Strange Days Indeed

Most peculiar, Mama.

No, I’m not losing my mind (yet). It’s a song lyric.

Life is change. Which sucks, if you’re a person like me who hates change. Therefore, coming to terms with it is a process and a struggle. Feeling the need to ramble a bit, and not knowing where to put it, I return here, to my failsafe.

Those of you who have been with me for a long time know that the theme of my life was “I’m different.” Not just because of my kink, but overall, in so many ways. I scrambled and bumbled my way through the first half of my life, never feeling like I quite fit in anywhere.

For the longest time, I desperately craved to fit in somewhere, anywhere. Then in my 30s, after a lot of self-examination, I came to realize that yeah, while I was an oddball sort, I no longer cared. I was who I was. And really, fitting in with the straight and narrow and the expected wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. As a very wise friend said, “I don’t think you can help being different, Erica, so maybe you should just stop worrying about it.”

And with self-examination and exploration came my entry into TTWD. And after that, I got involved in “the scene.” The spanking community. The party groups, and later, the video groups, the blogosphere, all the related pockets of people who love spanking and everything about it. It was never perfect. There were always bumps and clashes and rollercoaster emotions.

But. I belonged somewhere. For years. I felt like I was part of the fabric of something. Not just something peripheral, like a decorative button, but deeply woven into it. These feelings were new to me, and I never took them for granted, because I’d never known them before. I liked them. And oh my God, nothing brought those feelings home like the spanking parties. My people. My friends. My peers. My bubble of unreality, where real life went away for a few hours or a few days and we immersed ourselves in hedonistic joy.

However, life goes on, and as I’d mentioned, life changes. Bodies, minds, situations change. And the happiest people are those who adapt and roll with it.

I’m not a very good adapter.

A strange thing has happened. Within the past six months, I have been to three separate spanking events. I enjoyed all three. I played at all three, had laughs, got hugs, did all the things. But I didn’t feel the same. I felt angst and otherness. And for the first time, the good didn’t outweigh the bad.

Why? That is what I’m in the process of accepting. So many changes. Some are me. Some are outside of me. All combine to make me feel like I’ve lost something, and perhaps it’s inevitable. Because that’s how life is.

The party scene has changed a lot, in many ways. I could list some of them, but I’m not going to. Because if I do, there will be readers out there who feel like I’m criticizing and shaming the changes, and I don’t want that. I am not saying anything is wrong. I’m saying it’s different. And I have that square peg feeling more and more. That “not enough” feeling. I didn’t “evolve” with the scene. I am of a past mind. I suppose some of that is simply due to ageing, and seeing so many people who are decades younger than I am. But it’s also just who I am. I like things a certain way. My niche in the scene is specific. And I don’t fit in like I used to. I can’t participate in so many of the various role-plays and games of the scene. I’m not a little or a middle. I’m not a student. I’m not one who enjoys period costumes and other cos play. I don’t have elaborate scenario fantasies. I don’t want a mommy, a daddy, an uncle or a teacher. I’m just a grown woman who wants to be spanked by a grown man. More and more, I feel like I’m the oddball. Again.

Also… the national party scene has gone through a lot in recent years. Mind you, there was always drama. Anywhere you find groups of people, you find drama. But when #MeToo hit our scene, it hit hard. Abuse was exposed. Stories went viral. People I’ve known and cared about for years were brought into question. Sides were taken, and it was no longer okay to choose not to take them. If you didn’t, you were considered part of the problem. And honestly, I don’t think I have the stomach for it anymore, especially since I’m really not in the loop these days. I can’t keep track of who hates whom, who is a must to avoid, who I’m supposed to be nice to even if I don’t like them because I don’t want them as an enemy, who’s rape-y, who’s back-stabby, who’s two-faced and gossipy, who is real and trustworthy and who isn’t. On the grand party scale, it’s just too overwhelming.

So… I’ve been trying something different. Trying to find something on a smaller, more local scale. I have dipped my toes into a couple of munches. I will go to more. I need to find different ways to scratch the spanking itch. Because I don’t think the big events are going to make me happy, not like they used to.

