Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Spank

Spank.  Five little letters.  I would be rich if I had a dollar for every time I looked that word up in a dictionary.  Being totally caught up in that moment of reading the definition over and over.  Later, as I learned more words, my time in the dictionary would grow longer and longer as I read and dreamed.  Beat, swat, whip, spanking, paddle, smack, thrash.... as I grew, the list did.
There was no way I could share this with anyone.  I couldn't tell anyone of my pretend games and fantasies that I played out by myself.  I was sure no one else existed on earth who felt the same way!  I was a freak.  I knew I was different.  Somehow it all felt wrong.  Just looking the word spank, up in the dictionary had a sort of naughty girl feel to it.  I sure didn't want anyone to catch me doing it.   Feeling that I was doing something that should have been forbidden, I hid what I was doing.  I hid, because I couldn't stop.  The warm sensations that flowed through me as I read those words were too intoxicating.  It was comforting.  Learning a new word that somehow meant *to spank* always excited me.  I could not wait to go home and play it out in my fantasy.
I found out in my play that I just couldn't bring myself to say, bad girl.  I wasn't bad.  I was naughty.  For whatever reason, bad, always seemed so wrong.  I learned also the words that would set my heart flying in my games.  All of the words I had learned, the ones that made the deepest impact were, Do I need to give you a spanking?  Back just to the basic, I guess.  As a little girl, closing my eyes and thinking that sentence was my happy place.  If I let myself dream too long, it also became a sad place that sometimes brought unwanted tears.  Tears of longing I think.
I am not alone in this.  I know I am not the only one that grew up with feelings like this.  We each have our own twist and turns that came with us into adulthood.  Some of them we took some sandpaper to and smoothed them out.  Some of them we have worked hard to hide.  But, I believe for the most part that we are uniquely made, kinks and all.

Short Story

I am not a Top and I have never spanked anyone.  I have talked with a couple of them though.  I think that being a spankee and on the receiving end it can be difficult to get an idea of what is going on inside of the Top.  After a few discussions with a couple of friends, this is a version of something I came up with a few years ago.  The original copy is long gone and it was fun to try to rewrite it.


As I sit in my chair, I watch you.  In the corner, bared bottom on display, oh the thoughts that run through me.  I can see your body slightly trembling and it humors me.  You know what is coming, as do I.  The weight of the hairbrush in my hand is familiar and comfortable.  Just for fun, I slap it against my left hand.  Your reaction almost makes me giggle.  You cannot hide the fearful anticipation you are feeling and the sound of my hairbrush makes you jerk in such a beautiful way.  You dare not turn around even though we both know you want to.  I know that at this moment, even though you really wanted this, you are questioning yourself.  Some small part of you wants to pull your pants up quickly and run out the door.  So many tell me afterward that they felt this way.  I am sure you are the same.  I know it is the wait that is getting to you.  Your ears are on high alert for any sound.  I decide to click the heel of my shoe against the floor.  Oh, that sure got your attention!  So, you thought I was rising to come and get you now, didn't you?  Not so fast, I am savoring this part.  

You have no idea really how much this delights me.  Watching you there and knowing that I can command you to come to me at any moment, and you will.  Pants around your ankles in that shuffling walk of humility.  Looking at your trembling body, I am reminded of the gift you are giving me.  That gift of submission that can only be given and never taken.  You are entrusting to me, that glorious backside.  Those two wonderful globes that are such a blank canvas.  Inspecting that canvas from where I am seated, I do imagine how I will apply my paint, or rather pain, to it.  What shades of color will appear and spread from my handiwork?
Will you wiggle and squirm?  There is a secret I probably should tell you, but I wont, at least not now.  They all wiggle and try to move from the strikes of my hand or implement.  I have felt them over my lap, tense, stoic.  I know they are thinking that they can hold out, they can *take it*  Is that what is going through your mind as well?  You must remember that you are the one who came to me for this punishment.  You didn't come here to try and outlast me, but to find a release.  As it starts to happen, you won't want it to.  You will fight it.  The choice really is yours.  I am not here to break you.  Why would I want to break one of my beautiful playthings? I want you to return.  I want to share this with you again and again as you come and submit.
As much fun as these moments are, my hand is getting that itch.  I need to begin painting those pale cheeks with my favorite colors.  Are you ready?  I know that I am.  Laying the hairbrush at my ankle as quietly as possible, I take one more look at you over there.  My voice whispers: It is time for your spanking.  You immediately turn around to find my gaze directly on you, your mouth falls open as I very sternly say: Did I tell you to turn around?

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Being a Spanko

Spanko.  It is a term used to describe a person that enjoys giving or receiving spankings in the adult world.  I am one that enjoys receiving.  There are so many different reasons why someone enjoys being spanked.  There are also so many different ways of being spanked and the reasons for being spanked can be as vast as the stars in the sky.
Even though I do have a partner that enjoys spanking me, I don't see myself as someone that has a lot of experience with it.  My partner on the other hand has had so many naughty boys and girls over her knee.  She has the experiences and absolutely loves to spank.  Like me, it is her number one kink.  I can remember in the early days with her when one night after a nice warm up, she wanted to use her large wooden paddle.  I laugh now thinking about it.  She looked at the paddle and looked at me, then just shook her head.  She said, *Crie, I will break you in half if I use this on you.*  I weighed about 90 pounds at the time.  With all seriousness she told me that I needed to gain some weight so she had something to spank!  Our spanking relationship has sure had its learning curves.  She has set my backside on fire a few times over the years, all either playful, erotic or in role-play.  She does have a heavy hand but prefers her wooden implements.  I of course, prefer her hand.  The spankings are never long and drawn out and rarely ever planned.
 Shopping with her is a hilarious nightmare of embarrassment.  She loves *pervertables*.  Things that are meant for a certain use, like a wooden spoon, but is used for spanking instead of stirring.  Spankos I think can see spanking things and the possibilities that someone from the vanilla world would never dream of.  Going through the kitchen implements in a store, lights up her eyes as I just groan because I know what is coming.  She just has to try them on me, right there in the store.  Everything from the spoons and spatulas to smaller plastic cutting boards has smacked my backside in the store.  She picks something up, tries it on her hand and says, *I wonder what this feels like?* Followed immediately by, *Crie, turn around.*
My thoughts and feelings about spanking began at a very early age.  As a 5 year old, I wanted to be spanked.  Oh, God, how I wanted to know what it felt like.  But, even more than that, I wanted to know that someone cared enough about me to spank me.  Even my pretend games were about being spanked.  The only thing was that I couldn't tell anyone about it.  So many people who enjoy being spanked or even just talking about it are restricted to their own fantasies and conversations with themselves.  Being a spanko sadly often means being hidden away too.  Dreaming, hoping, longing.  Growing into an adult, my spanking fantasies did not lessen at all.  They grew as I did.  It felt sometimes like there was an emptiness inside of me that I would never be able to fill.  I know that some people spank themselves.  I am one who has never done that.  In all honesty, I don't know why I didn't.  Thinking about it now, it may have helped some with that aching need inside of me.  I just never thought about it.  That possibility just didn't enter my mind.
I have been hand spanked.  I have felt all sorts of wooden implements.  I have never felt a strap or a belt.  I have never been caned.  We have a rubber ruler that gives quite the sting and gets my attention in a hurry.  Others I know struggle with the thought of how you can care for someone and still spank them.  Personally, I think it has more to do with people confusing it with child abuse than anything else.  Most every spanko that I know wouldn't dream of actually spanking a child.  It is about adults, consenting adults, and trust me, each side really wants it.

