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On Restraints, Freedom, and Being a Disrespectful Shrew

May 31st, 2010

Disclaimer: This post was written Friday night.  I was ridiculously wasted.  I decided to post it anyway.  So read it as if it’s Friday.  And ignore any seeming insanity or stupidity.  I’m not kidding about having been ridiculously wasted.

There’s something about buckling my leather collar and cuffs around my various parts.  To docilely go into restraints, fully trusting Him to take care of me while I’m at His mercy.

And I guess I’m always at His mercy, really.  But it’s never more clear to the psyche how truly helpless you are until you are in restraints.  Restrained.  Helpless to whatever may or may not come.

There’s something insanely empowering about going into restraints of my own free will.  Holding myself out to Him to do with me as He will.

See? I told you I’d have a BDSM post soon.  If I remember to post this.

You know, it’s funny.  Even in our tiny apartment, where there are very few places I can be out of His line of sight, I say, “I’m going to [insert various task here].  I’ll be right back.”, as if He doesn’t know, in this tiny place, I’ll be right back.  I suppose it could be trained response.  If I don’t say where I’m going, He’ll often ask.  I’m sure that’s leftover from having lived in larger places with more open and hidden areas. 

I guess it’s true, what “they” say.  You are a product of your environment.

I was ridiculously disrespectful today.  Learned behavior.  The only way, growing up, to get people to realize I was barely treading water was to shock them with something they never expected from me.  Getting my ex to pay attention to anything I said took completely losing my shit.  I still haven’t figured out how to express myself, get my point across, without losing my cool.  So instead, I don’t say anything.  Until I can’t keep my mouth shut anymore.  And then I explode with every minute annoyance I’ve felt since the last time.

He doesn’t often require the ankle restraints.  Usually only when He plans to chain my ankle.  But tonight, I went and got them myself.  Put them on without so much as a word from Him.

I want to be His.  From the highest expectation to the lowest degradation.  I want to be His.

I’m just not sure I know how to approach my feelings like a mature adult.  And I’m not sure what that even means! “Like a mature adult.”  What “adult” is mature these days? Very few.  And the ones who are, are who they are because of their battle scars.  They’ve lived life as they dared, learned the lessons it has to offer, and chose to be who they are.

What courage that must take! To have figured out the best way to be you, and the best way to live for you and just do it, throwing caution to the wind.  Being unashamed of who you are.

I’m getting there.  And it’s through the painstaking training, incredible patience and overwhelming abundance of unconditional love I receive from my owner.

I have no doubt that eventually therapy and medication would have gotten me here.  I’m sure the medical world has a million things they can do for me.  I know BDSM and owner/property relationships haven’t been proven a viable therapy for my “eccentricities”.  I understand that most people, both within the “community” and outside of it, look down on the idea that these types of relationships can enable a mentally ill person to get better control of their issues.  But it seems to work for me.  It gives me the freedom to feel out who I am in a not-always-safe, definitely not-always-sane environment that I, nonetheless, am completely comfortable expressing myself in.  Even if I get my ass kicked for being a disrespectful shrew later.  Maybe especially because of that.

He knows the edges of my insanity better than I do.  He knows better than anyone which areas I excel at and where I went stagnant in childhood.  And he gives me the opportunity to build the normal skills I never did.  Things like seeing the difference between “the end of the world” and “Oh, this is fixable.”  And being able to learn from and laugh at my mistakes, rather than being completely humiliated by them and finding a place to hide from them until the shit-storm subsides.  And just being who I am, even if that means sometimes completely losing sight of reality for a minute.

But it’s not fair for me to keep putting Him through this.  I have got to get a handle on how I handle things that bother me.  If only because He is owner.  And I am slave.

I’m sorry I was such a bitch, Master.  You truly are my everything.

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  1. dweaver999
    May 31st, 2010 at 21:10 | #1


    I tuly believe that “getting one’s shit together” is highl overrated, and probably impossible for the vast majority of the world. For me, the sign of maturity is recognizing when you’ve screwed up and taking whatever steps are appropriate to make it as right as possible. It takes more than a simply, “I’m sorry,” to do this.

    For example, I recently caught one of my students cheating. They downloaded my solutions to a homework and put their name on it. Now, in my classes, homework is pretty insignificant, but cheating is very serious. I could have sought and enforced a XF grade, which is an official academic dishonesty notation in their official transcript (as well as a failing grade in the class). However, when confronted, she was genuinely remorseful and may well have not understood the gravity of what she did (ater all, I had posted the solutions). She admitted what she did and was willing to take whatever punative action I deemed appropriate. Thus, I decided to handle it “in house” as it were an make no entry into her permanent transcript.

    My point? What you described is just what my student did, taking responsibility for your own actions. Nothing better describes what it means to be a mature adult, in my opinion. Off the top of my head, I’d say Melon’s training of you is going just fine.


  2. June 3rd, 2010 at 07:10 | #2

    @dweaver999 Thanks. 🙂 I hope He agrees.

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