I can't say that I'll be terribly upset if I'm snowed in here again at B. and J.'s house tonight. ;)
I have random thoughts swimming around, and since I have nothing better to do today, I think I'll throw it all out and see if anything sticks. :)
I can tell that my Owner people are trying very hard to make me a happy little girl. And I appreciate it lots. And I'm furiously trying to shove down the voice in the back of my head that's telling me I don't deserve it, I suck at life, they're going to get sick of you and tell you to go away, etc.
For the little that comes out of my mouth most of the time, there's a lot that goes on inside me. And while I'm really, really lazy physically, I still have to keep moving constantly, even if it's just mentally moving. I don't do well with stasis. Stasis feels to me like Damocles's sword is hanging precariously over my head, just waiting to fall on me. It makes me uneasy. I don't know why.
When I was little, I liked to sit around and read a lot. Well, I still do that, but I'm going somewhere with this, I promise. I could (and still can) read all day, or, at least, until I ran out of something interesting to read. My mother would laugh at me because she'd look in on me at one point, and I'd be on the couch. Then, she'd look in on me a little while later, and I'd be on the chair. A little later, I'd be in the recliner. And after that, I'd be back on the couch again. Even something as quiet and unobtrusive as reading required motion, even if it was just a tiny bit. I'm still that way.
Some people can't take silence. They have to talk and talk and talk to fill the void because it scares them to death. Those people annoy the FUCK out of me and make me want to do violent, bloody things to them. But I'm not much better, I guess. They abhor silence; I abhor stillness.
Why am I babbling on about this? I'm not entirely sure, really.
B. and J. have probably noticed while I've been here, I've been in a bit of a frenzy. Nothing major. It's just that when things go well, I keep moving, keep moving, keep moving because I think my forward motion makes everything continue to go well. That if I stop, everything wonderful and beautiful stops, too. I do things like cooking and laundry and whatever because I want to make them happy. But I also want so badly to please them to make the happy place stay there.
And then when I'm sad, I stop. And the stopping makes things so much worse. I hate myself for stopping. I get convinced that it's all my fault, that if I'd tried a little harder, done a little more, everyone would be happy. It's hard to get me to go again once I stop. So I rebel against it with all my nature. Hence the reason I am not a nice person when I'm bored. There is a rage inside--not an angry rage, but an ever-present impetus to do, do, do--that is rarely ever silent. Again, it doesn't have to be physical "doing." The mental "doing" is most likely the reason that I have such a hard time falling asleep at night.
My crazy works in mysterious ways.
Funny, really, that someone who prizes motion and freedom so much wants to be owned so much, isn't it? Those two desires are often deeply in conflict with one another.
B. asked me once, a long time ago, why I was so drawn to him. Not to being a kinky perv with him just as the vehicle to my fantasies, but why I was drawn to HIM in particular. I told him that he was the only person in the world I'd ever met who I felt like I could be both silent AND still with. The only person with whom I felt I could just float without thinking, without moving, without doing, even if only for a little while.
I can't do it all the time with him, mind you. I can't even do it most of the time. It just comes in short little bursts that are often over just as quickly as they start. I can go for months without ever having it happen. But those moments do exist.
Anyway, I tell you all that to tell you this.
Every now and then, I need to be knocked down, to be stilled, to be compelled to accept the lack of motion, to float somewhere blissfully motionless in my own mind.
It doesn't work just by tying me up tight or mindlessly applying force, by the way. I don't really know how it works. But I know that sometimes it does. Like Friday night, I fought it all the way. But something happened on Saturday, and they got through to me. It didn't last that long, but I remember losing some time. I was still and peaceful.
And while I can't remain in that state of stasis long, the sense of peacefulness remains. I did laundry and cooked today, not in hopes that they would like me more or that they would pet me and tell me what a good girl I am for doing it (not that I'd turn that down, though), but because my submissiveness runs along an arc. And the quieter the "go, go, go" rage inside me is, the more submissive I am. And when I'm submissive, I want to serve, etc., etc.
I'm babbling, I know, but I hope there are some gems of truth to be taken away from here. The more difficult I am to deal with, the more I need the forward motion. When I fight or pout or sulk, I often just need a change of pace. And when that happens, every now and then, it's possible to get through to me enough to kill that instinct if only for a little while.
I feel very little, very small, very submissive. I want nothing more than to be the center of their universe for just a little while like they are mine right now. I'd put my hair in pigtails for the remainder of my visit if my hair was long enough. (L. and I have decided to stay through tomorrow, whatever happens with the weather. I don't really trust my four *ahem* not quite bald, but close e-damn-nough tires on the truck when the weather is iffy.) I MIGHT be hoping for a "play with the little girl" night tomorrow. *Whistles innocently*
By the way--and this is probably completely unrelated to the rest of this post, but I thought I'd point it out, anyway--, I finally figured out how to describe my relationship to my Owner people. Doesn't sound like a big deal, I know, but I am one of those people who needs to put words and images and metaphors with my feelings to make it all make sense for me.
You know how some bitches are like, "My Master is like my Daddy, and he disciplines me and recognizes my best interests better than I do" and some are like, "He has total control over my life, and I don't question anything," and other kind of nonsensical bullshit? Here's mine.
I worship B. and J., like any pet does with its owners, like any little girl does with her big people. Love and worship. But I don't see them like the infallible, impersonal, cosmic God or any of those other incarnations of God where He/She/It/We/They are always wonderful and perfect and glorious, and we should never question any of His/Her/Its/Our/Their decisions or motives or whatever.
I see them more like the Greek or Roman gods: imperfect, fallible, given to roughly equal measures of capriciousness and charm. Somehow greater than human, though not without their own weaknesses and failings, yet still, STILL somehow worthy of my complete devotion.
And, yes, I am the capricious follower as well. Sometimes in lock step with their every whim, and sometimes no. Sometimes self-absorbed and petty, sometimes reverent and self-sacrificing.
They are my loves. I *do* worship them, at least in a sense. And while they can be volatile and whimsical at times, they have yet to turn me into a spider for being obnoxious. And even if I go off the deep end periodically, I'm still devoted to them, to this way of life. For some reason, this metaphor sits much better with me than pretty much any other one I've heard or can think of on my own.
Meh, don't mind me. I get caught up in my own brain and my love of classical allusions sometimes. You should read my poetry if you think this is bad. *Rolls eyes*
Ok, time for a sandwich and bed. I have a long day of being a little girl ahead of me tomorrow. :p