I used to wallow in sadness. The least pretense to be unhappy and I took it. I know now that that was an emotional and physiological response to the overwhelming guilt. Overwhelming guilt I felt because I had a fight with Morgan the night that she died. Not because of the fight but because without it, I would have been with her and it is unlikely she would have died. But, and this is crucial, she was with a seemingly accomplished top. References and all. I imagine it played something like this, he started light. She wanted/demanded a heavier hand. He complied. She lost herself to the float. He didn’t properly gauge the damage. She passed out and was breathing shallow. He panicked. He fled.
I got worried when she didn’t come home. I went to the house they were supposed to be at. Found the door ajar. Found Morgan still bound to the pillory. I untied her. Checked her breathing, checked her pulse. Shallow and thready respectively. I called a private ambulance service. I cleaned the blood from the whipping away and saw that he had hit the kidney area several times. This likely caused shock to set in. I held her while we waited. She stopped breathing. I resuscitated her. She started breathing. The doctor and paramedics came in. Remember, this was a private ambulance service. They checked her and got her in the ambulance. On the way, she stopped breathing. Her heart stopped. They tried everything. CPR, paddles, they tried for ten minutes or so. She died on the way. She never woke up. She was the first great love of my life and she died inches from me. And I, her lover, her Sir, was powerless to do anything.
I took the blame. I took it all. Her family never liked me, they blamed me. They never told me when the funeral was. I don’t even know where or if she was buried. I’ve done cemetery searches but haven’t found her. I wouldn’t put anything past them. She was estranged from them with good reason. With the blame came the guilt. For ten years, I never looked back over the events of that night. I just took it as given that had we not fought, she would have been alive. So it was all on me.
But that’s not the truth. I played a part. Yes, she should not have been alone. But, she was an accomplished, experienced masochistic submissive. She knew her limits. He was supposedly a accomplished, experienced top. Turns out later that people that vouched for him didn’t really know him that well.
It was a accumulation of circumstances and events. Had he called the ambulance instead of running. Once I was on scene, I did everything possible. Do I desire it otherwise? Yes. I would give nearly anything to undo that night, but did I cause it, was I responsible for it all? No. I was not.
After ten plus years, I was finally able to unpack the sequence of events.(80 percent recall where touch is a factor and the ability to compartmentalize to a severe degree). Once I had done that it was clear, I share some of the blame. But I didn’t cause the damage; I didn’t ignore the signs and I didn’t abandon her. Once I accepted that, the guilt disappated.
So, my experience is that sadness goes on and on. But it doesn’t now. Without that guilt feeding me self doubt and loathing, the sadness trickles away. It’s the oddest thing to not feel depression when I become sad. It’s like trying to dance to music half remembered from the distant past. I’m not even sure I ever knew the steps. But I like dancing, though I look like I’m crazy probably. So, I’ll dance, I’ll write, I’ll sing, I’ll love. And we’ll see.