poeticdesires

Category: Emotional

  • Jitters

    It hit me all at once.

    I was sitting downstairs, one of my textbooks open, my notecards to my right, along with my pen and sharpie.  I was cold; there is about a ten degree difference between floors in my house.  I was trying to focus, reading material I presumed would be covered during my first day of class and creating flashcards for any key concepts I suspected would be important.

    Class.  School.  Dedicated learning.  All over again.  Was I up for this?

    Worry and fear burst forth like a broken dam.  Maybe I wasn’t as smart as I used to be.  Maybe I wasn’t going to be that kid anymore.  The one who sets the curve.  The one who knows the answer.  The one who makes it seem so easy, makes it seem like their brain is a sponge for all the knowledge the teacher has to offer.  The one everyone hates because she’s that good.

    What if this, going back to college, setting myself on this path, is a mistake?  What if I crash and burn, fail horribly, laughably?  What if this is just a pipe dream, a flight of fancy, a waste of time, money, and energy?  What if it’s too late for me to be that woman in a lab coat, that person helping those people?  What if I got this all wrong?

    I thought about backing out.  I could drop my classes now with a full refund.  I could return my books, no problem.  I only purchased maybe $25 in stationary; no big loss there.

    But then I thought about work, about going back to my job knowing that was all there is, knowing my life would once again center around a profession I no longer loved, doing work I no longer cared for.  Yes, I would still have my writing, but I will always have my writing.  I knew my writing wouldn’t be enough to pull me from the doldrums sinking myself back into my work-abyss would cause.

    The thought of going back, of giving up, of not trying, hurt more than the fear and worry that held me as I sat in that chair staring at the pages of text I still had to read.

    Tomorrow is the first day of classes.  Whether I fall on my face or soar to the heavens, I’m going for this.  Whether I succeed or fail, shine or sour, I have to try.

  • Memories

    The first night of Rope Camp featured Midori’s Meat Market, a fun little event to introduce folks to one another and start the dialogue for play.

    After the get together concluded, I eased my way over to Rough.  He was showing off his Fat Ass Rope, and I wanted a taste of the experience.  I asked for the pleasure, and leaned myself over a nearby table.  Instead, Rough called me over to an open area.

    First he gave me a few whacks, which stung a bit and turned out were his warm up.  He then hit me hard on my back.  Then my ass.  Then my thighs.  And my chest.  I starting yelping and eventually wailing.  I fell to my knees.  In a moment of clarity, I took off my glasses and slid them across the floor towards a small group of friends.

    Rough continued to attack my back as I continued to cry.  He grabbed me, pulled me up to sitting, and wrapped the rope around my neck.  In a moment, his blood choke took hold.  I felt my muscles give way.  He released me before my eyes closed.  A bit of drool leaked from my lips.

    When I brought my head up, when he knew I was back, he began beating me again.  And blood choked me again.  And my muscles gave way again.

    He went for my inner thighs, one of my most sensitive spots.  He regretted not being able to hit my cunt.  His rope was natural fiber and I wasn’t wearing underwear.

    When he finished, I got up, thanked him, introduced him to NYRCherryBondage, and went back to chatting with friends.

    ~

    “Ha ha, I made you have feelings.” – an attendee at Midori’s Negotiations class

    ~

    Sometimes I like to fly under the radar.  I know intrinsically that’s not what’s happening, but in my sub-y mind that’s how it feels.

    Wednesday night a few of us had gathered on a porch for cigars and libations.  I sat in front of Gray and Rough as they smoked and talked.

    Rough’s feet rested on my right leg; Gray’s feet rested on my left.  I always had my torch at the ready, as well as a selection of cutters, boxes of wood matches, and a punch.

    They told stories.  Gray taught MissAmyRed about cigar service.  I sat and listened, content, the occasional small sip of strong Japanese whiskey on my lips.

