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Journal Day

July 25th, 2006

I don't like writing in third person (Cue Master's voice: It doesn't matter what you like, slave.). It makes it difficult, sometimes, for me to convey my thoughts… to articulate the things I want to. I've never really thought in third person on a regular basis – even when I was writing and speaking in third person, both in real life and on the net, full time. It's never been even an unspoken rule that I write in third person here, I just started doing it. I probably won't make it a practice, this writing in first person thing, unless there's a larger response to the slave speaking in first person or I'm given permission. Today is just an "I need to babble about anything and everything that comes to mind and doing it in first person will make it easier on me." type of thing. And as I say that, I'm constantly having to go back and correct my third person mistakes so it doesn"t get confusing.

This has always just been a place for me to write about anything and
everything regarding my slavery, my life with Master, and our
relationship together excluding any personal information that might
leave clues as to who we are in real life. A place where masters can
come and see what it's like inside the mind of a slave in training, the
things their slave might feel and go through, and the situations they
might find themselves in. A place for slaves to come see the things
they might learn and the thoughts, fears, feelings they might have
along their journey into this walk of life. A place for people to just
learn about who and what I am – what it is to be a slave to a man such
as Master Melen.

It hasn't really been that because I
don't often let people inside my heart and mind. They say beauty is
only skin deep, and for me, in my eyes, it doesn't even start there.
It's part of why this blog is mostly brief thoughts and lessons
learned. I let you dance upon the surface, dear reader, and have huge
orange detour signs around the thin spots (yes, "thin spots" is
directly stolen from "Nightmares and Dreamscapes") so no one will
accidentally slip inside and see that the inside reflects the outside.
Occasionally it happens. I'm so busy guarding my emotions and thoughts
from everyone else that I miss someone sneaking past the guard rails.
Master came around during one of those moments. I was driving myself
crazy trying to keep everyone else out and I didn't see Him slipping
in. And I'm glad I missed it. I've come to need Him in a way that I've
never needed anything in my life.

Today I'm going to let
everyone in, if only for a brief moment. Today is "Journal Day" on
Insatiable Desire, because it's getting to a point where I can no
longer express my feelings on deviantART. If only because not everyone
who watches me is over 18.

I've always liked sunlight
and fresh air more than almost anything in the world. A crisp autumn
breeze or warm summer gust would always leave me feeling refreshed and
ready to start my day. I used to drive my parents crazy when I was
little. I'd get up and open all the blinds and curtains and if it
wasn't hot out or what Mom considered too cold, I'd turn the ac way up
or the heat way down (so they wouldn't kick on) and open the windows.
Even if I was planning on being outside all day. Sometime in the
afternoon, I'd usually curl up like a cat in the little square of sun
on the couch with the wind slipping through the screen trying to blow
my exhalations back down my throat and I'd take a nap.

As
I got older, that started to change. I liked the blinds and curtains
closed because it helped me to hide from the world. I thought I had
tons of things to hide: my sexuality, my inability to be beautiful, my
interest in music, my interest in… just about anything, my
meanspirited nature, my inability to be happy, my unwillingness to
smile… just me altogether. I'd only open them when I got into these
depression funks where I thought the world was going to end. The house
could be 60 degrees and smell like fresh lilac and I still felt like I
was going to suffocate if I didn't get some fresh air in there.

I'd
throw open the curtains, pull up the blinds, and shove open the windows
wishing the big bay window in the living room opened instead of just
the ones beside it. And I'd walk from room to room opening all of them
– even the ones in my parents' and sister's room – and end up standing
in the kitchen glaring at the French doors wishing they were sliding
glass instead so that there was a screen and I could open them too. I
always resented that my sister had two large windows and I just had one
small one stuffed full of a window unit air conditioner.

Finally,
I would breathe. I'd stand there gulping the fresh air by the lungful
as if I'd never tasted oxygen in my life and If anyone said anything to
me while I meditated on how stifling my home was I'd stuff my feet into
my favorite shoes and clomp out of the house.

I never
got far. I was always afraid to go walking by myself. Even in suburbia.
It was like if anyone saw me alone they'd know just how incredibly
unloved I was and I'd be overwhelmed with either tormenters or people
trying to force me to be happy. Or maybe they'd just realize I was
unpopular and I'd be a laughing stock.

But I always knew
I did it to myself. People tried to get close to me and I curled up
inside my little defensive shell like one of those bugs we always
called "Rolly-Pollies" when Mom and Pop lived in Nawlins. The more you
poke them, the tighter they roll until you put them down and ignore
them. Then they open up until you pick them up again. A product of
being a military child? Perhaps. Not knowing anyone meant it wouldn't
hurt when we moved again. Not hurting when we moved again meant less
depression. Less depression meant less days spent gasping at the window
like a fish out of water.

This little ritual continued
right on into early adulthood. Just the thought of spending one more
moment smelling the stifling recycled air in the shitty little
apartments we could afford made me want to chase a bottle of asprin
with a bottle of vodka and maybe throw a few sleeping pills in for good
measure (and I did… more than once). The ex would want to hide from
the world so no one could peek in and see us practicing our regular
stoning habit and I just couldn't bear to let go of the sun. Cops and
nosey neighbors be damned, I'd stand in the window, pipe and lighter in
hand, and gasp at the breeze.

Some time after I met
Master this all changed. I went from shutting myself away from the
world to embracing it, from hiding in darkness until I couldn't breathe
to walking in the light until I got burned, from hiding everything from
everyone to not caring who knew what… except when it came to my
thoughts and feelings. You can see who I am but don't you dare try to
take a close look. You can know me, but if I can touch you, you're too
close.

