When I imagine being harmlessly dominated, the first thing I feel is a sense of safety. To be controlled, to willingly relinquish control. I feel excitement and thrill to be powerless, weaker than.
My whole life I’ve had to manage, lead, be the bigger person, exercise wisdoms, discipline. I’ve had to parent my parents, friends, lovers, my son, myself.
I want to be a child but it’s all over.
A child with little to no choice, not a care, simply existing.
My childhood was severed.
I remember when I decided to place the burden upon myself. Tending to my father and his ocean of emotions. Suppressing my sadness to make room and hold his. I was in charge of how he felt, and when he was in pain it was my obligation to make him feel better.
It was an emotional rollercoaster I was born to ride, I suppose.
I was born in his boiling waters, birthed onto the old pavement painted by our bloodline.
Lost without.
I grew up and hit a point where control gave me comfort. I quickly realized I couldn’t control the world outside of me. So I hyperfixated on controlling myself.
I gave myself rules, an underdeveloped idea of structure. I studied and sorted through the labyrinth of my being.
I think this, paired with me choosing similar lovers, kept me silent. Holding their emotions. Holding, healing, tending.
I saw my dad in them all, so it was natural.
They are my shadow, opposite, docile, timid. I’m protective over them. They let me choose. They let me go and take me back.
Unfortunately, the damage is an open wound as a result of all the sacrifice.
I don’t let people hold me.
I don’t trust trust.
I don’t trust care.
All of my moves are calculated. I think it all through to make sense. I feel things out, follow each path out in my mind.
I don’t like surprises and not knowing. I need mental preparation.
I won’t let myself fall, or will I never put my guard down or go wild in the arms of another?
Only alone do I surrender.
Surrender could look like placing my heart back on my sleeve.
Maybe I’d become an emotional drunk, embrace being a femme fatale.
Maybe I won’t have any friends.
Maybe I’d detach and float away and up.
I’d be sad and heavyhearted all the time.
I’d cry. Wail. Beg.
It’s a slippery slope.
I fear I must stay tense or I’ll lose myself entirely.
Whatever that means.
If I lose myself and become other—was I even me?
My whole being is tired of being in control.
I asked him if he wanted to know about my day.
He said he did, as he was intrigued by me.
I sat silent and changed the subject.
I’m not so good at sharing me.
