oh, I'm scared if I look in your eyes, I might see your soul (part I)

While we're still talking about old loves, and survival...a series of letters I never intended to publish. Which likely will make no sense to anyone but me, but, based on this Twitter thread...it's on my mind.

So this will be a series I'll set to publish randomly over the course of February and March [Insert from the Editrix: They're going to run into June, one every week or two. Oops], depending on how many of these I find.

22 January 2012

Master,

I don't know when I'll send any of this. I may not. I only know that now is the night I start trying to figure it all out.

I'm beginning to think that things started to go wrong the first time I said no. I don't think we ever recovered; in time, we might, but you were angry, and I was hurt, and it all took far too much time to resolve. Even with that, I believe things still might have recovered, *may* recover, but...for the past four months, I've felt as if I'm standing by myself, not next to you. That, if you're near at all, you're only watching now, not interacting.

And I've done my best to think this through. Yes, I miss talking to you, but that's just talking. Yes, I miss the sex, but that's really, at the end of the day, just sex. I miss...what I miss is feeling that I'm *yours*. Treasured...loved...bidden to your will...when at this point, all I really feel is the burden of it, like you're waiting, with grieving patience, for me to get fed up and leave.

Like everyone else has.

Here's something I know about me. I can endure just about anything. Especially wavering right now between soul-deep depression and abiding anger, I know I can endure just about anything. Especially if my stubbornness kicks in, which I'm still trying to figure out if it has or not. But I also know this: I'd rather give in than give up, and especially in matters of the heart, my version of 'giving in' generally means I can't take any more damage and survive. And I do know I push it, sometimes to places which break me, because...because something in my make-up is tragically flawed. I can submit, though I'm stubborn about it; I cannot give up until I'm driven to that place, broken and bleeding, and it's give up or die. And even then, I fold rather than admit I've fallen.

I haven't given in yet. But I'm starting to hurt more than I want to, and I'm deeply unhappy. I feel forsaken, I feel as if I'm grieving having never had the loss to show for it, and I feel very, *very* deeply angry. And so far, I'm too depressed and too angry even to *cry* over all this, which by the way, my therapist wants me to do before she sees me next week. I wonder what she'll say when I tell her I wasn't able to do it.

Whatever I write here, however long it takes me to get it to you--assuming I do, assuming I'm willing to open myself up to more potential pain--this is where it ends. Once I hit wherever the 'end' is, to these notes (assuming I send it then), I send it, but then I'm done talking. And if you never bring it up, *any* of it up, that's it. Sooner or later even I'll hit that point, and I'll give up on you too.

I love you, you bastard. Don't push me to that point.

More to come.