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It’s No Accident

She’s had her defenses up as long as I’ve known her.

Never quite letting go. Never deliberately letting me in. Quick to defensive anger. Jealous of her independence.

During good times, it seemed I was a great addition to her independent life. During not so good times, I was a tolerable annoyance. At no time did I feel needed.

Of course, I guarded myself, too. Increasingly, I kept to myself about how I felt and what my needs were. If I shared something once and she got angry, I never shared that with her again. I played the victim instead of taking responsibility for my part of our problems.

My own distance made her feel unloved. Her walls rose higher. I withdrew from her frustration.

Yet we’ve always been drawn together. Even when we were barely relating as husband and wife, we remained attracted by the mystery and the challenge behind each other’s eyes.

Recently I was talking with a friend about a couple we know whose relationship seems to contain elements of abuse. I said I didn’t think it was an accident that they were together, and stayed together. I explained that people tend to choose the people they marry to fit unconscious needs, using unconscious perceptions. So an abused person will tend to pick someone who shows signs of being likely to abuse in the same way, without ever being conscious of the reasons for their choice. It may not be deliberate, but it’s not an accident.

In the same way, I think it’s no accident Anne and I found each other, who might seem so emotionally mismatched.

After years of dating nice enough women who were no challenge, Anne is who I needed to drive me to responsibility and dominance. After dating mostly men of poor character, Anne needed a man she could trust to penetrate her defenses.

She is tough, yet has a submissive side she almost doesn’t see herself. I am gentle, but I have a dominant side I’ve barely explored. Somehow we found each other.

I don’t know how. But it’s no accident.

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It’s Not About T Levels

From the 10th through the 18th, one of us was sick. We exchanged gifts on Valentine’s Day, but romance was pretty much off the table. We had to cancel our reservation at a nice restaurant on Saturday the 11th. Naturally, there wasn’t any progress in our emerging DD relationship during this period either.

Fortunately, we’re both better now (and sleeping in the same bed again. Sharing is not much fun when one partner, then the other, turns the bedroom floor into a sea of wadded up Kleenex overnight).

Last night, we watched House. The case of the week was a male inspirational speaker who specialized in urging husbands to adopt traditionally female relationship strategies. The case gave the major characters an excuse to engage in shallow debate and trade one-liners about sex roles and masculinity. Because the series’ antihero main character has been established as an obnoxious jerk, it was given to him to defend traditional sex roles.

Old video showed that the sensitive-guy inspirational speaker had once been a bullying cad of the Winning Through Intimidation school. It seems his change of personality was the result of an injury to his gonads, dramatically lowering his testosterone levels. In the end, he chose not to take testosterone boosters, in part to preserve his relationship with his wife, who liked him nice—even as she regretted his being a wimp in the bedroom. The possibility that a man can be highly masculine and a decent human being was not explored by the episode.

Anne shot me significant, teasing looks throughout the show—take note and learn, Mr. Man! When the credits rolled, I wasted no time. I came up behind, wrapped my arms around her, smiled and said “The changes I’m making are not a matter of testosterone levels or of ‘being a man.’ They’re about doing what is right for our marriage.” I kissed her a few times as she giggled delightedly. She knew she was teasing and she didn’t mind hearing that.

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Valentine

If you were a pill
I’d take a handful at my will
And I’d knock you back with something sweet and strong

    —Paul Westerberg:”Valentine”

My wife Anne is my rock’n'roll girlfriend.

We met at a club where our favorite band was playing. A few weeks later, we flew a few hundred miles together to see the closing show of the tour. Shared a room, chastely. We weren’t dating yet. But we toured the city, just the two of us, saw the show with a bunch of other hardcore fans, slept three hours and flew back in the morning. On the plane, her head rested on my shoulder when she was asleep.

It took me a few more weeks to convince her we had to be together.

When we were dating, she’d walk into my apartment as I was playing music no one I knew had ever heard of, and recognize it instantly. When bands came to town, we wanted to see the same ones. We’d talk about shows we’d both been at before we knew each other. (At one of them, her then-boyfriend had been the opening act.) She’d share stories of recording sessions she’d hung out in. Our music collections of hundreds of albums each merged together as if they’d been put together by the same person.

The singer-songwriter of our favorite band couldn’t be at our wedding, but he sent a gift.

