Once again – these are not Spitfire’s words, but what I understood from what she said…
I was arting the night before I had gone to sleep. She had woken up and was rattled because she was having to take a turn monitoring her father’s needs. I was playing with Gimp with some images I had taken earlier.
She sent me to bed. Well, she agreed I needed to go to bed. I complied without her having to give me a push.
During my Xaara set, we started to talk.
“Haven’t you noticed that I haven’t been dusting?” It had been days since she last dusted, and a week or more for me.
“Yes, I know.”
I explained why – the jerk from about two weeks ago still has me rattled.
“Dust on my land, before I come back online.” I inhale at the thought. I spend the day doing everything I can to not have to dust.
At one point, I go for a short walk in real life and contemplate why my hypnosis knowledge is walked away.
I touch a memory.
And I start to sob.
Another memory floods back, of being under a trance and so deliciously orgasmic and sensual that I can’t help but climax at a touch.
Then another of the same person, but under my power, his body flexing to my will, his member engorged and raging, getting even harder from my words.
How deep did we play?
My memory is of my mother, sitting in the witness chair, tearing apart one of my hobbies. One of the things I loved doing was going to science fiction conventions.
Then she got into our business, butting in, and started to mess with my friends there. She testified that it was criminal activity I was doing. We were using the Japanese way of saying words to talk in short hand. Instead of “convention comittee,” we said “concom” and more. She took it to mean we were doing a con and trying to scam people.
The person who was supposed to be the goh – guest of honour, another way we shortened words – was a renown author of a series of books I loved. My mother used everything she could against me.
There she was, sitting in that chair, talking to the judge, sans lawyer, about the “con-con” I was doing and more, and that I should be jailed and so forth and so on.
She used my art against me.
She used everything I loved, everything I had a passion for, against me.
It was all proof that I was mentally ill and should be locked away in a psychiatric ward, and that she should be given what she wanted – everything precious to me, and legal control of me.
I was 25. I was not a drug user, rarely drank, and was not weathering her continued abuse well.
I lived. Somehow.
I look at what I went through and shake my head. I’m an orphan in all but the fact that my parents are still alive. An absentee father at best. An abusive mother on multiple fronts. I have “fleas” from her that I am working my way through.
I was so alone.
Such a different person.
Full of hate. Full of hurt. Full of shame. Full of pain. Lashing out.
If Spitfire knew me then…
… she’d hate me.
“You have to draw the poison out,” mum says to me.
I want my knowlege back, but not if all those memories, good and bad, come flooding back.
I don’t want to remember what happened. How I acted. The pain I was under. I don’t want to remember any of that.
I want the knowlege of how to hypnotise back, but not if it costs me my sanity.
I can choose love. I can choose kindness. I can choose to shine where I live.
And that’s what I’ll keep on choosing.