I really, really thought I was used to this. I had gotten used to Sir always being there to talk, or a text away if I needed him. I had gotten used to not feeling guilty about reaching out when I needed it.
And then I pulled away. Not him, me. It’s part of my art insanity, that fine line, and I go from letting others in and enjoying the ‘we’ness of things to “OH SHIT I NEED TO GET ALL OF THIS DONE AND PACKED AND DEALT WITH AND AAAARRRGGGHHH” explode.
The “I’ overwhelms the we every time.
Normally during this time of year, I am an antisocial turtle. I dive into my work, get what I need to get done DONE, kick ass, break a bit along the way, and then emerge triumphantly (if not slightly zombie-ish and hankering for brains) from the ashes. Pulling away is survival mode for me this time of year because no one has ever been there before. It’s just a give in. I will be alone. I will have to get this done. I can do this.
I got a job yesterday, an amazing job that I can’t wait to start, which is allowing me to stay in San Francisco for another year and actually be able to save up and afford grad school (which I have to go to. I promised both my parents and Sir that I would go, and I don’t break promises). This is great…but this leads to a whole other set of worries. Like getting my car out here from New Jersey and dealing with all the paperwork involving that. Finding a new apartment with a little bit of breathing room..unlike the shoe box I currently occupy, and a place to park said car. Figuring out what I can afford in rent when I will be tacking on car insurance and gas. Oh, and a cat. I need to find a cat friendly apartment, because another year without Jynx is non-negotiable.
Besides, I want to see who is more dominant, Sir or Jynx… I’m thoroughly convinced she’s a Domme in a fluffy orange body.
Anyways, I digress.
These are added stressors onto the normal art school clusterfuck.. What do I do with FOUR LOCKERS full of supplies, plus my pieces, once the semester is over? How do I get it all home? Where do I put it all? I already sleep with a tackle box full of chain mail links on my bed, I’m not sure where anything else is going to go.
Of course, never in all this did I think to turn to Sir and ask for help, to talk about what was going on in my squirley little mind. No, That would be logical for someone with sanity. I’m bad at sanity. Instead, I kept quiet, thinking all these things to be my burdens as part of being self-sufficient. I didn’t want to burden him with more things when he’s already balancing me with his girlfriend, and his kids, and his job, and his…well, life.
There are times when I no has the smarts. This was one of them.
I pushed myself, emotionally and physically, past my breaking point and into the land of numbness that is reserved mainly for masochistic creatures, such as artists. The numb feeling never lasts long; I thrive on emotion way too much to stay there, but it is a feeling I absolutely despise..because there is no feeling. I recognize it, and I want to feel something. Disgust, horror? Something. And I never do. I run on autopilot, in robot mode, getting what I must get done accomplished as I wait for the feeling to shake itself off.
This time it was a new record. The numbness lasted maybe 12 hours, at best. Why?
Well, Sir “we”ed me.
The cracks had begun forming in my “I must do it all alone” armor, which always happens when speaking to Sir. He reminds me that he needs my body and my mind in good shape..and so I begin slowly fixing myself. As I fix myself, I open up more. I tell him the root of certain problems even if there is very little he can do to fix it. If nothing else, he listens..and I am exceedingly grateful for that.
This time he did a bit more than listen. He fixed. We had begun discussing my apartment vs where I would move to in order to be closer to my new job, and he mentioned that where I am is probably safer than where I would be moving. I sighed, thinking “Great. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t”.
“It’s not that there aren’t relatively safe places there, but we will need to be careful.” We? Wait, what?
Bye bye, numbness. Hello curiosity.
“My friend lives out there. She can help us weed out the bad places.”
We. Us.. Oh right.. I have help. I have support. I’m not on my own. I have a Dom that adores me and would protect me from the world if he could. Just because he gets busy doesn’t mean he doesn’t care.
And just because I’ve dealt with this alone before doesn’t mean I have to do so now.
Old patterns are hard to break; almost as hard as old ghosts are to expunge from your memory. But it’s doable. I don’t always have to push myself to breaking in order to create, and I certainly don’t always have to do everything on my own. It’s not weakness to ask for help or support; it’s strength, and honesty. I forget that sometimes. My pride tells me that I shouldn’t need a man for anything. That I should be completely self-sufficient on my own.
And I can be. I pay my own bills. I found my own job. I don’t ask Sir for help with the physical functions of day to day life; buying groceries, paying rent, etc. In that he wants me to be self-sufficient. He wants me to be able to keep my head above water and have a life without him.
It is with other things, like when I am emotionally hurting or drowning and need someone desperately that he is there, always. Even when he can’t be there physically he will give me a task to do that will calm me down, or say something that may be silly to him but makes a world of difference to me.
I am a very, VERY lucky woman indeed. I could get used to this “we” business.