I was more anxious than happy when I received an IM from The Composer. It was the middle of the night for him, and he had responded to one of my e-mails letting me know he was only up for a bit and was going to sleep once he was done working. The anxiety stemmed from the fact that my message was less than cheery. I’m dealing with (yet more) dental issues and navigating Medicaid to get the care I need isn’t as simple a thing as one would hope. Being from Europe, the vagaries of our healthcare system are opaque to him, and being a poor kid, I careen wildly between irrationally ragey and then panicked reactions when I have to even TALK about this shit. Let alone do the research and phone calls and make appointments only to be told no, sorry, YOUR particular brand of poor folks healthcare isn’t the RIGHT kind of poor folks health care so just take your poor ass somewhere else, poor person.
But I digress.
Despite a message reassuring him I would be OK, and wishing him a good night’s sleep, The Composer logged on and IMed me. He was thinking of me, and of my situation, and was frustrated there wasn’t much he could do from where he was. And he started asking questions. This of course freaked me out because the more you tell people about your problems, the more they don’t want to be bothered. The more of a liability you are. The more of a whiney bitch you become. But I took a deep breath and said “Hey well, fuckit. I might as well be honest and if he is overwhelmed, better to know now.”
And eventually, as we typed back and forth, half of this planet between us physically, I realized it was Ok for me to tell what I was feeling. And his responses were supportive when they needed to be, and frankly annoyingly on point about the fact I HAD to do what it took despite the fact that it was uncomfortable to me. He was clever enough to even evoke the real specter of political privation as a means of keeping me from healthcare that was rightfully mine, and how could I let Them win? Yeah, fuckers!
But then the fear resurfaced. Don’t be too needy…oh no, he wants to know about your PERSONAL SHIT and if he KNOWS how tenuous your life is he’s gonna think you’re some kind of loser…if you express any need at all, really, you’re gonna be seen as work, as a fixer-upper, and he won’t want you any more…
I dug around to try to see why this irrational fear was chewing me so hard and then I realized it wasn’t irrational. Since I’ve pursued M/S and BDSM, I’ve wrestled the idea of the submissive or slave as something that only speaks when spoken to, that dare not take up space, and gods forbid they NEED ATTENTION or time or focus from the owner, dominant, master, whomever!
Do I know this in my gut to be some bullshit?
Does it still nip at my heels?
The last time I was struggling with some personal shit and had to take it to a dominant type person in my life, I was anxious because I feared seeming like I was too much work. In an unfortunate choice, when I broached these concerns to my dominant, he joked “I thought slaves were supposed to make life EASIER, not add to your ‘To Do’ list!”
He insisted this was a joke I wasn’t to take seriously.
But it stung.
Ultimately, that one didn’t work out.
But The Composer simply reiterated that, as a Property Manager, it would be his responsibility to make sure I had the ability to take care of myself. Thereby making it possible for me to take care of him. And he would be sure to support me in that, so that I would be able to fulfill my calling.
And we would talk about what that looks like when he returns.
This is now precisely one week away.
And I can’t hardly wait.
It is quietly shocking to have the possibility of someone who truly understands what it means to own someone else, and willingly acknowledges the weightiness and beauty inherent in that exchange. And who doesn’t see my foibles and flounderings as a burden…simply as what is, and worthy of love and attention.