Hunting for beginning

The problem with writing about inner turmoil is that as you deal with your emotional trauma that voice which drives you to write gets quieter and quieter
Sometimes depression yells pretty loudly, sometimes anxiety breaks through and gibbers all over the page. But that bleak dying cry from the abyss is silent. And this is better, I know it’s better. It’s just hard to reach that emotional depth. And I wonder if the wounds are really healed or if there’s just so much scar tissue that I can’t feel through it.
I feel like I cry about things which never would have touched me before. I don’t know if that’s progress or emotional honesty. I’m on a self guided journey. There are good and bad things to celebrate in that, but sometimes, you just want someone to tell you that you are doing the right thing. But who can? When you are adrift in the wilderness.
Even when you are with someone, you are alone. What else could you be, in the white noise silence. In the space of their lives and the distance between you

Conversation to the vulnerable

Love is not a cure all. It can’t paper over pain. Or fix what is broken. It can’t be the only thing in a relationship. Those tender quiet moments you share together, where love is allowed to be. Those are glorious. They lift you up. Make you whole.

But afterwards, at the breakfast table. Their casual cruelty. The silence. The important things you seek to share pissed on. Treated as less, for the sake of their ego. For the sake of their wounds.
Those few moments of feeling love. They are not enough.

Love can break barriers. It can shatter shells. It can make someone better. But they must choose that. They must use love as a place of strength to be more. To embrace vulnerability because in love they are safe.

It’s hard when you know the love is real. But who your partner is, is no partner. They think only of their pain. Their hurts. Their fear. And they dress it up as wrongs you’ve done. They have to be right, even when they are wrong. They have to dominate even when they display every reason they cannot be trusted.

Those moments when they are sorry. When they promise to never do it again. When they are so sweet. Those are the lies. The only real apology is changed behavior. And hard as it is, especially when you are vulnerable. When you are isolated. When you have abandoned friends for this relationship. When you have cut off family. When you are financially dependent. Even then, you must know.

Love is not enough.

And you deserve a relationship that gives strength.
That builds upon itself. And brings joy just by being.
It’s possible. If you build it. But…

Not with them. If they choose their anger, their fear. If they choose their trauma. Their pain. You can only show them that they are safe to heal. You can’t force them. And you can’t be their punching bag. Physical or mental.

It’s the hardest thing in the world to walk away. To be afraid. Of the maybe one day. Of how they might react. Because that’s what they do. They build a cage of fear. They enforce that fear with sudden and irrational violence. Then they promise never again. It may even last for a while. But they are just biding their time.

You deserve better than a cage of fear. A life of violence. Of lies.

It’s hard. It’s scary. But eventually they will go too far. They will break you. Kill you. Destroy your sense of self. And you deserve better than that. Your life is worth more than that.

You can be strong enough to do this. You can lean on old friends. Maybe old family. They likely don’t know what is happening. That person they were in the beginning, that joy and kindness you felt. That’s all they know. Tell them. If they support you lean on them. If they express doubt, believe their lies. Walk away from those. Don’t try to convince them. They aren’t real friends. The same for family.

Rebuild your network. And reach out to trauma centers and hotlines. Even emergency rooms. Firefighters, but not cops. The high level of domestic violence in the cop world has normalized trauma. They cannot be helpful when they are tacit offenders themselves.

You are not alone. You can do this. You can be safe. You deserve more than this.

A lifetime of coping skills

I forget the hells I’ve been through working through trauma
I forget them having lived with them daily
Having worn down paths I my soul
Having found bolt holes in those paths which could short-circuit a memory
Or provide a moments respite
I can see the moments of trauma and the pain is distant
Not disassociated
Just distant
What forgiveness of self
What justice
What clarity feel like at the end of a long road
But those bastions of safety
Those places and thoughtforms
Which gave solace
Those places of peace I hollowed out
Lay forgotten
But I’ve begun to revisit them
And realize that they provide safety from the daily trauma of being alive
Refuge for the broken
A realization that healed doesn’t mean mended
That acting as if the trauma was the only reason for pain has inflicted more trauma
If only by tiny increments
Now I sit, in my bastion, not alone
Not alone anymore
But still
Free to feel pain
Even if everything is better

Nightmares are also dreams Part 35(possible trigger warning)-Tara

I’ve been waiting in the bathroom for a long time. The shower pounds against the tiles in staccato bursts. The air is heavy with steam and the floor length mirror is completely obscured. This room has become its own pocket world. The world outside falls away and I am alone. I haven’t felt like this in a long time. Alone, quiet, and safe.

My mind plays back the parade of boyfriends who hurt me. Who raped me in the guise of being a good slave. Who hurt me over and over again until they left. And I went looking for a new master.

