Go Educate Yourself

April 24, 2019

“Go educate yourself.”

It’s a phrase that could make most any white, cisgender male in America cringe the second he reads it on Facebook these days. “Triggering”, even.

It’s a phrase that has always been difficulty for ME, to be honest. I mean, I get the sentiment. I understand that marginalized peoples suffering from lifetimes of constant microaggression-exhaustion (not to mention the traumas of macroaggressions), both do not necessarily have the emotional energy nor should they be obligated to educate any of the rest of us. And yet, my response has always been, “well isn’t that a good job for us allies then?”

I just kinda figured….if I wasn’t suffering from that particular lifetime of systemic and institutional oppression, shouldn’t I, as a person of privilege, use my energy and knowledge of any particular topic of social justice to educate those who WANTED to do good but were ignorant? Isn’t that what my principles of living from love dictate? Shouldn’t I give people the chance to do better and offer a helping hand?

Upon discussion, the reasoning against my declaration of my “duty” as an ally was nearly always the same: the people who ask for it to be handed to them on a silver platter don’t actually want it. “WE had to educate ourselves about our OWN oppression; if someone actually cares, they’ll do the work themself.” Time and time again, I was told that anyone claiming ignorance and wanting that work done for them was just making excuses for their own bigotry, that they didn’t ACTUALLY want to do or be better, because if they did, they would.

Recently, someone with enough personal investment in me took it upon himself to school me on “go educate yourself.” Patiently. Over the course of perhaps a week. With discussions, “a-ha” moments, parallels and analogies from my real life, and with love. At first, I felt that this was merely definitive proof that my theory was correct. That we ALL need education from a loving place rather than to be shoved alone off a cliff into the ocean of the internet with no life preserver or clue where to begin. After all, it was working with me, right?

And, to some extent, that belief still whispers to me. “Go educate yourself,” with no guidance as to where or how someone might do that, is difficult for many. How many schools effectively teach how to research matters of social justice these days? When I was in school, that certainly wasn’t a topic. How does one Google correctly to find the contexts that will teach them why “white girl cornrows” are hurtful cultural appropriation without getting mired in a hundred page search result of porn-and-Pinterest-hairstyle-pic party? Could it really be harmful to the cause for me to offer someone a couple of links to articles I find helpful on the subject?

And yet…

Over the course of the week-long “Go educate yourself” seminar offered by my friend, I was gifted with a reminder of the value of actually putting in the work and critical thinking to come to your own conclusions. When you educate yourself, when you expend your own time and effort, the knowledge you find becomes a part of you and your awareness in a much deeper way than it ever could otherwise.

Go educate yourself. If you want to be better and do better, educate yourself all the time, about everything. Social media offers you a plethora of opportunities to wander across articles that will expand your worldview and expose you to new ideas and viewpoints. If you’re seeking “wokeness”, add enlightened and outspoken marginalized contacts on Facebook and Instagram and Twitter and follow the links they post. Assimilate the information you find.

Go educate yourself. Follow the organizations fighting for the causes you believe in. Watch the information they disseminate, study policy updates for those arenas, read and process what you read, ask yourself questions. Contact your representatives and make your voice heard.

Go educate yourself. Put your money where your mouth is. Put your time where your mouth is. Put your energy where your mouth is. WORK and SPEND for the organizations and causes in which you believe. DON’T spend with the organizations who lobby against what you believe to be right.

And from me, perhaps, “go educate yourself so that you, too, have the beautiful opportunity gifted by the personal integration of the knowledge you find.” AND, if you really want the education, are ready and happy to do the work, and don’t know where to start, I’m happy to offer whatever resources I have on the topic.



What an honor to be nominated among such accomplished individuals for Pantheon of Leather’s Woman of the Year. To know that people saw me fit to sit on such a distinguished list is truly humbling.

