The air felt heavy with repressed feelings.

She ignored the betrayed look in his eyes as she packed. The Diamond ring that gleamed on the nightstand like a beacon.

“Why?”

She paused, her hand crumpling the negligee he’d bought for their anniversary. “Do you love me?”

His long pause colored the silence between them. This was the first time she’d seen him uncomfortable. That’s what they were; comfortable, but bland. Strangers who’d settled.

When he looked away, it was the final nail.

“We both deserve to start over.” She turned away and clicked her suitcase shut. “This was never worth saving.”

The post In a few words appeared first on Cara Thereon.

I’ve been struggling of late. The first time in a long time where I haven’t had much of an urge to write that wasn’t brought on by some form of depression. The spark… is just absent. It makes me nervous, but not as nervous as usual, which is hard to process.

The realization hit me recently that I feel disconnected. From myself, from my creativity, from this community. The last year and a half has been brutal mentally and I feel like I haven’t ever recovered. How do you write when you don’t feel like sharing, or worse, the thing that drove you on is missing?

I love to write. My mind is usually teeming with half formed stories demanding to get out. I’ve been blank the last month. So fucking blank. No urge and no thoughts and no stories. Just blank. It’s scary though because if I’m not filling this space with stories, if I’m not writing, who am I anymore? I write to process my feelings after all.

As for community, I’ve considered moving away from Twitter. That disconnect pervades everything and there it feels like there’s no one to hold to anymore. I’ve seen this place change a lot over the last few years, but it’s never felt like this to me. It feels lonely, business-like at times. Not warm like it had been and I don’t know how to dive back in. We could blame my mental health of late as I’m trying to work through other things. My missing desire to write also doesn’t help. I’m not connecting through my stories so of course it doesn’t feel like I’m here.

I had to make myself write all this down. I’d considered trying to link to a meme to reconnect, but I can’t even manage that right now. But here’s my feeble effort because this song feels fitting.

There’s a time that I remember, when I did not know no pain
When I believed in forever, and everything would stay the same
Now my heart feel like December when somebody say your name
‘Cause I can’t reach out to call you, but I know I will one day, yeah

Everybody hurts sometimes
Everybody hurts someday, ayy ayy
But everything gon’ be alright
Go and raise a glass and say, ayy

Here’s to the ones that we got
Cheers to the wish you were here, but you’re not
‘Cause the drinks bring back all the memories
Of everything we’ve been through
Toast to the ones here today
Toast to the ones that we lost on the way
‘Cause the drinks bring back all the memories
And the memories bring back, memories bring back you

Memories – Maroon 5

The post Where am I? appeared first on Cara Thereon.

What I’ve thought about more lately is how I feel better. I feel like there should be question marks after that because things are shit so I feel weird saying I feel better. I do though, feel a lot better. Less panicky, less fearful, and more mad/frustrated/angry. In order to get to this place, I had to change some habits.

I stopped drinking full cafe coffee. I don’t have much self control when it comes to stopping at one cup, and when you’re already anxious, adding more coffee makes it ten times worse. I also decreased my Twitter consumption quite a bit. I love Twitter, but honestly it can stoke those anxious feelings to such a high that I feel fear, sick, and anxiety combined. The last thing I did was start doing more body weight exercises. Indoor activities that have helped me feel more in control and combat how mush I’m eating.

My panic attacks stopped. That feeling like I was going to die, that dense of impending doom, stopped. It’s been a week without an attack. I’ve felt like I can think a little clearer and view things without this fear overwhelming me. I’ve also started writing again and feel this almost jolt of creativity.

I’m supposed to go back to work soon, which has brought up those other feelings of anger and frustration. This situation isn’t going to resolve as soon as everyone is hoping. Well, everyone who is a politician at least. My line of work puts me at heightened risk, and if people don’t continue taking this seriously enough, I could very much be exposed and die. So I’m mad because people continue to be reckless and cavalier.

