Sir fell asleep again, like he always does this time of night. In the middle of a texting conversation, just suddenly all words stop. Silencesilencesilence, for hours that stretch into eternity. And that is always the time when the anxiety starts to grow, sudden gremlins screaming and chittering for attention. I have been reading a book about Borderline Personality disorder, and although I am only a hundred pages in, I've already cried a half a dozen times because the words hit so close to home and tear at my heart, bringing a profound sense of relief and bigger fears. And it made a comment about how people with BPD will get so lonely, they start pushing their loved ones away because that is when the panic starts - a few hours without them and they fear they are going to be abandoned. They forget all of the good things and the certainty, and it all goes to darkness. And I cried, because that is what happens every day I am away from my Sir, and that knowledge frightens and disgusts me. Because how could he want a girl so dependent on him? How could he love a girl so weak? So crazy? I can't even tell him the reason why the anxiety strikes. A lot of it happens when I compare myself to his ex, but even that stems from the belief that he will grow tired and leave, or that he secretly wants her. Logically, I know that isn't true. But honestly? Deep down in my heart, I do believe it. After all that he has done to show me otherwise, after all of his patience and compassion and kindness and love - I still can't believe in my heart that he loves me. Because he is too good for that. That he must love her, because she is amazing. And because no matter how often I have brought it up, he has never actually denied having emotions for her. Today, I was looking at Myspace things today, getting all nostalgic and looking through old pictures. And curious, I was looking at his old profile, giggling over his older pictures from his internet fame glory days. And all of the pictures of her and him, the Mrs. to his Mr. Bones, and I know that I will never be that way to him. We have been together for five months, and I don't even know how many years they were together (at least two, maybe three), but every reference to each other is filled with so much passion, so much fucking LOVE, that I burst into tears. Because it only reinforces the fears of their emotional connection - that he still harbors that. She was his Mrs. Bones, she was his entire world, his rock and roll gothqueen, his moon and stars. Which I could deal with better if she was his past, instead of his Present, and maybe his hopeful future. Because I am just a plainjane crazything, I am his pet. But even as a pet, I feel like such a failure. His old myspace had rules of fucking, even though he prefaced with the fact that he was monogamous to Mrs. Bones only, about BDSM. "If you want to play with BDSM and me... be afraid and happy. Feel special if I will, because I will actually buy you a collar. At that point, I suggest I be the only person you're fucking." And I remember my own collaring. When I got past the fears to get agree to date him, he had me kneel and he put a symbol of a collar on my throat (a piece of electrical tape), and promised that he would find me a temporary one. He said he would make a necklace himself, but he never got around to it. When I finally pestered him two weeks later, he went looking through his things and found a necklace - a charm necklace with an angel wing and a padlock charm and a key. "This is only temporary," he told me. "Until I can get you a permanent one." That was three months ago. I haven't even worn the collar in over a month. Its long chain kept interfering with sex, and he would always seem to get annoyed and toss it behind my back or take it off. And after two months of constantly wearing it (but always taking it off in the shower), it turned from silver to incredibly tarnished. So I stopped wearing it one day, hoping for him to say anything, something. He never did. And it hit me like a blow to the heart - I guess he doesn't care if I wear his collar or not. I know that a collar is just a symbol of being owned - but it is an important one to me. I have two collars that I wear a majority of the time - the first one a black leather band with inch and a half long spikes. I bought it when I was fourteen and my step-dad cut it down to fit my neck, and I wore it ever since. It even broke once, but a leather-working friend of mine took the same spikes, polished them up and put them on a new band. The second collar is the old one that my ex-master gave me, specially fitted for my neck with spikes that curve downwards and small pink rhinestones in between them. It stopped being a symbol of my ex a long time ago, but it is still a part of me. And I yearn for a collar to replace that one, yearn to wear his symbol proudly. But the fact that he hasn't gotten around to giving me a real collar, doesn't seem to care whether I wear one or not. Or maybe he thinks that I don't deserve it. I haven't earned it yet. So I don't feel like a real pet. And it makes me weep, makes me want to scream and cry because I don't want to fail at this too. Earning his collar is important to me - but I don't want to nag him into it. I want him to want to collar me, for real. I want him to think that I am worthy to wear his - I want him to think that I am a pet that he is proud to claim as his. Without a collar, I don't feel like I am a real pet. And that just encourages the fears of his leaving - because if he doesn't feel that I am worthy enough to collar, then he won't think that I am worth staying for. I bet Shauna had a collar as soon as they met - and I bet he did it with pride, I bet he did it instantly because he wanted the whole world to know that she was his. Every night when he falls asleep without warning, I get anxious and panicky and thoughts like these keep typhooning through my brain until I can't breathe and I feel like I am going insane. And I keep looking for ways to prove myself, try to become the girls that he used to adore. How to dress better, how to do make up like a glamgirl rockstar, something - anything that I can concentrate on as a goal. Because changing myself IS something I can control, and the girl I am obviously isn't working so well. It hasn't worked for anyone ever. Maybe this is the way that I can earn his love, and feel secure in it. But at the same time... I feel myself growing distant when he tries to reach out. Because when he leaves, it will hurt less. And I don't want to give my everything to a person who doesn't think that I am worthy of being his, who might still be in love with another girl. But I can't help that. I have given far more to him than I have given to anyone ever, and that is why I am so terrified and why I am going crazy with anxiety and fear and panic and depression. Everything hurts. Yet, I feel so incredibly empty. I hate this. I want to feel secure and happy like I did at the beginning.