    ~

    “I am the Dom and you will brush your teeth with your left hand this week.  Ha ha ha.” – Rough, during is D/s Roundtable

    ~

    Friday it rained.  And rained.  And rained.

    I’d wanted to wear my new red leather shoes, but I couldn’t abide getting them muddy.  I opted for my boots instead, which completely changed my outfit for the day.

    As the afternoon came, I decided to do something different.  I grabbed my newly purchased camp chair, took it outside under the pop-up, and pulled out my new voice recorder.

    In the rain, with the pitter patter of droplets above, I recorded a Fusion podcast.

    There was a breeze that made the day cool, blowing the chill of the rain towards me, under my cover.  Because the pop-up had been erected before the turn in the weather, the ground wasn’t muddy in my sitting spot.  I couldn’t help but be happy and bubbly, even as the drops continued to come down.

    ~

    “His desires are my priority and he is where I point my devotion.
    “I am his treasure and I am to be taken care of.
    “He is my King… my dragon.” – MissAmyRed, during Rough’s D/s Roundtable

    ~

    Ropetastic had pimped himself, as well as his two partners, during Midori’s Meat Market.  As per his name, I knew he was into rope.  And I wanted a rope scene.

    I happened upon him in the Barn.  Originally I was chatting with my friend Nomad.  She started spinning my LED poi to make herself feel better, so I took the opportunity to speak to a rope guy.

    As we conversed, I realized we were compatible for a scene.  Since we both had time at that very moment, we headed up to the Dungeon immediately.

    We chose a semi-private spot, what seemed to be a lounge room with a few couches but enough open space for us to work.  I stripped down to my underwear, as did he.

    I explained how I liked to be challenged, how I wanted something different besides normal rope forms.  He expressed a desire to explore ichinawa, which I was all for.  We began.

    He wrapped rope around me in asymmetrical patterns, twisting my body this way and that.  He did not make it pretty, but I loved the pain all the same.  He, at times, pulled on my hair, ran a shrimp deveiner over my skin, sucked on my nipples, and tickled my feet.  He rolled my body this way and that, changed his tie multiple times, added a second length of rope, and always kept me guessing.

    We only played for about thirty minutes, but when all was said and done, I felt high, full of erotic and emotional pleasure from being in his binds.

    ~

    “The greasy basement slave…the dirty basement whore.” – a talk on fantasy versus reality during Rough’s D/s Roundtable

    ~

    Friday night we pushed all three of our beds together.  Saturday morning I awoke to dragon cuddles before breakfast.

    ~

    “I want to be treated like a pile of gold.”
    “You want to be a heavy currency?”
    “I am valuable and worthy of protecting.” – an exchange between myself and Dov after a late night run to Waffle House

    ~

    I felt like a voyeur.  No, worse than a voyeur.  I felt like I was intruding.

    It was obvious there was a connection, a slow building of energy as they writhed on the mats.

    I hadn’t witnessed it all.  At times, I was lost in scritches, lost to the rest of the world.  Pulsing pleasure from my scalp kept my eyes closed, my head bobbing about, speech all but impossible.

    But when I came back, I saw them.  Saw the looks in their eyes.  Heard the yelp, the growl.

    I wanted to sit and watch more.  I didn’t want to look away.  That energy.  That pure energy beamed from the two of them.  And I was only, maybe, five feet away.  Had been there the whole time.

    But I did walk away.  Because I wanted them to have their moment.  Without an audience.

    ~

    “You have a natural ability for connection…You seek out people you can connect with.” – Delano, to me, during his Bottoms class

    ~

    He held the balloon away from my body.  I was dirty, filthy from the grim on the stage.  I don’t like stingy, but I take it for the person I’m playing with.  I take it.  And there was the balloon, tied around my chest, and stretched taunt, ready to snap against my skin.

    He held it.  And held it.  And brought it back without snapping it.

    “Really!?”

    He pulled it out again.  I cringed again.  This time would be for real, I just knew it.  This time the pain would come.  And then he brought it back.

