Note: This is just a vent / rant / mental word vomit that I need to get off my chest. I apologize in advance if it makes no sense at times. But this blog is my space to work shit out, so y’all will have to bear with me. Kisses.
Daddy and I are the same age but he makes me feel so deliciously little all the time. And a bit self conscious. I’m so used to being the “old woman trapped in a young woman’s body”. I’m used to making the rational and level headed decisions. I’m used to being the final say. I’m used to having the LEADER badge on my shirt.
Maybe it’s because he is so damned decisive. Maybe it’s because of his personality- he’s very calm and unruffled. Maybe it’s because he’s very open and honest about his feelings.
Or maybe it’s the way he gently keeps me in his grip. Twice I’ve tried to run because I was scared. Twice he’s pulled me back in–not only because he likes me, but because he could sense I was just panicked and that’s what I needed. I didn’t need someone to just let me go and wash their hands of me. Nope. What I needed, but could not (and still can not) express at the time, was for someone to recognize that behind my tough public facade was a scared little girl, pushing everyone away because she has learned to rely on noone. A girl who needed someone to say “It’s ok, I’ve got you” and mean it. Someone to tell me that they’re strong enough to take control, to let me breathe, to let me just be.
“You’re safe with me, pet. You’re mine now.”
Every time I have a question (and Lord knows I have plenty), he answers. Any time I have trouble expressing myself, he patiently listens and asks questions to get me to come to my own conclusions. When I had a tantrum, he knew what I needed.
And how in the fuck does he know? How is it that this man, halfway around the world, knows what I need? It’s not like I make it easy for him. I’m the world’s biggest skeptic–I question everything. EVERYTHING. Repeatedly. I should have been a scientist because I want empirical proof. I don’t operate in the grey–I’m a black and white type of girl. I don’t go off of feelings. Period. I want to see it in writing. Need to hear it with my own ears. And even then, when I’ve been told that 1+1 = 2, I want to see it play out. I trust no one. It’s part personality, part defense mechanism for not getting hurt. I liked making well informed decisions. It’s less messy that way.
So why can Sir read me like a book? It’s unnerving. Am I not as solid as I thought I was?
I refuse to put him on a pedestal- he’s human and can / will fuck up. I just keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because it will drop. It. Will. Drop.
It always does.