Another night of anxiety and freakouts, words that I cannot speak to Sir because I am afraid of disappointing him like I did last week when I had my major meltdown. The same old fears recurring and running rampant, and I tried to sleep for a while. A nap didn't alleviate things, but at last, the anxiety hardened into something bright and shiny and glasslike within my chest.

Determination, a focus.

Sometimes, I don't feel that he is happy. He speaks of his past with such joy, with a spark and a smile curving the edges of his lips, when he lived on the coasts and was like a rock-star, with thousands of fans adoring his photography and his face, nights at the clubs and getting work with anyone he wanted. I know that his last lover was a bombshell wildthing, because they are still best friends. I don't know the details of their relationship, but I know that he was happy with her for the years that they dated, and are still connected. They were wild together - they took images and went to clubs and danced and went to shows and parties, drank and partied and were beautiful lovers in a tragic and chaotic and beautiful world.

He moved here for her, but his life is so drastically different. He spends most of his time playing video games at home alone, networking online but without actually adventuring with friends, drinking vodka every night. He seems happy when he is with me, but his eyes don't have that spark like when he talks about his glory days.

And I wish I could help him reach them again. Help him regain his confidence. He talks a good game, but I always feel as if he is self-conscious about himself in several ways, for he rarely takes off his shirt when we are making love, and he has NEVER taken off his bandanna in the five months that we've been seeing each other. He doesn't put on pretty makeup and peacock like he did in his old days, when you could tell that he felt sexy and on top of the world. I wish he could see himself through my eyes, see his beauty and his strength, which take my breath away. He is so goddamn beautiful and sexy as hell, but he doesn't see it as well now. And I want him to see it. I want him to be so happy that he doesn't need to drink a little every night, want him adventuring and making plans, and feeling as wonderful as he is.

I want to inspire his confidence. I want him to DREAM again, I want to see that spark back. He talks about making physical changes, working out and eating better, but that never seems to work. So perhaps I need to start pushing him more, because I know that I want to feel better about myself physically. And having an excercise/healthy-eating buddy would be great motivation. I have been the exact opposite, preferring to convince him to snuggle with me in warm blankets, or getting stressed and anxious and wanting to go straight home to Safety.

I need to be a better girlfriend, I need to be a better pet. And for once, the anxiety is gone and I have determination. I want to inspire him. I want him to be happy, if that means helping him reconnect with his dreams and his work and help him regain his fans with all of the community that came with it. I want him to feel Beautiful and Adored again, even if it means he needs the adoration of more than myself, of thousands of strange girls. As long as I am the one that holds his heart, as long as his adoration doesn't turn to another.

I can become the woman he needs. Learn the makeup, the clothing, the style - put more effort into my appearance, go out dancing more, clubbing more, be the mate that he can be proud to show off in real life, and not just in modeling pictures. I need to start working out more, and hopefully draw him in too, and work harder in Life, saving up dollars after dollars and able to contribute to our lifestyle. Having the means to adventure. I will learn to stop being shy and scared and plain, and I will become the wild and adventurous vixen that he craves.

I have been selfish lately. More than a little bit.

But no more.