    I laughed and hated him at the same time.

    He used a pretty pink dildo on me.  He beat me with a pretty pink dildo, which stung like hell.  He used a collapsible baton and a plastic rod, too.  He punched me and wrestled me about on the dirty stage floor, attacking my thighs.  But it’s the balloon I remember the worst.

    Talk about sadistic.

    ~

    “If you are open to learning, you are open to deeper experiences.” – Delano, during his Bottoms class

    ~

    I spun my poi in the dark.  Spun my poi away from the group sitting in camp chairs out in the chilly night air.

    I stood in the middle of the road.  A cart came by once; I moved.

    I spun my poi and soothed myself.  I accepted my feelings, accepted that was how I felt.  Acknowledged the sad little girl inside me.  Acknowledged what little power I had over the situation except what I did in that moment.

    I spun my poi.

    Then we went to Waffle House, I ate some food, and went to bed.

  • EMDR

    We started with a memory, a strong memory that incited a negative emotion.  I described the memory to Doc.  He had me close my eyes.  Travel back to that moment, back to those emotions, sit in those feelings.  The tears easily came.

    “How do you feel?”
    “Forgotten.  Not thought of.  Alone.”
    “On a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being perfectly fine and 10 being horrible, how do you feel?”
    “Um, it’s an eight.”
    “Okay.  Open your eyes.  Follow my fingers.”

    His hand dashed back and forth in my field of vision.  I tried to not concentrate too hard on his hands, just allowing my eyes to move.  When the time came, he brought his hand to center, raised and lowered it.  I closed my eyes again.

    I was relaxed.  I could feel myself sink into my seat.  I let my mind be, tried to allow whatever memories to come forth.

    I was at Hershey Park with my family.  It was the time I got lost in the middle of the crowd.  I was crying and frightened.  Alone.  Helpless.  Powerless.

    “Okay, let’s go with those emotions.”

    I opened my eyes.  His fingers moved in front of my sight.  My gaze followed.  Then came the gesture and I closed my eyes again.

    Now I saw my mother coming for me, finding me at the lost child station.  Riding on little kids rides even though I wasn’t a little kid.  And realizing I could remember nothing else from that day except getting lost and being found.  Feeling safe again.

    “Okay, feeling safe.”

    We repeated the pattern.

    The next time I closed my eyes, I saw a beach.  Hidden.  Deserted.  Three people.  Two guys and a girl and a hidden beach.  And the guys sleep with the girl, and I think that meant they cheated on their girlfriends.  But I couldn’t remember the name of the movie.

    “Y Tu Mama Tambien.”

    I giggled at that.

    Doc and I repeated the cycle over and over again for about twenty minutes.  Many random memories and images floated to the top of my mind.

    There was how I felt physically when I was sad: tense face, clenched teeth, the muscles in my shoulders.

    Safe in my bed at night with Tessie, my night light on, and snuggled under my comforter.

    Realizing how much the therapy felt like my erotic hypnosis with Gray.  Different stories of others erotic hypnosis.

    Back stroking through clouds.

    Intricate woodwork.  The back of the chair hanging on my wall.

    Aunties, Uncles, and Ella.  Me and them and Mom as a family, together.  And then each of the three of them dying, one by one.

    The insurance check after Ella passed.  Ella being gone, but somehow still helping me.

    Doc had me end on that imagine, those emotions.  He asked me to think back on my initial memory, travel back to the place where we started, back to those emotions.  And he asked me again, on a scale of 1 to 10, how I felt.  I was a four.

    Doc asked me to come back, opening my eyes when I was ready.  I gave myself the time and space to return, opening my lids, my gaze lowered, and gradually bringing my sight and consciousness up.

    Doc thought the therapy went well.  He felt it was great progress that I’d gone from an 8 to a 4 in only twenty minutes of work.  I acknowledged it was good, but he could see resistence in me.

