This is not a conscious choice. There has been many a time that I’ve literally sat crying wishing I could just. stop. worrying. I lay awake at night, the thoughts of the day swirling around in my head, replaying conversations, especially those I wish had gone differently, beating myself up for mistakes, willing myself to remember mistakes lest they should be repeated. It’s not a whole lot of fun and is frustrating to say the least.

My spouse will often remark to me, when I am drowning in a sea of thought, “Why can’t you just let it go? Don’t worry about it!” You see, he has the ability to let everything go, regardless of importance or impact on those around him. I often say, in response to his exasperation, that I have to worry extra hard to make up for his lack of worry. Not fair, I know, and in reality, his ability to worry – or not – likely has very little effect on my worry level.

The off switch on my brain is easily activated when I am forced to surrender to submission. Yes, I know that’s on odd phrase “forced to surrender to submission”.  Here’s the thing, that over-thinking brain I have nearly always gets in the way of submitting. I am so very worried I will do “it” wrong, what ever “it” is.

I cannot just “do” a thing, especially a new thing. I need specific details about the how, and the why, of the thing I am to do. I need information to fill in a complete picture, allowing me to visualize the thing. I have enormous difficulty performing tasks that I cannot visualize. “Go get that thingamajig next to the big bag.” I don’t know what the thingamajig looks like and “big” is subjective. Result? No picture. “Go get the blue thingamajig. It’s square with a black handle. It’s next to the brown canvas bag.” Result? An easily visualized, complete picture … and a whole lot of work for the person directing the task. Kinda defeats the purpose, ya know?

I have been accused of procrastinating, on occasion. It’s not procrastinating. I’m trying to build a picture. Without this, I’m blind. Again, this is not something I can turn off. It would make my life significantly easier if it was. When talking about concepts that are new(ish) to me, I will often ask “what does that look like for you?”. I need the imagery to clarify the concept.

Enter bondage. When I am bound, in any degree, the off switch is activated, and my brain goes quiet. It is miraculous. I can be told to “just sit there”. I’ll do as I’m instructed, sure, and it’s not the same. When I am “just sitting there”, I’m still thinking. Thinking about all of things that came before, all of the things that might come next, in a few moments, tomorrow, next week, opportunities for failure, past failures, how not to repeat past failures, thinking about what other people are thinking, thinking, thinking, thinking.

Restrain me, even just wrists or ankles, attach something as simple as a leash, and suddenly, instantly, I do not have to worry about bills or running the household or tending my child or what to make for dinner or if the laundry is done or being pleasing or if everyone is happy or getting it right or any of the other million things that are near constant themes in my thoughts. I can just be, in the moment.

One of my favorite memories is sitting in shackles watching a movie with my Master. Not a big deal for most, I’m sure. It is for me. I can be sitting with my spouse, watching a movie, and have to pause it so he can fill me in on the ten minutes I missed when I took a trip to Worryville. Not fun. Add shackles, and *poof* I’m fully present.

The more severe the bondage, the less I think. There is nothing to visualize. I don’t need to create pictures. I cannot do it wrong. I lose environment. I lose background noise. I lose sense of self. I lose sense of time. I have even, during prolonged sense dep, on more than one occasion, lost sense of gravity, which can be either terrifying or freeing, depending on some unknown variable that I’ve yet to determine.

Bondage: My brain’s power button.

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.






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.


/rant on


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