Tonight, my heart hurts. Sick from cruel words from an unexpected sources, and seeds of discontent have sprouted, until all I want to do is weep and bury my head in blankets and just... disappear. Runaway from all of these silly humans and their I haven't even told Sir about the painful comments, nor about being so miserable today, on the edge of tears and fury, my ribcage circling a ball of pain. I am finding it more and more difficult to open up to him lately, even though he tells me that I can at any time. But he never opens up to me. And he never pries, never tries to dig in and look past this veneer and see Me. I wish he would. I wish he would care about what went on behind my mind, wish he felt never ending curiosity about my inner workings. What I dream of, the best moment of my day, what I dream about, what I see in the future, my biggest fears, my most painful moment. Sometimes, he says, "Tell me a secret." And I will come up with a little story, nothing too deep because I don't know if he really wants to know. He used to love to read when I wrote pretty posts about him on Tumblr, so when I made this blog, partly as a way to open up to him without my awkward anxiety of face-to-face conversations... I told him about it, offered to send him the link, but he wasn't too interested, and I never did. I have tried to ask him questions before. Silly little things like, "What are five things you want to do before winter ends." "What is your fear?" "What was the best thing you ate for Thanksgiving?" And all of them are ignored, none of them are answered, and I feel foolish for trying. Maybe he doesn't want to open himself up to me. It has been months since we have started hanging out, yet there is still so much I don't know. I know his favorite color, his favorite food, his favorite game... I don't know what he wants to be in the future. I don't know any of his goals, his dreams, his inner workings. And he doesn't seem to try to discover mine.

It makes me weep. Especially given the cruel words from Kajira's Sir, calling me a slut and implying that boys only want to hang out with me because I am an easy lay... I am filled with fear and doubt and terror, and I can't even tell him, because I can't tell if he really wants to know. Maybe he doesn't care about what goes on under my skin. Maybe he just wants a pretty girl in his bed, a companion to keep loneliness at bay, with no ties. Maybe my face and my body are the important things, my kisses and my adoration. Not Me.

I broke down a few weeks ago, and poured my heart out in a silly stupid love letter. I wanted to open up, to show him a part of me, to be vulnerable and passionate, hoping to incite that same passion or curiosity in him. Hoping to get some words. He received it, said that he loved it, it made him smile, and I should keep writing letters like that... But he didn't have any sort of deep response back, he didn't open up, he didn't share his feelings or his thoughts.

There is a wall around him, and I can't get in. And it scares me. Terrifies me with the thought that maybe I am being a foolish girlthing, for developing feelings when maybe it would have been the best thing to keep the walls up. I know that he wants me to say the Big Three Words, but no matter my feelings, I can't say them. Because I want to know him, who he truly is, all of the good and the bad, everything that is under the surface, and I want him to see all of Me, not just the superficial starchild exterior. That is all my past lovers have been content with, sans my ex-master, and I could never give myself to them fully. Because they didn't want more. And it feels like Mr. Bones doesn't either.

In only a few months, we went from texting all of the time, silly sexual yummy texts, to barely any, just basic "Good morning, I miss you, yayayayay!" Have we plateaued already? Have we run out of things to talk about when there is still so much we haven't said or shared?

I have so much passion inside of me, and I wish he would reach in and rip it out, demand it of me, to not accept anything less than ALL that I have to give, to be vulnerable with me, to let me see HIM and to feel like he genuinely wants to see ME. I want him to demand more of me, to push me, to let me pull it out of him, to wrap ourselves in passion and beauty and depth and wonder, to go beyond the surface. I want a relationship that takes us to the bottom of the ocean, strange currents and unseen sights, where anything can happen, completely lost in each other.

Instead, I am sitting here feeling sorry for myself, feeling lonely and completely alone and Less Than and lacking and like good for nothing but an okay lay.

When will I learn?

I truly have the best Sir in the entire world. He is constantly doing wonderful things, little presents like Red Velvet Cupcakes and sour gummi worms, searching for hours in the cold for my lost wallet, comforting my tears without ever getting angry or annoyed, just telling me over and over again that It Will Be Okay.

After my anxious post last night, my Mr. Bones ended up giving me a call, sensing the anxiety and volunteering an idea to distract my brain during those long hours. He created a character slot on his video game account for Guild Wars 2 (which is like WoW, but much, MUCH cooler), gave me the password and email to his account, and told me to play while he was at work.

So I did - creating a magicman who has skin of bark and a mohawk of leaves, a leaf like a mask across his face. My Greenman Wildwarrior, that aspect of myself that I keep wanting to get in touch with. So I created him, and spent hours battling and gliding across skies on dandelion seedpods and crossing crystalline rivers and charging past the most luminescent ultraviolet blossoms. So much beauty in one game, like my dreamworld plucked from my skull and spread across a screen, a lovely fantasy to explore and get lost in.

