Close my eyes

Sometimes the past has a nasty way of trying to slip back into your life.  It’s been awhile since that night I shattered into a million pieces but sometimes it feels like yesterday. Small things trigger it, a song, a scent.. or even a word (princess).  Today, though, I do not know what triggered it.  It just happened…

I was just sitting on my couch watching Cheers and all of the sudden I was back slumped on the floor in the bathroom of my old apartment.  A bottle of vodka in one hand and a bottle of Xanax in the other… that stupid necklace he had given me thrown at my feet. My collar. Only 23 and ready to give up.  I even wrote the note…

This happens less and less as time passes, but when it does it is brutal.  Like a curtain closing over my mind, pitch black and suffocating.  It is a struggle to grab onto anything real.  These are the moments I most wish Sir was here, so I try to focus my thoughts on him.  Close my eyes.  The darkness is over.  I know that.

 

Whiskey scented nightmares

I’m on a roll today with the posts – just a lot going on inside my head, I guess. Last night I dreamed about Jason.  I’ve written a few posts about him, here and here.  I never talked much about what happened after it was supposed to be over – besides a few allusions toward it here and there.

Once he was finished with me, it was easy for him to cast me aside but he couldn’t stop picking me back up.  The desperation (yup, I’m not proud) I felt for him was overwhelming and worsened with each heartbreak.  I think he knew what he was doing, regardless of how much Jack Daniels had taken over his mind.

I really don’t remember what happened, what truly triggered the pieces to finally shatter.  I grabbed a bottle of vodka, a bottle of NyQuil, and a bottle of Xanax and closed the bathroom door behind me.  I typed out a text message to Jason, apologizing for being such a failure, apologizing for being so selfish.  My only regret is making those apologies.

Somewhere in my drunken stupor, I managed to cut into my left ankle with my razor (yeah, the kind used to shave legs).  Drops of blood all over the bathroom floor.  I hadn’t done that since I was a teenager.

I woke up to missed calls, texts, and voicemails.  Jason had apparently taken my text message seriously.  It was my friends and family, pleading me to answer them.  Pleading.  Crying.  When I finally called one of my friends back, she said she had been close to calling the police.  In fact, she was already outside in the parking lot.  I had called her back just in time.  I felt so selfish in that moment.  I had to hurt them to hurt Jason.

Jason’s messages were a little different.  His were angry.  You fucking attention whore.  What the fuck is your problem, you stupid bitch.  And, I don’t know why I went to see him a few weeks later. He wasn’t angry until he saw my ankle, the cuts weren’t deep but they were bright red and obvious.

His face changed when he was angry.  Like something out of nightmares, as if his eyes turned black.  I can’t talk about the rest… but it was the last time I ever saw him.  It’s been so long but it still feels like yesterday when its in my nightmares. It’s over.  Forever.  I wish my mind understood that.

Emotional Abuse

Today, after a five month fight, I was able to get my ex-boyfriend off my apartment lease. Until now, he would have been legally able to enter the apartment at any time. I wanted to post this as a reminder that emotional abuse is a thing, a BIG thing.

I can’t tell you how many times during that relationship that I thought to myself: “Well, he only threatened to hit/hurt/etc… so it’s okay.”

But, it’s not okay. What happens when those threats become real?

I used to dread leaving work. I would have rather stayed at WORK than go home.

“…emotional abuse can seriously damage emotional health, causing clinical anxiety, depression, a skewed view of self-worth and an extreme lack of self-esteem.”

[https://www.davidwolfe.com/20-signs-relationship-em…]

Emotional abuse is real and it IS damaging. Something as simple as seeing a vehicle similar to his is enough to trigger a panic attack. In that moment, all I can think about is the time he threatened to drive us off a bridge.

I never understood until it happened. I got lucky. So lucky, it could have been so much worse. Maybe someone in a similar situation can read this… and be lucky too.

Stella Meets a Misogynist

I think I may have mentioned in previous posts that I consider myself to be a feminist.  Submission is my choice, it is neither something I feel obligated to do nor am I submissive towards all men.  This post contains some serious sexism, proceed at your own risk.

