There's this song, trampling what's left of my self-esteem, drinking away the last traces of anti-depressant. I used to listen to the Crossroads album on the computer, headphones plugged in instead of speakers, writing at three in the morning and wishing that dawn wouldn't come for years.

When you close your eyes
Know I'll be thinking about you
While my mistress she calls me
To stand in her spotlight again
Tonite I won't be alone
But you know that don't

Mean I'm not lonely
I've got nothing to prove
For it's you that I'd die to defend

Yes, I'm still thinking about her. There's a tangle of thoughts in my head right now, Angel (and with her, a large chunk of my past)... Ryan (and with him, a large chunk of my present)... Caleb (and with him, a large chunk of my future)... Kadin (and with him, a large chunk of my desires)... Rhett (and with hm, a large chunk of my hungers)... my mother, my doctor, my blood pressure, my sex drive, the view out the window, the way blood tastes when I bite my lip after a sip of tequila, the realization last night that I'm sinking back into nightmares so fast I can't even catch my breath...

This is going to be a long entry.

Last night when we got home from Red Robin, I was trying to explain to Ryan what it is I need, why I need it, and why I was feeling very bothered and even a bit jealous. Don't laugh - I get just as jealous as my boys do at times, and it gets much worse when I can't seem to get what I need. I'd intended to call Kadin, but between nearly dropping dead of tiredness, the depression that I couldn't find any way to turn off, and the utter lack once again of that ()*U*&%$#%#*^&*&% phone card... oh, and not-so-incidentally, Ryan on the phone for over an hour with Becca. Tangled timeline and it only gets worse from here on, folks. He was apologising to Becca for something that wasn't his fault, not letting me (whose fault it was) speak to her, and completely oblivious of any of the things I'd been trying all f'ing day to communicate. Up until he started talking politics, he was sounding more submissive than he's sounded around me in months.

See, most of the last few months I've been letting the submissive urges in here get themselves taken care of. The dominant urges I have fall into two categories: the desire to take care of my loves, and the hunger for suffering and submission. While he doesn't mind being taken care of, Ryan either won't or can't find any way to allow himself to suffer or even to submit, most of the time. He makes a great Dom and an interesting Tiger but dammit, I want a slave. My slave.

I've been trying desperately to find some way to pull out my sadistic urges when it's convenient... I don't know if it's my subconscious or just really aweful luck and timing, but the few times I get to talk to Caleb and Kadin of late, I'm either half-conscious or on my way out the door. It's really getting to me. I need them. Not only their company and love, although that's still the largest part of what I desire from them, but their submission. Their suffering. Their pain. Their obedience. Kadin's voice over the phone line can still leave me near-trembling with the rush of pleasure that cat-paws up my spine and settles in the back of my head, tingling and hungry and at the same time satiated. Caleb's words, soft and hopeful and everything I crave, I could listen to him for hours and lose myself in the delicious curves and angles of each new phrase, each carefully-spoken word.

I've been trying to explain WHY I need this.

See, Ryan's take, as far as I can tell, is that he only wants to hurt strangers, faceless humanity, the muggles who are actively stupid. He can't understand why I would want to hurt someone I love.

What I keep trying and apparently failing to explain is that the sort of hurt he describes causing to others is NOT what I want. What I want is something that isn't just hurt, isn't just pain, isn't just submission, isn't just suffering and sorrow and love and fear and belief and arousal... it's ALL of that. It's... gods, it's better than sex, better than food, better than coffee or chocolate or fresh-drawn blood. It leaves me alive, dancing inside, satiated, happy.

Happy.

He doesn't understand how much I need it. He doesn't understand why I want it. He doesn't even understand what it is.

*curls in on herself* Here or not, it's mornings like this that should reassure my loves that there is still no risk of me wandering off with just one person. Ever. I need things that are exact opposites, and I've yet to meet anyone who savors both sides as well, who balances exactly. I'll not give this up for anyone either - take that as clearly as you can. My hungers, my needs, my pleasures, are MINE. They've been mine since long before any human bowed his head or crossed her wrists. They... frustrating as they become at times like this, I know them. I know what I need and how to get it, if I can harden my heart long enough.

