This was the most difficult post I've ever written. My finger hovered over the "publish" button for quite some time, before I took a deep breath and hit it. But I needed to write it.
It's long. My apologies. I tried, but couldn't write it any simpler.
The past few days, my emotions have run high.
I'm not exactly sure why. There really is no reason. I'm not hormonal. I'm not stressed. Jason and I have been fantastic. But I've been on the verge of tears a lot lately.
Emotions run high in D/S, and I'm no exception to this rule. I never used to be a crier. Not at all. But now, I cry easily.
My emotions have led me to think about how grateful I am. How blessed I am to be loved, and loved deeply. Readers of this blog will know how I adore my husband. And they'll also know I have good reason.
He is patient, and kind, and attentive. But he doesn't let me get away with anything. He has that perfect blend of sternness and gentleness that makes me feel cared for, loved, and treasured. He calls me that sometimes -- his treasure.
He's been home the past few days, and at every possible opportunity, I've been sneaking upstairs to him and putting my head on his lap, giving him a quick kiss, or hugging him. I can't get enough of him. I long to be with him. Finally today he said, "You're just soaking me up, aren't you?"
Yes, I am. I need to. Just be close. Touch him. Hear his voice.
So today, I've been thinking a lot about how deeply we love each other, and I am thankful.
But I'm also thinking about my past, and how I've been healed, and how my relationship with my husband has brought about that healing.
I've hesitated in sharing too much about my past, mostly because I don't like to perpetuate the myth that people who crave D/S come from broken homes. It simply isn't true. But people have been hurt. People come from broken homes. So it only stands to reason, that some of us who choose this lifestyle also came from broken homes.
I am one of those people, and I want to tell you a little bit about this. I need to do this. It's on my heart, and I need to write it all out...for me, for my husband, and for anyone else out there who can relate.
I grew up in a seriously abusive, highly dysfunctional home. It's taken me a long time to come to grips with that. I still don't think I have completely. When I met Jason I was young, and naive. He's a good deal older than I am. I was still living with my parents, still believing the lies they told me I was raised believing.
That I could do nothing right. That it was normal to be belittled, demeaned, and abused. I have vivid memories of kneeling by my bed at night, praying for everything to end. I hated my life. My childhood was horrible. I was terrified in my own home, but I had nowhere to go. My parents would occasionally lash out physically, but it was rare. They chose the verbal variety instead. I was manipulated, and lied to, and taken advantage of. I regularly experienced things that no child should ever, ever go through.
The first time I was driving the car with Jason and made a wrong turn, I remember holding my breath and cringing, awaiting the inevitable wrath that would come from having made a mistake that inconvenienced him. Because that's what men did when they were angry, right? He only turned to me and shrugged and said, "Hey, we'll just take the next exit. It's okay." It shocked me.
He didn't have a temper. He never belittled me. He always looked at the bright side of things. He was patient, and kind. He worked hard. And he loved me.
Although he was good, and kind, he was also very much in charge. He knew what he believed, and he made no apology for it. He was responsible, and protective, though he always did it in the "cool, calm, and collected" way that made me feel safe.
But I had a temper. I was raised in a home where yelling, raging, and screaming were what you did when you were angry. It was nearly instinctive with me. The first few times I lost my temper with Jason, even in the middle of my fit, I expected him to react the same way I did, and fight back. But he never did. He would watch me, arms folded across his chest, and say something like, "Are you done now?" His calm demeanor would make me feel guilty. I felt terrible for the things that I'd said, and he'd forgive me.
I tried so hard to calm that temper of mine. I hated how I felt after I'd lost my patience with my husband. And when we began to have children, I hated how I felt when I'd lost my patience with one of them.
Jason would usually step back when I was in a temper, because it was the easiest way for him to stay calm. But every once in a while he would step up to me, take me by the arm firmly and say, "That's enough!" And when he did, it would immediately take the wind out of my sails.
When I first read about Domestic Discipline, my gut reaction was, "No. That's wrong. It's not right for a husband to discipline his wife." I was repulsed by the idea of a domineering husband trying to exert his will over mine. I wasn't a child. I was a full-grown woman.
But one day, after we'd been dabbling in erotic spanking for some time, Jason told me I would get a "real spanking." I didn't believe him, but he showed me he was, indeed, serious. I was shocked. Mortified. And incredibly, undeniably, drawn to it.
What was it that drew me to being disciplined by my husband? I read, and I read, and I read.
I read about husbands who cared about their wives so deeply, they wouldn't let them do silly, heedless things. I read about wives who said they felt comforted, and secure, and they were able to let their guilt go when their husbands disciplined them.
I wanted that.
After some time, Jason decided we would try out Domestic Discipline and see how it went. We had a few rules at first. We didn't call ourselves "D/S." It was just something we did. If I disobeyed a rule, I got a spanking. It did work. I did feel loved, and forgiven, and after a lifetime of dealing with the pain of guilt, and feeling like I could do nothing right, things began to change. I never in my entire life experienced the loving feel of being disciplined by someone who loved me. I was always punished in anger as a child, so it left me feeling hurt, and rejected.
This confused me. Why did I crave Jason's discipline so much? Discipline was a negative thing.
For a long time, I tried to control things. I tried to tell him how to do things. I tried to tell him what I wanted, but nothing he did was right.
Then one day, one incident changed everything.
One day, several months after he began discipline spankings, I disobeyed a rule. It was a rule I'd broken many times, and he'd had it. He told me was going to spank me soundly for it but he wasn't feeling well, and I'd have to wait until he felt better.
