Clean slates, fresh starts, frivolous pursuits, and the scary thing.

Recently I completed a brutal purge of my social media and phone contacts. I deleted my number and email address and a host of other things that may or may not be good for me. I stopped texting and connecting. I have reasons. I’m trying for …. something different. I know what insanity looks like. I’m dangerously close to doing the exact same thing and expecting a different result.

I collect people. I don’t know why, but even when that person is clearly bad for me or I’m bad for them, or maybe the toxic nature of our relationship is well… toxic, I still collect them. I will make an absolute fool of myself with someone, for someone. The end result is always pain.

So I thought about it for a few days. Then I went through everything. Bills, dishes, people, …. I’m slowly cleaning my life. That’s absolutely not to say that the dish or blanket or person isn’t absolutely necessary and wonderful. Just that sometimes I need to go in a different direction, down a different path.

I’m self aware enough to realize when I am the bad apple. I need to be okay with cleaning up my life, even when it’s painful. I may not be brutal enough to completely cut someone or something out of my life, because well… to be perfectly honest, I worry. I fret.

Is the cold turkey the way to go? It hurts either way.

I wish being a mature adult wasn’t so confusing. Because I’d call him right now….

Also I weigh 231 pounds. Am I going to throw out my pile of jeans that don’t fit or am I going to do the really hard thing and take care of myself?

Do I have the fortitude to take care of myself? Honestly I don’t even know where my compression sleeve is. If I’m not very careful it will be 2020.

I know none of this ramble made sense but I can’t sleep, I’m worried about my future.

And there’s a word that keeps coming up over and over. Like a maze is in my brain and I’m running toward the end but I keep making a wrong turn. The word is at the end of the maze and I don’t know if I want to run toward it full speed or walk cautiously.


I have told a handful of people, just to see how that word tastes in my mouth. My mouth tastes like sawdust.


A cup of tea.

I want this year to be full of subtle change. I simply can not spend another year waiting. But neither can I maintain a consistent sweeping change. I know me.

I’ve got to go about this slowly. Like a river carving a canyon.

I just got my benefits for 2019 that I have been waiting a year on. There’s no hospital coverage, no outpatient coverage, no lab benefit. I can basically go to see the doctor and to urgent care. But I have work history there. So I’m trying to decide financially what’s the best bet. I need a new roof. So on the one hand, I need a new job but with good benefits, or the other hand I need good work history so I can qualify for a home owners loan. If you saw my driveway that no one can drive into, you’d understand.

One thing is for certain, I can’t stay in this limbo.

I realized I wasn’t valued at my job when the new person we hired quipped “Not a bad $$$ an hour” and the money was more than I make. I do a more difficult job with a higher skill level. When this was brought to managements attention, they simply leveled the pay. Now everyone makes the same, even though I do a more difficult job with a higher skill level. But I stayed because on the first I’d be getting benefits. That’s the only reason I stayed. I didn’t get my benefit portal password until *after* the open enrollment ended. I don’t make the money I was promised. I don’t have the shift I was promised. I’m one of three people that stay until 8 pm. People that were just hired have the schedule they chose. I gave my supervisor the three choices I wanted. I didn’t get any of the three choices. They are starting a point system for attendance. If you accumulate a certain amount of points in a 90 day period, you get fired. Saturday’s are double points. If I am sick on a Saturday and one other day in a 90 day period, I’m fired. People that don’t work Saturday, don’t have that fear. Yes…. it’s beyond time to find a new job.

I was really looking forward to 2019. And I am. I’m in a good spot for improvement. I just need to get out of my own way.

I think this year will be lovely. I’ll watch my children continue to improve, I’ll hopefully pay off my car so I can get a loan and get a roof. I’ll get a new job, and finally get the CT scans that’s long overdue. I’m looking toward improving. I have small goals peppered in these bigger ones. I’ve committed to not cutting my hair this year. I am going to clean out my backyard.

First I’m going to make a cup of tea.


Despite being in the BDSM community and having a collar for years, I haven’t done a lot of things and I’m still exploring. So far everything I’ve tried, I have loved.

My first spanking, first rope, first wax, first bootblack, first needles, all fond memories. The first time I wore my tail and was petted, and was accepted by my friends as not weird, but unique remains a highlight.

I began to wonder if I’d find something I don’t like. I had canes on my hard limit list until I asked for an experience with canes that doesn’t involve white pain. It was a slow process to understand that I’m not playing with needles or whips, I’m playing with partners. I love canes now. And do not have toys on my hard limit list anymore so much as people on my hard limit list.

