Happy New Year

Happy New Years. A new beginning, a brand new fresh year. What to do with it? I can tell you what I'd >like<>probably< do with it.

First of all, I'd like this New Year to be filled with love, joy and hope. I'd like to achieve the goals I set for mysefl. I want to see an improvement in our lives. I want to see my husband begin his formal schooling and find himself very successful at it. I want to see us get out of debt and be able to start over without worrying about yet another bill coming after us. In order to achieve this, here are my resolutions.

1. Lose weight
2. Stop smoking
3. Go to church more often
4. Stop procrastanating
5. Find an orderly system for our house
6. Find a better job
7. Get one of our car's fixed
8. See my niece get married
9. Get us in a better financial position



And, I typed and typed lots of stuff in addition to this, but, somehow lost it and now don't feel like re-doing it.

Sorry I haven't posted recently, three people down at work so I'm working like a dog. I have one day off this week and the boss scheduled a meeting that I have to go to on that day, so, really I don't have a day off. Will try to post every other day at minimum, but if I don't, you'll know it's just me being too tired.

Sea Rabbit, thanks for your support, you've been great, I love getting comments from you. As soon as I get some time I will link up to your blog. Going to go there now and read a bit. TTYL.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all
(bit late I know

A Continuation

Sea Rabbit made me think of a couple of things as I read her comment. I started out by putting this into the comment section, but realized I had alot to say about it.

It's true that men use sex as a weapon. I spent seven years married to a man who thought I was his personal fuck toy. Now, coming from someone who is delving into a dom/sub lifestyle all on her own free will, that might sound a little contridictoray. Let me tell you the difference. My first husband, did not care about me or my needs. He did not love me, or treat me as a person, in or out of our bedroom.

With my husband, I know that no matter what we experiment with, he loves me. He would never do anything that would scar me physically, or emotionally. This has made me feel safe enough to venture into places I had never been before. He makes me feel safe and secure. I want to serve him, to please him, to be the perfect wife and mother for him and our children. I had no such desires for my ex. I loved him, but I never felt the need to kneel between his legs and worship him the way I do my husband.

Anyway, the ex would demand sex from me. If I was not in the mood, or I was sick, or whatever happened to be the issue, he would guilt me. He would belittle me and tell me I was not keeping up on my wedding vows, that I was a failure as a wife, that I needed to have sex with him, even if I was so sick I couldn't get out of bed. That was the kind of lover he was. Selfish to the max. He actually raped me several times. Once was even while our daughter lay less then ten feet from us. He knew I wouldn't scream. Knew there was nothing I could do. He made me believe that even if I reported it, it wouldn't be taken seriously because he was my husband, that was his right.

He would use this to bargin with me. He is an alchoholic and many nights were spent fighting over the fact that he had taken his entire paycheck and treated whoever happened to be at the bar to drinks all night and would come home with nothing. Nothing. No way to pay the rent, or the light bills, or buy diapers for our baby. He left me with nothing and hell yes we would fight over it. The sex thing came in, when he wanted to do something. He would promise not to ask me for sex, if I would let him go hang out with his friends, or go drinking at his mom's house, or whatever he wanted to do.

How funny it seems to me that only now, after Sea Rabbits comment, did I realize how much he used sex to control me. Not the threat of not having it, but the threat that we >would< have it. Not only were we married seven years, but, it has now been almost seven years since our divorce. Fourteen years and it just dawned on me.

Wich sort of leads into the rest of her comment. About how these people must not like sex. I don't think it is so much that they don't like >sex< as it is that they don't like who they are having sex with. My selfish ex husband did nothing for me. We had to keep a tube of KY or Vasaline next to the bed for lubrication. I honestly thought there was something wrong with me because no amount of foreplay could get me wet.

Now, I have to laugh at that notion. My husband >looks< at me a certain way and I can feel myself getting wet. There are many times when we are making love when we will have to take a breather so I can dry off a little bit. The man excites me, his touch makes me shiver and I feel it somewhere deep inside of me.

I learned this long ago when my husband and I were first together. Even now it sometimes suprised me, but, it does tell me that it was never me that had the problem. It was my ex. His lack of love, caring, and understanding of what I like.

So, for all of you out there, who are using sex as a weapon. Stop, look at yourself, ask yourself why you are doing that. Make sure that the person you are with, is the one that you >want< to be with, the one that stirs that something deep inside of you. Make sure that you give your all to that person. Talk to them. You have no idea how great good communication is for a relationship. Don't think your partner will listen? What do you have to loose? Think about that. Think about how they feel each time they realize that you are not having sex with them because you love them, but because you can get something, or, get out of something, by giving or not giving sex. Try it, just once. I for one, am going to go tell my husband just how much he means to me.

Life's Whore

I think I should rename my blog. As much as I want to write about my sex life, the wonderful journey into submissivness, I just always find something else that weighs on my mind more. This is my outlet, my place to let it all go. I should call it "Life's Whore" because that's who I feel I am at the moment. No matter how hard I try, she fucks me, long and hard, everytime I turn around. I don't get to say no, I don't get to say not right now, it's just plain old "Shut your mouth and take it" fucking.

