Some days, it’s easier than others. some days, it’s like the injuries are so over-come-able, and nothing has really changed at all. But today my Master is in a very bad mood. We’ve mostly avoided him taking it out on me, which is wonderful and I appreciate it very much, but I still am entirely synched in with his moods, and so I am miserable too — I cannot be otherwise.
Of course, I was a cranky bastard yesterday, so maybe that influenced his day today…?
We’re finally back in the US. Tuesday and Wednesday were miserable — because the stupid travel insurance company had decided that even though I was his carer, and he needed me for multiple reasons during travel, I was entirely surplus to requirements, and they would not be providing me with a plane ticket.
When pressed, they were going to consider putting me in coach, with him up in first class. (For his broken leg — because he needed it to be able to extend out the whole way, flat.)
You know, I’ve done my best during this whole thing. I’ve been 100% flexible, supportive, as helpful and reasonable and I’ll-make-this-better-just-tell-me-what-to-do as is humanly possible.
But the idea that I’d get stuck back in cattle while he was far away on the other side of the plane just made me too miserable to handle it. My response was crying — and that was the best it was gonna get!
There’s a back story to this: some years ago, when we were still very intensely Master and slave — things having mellowed
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Of course, just as I type the above, my Master called to me from the other room.
“Sweetie?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I’d like help sleeping now.”
He meant, a pre-nap blow-job.
I immediately got up and gave him one — no thought of saying, “I’m writing a blog post — I’ll come and do it when I’m done!”
He may now call me “Sweetie,” instead of “Girl,” but some important things remain!
——————————End amusing ironic cut——————————
Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted [grins] — things having mellowed somewhat since then — there was a flight where, for obscure airline reasons, I was offered an upgrade on my ticket, and he was not.
There was no way I was going to lord it up in business class, knowing his 6’1″ body was hunched miserably in a tiny seat in cattle, drinking free champagne while he had to buy a mini-bottle of mediocre wine. But before, since he is an Executive Platinum member from all the travel he does for work, my upgrade had meant he got an unofficial last minute one, as my partner, so I went along with things ’till right before boarding.
But I guess business class was full, because he didn’t get offered the upgrade. And I didn’t want to fly with him in another part of the plane — I don’t like flying at the best of times, but it’s much worse with him not there beside me!
So we went to go talk to the lady at the desk. And somehow, I backed myself into this corner, because I offered to switch with him, instead of him coming back into cattle with me. I really didn’t want him to have to be in cattle for 10 hours when he could be in business class, but I sort of didn’t think that he really would take me up on it. He offered several times to come back to cattle with me … but I’d gotten in this head-space where I couldn’t just say, “Yes, that would mean a great deal to me”; I got overwhelmed and all I could say was, “No, I can’t ask you to do that when you could be comfortable up in business class.”
I really didn’t think he would go ahead with it … but after I’d assured him several times it was fine, he went ahead with it. I know it was all my fault for not saying what I really felt — for playing one of those stupid female games where I “test” whether my partner “really understands me” (a game you always loose, and I know that!) — but I ended up alone in cattle, deeply miserable. I cried for pretty much the whole flight: angry and hurt that he really would just let me go sit all by myself — that he could enjoy the indulgences of a better cabin while knowing that I needed and didn’t have his hand to hold for take-off and landing, or when the turbulence got bad (and of course it was one of those flights, where it’s bumpy and scary for hours).
It was one of my worst fails of the relationship. But at least I knew it was all my fault, and by the time we got back to our flat, I’d managed to shed my built-up hurt and resentment, and just move on from it — that’s the only thing I can look back on from that pathetic incident without shuddering and feeling bad all over again.
So when this happened, I was just taken right back to all those mixed-up, miserable feelings. And of course, this was the week I had my period, and, unsurprisingly after all the stress of the accident and since, it was a bad one. So when it came time for me to be reasonable and rational and say, “It’s okay, I don’t mind being back in coach…” I just didn’t have it in me. I knew that was the right answer — but all I could do was cry and be incoherent. (Because I didn’t really want to say what I was thinking, which was along the lines of the unreasonable and irrational, “Don’t desert me again! Don’t do this to me!”)
Well, happily, my Master referred the stupid travel insurance people to our lovely doctor, who’d put on the “Fit To Fly” form (yes, they are called that!) that my Master needed his carer with him in the first place, and she didn’t take too kindly to being second-guessed, and told ‘em just what they could do with their idiotic decision.
So I got to fly first class with him, but after two days of terrible stress on my part, I was really just an emotional wreck. I tried to enjoy the experience as much as possible (“Why, yes, I’ll have a glass of champagne — thank you !”) but I was really too worn out from the past couple days — and physically worn out from doing all the packing and most of the suitcase wrangling….
Yesterday, the day after we got home, I was just totally crashed out and felt not just like utter shit, but actually angry at everything for no good reason. I warned my Master I was having “moods,” and so we avoided any serious unpleasantness, but it still was just hard and entirely un-enjoyable. (I did manage to escape for a number of hours by starting reading Watchmen
Now it’s 7:30 — I should start dinner (my version of a “mixed grill“: grilled tomatoes, big juicy portobello mushroom tops, and lamb sausage, with sautéed red peppers and courgettes beside — it would all be grilled, but our flat’s oven is pathetically small, and I can only fit so much under the broiler! — served over some herbed risotto) and then wake my Master up. The cool of the evening has started, after a brutally hot day, and I have a pitcher of sangria waiting to accompany dinner. Maybe we can have a nice Saturday night and salvage this day…?
The English do this odd thing, where they make toast, but then they put it in what I call a “
