Sunday, November 29, 2009

Words Are Like Knives

I can't sleep.

I know that this is a temporary situation and I'll eventually be forced into something that resembles sleep, but I don't know when that will happen. My brain is in overdrive at the moment and the road is winding along at high speed.

I went to a party tonight. Daddy didn't take me because he had plans with the boy. I really shouldn't go to parties alone anymore. Everyone just asks the same question all the time. And hearing "where's daddy tonight, you're here alone?" just makes me miss him even more.

We had a few good days together. There were some tough things to get through- the ornament thing with the ex was definitely made much easier because Daddy was here to hold me afterwards. And I'm sure that his meeting the family wasn't easy for him. But one of the things that happened touched on an area that I'm singularly not particularly fond of. OK, I really can't handle it. It's never worked with me, and about the nicest thing I can say about it now is that I no longer punch someone who does it to me. I can't imagine punching Daddy in the nose. The thing that can get me worked up so much....so much so that it's a hard limit for me.

Verbal humiliation.

Words are very important in our relationship. One of the things that intrigued me first about Daddy (besides his ass and smelling nice) was that he talked with me. And we've spent 11 months talking with each other....and many times his words alone bring me out of the doldrums or turn me into a quivering bowl of goo. We love talking. He loves words and I love hearing him.

It seems odd to me sometimes that as a kinky woman, I have no problem with him calling me his slut, bitch or whore. Hell, very often when he calls me one of those things, I'm all too happy to live up to his expectations. But there are words that strike some hidden feeling of worthlessness. Of not being good enough. Of having to listen to the person you love tell you exactly what he really thinks of you. In. Every. Horrific. Detail.

We were talking about rope and the fact that he'd wanted to try something with the rope. I made a joke and asked "with me?". And he used a word that brought back a memory and set off a chain reaction. And when it did, I tried something new for me. I tried to take a moment, gather my thoughts, and tell Daddy that I had a problem. Apparently, trying to tell him I was trying to "parse being that word", didn't quite make the impression I was hoping for.

He of course didn't mean that I was that. We were joking and playing around after all. And there was no way for either of us to know that particular word cut to my heart. It was just a word. Right?

We talked for a while about it, and I told him that I was being unfair and I knew it. I listen to him, his words mean everything to me, and because I'm his, how he speaks to me leaves a lasting impression. I hold him to a high standard with words because when he speaks, I take my cues from that. I fell in love with him through words and as unfair as it is, when called something unexpected, that is one time that my heart goes from A to Z in a beat.

I asked him if anyone had every called him names and if so, how did it make him feel. I also explained that this one was like the difference between calling him a "silly daddy" and calling him an "idiot". One is said with love and meant to be a way of saying that he made me giggle....the other is never said with anything other than with loathing. No matter if it's said with a smile. It's the word that has the meaning and the word alone says a lot.

He finally explained that with us, words sometimes are like knife play. Dangerous. Prone to little accidents. When using the edge, things are able to be kept under control. It's the tips that cause the damage if you're not careful. And he asked if I trusted him enough to know that he'd never purposefully hurt me, and that any little mistakes were just that. And that he'd always be there to put the bandaids on. But that if I wanted to play with knives, sometimes the tips are gonna slip. If I wanted to hold him to a high standard, I'd have to be willing to allow the slips once in a while and forgive him the mistake. He's there to fix things up....but I have to be able to tell him that I've been stung.

Words can be wonderful things or they can cut someone into pieces. The difference is in knowing when the cut is a bad one needing stitches or when it's just a little nick because I laughed. With Daddy, I have to remember that it's always the latter.

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