    “Why do you think it worked?” he asked.
    “Well, you got me so relaxed, my body couldn’t tense up like it usually does when I tap into those emotions.  No physical reaction, so less emotional draw.”
    “I think your partially right, but it’s more than that.  Your emotions around the moment aren’t as strong currently, so you physically don’t feel it like before.”

    Doc gave me post therapy info about possible issues to come up.  I might remember random memories.  I might be overly emotional.  Though the memory is lessened now, that may not last.  He advised me to shower once I got home since toxins were released from my body.  And he encouraged me to attend another session, sooner than our normal turn around, for more EMDR.  I see him tomorrow.

    In the week since our session, the inciting memory has not come back with the same force.  I didn’t have any of the possible post therapy issues.  I did have a moment of the emotions behind the memory occur in a similar situation, but I dealt with my feelings just fine.

    I can’t deny that EMDR changed something in that moment.  Whether or not it continues only time can tell.

    If you’re interested in the science behind what we’re trying, here’s a link to the Wikipedia article.  The short version is it helps to develop the amigdula, which handles emotional processing.  The therapy has been used for soldiers in combat and post combat.

  • A Message, An Hour

    My father is in the hospital.  The first thought that ran through my head when I got the news was, My brother is such a douche bag.

    He left me a voice mail; I missed his call because I was at work.

    “Dad’s in the hospital.  He fell and broke his hip.  He needs surgery.”

    First off, you don’t leave news like that on a fucking voice mail.  You say something on the order of, “Please call me back when you can.”  Subtlety, it seems, is lost on my brother.  Instead, I was left thinking my father was in agony or worse.  Since it’s me, I went to some dark places.

    I happened to be working close enough that I could visit my Dad in between my gigs.  I was the only person there in his hospital room.  I forgot to ask if anyone else had come by before me.

    He was admitted yesterday.  He’d gone outside to turn off the pump to his pool, slipped and fell.  He was on pain meds and seemed to be just fine.  We chatted, just the two of us, and watched television.  I turned on the WiFi on his phone and explained how you transfer pictures to your computer, though his laptop wasn’t there.

    I leave on a plane for Seattle in three hours.

    Dad’s surgery is tomorrow.  I’ll call him afterwards, make sure he’s okay.  It’s only a partial hip replacement, thankfully.  His doctor thinks he’ll be able to stand and move around a day after the procedure.

    I still haven’t cried yet.  Once I got the news, I could feel the emotion welling up, ready to break.  But I was at work.  And Dad wasn’t dead, just hurt.  I did my compartmentalization thing.

    But I knew, if someone fucked with me, if my boss acted more asshole-ish than normal, I would probably lash out or loose my shit.  I’m glad neither happened.

    It was a simple hour, my sitting in a chair in my Dad’s hospital room, yet it was something my father and I had never done before.  Just the two of us sitting and chatting about nothing important in particular for such a long period of time.

    Often when I’ve visited someone in the hospital, the point of my time with them was to help relieve the loneliness and boredom.  I was disappointed I saw no one else there with him.

    I called my Mom after I left my Dad, told her the news.  And, of course, told her to call him.  I hope she did.  She worried that his wife would be there.  I worry that she found an excuse to not call him.  My Mom often doesn’t “want to be a bother”.  I often want to shake her.  She created a child with this man.  She is allowed to call him.  It is just a phone call.

    Funny, this incident marks both my parents suddenly in the hospital in less than six months.  And each instance coincides with my kink adventures.

    I know my parents are getting older.  Shit, my Dad is already old.  Eighty-three years old.

    I know there will come a time when I get that phone call, when my entitled little dipshit brother lets me know one of the worst things in my life has finally happened.  But, for now, it hasn’t happened yet.

  • Care

    ~ a story ~

     

    Something wasn’t right.  She knew as soon as she opened the door.

    It was the quiet.  It was never quiet when she arrived.  He always played music, usually something classical, though occasionally jazz piped through his sound system.

