I came to post about how I keep thinking about this whole “owned from a distance” thing.  (I also came to post in Live Writer and realized it’s not set up.  So I’m in my dashboard.  Fuckity fuck fuck, I hate this. I have no idea how to format anything.)

Then I realized I’ve already talked about it a lot.  Most recently (I think) in my “Happy New Year” post.

I was thinking about it again though because I was talking about different fantasies I have.  One of which includes the kind of micro-managing that would leave me… Well, hey, let’s just steal words from other people?  This image has stuck with me since I first read it, right here on Under His Hand.  (I had to go search for it today and now kaya’s stats will have moronic internal search terms like “soup spoon.”)

“And that was also the first time I had one of those serious brain moments, when he told me to make him some soup and I completely broke down into “what kind? what bowl? what spoon? how do I do it?” He had to lead me through me it, step by step. It sounds goofy, but it was really incredible. I miss those days! *sob*”

Anyway, Antonio was responding to my fantasy (which ran right in line with kaya’s reality there) with a he’s-the-boss-mini-reality check. He said:

I wonder if you’ve just become accustomed/addicted to stress. It seems like you need/thrive on the pressure, the stress of performing to exacting standards etc.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I was independently wealthy and you didn’t need to operate in the outside world, but if you’re going to contribute to the household, you need to be able to function as an independent human being. It’s too draining to constantly be answering simple questions or giving orders that really could be solved by you with a little incentive and brain power.

It’s like if you hired an assistant to take care of all the little problems for you and they kept running back to you to ask you how to do this or that or what should they do about this etc. After a while you think, “Fuck, I may as well do it myself.”

He’s right, and I know that. (And have I ever mentioned how dearly fond of “etc.” he is?  I totally caught that bug from him.  He rubs off.) I wasn’t actually trying to suggest he wasn’t by saying I had fantasies of total control to the point where I can’t quite function without his input. I know these things belong tucked away in my fantasy world until we win the lottery.

But, anyway, realizing I’ve talked about this endlessly, and while trying to find a new angle so I can pretend I haven’t, I’m going to share some super-sweet random conversations with you today.

For starters, after nearly four years in, my pretend-brother Patrick has been found unfit for duty in the Army with a disability rating of 50%. This means he’ll be temporarily retired for a period of up to five years (with yearly evaluations to see if he still needs disability), with full benefits and everything. He served a year of that overseas, but will not have to ship off to Iraq (which was the plan.) He’s just waiting on orders right now. I’m really, really happy about this.  Not that he’s disabled, of course.  But that he’s safe now. In honor of him, I’ll share this:

ME:  Nice man-purse, Patrick.
PATRICK:   Pffft. It’s SUPER manly. C’mere and see. *opens it*
ME:  Jesus is that… A Claymore? How in the hell did you get it off base?
PATRICK:  People in the Army are stupid. It’s not real, though. You can tell because it’s blue.
ME:  And because it says “FRONT TOWARD ENEMY.”
PATRICK:  No… The real ones say that too.
ME:  What? But it’s all curved and obvious which way it goes!
PATRICK. …people in the Army are STUPID.

(This dummy Claymore? It’s now on the front porch. Facing away from the house. Toward the enemy, I suppose.)

And here is a recent conversation I had with The Man via text message wherein we vaguely make fun of people with mental disabilities.  Because we’re classy.  (That blacked out name?  That’s the woman I work with.)

Also, have you ever wondered what magical, deep wisdom is passed between those of us s-types behind closed doors?   Have you ever wanted to read our private emails to each other?

Of course you have. And rightly so.

I warn you, what you’re about to read regarding the secretive inner workings of our lives is going to blow some minds.  I have not cleared this with kaya to post, and I’m sure she’s going to be FURIOUS with me for divulging these Super Secrets.  But it’s just too important to hide from you guys.  These behind the scenes emails?  They’re the stuff dreams are made of.