Monday, December 28, 2015

My Father

A couple of days ago I wrote a story that included a small part about accountability.  It was semi-based on my real life.  In the story, I tell my Disciplinarian that I have missed my goal of writing every other day, twice.  Funny thing, I just looked here and looked at the dates I have posted.  I have actually missed the every other date, twice.  It is a true goal I have set for myself and I do try to stick to it.  Sometimes it feels a little like I am cheating because my awake and asleep schedule is a little whacky.  Some times I do end up posting on 2 different dates, but it is all in the same period of awake time for me.  Actually only a few hours apart.  Is that cheating?
I have been avoiding what really is running through me.  Filling the page with other things.  Distracting myself or maybe protecting myself.

So, let's just start and see where this goes.  I was given to my father as an infant.  My biological mother didn't want me and he had recently married another woman.  He couldn't marry my bio-mother because she was his Aunt.  The woman that he did marry was already pregnant and got saddled with me joining the household.  I have been told stories that did not make any sense to me about my early childhood and infancy.  None of it made sense until after the person I knew as my mother passed away a little while ago and I found out then my true roots.
Normally, I don't write with a specific person in mind who is reading.  Tonight I am.  I am specifically writing to You.
I understand now that I was unwanted.  Unwanted by my birth mother as well as by the wife of my father. I was told that I rejected my *mother* (the one I grew up with) right from the very start.  That I wanted nothing to do with her and only my father could calm me down.  Seemingly, I already had a bond with him before he ever married and I did immediately become Daddy's little girl.  My father was a violent man, a biker for a time and in jail as well.  I saw him beat my mother and my sister.  I saw horrific things, no child should ever see.  But, this was simply, home-life.  I watched my dad while stone cold sober shove spaghetti down my sister's throat because she made a comment about having left-overs for dinner.  He would snap like that without warning.  And, when he was drunk, it was way worse.  He was mean.  He was cruel.  But, dammit, at the same time he was the person who loved me, took care of me, never hit me, never visited that side of the cruelty on me.
I am in torment at the moment trying to write this.  I have pushed myself to look honestly at who this man was.  This person that I belonged to.  I love him and I hate him.  Never have I been able to say that I hate him. NEVER!  He was all I had really.  I didn't know what else to hold on to.  For a few months now I have been trying to break that hold.  I want that hold on me shattered!  I can't be Daddy's girl.  I just can't be and I hear a part of me saying that I don't know how to be anything else.  I know that of course I can be and I am something else, I am simply Crie.
My father and his friends and my own bio-mother sexually abused and used me as a child.  But that same man, held me on his lap, took me for rides on his motorcycle, taught me to walk on my hands and gave me any thing I ever asked for.  I was that privileged kid that had it all and could do it all.  Anyone who knew what was going on behind the scenes didn't dare say anything.  I know my father's fury would rain down unmercifully.  He beat the crap out of people for just looking at me wrong.  The world I was in was violent.  He was violent.  Here I am, gentle, compassionate, giving, quiet, rebellious, stubborn, silly....someone in society who is so very different from the one who truly raised me.  How?   I fought as a child with other children to stop the bullying that was taking place because `I was so little.  I may have been little but I unleashed a fury a couple of times that made the bullying stop.  After the 7th grade, I have never struck a person in my life. My dad went to prison a couple of times and I was my mother's nightmare.  Left alone with her and not having him, seems like there should have been some peace, but there wasn't.  I already hated her by then and would not do a single thing asked of me.  My dad taught me well that she deserved no respect.
Now, he is dying.  There is a DNR and he could begone tomorrow, in a week, a month, or many months from now.  His entire body is failing.  God help me, I just feel numb.  I know I don't want to see him and I sure don't want to go to a funeral.  I am afraid that I will cave in and go back there.  I know it is the WRONG thing for me.  In my conscience, socially, it feels like the right thing.  The good girl me says , yes, go.  The rest of me yells out no, that it is the worst possible decision I could make right now.  I can't remember a time where I have ever wanted someone to tell me NO and mean No, more than I do right now.

Sunday, December 27, 2015

Thought in Poetry

Silence ripples through her muscles as she unlatches the gate.
Stepping past the thresh-hold, she seals her fate.
Demons rise, flaunting, taunting her pain.  Beasts of fire whisper her name.
Clouds of emotion shield her way, like a bed of nails where she is to lay.
Eyes wide aware and shockingly clear.
She steps past them, pushing through fear.


Frozen tulips, petals so fair
shattered in pieces as others just stare.
Iced ribbons stripped in two
shredded in parts, seen by few.
Solid ice around hearts grow
stopping time, screaming No!


Child within me....
Hear me as I say I know what you did.
Take my hand, together let's lift the lid.
I will protect you and love you still.
I promise to be here if only you will.
I am you and you are me.
It is time we both were free.


Take me in your arms and hold me tight.  Watch me closely as I meet this fight.
Laugh and cry as I joke around, gently guide me as I hear the sound.
Let it call to me and pull me near.  I know I must do this, I have no fear.