And now I only open the windows when I'm happy
and content. I beg to be allowed to put clothes on when Master's home
so I can let in the sunlight and show the world how amazing my life is.
I plead for the opportunity to spit in the faces of those who said I'd
never have anything important or worthwhile.

I've spent
the better part of four years pretending that everything about me is
perfect. My life, my behavior, my opinions, thoughts, feelings, our
relationship, the way we live, the things we believe in… I knew there
were distinct problems – specific elements keeping us from sublime
happiness. Things I could fix if only I'd put forth just a little
effort. I'd write about owning responsibility for your actions and
knowing yourself for who you truly are all the while refusing to face
the problems I was creating in my own life and ignoring that I knew who
I was though I was pretending I was someone else. I'd talk about how
masks are useless (they are) while wearing one of my own.

And
I can sit and justify it all day. I was protecting myself from the pain
facing facts would cause. I was protecting those around me from who I
really am. I was naive. i was lied to. I was oblivious. The truth is I
caused most of that.

When people tried to hand me
constructive criticism, I'd get defensive and then offensive and I'd
explode into a million different emotions, the most prominent being a
deep-seeded rage that was really aimed at myself but I always took it
out on other people. And eventually, they stopped trying.

Even
though I saw right through the beautiful people, I always wanted to be
one of them and I tried with a desperation that was uncanny to learn
how, not realizing (or maybe ignoring?) that with that came a
meanspirited, "I'm better than you." attitude that I never really
wanted. I gained and lost friends quicker than most because I ignored
the true friends I had in favor of the prettier, more popular ones,
even if I really didn't like them much. And I felt desperate envy
whenever someone else got something that I thought I wanted. Envy that
made way to rage and finally a grudge so inconceivably ridiculous that
I couldn't let it go for fear of making myself look even stupider than
I already did.

But I've never lied about my mean streak.
I've never pretended that I was a nice person. When I meet people I
almost immediately tell them that I'm a bitch. Right up front, I make
sure they have no ill-conceived notions about the fact that one day
I'll bite them for no reason at all. Master said it today. I'm "like a
dog that"s been trained all its life to be mean." I'm that junkyard pit
bull with foam dripping from my jowls and it's not from rabies. It's
because I've got myself that worked up with rage and hatred and there's
someone nearby too soft and too weak to kick me when I try to rip their
arm off. And no one ever believes me. Everyone always thinks I'm a
"nice girl". And maybe that's why I tell them. Because I know they'll
laugh it off. And then when I turn on them they'll stand there
sputtering and wringing their hands wondering what they did wrong.

My
coin phrase in high school and early adulthood was "I'm the realest
girl you'll ever meet." It came from the constant comments I heard
people make about me. "She's not afraid to be real." "She's blunt and
she doesn't care who it hurts." "You always know what you're getting
with her. She doesn't hide behind what she thinks you want to hear."
Except none of it was true. I had everyone fooled. I constantly told
people what they wanted to hear rather than the truth. I always put my
pretend best foot forward instead of the real one. And no one ever knew
what they were getting with me. They just thought they did.

If
I was asked "What's the one thing you've done and done well in your
past?" my honest answer would have to be "Fuck." It encompasses
everything. I fucked. I fucked up. I fucked off. I fucked over. I said
"Fuck it." And I said "Fuck you." If it was scandalous, I did it. If it
was against the law, I got a thrill from it. If it would hurt someone,
I loved it. And I've never been ashamed a day in my life until now.
Only instead of coming from the things in my past that I've done, my
shame comes from being too stupid to see the things that have been
slapping me right in the face my whole life. Well, not see them. I saw
them. I just pretended they didn't exist. My shame comes from ignoring
who I really am because society says it's wrong. And my shame comes
from causing all sorts of drama in the only relationship that has ever
truly meant anything to me because it was easier to pretend it wasn't
there and hope it would go away than to actually try to fix it. To fix
me.

And I'm tired. I'm tired of being this pseudo-me and
pretending that it's who I am when I know that the real me is the one
that only ever fucked well. I'm tired of trying to be nice to people
when really all I want to do is punch them in the face. And I'm tired
of diverting all that pent up anger and hatred toward the only person
who means anything to me and hoping that He'll just take it and pretend
it doesn't break His heart every time. But most of all, I'm tired of
living in make believe.

I won't pretend anymore. I won't
be this person who appears to love everyone equally, because the truth
is I've only ever loved one person and for some reason I felt it
necessary to beg Him to own me. As excited as I was about marrying Him,
I was His with the collar and having someone who accepts me and loves
me for who and what I am… Someone who is willing to rip off the masks
I've made for myself and stare directly into my real face… Someone
who will say to me "You're a bitch. And you're a whore. And it's hard,
sometimes impossible, to find good qualities about you aside from your
pussy." but at the same time love me with only one condition – obey –
is somehow better than anything I could ever hope or dream for. And I
know it's much more than I deserve.

If there's a hell,
there's no question about the fact that I'm going there. But I don't
care. Because I have heaven on Earth. And a life lived the way I want
to live it is worth an eternity in a place that really doesn't matter.
Because really, if you look at it from my cynical point of view, life's
not a race. It's not a game. It's not a competition to see who comes in
first. Nothing we do here matters, even if there is a Christian god. In
the end, we'll be spending eternity in nothingness. Whether that
nothingness is enjoyable or not doesn't really matter.

And that's me being "the realest girl you'll ever meet" for once in my life. It's time I live up to that title, I think.

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