There is a party in Vegas next month. Of course, there is a part of me that craves to be there. There are people I wish I could see. I want to play. I want the hugs. I want the bubble. But then I remember the reality of the last party, where I had a great time, but I also struggled. I spent way too much time alone in my room. I cried too much. And I spent way too damn much time of the weekend feeling like a spare button instead of part of the fabric. That was reality. The good times were great. I don’t regret going, even after catching Covid. The party owners did a great job. But this time, I don’t feel like risking it. It feels like a lot of time and effort and money to shove myself in like a mismatched puzzle piece. Not because anyone is doing anything wrong. But simply because things change. I used to feel like I was home, at a big spanking party. Not so much anymore.

When you spend half your life feeling like you don’t belong, and then you finally do belong somewhere, it is one hell of a wrench to feel like you’ve lost that. I am dealing with a lot of grief these days. A lot of new realities. It’s definitely a life transition, and I’ve never been one to transition smoothly. I kick and scream and fight it. Until depression takes over. Then I withdraw. Then it’s even harder to do the things so I can find a new path. Last Thursday there was a local munch. I know and like the person who put it together, I know and like several people who were going. I wanted to go. But I didn’t. It was cold and drizzly out, I was tired and down, and I simply didn’t have the spoons to get my ass in the car and drive there. That’s on me.

My therapist says that perhaps I’m having an existential crisis. That’s a bit too dramatic for me. I’m not in a crisis. I’m functional. I’m working. I get up, I get dressed, I do the things. But yeah, I’m questioning who I am and where my place is, these days. And I’m sad. So perhaps it’s an existential bleccchhhh. An existential “fuck this.”

And now that I’ve written all this, I’m questioning whether or not to post it. Because it’s so damn raw. But I’ve always been real on here. I’ve always been who I am, the good and the bad. And damned if I’m going to change that.

So, kids. Thanks for reading. ♥ Oh, and just to return to topic briefly — those cane stripes from New Year’s? Those took three weeks to completely fade. I think that has to be a record for me. Not something I think I want to repeat, but it was quite the experience, with people I trust, and I wouldn’t undo it.

Get your ho-hos here? Probably not.

It’s that time of year again, kids. The holidays. Where I get melancholy and grumpy. (Or more so than usual.) This year, for various reasons, seems particularly sucky. Not just for me, but for so many others. I’m not even going to mention the people who have been shot to death, or burned out of their homes. (OK, I just mentioned them. I suck.) I’m thinking about the average day-to-day folks just struggling to keep their heads above water and keep treading uphill.

Today on Twitter, a trending hashtag is #InternationalMensDay. Which grates on my nerves right off the bat, because it’s missing an apostrophe and I hate that Twitter doesn’t allow punctuation in hashtags. But never mind. Of course, there is all sorts of backlash to it, sneering about how “every day is men’s day,” and then a lot of counter-argument about how victimized men are and no one talks about it. But of course, then we’ll have #InternationalWomensDay and the same reactions will occur in reverse.

These days, it seems it sucks to be just about anyone.

Let’s review, shall we?

It sucks to be a man, because of the whole #MeToo thing and how any man can be ruined by an accusation. Because they’re supposed to be strong all the time and aren’t allowed to have any human weaknesses. Because they’re damned if they do and damned if they don’t a lot of the time. Because they’re either too macho or *gasp* “too sensitive.” And so on.

It sucks to be a woman, because unequal pay/sexual harassment and assault/being considered the weaker sex/etc./etc./etc. Because we’re responsible for birth control and yet old white men are trying to rule our bodies. Because we’re supposed to stay beautiful, fit, firm, and sexy, or else we’re rejected. And so on.

It sucks to be a person of color because racists hate you.

It sucks to be a Jew because antisemitic people hate you.

It sucks to be LGBTQ because homophobes and narrow-minded people hate you.

It sucks to be a millennial, because older people sneer at you and call you a whiny avocado toast eater.

It sucks to be older, because society basically rejects you as being past your prime and out of touch.

It sucks to be conservative, because the “tree-hugging snowflakes” hate you.

It sucks to be liberal, because the “MAGA-hat-wearing, gun-toting ‘Muricans'” hate you.

It sucks to be kinky, because vanilla people judge you.

It sucks to be vanilla, because kinky people think you’re boring.

It sucks to be an extrovert, because you need people all the time and people will ultimately fail you in one way or another.

It sucks to be an introvert, because when you finally really do need someone, there’s no one there.

It sucks to have family, because they drive you crazy.

It sucks to be alone, because you envy people who have family, even though you know that those families most likely drive them crazy.

Have I missed anything? I’m sure I have. I’m sure this list is infinite.

