Telling Truths

After posting last night, after cuddles and forgiveness and panic over a mark… There was a general consesus that it was bedtime.

I picked up my phone.

I dont know what’s wrong with me. I don’t think I’m trying to be bad. I don’t think I’m trying to get in trouble. I just… do things.

I know I have ADHD, but I’m not usually this level of completely dysfunctional.

So Sir swatted me and took it away and sent me to brush my teeth.

I came out of the bathroom, Sir was helping SB in the other bathroom, I picked up my phone again.

Fifteen minutes later, Sir and SB come back in and if Sir’s expressions were words, this one totally said, “Really? REALLY?”

Sir took me downstairs and left SB to go to bed. There proceeded a very complicated and difficult conversation.

We both ended up in tears (me more than him by a lot!), we had a weird kind of argument that wasn’t really an argument it was just both of us going up against a wall, and neither one really knowing how to climb over.

It concluded with… me… winning? I guess. Sir agreed to just push as far as he could and see if I could break.

Not break my mind, or my will, or my… defiance? Break the wall inside my head. The apathy. The disconnected feeling – the feeling that nothing matters. Nothing is even real. Not until the moment the wood is hitting my ass does anything seem real, and then it stops again as soon as the pain does.

Sir is afraid that this is PTSD, dissociation, depression, ADHD, executive function – he shouldn’t punish me, if I literally can’t control myself. He shouldn’t punish me while I’m dissociated (altered state), he shouldn’t punish me when I’m depressed because the depression will be even worse when drop hits me.

He had good points.

Like. Really. Props to his psychology program. They did a good job.

I said, “But this is what works.”

And variations on those two positions played Pong for an hour.

Then we were both so exhausted and emotionally worn that some deeper truths started to come out…

Sir talked about feeling afraid and alone with how he is handling our relationship because my PTSD is so disrupted right now, and nothing about our dynamic is psychologically researched, documented. He feels like the only adult in the room (the room being the world) and all of these choices and responsibilities are falling on his shoulders with absolutely nothing to guide him and no one to confer with, at least no one with actual clinical knowledge and experience with PTSD and D/s and punishment.

I made some rational and salient points, but he was crumbling and I knew we were past the time for logic. But logic is all I have. If I let go of logic…

Abruptly I burst into tears, saying I was a terrible submissive and I should just obey and not put him in this position all the time and it is all my fault and he and SB should go live together somewhere away from me and that I completely understood why he’d want to leave…

I curled up in a crying ball so he couldn’t even respond to me.

See… logic is better.

He finally physically pried me away from the back of the couch and said that he loves me, he’s not leaving, SB isn’t leaving, and I’m not a terrible submissive, he likes me just the way I am.

Which is, of course, all lies. He had to lie because I manipulated him into it by having a meltdown and letting go of logic, so… It was lies.

But he said that he needs me to do something. Not be more obedient. Not be a better submissive. Something far, far more impossible than that.

He wants me to tell.

He wants me to tell my doctor and my trauma therapist and my psychotherapist.

He wants me to tell them when I’m getting in trouble. He wants me to tell them what I’m feeling. He wants me to tell them about the numb and the not caring. He wants me to tell them about the pain and the sadness and the uncertainty and his fears and his concerns and my… feelings.

He wants me to tell.

I came out to all three of them. Or, two of them, my psychotherapist told my trauma therapist about us (I’m still not sure exactly what she told…)

And last week, because Sir was stressed, I told my trauma therapist and my doctor that he… punished me.

I didn’t say much else, or talk about it, I just told them it happened because he threatened to suspend our contract if I wasn’t willing to talk about it with my doctors.

He says that isn’t enough. He says I have to work towards transparency. That I have to work towards being as comfortable telling them about that aspect of our lives as I am telling them about our camping trip, or fighting over setting up a tent in the rain…

He says he needs that from me. He needs me to work on my shame. He needs to know that I can talk about this, that I can share this, that there are other adults in the room, even if the science isn’t there. He needs more than the three of us monitoring. Aware.

He needs to know that I have a place to process if I’m struggling with my feelings toward him.

He needs to know that if my trauma takes over my brain and I start seeing him as an enemy, someone else will be safe to tell, because I won’t tell him. And I’m too good at being okay for him to trust that I’m okay.

He brought up the gun.

I tricked him.

I tricked my therapist.

I tricked my family.

Maybe I tricked myself.

I planned my suicide for over a month.

I found someone to sell me a gun.

I convinced him to teach me to use it.

I kept it in my car for weeks.

I drove to work with it.

I drove home with it.

I met with Sir, even though he wasn’t Sir then, four times, face to face, for hours. We had dinner and talked and cuddled and he never knew.

I went to therapy for weeks with a gun in my car.

I went to work for weeks with a gun in my car.

No one knew.

And I don’t even think I lied, which is what is most scary to Sir. I just separated the pieces of my mind and the gun lived in one piece and everyone else was living in another piece and independently both pieces of me operated almost unaware of each other.

It’s not that I… didn’t know I had a gun in my car when I went into therapy. It’s just… it didn’t enter my mind.

And I came as close to a successful attempt as I’ve come since… college.

And it scared the shit out of everyone.

And Sir says he trusts me. He doesn’t think I’d lie.

He just thinks I might separate the parts of my brain again and be fine to him, while some other part thinks dying is the solution to escaping him.

He thinks if I talk about… us… it is a layer of protection against that.

I suggested I write here every day instead.

Now, for those who know me, that right there was the biggest flag that my back is against a fucking wall. CHOOSING to write? Daily? I must be truly fucked to agree to that.

He says he’ll accept it only if I share it with all my doctors.

So… my psychotherapist has the address. She has shared it with my doctor and my trauma therapist. So…. already done.

He says that’s not good enough, I have to actively tell them or print the pages.

I think he should just beat me. That’s far less likely to cause me to panic.

I talked to SB about it this morning. He said, “But imagine a life without shame.”

I can’t imagine anything.

I can’t even imagine the pain when I pick up my phone again, for the third time, earning a third punishment, in as many hours.

My little mark from yesterday’s post is… stupidly inconsequential as today, I have full on bruises. Like… not just the little speckles, like, fully on splotchy, red, purple areas almost the size of my hand.

Sir held up his end of the bargain.

He was right, I never broke. But the wall shifted a little… enough that a little trickle of air is making it’s way over it now, and compared to smothering, that felt like a lot, today.

I won’t share pics of my ass.

You’re welcome.