Eleven years into our mid-life marriage, we still keep our ears open to twenty-something bands who have something exciting to say. But we have a particular fondness for the musicians our age who are still making a living at what they do. Not the nostalgia acts or the once-weres so much as the deserving never-quite-made-its. They’re not rich or jaded or consumed by regret. They’re still doing what they do because they find joy in it, and it comes through in performance. We found a club that showcases these people. The music is original and mostly recent. It’s loud and rowdy. The graying crowd leaves with ringing ears and satisfied grins. The difference between 26 and 52 has been established: 52 is better.

Anne is the reason why my own now is immeasurably better than my then.

She’s the crack rhythm section without which the lead guitarist is just a subway busker.

She’s the critic and the fan, the promoter and the sound technician.

She’s the inspiration, the audience, and a full band in her own right.

I am hers, and she is mine.

My now, and always, Valentine.

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Voices

My mother was a teacher at the high school and college levels. Her sister was a pastor’s wife. They are identical twins. Although they both have feminine voices, my aunt’s voice is noticeably higher and gentler. I don’t think either of them have given much conscious thought to their voices, but their different choices and life paths caused their voices to diverge.

When Anne is in a good place, I can hear it in her voice. It becomes higher, gentler, and more playful. It’s the aural equivalent of a sparkle in the eyes. It’s quite childlike, although I think she’d be appalled to know that. It doesn’t make me think of her as a child. It does let me know that her walls are lowered and her defenses are down. It’s where I want her to be with me most of the time.

What have you noticed about the voices of those you know best?

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Next Steps, Communication and Awareness

When I wrote “Adrift,” I’d been feeling that way for several days. As is the way of these things, upon writing it, I felt a lot better.

Even as I wrote it, I understood that much of my emotion was the normal letdown following any highly intense experience, together with the uncertainty I expressed in the post. Still, the question of what to do next was pretty vexing. And the dream was not random. I still feel as if we’re not quite journeying together.

Your comments got me thinking. Many of them came down to “you’re the leader—so lead” and “you need to talk.”

So we’re going to talk, and I’m going to lead. I may not know exactly what to do, but I suppose it’s in the nature of things for that to be true sometimes. I need Anne to know, really know, that I’m in this for both of us, that I’m not going to quit, and that she can trust me. I may have to tell her this a couple of hundred times before it sinks in.

Meanwhile, awareness is key. I’m no Zen master, but I do know that right action starts with paying attention.

Find my center. Know my goal. Offer my hand.

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Adrift

Last night I dreamed that we had a long bridge to cross. Anne was going to cross it with me, but we were separated. I went across the bridge myself, but after a long way I saw that it was washed out. So I made the long trip back to the starting point, where there was a big waiting area, like a theater lobby. I took out my phone and sent Anne a message, and waited for her. But she never arrived.

I’ve been moody for the past several days. I don’t know where to go from here. Despite the huge psychic effort I made to get us past the milestones we crossed in December and January, it feels as if nothing much has changed.

It feels ungrateful to feel this way, because we are in a better place with each other. Anne is noticeably more respectful when she’s unhappy about something. Petty conflicts are rarer, and when they start to flare up, we are both more aware and more likely to avoid escalating. I know that many people would love to have a marriage like mine.

All the same, the exhilaration has faded. I suppose I thought that once we were past that first hurdle, that progress would be steady from there. I’d feel the continuous high of knowing that we were moving, that we were on our way to that place of real intimacy, passion, and trust that’s my continual goal.

Instead, we find ourselves in a place not unlike the place we’ve always been. Maybe the lows aren’t as low, but it’s otherwise the same marriage, moving at pretty much the same pace, in the same way.

In the last couple of weeks in January, eager to keep the momentum going, I thought of implementing some rules. There was something small that Anne was doing. Something she’d stopped doing when I told her it bothered me, but then started doing again. I thought maybe I should count the incidents and deal out consequences when a certain number had been reached. It would be a way of keeping things moving.

I thought about it, but I didn’t do it. It didn’t quite feel right—too petty, too legalistic. Someone told me about “organic DD”—giving the DD relationship a chance to grow more naturally, rather than trying to force it by setting up artificial structures and little rules. Anne was trying, after all. So I thought working on being more assertive, rather than imposing artificial rules, seemed like a better foundation for long-term change. Still, I spent several days examining myself very closely, trying to determine if my decision was the result of fear rather than wisdom.