Now is the time to trot out all the adages, the homilies, the positives, the feel-good statements, right? Meh. I think the best advice I’ve gotten all year was this, from my delightfully acerbic and possibly kinky chiropractor, of all people:

“Life sucks. Learn to embrace the suckage.”

I’m trying, but sometimes I get so damn tired. And frustrated. And sad. And feeling like every damn step I take up, I take two back. And every time I think I’ve found people to trust and believe in, I’m proven wrong. Because no matter who you are, someone hates you. For whatever stupid reason.

For the most part, I like to think I’m a good judge of character. But this year, I have made such egregious errors, I’m questioning myself. And wondering if I can trust anyone.

As for all these #InternationalSoandSoDays on Twitter — since it basically sucks to be everyone in one way or another, and everyone is struggling to rise above the morass and be heard, can’t we just have an #InternationalEveryoneDay and be done with it??

I’m going back to work.

Rainy Friday

My favorite kind of day — gray, rainy, quiet. No one is outside, everyone’s windows are closed; all I hear is the sound of raindrops. I’m in comfy sweats with Beethoven playing on the stereo (yes, I like classical music). Because John is working late and I have Spanking Court tomorrow, I won’t be going to his house this evening. I will miss him, but part of me is relieved that I won’t need to drive 30+ miles in Friday traffic plus rain. Southern Californians do not know how to drive in rain; they either crawl along at half the speed limit, or they tear past you and send mini-tsunamis splashing onto your windshield.

John and I hadn’t talked for a couple of nights, so last night we played catch-up. Or rather, he did. He’d had a jam-packed week; lots of stuff at work (including being transferred to another department, which he thinks will be a very good thing), plus contact with a new domme, so he was all excited about that. I said little, just interjecting “uh huh,” and “oh, good” and so forth where appropriate.

Then he said, “So what about you? How are you doing? What’s new with your friends?” etc… My answers were monosyllabic: “OK.” “Dunno.” “I guess.” My voice sounded half-dead in my ears. Then John said, “Life is kind of flat for you right now, isn’t it.”

He knows. Flatlining. Gray. Blah. Sad. The specific reasons don’t matter; they just are. No work. Lackluster book sales. Upcoming holidays (and we know how much Erica loves the holidays). My mother just turned 90. For most, that would be a milestone worth a celebration, but for her, that’s just another one of life’s cruelties. Worries over people and things I can’t control. Blah, blah, blah.

I know I have a wonderful man, and a wonderful top. I know I could be homeless, penniless, whatever-less. I AM grateful for what I have. But depression defies this logic. Like I said, it just is.

Just knowing that John totally got it broke through the thick fog and tears started pouring. It’s weird, how I cry when I’m down. It’s an expressionless crying — no sobbing, no sounds, just a steady outpouring from my eyes, like I have mini-faucets behind each one and they’re stuck in the on position.

Bless his heart, he tried to fix me. Started suggesting all sorts of things I could do. It’s one of those guy things, I guess — I appreciate his caring. He did make one very valid point — I need some fun. Something, some sort of adventure, to look forward to. Something for balance.

So. How to achieve balance. Not sure. But it’s something to think about. Find some fun, something that will inject some joy and anticipation, bring the color back. We’re not talking anything monumental here, folks. Remember, we’re talking about Ms. Routine who has to mentally prepare for days in the case of a change in her schedule.

Speaking of schedule changes, ST can’t make it Monday, so he is coming over on Tuesday instead. Wow. Now you know how much I like him, folks. 

Anyone watch The Big Bang Theory? I swear, in some ways, I think Sheldon Cooper is a long-lost (and fictional) brother. Not because of his genius level or his asexuality (I am no nuclear physicist, and I love physical intimacy), but his need for sameness and routines (and his anxiety when they are disrupted). They’ve never established exactly what it is with him; many think it’s Asperger’s, or OCD, or a combination of both. I love one of his catchlines: “I’m not crazy. My mother had me tested.”

Enough with this blathering. I got Chrossed today, so that’s good (and congratulations to everyone else who did also). I’m going to get a pedicure — it’s hard to feel down with sparkly red toenails. And I do have SC tomorrow; a fun final scene is planned. And hopefully, my as-yet-unseen new next-door neighbor will move in sometime this weekend while I’m gone, so I will be spared the hours of racket. Because, as you know, outside noises distress me as well.

Sometimes, it’s a wonder I don’t spontaneously combust.

Have a great weekend, y’all.