First suggestion: if you are overly moral, overly protective of Jax, or easily offended, go away now. This isn't a good entry for you to read.

Second suggestion: don't talk to me about this one unless you're very damned sure about your reception. This is not a 'please comment' entry. This is a 'me writing out the hurt' entry.

And a note: not angry. Not hurt by/because of anyone except myself, really.

Pink, "My Own Worst Enemy"

Good song. Go listen to it, then read the rest of this.

Done listening?

Ok.

As I was saying, maybe this night shouldn't have happened. At least, not exactly the way it did.

I went over to ZooHouse, Spike is yet again sick, with throat problems and loosin' his voice this time (which, as he now works as a tele-person, is Very Bad), and I decided he needed lemon-and-ginger-and-honey tea and I needed company and to cheer up, being near-suicidally depressed and in a highly masochistic mood for some reason that I still haven't figured out.

Got over there.

Made tea.

In the entire time I was there, I got... let me count... three hugs. One as I was leaving, one that I demanded, and one that he mostly held still for, not responded to. I know. Cheezy chick thing, counting hugs. But... dammit... I MISSED him, and I wanted to be happy and snuggly and try to make him feel better and try to make me feel better, and all I ended up feeling was superfluous.

The Satyr started talking about tats... we talked a bit about music... there was D&D discussion... eventually I left, followed Mana home and got happiness from her *hugs the Mana* and went home m'self. I didn't say any of the following, to Spike or anyone else, but wanted to:

I want to have the small scar on my wrist outlined in blood-red ink.

I've thought of wearing several smallish tats on my thigh: an ankh, a vaguely s-shaped sign, a set of three clawmarks, my own mark, a tiny rosebud, a vicodin pill, a symbol that I'm not even going to try to describe but will draw and post if anyone is curious (for Scott and anyone else who knows, it's the pictograph for Soki).

Tattoos on other people are both a turn-on and a turn-off... for me it's like I suspect it would be for some people to see a person wearing a collar and a leash that someone else was holding. Turned on a bit because you want to wear that collar or hold that leash... but turned OFF because it's so obvious that neither party wants or needs your involvement. Tats are bizarrely personal. Go read Briar's journal.

It's actually really easy to slip into the mode where you let someone else walk all over you. All you have to do is spend 18 years never being good enough, always being wrong or bad or evil... follow that up by handing over your own flesh and blood to strangers, then fuck a few people you don't care about, fuck OVER the few people you DO care about, swear your allegience to a bitch who can barely remember your name, get the shit beaten out of you in a park, have amazing sex over and over again (when you can convince yourself that you're enjoying it and not that it's hurting you and making you miserable, which every now and then you fail to do, and it still turns him on)... then find someone who you're still never really good enough for, someone who obviously hates his life with you so much that he tries to kill himself, but who seems, despite your obvious flaws and failures, to love you at heart, to want to 'improve' you, to help you... you'd do anything for him. Wear a collar. NOT wear a collar. Starve yourself. Smile. Fake that whole 'alive' thing until one day he gets tired of it and of you and boom, you've got a knife to your throat.

Yeah, I'm still pissed about that. No, I won't forget it. I'm sorry.

And I'm still fucking apologising for it. Part of me is still certain that dammit, I asked for it, I was acting like a brat, or a bitch, or a slut, or a whore, or a slave, or NOT acting like one of them, or whatever it was... I made him so miserable and me so miserable that he thought that was the best thing... it was me. It was my fault. It might as well have been my hand holding the damned knife.

I cum when someone has their hands around my throat tight enough, or when knives are run over my skin enough. I cum when I'm bitten. When I'm beaten. When I'm fucked until it's not fun any more. I cum when my back aches, my thighs ache, my jaw aches, my hands are clenched into fists and there are tears in my eyes and all I wish is that the knife HAD slit my throat, I cum then, cum hard enough to break glass and leave me gasping for breath.

Ever wondered why?

Ever wondered what the hell could fuck a girl up so much that her own misery and humiliation gets her off? Or just as bad, that she gets off on the misery and humiliation of someone else, seeing someone else cry, watching them bleed, hearing them moan - do you KNOW how many times I've heard a man moan in pleasure and pretended he was moaning because he was bruised and bloody, just because it was the only way I could work myself up enough to cum?

Funny... I've wondered that too.

I don't like any of the answers. I want to pretend those things, that life, happened to someone else. But I don't really have that luxury, now do I?

They want to take chunks out of me.

Remove things.

I'm scared, I'm horribly terribly scared, so horribly scared that every time I'm alone I start crying, curling up into a little ball and shaking and whimpering, clinging to a faded and falling-apart scrap of leather and velvet and steel or worse, drugging myself until I CAN'T curl up and then I just drift...

...I need someone HERE, someone... not to make everything better, I don't expect that from anyone. This life is too fucked up. But someone I can hold on to for a little while, to give me a breathing space, to let me start fighting again. I can't keep fighting off depression and pain and misery and hurt and hate forever without breaks.

I miss Caleb. He held me and traced me when I cried.

I miss Kadin. He curled up at my feet and let me taste his tears.

I miss Nick. He gave me pain until the tears flowed clean again.

I miss Rhett. His tears and mine so often were so close.

You see, I've only seen Spike cry once... and that's not something that can really be shared, and it was illness and pain based. Not love. Not care. Not... beauty.. Nothing that can be shared. Nothing I could taste. Nothing that eased this ache.

And although I think he's seen me cry, he's never seen the tears that come out when I am opened up, sore and aching and aroused and hating and happy and THERE, alive, real. He's never seen those. He's never seen ME. Nor will he, if things keep going as they are... which I suspect they will.

He's not the 'rock' type, I guess.

And right now, I need a rock. Someone here physically. Someone present, someone I can touch, someone who can touch me. Someone I trust. Someone I love. Someone I need. Someone who needs me.

I need, for just a little while, to feel wanted again.

And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but this time, words aren't enough. Not for what I'm feeling right now.

Little white pills. I have a bottle of little white pills. Drugged... it all goes away, then. Enough valium or vicodin or percoset or alcohol... enough lithium and wellbutrin and whatever-the-hell the orange sherbert flavored one is... enough of that, my nifty concoctions of happiness, and I stop caring that right now, I'm alone.

Submission.

Right now, I want to be small. Protected. Loved. But if I can't have that, then I want to HAVE someone, to protect them, use them, to realize a purpose in that way.

Two sides of the same coin. I've gotten quite skilled at letting one side substitute for the other.

But still, the problem. The issue.

It has to be real.

Now you see why I didn't say any of this.