I want to tell you

There’s something about you that makes the words flow. I want to gush over you. Tell you every single day how amazing you are, how much you make me laugh, how much I respect and admire you.

I want to tell you how much you’ve taught me – about life, about love, about myself. Whether you meant to or not.

I want to tell you how much I value every conversation we have and how I hang on every word you say. I want to tell you how you fascinate and intrigue me, how I adore your intelligence, and how I love when you challenge me.

I want to tell you how one of my favorite memories is listening to you sing in the shower, or maybe the night we just sat together and talked about music. And the night I wore the pirate costume.

I want to tell you how at ease I felt with you. How much I felt like.. myself.

And I want to tell you how it felt to lose you. That it burned for days.. weeks.. months… how it still burns sometimes. That it felt like my soul being ripped in two.

And I want to tell you that I miss you.

I have never recovered

I feel crazy writing this because our time together was short, because it’s been so long. Its always you that inspires me to bare my soul…

I tried to stop thinking about you. I tried to move on. Multiple therapists, new relationships… I even moved to North Carolina because I thought putting 1,000 miles between us would help. I tried to make you the bad person. I tried to hate you.

You got drunk and I picked the fight. I knew exactly what to say to set you off. I’d have rather had a screaming match at 3 AM than let you forget how badly I was hurting. I wanted you to be the bad person. I wanted you to feel like the bad person. It didn’t occur to me that we were both the villain.

So, I put myself in dangerous situations just so I could tell you about them. We entered a toxic cycle and that became MY addiction. You had your alcohol and I had my lies. I’d never done that to another person. I didn’t feel like myself. I hated it, but I couldn’t stop. I still don’t know what was real and what was a figment of my desperation to pull you back to me.

For some reason, despite my best efforts we always ended up back in contact. Although, I don’t think I ever blocked someone on Facebook as many times as I’ve blocked you.

I think it was years before we could have a conversation without it turning into an argument… without me ending up in tears on the bathroom floor. I used to call my dad and cry, I told him: ‘we make each other miserable.’ Sometimes he’d cry too.

The night before my 30th birthday, you sent me suicidal text messages and a photo of your hand… holding a cigarette and covered in blood. It still haunts me. I can’t forget it. I thought the alchol had finally won.

But here, here is the truth: you set my soul on fire and I have never quite recovered. I found love again, but it never felt the same.

No one else figured out exactly how to get into my mind like you did, despite giving them every opportunity. No one else ever stood up to me like you did. No one else has ever been as brutally honest with me. No one else can beat me in an argument.

No one else has ever tapped into my submission as naturally as the way you could. You didn’t even need to try.

let’s start over

I started this blog as a diary to ‘document’ my journey in the D/s world. Eventually, this blog may go back to being exactly that but for now, it’s not.

The truth is, I can’t continue on that journey until I work on myself and banish the insecurity, fear, and darkness from my life. I have no idea how long that might take but, as this is my diary, I’ll write about that for now.

I may occasionally drop a dirty writing or some musings on D/s in general, but it won’t be specific to me.

I feel compelled to make this portion of my journey public because my ultimate passion in life is to.. help. If my words can help even one person to feel less alone in this world, then my goal is achieved.

I also don’t feel like living in the past anymore. I used to write about my past bad experiences in both D/s and vanilla relationships and that isn’t who I want to be. Those experiences shape the person I am now but they do not define the person I am becoming.

I want to make room in my life for the amazing things on the horizon. They are coming. I can feel it.

god, keep my head above water

The last few days I have been making a conscious effort to let go of the things I can’t control. It has helped a little. The storm cloud above my head seems to be slowly dissipating – just a summer thunderstorm now, not a raging hurricane.

But, I’m still struggling. Attention is my drug and I crave it. I have to find my strength because the attention I want is dangerous. A slippery slope that will land me back at the beginning. Or worse.

It isn’t those men I want but if I go after them and lose myself in the pain they bring then I can mask the pain of not having the one I want. I don’t have to feel the things I’ve felt for too many years. They can drive me into the ground. Again and again. External pain so I don’t need to feel what’s going on inside.

And it isn’t for lack of trying. I went out and did something with my life. I got therapy, I got a degree, and a corporate job. I moved on with life and did everything I was told to do. They said it would get better. Promised. Time heals everything, you know?

