It’s another cool, dark night here in Bristol. As I turned in for the evening, i smiled softly at the presence of the moonlight illuminating the room.
Sitting on the end of the bed, I stared up at the glowing orb and the charcoal clouds hat scrolled by, occasionally shielding the moon from view. I’d been fussy all evening and now here, in the light of the near full moon, I could finally come home.
A large chunk of my thoughts were occupied by Monday’s court case. It’d been so long since my claim (14 months, to be exact) that I’d almost forgotten why I claimed. I mean.. I still had the same aches and pains, but 14 months ago.. I had to go back there? But my Dad was alive back then! If we have to so some time travel, why can’t we do all of it, pretty please?
I sighed to myself and blinked away the thought, if only.
Monday is deeply troubling and unsettling and frankly, no amount of reassurance is going to soothe or placate me. A call from my representative earlier told me that they were pursuing a enhanced-enhanced appeal, and not claiming a penny from me in expenses.
“But I’m not that disabled!” I argued. It sounds stupid. It sounds stupid that given the choice between honestly and, by my estimations, a lump sum back payment of about £8,000 , I chose honesty. Why? Wonders never cease to amaze. Maybe because I consider myself an honest person, maybe because I’ve never been one to complain, or maybe because I’d never considered myself that disabled.
Maybe it was in part because I’d seen and met people who really needed the help. I’d seen and met people who needed lowered worktops so that they could prepare food, I’ve met people who lived in sheltered accommodation so that they could be cared for and I’ve seen people who needed to be tube or spoon fed. Those were the people who needed the help and qualified for it, not me. I needed help, yes, but not that much of it.
I was arguing for a standard rate payment of both components on the Personal Independence Payments scheme, so when my representative called up and said he believed that I was justifiably entitled to enhanced rate, I almost felt like I’d lost part of that so-called “independence” that these payments are supposed to give me. I was a disabled person, and I needed caring for I was unable, incapable. I’d become tarnished by a label bestowed upon me. Flawed by my own destiny.
Part of my thought processes have been on what the hell I would even do with more than £1,000 per month. If it was awarded, then my previous payments were about to more than double. I’d gotten by before and lived fairly comfortably. I wasn’t doing this for more money, I was doing this to have what I was entitled to reinstated. I didn’t want to be able to afford foreign excursions and fancy dinners, I just wanted to be able to afford to replace my helpful gizmos and gadgets when they needed replacing – because that’s what disability benefits were about in the first place.
I dabbled with the idea of a carer, but then I swatted away the idea of losing some of my independence. A carer would want a 12-16 hour contract, minimum, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted someone loitering around for 4 hours, 4 days per week. I’d been through that process before and it was more stress than it was worth. 3 applied, and the only one who actually turned up for his interview turned up in jeans and a hoodie and wrote on his application form that his reason for applying was because “it gets me my daily bread”. He didn’t get a call back.
Part of the reason I’m so reluctant, I believe, comes down to my childhood. I’d be in pain, but so would my Dad be, so I sort of learned that everyone gets aches and pains. I’d tell my mother than I was highly anxious and “feeling funny”, but she’d tell me that life is full of funny feelings so in the end, I learned not to complain. Take a painkiller, bite your tongue and get on with it, just like everybody else. It wasn’t until I started getting dark and crazy thoughts that I was told that it’s actually okay to ask for help. It’s still a a pretty new concept for me.
Earlier, I got a bollocking from my dear friend Bill for having too much pride. I’m stubborn and self-reliant. The hand that helps you can be the hand that hurts you. I’d learned this, so I’d learned to look after myself. I’m also wary and distrustful, all the time. I get accused of being guarded on a regular basis, but if you trusted a nice, friendly nurse with a “drink” and woke up 3 hours later with a hole in your foot and four teeth missing, you’d probably be the same. Every nice, friendly person these days potentially also has an ulterior motive. At least in my eyes.
What are you up to? Reveal yourself, human!
Perhaps the other challenge this evening has been the whole Little/Middle dynamic… thing. I just. Don’t. Know. I’d been told not to worry about it, but I was going to be fussy about it anyway, it’s me.
I’ve come to realise that the whole Daddy/Dad thing is my own beast of burden, my own cross to bear. It’s not fair to penalize him because of my own grief.
So I’d be willing to try again, but with a few conditions.
First, no rules, no punishments outside of the bedroom. I realise I have more hope of chancing upon a golden goose than getting this past the judgement of my possibly-soon-to-be-reinstated Daddy Dom but hey, a girl can try.
Second, even if “Daddy” does happen again, it’ll only, mostly be in the bedroom. I’m not inherently little, or middle. Bratty, yes, sarcastic, well that’s my mother tongue, but I’m a grown ass woman and hell hath no fury if you don’t treat me like one.
Third, “Sir” would happen during BDSM play. Daddy and kinky fuckery just doesn’t sit well for me. Sorry about that.
Fourth, absolutely no infantalizing me. I don’t want colouring books or glitter or cute things. Badock’s and my black fuzzy blanket. Okay, fine, and my “juicie”, which remained my juicy even during my high times of insecurity. I also don’t want Disney imposed upon me because that’s what all Littles and Middles are into. I prefer bats, witches and werewolves to Disney princesses. Blame the odaxelagnia for my love of all things with teefs.
Finally, I have a right to wear pigtails and not be treated like a kid. I also have a right to dance around in the kitchen without bottoms on and without judgement if I so feel like it. I’ll do what I do, as I do it, when I want to do it. It means precisely nada about me.
So that’s me, and updates from me for today. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to write in my journal, because that’s definitely one thing I won’t be allowed to live without.
Stay well, everyone!
Hugs & kinky cuddles,
A confused & very stressed Elena xx