Self Discipline

When I started this, I had the unrealistic goal of writing every day.  That is unrealistic to me simply because I know myself better than that.  It isn't that I am not capable of keeping a schedule like that.  It is, that setting a goal like that for myself,  will bring out the stubborn me that will stomp her foot and just say, *No!*  I know that side of myself pretty well.  Over the years it has been tamed some.  Maturity hopefully plays a factor.  I believe that all of us parent ourselves in some way, every day.  We do it in the food choices we make, the shows or movies we choose to watch, the schedules we keep.  I am not saying that we do a good job of it all the time.  Some of us sadly, do a very poor job of it.  We know that watching that movie or show is going to keep us up thinking about it, yet, we do it anyway.  A personal example for me is the fact that I am allergic to all seafood and fish.  The problem is that I love cod.  I am not suppose to eat it.  I know full well the problems it will cause and how sick I will be for the next 24 hours.  Still, at least once a year, I give in and let myself eat it.  Why?  I certainly wouldn't feed someone else a food that I know they are allergic to.  Why do I let myself bring that misery on myself?  I would love to be able to say that I do it just hoping that this time I won't have the same reaction and I will finally be able to eat it without all the pain later.  Magical thinking that the allergy will just disappear!  To my ears, that is the response of a child who just wants what she wants and to hell with the consequences.  The allergy is so bad that I cannot take fish oil pills either.  They make me just as ill and in as much pain as if I have eaten a piece of fish.  So, why do I cave in and eat it?  Honestly, for the same reason any of us do, I want to.  As the parent, or authority figure to myself, I just step back and say, *I will have the fish, please*  We all do it.  We say yes to things that we really should say no to.  Someone asks us to do something and we know we don't have the time in our schedule, or really just don't want to do it, and still, yes, comes out of our mouth.  Why is it so hard to say no?  Why is it so hard to do the things that are good for us?  Putting myself first is not easy for me at all.  I might have every intention of putting money into my savings account first before paying any bills or making plans for some sort of recreation, paying myself first.  More often than not, my intention gets pushed aside and before I know it, there is nothing left to pay myself with.  The lack of self control sneaks up and smacks me pretty often.  I am sure that I am not alone in this.  None of us have it all figured out and have received a badge of perfection.  We are a work in progress.  I don't believe we ever grow out of the need for discipline.  I sure don't mean that we all need an actual person in our life who is that disciplinarian that will hold us accountable.  Some of us do, but the fact is that many more do not.  We need to develop self-discipline.  Becoming disciplined doesn't just one day happen.  Just as parents learn what does and doesn't work with a child, we need to learn what choices we make do and don't work for us.  We have to practice discipline.  Practice making those better choices for ourselves.  Learning to take care of ourselves sometimes means saying no to things.  I need to say no to the fish that I can almost taste right now.  I have found that sometimes that is how temptation works.  It sounds so good to eat that thing, or do that thing we are thinking of.  My voice inside of me reminds me what the consequence will be if I give in and eat that fish.  The driver going down the freeway at 80mph weighs the consequence of a ticket if there happens to be a police officer around the next bend.  On the brink of the temptation and knowing the consequence, why do we cave in and do what we know we really shouldn't do?  Understanding that we are a work in progress and that we can change, helps.  Practicing making the better decisions helps to develop a better habit.  There are personal things I know I need to do for myself, (like saying no to the fish that I am sure is calling my name).  I tend to forget to eat.  Not a good thing when you have no weight to lose at all.  Now, I can watch myself become smaller and weaker or I can choose to be more diligent and make a healthier choice for myself.  Self discipline is a must for all of us.  It is not about beating ourselves up and it certainly isn't about having some punishment hanging over our heads.  It is about making the best choices we can for ourselves and making that a habit in our lives.  I am striving toward this.  I know you can too.

Saturday, December 26, 2015

Just a Milk Crate

She stood at the window, sunlight dancing through her hair, as she waited for the noise to stop.  It began softly, encouraging her to turn, to look, to see.  Fear cemented her body in place.  *STOP!*, she wanted to scream as the noise formed itself into words.  *I don't want to hear you, leave me alone!*  Her hands rise and clamp over her ears trying desperately to stop the words.  *Go away, go away, go away*  The words muffled from her lips and unable to block the voice speaking.  "Turn around Crie"  It's a trick, she knows it is.  *This is not real*, she thinks to herself.  As if the words had been spoken out loud, the reply was whispered in her ear." It is real, I am right here." Sharply she turns, her body tensed and stiff and she finds herself inches apart from Her.  Not a single word is spoken in that time and space.  Fear followed by anger plays across Crie's face.  *Who are you?* *Why now?* *Why here?*  The Woman presses a finger to Her lips, "Shhhhh, come with me"  The tug on her arm is gentle yet firm as she allows herself to be lead to the center of the room.  The crate in her arms held dear to her chest, Crie sets it down and starts to protest.  *Leave me alone, I won't do as you say, This is mine, only mine, just go away!*  The Woman just smiles and sits Herself down on top of the crate, She sits and She waits.  The torment within, the memories so clear, the crate so familiar, so why is there fear?  Recognition began, Crie looked at Her face. *I know You* "you do"
*But You went away long ago!* The Woman patted Her lap motioning Crie to come sit.  Crie, I have always been here from your very first wish......

