One of my earliest memories is my father spanking me. He would spank me until I cried because you can't be sorry if you don't cry. I don't know whether I always deserved it, but I do know that my derriere was always used for the shaping of a better me. At least, that's what he said. This is the only kind of attention he gave me. If I were an only child I would've understood, but my sisters, one older and one younger, were held, kissed, and cuddled where as I was always spanked. That was the way my father paid attention to me.
I know, "poor middle child, you had it so bad." I didn't. When I wanted attention, I had to do something stupid or dangerous, preferably both. Although I didn't always understand why I was being punished, my ignorance didn't stop the hours long chastising.
I'm not a crier. I never cried out when discipline began. I never made a peep, never shed a tear., and because of this I was punished harder and longer than my siblings. I was eight or nine when I realized I wasn't crying to spite him. My sister's would get hugs and cuddles afterward and I would lay on the bed curled up and destitute.
I was ten the first time I faked emotion for him. He'd been wailing on my poor buttocks for almost two hours screaming at me to, "Cry damnit. What the hell is wrong with you?!" I knew I would be bruised the next day, unable to sit, and frankly I was bored. I stared at the wall willing my eyes to water. I kept thinking of how I would lay there afterward bereft of any comfort when my sisters got cuddles. A tear trickled down, and suddenly the flood gates opened. A torrent of rain that wouldn't stop even after he was finished with me. I laid on that bed sobbing, trying to figure out what was so bad about me that he couldn't love me, my heart so emotionally wrung out that it hurt.
He never understood that all he had to do was drop his disappointed gaze to my eyes to make me tear up. I hated disappointing him. I did so frequently and only half the time on purpose. To this day, I can't cry without physical pain of some sort. It's the worst curse he could have given me.
My aunt was the first family member to die in my life. She used to tease me that she was my real mother. The day we buried her I sat dry eyed at her casket and nearly screamed at my emotional toil. Later that day I got my first tattoo. My mother (her sister) told me after it was wildly inappropriate, but she didn't understand that the moment the needle touched my skin, I was able to grieve.
Every time I ran into an emotional dilemma, I would add a new tattoo. Things got much better when I joined a local impact group. Single subs served as practice flesh for learning Doms. One particular night I submitted to at least 5 men's lashes. The last one broke that dam, and afterwards I sat in the corner liberating my feelings. I still had no one to hold me.
This last time, I was laid off from my job... They sent my job overseas to someone that would do it for 5 dollars an hour. I had myself all set up to move in with a man I thought would be my permanent dominant, but when I got there he ghosted me. So I ran home tail tucked firmly between my legs to lick my wounds. I didn't have enough money for a tattoo. So I pierced myself, both nipples and the clitoral hood. That tiny pinch of pain was just enough to allow the release of my grief.
