Thursday, September 30, 2010


I don't want to make this post.  Really, I just don't.  I don't know if I have time... it's getting to be late in the morning.  Class will rear it's ugly head and soon I'll be swept up into the business of the day.  I like that feeling, on days like this.  If I stay busy, I don't wallow.  I don't hurt so much.  When I'm busy, I don't have to look in mirrors or think about this thing that my head is stuck inside of.  I don't have to think about what happened what happened last night or why I haven't said a word since 10:30 pm of yesterday.  I'll have to speak soon though, the world demands that.

I don't even want to say what has me so upset... you'll all think I'm stupid and irrational.  Frankly, I agree.  I am stupid and irrational.  But I can't get it out of my head.  I can't control how I feel.  I keep seeing it.  I wish my imagination weren't so vivid.  I make myself sick to my stomach.  I always imagine her in a burgundy or red g-string and a little sheer bra... Some sleek, sexy whore straddling him and rubbing all sorts of secret areas of herself onto areas of him that I consider sacred.  It cheapens the very temple I worship.  She has no secrets, though.  She's sold all that away - traded it for a filled bank account and a posh apartment somewhere uptown.  In my mind's eye, she is blonde and slender with an endearing crooked smile masking the corrosive evil beneath her skin.  Skin that is scented and beautiful, unmarred by cellulite or stretch marks.  She is beautiful, but she sickens me.  And nearly ten years later, she's hurting me.  I can see every move she makes on top of him.  But she cares nothing for him.  She only wants her tip, and then it's off to the next lonely man with a wallet crying harder than his heart.  It makes me sick.  It makes me sick to think about it, it makes me sick to write about it.  It happened twice.  It was before he even knew me.

So why does it hurt me so much?  Why do I keep thinking about it, seeing it?  Maybe it's because initially he lied about it... Or maybe, if I'm honest, it's because I know I'll never compare to that cheap little "performer".  PerformerS, I should say (remember, it happened twice).  I've never even touched another man... Master is my One and my Only.  I wouldn't want it any other way.  He assures me he doesn't, but I can't help but think he compares me to them.  Thin, beautiful, perfect enough for men to simply throw money at them for nothing in return.  When I'm on top of him, does he think of them?  Does he fantasize about it?  He says he doesn't... but my mind does what it does.

I wish I didn't hate myself.  I wish I could appreciate my own beauty.  I wish I could see what he says he sees.  But I can't.  I only see what I see.  I won't be able to eat today, I'm simply too sad.  Too sad after being reminded that some part of him must know what he's missing by dedicating himself to me.  Yea, I know - he's the Master, he wouldn't pick you if he didn't value you, on and on.... but that's logic.  I can rationalize that, and I understand and know it to be true.  But does that stop the ache in me?  No.  Not really.  I'm tired of feeling ugly and useless.  I'm tired of picturing these gross images in my head.  I wish he could take it away.

You're probably all reading this thinking about how pathetic and stupid I am for reacting this way.  And for that... I'm sorry.  I'm not normally like this.  I'm a strong person, powerful even (aren't we all?).  I have handled so much shit in my life I deserve a medal.  Maybe it's time to go back to the shrink... I've been doing so well the part 6-9 months, I thought therapy was unnecessary (ironically, I started seeing her to help me with my self-esteem issues in the first place).  Apparently not.  I'm still an idiot, nothing has changed about that.  I hurt my own feelings writing this post... but maybe I needed that.  I wish I could love myself...

I feel like I don't have anything else to say, but I don't want to stop writing.  When I'm done writing, I'll be by myself again.  Stuck here, with my sick imagination and the ache in my gut to keep me company.  I hope that today can get better.  I hope that maybe one day I'll stop being like this.  I don't want to go home tonight... I don't want to face his concerned gaze, his gentle stroking of my hair as he thinks "Poor stupid girl, twisting herself up inside".

This song makes me cry.

Grey Street - Dave Matthews Band.