My therapist says anger is great as long as it serves a purpose and we can do something with it. It’s a lovely protective mechanism because I feel alive. I’d rather be angry instead of sad or anxious. I can move forward if I’m angry, where as sadness and anxiety keep me trapped.

I’m left wondering how next week, next month, a few months from now look. How we’ll all look on the other side of this. I hope having learned something and survived.

The post Contemplating appeared first on Cara Thereon.

It seems a bit early to be writing a reflection post about the year, but at the rate I’ve been writing, if I don’t do it now it won’t happen.

2019 has been a difficult year for a variety of reasons. I could talk about my personal life or my professional life or decisions I haven’t been happy about overall. It hasn’t been just one thing that’s made it a hard year. It’s a lot of stuff that’s piled on. Wouldn’t it be nice to start a year and have a clear picture of how it’ll go so you can plan accordingly? Unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way. 2019 certainly hasn’t worked that way. My year started strong with things I wanted to accomplish.

Some of the things I started this year: 

A Patreon 

100 pitches. 

Aiming to publish on a larger scale.

Looking at the list, a positive is I managed to get some of those things done. I did start a Patreon and some people decided they actually wanted to read my year long story. It’s hard not to let the negative of that slip in though. I feel like I lost my direction, I feel like what I’m offering isn’t interesting enough. Doing Patreon is competitive and just being a creative who writes isn’t always enough. You’ve got to be more/better if you’re asking people to lay down their hard earned cash. I’ve had to remind myself constantly to continue plugging along, something that got hard as my personal life got a bit difficult.

I fell short on the pitches. Not quite a 3rd of the projected goal. The positive is it did help with my mindset when it comes to submitting work. Sadly, I wasn’t as aggressive about submitting things for a lot of reason, chief being the total dive my creativity took. Can’t submit stories if you aren’t writing. There were one or two things I submitted to that were accepted so all is not lost.

While I’m not published on a larger scale, I will count the last one as a win. I actually appeared in a few anthologies released this year. Smut Marathon, Lust in the Dark, Eroticon

I did a session or two at Eroticon this year so that’s something of note, yes? And even with how difficult the year was, I managed to write 111 posts. Less than normal for me, but still plugging along.

It’s just hard not to reflect and see how hard this year has been when the terrible parts outshine the bright spots. Hard not compare when others are kicking ass when it comes to monetizing their blogs, or doing awesome with their Patreons, or doing all things I’d hoped to do this year. I feel like I spent the year trying not to drop into the worst depressive episode of my life. I’ve been disconnected in pretty much every area and engaging with the community as a whole has been tough. Haven’t participated in a meme in a while and getting to other people’s blogs has been a challenge. 

*Deep Breath*

Things do need to change though. Every session with my therapist is me acknowledging my emotions instead of continuing to live under this fog that’s permeated my life of late. It’s obvious I’m stuck in this weird stasis that isn’t going to move until I make some kind of decision about what direction I need to be moving in. I’m hesitant to set any goals for next year, aside from a goal to get beyond this feeling of being stuck.

As much as I’d love for someone to manage my life for me, that’s not how this thing works. I do know I’m tired of being sad, foggy, and disengaged. Change is deciding where you are is worse than where you need to go, isn’t it? Or as the old adage goes: Piss or get off the pot. 

I guess that’s my goal then. 2020: Piss or Get Off the Pot.

The post It’s Been a Year appeared first on Cara Thereon.

By birth, I’m technically a middle child. My older sister is so many years older that it can at times mean I act like an older child as well. Being a middle child comes with distinct emotional baggage. Most middle children are quiet peace makers, fading into the background, and easy going. I have older child tendencies as well. I’m a perfectionist with anxious leanings. I’m burdened by the need to excel and overachieve. I also feel obligated to take care of everyone and be responsible for all things in my life. I can’t see the future, but I can imagine every single possible worst case scenario and fret about it.

I’m also super susceptible to emotions. Empathy can make me great at my job, but it can also burden me with anxiety.

There are times I don’t know if what I’m feeling are my own feelings. Some of this could be blamed on my upbringing, on being a middle child with older child tendencies. It could also be a result of a mother who can be overbearing.

