The past and the long road out of it

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.

Worksheet: the path to letting go

You want that boy and not me. He’s attractive in a bland way. Thin, unlike myself. Though our weights are going in opposite directions, perhaps I’ll wave when we pass each other by. He’s easy with a slimy smile, something soft and malleable in him. He manipulates and doesn’t stay.  He’s hedonistic without the learned restraint. Dangerous in a BDSM setting because as a top he’d look to his pleasure first. Put his needs above his submissive. Though I doubt he’d have the discipline for the life. Probably just calls it rough sex, so he can take without giving. He is my opposite in most ways. Easy where I am difficult. Smiles where I am sardonic grins. Smiles that never quite reach his eyes. Where my eyes are mostly how I smile. Shallow waters where I am deep lake with a thermal vent river. He’s a pretty plaything. A bauble picked up then discarded. But I sense he is the type to hit when not wanted; to take when not offered. I would wish I could protect you but you’ve made your choice. I cannot intervene now unless you ask for my help.

He’s not even an adequate lover, you told me about him before we fell apart. Soft when he should be hard, cums one time to your zero times. Pretty, shallow and useless. Insists on no condom. Dirtbag and you went right for him.

I was never that guy. Accomplished by 24, in skills I don’t use anymore admittedly, dating older not younger at that age. I was never easy, never thin either. Alot of muscle but alot of fat too. But tall with wide shoulders. A thinker and a planner. A knight of dark renown. Honor and all that with a bad boy rep. Careful until the moment then I’d dive head first into the deeps. Sexually inexperienced but not virginal. Kegels since I was 12, fine pelvic and ejaculate control resulting. Yes, Kegels are not just for women. Tongue workouts since I was 18. When you like going down as much as I do, you want to make sure you can go as long as your desire dictates. Morgan had some good clay to work with. Pain was already something I liked when we met. She refined my palate and allowed me to grow.

If that boy is what she wants, then I was never right for her. He’s bland milk chocolate. I’m artisan cacoa, seventy percent.

Memories

Memory for me is immediate and real. I don’t see things through a haze. Or misremember and take this as fact. I remember in scenes.

I remember body positions. The way someone moves. The emotional context of their words and the impact of the phrasing, but not the exact words themselves.

These memories are stones in an ice river. Ever flowing downstream, but upstream, these moments of frozen time, playing out a silent film, again and again. It is a very personal and comforting type of memory. I hold these moments in my heart forever.

I dance in joy, breathe the night air, answer a question as I dance blindly(glasses off) at a club, marvel at the moon, talk with women, talk with men, sex, and the prelude to sex, brush the hair from eyes, shake my hair out, drink a mojito, flirt with a waiter, hear a horrible truth, the weight of a secret lifting. Thousands of moments, minutes, people and actions.

All culminating into life, my life. And yet, somehow empty. Empty without you.