I lost that original milk crate a long time ago when I left my home state forever.  After telling the story of the milk crate to my partner she had the same sort of response that most people do.  I am often told that it is so awful that it had to be that way and so wonderful that I could do that for myself.  It was left like that.  She has heard so much over the years and just held me and listened as I would tell her something new.  Anger charges through her when I speak of the abuse and I have to allow her that.  It was horrible.  It was wrong.  Many people respond with some sort of anger but those who have experienced the same type of abuse are thankful that someone is willing to take it from the darkness and bring it to light.  I have never told the story of my past for the sake of telling.  There is always a message, a reason.  I speak about it to show that there is hope after survival and there is life and love after survival.  It is possible to love, really love someone and trust them with your life.  It is possible to walk through a disappointment and come out the other side whole.  It is possible to be abused and never abuse in return.  It is possible to be torn apart by monsters and come out the other side as a compassionate person.
One Saturday we were spending the day going through different thrift shops together.  It is something we have enjoyed doing together.  We call it treasure shopping.  There is rarely anything specific we are looking for.  We are just enjoying time together and looking for treasure :)   At one of the stores, while I was going through some books, my partner joined me.  She is not as interested in books as I am and the shelf I was at happened to be right in front of some furniture.  She sat on a small sofa behind me.  I turned around to show her the book in my hand.  I am not sure if I even still held the book in my hands, all I could say was *oh my God* over and over.  She was alarmed to say the least.  Words escaped me as she asked me what was wrong.  I pointed to the object just slightly behind her.  *Crie what in the hell is wrong with... Oh my God!  She repeated my words and went to the object picking it up.  She looked at me and told me that I had to have it.  I was speechless.  In her hands was a red milk crate.  Not wasting any time she took it and me to the cash register and paid for it.  When we were in the car, with the crate in the back, she looked at me and said, *I don't care if that thing is in our living room for the rest of our lives, but you are never going to be without it again!
She always listens to me, we do that for one another.  This time she heard me as well, she understood the significance even though her response had been like so many others.

Writing

Sometimes I stare at this page and I just don't want to write.  I am sure there is a lot to say, things to share, etc.  I just wonder sometimes, why bother?  All of my life I have written.  For the longest time, I couldn't speak, not about myself anyway and rarely to anyone else.  I wrote.  When I went to therapy, I wrote instead of speak.  Eventually, I was able to read my journal to my therapist and finally able to use my own voice.  Crazy thing is that I went on to be a public speaker and also to teach public speaking to others.  Hand me a microphone and I am in control of the room.  It is a place where I am comfortable.  One on one conversation isn't so easy for me.
I use to tell others, when I was trying to tell them something that I just couldn't get out, that I wished they could plug into my head and hear my thoughts.  The voice that I use to write is the same voice that others use to speak so freely with other people.  Mine gets stuck and lost sometimes is all.  Set me at the keyboard or better yet hand me pen and paper, and you will know what is going on inside of me.
My biological family at one time did recognize that I was a creative writer.  I sometimes wrote a specific poem for a person and gave it to them.  When my grandmother passed away, I wrote a poem called Twisted Fingers and Gnarled Hands.  She had severe rheumatoid arthritis among other things and her hands were horribly deformed.  The poem was about her gentle and loving touch.  She is someone that I did allow to touch me.  At times, I crawled up into the bed beside her, just to be close to her.  She is one person that I knew loved me just because I was me and for no other reason.  She didn't want anything from me and didn't take anything from me unless I freely gave it.  Sitting beside her on the bed and holding her the best I could in my arms was the closest thing I knew to a hug from an older female in my life.  She tried to hug me when the pain was less.
I have been asked to write poems for specific events.  It is not my favorite thing to do.  I can do it, it is just that I like it better when it just flows from me.  Poetry has been something that I have never had to work at.  It is just there inside of me.  Often I can hear it before I write it.  At least the beginning few sentences will be dancing in my head.  At times, I will sit and let it flow.  When it comes like that, it is usually more than one and all around the same sort of emotion or theme.  I doubt that they would really mean anything to anyone besides me.
Here, I find myself writing a blog, more like a journal really.  I never know what is going to end up on the page and for the first time, I really am not afraid of someone else seeing it.  I am not writing to anyone or for anyone and I kinda like it that way.  Sometimes, I do sorta wish that someone cared whether or not I do write here.  I don't want it to be like most things I have done for a little while and then let slip by the way side.  Strangely enough, I wrote a story earlier in the evening that included a section kind of about that.  Someone caring that I do what I say I am going to do.  That being said, I am accustomed to doing my own thing, my way and when I want to.  I am used to setting boundaries and goals for myself.  I also am guilty of breaking them and setting them aside pretty easily when it comes to things like this.  Strangely, I will go out of my way to do everything I can do to keep my word to someone else, *that* is very important to me.  When it comes to myself, even things for myself, it is way too easy to just tell myself that it is ok to quit.
I am told that writing is a gift.  When it is something that you can just do so easily, it feels weird to hear someone else say that it is a gift.  Writing is how I feel, what I am thinking, what I am trying to figure out, what I am happy about or angry over.  Writing is my joys and my losses.  Writing just is.

Thursday, December 24, 2015

*Crap* Isn't an emotion

Tonight, I just feel like crap.  Since, *crap* technically isn't an emotion, even though I think it should be, what AM I feeling?

The sky reaches down to enfold her in arms of whispering wind.  Trails and trials before her, the past of hurt within.  Lashed in place she cannot move, the scream for help unheard.  Silence is the only place where she hears every word.  ......

Silence, my silence sometimes feels like a battering ram against my soul.  I didn't feel like finishing that poem above.  Sometimes my head just thinks like that.  Words come out in a different way saying sometimes what I can't really say.  I will say that it feels like I am being beaten on the inside.  Obviously, in that case it is me that is throwing the punches.  Don't misunderstand, I do not mean in a way that is harming myself.  I think it is more in the sense of trying to beat down a door.  To get out.  To come out.  To throw the door open for good.

I have my depressive moments, and luckily for me that is what they are, moments.  It is not something I have ever allowed myself to dwell in.  I was born a fighter, had to fight and still fight to keep myself in a place where I am ok and to reach out to those around me and help where I can.  I was raised by a drunken lunatic, but I didn't become one.  I was denied so much that most children have and are unaware of how special it is but I grew into a person of generosity and kindness.  Abuse and neglect were a part of every childhood year but I grew into a gentle and loving adult.  I am one of the lucky ones.

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

What I Wish

I took the time today to read through most of what I have written here in this blog.  Rarely do I do that with anything I have written because I tend to then destroy it.  Some old habits die hard.

I saw something in my writings.  A repeated theme.  Over and over again I have said, I have wished for a disciplinarian in my life.  Writing out my wish was never my intention with this blog, and yes, I want to erase every entry right now.  That wish is so personal to me, and yet it is here, out in the open for anyone to see.

Wishing is something that is ok to do in my book.  I wish for world peace.  I wish for stronger legs.  I wish for a cure for cancer, etc.  But when it is something so personal, about myself and what I wish to have in my life, the wish is useless.  It is useless if I never put any effort into fulfilling that wish.

So what is it that I truly wish for and am willing to work toward having?