A week ago, maybe longer, I received a message on CollarSpace (yes, I have one of those under my actual identity.  Pure entertainment) from a Dom seeking a 1950’s style relationship complete with the domestic discipline element.  No problem, that idea has always intrigued me but I was upfront that I was not interested in any type of relationship with him.  I also stated that I was willing to chat as long as there was no pressure to meet.  Also, he’s about four inches shorter than me and, at the risk of sounding vain, I just… can’t.

From what I can gather, this is the type of woman he is looking for:  A woman who has no thoughts or ideas of her own.  A woman who wants to marry a man she barely knows.  A woman who is okay with him sleeping with other women but will still remain faithful to him.  A woman who wants to stay pregnant all the time.  (He has a breast milk fetish).

His idea of domestic discipline is locking his sub in a cage under his bed for 24 hours any time she does something he doesn’t like.  He expects her to carry a ping-pong paddle in her purse, so he can spank her with it anywhere he feels like regardless of who is around.  This isn’t domestic discipline, this is abuse.  I am certain he doesn’t understand the difference.

I was upfront with him that none of this matched my own desires and even expressed a little concern.  He still wanted to chat and I agreed.  I know this makes me sound like a shitty person, but I wasn’t talking to him for the quality of conversation.  I was talking to him because I needed to be entertained.

He wasted no time in telling me that I’d have to give up my job, my blogs (he doesn’t know the URLs to any of them), and even my cats (NOPE) and focus solely on being a wife and mother.  According to him, those are the only two purposes that women serve on this planet.

‘Yes, random stranger, I’ll give up everything for which I worked my ass off just for you’ said no woman, submissive or not, ever.

And then, he informed me: “If we had daughters, I’d expect you to teach them how to be submissive to their future husbands.”

OMG. I LOST IT. There is not a chance in hell that I would ever, EVER teach any child of mine that their only purpose was to serve someone else.

It is people like him that make me push so hard against my submissive side.  I know this isn’t a good representation of a Dom.  This guy is a control freak, but it is still very concerning.

This morning he sent me various photos of chastity belts, telling me that ‘his woman’ would wear one of these every time she went anywhere without him.  I made the mistake of asking why.  Apparently, since all women suffer from uncontrollable lust and possess tiny, thoughtless brains, we will sleep with anyone and anything that crosses our path ever.  Thus, chastity belt.  LOL.  Oh, and he also believes that rape is the fault of the victim and not the rapist.  I can hardly believe such a gem is single.  *I’ve never written anything with such sarcasm in my life.

Emotional Abuse IS Abuse

I always wish I knew that sooner:  Emotional abuse is abuse.

A selection of quotes from my now ex-boyfriend:

“Would you rather I hit you?”

You have like six fucking personalities.”

“I don’t care about your past, it’s not my problem.”

“Now I understand why men hit women.”

“You deserved to be raped, cheated on, fucked over…”

“This is all your fault.”

“You’re just trying to make my life miserable.”

He never once took responsibility for anything.  He got dehydrated at work?  My fault, I didn’t put his water bottle in the dishwasher.  He lost his job?  My fault, I was making life at home too stressful.  His truck broke down?  My fault, my fault, my fault…. somehow, always.

I never considered it to be abuse, until he threatened to drive his truck off a bridge… with both of us in it.

The Aftermath

Sometimes I feel guilty.

He took advantage. A broken, fucked up man parading as a Dom, latching on to the first submissive he could find. And there was me, so trusting and willing and… completely infatuated.

“Please forgive me. Please, princess. I’ll stop drinking, I promise.”

He didn’t. A few weeks later, I gave up.. a broken little mess on the bathroom floor. Xanax and vodka and relief.

It didn’t work. You know it didn’t work because you’re reading this.

“God, Stella. What’s going on? I’ve been trying to call you. I was about to call the cops.”

The only good thing he ever did for me was call her.

There are a few who still look at me with that worried expression, like I might self-destruct at any moment, the one that says, “I can’t tell if you’re okay or not.” They don’t know the half of it.

“I need you. Please don’t go.. please don’t stop talking to me, princess. It won’t happen again.”

The problem here isn’t that I used to be in love with someone who destroyed every little piece of me, or even that those pieces are still so scattered. The problem is that part of me is still in love with him.. the idea of him, how good it was before it..wasn’t.

So, yeah, sometimes I feel guilty.  All the time.  For nothing.