If you’re looking to vote in our community choice awards, the voting is here:


Long time, no see

July 1, 2017

A year between my last two entries here….and another six months after the most recent before I sit down to write this. Wow, I suck at this journaling thing these days, huh?

In November of 2014, Master and I had our first child. In April of 2016, we had our second. I have continued to run the office (and do all of the bookkeeping), continued to run Sin in the City, and participated in another huge social community commitment during that time. Oh, and from October 2016 through March 2017, I was on my own with the babies, as Master moved across the country ahead of us for work…so there was the whole packing everything up in addition to the work and full-time mom thing (one day I’ll get some occasional childcare, I swear!).

In the the days of packing and unpacking, of cleaning and re-cleaning, of diaper changes and meal cooking and potty-training and office and finances and Sin and, and, and…I haven’t taken the time to write. I haven’t taken the time for much personal luxury, to be honest. So here I am, while I have to be up until 2:30 AM my time tonight anyway because of the Sin opening day registration sale, playing a little catch-up.

Being a mom is simultaneously the most challenging, frustrating, joyful, rewarding, tear-inducing and tiring thing I have ever tackled in my life. Perhaps “tackled” is the wrong word; most of the time I don’t feel like I’m succeeding at anything enough to count it as “tackled.” Why do I write that here, publicly? Well, ten years ago, after ending a relationship that had grown to be both toxic and dangerous, I swore I would never again use the internet to portray myself, my relationship, or my life as perfect. I swore that I would be real about my challenges, rather than hiding them in an effort to convince people that I am the perfect slave or in the perfect relationship. I swore I would allow people to see my short-comings and failures.

I have failed at that to some degree, by the way.

It’s not that I have lied about my relationship or happiness or anything this time-around. It’s more that I still constantly struggle with my perfectionism. There will be a specific post about this at some point, but the gist is this: I don’t do well with criticism, because I want so terribly to be perfect. I still have not learned to accept the concept of “good enough,” which causes more stress than any other single impetus in my life, I’m sure. So while I post on my vanilla Facebook on a daily basis about my #momfails and the trials and tribulations of two toddlers only 18 months apart in age, I still cling to my desperate desire to have everyone think I always have my shit together in the realm of “the lifestyle”, “the scene” and my slavery.

I don’t.

Another post, like I said. This one was supposed to be a quick and light-hearted update. So yeah, busy couple of years, kids, move, each of us teaching separately at events (if at all) while the other watches the babies (which means we’ve been at way less events over the past 3 years, because we don’t like being apart). Planning Sin 2017, a giant move, planning Sin 2018, closing down the office, planning a wedding…it’s a big list.

I’ve missed you all. I might even write that other post tonight. Maybe.



January 5, 2017

Sometimes I go back to that old page….the one that hasn’t changed at all in a couple of years…just to read the sad words.

Because I’m a masochist.

And no matter who-what-when-where-how…it never ceases to make me cry. So close, yet so far away. Will I ever be whole again? So much in my life these days I’d like to share with you.

But I can’t.

“I have two gorgeous, intelligent, amazing baby daughters. I made two humans! I’m getting married! Almost everything in life has changed entirely!”

But I can’t.

And I plan and I produce and I Google and Pinterest. And I keep asking myself where you are and why you aren’t by my side helping me with these projects. As if I don’t know.

And I thought that song was finally done playing on the radio all the time…but I keep hearing it anyway. And on New Year’s Day.

“Only know you love her when you let her go.”

Except that I knew all along. And you knew you loved me. And I knew you loved me. What’s missing from this equation, professor?

Another year has passed. Another year has begun. Another universe of time and space between us; it grows and grows. And I tell myself it’s for the better. And I tell myself you’re so much happier and healthier. And yet, I still go back to that page–the one whose words never change–to read what little exists there….to hear your voice.

Never a “slavewife”

January 28, 2016



Before I go any further, I’ll begin with a disclaimer. If you use the term “slavewife” to describe yourself or your partner, rock on. Good for you! A: Don’t take this personally, B: don’t get all pissy, C: don’t accuse me of thinking I’m better than you.


