The good folks of Strictly Spanking (the same people who bring us the wonderful SSNY parties and the Boardwalk Badness Weekend) recently started their own line of videos, Strictly Spanking Videos. They have a simple and unique premise; nothing to do with roleplays or fantasies. Real women come to them with real confessions — things they’ve done, recently or way in the past, personality traits with which they struggle, bad habits they’ve formed, etc., and confess these to Mike Tanner, who then strictly but compassionately punishes them as he deems fit, so they can release their guilt. The scenes are intense and there are usually tears.
I admire the women who have come forth so far to do this, including the beautiful Pixie and Leia Ann Woods. It takes a lot of courage… and I couldn’t do it.
Not because I couldn’t take the spanking. But the issue that causes me shame, invades my thoughts on a daily basis, is not one I would want to capture on film for all posterity. I’d be showcasing the worst of myself for all to see and I’d be ashamed, not cleansed. For I don’t know if even the worst thrashing would change how I feel.
But this is my blog, and I have always said I am honest here. I may focus a lot on spanking, but I’m also a flawed human and you get to see those flaws here. So I’m going to admit something to all who read, and if you think less of me, I’m truly sorry. Christ, my heart is pounding.
I haven’t spoken to my mother in over two months, and I have not seen her in longer than that. The last time I spoke to her was New Year’s Eve — that was the time she asked me how my brother was, and my brother has been dead since 1972. Something snapped in me that night.
As you know, my mother has not been well for several years now. We went through some godawful times with her before finally putting her in an assisted care facility — she was hostile and violent, bitterly nasty and delusional. She said horrible things to me and to my stepfather. Once she was in the facility and they finally got her on the right meds (it took a long time), she calmed down, became rather docile and my stepdad was able to take her home on weekends, take her out to dinner and movies, etc. John and I would go visit them every few weeks on a Saturday, hang out with them, have dinner.
I hated these visits. Granted, my mother was pleasant and sweet. But I couldn’t stand seeing her like this. Conversations were painful, as she’d repeat the same things over and over. She had no short-term memory and she couldn’t remember from one minute to the next what she’d just said, so she’d say it again. She’d ask me questions about myself that she’d known the answer to for years. She was frail and feeble, slow and clumsy, and her arms and legs were always covered with horrible bruises from her falling. The trip there was a hassle with the traffic (about a 65-mile drive from John’s), their house always had heat blasting no matter how warm it was outside (because oftentimes old people are always cold), and we’d often end the night with me in tears on the way home and John with a migraine from the stress and discomfort of it. But we did it, because it was the least we could do.
Then John fell ill and came close to dying, and everything changed.
All my worry and capacity to care shifted over to him. What energy I had for nurturing and caring was spent on him. I am not the most giving person there is, as we all know. I’m a loner and an isolator in many ways and I don’t make a good caretaker; I’m too self-centered. But whatever I could do, I did for John. And now, even though he’s better, I know the future holds more difficulty for him, for both of us. He will need open-heart surgery. Sometime. I don’t know when. So that hangs over my head like a specter.
My mother is 89 years old. Her life has zero quality, although the quantity stretches on and on. It has no dignity — she is incontinent at both ends and my stepdad has to pay extra for staff to keep her cleaned up. And when she visits him, he does it. He’s 93 years old this month. It’s a travesty that this is how they both have to spend their remaining days. And it scares the living shit out of me, plainly speaking.
I don’t want to grow old. My independence and dignity mean more to me than all else, and the way my mother’s life is now is unacceptable. I look at her, listen to her, and I am revolted and terrified. And I can’t find it in me to get past that and reach out to her. I don’t have the energy or the will.
I have not heard from my stepdad; no doubt he’s quite disgusted with me. Every day when I wake up, my first thought is “Call your mother.” And I swear that I will. But I come to the end of the day and I haven’t, and do a Scarlett O’Hara — “I’ll think about it tomorrow.”
Sometimes I rationalize. My own shrink told me it was OK if I couldn’t handle talking to/seeing my mother. That she wouldn’t remember anyway, and the person I once knew was already gone. My stepdad, in a poignant moment, once said to me, “I can’t really blame you, Erica. She wasn’t much of a mother to you to begin with.” Which is true. Perhaps I’d feel more loyalty and tolerance toward her if we’d had a better relationship. But now, I should be the grownup. I want to be, and yet I can’t.
So I deny, I bury my head, I let the days go by. And each day makes me feel more ashamed. There it is — I’m a crap daughter. Ironically, I’ve made my own mother’s indictments come true. She often told me in younger days what a disappointment I was to her.
All right. Before I delete this whole @#$%ing thing, I should hit Publish. I still may delete it. I may come to my senses later and wonder why I exposed such a raw nerve here. But I guess, for this moment, I need to.
Have a good weekend, y’all.