God. I fucking hate being emo. I typically kick the ass of anyone attempting to be emo and blast the Eagles’ ‘Get Over It’ (which is a fantastic song, all the same.)
Sigh.
Thanksgiving. Giving thanks. Being thankful. Oh, and I am — don’t get me wrong. Very much so. I just wish there wasn’t more than one side of me — a side that’s so very different from the one I know so well. The one I hadn’t even realized truly existed until one, fucking, person brought it out in me. (Sort of like the fact that — I have to confess, most submissive men — outside of my friends and clients — tend to bother the shit out of me when they’re being ‘subbie’; just makes me want to slap the shit out of them and scream, ‘My God — be a fucking MAN, for chrissake!’ Naturally, this is the very thing my fiance craves of me that I -don’t- feel the want to give or do to him — except in rarer circumstances — because I actually -like- his submissive side, and want to cuddle, nuzzle and nurture it.)
Sigh.
It’s the other side of me that’s been bothering me, since it’s had to get stuffed back into the kink closet. Y’know. The -other- side. The one I -don’t- express, and since I’m naturally dominant … well … we can all guess.
Mister P, of course, offers to explore this with me, (and back in the beginning, before he began submitting to me and it all clicked for me, I enjoyed it for its novelty — but then … it wore off) and it just … no. It’s not the same. I want -his- submission. I don’t need his dominance — or him to prove his dominance to me. Oh, it’s -there-, believe me. But he’s naturally a submissive man, and enjoys being able to express that. And, as I’ve said to some close friends (and him, too) if he were to ever suddenly decide not to submit to me anymore — it’d feel like the planet was just knocked off its axis. Not. Cool.
That leaves … the other. The hidden, unexpressed, briefly uncovered and explored side of me that now lies dormant yet again, resigned again to the latency it’s gotten to know all of my life, really, outside of those years I suffered a hell of abuse. (Rest assured — not the same.) Consensual exploration of submissive feelings — not the same as being non-consensually coerced into submissive behaviours due to cross-spectrum abuse. Just go ahead and clarify that one right now. So, off it goes, back to whence it came, relegated, yet again, to my fiction and its general fucked-up’ed-ness (of which there’s plenty).
God. I hate being fucking emo.
Unfortunately, right now, watching the roses on our coffee table surely wilt and wither, regardless of their having proper water, being appropriately trimmed, and not having suffered too much of a temperature shock — there’s no other way to be. It’s some kind of fucking natural order, I suppose. Nobody’s fault, really.
I have the one with whom I’ve chosen to spend my life. He satisfies every pragmatic and important part of me. Makes me deliriously happy on a daily basis. And, so long as I can forget the other side of me, and the way it felt with the one who’s now gone to find his own primary partner to whom he can belong and return home after slaying the day’s dragons — I’ll be completely happy. Again.
Goddamn. Why is this so bloody hard? Why does it feel, on certain days, to matter so much? It’s just a part of me — not all of me. Not even an aspect that has any use. And yet … And yet ….
God. I hate being emo.