I can’t get the inherent uncertainty of this stage of our relationship out of my mind. It bothers me that—unlike most of the relationships blogged about, where the woman has initiated the new way—I’m the one driving this, that I’m the one trying to effect change, without Anne’s understanding or stated desire. It nags at me that we’re at such an early stage on the path that no one could say we’re firmly on it at all. I worry that if something doesn’t happen relatively soon that keeps us pointed in the right direction—something I should do?—we’ll be rudderless again, drifting, together, but not in tandem.

I feel my responsibility keenly. If we fail, it will be my failure.

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Blogs I Learn From: Husbandly Touch

When I began The Hand of Love, I hoped that it would be unusual in a couple of ways. First, I hoped it would chronicle a domestic discipline marriage from the very beginning of its transformation—something I haven’t seen elsewhere. Second, I wanted it to be one of the rare male-authored blogs whose focus is the marriage: so many male blogs seem to be about domination or spanking as if these things existed outside a very real relationship. There are marriage blogs written by men, of course, but in the DD world I know of only one like I’ve described: Husbandly Touch.

Mick has a number of traits I admire in a man. One, he’s thoughtful in a deep, feeling way: a kind of compassionate, soulful thoughtfulness that is sometimes found in men who have come through episodes of depression (as Mick tells us he has). Two, he’s faithful. I don’t just mean he doesn’t stray; I mean that Lynda is his focus, the center of his emotional life. You can sense that his purpose is to serve her, and therefore to lead her. And three, he’s a very good writer. Each post has a point that he leads us to by means of very short, well-composed paragraphs. Mick wastes no words. He favors the short, declarative sentence. There is little ambiguity except where ambiguity is inherent in what he describes.

There are a number of posts I can recommend to anyone reading this who is unfamiliar with Mick’s blog. For example, if you want an introduction to Mick, to Lynda, and to how discipline works in their marriage, I’d start with To Begin, Finding Our Way, Hold the Phone, and Discovering Her Voice.

Then there are the posts that have been particularly helpful to me. Some of these I’ve actually internalized, so that I had to review to realize they came originally from Mick’s blog. Others I’m still learning from.

Spanking is for Grownups

It is no surprise to me that many of the people I know who practice DD come to it in their forties and fifties….When Lynda lies across my lap, she gives me a gift of vulnerability that she gives to no other. Only a fully grown person can give that to another.

It’s Never Easy

The deal is that if I’m going to spank her, I have to be man enough to face her resistance. I have to be secure and confident enough to follow through while she’s telling me it’s not fair, that I don’t understand, and it won’t help anyway. I have to be willing to experience her anger before, during, and after the spanking. If I show uncertainty she gets even angrier, and sometimes disdainful….Each occasion requires me to gather my courage. Perhaps it shouldn’t ever be easy.

Also helpful (and delightful) are the posts where Lynda chimes in to answer questions. Why is it no surprise that she’s articulate and charming?

There’s plenty for you to read, but let me close with something Mick wrote earlier this year. He tossed it off early in a post, as if it were an aside. But it’s important. It’s central to his character. I wouldn’t spank if I didn’t think it were central to my character. And I would suggest that if you are a woman who wants a DD relationship, you should make sure that it’s central to your man’s character.

I’ve looked hard to make sure domestic discipline is not just a nice word for domestic abuse….If this were abuse, she would decrease in spirit. By that I mean her personality would be diminished, her self esteem would evaporate, and she would be more fearful, as happens with abused spouses. Abuse takes away what makes a person who she is.

I need feedback to make sure ttwd is helping her feel happier. If it is only for my benefit at her expense, I wouldn’t continue.

I speak as if I know exactly what I’m doing, and of course, I don’t. But I believe the main thing is that I lead with confidence, not only in myself, but in her that she can find her strength.

Even if I have to spank her to get her to do it.

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She Accepts My Leadership

Thursday evening we had a trivial dust-up at the very end of the day. She knows that foul language bothers me, but it’s been creeping back into her vocabulary at home a bit. (It doesn’t help that many of the shows we enjoy use the F word every minute or so. And I’ve used it too, though never since I told her I didn’t like it.) On Thursday, as she dropped that word into a comment, it seemed to me she was looking at me as if to check whether I’d caught it.

When we got up at the end of the movie to do our pre-bedtime chores, I gave her look without thinking about it: a kind of I-know-what-you’re-up-to look with a little “watch yourself” mixed in. I realized my mistake when she challenged me, in her aggressive, demanding way, over its meaning. If I told her at this point, I could tell she’d push back hard and probably cross the line. Then I’d have to deliver a punishment I didn’t think served either of us particularly well. Probably the next night, Friday, when I prefer to let Anne unwind from the stresses of the week.

