I’ve backspaced over a few starts already, trying to find some analogy that fits. From a boat taking on water, to a cracked house foundation, to the over-used and tiresome car maintenance analogy, but nothing is sounding right.
So I’m just going to write my story as it comes to me. It’s not likely going to be pretty or funny or flowery. It might be angry, or ugly. It will be honest.
I shut down the blog (and deactivated fet) because I was feeling raw and vulnerable. With as much as I have shared over 9 years of blogging – by my own hand, admittedly, and usually something I enjoy and find a very positive undertaking- this place can sometimes feel a lot like standing naked in front of an open window.
Only I can’t see out. It’s one-way glass and all I see is my own murky reflection. I can’t see who is looking in. I don’t know if you’re friend or foe. And if I’m not particularly fond of the murky reflection I’m seeing, and if I’m feeling exposed and weak, then I want to shut the curtains.
There have been over 8 million views here. I’ve made over 2,500 posts, and there are over 50,000 comments. I average, 3, maybe 4, rude comments/emails/messages a week. Not bad odds, considering. On a good day, that occasional comment is nothing. I read it, I roll my eyes, I delete it, and I forget it. On a bad day, though, it can feel like a knife in the gut.
And I was having a bad day.
Hell, I was having a bad week. A bad month- a bad few months.
Like that’s a newsflash. I really suck at pretending things are great when they aren’t. I did try, though. I tried really hard to find the silver lining, I tried to listen to the people who told me it would smooth itself out. I tried to be positive and pro-active.
There was just so much shit.
So. Much. Shit.
I had (have) so much anger and resentment over this move and the repercussion it has had on the other people in our lives. Which have been many, and harsh, and unfair.
I have so much guilt over this move. Guilt over leaving my kids. Guilt over moving farther away–rather than closer to–my aging and increasingly unhealthy parents. Guilt over the pets that I had to disrupt.
And then I have so much guilt over being so angry. How can I justify being so angry over something that’s clearly made him incredibly happy? What kind of person- what kind of wife, what kind of slave(!!) begrudges her owner his happiness?
Hasn’t he put in his time, sacrificed and given and provided for, gone to the ends of the earth and back when it was never his obligation to do so. Hasn’t he earned this change to this easy, comfortable, laid back existence?
He’s almost 50, you know. 48 on his next birthday. Not exactly an old man but… old enough that he felt the toll his last job was taking on his body.
Old enough, wise enough, to know life is too short to be unhappy.
He swore to me when we moved the last time that he wouldn’t make us move again until the kids were out of school. He kept that promise. He fulfilled his end of things, and I was- I am – incredibly grateful for everything he’s done for me and our kids. The grandkids, too, as we all remember how difficult that situation was.
He put himself first, finally, and it was high time he did. Understandable that he did. I really was completely on board in the beginning.
And it was my place, you know? I was just the slave, not his partner, not his equal, not the one he needed to consult or convince or placate or soothe. Just the bitch who needed to be told what to do.
Plus, there was his assurance that it was our time now. It was going to be the time to make our fantasies a priority, to make them come true. Time to focus on us, on everything that we’d had to put on hold for the last decade. He dangled that carrot and reignited the fires with his words and his promises.
That’s what got me through pushing my last kid out of the nest (literally. Like.. literally.) and then moving thousands of miles away. That’s what got me through selling or giving away most of “my” stuff. From kitchen stuff to clothing to holiday items to toys to furniture to… yada yada yada. The animals, saying good bye to my kids, my parents, my friends, my home, the plans we’d made, the work we’d done…
And moved here.
Did you know that the size of Upper Michigan is roughly 16 square miles and the population of that entire area is just over 300 thousand. The population of the little area we lived and stayed within is just over 20,000.
Houston, on the other hand, is roughly 8 square miles and has a population of 2.1 MILLION. While we’re not in Houston proper, but on the western edge of it, it’s still culture shock to the Nth degree.
I like living rural. I liked privacy and quiet and solitude. Which was another thing that he used to dangle in front of me. The many uses that solitude had when it came to matters of nefarious purposes. The many things he said we would do there, could do there.
But he wanted to move, so we did.
To this place that isn’t mine. Where nothing fit and nothing felt right and nothing was the same and I missed my kids and I was (am) eaten up with guilt and sadness.
To a kink community that is huge (HUGE) and that I don’t feel like we fit into.
The only thing I had here, the only reason I came here, was him. What I clung to and counted on was everything he’d talked about, the chance to live out that dream and do all the things we couldn’t do before.
And he promptly lost it.
Lost the urge, lost interest, lost the need. He was happy doing other things, things that didn’t involve me at all. All he wanted from me was a glass of water now and then.
Anything else that happened of a kinky nature was something I asked for, something I instigated, something that I even went so far as to nag for and bitch about.
Otherwise he completely and utterly ignored me.
And maybe, as a slave, being ignored- not needed, not wanted- is something I should be able to swallow. My place, etc., etc.
And maybe I could have- WOULD have- if all that other stuff ~flaps hands above~ hadn’t literally JUST happened, if being a slave wasn’t the ONLY thing I was clinging to.
And maybe if his reason for disappearing was something more legitimate than what it was, something a little understandable to me. I mean, I’m an adult, I know people don’t get everything they want when they want it, and especially as a slave when it’s been preached and drilled into me that it’s not about me or about what I want, that my needs are deprioritized.
You can’t go about making yourself THE priority, ensuring that you are the ONLY thing a person has left in their life- and then shut them out.
Or at least you can’t do that without repercussions.