So that was my day, and for the first time in months, I had a whole day spent without Sir in which anxiety did not strike me. It was lovely, and it was such a kind gift for him to offer me: hours of amusement and blissful distraction.

I think I am might be addicted to it already.

He is so good to me, and I am so grateful and thankful that he came into my life. <3 <3 <3

Sir and I are dating now, after a wonderful weekend of cuddles and cooking and chocolate chip cookies and Halloween movies and shopping and being sick and moans and blushes and presents. It was his birthday. He asked me for those titles that I find silly, but there was no fear in my heart. So I agreed, and our joy in each other was radiant. Even in spite of a few bad moments, there was so much happiness, and I wish those moments could have stretched out into eternity. He thinks the walls are gone, though. And I try to tell them that they aren't... But I don't think he understands, not truly. When I am around him, those few days, everything feels calm and serene and I feel secure in us. I feel happy and I want to hug him and hug the world and laugh and laugh. I can feel the magic. But when I am home, the gremlins come. Each week, they seem to grow stronger. The more these emotions grow, the stronger the fear. He sees me as happy and joyous - but when I am back in this house, anxiety spikes through my veins often. And as I am forbidden to chew on my nails anymore, I chew on my lips until they are shredded and bleeding and chapped, until I can't bear to look at them in the mirror, and I can't see how he will bear to kiss them. The fear is still here. The walls. Except... the fears have shifted. Instead of worrying about how I will destroy him, how my love will poison him... Now I worry about him hurting me. Which is a strange shift after the past few relationships. I am worried that he is going to leave, without warning and without reason. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious about my face with its non-symmetrical features - my strange nose and open lips and uneven eyes. Even my body, which I am normally proudest of, is far from its usual shape, and I feel hesitant to show it off. When will he get tired of me? He is a beautiful boy who is friends with the most stunning alternative model ladies, and I keep waiting for him to look at me with puzzlement, wondering what he ever saw in this plainjane changeling girl. Even this anxiety causes more anxiety - because nothing is more attractive than self-confidence. I never FEEL more beautiful than when I am peacocking, when I feel strong and proud and alive. This self-consciousness is ugly and it makes me feel incredibly ugly inside, and I am afraid he will high-tail it if he sees. I even have trouble opening up to him, fear blocking all of the words inside of my chest. I have so much that I want to tell him - dreams and fears and laughter and wishes. But the words die inside of my throat, smothered in blushes, and I can't get them out, no matter how hard I try. When will he get bored of my silence, of these conversations that I can't contribute significant thoughts to? I have them... Fear just keeps me from saying them, a crippling shyness that makes me want to hide my face in my hands. I feel broken in a different way, and I don't want him to see it. I am scared to death for him to see it, and be disappointed. That pretty gem that sparkled in the sunshine of the window, but is cracked and dusty when you finally cradle it within your palms. And then he will put me back on the shelf, wash his hands and find another gem, another glittering beauty. Maybe that will happen, now that I am finally his and the challenge of the hunt is over. I can't fathom how he can possibly want me. I honestly... I can't see what he sees. And then there is the evil, vile voice that whispers, "Maybe he doesn't. Maybe it's not real." That's the worst voice at all, and I make sure I squash it down the moment it arises, hands clamped over my ears. But it still murmurs when I least expect it. Part of these fears come from too much free time, and not enough motivation. These days spent home are spent wasting time - watching television and hanging out with family and reading - distractions at every turn. I am not doing anything significant with my life. I haven't been doing any shoots lately. I haven't been working very much. I haven't been writing or crafting - no creation. It has all been stagnant, these hours blurring together until it is time to fall asleep, and stagnation always brings a state of depression. I am not doing anything beautiful with my life. I am not fulfilling dreams - the dreams have fallen away until I can barely remember them. I am not creating, using art as the alchemy to transform pain into beauty. I am not planning or working hard, pushing myself to my limits. I am not opening myself up or diving into spirituality - I am not visiting friends and laughing over stolen nights of endless conversation. I am not writing letters and eating fresh fruit and feeling the joy that comes from simplicity. I feel lost. And ashamed of these emotions. And just plain fucking terrified. I don't know how to fix it. But I know that my Sir deserves so much better than a pet who is as silly and sad as I feel right now. I wish I could be the kind of girl he deserves.

I had an incredibly vivid dream while napping, one that is still curling through my mind.