I would like a female authority figure in my life.  An ongoing relationship, that grows over time.  Likely something that I will grow out of, at least grow out of feeling the need for.  I wish for someone to walk with me through a couple of memories from my past.  Someone who is not afraid of an adult who is also a seven year old inside.  I wish for that woman to be able to hold, correct and direct that little girl me in ways that I just haven't been able to, and no one else ever bothered to.  I wish for her to care about me.  Caring whether or not I do the things I agree to do.  I am not looking to be bossed around or bullied.  I want to be held accountable, even if that accountability may seem strange to others.  Whenever I let myself really think about it, it is always a mother/daughter scenario that rises in me.  In reality, would that type of relationship scare the hell out of me?  Would it bring out the true 7 year old I was that had no respect for women?  The thought of something like that happening, sends chills through me and not in a good way.  I am not a mean person.  I am not disrespectful to others.  What happens if that comes out?  Will I be rejected on the spot?  I hope not.  I hope that if that comes out it is responded to with loving discipline.  I just want *Her*, whoever she is to actually care enough to join my walk for a little while, in a very active way.  I wish for it to be real.  I wish for it to be now.  I wish for it to be on a regular basis.  I wish money wasn't an issue and that hard work was enough.  I wish the people I have already approached, who are already in my life, had been accepting and understanding and willing.  It is a difficult subject to approach with anyone, that's for sure........  I wish, I hope, I know, that *She* needs to be willing to spank me.  Also, I know that I must consent and give over that power and to be treated as a child if need be.  Which of course means that communication is as vital as trust.
So there's the wish, well, at least as much as I can think of right now.  So, what am I willing to do to actually have this in my life?  I have started putting my wish outside of my own head by writing it here, talking to my partner intensively, approaching a few select friends and reaching out now, to two people I have never met.  Those last two are professional disciplinarians.  From the email I received tonight from the one, I am sure she will accept me as a client and she is less than an hour's drive away.  Then.... I saw the cost and my eyes were burning with tears.  Sometimes it feels like my wish is so so close to being a reality, and then reality slaps me in the face.
I have found someone who may very well be a good match for me and is well out of my financial range.  There is no way that I can see her every 6 weeks or so, at that cost.  I'll admit, I let myself feel sorry for myself for about 15 minutes.  Then I grabbed for my boot straps and started yanking myself back up.  There has to be a way to make this work, to see it happen.  I am not going to let my wish crash and burn.  So, I started thinking about how to pay the needed fees.  I sure don't have all the answers, I just know that if I must go the professional route, I need to expect that it will also cost me something.  Why doesn't health insurance cover something like this? lol!
I have started thinking about what I have and what I am willing to sacrifice.  I have about 15 leather coats I could try and sell.  I paid over $200 for each and some still have the tags on them.  All from back in the day when finances were in no way a concern.  I have two antique book collections, they are not big collections but each set has been valued at over $1000.  I have myself, my creativity and my willingness to work in some way to pay the fees.
I don't know how this will turn out... but oh what I wish!

Monday, December 21, 2015

Guilt

Guilt.... I am sure everyone feels it at one time or another.  What erases it?  Is there some other emotion inside of us that acts like a huge eraser and just takes it away?  Do we grow hardened to the feeling as the days, months and years pass?  That, has not been my experience, at least not with a couple of things in my life.
Guilt at times washes over me in a wave as a memory comes to the forefront.  I have tried all of the things I know to do to make things right.  The apologies, on paper anyway.  Looking at myself in the mirror and saying to my reflection, I forgive you.  Feels silly as hell, but I have done it.
Is that the key?  Forgiving ourselves?  For me, I think it is, at least in part.  I know there is no way that I can go back and make things right.  There are no amends to be made.  I know I am not responsible for doing the things I did as a child, not really.  I was a child and I acted like one.  I grew up in a situation that now, looking back from my adult perspective, I see it for what it was.... totally messed up!
Still, with that knowledge, my heart breaks over memories of things I did and things I was allowed to do.  I hit my mother because she was trying to get a hold of me to discipline me, which was a huge no-no for her.  Then, I watched as my father spanked her for it.  Simply for attempting to spank me.  It is so twisted and so wrong.  She was not allowed to interact with me as a parent would.  I belonged to my dad.
My heart does yearn now for a loving female disciplinarian to be in my life, at least for awhile.  To be held accountable.  To really know that when she says she is going to do something, she will carry through.  In some way or another, I have wanted this all of my life.  I expect that the *dream* and the reality would probably be very different.
Is it consequences that help alleviate guilt?  Are tears the eraser that washes us clean of it?  Does guilt just last and haunt us forever?  I can't believe that to be true.  The guilt I feel has nothing to do with anything illegal or against the law.  I would imagine in the case of one harming another permanently, that sort of guilt could last forever.  But, what about the littler things?  

Friday, December 18, 2015

Generosity

This time of year, I think a lot of us get caught up in gift giving and the whole hype around the holidays.  We stress over not only what to get, but the cost, and even if the other person will like it.  We are bombarded by commercials and ads for the newest gadgets and toys.  Some people even go into debt with the intention of paying it all off through the new year.  Enough already!

Generosity is not something purchased.  Generosity comes from inside of us.  Of course if we are willing or able, it may be shown in the giving of gifts.  What about when we are strapped for cash?  What happens when there are enough finances to make ends meet and nothing left over?  Or worse, ends don't meet?  How can we be generous then?

Generosity is so simple and yet so many make it so hard.  Generosity is a giving of our time to some one who needs it.  A listening ear for a friend or neighbor in distress goes a long way in the book of generosity for me.  Why is it that when we think of someone being generous, that we think about what monetary contribution they have made or what material gifts they have given?  For me, generosity comes from the heart and is a state of being.  It is putting someone else before myself and my wants.  Giving my time and sometimes even my resources.  The act of sharing with and caring for someone else.
We can be generous with so many things.  Opening the door at the bank for the person entering behind us, and letting them go first.  Smiling at that person who is walking toward us.  For all we know, our smile might be the only one they have seen all day.  And, I will bet, that for that person, our smile was not only an act of kindness, but generosity as well.  We get so shut off in our own little worlds sometimes.  Busy in our schedules, in a hurry, wanting to get the errands done quickly and most definitely have an agenda, at least in our minds, that we lose sight of what really is important.  We lose sight of what can and does make a difference in this world of ours; our generosity toward one another.
Gifts are nice, but I am asking you to think outside the box, literally.  Give generously of yourself to others.  My plan this year for myself is visiting a home for the elderly and asking specifically for someone who rarely has any family or friends visiting them.  I am going to set out to befriend this person and hopefully bring many smiles to their face, simply by giving them some of my time.  What can you do?  How can you be generous in your life, inside and outside of your circle of family and friends?  We all have something to give to others.  I encourage you today to be go out there and be generous.  I know that you can!

