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.
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
*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.
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