    And the smell was wrong.  He’d always have dinner almost ready.  There would be enough time for a drink.  Long enough for her to relax, ease herself back into their way.  Yes, she served him, but he knew how to take care of her: a warm dinner, a cool drink, and time at his knee to bring her back, bring them both back, to normal.  Their normal.  Their way.

    She gazed right.  The table by the door held his keys, tossed onto the wood instead of hung up on its hook.  His briefcase and jacket were thrown on the floor.  Something was very wrong.

    Then, she heard it.  His grunts.  But not in passion.  Not the way he grunted when he punched her, kicked her, or fucked her.  His breath carried no pleasure.  There was exertion without enjoyment.  And she heard another sound, a cushioned thumping sound.

    She sat her bag in the living room, as she always did.  Took off her coat, as she always did.  Put his keys on the hook.  Picked up his jacket and briefcase.  Walked to his study.  Laid the jacket across his chair, the briefcase on the desk.

    She followed the noise.  It came from the garage.

    And then she remembered.

    The garage held boxes, tools, and old gym equipment.  She grabbed a towel from the hall linen closet.  Walked through the silent scentless kitchen.  Acquired a bottle of water.  Opened the door to the garage.

    There he was.  Sweaty.  Angry.  Pummeling the punching bag.  It was red, old, taped over on parts.  Had lost some of its original cylindrical shape.  His hands were wrapped, at least.  He was mad, but not angry enough to hurt himself.  He wore his running shorts and tennis shoes.

    He was focus, hyper-focused, so much so that he didn’t notice her until he heard the sound of the door close.

    He looked up.  She saw the change in the muscles of his frame, on his face.

    “Oh, fuck.  What time is it?”

    “7:30, Sir.”  She walked towards him.  With grace, dropped to her knees.  Presented the towel and the water.  His shoulders slumped as he accepted them and sank into a nearby camp chair.

    “I’m so…”

    “It’s okay, Sir.”

    “I just.  Don’t.”  He protested as she crawled towards him, dust and dirt all over the floor.  She placed her head against his knee.

    “It’s okay, Sir.”  She closed her eyes.  Encircled her arms around his calf, her legs around his foot.  Her temple tickled with his sweat.  She scooted her crotch to his heel.  She nuzzled her head against his knee.

    And then she felt the familiar brush of his hand on her head.  And heard his sigh.

    It was her turn to take care of him.

  • DGG #17 Dirty Pig pt 2

    My fantasy, my moments, and my new reality.  The conclusion of my Dirty Pig experience.

    Time Jumps

    1:26 Prep for my fantasy
    2:40-5:18 TMI break: Grue Pitt 3 conversation – How to hack a period
    5:18 Props and planning
    6:23 Words of encouragement
    7:43 Setting the stage
    8:43 The performance
    13:30 Aftercare
    14:39 Tifereth’s fantasy
    15:54 The lull before the results
    17:06 The winner is…
    19:03 A perfect moment
    21:26 Congratulations
    21:59 Stefanos and space
    23:13 The rest of my night
    24:10 Rough realization
    26:23 Reflection

     

    listen to ‘017_DGG Dirty Pig pt 2’ on Audioboo

  • DGG #15 Fusion 2013 pt 4

    The pitter patter of rain fills the background as I chat more about my Fusion adventure (during a break in the middle of my Rope Camp).

    Time Jumps

    1:30 Boymeat
    5:29 Handfasting
    7:20 Rope with Bear (and a special appearance)
    10:03 Cigar Lesson
    11:14 Paying Dearly (canes with Gray & Rough)
    19:42 Warrior Kitten Memorial
    20:19 Poi Time
    22:00 My first bootblack shift
    23:38 Protocol Training with Shay & Stefanos
    24:35 Doug, the Dragon Girl, and our bootblack orgy

     

    listen to ‘015_DGG Fusion 2013 pt 4’ on Audioboo

  • Gifted

    Lee quieted the crowd.