  1. It’s not about you.
  2. It’s not about you.
  3. I do think I’m better than you, but that’s because I have an over-inflated ego and am an elitist, and it probably has nothing to do with this subject.


This is about me (ego-centric, too!) and the denotations and connotations of the English language as interpreted by my emotional worldview. That is it.


It’s a nice day for a white wedding, yeah!


Master proposed somewhat recently, which hasn’t entirely sunk in yet, as it is Sin in the City time of year, we have a toddler, we own an office, and we’ve got a pretty large commitment going on in our other extracurricular life as well. He did it very publicly and romantically, in front of a large audience and with much poetry, and the reaction of many was, you’re not already married? After about 8 years in his service, plenty of people assume that. Especially since we have a child that is the joint combination of our genes.


First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage!


Everyone knows that’s the proper order, right? And plenty of kinksters/perverts/sexcapadists/leather people choose not to have children. So if we have a child (and heck, especially since we TRIED to have a child), we NATURALLY must be following the traditional path of couple-hood within our culture and society!


And we use that assumption to our advantage in everyday life all the time. It is tremendously more convenient to say to the insurance company when calling on his behalf, “this is his wife,” rather than try to explain that I am his partner (which people unfortunately take less seriously), or his slave. It is often more convenient for Master, when in a work situation with someone on the conservative end of things, to describe me as his wife, rather than explain that I’m a hell of a lot more than a “girlfriend” and we actually meant to have a child together.


Love and marriage, love and marriage…go together like a horse and carriage. This I’ll tell you brother, you can’t have one without the other!


My mother (who Master and my father conspired to get to the proposal event as a surprise for her) was worried about the public proposal; she turned to Master Xornath and expressed concern over how I was to say “no” if I didn’t want to accept it in such a public situation. Master Xornath assured her that it was a topic we had discussed before.


And it was. We have discussed tax benefits. We have discussed employment and insurance benefits. We have discussed end-of-life benefits. We have discussed the benefits in a family where children are part of the equation. Not long ago we went through a whole load of extra paperwork because of the fact that we had a child out of wedlock. We have definitely discussed marriage before. For practical reasons, not romantic ones.


I was (and still am) confident at the moment he chose to propose that he could marry me at any time he chose, given our relationship, that I might or might not be informed beforehand, and that what shape that took was entirely at his discretion. In fact, I have remained so confident of this fact that when we have discussed marriage in the past, I have told Master that while I know I have no say in the matter, I would really like to have a wedding, should he decide that we’re getting married.


He’s been married before. He’s had the big to-do and all of that, it’s not something he’s all that keen on repeating, to be honest. And yet, he still proposed, rather than bringing me to the courthouse and being done with it. He still had me pick out a ring (because he was concerned with me having an engagement ring I loved). He still told me to plan a wedding.


This is NOT because we are equals. It is NOT because I am to be his wife. It is because he is an indulgent Master and gets some measure of joy from my feeling spoiled and taken care of. It is because he likes to see me happy and giddy.


And why did I tell him I’d like to have a wedding, should he decide to marry me? It’s not because a wedding (or a marriage, for that matter) will change the gravity or commitment of our relationship. It’s because, while marriage isn’t an essential checkbox on my “Happy and Successful Life” list, that I’d like to have the experience of a wedding if I’m going to do it. Perhaps this is a remnant of some childhood dream created for me by the society in which I live, perhaps it’s my fairytale dream…though I declared at a very young age that I would “NEVER” get married, so maybe not. Regardless of its origin, I have the desire for the experience, in the case of a marriage (which is not a true necessity in our lives at this time).


I don’t need a white veil, I got a black dress, don’t need a preacher, no no not yet…I’m just a girl, I’m not a wife…


So why the objection to “slavewife?” Why the protestation to a term that could feasibly describe what I am to become?

