Eat Up, Dear

I’ve been thinking about my last entry ever since I wrote it. It seems I have forgotten so many things that my chart is invalid, then I wanted to edit it, then I wanted to rewrite it, then I thought I’d just make it a mess. So all in all, I left it like it was with all that is misssing.

Talking about my weekend…oh boy. Every now and then John makes me step onto the scales, just to make sure I have not lost any weight. When I feel stressed, I tend to skip meals or eat only little, because I do not feel hungry at all. That’s even more true in context with PTSD- and abuse-related feelings of stress, anger and self-hatred, but of course we already experience more stress at work with Christmas ahead. So, when I stepped onto the scales, I already knew what they’d say. I’m not stupid, I know how certain trousers should fit and how they actually fit. It turned out, I lost a little more than three kilos. For a normal person, that does not make much difference, but for me many phases of forbidding myself to eat started that way, so that John intervenes immediately.

I always tend to see myself as fat. Too fat, no matter what the scales say or how my clothes fit. I guess that’s the fat guy in me. I haven’t been given regular meals during my childhood, but that grew even worse during puberty as my father did not allow me to eat when I was hungry, telling me I’m not worth the food and I’m ugly and fat (he articulated it in some other way). To be honest, apart from what I know I can eat concerning my health problems, I don’t really know what I like to eat. There are foods that go down easier and other that take a bit more chewing and deciding to eat them, but all in all I always thought I was easy to satisfy. Until I found out that not knowing what I like is a problem, at least for those who like or love me. I regard food as fuel for my body, but I don’t necessarily enjoy refilling my car, and that’s the same with my body. Sometimes it gets late afternoon or evening until I get my first meal. I don’t know what exactly distracts me from eating. On the one hand, I tend to think of myself as a fat pig (hear my father in that) who does not really need something to eat because it easily should be able to survive on his body fat for a while. On the other hand, being asked why I did not eat all day, I’d reply “I was thinking about eating, but did not manage to”. Well, that’s crazy, but nonetheless it’s true.

I have never lived on my own. When I escaped from my father, I lived together with a guy on the street, afterwards I lived with my brother and his fiancé (now wife), in the mental hospital, in an assited living unit and with two friends of mine, before I moved to live with John. There have always been people to look after me and take care for me to have regular meals. I believe living with John helped me a lot, because he is used to four meals a day since childhood and insists to have them no matter what. And meanwhile, I really like to cook for him, but I would not need to eat from every single meal I cook.

That said, I guess it’s no wonder that my husband looks after my eating habits and my weight. Most times he just tells me he realizes I have lost weight and should take care for that, but sometimes he feels he needs and wants to take care of that by himself. There are some different approaches to do so. Often he just encourages me to buy something I would like to eat when we’re doing the shopping or decides it would be good for me to have some crisps or chocolate or whatever. Sometimes he invites me to lunch or brings cake with him when he returns home from work. and sometimes he just feeds me. And my weekend was about feeding.

Feeding makes me feel strange. I feel very closely examined and put under control, and I guess I like that. But I really hate to feel full. The first two or three times John fed me, we both did not know my limits so that I ended up sick and vomiting. That did not make sense, so he adjusted the way he feeds me stuff. First of all, he makes me eat food with more calories such as more fat and more sugar just like in nuts, sweets, sodas and so on. Second, he feeds me several times a day, for example every two to three hours. And third, he increases the amount of food I have to eat in a setting. Well, I don’t really feel sick that way, but always full and definitely not hungry at all! After two or three of these meals my belly begins to grow and I feel stuffed. That’s when he tells me if I had eaten on a regular base, he would not need to take care of me. Right.

Feeding is not only connected with the fat guy, but also with the young boy. He likes to be fed, especially warm and soft food like porridge or babyfood and well, he likes to get some tea from his bottle, too.

Of course I can’t pile on what I have lost on a weekend, but I have gotten a plan for my meals this week and as I write this, I’m still chewing on some dried apricots and walnuts. And apart from really trying to look good for my sweetheart, I like to be under control. I have asked John what he feels about having to make plan for me (not only concerning the meals…) and he always says he likes it. He just likes to have me under his control, to tell me what to do and well, take what he needs as well. I think that’s awesome.



The Others

Today, I had the weekly therapeutic session. We talked about the others, as I call them, and when we were finished I suddenly thought it would be ok to share this thing here.

First of all, I do not suffer from split personality (dissoziative Identitätsstörung/DIS in German). This mental illness has certain criteria which I do not suffer from such as periods I can’t remember. But nonetheless I have developed some personalities who are not quite the same as me (Blaubeermann). I have talked about Ginny/Gina, to give an example. I experience all these personalities as part of what I call myself/me. Sometimes I experience them as a kind of counterpart to me, sometimes I feel like I could be them, at least for a certain period of time, although it’s always just like a role I allow myself to take. But my everyday consciousness for me as Blaubeermann is always there, I do not lose hold of me.