ME: I need to go stare at the river and do a non-rain dance. It’ll work. See, I’ve only eaten raw foods for two days, I’m probably super in touch with nature.
KAYA: If you’ve only eaten raw foods for two days and you feel “in touch with nature”, I’m thinking that means you probably have to poop. *nods* Go do that and see if you don’t feel better.
ME: I don’t hafta poop. But we can compromise: I’ll fart. AND, because you care A LOT: My poop is freakin’ me out the past two days. I swear to God it looks about the same going in as it does coming out. And it doesn’t smell like poop. At ALL. It’s so strange… (On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being “You may as well have asked for the time” and 10 being “You may as well have described how your dog’s semen tastes when mixed with the blood of sacrificed human infants,” just how weirded out are you by me talking about my poop? For future reference, you understand.)
KAYA: You know I had to go look up the poop of a raw food dieter. I don’t know that I found any exciting information for you, but I did weird myself out – and learned more about poop than I ever needed to know. I worked in nursing homes for years and years. The poop schedule of the elderly is a Very Important Topic. I’m used to discussing poop over breakfast.

So there you go, guys. A peek behind the veil. Yeah, you’re welcome.

For the most part, the only thing people want running commentaries on are sporting events.  My life is NOT worth a running commentary.  (I do wish I had a soundtrack, but that’s another story.)

But once in a while, I figure you might give a crap what I DO with my day.  So, my gift to you:

I worked last night, and woke up to a shitty morning.  And when I say “shitty” I actually mean “complete with lots of feces.” 

Yeah.

The woman I care for gets all drugged up on phenobarbital at night and I guess it just didn’t work out of her system by morning.  That’s what I tell myself, at least, so I don’t strangle her.  But, really, it’s plausible – phenobarb has a hella long duration.

Anywho, she apparently got up this morning and hung a right a BIT too early and ended up in her (carpeted) closet.  Where she shit, diarrhea, ALL over the floor.  Oh, and she pissed too.  Then she walked all over the carpet and made shit-prints.

(If anyone wants to see pictures, let me know.  Yes, I was SO horrified, I took pictures on my iPhone.  And I made my mother and brother look at them.  When she gets home from Mexico, I’m sitting down with her and her boyfriend to talk about new employment opportunities.  She is getting to the point where she needs a manager, and I’m the best one to do it.)

Anyway, I donned gloves, pulled back my hair, spent a few minutes trying to muster patience and inner peace it turns out I don’t have, and then got the woman scrubbed in the bathtub, dressed, and plopped in front of the TV so I could clean and clean and clean.

The pregnant girl I work with relieved me and was SO disgusted by the whole situation, she had a cigarette.  *sigh*

I left work and headed to my company’s office to recertify in CPR.  The woman who was doing the recert had to combine us with new employees who were training so we had to spend nine million hours over EVERY part of the CPR crap before we partnered up to pretend to choke so we could smack each other on the back and do abdominal thrusts, and then we made out with dummies. 

Then I went home.  And had to drag my brother around to get photocopies of our licenses, money orders, birth certificates, passport photos, applications, and our old passports from when we were bitty (I’d gone to France, England and Belgium before I was even a teenager, and then haven’t gone anywhere except Canada since.  Lame.)  Then we took some oath about not lying to the U.S. Department of State on our applications, and the town clerk processed ‘em and said we’d get our passports in the mail in two weeks.

Then I came home and caressed my laptop box.  (Hee, that sounds dirty to me.  I’m an idiot.)  Oh, yes, that’s right, it CAME.  My new laptop is HERE!  I have been too busy to even unpack it, but I DID fondle the box for a minute.

I had a long talk with my brother about our dog, and what we’re going to do with her while we’re in Mexico (figured out a friend who is a PERFECT solution.  Fittingly, his middle name is Foster.  So Foster he shall be called here!).  Mostly we talked about how we’ll know it’s time to put her down.  I won’t talk endlessly about it again here, but…  It comes down to this – she’s lost quality of life, NO doubt.  She’s senile, she’s deaf (she’s been deaf for years, though), she’ has accidents in the house consistently, and her hips are weak.  She doesn’t really fully recognize us, she  has to eat her food mushed up with water, etc.  The question is – has she lost anything that SHE truly misses, or that makes her miserable?  I don’t know.  I wonder a lot.  Does she miss being more connected to us, or is she too senile to care?  She never acts embarrassed or shamed (like she did when she was young) when she has accidents in the house, so does she suffer at all from that?  When she went deaf, did she think we stopped talking to her?