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

School Days

As a young child I attended a school that was a little different.  Kindergarten is where they decided who could stay at the school and who would have to go on to something different.  The school was art based and accelerated.  Kindergarten was fairly normal as far as I can remember.  I do not remember the teacher's name at all.  I do remember coming in late from an eye doctor appointment.  I had been allowed to choose a toy at the doctor's office and was playing with it in class.  The teacher took it from me and placed it on top of an upright piano.  I certainly wasn't happy about this at all.  I knew that when she took something, it was never given back.  As soon as she wasn't looking I drug a chair over to the piano and retrieved my toy, hiding it again in my pocket.  She didn't catch me and as far as I know never even noticed that I had taken it back.  Even at that young age, I was not going to let some woman take something that belonged to me.  My home life had already set me up to have little regard for any female authority figure.

When first grade came along we had at least two hours of either music or art every day.  For the other classes they had us divided up according to ability.  We went to different classes with different students and teachers much like high school students do.  Learning came easy to me in every subject except math.  I wasn't good at it, so I hated it.  As crazy as my home life was, I really was not a problem student.  I enjoyed being in class and loved learning.  The playground was a different story altogether.  Being so tiny, I was picked on and teased a lot.

Art classes were my favorite.  I remember Mrs. Rose.  She was a stern older woman and took no nonsense from anyone.  I actually liked her for being like that.  At our school, parents had to sign a waiver to allow the teachers and staff to use corporal punishment on the students.  My father would not sign that form.. No one was going to do anything to his girl.  Mrs. Rose had a small round paddle hanging inside the door of the classroom and a chair sitting outside of it.  There was always a couple of different projects going on in her classroom.  Everyone really had to follow the rules for safety's sake.  We were taught to color in a certain way.  Coloring for fun was not an option in this class.  We practiced different ways of coloring with different art forms.  Looking back, Mrs. Rose seemed to be quick to scold and to request that a project be redone the correct way.  She slapped the hands of students and anyone who violated a safety rule or talked back to her was taken to the chair and paddled.

Around Christmas time the room was filled with activity.  There were hot irons and glue guns and spray paints set up.  We all had been taught how to use them safely and when we actually could use them.  I had just finished what to me was the most gorgeous Christmas tree I had ever made.  I was so proud of it and Mrs. Rose had praised my progress a few times.  It was finished and I couldn't wait to show it to her.  As I was walking toward her, another girl started messing around the iron and ironing board, knocking the iron to the floor.  As I got close to Mrs. Rose to show her what I had made, she turned away from me, took the girl by the arm and lead her out of the room and started paddling her.  We all heard it.  I felt like something snapped in me.  Suddenly, I was furious.  I went to the huge trash can and absolutely tore up my project.  I no longer wanted her to see it.  I didn't want anyone to see it.  I didn't want it to exist anymore!

So, what happened?  For me, Mrs. Rose was the first female authority figure that I had some respect for.  I craved her approval and praise.  I don't remember ever wishing that she were my mother, but I can imagine that I probably did.  When she turned her back to me, rejection hit me full force. I think for me it was the same sort of feeling from when I had hit my mother and she just walked away.  I no longer cared about what she (Mrs.Rose) thought about anything I did.  That rejection, that was no way intentional on her part, changed how I felt toward her forever.

Monday, December 14, 2015

Spank me

Got your attention didn't I?

I didn't know discipline as a child.  No time-outs, grounding, spankings, etc.  From an early age I so wanted someone in my life who cared enough to do those things.  To enforce a grounding, expect compliance to a time-out, to deliver a spanking.

As an adult, I enjoy having my bottom warmed.  I have a partner that likes seeing my bottom pink as well.  I can say that I have never been punished.  There have been role-plays where I play the naughty girl and am spanked.  Actually being corrected in some way, held accountable for a wrongdoing?  Nope.

My upbringing left me a lot of room to figure out the world for myself.  Even though I didn't experience some things my peers did, I saw their consequences.  A lot of them, I didn't like.  As I got older, I grasped the truth that if a person broke the law, (and was caught) they were punished.

Thinking about it now : I was the little girl playing with the matches.  Who was going to tell me no?  I was fortunate enough to not burn the garage down.  I did all the same sort of stupid things kids do.  It is just that I had to figure out for myself by watching others, what was *acceptable* and what was *naughty*.  Don't get me wrong, naughty is fun.  When naughty is being done simply because you want someone to stop you, and they don't, it isn't fun anymore.  Confusion because they didn't stop me became worthlessness because they wouldn't stop me.  I felt, well sometimes still feel, that I was/am worthless.  When you watch a sibling get a spanking for doing a specific thing, and then you do the exact same thing and get ignored, how can you feel anything but worthless or totally rejected?  I wanted the spanking too.

Heck, I still want the spanking.  A spanking for punishment is not something I am very eager to experience even though I feel it is something I need.  A role play I would like to do is a Mother/daughter one.  I want to be the little girl playing with the matches and be caught doing it.  There is a smile on my face as I think about the mother in the scene scolding the little girl before taking her over her knee for a spanking.  A lot of the time, I have to be in a wheelchair.  My lower body is pretty weak.  For that role play, I can imagine the mother asking her little girl how she planned to get away if the fire got out of control.  My arms are not a heck of a lot stronger than my lower body so I have to be pushed in a manual chair, or be in my electric one.  The thought of this scene makes me smile.  Why?  Because it shows an authority figure caring and being concerned enough about her child to do something about it.  (No, I do not believe that spanking should be used on an actual child.  I believe that spanking should always be consensual and be between adults only.)

So, I am an adult who enjoys being spanked.  Sue me, or better yet, spank me!

