I saw a passage in a post on Marie Rebelle’s blog here which resonated so deeply that they made me take a step back and examine how those words apply to me. The following post is the result.
I sometimes wish that serving Him was my only need, that I didn’t have other cravings vying for attention, that the sole source of fulfilment came from catering to His needs and wishes alone.
My own needs plague me sometimes, occasionally to the extent that I resent them;as a submissive, should I even have them, are they anathema to actually being submissive? That’s a question that goes through my mind on a never ending loop of self castigation.
I draw a diagram, a visual template of thoughts and emotions, concerns interspersed with the occasional positive.
I’m disappointed in myself
that there aren’t more.
That’s how my template is spelt.
I turn the paper upon which my diagram is drawn, refract the light under which the guilt casts it’s shadow in order that I may better understand it.
Fracture lines emanate from the centre, and I label them so that I may halt their progress;giving them a name stops them splintering unchecked.
Guilt for asking.
Guilt for imposing.
Guilt for wanting -> subtext;guilt for wanting and/or needing something he may not want himself.
Guilt for being disappointed if the answer is no.
My mind hangs it’s coat on that hook.
I sometimes feel that I, my desires and I, are an imposition, that if I ask for something, aquiescence stems from obligation rather than a desire which matches my own, and from there a sadness settles around me.
I never want to be merely an obligation.
That, for me, is the crux of the matter, the stumbling block that prevents me from voicing my needs, from explaining their origin, and occasionally from acknowledging them to myself.
From there tendrils of resentment haunt my steps, curling surreptitiously around my ankles, slowing my progress, dragging me backwards towards the void of silence I used to inhabit.
That brings me full circle, to wishing that I had no needs, that my only purpose was to serve, yet in that space a melancholia exists which seeks to asphyxiate
and whilst service brings me pleasure, it’s simply a singlular, multi-faceted puzzle piece that takes it’s place amongst other, similar pieces which slot together to form the whole.
Here, where I stand, head bowed, staring at my feet as those tendrils pull me back, asking for what I need feels like an impossible task, too much fear and hurt to overcome.
He and I have spoken of this obstacle infront of which I stand. Facing it, tackling it, is the only solution deemed acceptable. He tells me, start small. Ask for a hug, a kiss, something which doesn’t appear as imposing in stature as a need which, right now, is impossible to voice.
He doesn’t want me sad, or fearful, or to feel guilt at asking for what I need.
All I have to do is start small.