Cutesypah's Corner

I always read from hazelden.org, the "Language of Letting Go" written by Melody Beattie. Today's post, for July 14, 2009, started with this quote from "Codependent No More," which is also written by Melody Beattie:

Even if the most important person in your world
rejects you, you are still real and you are still okay.

In my drive to please others, I often forget myself. Things did not go well this weekend. I'm struggling to remember that I am lovable, I am special, and I deserve happiness. I also struggle to remember this quote above - that even if as a submissive, if I do not please the Dominant in my life, his displeasure doesn't make me "less than," or unworthy to be shown or given the same or greater respect, consideration, compassion, honesty, and common courtesies than one would give to a colleague, business associate, or co-worker.

But I was not given those same courtesies or consideration. For Daddy became angry when I was hurting during a scene, as I became cold, and started going into what I can only compare to a state of shock. He wanted to have anal sex, and I was trying to insert a vibrator to stretch myself. But, I couldn't stop shaking, and felt as though I were going to vomit. I asked if I could stop. He became angry, left me in the bedroom, and went to the couch. He didn't check on me, as I took my meds and passed out. He came to bed sometime during the night, as this incident occurred sometime around midnight.

Yet, I'm to be understanding because he didn't feel well, but didn't make that known to me, and then, when I was on my way out the door Sunday evening to pick up my daughter from visitation with her father, Daddy asked me if I would be upset if he left to go home. He was supposed to stay until Monday. I was actually getting into my car, already running 10 minutes late, and he asked me this, in a loud voice across the driveway. I told him I didn't have time to talk about this now. When I got back (it's one hour each way, plus talking time) he was gone.

And I didn't hear from him again until Monday evening, when he left a voicemail message saying he had to go home because he was ill, and the dr confirmed it.

and so I sit, alone, wondering what will become of Daddy & cutesypah. But in the meantime, I say to myself, "I'm lovable. You may not be able to love me the way I need to be loved, but that doesn't make me less lovable, or less ok. I'm great just the way I am."

As you know, I love my blog friends. One in particular is Gray Lily over at Journey Into Submission. Recently, she posted about her Daddy Michael. Her heart-felt post inspired me to discuss my relationship with Daddy, and what a Daddy/girl relationship means to me. As I began drafting my post, I realized I would need to break it down into several posts. This is the first - History of the girl, Part 1.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was very smart, and very lonely. Her Dad was never home, as he was always working 2nd and 3rd shifts, while her mom was always worried about her mom and dad, and always very sad because her husband was always at work. The little girl lived out in the country, so she had no friends to play with. Plus, she wasn't allowed to go into anyone's house anyway, because her mom said a kid going in one's house caused a mess, and was just too much trouble.

So, the little girl spent all her time wandering around outside, making up stories about where her real parents were, how she had been kidnapped by these people who claimed they were her parents, and what an amazing lady she would be when she grew up. She fantasized that Cher was her mother, and Tony Orlando was her father. When she began school, she was outcast as the freak, and weirdo because she was so smart. She had never been around kids, and didn't know how to play well with others. She was called "bossy" and "Miss Smartypants," and she cried a lot at home in her room.

Her books became her escape, and she even read encyclopedias to learn about the world because she knew she'd be trapped in this little town until she finished high school. In fourth grade, she checked out all the books she could find from the library on social skills. She taught herself how to make "small talk," memorized the fundamentals of table manners and fine dining, as well as other etiquette when dealing with adults and members of the opposite sex.

All the while, her parents lived their lives apart from the little girl. She didn't get good night kisses, or hugs, or even the occasional, "I love you." The only time she was recognized or loved was when it was her birthday, or she won an award from school. Then, she was told, "Of course you got A's. You always get A's. You always win the awards. Anyone can do anything if they work hard enough. We expect the best from you, and nothing less."

And, she was the best at everything her parents wanted for her: school and playing the piano and the saxophone. But, anything she wanted: gymnastics or singing, or acting, were called "silly" and a waste of time. And, she would never go away to school because that was too scary, and bad people would hurt girls who went away from their parents.

It was also during this time that her brother was born when she was five. She doesn't remember much about him as a baby except he cried constantly. She recalls him at age 2-5, as she was given much responsibility to watch out for him. She hated that responsibility, and as many little girls do, hated him because of her responsibility. Now, she realizes that it was not his fault, and that her parents were wrong to give her such responsibility, but that was many, many years later.

She remembers getting in trouble when he went outside, and ate strawberries straight out off the bushes, and got red juice on his white t-shirt. Her mother would yell at the girl, telling her she needed to watch him closer. If he got hurt, her mother would yell at the girl, asking why the girl didn't watch her brother more closely. Anything he did wrong, the girl got blamed. Anytime he acted like a child, as small children often do, crying and messing up things, getting dirty, and occasionally taking a tumble, the little girl was blamed, and often punished with a quick smack across the legs with a switch or a metal flyswatter. She actually preferred being grounded to her room where she could play quietly with her dolls, or read a book.

The girl's ultimate fantasy, for which she felt guilt for many years, was that the brother would die. She often thought of tickling him to death, making him laugh until he began choking, unable to catch his breath. She even tried this many times, but the brother liked to be tickled, and wouldn't stop breathing. Often, the brother would laugh so loudly, that the grownups would come into the room, yelling at the girl to stop tickling him, as they were making too much noise. Looking back, the grown woman is thankful for the grownups' intrusion, and her inability to make good on her death wish for her brother.

In review, it now is quiet clear to the grown woman she hated to be tickled. It also now is clear to her why she would never, ever, consider, until Daddy came along, allowing another to tickle her, or to try breath play.