That's the trick, really. It's always best if it's coming from someone I love, whichever side it is I'm craving at the time. It's deeper, more intense, more real. It matters more. Instead of just bringing one set of sensations and emotions to my waiting lips and eyes and ears, there is a waterfall, flooding me with so much that all I can do is breathe and purr and set the memory of that moment so deep inside myself that days and weeks and months later, I can still draw it out, savor it, in some way feed from it.

He is disgusted by the idea that I might see him as a toy, as food, as anything other than what he wants to be.

He wonders why he's not enough for me.

...sucker love who's known to swing, prone to cling and waste these things... I serve my head up on a plate, it's only comfort calling late 'cause there's nothing else to do...

It's unbearably frustrating to be writing this, trying my best to put my thoughts into words. Communication matters to me - without it, everything dies and falls away. Surreal. Impossible. Dust and ashes. I don't want that from the ones I love, I don't wish it on them either in any way. I write, as clearly as I can... and I know perfectly well that some part of it will always be misunderstood, that even though I think it's clear some will find it clouded, even though I think I spoke accurately others will find different meanings within the words I chose. I hate the knowledge that at times, I might as well not be writing at all. So why do I keep it up? Because I keep hoping that maybe, maybe, it will go through. I refuse to NOT try. I love them, and even if this is not going to be understood, I can hope that the emotions within it will come through, that they will understand that I will always keep trying.

It's a fire
These dreams they pass me by
This salvation I desire
Keeps getting me down
Cos we need to
Recognise mistakes
For time and again
So let it be known
For what we believe in
I can see no reason for it to fail...

Cos this life is a farce
I can't breathe through this mask
Like a fool

More memories... driving up to the community college in Astoria with the Portishead tape playing over and over again, thinking about what went wrong, why it was so right regardless... daydreaming, parked, waiting for class to start or waiting for the computer lab to open... the taste of a sausage-and-egg muffin eaten in the tiny cafetera... Elric and the purity test... Rie... Scott... Al X... myself, discovering just how fragile my life was and learning that there were others out there, others who understood. I think that's what I miss most and what I keep looking for: understanding. I don't want help, I don't want to be cured, I don't want the demons cast out or to be drugged into nothingness. I want to be understood. I want to be met, matched, loved, shared, I want to be able to breathe. To be ME. All of me, every part, every fragment, every face, every moment.

And right now I feel like I can't be me.

I don't have the self-confidance at the moment to be as selfish as I want to be, taking my boys' time for myself, even if it's just a little, just one day set aside. I want to be able to throw phones and order days off and spend hours talking with them about everything and nothing, simply reassuring myself that they are there.

...mercy is still asking questions, ruthless has gone and explained...

Achingly frustrated.

I'm looking forward to talking with the dietician. If we can come up with a workable plan, great.

If not...

...speed in all its many forms has never seemed so appealing as it does right now.

...would you please bring me joy... ...I feel so elated...

I both won't and can't try to erase these hungers from myself. I've tried that in the past and it just ends up leaving me feeling repressed and miserable. So the next best thing? Slim down, shape up. Start prowling again. Portland is full of people. I'll be turning in my paperwork for OHP tomorrow, and I've an appointment to see about disability. I'm already taking so many f'ing drugs that adding one to hype me up and help me get rid of at least some of this fat seems... pleasant. Useful.

Memories
They can be inviting
But some are alltogether mighty
Frightening...

...With my head in my hands
I sit and cry

I'm feeling self-destructive and at least I can try to channel it into something with a fairly positive byproduct or three. Right now I want nothing more than a tub of ice cream, some cookies, a good book, and a windowseat on a rainy day. I'm not going to hide this behind food, this time. I'll eat enough to stay alive and about as healthy as I get, but I'll be damned if I slide any further downward physically. My mind (or is it my heart? I'm not sure) may be trying to jump off cliffs but it's not taking the rest of me with it.