I have had all sorts of experiences over the years. I remember the first time I said RED. My former Sir’s real name sounds remarkably like my safeword when screamed into a pillow. After my third RED, he heard me and immediately stopped. I remember the first free-for-all, the first time I tried electricity. Not every experience was a great one, but every one was a learning experience and something I’d probably do again with the right person.

Let me introduce fire to the mix. I love fire. It calms me. It mesmerizes me. It comforts and warms me. If you are ever at a loss for a gift for me, buy me a candle. I especially like the candles that have wooden wicks. As much as I don’t like camping in the woods because of bugs and sleeping on the ground, I love a good campfire. I thought because of this reason I’d automatically love fire play.

My first fire experience, I had with my former girl H. It was brief and both of us were green. The fear I tasted in my mouth clouded everything. Fire was supposed to be tabled for a while and it ended up being one of those things that you intend to do and just don’t get around to. I had the opportunity for fire again a few years after that. Great Top, great atmosphere. But it was in a room full of people and among those people was someone whom violated my consent. It tainted everything. For a bit I blamed fire along with the person.

Eventually I decided to give fire it’s fair chance. I’d already decided on The Who, and I learned to never force a scene. It will happen when it’s supposed to happen. The person I trusted to top me with fire leaned down in my ear and suggested play. I was suddenly plagued with uncertainty. I did not trust my instincts. Thankfully I have amazing friends that I trust more than I trust myself in these instances.

I said “Could you please go away so I can talk about you?” Sometimes I really surprise myself by how tactless I can be but he chuckled and gave me space. I ended up negotiating my scene with my friend and her going to him by third party. I realize that’s not the way you do things and I don’t know why I didn’t speak up. But with this and that and the watchful eye of my dear friend I felt the first flame race along my skin.

I don’t like fire.

Crushing my crush

Or alternately titled “what the fuck was I thinking”

Or “Reasons why I’m a dumbass”

Here goes. Personal shit ahead. Stream of consciousness and brain vomit in order to process how I feel and make sure I am not lying to myself.

I didn’t mean to like him. I asked him a question, he answered. We chatted a bit. He stated upfront that he was not able to have a relationship. Awesome, cool. I’m not looking for one. We chatted a bit more. He’s intelligent and likes broadway musicals.

I mentioned I was going to see Rocky Horror one night and told him to come downtown. The next night he was at an open mic and told me to come out to the bar. The intent was very casual and distant.

Until I went to the open mic and we met in person. He told me he didn’t want a relationship with his words and kissed me with his lips. We went to the same party and spent half the night making out in the hall. We were ridiculous and fevered. He repeated he was looking for varied experiences, not a relationship.

But then we talked. And talked. And talked. I got a look at his life. I gave him a spot in my brain. I felt oddly submissive. Now these days I don’t identify as submissive. I know what it takes to submit and I don’t have it in me to be that raw. But he’d suggest something and I’d do it without thought. He found buttons and pushed them.

Let me rephrase: I showed him my buttons and begged him to push them. A friend would ask me how I have been and I’d say “I have a crush on a boy!!! Isn’t that fantastic?” The last month has been wonderful taking orders, and connecting to each other during stolen moments in the day, late night phone calls, links shared, finally feeling emotion.

I’m so grateful to him for being the catalyst to me waking up. I’m so angry at myself that I gave him a spot, though. Now I have to untangle myself. I’m such a fool.

I’m going to baby step myself backwards until he’s just the guy I made out with at a party. This would be a whole lot easier if I had more serotonin.

I should probably date more. Then these sort of things wouldn’t be a big deal at all. Why do I feel like I’m 13 and not 43???


For reasons not important to this blog, I got out all my kinky toys and laid them quickly across the bed.

I have a set of pink floggers: These things are beautiful, custom-made treasures. They are soft pink, soft leather, soft handles. They smell like earth and wood. My friend Magickman15 made them for me. They were a gift from Terry and I adore them. Occasionally when I clean my room, I’ll take them out of the closet and swing them, knock the dust off, and put them back in the closet.

I have several jars of home made custom wax. They are beautiful pastels, and they smell clean and crisp. My friend Kinky_Bookworm bought them for my birthday. Occasionally when I clean my room, I’ll dust the jars before I put them carefully next to the instructions in my closet.

I have the most amazing beautiful soft baby pink rope. My friend Nicegirl bought it for me, just because. I’ve never undone it because I’m afraid to tangle it. It smells like heaven, though. Occasionally I will wrap my fingers in the rope and meditate.

I’ve had all of these for at least a year, possibly 3. They have never been used.