I don’t know.  I just don’t know.  She eats, she sleeps by the fire, she chows treats, she gets her head and neck scratched whenever she wants, she gets helped up and down stairs, she gets company lying on the floor (my brother and I have been get-on-the-floor-with-the-doggie types forever).  Does SHE feel she has lost anything that makes life worth living?

I cried all afternoon off and on just thinking about the day coming when she has to be put down…

GAH. 

Anyway…

Then I went to my mom’s and took notes on all the stuff she wants me to do while she’s in Mexico and I’m housesitting.  I said goodbye to her, too.  I’m going to miss her a LOT, but I switched her phone plan so she’s got coverage in Mexico, so at least we can talk.

Then I went to the grocery store and bought some delicious looking organic produce.  Pears, mangoes, apples, celery, two kinds of sprouts, avocados, celery, carrots, and baby spinach. Mmmmmmm…

Annnnnd, I think that’s it, because I unpacked groceries and now I’m here, typing and waiting for the new Office to start.

Fascinating, no?

I’m still waiting on Antonio to make a decision about coming to see me.  He’s basically got to decide if it’s worth getting fired to take the time off without it being approved.  I mean, it’s not worth it.  It’s obviously not.  It’s just the nature of his job that when they cut back the labor force in the off-season, the guys who stay are expected to STAY so they can meet deadlines.  I just WANT him to come here… But if he can’t now, he can’t.  I’ll wait for my mother to go away again for a week or so (it happens very frequently) after we all get back from Mexico.  And he can come then.

I guess it all comes down to having a PLAN.  I feel better when I have plans to see him, even if they’re further off than I expected.

Lastly and randomly:

I saw an episode of Intervention yesterday, and spent the first ten minutes going, “I feel like I KNOW that girl.”  She looked slightly familiar, her situation felt familiar, and her daughter had a really unique name.  Then it clicked.  I texted my Itty to double check, since I thought Itty knew her too. Turns out?  We all used to hang at the same eating disorder chat room – a fairly small group of people. 

The thing I found most shocking?  She is EXACTLY the same person online as she is offline.   Her name, where she lives, the abuse she suffered, her anorexia, her cutting, her alcoholic use, her family – everything.

You mean people on the internet tell the WHOLE TRUTH?  Holy crapballs.

Okay, not really.

I’m bedless, though.  I used to have a bed… It was horrible.  Then I added a second bed on the floor, also horrible.  Last week I got fed up and took them both out of my room and told my father, in no uncertain terms, that he was to take them to the dump as soon as he could.

Being a good dad with a pickup truck and a dump sticker, he did it!

Which was great.  Except now I have no bed.

I really should have seen this coming…

I’ve spent the last week being a bit of a nomad. I work four nights a week, and I’ve divided the rest of my time at my mother’s house, my father’s condo, and my friend Anne’s place.  I haven’t been home, I haven’t really been online, and (shockingly) I haven’t really been sleeping well.

Anne and I painted half of her kitchen and her hallway, though.  So I’ve been semi-productive, and now I want to paint every wall in sight.

In other news, I have no news. Exciting, huh?

Antonio is trying to get time off work to go visit family, and to come here to see me. Work is giving him trouble over time off.  He said he’s tempted to say fuck it, and come anyway… But employers don’t look too kindly on stuff like that.

So I’m in the process of trying to stamp on the hopes I had built up so that if (when?) I do face disappointment, I’ll already have semi-crushed hopes.

I think ahead!   (So long as it doesn’t involve sleeping arrangements.)

The baby shower was… Well, it was okay.  I did as instructed (thank you, ladies) and bought diapers.  I also got a Nautica valence on her registry.

The only thing that was deeply lame?  Baby shower games.  STUPID FUCKING GAMES.  Annoyed the piss out of me.  Oh, let’s guess how many feces-receptacles (diapers, whatever) are in this tupperware container! 

Oh, God, YES, let’s.  Nothing could bring me deeper joy.

(I fucking loathe stupid party games, in case that’s unclear.)

So I did the only reasonable thing and decided to win one of them. 

The only one that involved more than guessing, that is.  We all got necklaces with plastic pacifiers and were told we could not say the word “baby” at the shower, and that if we heard someone say “baby,” we could take that person’s necklace.

Person with the most necklaces at the end won… I won… By a landslide.