It didn’t matter if I was with someone else. It never mattered. I’d forget during the day only for my dreams to drag me back…

The ones I used to mask the pain – they noticed too. “For our entire relationship, its like you’ve been in love with someone else.” And, it wasn’t an excuse to hurt me the way he did, but he was right. I was in love with someone else and I’ve been trying to run away from it for so long.

With the lights out, its less dangerous

Hi there. My name is Stella (well, not really.. but, that’s what we’ll say) and this is me finally admitting to myself I have a problem

This is me admitting I am struggling through a cycle of constant misery. Over and over again.

This is me admitting that I am addicted to love and that I will destroy myself to get it. That I HAVE destroyed myself to get it and that if I don’t fix it, it’ll kill me.

I don’t believe I deserve good things or good people so this is me admitting I seek out abuse because that’s all I think I’m good enough for. I don’t believe I deserve real love – and I don’t believe that anyone loves me. I see myself as an unlovable person.

I seek out emotional, mental, and sometimes even physical abuse because its easier to lose myself in the pain than it is to try to fix whatever is happening in my mind.

I let my family, my friends watch me suffer over and over again. They can’t help me because I won’t help myself.

I am stuck in the past so the future is forgotten. All my dreams are ignored because there is not one bone in my body that believes I deserve them.

This is me gasping for air and trying to control things I was never meant to control. Admitting my faith has wavered and that I am not who I once was.

My body is tired. My mind is tired. I am drowning.

I spent the last few years dating a hardcore atheist who told me that my belief in a higher power was stupid, dumb, and a waste of time. So, I stopped because I just wanted him to love me. But look where it got me?

So, this is me surrendering and picking up the pieces of that faith so that I can begin to pick up the shattered pieces of myself.

My name is Stella. And I’m going to be okay.

Life, Death, Love, & Cats

TW: Death

It’s been 3 years, so I suppose we should start with a quick (and fairly depressing) update:

When I stopped updating this blog in September 2018, I had just moved to North Carolina and was in a relationship with a man I referred to as Wolf. He was an amazing person and I loved him so much but we just did not work as a couple. We broke up sometime in March/April 2019 and cut off contact with each other.

He was also hiding severe illness. I was aware he was having some issues but he kept the brunt of it from me. A few months later he passed away. His family did not tell me (not that I blame them). I stumbled across his obituary on my own, the morning after I had suffered the loss of an extremely beloved cat.

A cat that, coincidentally, he adored when we were together. A cat that adored him too. It gives me comfort to think that maybe he was waiting for her when she crossed the rainbow bridge. In fact, I know he would have been.

He was cremated and there is no grave for me to visit. Going back and reading my old posts about him brings tears to my eyes. It seems so unfair that someone so good would be forced to suffer so much.

I’d like to say this was the beginning of my spiral, but it wasn’t and… I’m only starting to realize it now.

Sorry this post is so terribly sad. I can’t promise they’ll get better, as much as I wish I could. For now, at least. I’m on a journey.

I didn’t report.

When I was 20, my boyfriend raped me.

I had missed a few pills, we didn’t have a condom.

I said “No, I’m not comfortable.”

He said.  “But, it’s okay.  I want a baby with you.”  (He didn’t have a job.  I was a college student, working at Kmart part-time.)

I said no.

I said no.

And he pushed me down, ignored me while I sobbed.


My best friend?  She told me it wasn’t rape because he was my boyfriend and to stop overreacting.

I believed her.  I internalized it.  Kept it a secret.  Until now.


I didn’t report it, but it doesn’t mean I’m not telling the truth.

Hurricanes & Millipedes

I moved to the southeast portion of the US a few weeks ago, and Mother Nature is throwing me a welcome party in the form of Hurricane Florence.  Thanks, I guess?  I’m not on the coast, but looks like I might still be in the line of fire. Anyway, I have got all my hurricane supplies ready and Wolf will be staying with me.

I’m a midwestern girl.  We don’t get hurricanes.  Just tornadoes.

UGH.  A few days ago I had the biggest millipede I’ve ever seen start crawling across my kitchen floor.  I have never seen anything so disgusting. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a millipede before (just centipedes, equally repulsive). I had to scoop it up onto the lid of my kitchen trashcan and toss it outside.  Now the paranoia is real.

There are also two toads living in my outdoor storage closet, lying in wait for the swarm of crickets/spiders to descend from their spots on the ceiling.  Needless to say, I will never ever open that door again.

Moving on…

I have told myself that I will start writing again.. now that I am mostly settled.