I am Master’s slave. Every iota of our relationship stems from that original foundation and dynamic. Does he respect my brain, my wishes and concerns, my opinion, my effort, my labor, my individuality? Absolutely. He also sees 100% of that list as his to heed or ignore, to mold or maintain as his own.

That will not change when we have a piece of paper declaring us “Man and Wife”. It did not change when the hospital assigned me all the “rights” when it came to our daughter, as we were unmarried. I am his slave, period. He is choosing to make me his “wife” officially, it seems, but he can just as easily choose to undo that (albeit with more paperwork and fees), without changing the fact that I am his slave.

When I hear someone call herself “slavewife” or a man call his woman his “slavewife,” they seem to be declaring a distinction. “I am not merely his slave, I am his slavewife!” Or, “I am his slave that he takes more seriously than just plain slave,” or “I have a more permanent place in his life than a mere slave!” These unspoken pronouncements make me laugh. The cynic in me reacts to the assumption of permanence, in any romantic relationship, let alone in our world of Velcro collars. The importance placed on the “wife” in this invented word gives me a chuckle as well; I understand the feeling that it gives one (and one’s relationship) more respect in the vanilla world, but does it really command more respect in our world where one can say, “I am his slave,” and people will understand that there is gravity to the relationship?

Sometimes I hear someone call herself a “slavewife” and it seems to be a declaration of equality. “Yes, sure, we have a ‘power exchange’ relationship, but we are equals because I am his WIFE in addition to calling myself his slave. That makes it all better, right?” I didn’t sign up to be Master’s equal. My status as unequal to him is not bred of any natural disadvantage (though I suppose we could call his physical advantage pretty natural to mine), but rather the choice to live in an authority imbalanced dynamic. If I CHOOSE to have someone be the boss of me, why would I want to go around protesting to everyone that will listen that I am really his equal?

I hear “slavewife” and I can’t help it, I immediately assume insecurity. I suppose from the outside, I can see that there are people who treat “slaves” with less respect, as children and unworthy. I know that I have encountered such people, the ones who want to condescend and denigrate…I just don’t accept their treatment. I am confident in the fact that my slavery does not make me less than any of you. In fact, living authentically INCREASES my power on this planet, rather than the opposite. So I hear “slavewife” and think, “oh honey, being a slave doesn’t lessen you as a person! You don’t need to declare wife to convey to me that you’re okay and not abused or mistreated or unloved!”

REMINDER: MY connotations.

I am Master’s slave. When we are married, I will still be his slave. He will introduce me as his wife to the people who he would have done so with before. That will not change the fact that I am his slave. For as long as we are together, that foundation will remain intact. The ebbs and flows of life, the times when regular beatings aren’t possible, or when we are cranky with each other, or when life “gets in the way” won’t change the fact that I am his slave. I am the mother to his child, because he finds that pleasing. I am his Office Manager while he finds that useful. I am his Event Producer as long as he finds that productive. I am his pigdawg, I am his slut, I am his amusement, whenever he desires. I am even his wife, when he wants me to be, sure.

But never his “slavewife”.


Unless he declares it so, of course.

The real purpose of giving massage is to foster more depth of feeling for one another in order to bring out the love that often lies buried beneath the pain of everyday suffering. –Robert Calvert

Touch is an amazing thing. It breeds empathy, soothes tension, creates intimacy…of course we want to touch those we love! Lots of us, however, are a bit intimidated when we formalize the process with the word “massage.” Join slave Jazz, a Certified Massage Therapist, in an exploration of how you can take your partner on the relaxation ride of her/his life with the art of sensual massage.

Basic techniques, supplies, setting the mood, sequencing and flow will all be covered. And while sensual massage can certainly be practiced by partners of any (or no) acknowledged power dynamic, Jazz will devote some focus on how this type of intimate touch may be performed as a service enjoyable for all participants.