Because I’m quiet and observant.

(Okay, fine, I’m NOT quiet.  I am just able to be quiet. And mostly because everyone there had IQs that range from “gnat” to “chipmunk,”  no offense to chipmunks or gnats intended.)

Annnnnd… What else?  Nada.  I’m cooking right now. *grins*  TA-MA-LES!  All authentic, wrapped in corn husks, and steaming right now.  I made them sans fat, though, so perhaps they are not really authentic…I used sweet potato in place of the lard the real recipes call for.  I’ll let you know how they turn out, if anyone cares about that sorta thing.

Though, I might not let you know right away… The nomad routine will be necessary until the 22nd, when I move into my mom’s house to housesit.

(And now I’ll shut up.  My brother just walked in, and looks like DEATH. Huh… Forgive typos, I’m gonna go see if he’s okay without proofing this.)

Thank you to everyone who commented on my last entry.  You guys really rock (despite making me cry!)

So, a couple things.

I’ve been working like crazy.  Regular work, and then working for my mother.  At least I’m making enough money to pay my bills (though $816.39 went out the door today.  Car payments – I was behind and then I paid an extra month a little in advance.)

I’ve got recertifications coming up, and a baby shower for a co-worker this weekend.  She’s due in March.  I know she’s registered at Toys R Us, so I was thinking I’d go there this week and get something off her registry…

But I have a question for you guys… Should I just buy stuff on the registry?   Now, the reason I ask is that… Well… I don’t know how to put this lightly, so I’ll just say it.  This girl is NOT ready to be a mother.  Just, wow, no.

A year and a half ago, she got pregnant accidentally.  She debated for a while, and got an abortion. She came into work the next day, to relieve me.  She put her elbows on the counter and sighed.  I asked her if she was okay, and she said, “That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life-”

I hesitated for a moment.  I mean, what do you say to that?  As I opened my mouth, hoping comforting words would be forthcoming, she finished her sentence.

“-I couldn’t drink or smoke for HOURS beforehand!”

Oh.  Dear.  Fuck.

I think I managed a noncommittal grunt at that point.  (I’m still proud of being able to vocalize anything.)

ANYWAY.  So she got pregnant again.  This time, she is keeping the baby.  (She doesn’t know who the father is, though.  I guess unprotected sex with multiple partners is a secret hobby of hers? I know, I know.  I shouldn’t judge.  I’m trying not to .  But she had one “accident” and, I dunno, wouldn’t you learn?  I guess all the talk shows on daytime TV are evidence that no, many people don’t learn.  But, still.)

She has managed to save a whopping two weeks off (my company is great with personal time – I get between five and six weeks of personal time every year, AND it can roll over, AND it’s better the longer you work there.  She has been with the company for eight years.  I’ve only been with them for two years.)  And she only has about $800 in the bank.

She’s a sweet enough girl, but she has NO CLUE about… Well, anything, really.  Anything at all.

SO.  I’m looking for some baby-presents advice.  I’m wondering what the best/useful presents would be, especially considering the mother has very little cash and very little foresight.  Or should I just ignore the desire to get her useful things, and just buy the toys and junk she has on the registry?

Any ideas?

Also, in other news…

I mentioned I’m going on vacation in Mexico at the end of next month.  Well, my mother is going to Mexico for slightly over five weeks (returning the same day I do).  For the four-plus weeks before I go down to join her, I will be housesitting for her.

I love her house, and I’m excited to hang there for a month.  Recharge, drink tea, watch the river…  Mmmm, yay!

One obvious thing would be missing, though. (Well, one person.)

Anyway, I told The Man about the housesitting, along with the fact that, well… I wish he could be here!   I SO do.  It’s beautiful and peaceful and I wish wish wish he could be here while I’ve got an adorable house to watch over all by myself!  It would be utterly AMAZING if I could magically transport him over here at some point to just spend a little time together.

Oh, but hey… Guess what?

I might not need magic after all. 

After I told him I wish he could be here? He agreed, said he needed to visit his family (about five hours away from me) soon anyway, so why not just extend the trip and come stay with me for a bit?

OMFG, YAY!!!

I’m praying we can work out the logistics of this (timing, transportation, time off work) but so far, all signs are pointing toward it happening.