The wait was torturous. Finally, I lost it. In a fit, I told him to just get it over with already and stop torturing me by making me wait.
Remember I said my husband stands his ground? Does he ever. No fit of mine will ever get me my way. He told me I'd better knock off the fit, and that I wasn't in control of the situation.
I went up to my room and fumed up there. Why wouldn't he just get it over with? Why was he torturing me? He sent me a text (since he was all the way on the other side of the house) and he said something like, "You're being a brat and you'd better knock it off. This isn't your call."
I responded by being a total brat and told him he was being mean and I was sick of being treated so poorly!
His response was, "Alright, then. I'm mean. Maybe it's time you go back to dealing with these things on your own. Maybe I shouldn't discipline you anymore."
Oh gosh. That was devastating. I responded and apologized and begged him not to take D/S away from me.
I heard him coming upstairs. I expected his anger. Although he doesn't rant and rave, the man is human. When he gets angry with me, I know it. I expected he'd come up and tell me it was over. No more D/S. That he was done with my brattiness and controlling.
He did not.
He came into the room, where I was weeping quietly to myself. He sat on the bed, pulled me into his arms, and rocked me.
"You need to trust me," he whispered. "This is not yours to control. You're going about this all the wrong way. If this is what you want, you need to let me do things my way. You need to let me lead you. If you want me in charge, it's time to let this go."
I cried, and I cried, and I cried. And it all came out.
I'd been holding onto some kind of hope -- some ray of light -- something, anything that would help me believe my parents loved me unconditionally. I still wanted to know I meant something to them. I still couldn't come to grips with the pain of having been abused and rejected.
I told him. As he held me and I wept, I told him everything. That never in my life had I been held accountable by someone who loved me. That never had anyone cared enough for me to discipline me lovingly, and teach me how to be a better person. To help me change the character flaws I hated about myself. To help me forgive myself for the mistakes I made. No one had ever done that for me.
My desire to be disciplined by the one person in my life who ever loved me unconditionally was so deeply rooted in my desire to be taken care of, and protected. He kissed me and told me he understood. And then he told me something I will never forget.
"I don't care what you do, what you say, or whatever mistakes you make. I will always, always love you. That will never change, not ever. I'm not going anywhere. I am here. You are mine, and I love you so much. But you need to trust me. I can't do what you need me to do unless you trust me."
I cried into his chest and he held me, as I told him I would. I would trust him. I wouldn't control this anymore. And that I loved him, too.
"You deserve a spanking for disobeying me. But because I need to teach you to trust me, I'm going to have you wait until the end of the weekend," he said.
"Nooooo," I cried. The two-day long wait had been torture enough. I needed to wait even longer?
"I will stay with you. I'm going to walk you through this. You can cry to me, and tell me everything you're feeling, and I'll help you with it. I will hold your hand through this and help you. But you're going to let go of this control, and trust me."
And when he said that, a funny thing happened. I felt peace. I didn't feel the angst of waiting for a punishment anymore. I knew then, down to my bones, that he loved me, that he would always do what was right by me, and that most of all I could trust him.
I nodded. I let it all go. My desire to control and make things happen on my terms. I put myself completely at his mercy, and it felt so good.
"Okay," I said. "I completely trust you. I won't ask again. I won't push, or beg or anything. You do what you think is best."
"You mean that?" he asked.
"Yes," I responded. I did. I really truly did.
He squeezed me and kissed my forehead. "That's what I needed to hear," he said. "Come to the end of the bed now. I think it's time we got this punishment over with."
Oh, the relief. All of it. To know he knew what I needed, and that he loved me, and that I could trust him.
He gave me a long, hard spanking. It was the first time ever he spanked in sets. In between sets, he rubbed me and talked quietly to me, and I cried as I let it all go. When he was finished giving me one of the hardest spankings I'd gotten at that point, he held me while I cried, and all was forgiven.
It was what I needed.
It is what I need.
As I've given over control in this, and truly put it all in my husband's hands, I've felt myself experiencing healing from the past. I've felt the love of a firm, loving hand that I've craved.
When I once deliberately disobeyed him, made the conscious decision that I didn't care if I'd get spanked or not, I was going to disobey him anyway, I felt guilt about it and told him. He looked at me sorrowfully and pulled me over to him. "I'm glad you told me," he said quietly. "Disobeying me is one thing. Intentionally disobeying me like that is another thing entirely. I have to spank you for that, and I have to spank you soundly. I can't allow you to even entertain thoughts like that. Do you understand me?"
I remember feeling fear at the thought of the sound spanking he promised, but overcome with emotion. It was the unmistakable feeling of knowing he does this because he loves me.
This past weekend, I lost my temper with one of my kids. Jason was at the top of the stairs and heard me. He called my name sharply. I knew I was in trouble. I meekly went upstairs to him, and he instructed me to sit at the end of the bed. He walked over to me, and put a finger under my chin, raising my eyes to his.
"I can't have you behaving like that," he said. "What you did was wrong." He was right. I felt the guilt of knowing I did something wrong. My kids didn't deserve to be treated the way I'd treated them. He looked steadily into my eyes.
"I don't ever want to hear you treat them that way because you're taking your frustrations out on them. I will help you with what you need, always. But if that happens again, you're getting a spanking. Do you understand me?"
I nodded. And again...it was that feeling of being loved. He doesn't discipline me because he's selfish. He doesn't do it because he's on a power trip. He doesn't do it to demean me, and he never treats me like a child. He does it because I need it. He does it because it helps me.
But most of all, he does it because he loves me. He loves me the way no one else has ever loved me...unconditionally. And trusting myself to him was the best decision I've ever made.