Class time: 1:30 to 2:00 hours

Seen at:

Southwest Leather Conference (January, 2016)


White Knights

April 23, 2015

Recently, someone said to me, “Your Master is such a white knight.”

And as I answered, “Yes he is,” I realized that for perhaps the first time, I was saying so with pride.

I was surprised by my reaction; my typical response to White Knights is scorn and derision (even if silently expressed). I have never understood how someone could allow themself to be taken advantage of like that, to fall prey to the ploy of the “broken bird”, and I’ve always resented it in partners.

If you have the impression that I am the perfect (or even a good) slave, feel free to move along.

It can be tough to be in relationship with someone who embodies the archetype of White Knight…MANY people prey on the urge to protect and save and heal, and it’s frustrating to watch someone you love fall victim to that manipulation out of the blindness that comes from their own desire to help above all else.

I have gone through many phases in my feelings about this phenomenon. I have felt pity for the Knight in his naivete; I have been frustrated with the Knight for being so vulnerable to such manipulation; I have settled on the fact that the Knight makes his own bed and must sleep in it; and now, I am proud to say my owner is a White Knight. Where does that sudden (and new) acceptance come from?

Perhaps it finally clicked in my head that it’s not so different from my own situation.

I am love. Yes, that sounds nauseatingly new agey…but long ago, I settled on the fact that as someone with the ability to love more deeply, fully, quickly, and easily than most people, my purpose on this planet (the meaning of my life) is to love. Hell, the meaning of my birth name comes from full and total love. And when I accepted this as my purpose, I accepted the fact that I will also get hurt more deeply, fully, quickly, and easily than most people. Who am I, then, to judge the Knight in his (or her) purpose?

The judgment comes from care and concern for a loved one, sure. But it also comes from jealousy of his attention and effort. And that jealousy stymies his talents and his purpose. I pride myself on never needing to be saved, which is likely precisely the reason I belong to a White Knight. This pride can lead me to feel resentful for the fact that my independence leaves him with extra energy to “save” others rather than putting that energy into me and our relationship. Rescuing people, like loving people, can be exhausting. It makes sense that a White Knight would not actually want to own a broken bird, but rather a strong and competent individual who can rescue him if needed, or at least support him in his rescuing attempts.

Perhaps it is my relief that my daughter will always have a White Knight father she can count on that has changed…all I know is that I’ve somehow found a new appreciation of the tender place in his heart that makes him a White Knight. Will I feel more tenderness towards those who attempt to prey on his archetypal nature? Likely not, but I am proud to belong to one who is called to protect, to nurture, to heal, to save.

Perhaps there’ll be more of this ponderance forthcoming, these are simply notes observing a thought process on my mind…

To love oneself….

April 15, 2015


It’s been a hell of a few years…relationships ending, beginning, ending, beginning…Sin in the City being built from scratch, primarily by me. An employee and “family” member who committed a more grievous betrayal than we could have ever imagined. A huge project in another extra-curricular community. New venues for Sin each year. A move. A pregnancy. A baby.

I’m tired just typing about it.

And while I’ve been pretty good at making sure I get a pedicure or a massage from time to time, self care has gone by the wayside entirely, in any meaningful manner. Plenty of people would read that last sentence and think, What a spoiled bitch! Since when does having the time and money to indulge in the luxury of pedicures and massages not count as real self care?

We talk all the time about how those who live lives of service must practice self care in order to care for others; how we must have a filled cup to fill the cups of others, etc. And so it is not uncommon for a caring Master or dominant to require those in service to them to get relaxation or beauty treatments from time to time…it’s good stewardship after all, isn’t it?

But how often do we talk about the necessity for self love in addition to self care?


While I was indeed practicing the indulgences of self care from time to time (ask any full time slave and you’ll hear that leaving Master to go get a massage or a pedicure feels like a MASSIVE indulgence and makes plenty of us feel guilty), I wasn’t practicing the indulgences of self LOVE very often in the past few years.