    He said something about traditions in the leather community, especially the gift of leather.  He took back my sash (the harness) and my scepter (the butt plug).  He gave the microphone to Gray and stepped aside.

    My eyes watered.  I knew what was about to happen, but I couldn’t let myself believe it.

    Gray spoke.  He talked about our dynamic as Teacher/student.  About how proud of me he was.  How the highest hope for a Teacher is that their student will exceed past them.  How I had done just that on stage that night.

    He held leather gloves in his hands.  A pair of gloves he’d owned for a decade, bought in a store back in Wisconsin that didn’t exist anymore.  He spoke about how he had treasured the leather, taking it with him wherever he traveled.

    He turned to me, handed me the gloves, and hugged me tightly.

    It was all I could do not to cry.

    Sometimes there are moments in life where no script could exceed the brilliance of your reality.  I could not have imagined a more perfect way for that moment to occur.  And to think, I had had two of those moments in one night.

    As I held Gray’s gloves, now my gloves, in my hand I felt such joy and admiration, such pleasure that I had not only accomplished so much that evening but also done so in honor of my Sempai, who sat center of the judges’ table privately cheering me on.

    Lee returned my sash and scepter.  People came up to me and congratulated me.  I couldn’t move three steps without someone hugging me or patting me on the back or giving their felicitations.  And, of course, many spoke about my moment with Gray and my gifted leather.

    At one point, Stefanos stopped me.  He gave me space.  Got me to close my eyes.  And all he said, all he kept saying, over and over again, was “Let it go.”

    I breathed.  I cried.  I wailed.  I laughed.  I hollered.  I ended with a giggle.  And a look at him.  A thank you for giving me that space, that moment.

    As the crowd died down, I found myself back in Gray’s arms for a hug.  It was a big night for the both of us.

    Everyone drifted away eventually.  I wanted to head down to Carol Queen’s erotica reading circle.  Others had sex and play to get to.

    But, for one shining moment, I was on top of the world.  I was in the spotlight, nowhere to run or hide from it.

    And, for one year, I am the reigning Dirty Pig, real gifted leather to match my fake leather title.

     

    My Dirty Pig Experience

    – Pep Talk

    – The Rules

    – Introductions

    – Pop Question

    – Fantasy

    – And The Winner Is…

    – Gifted

  • Friday Night

     

    After my piss cherry was popped, my Friday night continued…

    ~

    We all gathered in a circle around our two friends as the handfasting was about to begin.

    I felt a bump in my right arm.  Looked to my side.  Saw Gray, dapper and handsome.  I slipped my arm into his.

    We stood side-by-side with many others witnessing a ceremony of love and devotion.  As our two friends joined their lives for a year and a day, my eyes watered.

    I wish them happiness and joy in their love.

    ~

    As our group dispersed, I walked over to D3.  My arm now wound into his grip as we leisurely strolled towards the Sex-o-Rama stage.

    There was about ten minutes before the burlesque show was to start when we arrived.  I saw the Dirty Pig judge milling about with the other performers.

    “May I make an introduction,” I asked him.  He said it was okay.

    I eased D3 over to the judge.  I could see the instant attraction between them.  My work was done.

    I stayed back, watched the first act of the show, then moved on to my next adventure for my evening.

    ~

    Bear laid on the same mat I had been on Wednesday night.  I worked under the same rig I’d been tied to that first evening.  Our scene had an altogether different tone, though.

    I wanted floor work; Bear just wanted to be in rope.  I bound their arms, legs, and moved their limbs this way and that.  I attached to the side eye bolts, turned their body about, and challenged their range of motion.

    All the while, I had a huge smile on my face because I could not stop talking about my time with Boymeat.  I raved about our initial encounter.  How he had read me so well.  How I had dropped to my knees to lick his boots.  Later dropped to my knees to suck his cock.  Had cum from his infliction of pain and the idea of him pissing on me.  I spoke about my cherry pop in the grass.  The grin on my face hurt from how big it was.

