As I sit down to write, I’m listening to Crazy Train, always appropriate for me, as is Red Ryder’s Lunatic Fringe. If you can’t fix it, I say, feature it. For example, I’m just an inch shy of six foot, but I’m only that tall in my apartment. In the world I add heels, preferably three or four-inch heels. I’m also honest, which is not to say that I lack tact, but I definitely feel there are situations where tact is overrated. Blame it on my upbringing if you like, raised as I was by women whose opinions were never in question. But tonight, I don’t have much to say. Since I can’t fix that, it’s tonight’s feature: Me unpacking my brain.
I have found myself musing about what the last three blogs have brought me, namely a door to previously hidden worlds. I am, I swear to God, a woman who by nature does not talk about her sex life. You don’t believe me, okay, but I assure you it has always struck me as unseemly to share those private details. I can and do talk about absolutely anything, but when it comes to sex, I’m a doer. No need to talk. And technically speaking, I still haven’t talked; I wrote. After the last three blogs, however, I found myself in a conversation about SMB. Yeah, I could only figure out two of the letters, too: Sadomasochism Bondage. Okay. More interesting to me was discovering that these forms of sexual expression are rather intellectual in nature: the talking, the planning, and for all I know, blocking out the scene the way actors do in preparation for what is to take place. It’s quite intricate, this kind of sex. And mostly hidden.
But here’s what really fascinated me. My new SMB friend says, “I was surprised to see that Thomas is a sub.” QUE? A submissive. Okay. So I asked him how he knows this. Eight little words: I like to be told what to do. And then it hits me. So this is what the shaman has been trying to tell me!
You didn’t see that one coming, did you?
I’ve been working with a shaman for five months now, give or take, and among other things, his work entails helping me to deconstruct my energetic being so that we may rebuilt it on a more solid and self-aware foundation. No, I am not making this up. For five months now, the shaman has been telling me that I am submissive in all aspects of my life, far more than I realize. Okay. I’m there to learn. And unlearn, apparently. But last night it became crystal clear. I am so very good at assimilating, at taking on the color, tone, and texture of those around me, at making things work, that I have made a life out of being of, from, and for others; they are the ground of my being.
As you might imagine, those of you who know me through this blog or any of my other SM accounts, this comes as something of a surprise to me. (Gotcha! SM is social media this time.) I have a strong personality, strong opinions, and pretty much a commanding attitude in all things. No one can dress down a dismissive doctor like I can. I’m good at it. But truth be told, I got good at it because the people I love needed me, and I would rather die than fail them.
Look at that. I haven’t asked, but I’ll bet that’s a textbook definition of submissive.
So, I’m sitting at my computer a little dumbfounded right now. It’s looking like the only thing that was ever truly mine is writing, for that is the only part of my life in which I’ve always followed my own lead no matter what I was told. What’s my confirmation of that? The moment my parents realized that I wasn’t just a kid scribbling stories but could in fact write things that challenged even them, my mother said the obvious: So you want to be a writer, then. You could make good money writing . . . . . and that’s when I quit listening. I hid my ability until I was long away from home. I studied. I practiced. My husband and professors were the only readers I allowed, and eventually I had to stop showing them as well. I had a clear vision, but they couldn’t see it. What they saw was a thing needing to be fixed, needing to be torn apart and put into correct form, a form they recognized.
They needed me to submit.
So now I just call myself crazy. It’s as good a cover as any. I mean think about it. I don’t drive a truck or work in an office or own a small business or defend my country, all jobs my loved ones understand. And I’m letting a shaman rewire me. So please don’t tell them that I’m standing right here, just a door to worlds hidden from everyday view.
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