Oh look at how she listens
She says nothing of what she thinks
She just goes stumbling through her memories
Staring out on to Grey Street

She thinks, “Hey,
How did I come to this?
I dream myself a thousand times around the world,
But I can’t get out of this place”

There’s an emptiness inside her
And she’d do anything to fill it in
But all the colors mix together - to grey
And it breaks her heart

How she wishes it was different
She prays to God most every night
And though she swears he doesn’t listen
There’s still a hope in her he might

She says, “I pray
But they fall on deaf ears,
Am I supposed to take it on myself?
To get out of this place”

There’s loneliness inside her
And she’d do anything to fill it in
And though it’s red blood bleeding from her now
It feels like cold blue ice in her heart
When all the colors mix together - to grey
And it breaks her heart

There’s a stranger speaks outside her door
Says take what you can from your dreams
Make them as real as anything
It’d take the work out of the courage

But she says, “Please
There’s a crazy man that’s creeping outside my door,
I live on the corner of Grey Street and the end of the world”

There’s an emptiness inside her
And she’d do anything to fill it in
And though it’s red blood bleeding from her now
It’s more like cold blue ice in her heart
She feels like kicking out all the windows
And setting fire to this life
She could change everything about her using colors bold and bright
But all the colors mix together - to grey
And it breaks her heart
It breaks her heart
To grey...

I hope he doesn't read this.



  1. This is only my second visit here... I don't understand the full context of this post and I'll have to go back and read the rest of your blog, but for the record...

    "You're probably all reading this thinking about how pathetic and stupid I am for reacting this way."


    Or, if you're pathetic and stupid for reacting to what I think you're reacting to (which you aren't), then rest assured you can still wake up every morning and say to yourself: "No matter how I feel, at least I'm not as pathetic and ridiculous as Chloe. Chica would probably have offed herself immediately." Because, seriously, I might have. I'm all kinds of irrational and paranoid and vivid-imagination-y about stuff like that. Hell, I imagine women who don't even exist and get sick to my stomach. I said to Master JB's Butterfly the other day - The Man (that's what I call the dude who owns my ass, aka Antonio) having another woman or women at any point is simultaneously the stuff of my darkest nightmares, and something I WISH I could accept in the context of M/s. I just don't know if I could... And God help me if I ever have to find out if I could. I would implode in a sea of self-loathing, rocking back and forth, knees to chest and arms to knees, drowning in my quicksilver hate.

    Anyway... What was I saying? Oh right, you can always get up and say to yourself that at least you aren't as ridiculous as Chloe. Even though you don't know me, I'd hope you wouldn't think it was fair to say that about me for feeling bad about something like this. So you should probably quit saying it about you too, kthnx. :)

    (I love Grey Street too.)

  2. Lol! Thank you for making me smile. And he has never slept with anyone other than me.. I was a lucky creature to have scooped him up so quickly (or maybe I'm lucky to have been scooped up quickly? either way). Rather, I was talking about strippers. Having grown up in Las Vegas, NV I have severe issues with the entire concept of stripping that date back to my childhood. That's most of why I think the rest of the world must think I'm acting insane over two lap dances that happened when he didn't even know I was alive. And yet... here I sit. :P

    And lord, reading my old blog posts may humiliate me. xD I have the tendency to write for therapeutic purposes, which means there is a lot more negative crap/self-loathing than anything merry and cheery. But if you want to, I obviously can't prevent this from happening.

    Thank you for the encouragement.. I actually really appreciate it. :)

  3. If it bothers you, it bothers you. There's nothing invalid about a feeling.

    Anotnio had MANY sexual partners before I came along (I suppose that happens when I guy loses his virginity at 11 years old(!!!!) and has literally decades of sexual activity ahead of him before he met me...) and I can assure you they tear me to pieces sometimes. I once asked him, during a moment of bravery (masochism?) how many. (Note: He calls me kitten sometimes.) And he said, "Being a kitten, I would have thought you'd have known better. You know what curiosity did to the cat."


    I obsessed FOREVER. What did it MEAN? How MANY? Dozens? Hundreds? Just a handful? I can account for at least 6 or 7, just knowing some of his past dating history. *handface, facepalm, headdesk, dead*

    Sometime, you should ask me how it felt when he went to visit his son, and while he was there he stayed in the house with his son, the house the mother of his child lived in. There's a psychological clusterfuck for you. He's hanging out with the woman he slept with and MADE A CHILD WITH. Load up itunes, it's time for some Manic Street Preachers, my friend.


  4. P.S. - Please pretend I can spell Antonio.