These last couple weeks, my mind as been awash in anticipations and goodbyes. I think ahead with aroused trepidation for what awaits me in Colorado even as I feel the poignancy of my last moments here.
I said my goodbyes to Morgan’s Woods, and now will be saying farewell to the house, my family home from years past.
I have reassured Lucille that I am thrilled she owns the house now, and I’m helping each day to make it her own. This arrangement frees me to return to my submissive life, where I’m meant to be.
But, while I’ll come back to visit, it will no longer be my home — or even Mother’s house.
In a week and half, I’ll say this goodbye and shed tears.
It’s ironic: with all the house stuff going on and my preparations to leave, I have no time to write, yet these anticipations and goodbyes give me more to write about than any time this past year.
I find a smidgeon of time around midnight to write, after a long day of running around and moving boxes and sofas and beds. I sacrifice sleep for my journal and blog writing, but it’s a necessary swap — musings and thoughts that have whirled around my mind all day have to get out, get tucked into the bed of my writing, before I myself can find sleep.
I know that writing these things is another way for me to say goodbye.
This goodbye girl will also say farewell to this culture, the culture of her upbringing many years ago.
My year living here has been difficult in that regard, as I have bumped into the memory of my left-behind life, like randomly running into an ex-lover at the supermarket who wants to “reconnect.” I’ve had to live in this world once again, sit in its church, literally.
Yet, as often as I have written out my angst about this, my sojourn here has helped me understand myself in a better way. Before this year, I saw myself as once at a crossroads: my life then and now as as equal diverging paths. I chose the road less traveled. Now, after my year in exile here, I understand this religious culture of my childhood was never equal, never an attractive path to begin with. It’s kind of a dead end to a promised land.
To be clear, these are good people, well-intended, and beautifully ordinary. On Sunday, when I go to church with Mom for the last time, I will say goodbye to some of them who have befriended me. But they are not the kind of “friends” who know me, or would ever want to if they knew what I am.
Another irony, though: part of what makes me appealing in the D/s world, I well know, is the very influence of this moralistic culture upon my slave life and being. Without this cultural background, my submissive humiliations would not be humiliating, and my sexual depravity would not be depraved. It is the moral audience I imagine myself in front of that makes my degradations so deliciously shaming for my dominants to witness.
So, yes, I will say goodbye to this culture and feel relief not to live in it 24/7 any longer. But the conscience of it will always still live in me in some small part, contributing to the submissive I am.