Last week was a very hard week.
At first I was going to ask Jason if I could take this week off from blogging, because I’ve needed to withdraw and regroup. But after further reflection, I realize I need to write about this, and I know this post will be a bit of a diversion from my usual posts.
Last week was the final week of our kitchen renovation. So I had no sink or fridge access or stove while feeding a large family. It worked out (and our kitchen is now done!) but it was stressful. Then my kids got sick…every single one of them. These things come up, though, and you handle them. That’s what we do. But then I got news that devastated me.
Friends of ours lost their child in a tragic car accident. He was a senior in high school. A teen-ager. Just like my babies. My heart ached for my friends.
I did what any good friend would do… reached out in support and prayer, ready to help with whatever they needed. I took some time off from my work and didn’t go online much. I needed to regroup. Grieve. I was quiet throughout the week, processing. Praying. Jason and I kept up with the normal flow of things.
Friday night was the wake. There were so many people in attendance, the line to get into the funeral home wrapped all around outside, and the three hours it took us to get in felt like a sort of pilgrimage. My heart broke for the children who showed up in droves. They reminded me so much of my own babies, mourning the loss of a friend, comforting each other. And when I got to our friends, all I could do was say, “I’m so, so sorry. I love you,” and hold on as we wept together.
Some of you, those who’ve read my blog for some time, may remember I lost my own father in a tragic car accident. I always grieve his loss at the holidays, and I felt that loss so keenly over the past week.
Jason was home with our children, as he didn’t really know the people who lost their son the way I did and I went with my closest friends from my church. When I came home, he was ready for me.
He asked how I held up. He asked how it went. He asked if I needed daddy time, or stress relief, or for him to hold me for a little while. I didn’t really understand it at the time, but I told him no. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want stress relief. I didn’t want to be held, or even touched. It confused me a little, but it was a very clear need of mine that I needed to retreat even from him. Jason gets me. We communicate openly and honestly and with such regularity, that although it surprised him a little, he respected that. He said, “Okay. I’m here when you need me.”
The next morning was the funeral. The funeral was far harder than even the wake had been.
I arrived early and sat with my friends. The church grew so packed there was standing room only. The sheer amount of people who showed up to mourn the loss of this boy, to celebrate his life, and to pray for his family, was overwhelming. I wept for the children that came to mourn their friend, for my friends who now face the holidays without their youngest son, and for the certain knowledge that this life is temporary. That one day I will face more loss, for none of us escapes death or tragedy. Seeing a child pass away is such a vivid, painful reminder of our mortality.
It was a beautiful, heartbreaking ceremony.
I came home, and Jason asked again if I needed him. I told him no, not yet. I told him I couldn’t talk about it...that I needed to, but I wasn't ready. Again, he was confused but respectful of my need for space. Honestly, even I was confused.
My kitchen was done, so I put it together, then I threw myself headlong into a thorough purge of my house. I wasn’t really sure why I needed to, but it was incredibly therapeutic. I’ve read that decluttering our lives with things we no longer need or love helps us make peace with the past. For me, it helped me not only make peace with my past but bring clarity to the present. Jason, once again, seemed to intuitively understand this. He brought the donations to the car for me, and even drove to the thrift store and carried it all in with me. He praised me for bringing order and beauty to our home, and that meant a lot to me because I bask in his praise like sunshine. Throughout the weekend, he kept telling me he loved me and thanking me for everything I did.
A few times yesterday he asked if I needed my daddy. Instead of retreating, I began to open up a little. I said, “Yes, daddy,” and he hugged and held me.
Then yesterday, I finally talked to him. I told him everything, about the wake and funeral, what I felt and thought, what happened and how it impacted me. We talked about so many things. Our faith. Our children. Our relationship. Our past. Our future. We talked for hours, and in the end all I could do was give thanks for the gift of my husband.
I began craving the connection of submitting to him. Of his dominance. He made me kneel, but there was no spanking involved. Instead of putting me over his knee, he let me rest my head on his lap and tell him what was on my heart.
I didn’t realize until this morning why I needed to retreat. Why I needed to turn inward. At the end of the day, though he’s my Dom, the person I love more than life itself, though I adore everything about that man, Jason is a human being. Mortal, like all of us. And there will come a day when one of us has to say good-bye to the other. I was afraid at first I was internalizing my grief, burying it in a way that’s unhealthy. I wasn’t, though. Instead, I was turning to my faith. I don’t often speak much of my faith on this blog, because my readership is wide, and I accept that we all have different walks of life. I am a woman of faith, though, and during this past week, I needed the strength beyond what even my husband could give.
This morning I woke up early. I turned to Jason and said, “I need a check-in this morning. Can we check in later?” He squeezed my hand and said, “Yes. Of course. Always.”
Even though it may not seem like we were living our D/s life through all of this, we were. So much. The beauty of all this is the mutual give and take. Self-giving love. He was prepared to give me comfort and guidance. We’ve practiced honest communication so long that I was able to tell him what I needed and when, and he was able to respect that.
There is no such thing as perfection. but every day there is something to give thanks for. Today, I give thanks for Jason, for loving me and guiding me and caring for me. For being my Dom. And I give thanks to you, my readers, for listening. Reading. Reaching out to me among your own struggles and pain and letting me know that I’m not alone.