Planting the Seed.

Master is gone and I have FAR too much time on my hands so my apologies if I make no sense whatsoever.

I suspect I’m being manipulated, but Master is very good at it, and it’s very subtle and it’s just subtle enough that I’m not sure.

It all started with my favorite color. Master tells me all the time my favorite color is blue. Very matter of factly. I think I used to correct him.

Master: I bought you a new dress. It’s a blue one because I know blue is your favorite color.
me: Well I like blue but it’s not my *favorite* color. But thank you for the dress!

~~

Master: I was thinking I’d get a new area rug for the living room. What do you think about a blue one? I know blue is your favorite color.
me: Blue is nice. That would be pretty. I do like blue.

~~

me: what is my favorite color?
Master: Blue.
me: Oh. Okay.

~~

Now that’s not word for word of course. So last night, Am and I were at the store browsing through clothes. I held up a shirt, a blue one, and Am wrinkled her nose at it. “Don’t buy that one,” she said. “It’s ugly.”

“No it’s not. It’s my favorite color.”

But… my favorite color didn’t use to be blue. However, as I mentally sift through the rainbow, I cannot pinpoint what color it was. I focus on hunter green which used to be the color theme of my living room, pre-Master, so it must have been one I liked but if I were to say hunter green was my favorite color, it feels incorrect.

Red or maroon colors dominated my wardrobe once upon a time, but they don’t anymore. Blue does.

Periwinkle is a gorgeous color. I do like it, but I think I just like the word itself.

But I KNOW it was not blue. It was not. Everyone likes blue and I never do what everyone else does. It was mint green or burgundy or lilac purple or misty rose. It was not blue.

I KNOW blue is not my favorite, but I’ll be damned if I don’t gravitate toward blue-colored purchases. I’ll be damned if I’m not proclaiming that blue is my favorite color simply because he keeps telling me it is. I’m starting to believe it.

Sneaky bastard.

I think he does this all the time.

manipulate – verb
1. influence or control shrewdly or deviously

I can remember way back as a teenager going through therapy after the abuse came out. I was in the room with my doctor and my mother. The doctor had just finished giving my mom some details of the very early abuse that I had talked about. My mother was denying some of the details as being possible. The doctor finally got exasperated and said “Look lady. It doesn’t matter if YOU believe it. SHE believes it. So to her it’s very real, and she still has to deal with it as if it were real.” And I remember right then doubting my own memory for the first time. What I remembered as happening in my very early childhood remained, for me, doubtful, all the way until my own memories were confirmed by the admission of the abusers.

So I think I’m very easily led by planting seeds of doubt and replacing them with other “truths”. The more he continues to reiterate what he says happened, the more I “remember” it as he explained it. The more he leads my thoughts, confirming them as I go, the more I accept it as fact, as the way it’s always been. I find myself asking HIM things about ME all the time.

Do I like french dressing on salads, Master?
No, baby, you don’t.
Okay. What do I like?
You like ranch.
Oh.

You love these black clamps, don’t you, cunt?
Actually I think they hu-
You love them. You told me so.
I did?
Last time we used them you said they felt great. They feel good, don’t they?
Yes Sir.

(and I shit you not, anytime he tells me to go get the clamps I love I grab those black fuckers. And they really do hurt! Those are the ones that caused the bloody nipples the other day. But I grab those clamps and I think to myself “these are my favorite clamps in the whole wide world, yes indeed! they really are!”)

I used to hate fishing. I used to hate camping. I used to hate the feeling of being held down, snug against another body, suffocating in their body heat, invading my personal space.

He takes me fishing over and over again. Each time he says “you love to go fishing with me, don’t you, cunt?” until my responses switch from “Meh. It’s okay I guess” to where I am now the one to suggest that we go fishing/camping/snuggle on the couch until I can’t breathe.

I used to love romantic comedies. I used to love tear-jerking dramas like Beaches. I wouldn’t sit through a Rambo movie if you paid me. Now what do I pick out when Master suggests I go get a movie? Die Hard. Alien vs. Predator.

I dunno. Maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t there. Maybe I’ve stumbled upon the Great Master Secret of Manipulation and now that I know it won’t work anymore. I’ll be cast out as a traitor, untrainable, unusable.

Maybe I should go clean the house…lol

Because I love to clean. Master said so. ;-)

~cunt

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