I feel like I tried. I feel like I did everything within my power- which, by the very nature of what he’d been building for the last 10 years is limited- to fix it.
I communicated. I asked over and over again what I needed to do to make it better/easier/more/less/anything. And he assured me that I was doing nothing wrong, that nothing was wrong, that everything was GREAT.
And that, my friends, was the end of my “power”.
You might be thinking, well jeez, kaya. You’ve only been there for a few months. Give the guy a break. Right?
Sure. You might be right.
Trust me, I told myself the same thing.
Maybe if he would have recognized the problem. Maybe if he would have said “Be patient, cunt. I know, and I’ll get to it as soon as I have my shit settled.” Maybe if he’d have given me a morsel of hope, a crumb to tide me over, acknowledgment of what was wrong.
But he didn’t. What he presented was that everything was as it should be, everything was perfect, everything was exactly as it was going to be.
He was deliriously happy. He was PERFECT. Everything was PERFECT. His life was PERFECT.
And i was absofuckinglutely miserable.
I don’t think I’m properly expressing the level of nothingness that was happening here.
N O T H I N G.
I didn’t have to follow rules. I didn’t have to clean the house. I didn’t have to ask for anything. I didn’t have to cook. We weren’t having sex. We didn’t talk. We didn’t spend time together. There was no kink. The toys weren’t used.
I wasn’t used.
Unless I came to him and said, sir, please, would you [fill in the blank] with/to me today? and maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t, but it was always and only if I asked for it. If I didn’t, all the better, because his giving me what I asked for was hurried, uninterested, and obviously him doing it to shut me up.
Because when you’re a slave and a masochist, that scratches the itch, right?
I could, and did, sit on the couch and do nothing all day long- nothing at all- not get dressed, not make dinner, not pick up anything or do the dishes or brush my hair or do ANYTHING- I could sleep all day (and did, more than once)- inform him that I was ordering pizza for dinner- and repeat that for days on end
and he didn’t care.
he’d flit around telling me how fucking HAPPY he was, how wonderful everything was, how great life was
while I died a little more inside, every day.
I would yank myself up by my bootstraps, pull on my big girl panties, and follow the old rules, clean the house, cook dinner, make myself look pleasing and be pleasant and proactive and all of those things that used to matter
he’d flit around telling me how fucking HAPPY he was, how wonderful everything was, how great life was
You see? It didn’t matter either way.
Do it or not do it, he stopped caring. He was so involved in this other thing, this other hobby, that all he wanted was for me to leave him alone. To not make waves. To not need anything from him.
I gave him that.
Indifference is a murdering bastard in an M/s relationship.
And I gave it back as good as I was getting it.
The final straw that broke the camel’s back (for me) was when he didn’t want to go get groceries with me.
Which sounds so incredibly stupid all by its lonesome, not even a ripple on the surface under normal circumstance with a normal couple. (It *was* a ripple for us, in the old days, sending me to the store alone, though, if you remember)
His decision to send me off to the store by myself was him handing me the last shred of my freedom that he’d been holding onto. That had been, literally, the one and only thing we still did together, my fear -still- of the crowds and the traffic here, and he’d go with me, offering safety and familiarity just by being there with me.
I’m not even going to apologize for being a ninny. This was something else that he’d spent years creating, reinforcing that dependence and that fear, shopping without him could be an anxiety-inducing event on a good day, so this- doing it here in this city and with everything else going on, feeling so vulnerable and alone and scared and hopeless and then
then he just tossed that last thing at me, so nonchalantly. Just… here, go. take it.
That is what I felt to be true, and I sank and sank and sank, like an exhausted swimmer who’d been handed a cement block.
And when I struggled one last time to the surface and tried to give him that weight, that heavy heavy weight that was taking me under, he exploded and threw it back at me.
It was my fault. I was in the wrong. The demise of our M/s was on me. I hadn’t done enough, hadn’t tried hard enough, hadn’t made it interesting enough or pleasing enough to keep his attention and it was because of me that he’d found something else to occupy his time.
I was too much work, needed too much input, couldn’t just follow the rules and be happy.
Couldn’t just let him be happy.
That’s where we are.
Personally, I say he quit on me months ago but since I’m the one who had the balls to say the words, it was me who quit.
~shrug~ Whatever. I can shoulder that.
It’s not supposed to be this hard. This is something that is supposed to make us happy, it’s supposed to be fulfilling and feel good and be fun.
I don’t know where we are going from here. I don’t know who I am or what I am or what I want anymore.
I don’t know what I’m doing here.
It’s been a few weeks since everything “went down”. All we know is that we’re not splitting up.
Neither of us are content being vanilla, but I’m not willing (ready?) to go back to his (new) version of M/s. I suspect the only thing he’s missing is being waited on. That’s not enough for me.
I won’t go back, not just because we hit a bump in the road because I know that happens, but because of everything that was said, the way the blame was handed down. I told him he was the general blaming the troops for losing the war. My faith is shaken- my faith in myself and in him, my trust is damaged. He was behind the wheel but I crashed us. Apparently I’m not the slave I believed myself to be.
So, it’s a lot to take in. A lot to figure out.
For the first time in a decade I have a choice in what happens next.
I have a voice.
I just gotta figure out what I want to say.
EDIT TO ADD:
There are two sides to every story. Obviously, I can only give my side because it’s the only one I know. He’s free (and welcome, because I’d like to hear it, too) to come here and write out his side if he wants to. I’m not trying to make him look bad and if I’ve done that here, then that’s one more thing I’ll feel guilty about. I have, though, presented this as I felt it, told what I thought and what I feel.