August 3, 2000

    i woke up last Saturday, the first morning after Master came home, to find myself tightly snuggled up against His body. Such a difference from times long past, when i’d welcome someone home from where ever they might have been.

     my first husband was busy being proper, and our greetings reflected that. He’d come in from a week-long trip and put all his things away; washing his laundry, organizing his mail, calling his parents, before he and i had any time alone. The only thing i didn't mind was his spending time with the kids. That part made sense. But the lack of hugging and genuine emotion always confused me. i’d get some attention eventually, just not until we were in bed, hours later, where people couldn’t see.

     When i got brave and tried a real relationship again the homecomings took on a different flavour.  my second husband would crawl off the Harley after a long road trip and reach for a beer. He and all the buddies that had travelled along with him, that is. He’d be affectionate at least; i’d get lots of hugs and usually a small gift or two. He’d be full of stories and would settle on the back porch with the boys for their final booze party before the reality of work kicked in again. i usually got drunk with them.

     It was so different this time. Master came in and seemed almost disoriented at first. But He settled on the couch and i sat with Him, while we quietly chatted and touched each other. The affection was wonderful. The sincerity of the words He said to me, when later we were sitting side by side at the computer and he’d suddenly stopped and looked at me, touched me deep inside. And later still, wrapped in each other, amidst the sheets of the bed, i felt a depth of need and longing in me that i didn’t know i could have. i ached inside. All night He reached for me, resting a hand on my breast or my thigh, pulling me closer in his sleep as though reassuring Himself that i was there. i cannot find the words to describe how that made me feel.

     i didn’t think i could miss someone that much.   

     i've started going through some of the old stories i started and never finished.  Actually "the story", the one that i sent to Master, piece by piece, is what i am trying to rework.  It's scary though, 'cause even though i change the names, i know it's still about me.  About my childhood. So revisiting it really hurts. And yet i feel compelled to continue on. i don't know if it will ever amount to anything more than my expression and release of all the awfulness. Maybe it will do nothing more than help my own kids understand what happens in real life, to real people, sometimes.

     But do i want them reading it, with the knowledge that it's their own mother? Will that hurt them more?

     Sometimes it is so hard to know what to do.

     Okay, so i'm in a despondent mood.  Probably a much better idea that i toddle off to bed.