I know their existence is connected to what my father did. I know that’s a normal reaction to an abnormal incident, but I felt strange because of their existence for many, many years. To be honest, I still do somehow, although I have developed a certain understanding and appreciation for them. I know I created them to help me survive and to bin certain skills and capacities. Without them, I probably would not be here today. I want to write this down to connect to them and show them I love them. All of them. And that takes a lt of courage, as I just realise.

I’ll try.

Blaubeermann. That’s actually what I call myself/me. Male, 39 y.o., owner of this body, married to John, shop assistant, submissive/masochistic, interested in Yoga, spirituality, hiking, music, reading and mathematics. Blaubeermann was the person who was abused and suffers from PTSD, depression, anxiety disorders and is mentally handicapped, somewhat autistic. Self-harm.

Ginny. Cute girl, about 23 y.o., likes everything glitterish and glam, shy, likes to be treated like a lady, loves to make her husband happy. Prefers tender intercourse, clean and sweet. Is interested in horses, reading lovestories, watching soap operas and tries to learn how to crochet and knit.

Gina. The slut-version of Ginny. Might have Italian origin. Dark, long hair, big tits, would do anything just to be used. Total fucktoy. Is too dumb to actually have any interest apart from earning spunk. Is such a cheap, dumb whore, she is of no importance.

[Child]. I don’t want to tell his name because actually his name is Blaubeermann’s real name in short. About 5 y.o., very shy, blonde. Still needs diapers and a pacifier. Owns a soft doll he always carries with him and takes care of. Loves to curl up inside John’s arms (his snug and safe place), sucks on his thumb sometimes. Needs a lot of caretaking, but is quite funny when he feels safe. Likes hot chocolate and cookies, needs to feel his Dad near.

[The other child] A girl, about 12 y.o., has no name but gets called “Liebling” (darling). Gets abused by The Father (not to be confused with the Dad, which actually is John in real life, but there’s also a Dad inside) and enjoys this in a twisted kind of way. Gets wet and horny when The Father seduces her and hates herself because of her lust. Has to wear slutty clothes and earns money being sold to other men.

Young guy, has no name. Eating disorder. Is fat and wants to get skinny, but always fails to skip meals. Instead, the eats too much and stuffs hisself with unhealthy food. Has moobs and gets humiliated for these and likes it, though he hates to like and need it. Likes fast food and sodas. Is denied and not allow to cum. In fact, his useless, limp and tiny dicklet does not even get touched.

The Father. Has no name. Approx. 45 y.o., tall, big, strong. Abuser, seducer. Uses both children for his pleasure. Choleric and his reactions can’t be foreseen. Takes photographs of the children and sells them. Borrows the children to others to earn money. Pretends to be their friend. Can be very tender, just to make them cum.

The Dad. Blaubeermann does not know much about him yet, but he’s an older man with grey hair, very kind and quiet. Is patient and loving, offers sometimes advice.

Anita. The pig/the slave. Deserves hardest punishment and degradation due to the mere fact of her existence. Ugly, fat, dirty, used, dumb, worthless. Sleeps on the kitchen floor and is sometimes held together with the pigs in the stable. So disgusting, she even serves the pigs. No limits. Not a person, just an object. If you wanted to, you could kill her, because she is so wortless. Rapewhore. Has to wear degrating, disgusting and dirty clothes. Fierce self-harm.

The Dark Master. Has no name. Owner of Anita/the pig. Likes to lay violent hands on her and on the young, chubby guy. Incarnated darkness and self-disgust. Would kill and cook/eat Anita, just to destroy her. No light, no love, no hope, just bitterness, pain, hate and disgust. Hates people. On the other hand, the Dark Master has highly efficient survival skills. Is not afraid of anything. Would have killed Blaubeermann’s abuser if Blaubeermann had let him.

These are the main characters. From time to time there appear new ones, but they leave again most of the time. I am well aware of the fact that the children and the chubby guy are parts of Blaubeermann’s identity that were split from Blaubeermann connected with certain traumatic experiences (near-death experiences).

Ok, it took me quite a while to finish this. I don’t know how complete it is, but I think I’ll just send that now.

No-vember So Far

The last days of No-vember have dawned. So far, this month has been really demanding as I was denied all the way. No T&D, no fucking, just BJs and a lot of humiliation. What started as a throbbing has developed to a modified way of thinking. Whatever I do, wherever I am, I constantly think of cock. I look at other men’s genitals, I think about their cocks, ponder upon occasions I got used by many or upon the satisfaction afterwards, and when John finally allows me to welcome him, I’m so greedy I swallow on his cock dyspneicly and desperately with him laughing at his dumb fuckwhore.

Last week he sent me shopping with a list. Stockings, a garter belt, two or three panties (he calls them “Schlampenhöschen”, which in my opinion is both cute and kinky) and “something you really hate”. It turned out they offered a lot of stuff for reduced prices and I went a bit shopaholic. By now I wear women’s undies only. For everyday life, I like “normal” panties which often just have a little bow at the wristband, but for other occasions, John and I like lace panties. To be honest, after all my experiences concerning the women’s department, I’d say they definitely design some underwear just to make women feel slutty and men treat them like their whores, but maybe that’s just my perverted point of view. But you hardly find any equivalents in the men’s department!

