Accountability and forgiveness

I have not posted in a few days and I find myself doing things I shouldn't and saying things that I will later regret. I've purposely distanced myself from all of this so as to deny that there will be repercussions to my actions.

I don't crave his negative attention; I don't set out to be naughty. But there is, within this responsible and conscientious woman, a bit of a she-devil, a darker force who is desperate to be noticed and overcome by someone both astute and caring enough to recognize her.

It's not that I want someone else dictating to me things I should or should not do -- micro-management has always supremely annoyed me in any setting -- as I am quite capable of making the best decisions for myself. Being capable to make those decisions, however, has very little to do with following through on the best course of action.



When I feel myself spiraling into this decadent and destructive behavior, I want someone to step in and mediate the two sides of myself. I need someone to recognize, lovingly, that the path that I'm on is not in my best interest, a recognition that is carried out in both words and actions.

He is the only person I allow to make unfettered judgments on my behavior. He is the only person I trust enough to help guide me when I am so mired with indignation and denial. He is my voice of reason when my own, typically rational reasoning has lost its calming voice.

With my confession laid bare, denials stripped until there is only truth, with both hands in his, I feel safely cornered within the confines of his words; I am a captive audience and finally able to see myself clearly through his eyes which only convey the best intentions and deepest awareness of all the parts of me, she-devil and angel both.



He knows what I need. When he is finished talking, he has forgiven me. I have not yet forgiven myself.

While I am ultimately accountable for my actions, his is the only accountability that has ramifications beyond my own internal guilt. My guilt is a powerful, all-consuming beast and he tames it with his forgiveness. I ask for one more gift that will finally allow me to forgive myself.

I ask him to spank me, to cleanse me. I don't say that word, cleanse, but it is there and he knows it's what I need. Instead I say "I'm sorry" and "please forgive me" as my shaking fingers find the button on my pants and I slowly push them past my hips, scarcely able to look in his eyes, ashamed that it has come to this.

It has come to this. I want this even though there is no pleasure in it. To feel his strong hands upon me, cleansing me in the rain of his strokes, his words serving as antibiotics to the raging shame within, it is what I need, what we both need to be right again.