Bi-polar. Such a lovely word isn't it? It's the new fancy terminology for manic depressant. That's me. I should be on medication, but I'm not. Why? I guess it's because like all bi-polar people, I think I can handle it. That's what happens during my "manic" moments. I think that I'm all better and I shouldn't have to take it, so I stop.

Not that I can afford the medication anyway. I have no insurance. Why don't I have insurance? Because simply, I can't afford it. Why can't I afford it? Because I work a shit job for shit money and I have a family of five to support.

My family. That should be my shinning light right? Of course. But is it? At the moment, no. Why is that? Because when I get depressed, all I can do is sleep. So, not a big deal right? Well, yeah, because then my children don't get up on time to get themselves to school. Well, now I'm sure you wondering why I don't drive them. Because I can't. Why can't I? Because no matter how hard I try, I can't bring myself to drive them to school. So they miss a day, who cares right? Well, I care, I feel like a horrible mother.

It isn't just that. I woke up this morning, the children had missed getting to school. Not because they weren't up on time, but because they decided to watch television instead of getting ready and leaving for school. Oh well, I guess I need to go back to the old policy. That used to be "If you miss school and are not sick, you will be put to work all day long." the thought behind it being that they would prefer to be at school during the day.

So, after much effort, I climb my ass out of bed only to find that my eight year old son, for reasons still unknown, has spit on the floor. Not just once, but, he's made an entire pile of spit, the size of my hand, on the floor. Nothing is more disguisting to me then fluids out of the mouth. Be it spit or vomit. I can't hack it.

I remember once, when I was younger, going on a trip to a cabin. There was no running water up there, so, we had to brush our teeth and spit into a cup. I was so grossed out that I began to wretch, which led into me vomiting. I have a very sensative stomach. Once I start gagging, I know it is going to end up in me vomiting. Now, even though he's cleaned it up, I can still picture it on the floor. I am struggling to not start gagging. Ugh. Thank God I didn't step in it.

My daughter, has decided, that even though she was up in time, and decided to climb back into bed, that it's all her brother's fault she didn't make it to school. So, of course, she has a nasty little attitude. Wonderful. Just what I needed this morning.

My youngest, I can't complain about. Other then, the first thing he does is ask me if I have to go to work. I tell him later since I have to work graveyard tonight. He says "yay!". Daddy asks him why he said "yay" and he says "Because mom doesn't have to go to work right now" Awwwww. I start to cry.

One of my best friends asks me how I'm doing this morning. I try to tell him I am depressed. He asks if I have started my medication. For the first time ever. I lie to him and tell him I started them again a few weeks ago. I just can't deal with the disapointment from him. I can't tell him I can't afford the medication, or even the doctor visit. I don't know why. He's never judged me before. He even offered to send me some of his antideppresents. I should take him up on it, but, I can't.


I should maybe force myself to get up and get something done. I can't. I don't feel like doing anything. I want to curl up in a corner of my bed and just cry myself to sleep. But, I can't. I can't let it win. I feel like I would die crying if I started. I feel like I have this darkness hovering over me, waiting to swoop in and smother me at the first sign of weakness. I have to be strong. I have to keep going for my family.

I want to tell my husband how bad I feel inside. But I can't. Not without making him feel bad too. How can I tell him I hate my life? That I am feeling suicidal. I mean, I know, and he knows, I would never actually hurt myself. But, I want to. I think that he would be better off if he found someone more stable. As would my children. But, the thought of that, the pain of thinking of him with someone else, cuts through my heart. It hurts so bad that it phsyically hurts me, makes my stomach hurt. How can I tell him it is how I honestly feel right now. He obviously knows I'm bi-polar. He doesn't understand it. He has a very logical mind, and so for him, there is a very simple solution. Stop feeling like that. I want to scream every time he says that. I can't fucking stop. Trust me, I'd love to stop this roller coaster of emotions I always seem to be on. I hate it.

I want to be a better mother. I want to be a better wife. A better sister. A better daughter. A better aunt. A better grandaughter. I want to be a better person period. I just don't know how.

Have I mentioned I hate Christmas? I do. I think I officially hate all holidays. Here is a little story that makes me smile because I can relate to Santa in this.

When four of Santa's elves got sick, and the trainee elves
did not prooduce the toys as fast as the regular ones, Santa was
beginning to feel the pressure of being behind schedule.

Then Mrs. Claus told Santa that her Mom was coming to visit. This
stressed Santa even more.

When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three
of them were about to give birth and two had jumped the fence and were
out, heaven knows where. More stress.

Then when he began to load the sleigh one of the boards
cracked, and the toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys.

So, frustrated, Santa went into the house for a cup of
apple cider and a shot of rum. When he went to the cupboard, he discovered
that the elves had hidden the liquor, and there was nothing to drink. In
his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider pot, and it
broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the kitchen floor. He went to get
the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw
end of the broom.

Just then the doorbell rang, and irritable Santa trudged to
the door. He opened the door, and there was a little angel with a
great big Christmas tree. The angel said, very cheerfully, "Merry Christmas,
Santa. Isn't it a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would
you like me to stick it?"

And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of
the Christmas tree.

Vacation

For any faithful readers I have. I am going to be gone for a couple of days on vacation. My first one in six years. I'll let you know how it goes. I'm so excited. See ya soon.