I can feel myself shaking and shivering. Sometimes, when I remember, I feel as lost and alone as when I was with them. And sometimes I feel like that’s what I want. That pain and the total loss of control. To know that the man standing over you could rip into your flesh and you would beg and scream and he would smile.

Sometimes I wish Pel would destroy me. Would leave me a bloody sobbing mess. He refuses. Says I’m not ready. Says he won’t be lumped in with my abusers. It’s only in the quiet that I can admit that I’m waiting for him to turn. To prove that this is all just one long setup, that he only builds me up to later break me.

When Sara is around or Pel is in the room, I can never see that happening. But I’ve admitted it to our therapist, in a one on one session. She says it’s normal. Normal to expect the behavior of people who have hurt us in the past, to be the same behavior that we’ll always get. But that doing so, when all evidence to the contrary is presented, is self destructive. And it’s gotten better.

I think that as awful as the morning was. As monstrous as killing and torturing one of the Circles breakers was…it was the right thing. It has separated the past from the present. Put a period to the life I lived before and showed me who I am. Strong. Capable.

I turn to the sudden cold rush of air and see Pel standing there. Nude but never naked. Sara is peaking out from behind him, mouth open, showing the reason he was delayed. The white foam of saliva and seed disappears as she swallows it all.

My eyes wander to Pels cock. The shaft erect and pulsing.

Sara’s dark voice purrs out, “I’ve saved some for you my love.”

I look between Sara and Pel. Sara, mischievous and indulgent. Pel, calm and waiting, but a dark eagerness sitting just inside his eys.

I sink to my knees, the soft bath mat cushioning. I slide my mouth down the hard length of him, tongue pushing against his pulse. My eyes cast upward, asking for permission. Pel nods.

I pull my mouth away. Hesitant. I ask, “Sir, will you please fuck my mouth.”

Pel looks a bit surprised. It’s the first time I’ve asked for brutal treatment. He pauses long enough that I’m sure I’ll be denied.

Then, his cock is pushing its way back into my mouth. Slamming against the back of my throat and I hear the tiger growl of “Yes. Mine.”

Nightmares are also dreams Part 31-Tara

This body paint is something else. I could not believe that was me in the mirror and yet it felt like I was seeing myself as the truest me I’ve ever been. Being a fox makes sense to me. Like all the world has been slightly out of sync until I saw the truest expression of my self in the mirror and now the last tumbler has clicked into place and all I need do is walk through the now unlocked door.

I exit my room and notice Pel is doing that oh so attentive unattentive nonchalance thing he does when he is self-satisfied with some ploy of his. My eyes flick over to Sara. Her look says it all. If eyes could light fires, I’m sure Pel’s tux would be in flames.

I follow my last instructions and present myself to Pel. I know he loves me but I always feel the slightest moment of fear before he speaks. I can’t seem to find a way to get the thought that he’ll harm me out of my head. It’s not even some fear that the other shoe will drop. It’s just that the look of possession and lust and ownership in his eyes look just like Mark’s eyes. He’d be hurt if I told him that. It’s not how he sees himself. Not as a predator but as a protector, but those eyes are the same. Until he kisses my forehead and whispers in my ear, “How’s my sweet fox girl doing?”

I don’t know how he does it. Maybe the tone of voice? But just a whispered question and I’m blushing and my skins normally so pale that I blush all over. But he’s waiting for me to say something, and with a little hiccup, I say, “I’m a very happy fox, today.”

He takes my hand and turns us towards Sara.

With a smile, Pel says, “Well, my dears, ready to take some pictures.”

I struck silent. Sara’s eyes hold the same predatory gleam that Pel’s has. The same desire and possessive need pours from her.

I startle when Pel leans over to me and whispers, “You know, foxes are predators too.”

This may be hubris or futile

I don’t know if this applies to anyone reading this
Or if I even have the right
But I’m in a position to say it so it’s my responsibility
If he or she(they, etc) harms you, you have my permission and my hope that you leave.
That you go and find someplace safe. That you seek out what help is available and you go.

I know it’s not my place or even if it will do any good but know that you are better than the person inflicting you with trauma and you, in no way, deserve whatever harm is occurring.
You deserve a life free from fear, free from harm.
No one has the right to harm you. No one has the right to physical or mentally torture you.

If you are waiting for someone to say, leave. To be given instruction to go. Then this is it. Go. Leave and never go back.

I want (obverse)

To scream
To cry out
To confront you
To kiss you
To hold you
To walk away
To burn the building down
To do anything to get your attention
To hide from ever being
To shout out, “why do I still love you!”
To beg you,
anything, anything to stop hurting
To plunge myself out of emotions and back into physical pursuits

And deep down, I thrash and strain, attempting to wrench myself free, while secretly hoping, you’ll say the word
Anything is better than this half state