I certainly didn’t love who I was in spite of and because of my flaws and faults…I certainly didn’t have a lot of compassion for myself.


I AM imperfect. I AM permanently and inevitably flawed. I AM beautiful and flawed and lovable and loved. I just forgot for awhile.

Why write about this now? So much of my life has changed in the past year. I have a daughter who needs a good role model for every moment of her life, who needs to see her mother as a strong and beautiful (imperfect and human) woman, who practices both self care AND self love.

I need to use the self care I practice to strengthen the self love I practice. My life has been changing. Some of those changes hurt me a great deal (I swear, if I have to learn the Love Is Not Enough lesson EVER again in my life, it’ll be too soon). Some of those changes altered my path forever. But self love has become so important in my current life that it is changing the course Master leads me on.

I started yoga again on Monday. I haven’t practiced yoga regularly for about ten years. Prenatal yoga doesn’t count, since they make it easy enough for full term women and it’s really just super modified gentle stretching. The last time I did yoga regularly was probably 2005…and even then, I did it alone, with videos rather than an instructor and a studio.

Both Monday evening and Tuesday evening’s classes have served to humiliate and empower me. It is frustrating to feel where my body is at; humiliating that I am not strong enough, flexible enough, fit enough for every little variation of every little pose. And yet, I glow with pride that I am taking care of myself in this way. My soul sings to be doing something so good for my body and so good for my spirit at the same time…and it makes me feel more deeply loved by me (and by Master for encouraging this), than I have in a long time.

Credit for leading me back upon this path belongs to Master. After all, credit always belongs to him, right? 😉 It is exceedingly important to him that we both have regular physical practices to serve as an example to our daughter, and he suggested that I get back involved in both yoga and tai chi, or some other martial art. As our talks progressed, I found that we were re-kindling passion within me for certain courses of study…and so we developed a plan.

For now, I’ll leave it a mystery…I’m sure I’ll be talking about it in bits and pieces as they fall into place. Right now, that bit or piece is yoga.

Monday, was Expressive Yoga. Tuesday was Vinyasa Flow. Tonight is Yin Yoga. Three different nights in a row because I probably can’t have Master as childcare tomorrow evening, and Saturday there are no classes that don’t conflict with his jiu jitsu, and then Sunday morning, the baby and will leave at the butt crack of dawn for Salt Lake City to spend a couple of days taking care of my beautiful girly. Perhaps I’ll find a way to sneak in a class on Friday after getting the truck serviced. I’m so totally sore right now, but I haven’t been this blissed out in years.

There are worse things one could be addicted to, right?

To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance —Oscar Wilde


So, as I mentioned, it’s been FOREVER since I’ve written here consistently. Between being busy with the event, and then a giant commitment in a non-kink community in which we participate, and then the event, and then getting pregnant…life has just flown by the past couple of years without any time to do many of those things which keep me grounded. Like writing.

So yeah, a year ago today I woke up in the morning and decided that I should probably take a pregnancy test. I was five days late, and while I had been traveling constantly and under a huge amount of stress, I figured that was late enough that it merited a test. Having been trying for just over a year at that point, I didn’t get excited while dipping my bulk-order test strip into my cup of pee. After all, there was NO way I could be pregnant, given our sex schedule vs. my ovulation schedule that month.

I dipped. I set the strip aside and went to take a shower before checking it. Two red lines. In. The. Right. Spots.

I took a deep breath and immediately Googled “false positives on pregnancy tests” on my phone. Somewhere amidst the claims that false negatives were much more common, was the warning that a false positive could result from letting a test develop for too long (i.e., longer than 5 minutes). Well, I thought, that must be it. Or perhaps these test strips from China have gone bad…even though I’ve never gotten a positive one from this batch before…I’m not really pregnant, no reason to get excited. I finished getting dressed. I didn’t contact Master. I stopped by Walgreens and picked up the most expensive pregnancy test they had. Spending close to twenty dollars, I was the proud owner of a digital pee wand that would actually time itself for me and return an answer of “pregnant” or “not pregnant,” with no lines, plus signs, or happy faces to decipher. Then I went to get the oil changed in Master’s car.