Sunday, December 13, 2015

Time Away

I spent the last couple of days out of town.  It was something I was looking forward to.  No computers, no phones, just me and the love of my life.  It was wonderful!
That time reminded me that we all need to step back or take time away from the daily grind and just regroup.  Time away can be whatever we make it.  For some, time away might be reading a good book for a couple hours.  Changing the thought process for a bit.  I have found that for myself, I need time away from the memories of abuse.  They can seem all consuming and even feel that way.  Taking time away, for me, means redirecting my thought process.  Sometimes, that has to be very deliberate and is not always easy.  Life is full of so many things that have nothing to do with abuse or our pasts.  When the past is all-consuming, we are missing out on today and the joys that can be there.  Of course there is a need to deal with the past, but certainly not 24/7.  There is a need to be kind to ourselves and take some time away.

Thursday, December 10, 2015

I Don't Want To!

That is where I am right now.  I don't want to write.  No one is telling me I have to write.  It is something I have been doing for myself because I know it is good for me to do it.  Writing is a way for me to take some of the things inside me and put them here.  Maybe look at them, maybe not.  Maybe explore the feelings or totally avoid them.  So far, it all has been more matter-of-fact.  Simply stating things and leaving it at that.
The feelings are much more walled up.  Sometimes it feels like there is this large bookcase inside me where all of these things are stored.  Some of them, I seem to have put so high that it will only be with help that I will be able to take them down and look.  I can still read some of the titles of those books and I am not ready to take them down and dust them off, let alone open them.
Am I protecting myself or hurting myself?  Is it a little of both?  I don't know.  A part of me doesn't even care.
I am stubborn.  Close friends would be laughing at that statement because of the truth behind it.  I am stubborn and that stubbornness has made one or two of them want to take me over their knee to spank some sense into me.  Am I blessed or cursed because none of them have taken it that far?  There was no discipline as a kid and I know full well there is a part of me absolutely screaming for it now.  I have wanted a female authority figure in my life for as long as I can remember.  It might sound strange to some, but I have always yearned to know that someone cared enough to spank me and to hold me accountable.  Somewhere I think there must be some unwritten law that says adults are not suppose to want to be held accountable by another and have consequences.  God help me, I want that relationship in my life.
I don't understand how I can want and yearn for something I never had.  How can I feel such a sense of loss and emptiness inside of me for something that never was?  I don't understand it, but I will say that right now I feel that loss, that emptiness and the threat of tears forming right now.
There is not one person on earth that cares whether or not I do this blog.  It won't matter if I continue or if I stop.  Right now, I just don't want to.

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Abuse

I don't even know where to begin.  Past doctors and therapists have suggested that sexual abuse for me began while I was still in the crib.  There is no way to prove this of course.  I have been told that as an infant I threw bottles and refused anything that was put into my mouth.  I have a memory from a very early age.  My mother told me that I could not possibly remember *that* because I wasn't even quite 2 years old at the time.   But, I do remember.  I was standing at a window in an empty house and I was with my dad.  When I looked up, what I saw was a red haired long necked monster.  It scared me.  I described to my mother the scene of being in that house and left out the part about the monster.  She told me that I was describing the house we moved into before I was two.  She confirmed that my father had taken me with him to sign the papers for the house.  What I know now, and honestly, really wished that I didn't, was the red haired long necked monster I was looking up at was my father's erect penis.  When my therapist had asked me if I could draw the monster that I saw, I was pretty sure I could.  Then, I was shocked as hell at what I was staring at on the paper.  There was no doubt what that little girl me was looking up at.

For elementary school, I attended a special school of the arts.  I had my share of scraped knees and bruises like everyone else.  I also had more than my share of the sides of my mouth being split open.  Nothing about me is very big, including my mouth.  I was not physically able to do what was forced on me without coming away with my mouth split open.

How do we process things like this?  For myself, talking with a therapist helped some, when I was finally able to speak.  Writing helped me a lot more.  As soon as I knew what writing was, I took off with it.  I wrote my feelings, hopes and dreams, stories and poems.  Fear that someone would find them made me destroy everything after a few days.  Writing was a survival tool for me back then and morphed into a healing tool as well.

What I have learned over time is that abuse or abused does not define who I am.  Those things happened to me.  They may have tore up my body trying to pleasure themselves, but you know what?  They did not tear up my soul.  The very core of me somehow stayed together and I am proud of that.

Sunday, December 6, 2015

The Milk Crate

It seems that all children learn to play *house*.  They recreate their experiences and take turns being the parents or children.  I am sure that I must have played this game as well although I have no memory of having played it with anyone else.  I had a secret place in the back of our yard.  It was covered on three sides by the back wall of the garage, hedges that guarded it from an alley way and the neighbors high fence that was covered in plants.  I am the only on that played there.  My secret place held my most precious possession, an old milk crate.

Now, I grew up with two parents in my home.  My mother wasn't allowed to interact with me.  I simply belonged to my Dad.  For as long as I can remember, I have yearned for a mother to be in my life.  I saw every day what a mother daughter relationship could be like.  My sister and mother were very close.  I watched as they cuddled together, read together, played and shared secrets.  I saw my sister scolded, spanked and corrected by our mother.  My experience with our mother was so very different and it confused me.  I didn't understand why we were different but I sure learned what rejection feels like.

With that in mind, back to my secret place and the only toy I cared about, the milk crate.  I was the daughter and the milk crate was my mother.  For the first time, I could sit on mommy's lap.  I would sit on that crate and dream.   Whole conversations went through my head as I sat on mommy's *lap*.  As I played more, imagination and longing grew.  Sitting on the grass with my head on *mommy's* lap.  I could almost feel this imaginary mommy caressing my hair, singing softly to me.  Everything that my little girl heart wanted in a mommy, I tried to create for myself.  I told that ole milk crate everything, good and bad.  When I was *bad* I would even lay over the milk crate and pretend I was being spanked.  For me, the happiest times I remember are very simple ones, just me and the milk crate mommy.

