An Admission

I have not done this before. I have not written something as a confession before telling Himself.

But there is a time difference so I am awake and he is asleep and I can’t just tell him right away. Also, I am a coward and I don’t want to tell him at all so I am going to write this first. I suspect then I will tell him verbally anyway. It somehow seems part of getting through it, telling him what I did. When I wrote that my tummy did a back flip. I don’t want to tell him. I am pouting as I write. I don’t know what I want, do I?

I miss him. I miss him spanking me. That is not the admission; no admission there anyway. Anyone who has read one word I have ever written knows how much I miss him. But I wish today, more than ever, that he could just reach out and touch me. I know he would spank me horribly for what I am about to admit, and I know that if he did that would help.

I gave up smoking about a month ago and last night I smoked.

There. I said it.

And now I want to explain. He always lets me explain. So I will explain to you.

Often I sit on his knee and hold onto his hands as I explain why I have done something. I never look at his eyes. I get shy. I play with his fingers, tracing the shape of them, moving them back and forth, making friends with his hand before it takes a punitive shape and comes to find me all tipped over and naked bottomed.

The shyness always strikes me as odd. I know this man so well and he knows me better than anyone ever has. But I could no more look at his eyes when I have done something wrong than I could fly across the ocean into his arms using wings sprouted from my own back. It is not shame that makes me shy. It is a form of fear that only girls like us would understand. He scares me a little. Just like I would hide behind a cushion from a monster when I was a child, I will hide on his lap, curled up in his chest as a grown up. I hide in his arms from him.

I had a horrible week. A family member has been ill but we think he will be okay now, despite dreadful pain. Work is hard, onerous tasks, and long, long hours but also tricky situations that need a diplomatic and thoughtful response which I don’t have right now. The house is a mess and it looks terrible. The dogs have not been run enough. I miss Himself. Everything was hard and everything made me tense.

On Friday night I drove home and bought a bottle of wine and a bottle of soda and ten cigarettes. The weather here is beautiful, blazing sun and stark blue sky and all week I have been stuck indoors. I made a healthy dinner (chicken breast and stir fried veggies with egg noodles) and ate it watching silly TV. Afterwards, with great ceremony and an acute awareness of delayed gratification, I made a wine and soda and sat outside in the sun and breathed and smoked.

It was kind of good.

I smoked four cigarettes. They were good. But they weren’t what I thought they would be. I thought every aspect of my life would feel better. I thought it would all feel rosy and pretty. It didn’t. But it did make me feel harder, more brittle, more ready for a fight with everything and everyone that had made life hard this week.

I don’t understand that at all. But the feeling continued after I went to bed and spoke with Himself. I stank of smoke and I found it hard to find the feeling of submission that I normally have when we talk. I feel small when I talk with him. Not small as in unimportant or insignificant but rather small as in young, protected, cared for and safe. I feel as though he could tuck me in his pocket.

But he being himself he soon brought that feeling back. I brushed my teeth and washed thoroughly and soon was curled up in his voice. Except when it was time to sleep I couldn’t. I was difficult and although I tried to sleep, the angry work feelings and tension kept forcing their way into my head and made me awake.

Eventually he had to tell me off horribly and properly, which sent me straight off. A decent telling off is absolutely a verbal spanking and I think that is what I needed.

But this morningI also need to tell him the truth.

When I don’t tell him things it hurts me and I hurt us.

Lying (even by omission) and its effect on me and us is something to do with growing up the wrong way. Smoking and the way it makes me feel is something to do with growing up the wrong way too.

I started smoking when I was nine. I got away with it like I got away with everything. It helped me to hang about with the (older) bad girls. I learned how to talk harder and to behave harder.

I think smoking always does that for me. I think that is why I want it when life is hard. But there has to be another way. There has to be another way to live that isn’t so angry.

I wanted to run this morning but I didn’t. I have found running was just getting easier again and now I am scared it will go back to how it was when the smoke had taken half my puff away.

I want Himself to wake up so I can tell him.

I want to go back a few years and grow up differently.

I want him to forgive me right away because he knows I am sorry.

I want him to sort me out and make me small enough to feel safe and happy again.

I want to go for a run.

NB.

I wrote this on Saturday morning and I did go for a run (over 10K, I was running fine) and after that Himself did sort me out. I will write about that later.

Would you like another?