Jul 30, 2012


We went to a meeting yesterday, a network for rope-enthusiasts that we've just joined. It was a good time - not the least because we got to spend the afternoon together, with little S at my moms. Eventually, Mistress tied me up like a little package, and I got to lie there, comfortably on my back, looking up to the sky, surrounded by friendly people, comptetely vulnerable and completely safe. I realised I had this happy grin on my face, and when I looked around, I saw a bunch of people with the same expression, doing their own things. That's a good feeling.

Afterwards I was tired and happy and content - and happy and content are feelings I haven't felt for a while. Today, I woke up not feeling deadly tired, not wishing the night could have gone on forever, not dreading the day ahead. Mistress commented on how good it was to actually see my eyes when I got up, that I wasn't stumbling half-dead out from the bedroom only to fall back to some sort of unconsiousness in the comfy chair. Instead, I was actually awake. Awake awake, not "going through the motions because it's expected of me"-awake.

That's a better way to start the day.

Jul 29, 2012

It's not a matter of not trying

I need to stop reading about "giving service" to my Owner. Or rather, reading about other people and their view that it's a necessary and integral part of being owned, of being a slave. I've read it to many times, and it's clinging to my mind like a burr. I don't like it.

The thing is, that the things that most submissive seems to describe that they do as "service" seems to be what most women in traditional heterosexual relationships do; have the main responsibility for the home and the kids, if there are any. Do the cleaning, do the laundry, plan the meals, shop for groceries, pick up around the house, clean the bathrooms, tend to the pets. Be the house-wife. More so, of course, if they stay at home and the partner is the provider, but it seems to hold true for those that work outside of the home too. "Giving service" seems to be an endless amount of housework.

And actually, I so wish I could do that. A not small part of me think I should do that. If not as her property, than as her wife and as a mother. I should do my half of all housework, and as the submissive partner, I ought to do even more.

But I can't.

What I can do, what I have done the last year or so, is try. Try try and try again. Make every effort to keep it all together, to take initiative, to remember routines, to get off the couch and do things in time, before she does them; I can try to make myself do the vacuuming, or write a grocery list, or pick up my clothes from the floor. I can try, and I do try.

Unfortunately, the actual end result is very very modest. Not very much vacuuming gets done. The clothes mostly stays on the floor. The grocery list stays half written, and the washing machine stays half full, with the dishes still on the kitchen table.

For the longest time, I've believed all of those around me that want to tell me that it's a matter of effort, of will, of ambition, or maybe of lazyness. That if I only try a little harder, of course I could do all those things. But I don't believe that any more.

I'm depressed now. I need to find what things in my life takes energy from me, and what refills my supplies. And the idea that I ought to do a lot of things that my peers do with little effort even though it's very very hard for me, is one of those things that takes energy. And so I have to ditch it.

Mistress reminded me that it is me she choose. "I could have been dating T." she said, and yes, she could. He's a good guy, no doubt, but rather boring, even though he showed good taste once upon a time and flirted with Mistress. Yes, she could have hooked up with him and had a normal, ordered, boring life with a man that definitely is better at vacuuming and cooking than I am. But she didn't, she choose me.

"And I love it when you do stuff" she told me, and reminded me of the flowers I got for our patio. For how I always go all in when I clean the bathroom. She told me that she likes my crazy projects, all the little things I do that makes our life together better, funnier, more interesting. No, I can't keep a routine for the life of me, and get sick when I try to hard. But I still do valuable things for our family. Just not the classical house-wifey stuff.

We made a pact. I promised to never roll my eyes or sigh or look grumpy when she tells me to pick clothes up from the floor or start the dishwasher. And she promised to never roll her eyes or sigh or look grumpy when I don't do anything like that if she doesn't tell me to. Because it's not doing them that is the problem. It's the actual "get off the couch and do them now" that is ridiculously hard for me to do.

The standard treatment

It's good to be away, and it's good to come home, We went to my inlaws cabin by the sea again, and it was exactly what I needed. A lot of sleep, and a lot of sea and trees and blueberrypicking. When I needed a rest, I could take it, but when I got bored, there were my family, just outside the door, doing something silly and inviting me to join in. We bathed in the sea, we went out in the canoe, we went to a sandy beach, we went to a fair, and we walked the dogs a lot. I think I fell a little back in love with both of them, both the two-year-old and the forty-two-year-old. I have amazing darlings!

And when we left home five days ago the depression was... depressing. Opressing. I was weighed down, and most prominent was the obvious lack of joy. I had no happy. No happy feelings, nothing was fun, nothing was enjoyable. I did a lot of things that I usually like doing, and it did nothing for me.

But I kept on doing them. And today, I actually felt happy for a moment. I think maybe I did yesterday too. The trick is to keep bombarding my stagnant brain with things it has to react to, and keep doing things that usually brings joy, even if I don't feel any, and eventually, it will come back to me. I know it will. My textbooks says so... And I've decided to believe that I will function like most people, and that the standard treatment of depression will work on me too.