I’m gleeful, to say the least!

What magical word play.  Like a frog in boiling water, only a DOG.

Anyway… I have several topics I wanted to blog about… Things that are probably actually relevant, too. 

But I keep thinking about my dog.  I figured I ought to get this out so I can move on.

She’s old.  Her breed is supposed to live about 10-12 years. My parents got her when she was six months old.  I was ten and my brother was eight,  and everyone was expecting that if we took good care of her and were lucky, she might live until a ripe old age and pass away right about the time my brother was going off to college..

But, nope.  She’s a trooper. And she will turn seventeen on Valentine’s Day. She’s a very, very old lady.

And recently, the conversation turns every month or so to, “Will we know when it’s time to put her down?”

Her progression into old age has been a slow one. 

She has weak hips, but isn’t really in pain.  She is much like an older puppy in terms of her bathroom abilities – has accidents in the house if she isn’t taken out every 2-3 hours during the day, and less frequently at night, or if she falls on a the slippery wood floors and no one is home to help her up.  (We’ve gotten more area rugs for her, so this is less of a problem.) 

She has doggy dementia, and will sometimes stand in corners and just stare. She’s not much a fan of being pet anymore except on her head and neck.  She’s got no problem with us bracing her under her ribcage and helping her up and down the few stairs outside, though.

She eats well (though could probably put on a few pounds), her bloodwork is good, she doesn’t have any real medical issues.

She seems okay.  But… Still.  I know my brother is hesitant to move out to Manhattan, or Los Angeles – places where his particular skillset is in high demand – because he can’t take her.  She’s more work than she used to be, and it would be impossible to care for her if everyone in the family worked fulltime 9-5 jobs. We don’t – we have odd hours (I mean, for example, I’ll be at work from 11pm tonight until 9am tomorrow.)  But my brother keeps an odd schedule, staying up late until 2 or 3 in the morning, and then getting up at 6 to take her out if no one else is home, then back to bed.  I won’t be living her all that much longer either, fingers crossed.

It’s just so hard with such a slow  age progression as this one.  It seems like there is a teetering balance that goes back and forth between whose quality of life is becoming an issue.  Hers?  Or ours?

I don’t think it’s right to put her down if the balance is in favor of our quality of life.

But will we KNOW when it’s time?

My mother was saying things today that confused me (and bothered me) even more.  She went from “well, it’s different for a dog” to “she wouldn’t want to do this to you.” 

No.  No no no. Either it’s “different” for dogs, or you anthropomorphize them.  Not both.  Bah.

I don’t know.  I don’t know where I’m going with this.  It’s just TROUBLING me.

If something tragic happened, or if some “obvious” change happened like she stopped eating or her bloodwork came back bad or the vet said she was in a lot of pain… I think I’d KNOW it was time.  Like the proverbial frog dropped in the boiling water.  But right now, the water is just getting warmer and warmer, so very slowly.  And I don’t know if I’ll recognize when it’s getting too hot. I don’t want to prolong her life past a point of endurance to save my own conscience.  But I also don’t want to compromise my conscience and do it too soon – I don’t think I could carry around that guilt.

I know today is not the day, and tomorrow won’t be either.  I don’t think it will be next month, in fact.  But I know she won’t see her 20th birthday or anything.

It just sucks.

Kayfine, it’s not really about avatarS.  It’s about Avatar.

I saw it yesterday.  Harrison (my brother) insisted we see it in 3D.

I’m glad he did, because I had the intense urge to throttle the actors every thirty seconds or so, and the spectacular 3D made it seem totally possible.

Seriously, though, what an atrocious movie. The visuals?  Stunning, beautiful.  3D is, at this point, still a gimmick. But what a well done gimmick it was in this case!

Granted, it looked like they just stole Delgo and used images from that movie as a storyboard, so calling it original is a giant, lawsuit-pending joke.

But, aside from just unoriginal, the story was painful to watch.  Tragically clichéd.  I mean, literally every banality that has ever appeared in storytelling is present here.  (Is James Cameron really pretending he has been working on this story for decades?  For real? I’d be embarrassed to say that if I were him.)