I didn’t want Anne’s second spanking to be over this. The second spanking is important, because it’s when spanking starts to change from an aberration to a policy.

So I wouldn’t answer her despite her pushing, and I told her we’d talk about it later. She finally stomped off up to bed, where she fell deep asleep almost instantly. When I saw that, I knew I’d judged correctly—she was exhausted.

She was in a good mood Friday, and I didn’t bring up the subject. But I did this morning. “What do you want to do today?” Anne asked. “I think we need to have a mini-summit,” I told her. She gave a grimace. “Really?”

I chuckled a little. “It’s okay. It’ll be just talk. Nothing else. I think we need to talk about Thursday night, don’t you?”

She wanted to talk right there in the kitchen. Her stance was defensive. “I think we need to talk in bed,” I said. She protested. “When we talk here in the kitchen,” I said, “or in the den, there’s an adversarial atmosphere.” I pointed out how we were standing—her facing me, me facing her, three and a half feet apart, like co-workers having a disagreement. “This isn’t a battle and I don’t want any barriers.”

She grumbled all the way into bed. She kept her pajamas on, and I allowed it, though I’d taken off mine. “Is this so terrible?” I asked.

“I don’t want another chore,” said Anne. I asked her if working on our marriage was really a chore. I put my arm under her shoulders so she had to snuggle to me.

I explained about Thursday, owning my mistake and conceding that she had a right to clear communication from me. I told her that I hadn’t explained the look because I thought it might start us down the road to a punishment neither of us wanted. And I reiterated my feelings about foul language. She argued a bit, but it was feeble and I could tell that she wasn’t in basic disagreement with my feelings.

She started talking about the issues in her life. Not the angry, frustrated venting I hear some evenings, but in a soft way. I’m aware of the issues. I share a lot of them. She talked for twenty minutes, my arm around her, wiping her eyes occasionally.

Eventually it was time to get out of bed again. “Wasn’t this better than talking in the kitchen?” I asked. She nodded gratefully and a little ruefully. She kissed me a few times before leaving the room.

When I said the word “punishment” my arm was around her. She didn’t tense or flinch. All she said when I explained that I didn’t want things to go in that direction was “Well, I knew that.“

I realized a lot this morning. It’s all what I knew, but today I know. That it’s okay to lead, when there’s love in your heart. That you have to trust yourself and trust her—to let her have her reactions and make her protests, then maintain your position.

Anne didn’t need a spanking this week. I didn’t need to give one. But when the time comes, we’ll both be OK.

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Hidden Qualms

Commenters have been very supportive about last Saturday’s breakthrough.

Anne’s sweetness and upbeat mood lasted through Tuesday evening. (Wednesday wasn’t bad. It’s only that work-related stress made its way back into her demeanor that evening.)

A correspondent suggested that I probably had some overwhelming feelings. I said that “overwhelming feelings” wasn’t quite on the mark. Overwhelming wonder, yes. I surprised Anne with something she considers deeply unpleasant—a spanking—on Saturday, and on Tuesday she still was notably more upbeat than usual. Sure, I’m struggling to understand, but it’s not just wonder and curiosity, it’s because the more I understand, the better I’ll be able to proceed correctly.

Was it my firmness? My dominance? Was it just my love? Was it the spanking itself? Was it the release from guilt? I don’t know any of these things. So next time, I don’t know what to avoid and what to repeat.

I don’t want to give the impression that I’m paralyzed with anxiety. I’m fine, and I know enough to project an air of confidence whatever my inner doubts. But I am very aware that an incorrect move on my part next time could derail this whole thing and set us back, not just to square one, but to square zero. I want to avoid that.

I’m completely accepting of the fact that I will make mistakes, and I’ve told Anne as much. What I don’t want to do is make a mistake next time. Our new way of life is too new and too fragile.

Anne has neither a good understanding of why I’m leading us this way nor true commitment to it yet. That means I’ve got to be very skilled (and perhaps very fortunate) in my choice of how to proceed from here.

I know that no one can advise me what to do. My own resolve and good instincts are what got me this far, and I know they’re my best tools for making future decisions.

But these are my thoughts and feelings, five days into DD, still sailing blindfolded and conscious that the smoothest seas can turn choppy in an instant.