Behavioural activation, it's called. That, and Citalopram. I'm doing both.

And everytime I get snappy with Mistress, she says it's the meds. She might very well be right, too.

Jul 20, 2012

A pick-n-mix of good and bad

Being depressed sucks. What astonishing news. I'm quite ready to be healthy again now, thank you. All done with this stuff. Unfortunately, that's not how it works. This far, I'm at the stage were only the side-effects of the anti-depressants have kicked in yet, so the only result of the medication is nausea and grumpiness. Yey.

But Mistress bound me down and whipped me this morning, that really was great. I simply sunk into it and floated, relaxing and letting go. Afterwards, there was some blood, and I can still feel the sting of it. I like that. I fell asleep for a while after, and slept a lot this night, but that doesn't stop me from being perpetually insanely tired. But still, being beaten was nice.

And she's ordered a collar! It makes me all kinds of happy. A little nervous, I'm not really sure why, but mostly really really happy.

Jul 14, 2012

No limits - yeah, I guess so.

Because of my anxiety and depression and fatigue, I was really really afraid of what going to my summer job would mean for my mental health. Mistress made me go anyway, even though I was really sure this would make my issues way worse. She litterary made me, she looked me in the eye and said "suffer for me!" and I did. I got predictably really sick, and am now trying to recuperate, eating meds and waiting for treatment.

Whether this was a wise move or not we don't really know - I would have preferred to rest at home and hope it would pass on its own, but Mistress preferred provoking it so that the doctor would have something to examine and we would have a better shot at getting the right treatment. She made a decision in my best interest, but one that scared the shit out of me, hurt a lot, and that I wouldn't have made.

The thing is that I realised that this, for me, answers the question "But what would you do if your Owner told you to cut off an arm/jump off a cliff/murder someone?" You know, those aimed at showing that one can't really promise to obey someone in all things, because there will always be limits, there will always be things one ultimately will refuse. For me, this was one thing that showed that no, I will obey. I conciously and deliberatly did things that hurt my mind, that more or less destroyed what was left of my mental health, that put me at risk of making me unable to be a good enough mother to my child, because she told me to.

Hacking off an arm on demand? Pfft! Any day!

Not because I'm such a tough little slave that always obeys, but because I trust her judgment, and have made the choice of following her, even when I don't agree or when I don't see were we're going. I trust her. I believe she has good reasons for what she's doing. And with that, I don't think there's any one specific act that I can't imagine a scenario where she would order me and I would obey - if she told me to jump off a cliff, it would probably be for a damn good reason.


So now I'm on anti-depressants. Because I need them. Bleeergh bleeeergh and double-bleeerrrrgh.

It's really really hard to be a decent mother, not to mention wife or owned slut, when all you want to do all day is sleep, and most of the things you're able to do involves weeping or sighing. Or sleeping.

Bleeerggh. If I haven't mentioned it before.

Jul 4, 2012

Stress test of the brain

My brain is broken. Or maybe in the process of breaking. Or maybe just a bit tarnished. Whether or not the damage is longlasting still remains to be seen - as it is now, we're experimenting with how much pressure it can take and what interesting things it does in the meantime.

I've started my summerjob. It's not a bad job at all, and not a lot either - this week there's only two day-shifts for me. Between them I have plenty of time to sit around recuperating. Unfortunately, that's not enough.

I have anxiety attacks. I have trouble sleeping. I'm deadly tired. My head feels constantly as if I'm stepping out from a five-hour lecture, without coffee breaks. That was about math. Sadly enough, it feels like that when I wake up. If I'm forced to make decisions, I panic, and everything I hear starts to hurt, and I can't stand looking at things, so I close my eyes.

"Don't close your eyes, mommy!" my little kid says. And I stumble like a zombie to the bed and want to be buried and never resurface, because everything hurts so much. And I'm feeling the depression taking hold again, and I'm fighting it, but I'm steadily losing.

This is pretty much what I thought would happen when I started working. I'm not sure if Mistress really believed me, but I do know it was a calculated risk from her side. "Suffer for me", she says, and makes me go anyway.

And I go, and I work, and I'm great at it (because that's not the problem) and I suffer and I feel my brain cracking up. For her. For her, I dare to do this. For her, I take this risk, with my health and my future, and my mental state. Because I trust her. Because she says this is the way forward. Because she's convinced me that she knows enough about how I feel and how I function to be able to make informed decisions, and this is her decision. And also, I do it for her because I belong to her, and I obey her, and she tells me to do it.

But getting up at six in the morning and driving to work tomorrow will probably be the single most risky, most painful and most difficult thing I've ever done for her. 

(Next week, I have a doctors appointment. She wants me to do my shifts until then in order for the doc to be able to see me as I am when I actually do try to function, so that he can make a realistic diagnoses, and not only see me as I am when I get to rest all day. This make perfectly logical sense. It just hurts a lot, and scares the shit out of me. I prefer my brain functioning, thank you very much.)