Chores done, I drove to the office, quiet as a mouse and barely breathing. I unpacked my laptop, set it up, and only then did I take my new techno-gadget into the bathroom. I locked myself inside, poured over the instructions and then carefully peed on the stick. I set it down oh-so-carefully (to maintain its horizontal positioning as the directions instructed), and watched the hourglass on the display tick down. I wasn’t about to leave it there while it developed; after all, what if one of the employees walked in and found it?


Wow, no room for doubt when it’s not a matter of colored lines (is the test line dark enough to mean positive?). I texted Master, asking if he was on his way to the office. He didn’t answer, so I called him all of two minutes later. He was headed to another office, where he had a meeting scheduled for five minutes from then.

“Master, can you please stop by the office on your way? I need to talk to you. It’ll just take a minute.”

When he pulled up, I was waiting outside already. I silently opened the car door and sat down inside, pulling it closed behind me. I handed him the magic wand.

Those of you who know Master will be amused to learn that yes, he CAN laugh like a little girl. He giggled, he clapped, he fist bumped the roof of the car.

So, a year later and we have the world’s most beautiful four month old baby girl (yes, I understand I’m biased, but even her pediatrician says she’s the most adorable baby in the world). The last four months have been a whirlwind with very little sleep, learning to produce an event with a newborn demanding constant attention, rearranging of priorities, shifting of life plans, and trying to figure out how to work on our dynamic with all of this (more on that next).

We are both totally completely smitten and over the moon in love. Babies make you dumb, by the way….but gods, we’re happy and blessed.

Bottomless Pits

March 23, 2015

I loved a bottomless pit once…the current state of my love  is irrelevant, for we are discussing the past.

I loved a bottomless pit, and no matter how much love, attention, time, or positive feedback I threw into the pit, it was never enough. Everything I tossed that way fell into the deep, dark abyss of the pit, echoing as it made its journey to wherever pits end. And even when our relationship morphed–even when we were “friends”–all I got for the most love I could give was betrayal when I needed my friend the most.

It is exhausting to love a bottomless pit.

It is exhausting and there isn’t room for it in my life.

The topic weighs heavy in my mind right now, because it is a situation that recently repeated itself, though in slightly different form. This pit took the shape of a friend, a friend who was doing some work with me…and who got needier and needier and needier as each day passed.

Master noticed that I was beginning to get frustrated; he noticed that every time my phone chirped in a new text or beeped in a new Facebook message, it was this person. That questions rated by the pit as “OMG important!” were less than urgent. That it was often just an excuse for constant attention.

I am owned. I am now not only a slave, but a mother to an infant as well.

My loving nature makes me exceedingly attractive to bottomless pits, it seems. My desire to validate those close to me, my desire to make sure they know they’re treasured. My natural qualities act like a magnet to those who need constant validation.

But I don’t have time for a pit.

There are enough pits in my life. There are enough areas where it feels I am constantly shoveling, never to see the results. I can’t adopt another pit as a friend…or as a partner. I just don’t have the ability to dedicate my entire being to feeding a pit.

Nor do I have the freedom.

And while this doesn’t mean that I don’t treasure you, pits-of-the-past-present-and-future, while it doesn’t mean that I don’t love you or value you, there’s got to be an end to it. No more can I let you get close if you don’t know how to love yourself or accept love from others. No more can I let you get close if you use passive aggressive tactics to gain the attention you crave. Those tactics make me violently angry, and that’s not the person I want to be.

I’m finding my way back to the path. I’m walking forward in life as his slave. As her mother. And I don’t have room for those who would rather see me fall into their bottomless pits.