Recently, I saw something on twitter about the fight/flight/fawn response. I’m a fawner. Too often, I allowed what was expected of me to cause me to back down when it came to my own desires. I’ve learned, after being in an environment where what I wanted was often ignored, that being quiet and acquiescing calmed an otherwise volatile situation down. My opinion didn’t matter as long as everyone was happy. I’ll take on others’ expectations and responses because it means there aren’t terrible emotions or heated responses to deal with in my orbit. I’m a retreater/pacifier.

I don’t always know if what I’m feeling is coming from me. Am I feeling this because this what what the other person expects? Have I stopped having an opinion because I’m uncomfortable and can’t figure out how to say what I’m actually thinking? It all ends with me struggling to make decisions because who is going to be unhappy about what I decide? So I just can’t decide on anything. One of the questions I loathe is “what are you going to do?” My response? “I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”

I’ve always found I lack a good grasp on what my needs are. More accurately, I on some level know my needs, but can’t articulate them. In the heat of the moment, if you ask me what I think, my reply will be “I don’t have any thoughts.” Maybe on some level I’m waiting to be told. Or I’m waiting for an opportunity to decompress. All the intense emotions just make me shutdown. I don’t feel safe to say what I think because someone will get mad. Someone always gets mad when I say what I think so why bother?

This is all a coping mechanism.

This has been a life long struggle. I retreat and offer the responses expected. I have to disengage from the emotional moment because I don’t know how to respond, but give me time to write it out and I do a bit better.

I’m 35 years old and have no fucking idea how to figure out my own feelings. For someone who can’t recognize their own feelings though, I’ve always struggled with feeling too much.

But it’s what I pay my therapist the big bucks to help me sort out, isn’t it? She’s been pressing me lately to be aware of and vocal about my needs. Not to let what others what derail verbalizing what’s going on inside me. She’s also trying to help me see how every emotion (even the ones I don’t recognize) have a place. They’re trying to get me to deal with or cope with or navigate something. I’ve run away from my emotions for years because I don’t know what they look like well enough to deal with them.

Every thing is baby steps, right? Little by little we grow and deal with our own baggage. My suitcase is taking time to unpack.

The post I Want to Suck Your… Emotions? appeared first on Cara Thereon.

The post Dark Thoughts appeared first on Cara Thereon.

I leave tomorrow. I leave tomorrow and it fucking sucks.

A month (39 days more accurately) gives you plenty of time to be in someone’s presence and to feel like you’re an integral part of their life. That’s days of sleeping in the same bed, having meals together, going on trips together, and just seeing someone as they’re being their self.

I’ve spend a lot of time with both Molly and Daddy, and enjoyed their company a whole lot.

As time has wound down, my mind has thought about a lot of things. I’ve taken to calling it being fragile and uncertain, something you’ll understand I guess.

I’m still learning to how to ask for what I want. No, I’m still learning about what I want. I’ve spent the last 33 years either following what someone else says I should be doing or wondering if what I am doing has been influenced by someone else’s thoughts of what I should be doing. How can I ask for it if I don’t even know if it’s what I want? So I don’t tend to ask. I tend to defer to others and their needs because if they know, that works for me. Not healthy and a habit I need to break.

My body is hella uncooperative also. I’ve always struggled with sex and orgasms a bit. It’s flared up more and more, much to my frustration. I’ve been struggling with this feeling of being difficult and broken. I know it’s not true, Daddy reassures me and never makes me feel this way, but this is about a need to overcome my own mental barrier. That’ll take time even if I feel like I should be awesome at everything.

It’s not all sex clubs, spanking benches, and orgasms. Those things do happen, but there’s been times of sitting quietly together while they work, or watching a movie together, or laughing or pictures or awesome walks with Molly. There have been a lot of those moments that go beyond sex.

I’m not a particularly social person, something people may have noticed at Eroticon. I’ve been called antisocial on more than one occasion. I’ve always felt like that was a bad mark in my tally box because I don’t go out of my way to talk to people. I enjoy being with both of them because there is no pressure to talk, but we can have good conversation with ease.