Friday, December 4, 2015

Still, Tears

Tears are a scary thing for me.  Oh how I have wished over the years that that same sort of female authority figure would sit me down and encourage me to cry.  The thought scares the hell out of me, yet I still want it.  During those times when I am on the verge of tears, all my walls go up.  The must vulnerable place I know right now is that place.  Where tears threaten to fall.  I again feel tiny and vulnerable.  I can still hear that voice telling me harshly, not to cry.  Don't ever cry.  Only babies cry.  My head knows that is not a true statement.  Physically, I do understand what tears do for our bodies.  Emotionally, I have an understanding about the release tears can bring.  For me though, I avoid it.  I don't ever want to be taken back to that place on the stool.  When I have succumbed to tears, I have been angry with myself.  Angry for being weak.  Oddly, the same anger toward my own tears is actually compassion toward someone else who is crying.  I want to comfort and be a support.  I want to let them cry it out if that is what they need to do.  Finding that same compassion towards myself?  Eh, I am not so good at that.

The only female authority figure that has brought me to tears over something I have done, is that woman who slapped me every time a tear fell.  At this point in my life I don't think it is possible for anyone to take me to that place.  Yes, I feel guilt.  Yes, I feel embarrassed over things I have done and feel bad about them.  But, cry?  Not happening.  In a way I guess, I was taught eventually to ignore any authority figure, but especially the women.  They were the most prevalent in my life, growing up.  My mother, teachers, neighbors... I didn't have to listen to them and certainly didn't have to do what they told me.  I didn't face the consequences of wrong doing.  There were some scoldings.  Those didn't mean anything to me.  Mostly, I guess because I knew none of them could or would actually do anything.  Not one female authority figure in my life stood up to me or followed through on their words.  Of course I learned to not really listen.  Cry?  I had no reason to.

Thursday, December 3, 2015

Tears

Ah, the age old saying, big girls don't cry.  Boys don't cry.  The letting go of tears is often viewed as a weakness in either gender.  For me, tears are a vulnerable place that I work hard at never visiting.  I am not saying that this is a healthy approach, it's just where I am.

As a young child I was trained to withhold tears.  It was deliberate and purposeful.  *They* at least one woman, who was not my parent, set me on a tall stool.  I felt fear that I would fall and can remember gripping the seat tightly.  Then the taunting would start.  Adult voices telling me to cry.  "Come on baby, cry, you know you want to cry.  Is that a tear?  Is the baby going to cry?"  That sort of taunting over and over again until my eyes filled with tears and the first one began to fall.  Then, SLAP!  I was hit in the face and yelled at.  "Don't cry, don't you ever cry, only babies cry!" Once I gained control, they started again with the taunting, telling me to cry.  This was repeated in session after session until I did learn to hold back tears.  I have no idea what they were preparing me for.  I have wondered recently if they were preparing me to take the sexual abuse silently.  Their true intent is unknown to me.  What I do know is the results that came from these sessions.

In the most fearful of situations I learned to stay silent and calm.  Silence for sure has become a lifelong friend.  Even as a very young child in the first or second grade if a Teacher were to scold me for something, I could look at them, through them and beyond them.  No longer caring what their words were and just waiting for it to be over with.  The scoldings had no impact.   I would stand toe to toe with them, in my own silent place, sometimes counting, and just wait.  Yes, I was and still am a counter.  I find myself counting everything I can see.  When I was on that stool, I counted the tiles on the floor, the lines in the ceiling and sometimes even the features on one of their faces.  Oh, I could hear the words of my abusers and the teachers trying to correct me, what they didn't know was that I had learned how to control the situation by not reacting.  The older I got, the more I honed this skill.  The young girl me, became strong and powerful in her own way.  I decided early on that they could do anything they wanted to me, I mean it is not like I could physically stop them, but, they could not touch the core of me!  My silence was my weapon.  In a sense, I guess my counting was the ammunition.  No one understood that eye contact with me was not enough.  You might have my eyes, but unless you are also touching my face, you do not have me.  I have been terrified of others being too near my face and touching my face was a hard limit for a very long time.

We Matter

It is puzzling to me the things that we remember from former years.  The way our mind sometimes seems to pick and choose what we will or won't recall.  I am not just speaking of childhood.  Our life experience plays a part in who we are.  Our actions, reactions, choices, play times and horrors are all recorded within us.  What forces us to recall certain memories?
So many of us who have experienced abuse get stuck in a place of dwelling on the negative.  I am not saying that talking about it or sharing the experiences is in any way wrong or unhealthy.  We have to work through it and move on into our future, learning to live in today.  And, we have to do it for ourselves, not anyone else.  We matter.   We should matter enough, to ourselves, to be honest with ourselves.
In those quiet places, inside, where we like to hide, light needs to shine.  For me, I want that light to be filled with compassion and understanding.  I want to be able to show myself compassion for sure, especially in those places where things were done to me without my permission.  I want compassion and not pity from those who hear my story.  If we are honest with ourselves, all of us have had a turn wallowing in self pity.  We sure don't need that from anyone else.  I also want those who hear my story, to have an understanding.  To see their own truths in it as they read.  For myself, I want to understand what happened to me.  Looking back, I want to understand how this *thing* affected me then and choose how it will affect me now.  Yes, I said choose.  I believe we all have a choice when faced with our pasts.  We chose today how much of the future we will allow it to steal from  us!

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

New Beginnings

I have been telling myself for some time now that I can't write.  I know that I can, I am physically able.  Thoughts use to flow from me freely onto paper.  Their release brought me clarity among other things.  I think the truth is that I am afraid to write.  Fearing being honest with myself.


In my life I have faced fear many times.  I have come through those situations, not unscathed, but certainly I have emerged on the other side.



A single step forward is a beginning.  Yet, taking that step has often felt impossible.  I have experienced so much in my life both good and bad.  What I have realized is that these experiences as a whole, have shaped and formed the woman I am today.  There are many things that I now wish had never happened.  So many things I wish had taken place.  There are regrets as well as triumphs.  With it all, I have come to understand one very important thing.  The experiences have helped to form this woman that I am but my reaction to them has been the brush which paints the colors of my life.

Some people say that time heals all wounds.  To me that sounds like there is a magic wand somewhere that is just going to whisk it all away.  Surviving trauma and moving into a healthier place takes work as well as time.  If I am unwilling to do the work, all the time in the world isn't going to help.  It isn't enough for me to simply survive.  I want to thrive!  There is no reason that I can not. We each have own own paths and our own notion of what thriving is.  For me thriving means that I move forward into my future with confidence.  It means that I acknowledge my past with honesty and that I live in the present with humility and compassion toward myself and others.

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