Never. I think it’s because I don’t play at my house, and I never bring my toys with me to parties. I have thought to myself oh poor pitiful me, before. No one would want to play with me. But then the last few days, thinking over my toys, I had a gut check moment where I just stopped blaming everything on someone else.

What was I thinking? These are my toys. I should be using them. So I’m going to purchase a toy bag and bring my toys with me to parties.

I’m a little nervous about it, but mostly excited.

Cancer PTSD… ya think?

My ex boyfriend told me to “get the fuck over it and quit being a professional victim”. My oncologist’s nurse told me “this is the price we pay”. My brother chastised me for not wearing the proper undergarments. My coworker told me I was “kinda obsessed with it”. When I tell you that I think of cancer or have to deal with something as a direct result of the cancer every single day, I’m not exaggerating. Yesterday I stood on the porch and had family members blow smoke and vape all around me and I thought about the rattling in my chest. I bent over and the fluid left over in my chest shifted, giving my brain the urge to connect old nerve endings, was enough to have to pause and regroup. I had to spend a significant amount of time convincing myself that I don’t have a breast even though my brain was telling me I did. I used the restroom and had to breathe through the bladder spasms that happen every time I urinate now since my hysterectomy. I could go on and on. It isn’t over. It’s never over. I’m going to use very strong language and I do so with purpose and intention. Having been forcibly raped, I can say with absolute certainty that I feel like cancer is a predator that raped my soul. My rapist’s name is Kelley. This feels remarkably similar in emotion and mentality. There you have it. Do I have PTSD?… Are you fucking kidding me?

In other news, the Sun is hot.

Broken and Crazy

I was having a conversation with a friend about the potential relationship status with a woman he clearly has a connection to and the comment “she’s broken and crazy, much like the rest of us” was said when asked why they weren’t together.

That comment stopped me. I was instantly protective and defensive of this stranger. I hadn’t considered that my friend has different connotations to those words that aren’t negative. I was also assuming these things aren’t true and he was being unkind.


My mother in law was sitting on the couch and said quietly “I know what people say about me. I’m crazy. I’m not, though.” The pain filled our living room like air. I breathed it in, not understanding. “I know.” I told her, attempting to comfort, to escape. She turned and looked at me. Her eyes burned into me. We both knew her time was almost up and I would have done anything to make the sad finality of her eyes go away. “No. You don’t. But you will.”

We’d had hundreds of conversations and most of them have faded from my mind. That one stayed.

Eventually people started to call me crazy. They said it behind my back, to my husband, to each other. I had a lover once say to me “You’re my kind of crazy”. I didn’t take it as a compliment.

When people started to tell me to my face that I was crazy, I’d scratch the surface of myself, trying to see what they see. It must be true. Everyone tells me to be myself with one breath and with the next that I’m crazy. I’d get small. Stop talking. Don’t be loud. Don’t snort when you laugh. Don’t cry for stupid reasons. Accept these things…. until I didn’t recognize myself and my socks matched. But I was so tired.

I figured out a few things trying to find myself. I’m not crazy. Not even a little bit.

You know what I am? Fucking tired. I’m tired of being fed a pile of shit, and told to smile while I eat it. I’m tired of being still.

Men tell women they are crazy as a way to invalidate the woman’s emotions and experiences. Women doubt themselves and feed into it. Looking back, everyone that’s been called crazy is a woman in my life.

My father has not once to my knowledge been called crazy. I once watched him pick my mother up and throw her across the living room. I watched him stack a brownie and chips into a ham sandwich and eat it all together. He took me outside and placed me on the trampoline in the dark and walked away to “cure” me of my fear of the dark. He’s a perfectly sane man. I’ve been told I’m crazy in the following three instances: I panic when I watch violent movies, I don’t eat the orange M&Ms, and I can’t be alone in the dark. Which of us is crazy?

Men get to have a midlife crisis. Women get called crazy. How is that fair?

Broken is different. I get to be broken, I’ll take that one. But there is nothing stronger than a broken woman who has rebuilt herself.

I was broken. I wasn’t crazy.

As for my friend that was the catalyst for this blog, I may be unfair to him. I may be unfair to his lover. I don’t know. She may be crazy and lost, broken and self sabotaging. It isn’t for me to say. She may be standing in a storm while the world rains down on her. But she’s still here. That’s enough.

What saved him is “like the rest of us” and his fondness for Alice quotes. He includes himself in the category of crazy and broken. But he stops at being in a relationship with someone crazy and broken? I don’t know all of his reasons. And it’s not my business.

I keep thinking of my mother in law, in my living room. She was at the end of her life and said into the quiet room, a declaration of permanence.

“I’m not crazy. ”

I know now.