I could tell I was not in love with the story instantly.  For one thing, it bothered me that the blue-monkey-kitty people were EXACTLY LIKE HUMANS.  Same bone patterns, same tendons, same ability to vocalize, same ways of doing their hair.  Hell, apparently they are gorwn the same way in utero since they even have belly buttons.  Every creature on the planet was some mimicry of an Earthling.  Horses, dogs, rhinos, pterodactyls, etc. If we go to an alien planet?  I can guaran-fucking-tee you it won’t be a goddamn mirror-Earth. The kajillions of evolutionary steps, bound by chance, by our sun, by our fellow creatures and their evolution – well, that level of “unique” is going to be pretty damn unique!

ANYWAY. The reason that told me I hated the story was because I can totally watch OTHER movies that do the same thing and not give a crap. Heck, it was recently I was happily enjoying Star Trek and ignoring the fact that there are a whole slew of “aliens” who are just like humans.  You craft a good enough story, and I WILL suspend my disbelief.   You throw banal bullshit at me and treat me like I’m stupid enough to get wrapped up in that, and I won’t grant you the suspension of my disbelief.

If you shove a prettily decorated turd at me and I might say, “Hey, that’s a cool looking turd!” but you know what?  Shit stinks, man.  And I’m going to notice.

Basically, I’m trying to say it was a really watchable pile of festering feces. There.  That’s my review.

You get sexy glasses outta the whole deal, though.  Just sayin’.

Also, I’m gonna reply to comments sooooooon!  (Kay’s memorial is tomorrow though, and I gotta get to cooking today and then work and then it, so it might not be until Tuesday.) I have to get better at replying in general (comments and emails, actually).  My problem is that my chloe/naturalorders email forwards to my gmail.  Which is pushed to my iPhone.  So I get alerts on my phone and, like a kid at Christmas, I go to read emails/comments as soon as my phone goes off. Then, of course, I can’t reply.  And I forget about it.  Comments just sort of stockpile…  Emails, I read, and think of things to say in response.  Then I don’t.  Because, while I CAN reply on my iPhone, I don’t know where the email will say it’s FROM. I want it to say it’s from Chloe, but I worry it might say it’s from my gmail.  (In gmail, on my computer, I can see where it says it’s sending from.  I can’t see that on the phone.)

I will have to find some manner of testing this. I don’t know quite how to test it myself because I get confused trying to think about “well, I’ll write myself an email from myself to myself from chloe to gmail then I’ll reply in gmail to myself from… *brainexplosion*”…  And I think I’d feel like a jackass for asking The Man to help me.  In fact, I imagine it would look something like this:

Me: Okay, so, I want to test something.  Can you send me an email at the blog email? Then I’ll reply from my phone, through gmail.  And then can you tell me what address it’s coming from?

Him: Why don’t you just reply to emails on your computer when you get home?

Me: Well.  Uh.  Because. C’mon, doooo it – help enable me and my stupidity!

(Actually… I might know how to test this on a guinea pig.  I’m a genius.)

I dunno what I’m going to cook for the memorial, btw.  I’m going to bring something I can actually eat because lord knows no one else will.  So I’ve promised to bring a veggie platter with dip, something sweet (I dunno what to do about this one.  Cookies?  Little tarts?  Bleh.  I blew my load early by making everyone super awesome almond roca for Christmas.  That would have worked and been SO simple), and I want to bring some savory appetizer or something that can work as meal-type-food.  I’d love to make mini tamales but it’s a LOT of work. Ergh.

Happy New Year.  Yay.  Woo.  Etc.  (I just don’t care.  Aside from the added paperwork when I screw up the date on legal documents at work, that is.)

I’m an idiot, btw.  Want an example?  Of course you do.  A couple of days ago, I went to pee.  And noticed blood.  And for a SOLID three seconds, I was horrified and confused.  I was all, “OMG, do I have a SUPER jagged nail?  Have I cut myself?  Where is all this blood coming from!?!?”

Then I remember that once a month for the past fifteen years, I’ve been getting my period, and everything was fine.  

But in conclusion, I am an idiot.

I’ve been busy, and felt like rubbish for the past few days because of my period. Hell, I was asleep before 11:00pm last night.  I’ve got Kay’s memorial thing (which got pushed back and back and back but it’s finally really happening) on Monday, plus work tonight and Sunday night.  I’ve slept like crap because my bed at home sucks and the other four nights a week I spend on a couch at work. 

