It’s strange. I look back in my folder of all the things that are Him and I end up crying. I’m not sure why I am crying anymore. I fought so hard to get away and I succeeded. I should be celebrating, be happy. For the most part, I am. Mostly, I’m not stressed out. Until I open that folder and read. Then I weep. It threatens to drown me even still. And I opened that folder today and read.
I remember the terror I felt and still feel from reading his words. I couldn’t communicate that properly. It felt larger than life, realer than real and it was wrapped in confusion. On one hand, it was erotic and a bit of a turn on and yet the other was a terror that wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t reconcile the two. Reading it now, maybe the fear was the erotic element. I know the physical reality would be disastrous.
I keep going over one scene, one where I was instructed to crush my nipple and masturbate at the top of the hour for the whole day. Ended up about eight hours, so eight times. By the end of it, I could have cheerfully killed him. I was angry and in pain. For most folks, it may have been a walk in the park. I have limitations and this one is in my arms. My tendons are too tight, too short with limited flexibility. I am unable to crawl on my hands due to them, unable to type at professional speeds and even a light masturbation session leaves me in tears due to my arms screaming in pain. Through some kind of bravado, I completed the task assigned but my tongue was rather sharp, rude and cutting. I still have no pride in that accomplishment.
I don’t understand why he wanted me to focus on being happy that I accomplished the task or that I made him happy for doing so. I don’t understand why I was admonished for feeling the pain. I can transform most pain into something else, either I do not feel it anymore or I can turn it into something erotic but there is a limit to it. Some pains cannot be transformed and this one, I couldn’t do anything with. I had, through the process, transformed the pain but in the end, I had no choice but to feel the full effects of it. Oh, I found my physical limit that day! Both arms ended up swelling and needed ice packing. The next few days I was left with limited mobility and pain that lasted a while.
There’s no pride there for me. None. I have no desire to be covered in bruises. If anything, I’ve spent most of my life avoiding bruises of all kinds. I don’t even like hickeys and it was fighting words if a boyfriend ended up giving one to me. It deserved a punch in my book because I was clear I don’t like them and they weren’t to be done. And I did punch back when it happened.
Looking back, some of the most painful things he said, kinda blames me for him leaning towards treating me harshly, as if I was a masochistic slave. Like he’d say, paraphrasing here, ‘he didn’t know why, he’s not normally like this, but with me, his mind drifts to darker places’. I remember clamming up, unwilling to talk and to share my thoughts and fantasies least he uses them against me. I would only answer a direct question but I no longer volunteered information.
I think when I look back and cry it’s because I know I gave my all, did things that were so far outside the norm for me, became something I no longer recognized and all I had sought was being given to someone else and I felt abused and couldn’t shake it. Agreement or not, slave or not, I felt abused. And even that confused me, scared me. He once told me that if I ever felt trapped then it would be over. But the thing was, I had felt trapped from the beginning and was fighting that feeling with everything I had. I kept my mouth shut. Every time I attempted to express it didn’t go right and I ended up being told it’s my fear that was holding me back and that I needed to embrace it, embrace this like it was a process that had a happier ending at the end. I believed him.
I lost something with him that I had cherished. I had believed I was a slave, someone who was happiest being directed and told what to do, how to be and how to live. I’m not sure I can be one. I’m not sure I have the personality of one anymore. Though this all, I’ve discovered the saddest two words ever; ‘If only..’. If only, he’d stop hurting me. If only, he cared. If only, I could make him see what he was doing to me. If only, I could be a better slave to him maybe he’d stop hurting me. If only, if only I knew what to do. I did know what to do as it turns out; run. So I ran. So I fought. So I wore him down. So he let me go. So now I stand without yet looking in.