A recent letter from a far away friend got me thinking.
As a mostly positive person, I tend to shy away from the aspects of myself I do not like. I’ve spoken about the undue pressure I put on myself, as well as my tendency to compare my life to others. I think, since I have talked about what I love about me, it’s time to talk about some of the things I like less about myself. (I am not fool enough to think these are my only flaws, just the ones I can think of right now.)
I suppose it is a cliche that I am a cis-gendered woman and have Daddy issues. But, to be fair, I did grow up in a situation that lent itself to this flaw.
I am the product of an affair, and never actually lived with my father. One of my half brothers did, a fact that rocked me to my core when I learned it. My mind took the leap that I was not good enough, not loved enough by my father to have earned this privilege. It didn’t help that he was, and is, a man who lacks the ability to freely talked about his emotions and express his feelings.
Later I learned the living situation was due to certain issues in my brother’s life. And, as an adult, I have grown closer to both my father and my brother. Yet still, it lingers. That feeling of not being good enough. Of not being loved enough. Of being less than.
This has migrated and morphed into a sense of insecurity around myself in general. When someone I like doesn’t like me, I don’t make the logical conclusion that we just didn’t click. Instead I think that I’m not pretty enough, not funny enough, not submissive enough, not anything enough.
And I go into the blue donut of doom, and Green Eyes cackles at me, and no good happens from these moments.
Accepting my body
I’ve been larger than average for as long as I can remember. My mother is a very large woman and I grew up with her as my model. I ate my portion, thinking it was bad to leave any food on the plate, even if I was stuffing myself. My mother was very sedentary, often spending her weekends in front the television and doing little else. There was a time, as a child, where I craved physical play, but the neighborhood we moved to was less than ideal and my time outside was stopped.
Later on in life, while in college, I was so broke I spent only $10 a week on food. I often asked my friends if they were going to finish their meals. Food had become a commodity to me. I lost a lot of weight my junior year in college, so much so that people in my major noticed. But this was not a healthy way to do so, seeing as I was on the razor’s edge of starving.
Now I know when things are going well in my life because I am not hungry, and I can, and do, eat when I want. Unfortunately, it is also when I gain weight.
That year in college found me at my lowest weight since the middle of high school. From then on, I’ve gained thirty pounds. Ideally, I’d want to find my way back to that body and that weight, just not in that way.
When I look in the mirror, sometimes I see my beauty. Other times, I feel angry, or sick, or worse pathetic. I know I’ve done this to myself and just want to scream.
I ate because it was comforting. I ate because it was pleasurable. I ate because I could.
Recently, with my new found need to be physical six days a week, I eat because I’m hungry. I eat because if I don’t I get dizzy when I run. I eat because I need to.
Yet still, when I look in the mirror, I can’t always be happy with what I see.
Burying my Domme
There is a side of me that I’m nervous, and almost afraid, to let out.
My Domme persona has not been nourished near enough for my satisfaction.
It is easy for me to drop into my sub space. It’s what I know. DeepEnd put it best when he said it can be like a mental vacation. Other times, it is allowing my emotional pain to manifest itself in my body. Often times, I am their for others, to serve them in whatever way they need.
But, when I am a Domme, when the mean little brat gets to romp around, I get nervous.
She likes being mean. Like really really mean. She likes laughing at other people’s pain. She loves toying with their bodies like they were her toys. She loves pushing them til they break. And though I know I shouldn’t, I fear what that means about me, what that makes me.
So I bury her. She gets little food other than watching scenes, some fucking, and occasional fantasies.
And I know this is wrong. I know I shouldn’t push this part of myself aside, that I should embrace her and feed her needs. But I have yet to find a way to allow myself to go there, to truly sink in deep and gallop around in my darkness.
And I don’t know how get there either.
Categorised as: Wisdom
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