That story drained me. I don't know why, but it has left me feeling strangely empty. I didn't think until afterward that it was an odd thing to post on Valentines Day. Of course Mac and I forgot to even say Happy Valentines to each other until after 3pm. It is not something that we celebrate, mainly because we don't believe in needing a special day to say 'I love you' or give presents. That should be any day. Everyday. So Valentines to me is just another way for retailers to bleed us dry. Romantic, aren't I?

So the story. I have read it and reread it and it is hard for me to read it critically right now because I was so intimate with it while it was spilling from me, so I wont even try to say if it was well written or not. I will probably read it in a month or two and laugh at the drama queen me. While I was writing it, Mac asked what I was doing and I told Him I was writing something dark and wicked. He smiled and outlined exactly the meaning behind it without me even telling Him what it was about. I almost deleted it because I hate being so predictable.

I guess when it comes to these little things that I write, it is safe to assume that the girl represents me or at the very least, someone very similar to me. The male usually is less defined. That alone is interesting. It could be someone specific or it could be countless predators out there that are willing to prey on what they see as weak. In the days leading up to this story, Mac and I had discussed the scariness of living in an abusive relationship and we talked about how as awful as it can be, there is something there that keeps women going back for more. I am not saying that this is a healthy thing, but when I was in an abusive relationship it wasn't his abuse that made me leave.

Those that have been around a long time may remember Ian and how sometimes he would punch, kick and bite me and how I never ever had a clue what would set him off. I never knew where his anger would come from but it would all be directed at me, at something I had done or allowed to happen and I would be 'taught a lesson' by his hands, feet and teeth. And when he beat me, he would always get turned on by my tears and by my pain. I knew it made him feel strong and powerful. There was a part of me, an awful horrible part of me that loved Ian even when he was hitting me and an awful horrible part of me that wanted to please him even as he was hurting me and an awful horrible disgusting part of me that was just a tiny little bit turned on. It could have easily become an addiction for me.

Now I am not saying I enjoyed the beatings. I didn't. It's hard to explain how much it hurt unless you have been kicked full force by an angry man. He didn't pull punches. He would really hit me hard and at times I thought I was going to die from the pain he put me through. I suffered horribly, my self-esteem was shot, I had no friends, I lost the ability to speak my mind, I couldn't eat and often wouldn't drink, I was a bundle of nervous energy all the time. It was completely and utterly an unhealthy way to live but I did live it for at least six months.

So the story was a criticism of me, a punishment for finding any pleasure at all inside of such a horrific thing. It was a look at the evil wicked nasty monsters that lurk inside of me just waiting for me to let my guard down and allow another Ian into my life. It was an insider's view of what I am capable of.

It scares me and it thrills me and I hate it but it excites me and I am grateful that Mac protects me from it because with Him around I can poke at it and prod it now and then. I don't have to be scared that it will take control. It is strange though, when I have explored it and perhaps let it out a little, I end up feeling drained and empty, and my words feel so heavy that I have to bang each letter out as I type.

Perhaps I need to kneel at Mac's side.