I’m too tired to type more about this, but imagine a whole lot more whining here, okay?  Thanks.

I was starting to muse the other day about how I’ve become “more adult” about things.  And as simple as that concept is to grasp, it’s been a hard one for me to embody.

For some reason, being owned – being dependent and controlled and at his mercy – was VERY easy to translate into being helpless and incompetent and codependent in a negative, taxing way.

It made me whiny, petulant, anxious, complacent.  It made me unhappy.  More importantly, it made him unhappy.

He decided months ago that it was time for me to take some responsibility.  A tethered, ornamental falcon will lose its hunting prowess if it isn’t let loose to fly.  And then what’s the use of having that falcon under your control if it can’t do what it’s trained to?  It may as well be a seagull at that point.  And who wants a pet seagull?  Not Antonio, that’s for sure. 

A little experience and self-discipline were in order to keep me TRULY in line.  Because I’ll only truly be in my happiest, best service when it’s what I want so badly that he doesn’t have to constantly correct or punish me.  Kitten said it best in this post – about self-Mastery.  “There are expectations and there are choices. His expectations and my choices.”

(Okay, fine, that’s not an exact quote.  I fixed a typo.  I blame it on OCD.)

Anyway… Working on my own version of self-Mastery recently has been, at various times, annoying, hated, lame, difficult, pointless, frustrating, and painful.   And sometimes I’ve totally ignored it altogether.  But the results thus far?  Have been VERY rewarding.  He’s really pleased with my patience, my ability to be calm through less-than-desirable situations, my ability to make my own choices without freaking out, to follow him without struggling, to be okay and not take advantage of a situation when he doesn’t take a harsh stance, to not whine when he’s away from home for work, etc. etc. etc.

I’m not perfect at any of those things.  But I’m getting MUCH better.  And it wasn’t because he got harsher… It’s because he loosened up and said, “So… What kind of slave do YOU want to be?  Make the choice, answer that question.”

I’m very proud of how I’ve answered that question so far.  

But you know what?  Let’s be honest here.  I do miss the pressure of “or else.”  I miss that feeling of smothering control.  However… Where have I made the most progress?  Well… I was able to make progress with the “or else” Mastery, that’s for sure.  But I’ve made more meaningful progress without it.  I’ve made less tangible progress, perhaps, but it’s much more important to both of us.  But me missing the other way?  It’s real.  I DO miss it.  But…

Many of you know I used to be depressed.  And there has been a happiness in my life since The Man came into it that has made it so that no anger or fear or sadness since then has come CLOSE to what I used to feel.  And yet?  I missed it.  I missed my sadness.  I wrote this about it, and actually posted it for the first time back in July.  But I’ll post part of it again now:

This is going to sound stupid, but some part of me is missing the ache I used to feel.  I mean, I certainly don’t want it back.  I don’t want to be suicidally depressed. 

But a part of me misses lying on my bed, in the pulsing heat of Tennessee, watching the ceiling fan in semi-darkness, with headphones pouring music into my ears, soaking in a sadness so big it felt like the moon had risen in my chest. 

I miss the pain in my throat that came with choking on my sobs.  I miss rolling over and becoming fetal, and feeling the damp spots on the blankets where my tears fell as I worked my wrists over in my hands. 

I miss the desperation. 

I miss floating through days, balancing my words on thoughts of suicide.  I miss waking up to a new day and having to bargain myself out of bed.  I miss having a plan for a way out of here.  I miss believing I wouldn’t see my next birthday.  I miss so much sometimes.  And I don’t even know why.  Because I don’t want it back.

So you know what?  I’m well aware that missing something isn’t a sign that it was good for me, or that I should have it back.  It’s just… It signals an ache to define myself, to find solid ground where I can curl up and know everything around me so well that I don’t even need to open my eyes and really SEE my own world.  It’s an lusting desire to throw up my hands, give up responsibility, and surrender. 

It’s not an ache I want to give in to.  And I’ve been through enough to be able to say I’m truly proud to resist it.  I will keep taking an active role in my own life without actually being in ultimate control.  I know it’s best for me, and apparently?  He knows that too.  Knew it before I did, in fact.