I struggle, too, with kicking thoughts that eventually he’ll get tired of me. I get tired of me so why shouldn’t anyone else? Perhaps this is the source of my feelings in Welcome, that dread that at some point someone will get tired of me so I have to make sure I don’t overstay my welcome.

I had my first big cry Friday at tea. The moment had been coming for a few days and it just spilled over. I don’t know what precipitated it, but just realizing so little time was left had me a sniffly mess.

Michael and Molly are good people, but I think everyone knows that truth.

He’s really a great man. I know he doesn’t always feel like he is, but he really is. He’s smart, I mean really really smart. He’s also kind. He makes coffee for everyone in the morning, he cooks meals, he bakes delicious things, and he does it because he wants to. He’s handsome and he’s wonderful. He’s a servant and it makes him an amazing Dom. He’s not perfect, but no one is. If I had my dithers, I’d never leave him because he takes care of people. He takes care of me.

Molly too is amazing. She’s fierce, she’s driven, and she takes no shit. She’s also beautiful. If things need done, Molly makes it happen. I routinely think I should be more like her, asking for what I want. Being fearless.

I’ll aim for a post about the dynamic when I have my head on a little straighter.

Since I’ve already been crying, I don’t imagine tomorrow is going to be great for keeping my face dry. Good thing I don’t wear makeup because runny mascara only seems to look sexy on certain people.

I’ll be back, but that knowledge doesn’t seem to make leaving any easier.

Photo credit to Hy

The post Don’t Cry appeared first on Cara Thereon.

Let me start by saying I’m at work (I was at the time I wrote this) and it’s the middle of the night (not so much now) so the title is asking forgiveness for what could be a rambly (possibly interrupted post). Also, I’m low on sleep so forgive the glaring issues with editing.

Not a lot bothers me. Yes, I do get anxious about things, but even I realize those things aren’t as huge a deal as I tend to make them. Rarely do things get me up in arms enough to write about them in a post here. They are limited to my family, Women’s rights things, and some race issues.

This post is going to focus on the last bit.

I say some because not everything bothers me when it comes to race relations. Some things are such fact of life things, that I brush it off. Will I, as an black woman, be followed around the store? Many times I am, sometimes not. Will I be the only black person at this event? Probably. Do I let stop me? Not often.

I tend to be fearless. I’ll take risks with my safety more than I should. Not always, but sometimes. I adopt a “keep your chin up, and look like you’re tough shit” demeanor, and power on.

Really this is just a segue to say that when I’m upset or angry over something, when I’m scared or defensive, this is serious stuff.

Not to get into too much detail about my life, but it hasn’t been bad. I’m a middle class, black girl who grew up in a middle class white neighborhood. I was an oddity when I first moved, but I was young and fairly unaware so even those moments that (in hindsight) were once of ignorance, I could overlook. Oh I was called the black girl by a classmate or asked if I was related to so and so because we were both black (no, I’m not. We look nothing alike ). Overall, I never felt too odd about being black. I never felt scared.

My first run in wasn’t until College. The first time I was called the N word and my white friends either didn’t notice or didn’t care. That changed me a little. It was the first time I’d ever been scared because of my skin color. When I told other kids who were from urban areas, they got it. Maybe it reinforced their beliefs about white areas and white people, but I was happy to know someone understood my moment.

That blip passed and I moved on. Being the only black person in a professional position at my place of employment or in my role in education, was just a fact of life. I was never going to meet anyone where I was. I’ve always liked white guys because it’s who I grew up around. No white guys were interested in me. Then I moved and that changed.

Just prior to this, my brother had an experience that was another blip that caused me fear. My brother has a job that has him working closely with police. He had a moment where someone called the cops when he was out on a call thinking he was a different person. They rolled up and had him in handcuffs without checking who he was. If he wasn’t recognized by another police officer, where would he be? How many black man have been harassed or killed in the last few years by police? Forgive me for being overzealous, but that shook me up.

