Posts tagged ‘challenges’

Hurt

I haven’t posted in a while, mostly due to not knowing what to say.

A few weeks ago we were woken late at night by a call from a member of the Boyfriend’s family notifying us that his daughter had been raped at a party.

Quite honestly, the list of women (and men) I know who have been raped or molested is staggeringly long. That doesn’t make it any easier when you hear that it’s happened again, especially to someone you might barely know, but whom your loved one loves dearly.

The compressed anger I felt from my own past experiences (the ex-husband was an abusive bastard), including my daughter’s molestation when she was in grade school, resulted in me just shaking for the next 24 hours. I watched the Boyfriend’s daughter being surrounded by friends, family and more adults than I’d thought possible jumping in to support her, help her and hound the police to do something.

Part of me was comforted by that. Part of me was crushed. Who was there for me when I lived in fear of my own husband for eight years? My mother, for one, but other than telling me that the spare bedroom in her house would always be available to me whenever I was ready to leave the bastard, there really wasn’t much else in the way of support. I put on a stubbornly brave face and told everyone I was FINE, leave me alone. So they did.

When my daughter’s rape was reported, most of the adults involved–friends of the perpetrator–denied it could have happened. They called my daughter a liar, backed themselves up with age and authority, told me they’d known him for so many years and didn’t believe he was capable of such a thing.

Denial. Suppression. Willful blindness. Arrogance. Delusion.

Driving the Boyfriend’s daughter back from a therapy session recently, she confided that she was tired of talking about what happened. She didn’t want to keep bringing it up, just wanted it to go away.

How often does rape go unreported for the same reason? Just make it go away. The boys involved and their friends have tormented her, posting on twitter and facebook, spreading rumors. Maybe they’re scared, maybe they’re just that badass that they don’t care, I don’t know.

What I do know is this has been a devastating situation for the Boyfriend. My own father never knew what I went through. If he had known, I would have been mortified and deeply ashamed (as if I wasn’t already, just very good at hiding it behind a veneer of aloofness and superiority). I watch the Boyfriend go through grief, anger, frustration, and other emotions while I hide behind my all-too familiar aloofness. I’m fine. Just stop asking what’s bothering me. 

I’m grieving the loss of innocence my daughter and I suffered through, and the lack of support we had to get on with our lives. I am slightly jealous that the Boyfriend’s daughter has an army of people behind her, smothering her with love and support, and that my daughter and I didn’t. I am selfishly crushed at how this has affected my relationship with the Boyfriend, at how distant we’ve become recently, just as we’d moved in closer. Sex? What’s that? Something that happens once in a while, if we’re lucky. He’s too tired, I’m sick, someone else needs one of us to be somewhere else for hours on end, etc. The stress is overwhelming. I feel like I’m supposed to be supportive and help him through this, but there are too many conflicting emotional gremlins nipping at my heels to keep me on the selfless path.

I want to feel loved, protected, safe. And I do, but for all the times I haven’t been safe and had to stand up for myself. Because of those times, I am always on the defensive. Trust is a huge issue. I’ve never allowed another lover to be physically dominant with me in the ways I’ve allowed the Boyfriend to. I trust him fully, but do I trust myself? The honest answer is no, so I pull away, retreating to anywhere but where he is.

There has got to be a way out of this.

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Packing

Things are progressing swiftly on the moving-in front. Boyfriend has been clearing out his house, selling off old items he doesn’t need, throwing other items away. I’ve been doing much of the same at my place, trimming my possessions down to a more manageable pile. There are boxes of crap I’ve carried through multiple moves now, just begging to be gone through and disposed of. It’s rather cathartic to let go of so many things. Considering how many times I’ve moved over the years, you’d think I’d winnowed my belongings down to a decent amount, but no. I’m still lugging around more than I could possibly ever need, and then some.

Sex has been elusive for a while. We’re both so busy, then he caught a cold, and there always seem to be kids around. Strangely, I don’t mind. I joke about it, telling him how much I want to get my hands on him, while quietly and patiently waiting things out. I figure if we’re going to be sleeping in the same bed night after night for the foreseeable future, I can be a good girl for now and keep my hands in my pockets.

 

 

anxiety

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as I lay beside him in his bed. “Why?” I asked, wondering what I’d missed. “Because you’ll have to tell your readers about the first time we slept together and didn’t have sex.” Considering New Guy had recently been told his mother might be dying, I figured it was just fine that I wasn’t getting laid. I snuggled in closer and kept my hands to myself.

Earlier in the week he’d gotten word that his mother was in the hospital and things looked potentially grim, and I’d offered to watch his dog while he went to visit her for a few days. He called to ask if I could come by the next day to pick the dog up after he’d headed out, and I said screw that, I’m coming over NOW.

“It’s raining and it’s late. Just come by tomorrow. I want you to be safe out there on the roads,” he insisted.

“I can drive in the rain. It’s only ten o’clock. I’ll be there in half an hour,” and I was. We curled up on his sofa together, saying as little as possible. Occasionally he talked about his childhood and family memories. I listened. He held me so tightly I feared he might crush a rib.

Around midnight he got up, took my hands and stood me in front of him. “Are you going or staying?” he asked. I didn’t need to think about it. “Staying.” Up the stairs to his room, then under the covers and wrapped around each other. Sleep came quickly but was over all too soon. Before first light we were up and I was making breakfast while he finished packing.

After a milky-white, dreary damp sunrise, he was off to the hospital three hours away and I was heading back to my house with his dog in the back seat. That was a week ago. I didn’t feel comfortable writing about it until now, as his mother has somewhat recovered and he’s returned to claim his dog. And me.

The first few days away were mostly quiet while he sorted things out with his siblings and the doctors. As his mother’s condition improved, text messages between us went from worried to wistful, peppered with longing and innuendo. One of his Masterly edicts is that if I play with myself, I have to tell him about it, which I did. I described what I was thinking, and where and how I did it. He did the same, texting me one morning at the very moment I was getting myself off thinking about him. It’s nice to be tuned in to each other like that.

Soon after his mother was well enough to be moved out of intensive care, he made plans to return to work and school. I had assumed that his first thought would be to head home and sleep in his own bed, but no, he wanted to see me before anything else. While he had me pinned to my bed and covered in each other’s sweat not long after arriving at my house that evening, he told me “you know, most Masters wouldn’t allow their slave to have an orgasm without permission.” I smiled at him, saying “I do it for you. Besides, I can’t stop coming once you’re in me.” He withdrew a little and held himself back. “I should make you ask for it. You’ll have to say ‘Master, may I?’ before I let you come again.” I think I must have laughed then, as I’m so extremely orgasmic that being touched just-so can sometimes set me off, and he knows it. But I did ask, twice, before we gave up on that idea and went with catching up on more than a week’s worth of sexual tension and releasing all that pent-up stress.

It’s good to have him home again.