    But then, as I began untying Bear, there he was, slipping into the Dungeon from the side exit, the door right next to our rig.

    “My ears were burning,” said Boymeat.  Rightly so.

    He crept towards me as I loosed Bear’s ropes.  Gently tapped his cane against my leg.  Bear smiled.  I saw one or two people out of the corner of my eye observing my predicament.  My gregarious nature turned shy.  How much had Boymeat heard?

    I eased Boymeat out of the moment.  I still had rope to lay on Bear’s body, a different tie, a meditation my friend wanted.  Boymeat read me and slipped away.

    I tied Bear in an Ebi.  Took them to the place they wanted.  Then released Bear’s body, hugged them in gratitude for the experience, and we parted ways.

    ~

    I dropped off my rope kit, grabbed my cigar accoutrement, as well as my netbook, and headed down to the Pavilion.  I was late.

    When I arrived, she was still there.  I apologized profusely; explained my scene ran long.

    We sat on a bondage table.  I opened up my computer and started talking.

    We heard the crowd before we saw it.  A fire breather announced their arrival.  The mass followed his flame down towards Primal Arts.  She looked on.

    And then we heard the boom.  The fireworks burst in the air.  I could see the look on her face.  Could see the need in her eyes.

    “It’s okay,” I said.  “Go.”

    She ran towards Primal.  I packed up my things and went about my evening.

  • The Mask

    “Stop.”
    “Dammit.”
    “Feel that. Whatever you are feeling right now. Just sit with that emotion.”

    I didn’t want to. I was reading my homework for Doc. A few pages typed into my netbook. Very honest words to myself. My pace was measured. I tried to put on my writer-ly voice.

    But then I got to two lines. Two deep lines. I hoped he wouldn’t notice. He did.

    “Close your eyes. Imagine the emotion. How do you see it? Perceive it? What does it feel like? What does it look like? Try not to qualify it as good or bad. Just be curious about it. And just sit for five minutes with it.”
     
    I felt it in my face. Tense. Constrictive. From my eyes down to my lips. Curving almost under my chin. Pressure. Pain.

    It was a mask. Shiny and red. Beautiful, if I didn’t know where it came from. It was angular, asymmetrical, with ridges and valleys that gave it depth. Drew in your eye. It was a primary red, but not one color. It melded into darker shades, but always came back to the true blood hue.

    It pushed down on my top lip. Constricted my breathing. Covered my nose. Palmed my cheeks. Squeezed my face tight. Swirled around an eye. Rested where my third eye would be.

    It reminded me of a dark masquerade adornment. Like something I would wear with layers of black and spiked heels. Or with no layers at all.

    I didn’t want to stay with the mask. But this was Doc. So I trusted that I needed to feel this. I kept repeating the lines over and over again. I kept myself in that place, mostly. Tears streamed silently down my face.

    Doc gave me space to come back. Open my eyes when I was ready. I described the mask to him. Noted how it was probably symbolic of something. He put that thought aside.

    Instead he noticed my change in demeanor. My voice was lower. Distant. I wasn’t vibrant any longer. I’d wiped away my tears already. Blown my nose. Tensed up my shoulders. Hunched over.

    I was protecting myself. Pushing that feeling away. Like I always do. Whenever I really feel it. Whenever I delve into hurt or pain or anguish or grief. When I stop the tears, I shut away the emotion. I was trying to protect myself from myself.

    I was compartmentalizing. I’m really good at that.

    Doc handed me a piece of paper. It was a long list separated by three categories. Doc asked me to read the list and pick which statement fit me most. I read.

    Maybe.

    Kind of.

    A little bit. 

    “Huh,” I scoffed.

    I couldn’t even remember the other possible statements. The one I read, the last one I read, was so perfect.

    “I can’t get what I want.”