There’s a certain fear that’s steadily risen over the last few years. It’s hard to explain it if it’s not something you’re familiar with. Oh, I’m sure more people get it now with how tenuous things have been in politics, which has everyone on edge.

The thing that sparked this thought was looking through these photos from 50 years ago. I also recently looked through a link on Lynchings (I won’t supply that link as it’s too fucking distressing).

My mind turned to those people in those photos. Those fighting, getting hurt, and dying for civil rights. I was also thinking of those on the other side. Not necessarily those cops or politicians who actively opposed civil rights, but those people doing nothing.

It’s not difficult to think that the people you care about or are your friends could turn a blind eye to your struggle. There are people who believe themselves to be good people, but when you ask them how they feel about (blacks being killed by police/women having access to birth control services/kneeling on the MotherFing football field in protest/insert some aspect of unrest) and they act like it doesn’t matter.

<<<<<< "they have as much opportunity as anyone else." "Stop talking about my privilege, I grew up in... and I came from nothin." "Gun violence/black on black crime" Those I least expect to say it, are the ones saying it in private or publicly on Facebook. The past shows that people move with the times.Would you have believed I deserved rights if you were present in that time era? It takes an active mind to push past the engrained things we believe or are taught. Your one black friend doesn't give you leeway to say shitty things or not understand that being black can be a disadvantage. Being color blind accomplishes little expect allow you to be blind to the wrongs being committed. There's so much internalized hate that we don't even realize is there. How we treat women, how we react to those different than us, how women perceive themselves from TV, etc. Being a black woman can mean being fetishized. In the past, when a convo about dating starts with, "I've never been with a black woman." I get a little leery. I read such a good post recently that I feel translates so well no matter what side of the pond you’re on. I’ve been passed over, was all through high school because I was the black girl. I also don’t fit what people think a black woman should behave like. I grew up in a predominately white suburb, remember? The people I compared myself to were the standard for white beauty.

I forget sometimes that not everyone likes me. I forget that not everyone is for me. I forget sometimes that things and people can change in an instant. I forget that things aren’t always fair and just.

I guess my whole post boils down to advantage. It’s hard to understand someone when you yourself aren’t the one at the disadvantage. It’s also easy to become desensitized to someone’s struggle when you aren’t struggle. Or your struggle is over and you’ve forgotten where you’ve come from.

Life is supposed to be fair, but it’s not. At the end of the day, the color of my skin still matters as much my gender.

Heaven help me for wishing we were different and understood each other.

The post Forgive Me appeared first on Cara Thereon.

–

She was walking in a fog, had been for the last four days. No amount of coaching and talking could change the way she felt since he’d left.

That morning replayed over and over.

“I love him, Claire.”

His handsome face seemed more lined than normal. The way his eyes and brow creased as he said those words. That he loved him, the man he’d been seeing for the last two years without her realizing.

“But not me, Peter?”

He clouded, the change doing nothing to mar his features. She had felt aged compared to him, the previous few minutes making her feel every single one of her forty-five years.

“I still care about you. We’ve been together too long for me not to. It’s just…”

“You’d rather fuck him and not me. I don’t have the right parts.”

Her voice sounded dead to her ears and she’d felt a twinge of regret at the hurt look in his eyes. She’d squashed that regret as the reality of what he’d done – was doing – really started to set in.

“You’re leaving me for a man, Peter. After fifteen years. After fifteen–”

She had turned away then, unable to look at him. It had been too much for her to even think about how much of her life was changing. It crashed down around her right before her eyes.

He’d walked away then. His clothes were gone the next day

The bed had become her best friend. She’d changed the sheets after he’d left, determined to start fresh somewhere. Her need to lay down had overwhelmed her after and she couldn’t stop herself from climbing under the sheets to find some solace.

A cloud hung over her, but if she stayed in bed it didn’t seem to overtake her. She could see it out of the corner of her eye. It was gray with streaks of black in it that mirrored her mood.

