A recent conversation with a blogging friend has made me realize just how obsessed I am with explaining myself. I find myself constantly unable to share something without needing to link it to all parts involved. By itself, it is too embarrassing and shameful for me to face. By itself… out of context… what would someone else think.
When I think about it, I realize that this falls at the root of my obsessive need to understand myself. This is why I feel so unsettled if I don’t understand an aspect of personality or my submission. I need to know “why” I am how I am. There needs to be a reason.
In most cases, the reasons are outside of my control. This makes me fear that I may be attempting to subconsciously control the narrative. I explain it in such a way that the reader can understand the process of being and connect the dots in front of them so that they can sympathize with my situation. My narrative makes me into the victim and the outcome was beyond my control.
I cannot accept how I am unless it was beyond my control.
Occasionally I encounter someone with the ability to see through me. They parry the smoke and mirrors and avoid my misdirection before carving straight into my core. They see what I am and don’t care about the reasons. They see the truth that I am terrified to face.
I am so afraid of being pathetic that I cannot mention something that turns me on without rational explanation of where it comes from. Within context, I am acceptable. Take that context away and I am truly pathetic. This makes me want to cover my face and hide from the world.
The Dommes I have served have prevented this. They have pulled my hands away both figuratively and literally, restraining them when they had to. They have forced me to look at myself in the mirror both figuratively and literally, without the cloud of context to protect me. They have forced me to see the face of the pathetic boy that I am and watched me tremble and sob when faced with the truth of myself. They wanted to see how truly pathetic I am, which in turn, allowed me to let go.
Who else would own me but them? Who else would want me but them? Who else would keep me but them? “No one.” The words would fall from my lips as I trembled and twitched, nodding with them to show them that I understood. If I hesitated for an instant, she would ask if she needed to take me to the mall all dressed up and have the lady shoppers remind me of the answer.
The bombardment of truth would continue. On and on, the trembling would increase each time I answered back and nodded. This was my mental training. It would continue until I would break and burst into tears. This was the sign that I knew everything she said was true to the core of my being. This was me being put in my place. I knew that I was hers… and I loved her for it.
While choking back the tears she would remind me that this is how she wanted me. This state was the only time I was allowed an orgasm. My only sexual pleasure happening only after I could accept the truth… uncolored by context. I lived this way for years.
What I have learned is that context is a privilege. Revealing myself with context is just as honest as doing so without it. Removing it is just so terrifying… but it affects me so deeply.