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Why’s being dependent on someone so damn scary?

September 29th, 2010

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Or not.

I have permission.  And I suppose I could still benefit from a break.  While I’m nowhere near as messed up today, there’s still that tiny twinge of what could totally turn into another all out panic attack, and the tears that have been flowing freely for a few days keep tickling the backs of my eyelids.  But I think we’ve got a handle on at least a part of the cause.  And M’s planning on getting things under control.  Or so He says.

Consistency issues are a constant theme in our relationship.  On both our parts.  One of us slips, and the other goes tumbling after them, as if we’re tethered at the hip and can’t resist.

Both of us have issues doing what we say we’re going to.  Both of us lose interest in something if we don’t see results rather quickly.  Both of us are entirely too hard on ourselves.

Both of us sees the other struggling, and instead of reigning things in, being more supportive, and clinging to the structure we both know I need, and He enjoys, we tend to take a step back.  Give each other space (or, in my case, give M a violent shove).  Let things slide even more.  And while that works for some issues, it tends to exacerbate others.

Like my complete lack of will to be a slave when I’m not being actively controlled.  Beyond, like, cooking and cleaning, anyway.

Last night, while we lay in bed, it occurred to me that there’s quite a bit I won’t do, can’t do, don’t know how to do, am not interested in doing without someone standing over me, and telling me to do it.  That sometimes, if there’s not someone in my life keeping me on track, I will flounder and, probably, just die.

I know how that sounds.  All melodramatic and pathetic.  And I honestly don’t know where it comes from.

My father’s the very definition of “go-getter”.  My mother, while not particularly ambitious, or overly intelligent, is responsible, motivated and independent.  Maybe it’s a product of being micromanaged growing up? Maybe it’s because I spend so much time worrying about who I am, and how everyone sees me, that by the time I get around to the stuff that matters, I’ve run out of brain cycles, and energy, and motivation, and the ability to stay on track? Who knows?

I was that kid in elementary, middle and high school, who knew all the answers, but never raised her hand, because her mind wandered while the teacher was talking, and she didn’t hear the question.  Who scribbled in her notebook all day, because she understood the homework the class has been going over for the past hour, and after the third or fourth time on problem twenty-four, she just couldn’t force her mind to stick with it.  Who’s gabbing in the back of her classroom with another kid who also understood the homework, and was bored.

And now? I feel stupid, and incapable, and helpless.  And that makes me scared, and uncomfortable, and angry.  And depressed.  Hella depressed.  I’m thirty fucking years old.  I should be able to take care of myself, damn it.

And so what? So what if I am dependent on my owner? Isn’t that what we wanted? What He’s fostered by keeping me jobless, and naked, and often chained?

But I feel like, while that’s all well and good, shouldn’t I at least be capable of functioning on my own, without someone telling me what to do all the time? And I’m not always sure that I am! Or maybe this is just the belief He’s instilled in me? I don’t always know, anymore, where I stop and He begins.

M’s initial response to that question was, “You have a hard enough time keeping yourself out of trouble when you try to think for yourself…”

I have no idea what the rest of that sentence was going to be, because I cut Him off.  “And that’s my problem.  I rest my case.” I said, with “Hallelujah! We agree on something!” echoing off the walls of my addled brain.

He asked me what difference it makes.  I’ll never have to take care of myself again.  He’s never releasing me, and the intent is for Him to find someone to take me if He goes before me.  Though He claims He’s too stubborn for death.

And maybe He’s right.

I mean, what difference does it make? He doesn’t care that I’m dependent on Him.  As a matter of fact, His exact words were, “I’m not interested in you becoming more independent, and I won’t allow it.  You’re never going to make your own decisions again.”

It doesn’t really bother me that I’m dependent on Him either, normally.  And the only reason it bothers me at all is because society likes to pretend it’s not “the norm”, when in reality, most couples are dependent on each other in so many ways.  Emotionally, financially, socially, sexually… It’s part of being a couple!

I hear ya.  “There’s a line, and both parties should be capable of functioning on their own to be healthy adults”

But who says so? I mean, if that’s not what M wants, and I’ve got no problem being dependent on Him, and I actually function better with Him guiding me through life, then really… What difference does it make?

I mean, sure.  The accomplishment is smaller.  He won’t deserve a huge pat on the back for making a person incapable of taking care of herself dependent upon Him.  But He’s not looking for a pat on the back.  He just wants a slave.

Probably, I’m making mountains out of molehills.  My backyard looks to me like the Adirondacks, but really, it’s just gopher holes and garbage.

And more likely than not, I’ve reached a point in my life where if I had independence thrust upon me by some awful tragedy, I would rise to the occasion.  I’ve been trying to pull myself out of this ginormous pit of self-deprecating quicksand and confidence-eating sandsharks for something like forever, and while it’s slow going, I’ve definitely made progress.

But in the meantime…

In the meantime, I need to relocate that place where I am content with just being a slave.  With being dependent on my man.  With being comfortable within my chains.  With being happy.  Cause I deserve to be happy.  We all do.  Regardless of our mistakes.

Schizophrenic conversations that I’m always having with myself.
I hear these voices in my head competing.  Maybe I could use a little help.
I still have schizophrenic conversations when there’s no one else around to hear.
I long for solitude and peace within me, void of all the anger and the fear.
So crawl inside my head with me.  And I’ll show you how it feels to be fucked up like me.
I’ll show you how it feels to be to blame like me.  Ashamed like me.


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