Hadn’t they had a good marriage? Didn’t she show him how much she loved him every day of their lives together? Tears welled up as she thought about it.

Claire had missed the signs. Willfully, she admitted to herself as she burrowed deeper in the blankets. The staying at work late, visiting a ‘friend’, and secret smiles as he eyed his texts. She’d suspected another woman, but he never expressed interest in other women. His eyes would follow an attractive man around the room before he’d ever remark on how pretty a woman appeared.

This made it harder for her somehow when it really shouldn’t have. She felt like his beard, like she’d been his cover for years and only just realized it.

The kids had been asking her what happened to their dad, but she couldn’t find the words to explain. All she could think to say was their father had left them all for a man.

“Mama?”

She was slow to respond to her six year old. Mia was standing by the door, her hair filthy and her face covered in something brown. Seeing her daughter so unkempt shook her out of her stupor, making her wonder too how she looked.

“Hey Me-o-Mi-o.” She cleared the croak from her throat and pushed herself up into a seated position. “Come on over, sweet girl.”

Mia ambled over and Claire could see the brown bits on her shirt. It looked old and Claire crinkled her nose at the smell coming from her child. She sniffed her shirt and could smell the body odor rolling off of her.

“Let’s solve your problem and then get to the shower.”

“Are you going to leave me like Daddy, Mama?”

Her heart contracted at her innocent question.

“Listen, Mia, Daddy didn’t leave you. No matter what, Daddy loves you and will be around. We’re just… he just couldn’t live here anymore because he loves someone else more than he loves me.”

Her little girl looked way too serious and it worried her. She drew Mia into her arms, her smelly little body warm and comfortable.

This was her reminder that she had more then just herself to take care of. She couldn’t fall apart when the kids needed her.

She kissed Mia on her forehead and then turned her toward the door. “Shower time, Me-o-Mi-o. You smell like Sylvester did after he got trapped in the garbage can. Don’t you screech like he did when I dump you in the tub.”

That earned a giggle from Mia who scrambled off the bed. Claire felt the smile on her face, surprising considering she still felt that darkness consuming her. It clung to her like the cloud it was.

“You’re going to wash, Mama? You smell, too.” Mia pursed her lips in a way that made Claire think of Paul.

Tears threatened to gather, but she pushed them away. “Of course. I don’t want to smell like Sylvester either.”

Mia nodded and then trooped out the door.

Claire made her bed, ignoring the cloud hovering over her. It would be there when she crawled back under the sheets anyway.

The post Cloudy Day appeared first on Cara Thereon.

–

“I believe we’ll have to tuck things in a bit here.”

Patricia’s mother smoothed a hand down her bare side, pinching the skin by her hip. She looked at the hand in question, the skin dotted with aged spots that didn’t match the seemingly ageless face behind her in the mirror.

Her mother would have her freeze her face in perpetual youth as she’d done hers, as she continued to do. The plastic surgeon was on speed dial, second only to the country club she drank at every day. Her mother took her drinking seriously.

“I’d rather not have anything done, mother.”

The timidness in her voice made her cringe almost as much as her mother cupping her breasts through her brand new vermillion bralet. Her breasts were already overflowing the cups.

The ugly way her mother’s face twisted in the mirror made her stomach twirl. The pinch of nails on the sides of her breasts was unbearable, but she stayed still as was expected.

“Patricia Ann, beauty queens do what’s necessary to stay on top.”

She didn’t want to be on top. Patricia wanted to be sixteen and using her height for playing basketball instead of showing off her legs to gross male judges. She wanted to talk to boys her age instead of being touched by guys her father’s age.She wanted to be anything except a beauty queen.

She wanted to be Patty.

Her mother turned away and then turned back with one of the crowns she’d recently won. The gaudy crown settled on her head and she felt its weight in her soul.

“You’re nothing without your beauty.”

It was obnoxiously big and riddled with diamonds. An ugly reminder, like the trophies and gowns and shoes overflowing her room, that beauty was all there was to Patricia.

The post Beauty Queen appeared first on Cara Thereon.