It started off in an abandoned house, a gang of young adults and small children relaxing in a brief moment of safety, having found a haven. The children were curled up on the ground, dozing off, and I stood next to a fellow warrior man, clad in black with blades at his side and a gun in his hand. His name was Hunter and he was fierce and beautiful. We heard the noises - the footsteps and the shrieks and the windows began to rattle with the smack of hands. I pulled my gun and other adults knelt down to wrap arms around the children who began to wail, sobbing with terror. Hunter fled the room and I followed, heading to a defensive position between the outside and the inner room of youngsters.

"I can't stand to hear them cry," he admitted, relief in his voice at having left the noise. Danger was better than listening to that noise. And danger was out there, and we were about to battle for our lives.

Then the dream shifted, and we were in a giant submarine. It was an enormous room with vaulted metal ceilings, a large circle in which hundreds of pallets had been spread out in various rows, like a starburst. People were reclined on the pallets, groups of youngsters in black and purple, the same colors everywhere because we were a family, this was our gang. I recognized faces as I walked by, people whom I had bled and cried for, whom I had laughed and smiled with.

But I walked the pallets, looking for Hunter, eyes searching constantly. When I did find him, he stood at the edge of the circle, dressed in the same black, but with a tribal mask over his face - horns and bones and leather. Several other people were around him, wearing the same kind of masks, but none as elaborate as his. A ritual had just finished, and he removed his mask when I approached. He wasn't the type to grin when I approached - he was too strong for that - too hard and edgy. But I could feel his calm pleasure at my appearance, and that made me grin. I wanted to soak up his strength, his savage courage and his dedication to the unit.

I heard startled gasps, and I looked over his shoulder to see that one of the giant submarine hatchway doors had begun to leak. Not just leak - water was pouring through the edges, and over the pallets. And chaos reigned. People were screaming, and I looked around frantically as I lost sight of my family members, the young men and women whom I loved with a primal ferocity. People were going to drown - we were all going to die, buried in a tomb under the waves.

And Hunter grabbed my hand, moving forward with that same courage, wrenching open the hatchway door. Not trying to stop the flow of the water, but hastening it. And I gasped in a giant lungful of air, just as he dove and pulled me with him, his legs kicking and his fingers painfully tight around my palm. And we swam, swam upwards and upwards and upwards, and I couldn't breathe and my chest was so tight and I couldn't see and I was going to die, but Hunter didn't stop swimming, didn't stop kicking his feet and dragging me along.

I woke up the moment our heads broke through the surface.

I recognize this Hunter - I have dreamed of him in many forms, both male and female. He is a part of myself, the subconscious personality that is Strong, a warrior bred to fight and curse and battle and never give up. The part that I have always hidden down. And now, my heart yearns for that. Yearns for Myself, yearns to find the wild vitality and tenacity, the primal Self. I don't know how to find It, how to embrace it again and become whole. Because it has the power to keep me from Drowning under the waves, the waters of fear and doubt and walls and anxiety. The riptides of the past. Instead of drowning, I need the Warrior Side to emerge and keep me kicking, keep me floating, keep me swimming ever upwards, always searching for the sun.

I need to find that part of myself again.

It is always interesting to see Sir interact with his roomie.

I know a part of their history - I know that they dated for a long time. That she was the Mrs. Bones to his Mr., that they had a love of intense passion. And I wish I had the courage to ask what happened, how they ended. Just to try to figure things out between them.

When it is just the three of us, it is absolutely amazing how much focus he has on her. It is like... there is no other person in the room for him. She is the one he speaks to, and though his arm is around me, his eyes stay fixed on hers, like they are trying to soak in her presence. I am not there. When we go out shopping, he will pick up little presents for her, like cupcakes and makeup, just as he will for me. When they chitchat in the hallways, it lasts for forty-minutes. It is... Just an interesting connection.

I am not speaking out of jealousy. Or fear, or insecurity. Because there are no jealous feelings - I do not feel envy and I do not feel resentment or anger. I like his roommate. She makes me grin and I think she is beautiful, and she is friendly, and I think she goes out of her way to make me feel welcome, and I appreciate that more than I can possibly say. And I don't sense anything sexual there - which means there is no fear. I don't sense the desire for them to get back together It is easy to say that they are best friends - but it is more than that.

But it does bring up feelings of sadness. Because I sense a bond there, the complex kind that defies words, deeper than anything that Sir and I have. And it makes the walls go up - reinforced distance. Because how can I form a bond with someone who feels so utterly connected with someone else? I can't. My past won't let me. I spent years doing that. It hurts too much.

*sighs* I don't know how to talk to him about this. I don't want to seem jealous or insecure, because those aren't my feelings. It just... Makes me sad. And wary.