That “something I really hate” turned out to be pants made of very stiff and glossy fabric (as far as I know, there is no specific English word for what it really is. Anyway, in German it’s called a “Miederhose”, so if you know its correct name, let me know please :)). It’s got plenty of ugly quillings and when I saw it hanging there I asked myself whoever would want to buy and actually wear such a desaster LOL John was very pleased with that ugly thing. Some days later, after these pants were washed and dry, he made me wear a diaper and that thing over it. Well, it was then, when something happened I did not expect. It turned my on like hell, even more than those Schlampenhöschen. That was because of two things: it was very tight, especially with the Birdlock underneath, and it was really ridiculous and ugly. That was an odd experience, you know, being turned on by ugly. So, for some days now, I’ve been wearing these pants with a diaper underneath. In the evenings I give it a quick rinse by hand, then dry it on the radiator so that it is ready to be worn right after I got up. John had a good laugh at me, trying to look somewhat pretty with these pants on, and yeah, this humiliation is so tingly… All in all, I guess I have failed to buy “something I really hate” 🙂

The worst thing about No-vember: you’re hoping for December to come, and your Dom’s telling you “I don’t know why you’re so excited about December to come. I don’t recall having said you’d be allowed to come then. I’ve got the keys, remember?”. Oh, I do…


In the past few months I’ve been thinking about justice regarding what my father did to me. Whenever we confront traumatic situations during therapeutic sessions, I tend to ask myself whether I have gotten equity. I don’t think so. First of all, in my opinion it was just gutless that my father ended his own life to avoid prosecution. I thought I knew him very well and I would have never guessed he would do so. When my brother found me on the street and told me what had happened, I just felt nothing. I could not believe it. And I did not want to believe it. I think, after all, I had still wished for him to be punished in some way, and his suicide seemed ways to easy and painless. I am not a bad person. I don’t like people getting harmed, but in his case, each and every single form of torture would have been okay for me, as long as it really would have hurt him. When I was in the mental hospital, they told me I should strive to forgive him in order to make it easier for me. I have tried. I really did. But I found that I don’t even want to forgive him. He hasn’t done anything to earn forgiveness. He was just a bad person, rotten to the core, and even if I don’t believe in hell or purgatory, I hope he’s in a place of eternal torture and pain. Not to clean his soul. I don’t care about his soul. Just to suffer. Does that make me a bad person?

After all these years, it still makes me angry to look at my body and see the marks he left. I’m not fond of the scars I left on my own skin, either, but each one he left tells a story of being used like

Yeah, like what? I was not cheap, I was for free. He kept better look after any of his possessions. I was just a free whore, a punching ball, a toy. Who would I be today if he had been a father to me? If he had loved me? If he had kept himself from doing what he did? I don’t have the slightest idea. I guess I would not be almost autistic in so many concerns, I probably would have a normal job and so on. My therapist keeps telling me mourning what I do not have does not make sense, but I tell you, it makes. It helps understanding that how I see and rate the world is just connected to what my father did. How I see the world is just a mirror of what he did.

Sadly, I believe in everything he told me. There was no time when I was told I’m a good person, a beloved son. I grew up believing I’m his whore and that I deserve and want it. Even worse, I wanted it at some point. It was familiar, his body over and in mine, haunting me, using me. I know I’ve fled to places inside myself and I wished for it to end, and because I knew he would not stop until he’s finished, I hoped for my life to end and tried to hold my breath long enough to die. I came back when climaxing, because I did, even as a kid. He knew how to touch me and yes, I liked it. My therapist keeps telling me I did not like it, I just came to think I liked it. But I know he’s wrong. I really liked it. Coming somehow was my reward for all the pain, and the more it hurt, the harder I came. The worst thing though was when he gave me BJs, because I always feared he would bite it off, because I don’t deserve to have it and because he might decide I’ve had enough fun.

There have not only been violence and pain. My father inflicted sweet feelings on me. Yes, he did. He could be very tender and because he knew me so well, he knew how to arouse me. I guess in 30% of all cases, I slept with him because I wanted to, because I was horny, because what he did felt so forbidden and therefore so well. Believe me, my therapist is wrong. I was not only forced.

I feel guilty because of it all. I feel guilty for keeping certain photos and videos and watching them sometimes. I feel guilty for who I am and what I want, especially for what I crave from John. He’s ok with it all, it’s me who struggles. “Don’t blame yourself”, he keeps telling me, “you just need it”. Oh, I do. I wonder how I would feel without that guilt? Would I be able to enjoy myself, without having to hate myself? Sometimes I think I just want to mess it all up, you know, like interchanging normality and perversity, just to be able to tell myself that it’s ok to do what I did. Regarding myself as guilty puts so much pressure upon me and being told that I did not like it and just thought I would by my therapist is not true. I wanted it. I enjoyed it. To be honest, I love John most when he is sweet and violent to me, just like my father was. Nothing gets me going like that, but even worse, nothing makes me feel so secure than that! It’s the equivalent of being tied down. Violence makes me feel myself, my body, my soul.

I wish he had not done what he did. I wish I had not felt what I felt. I wish these dreams of us would not make me cum sometimes. Seeing my cum on the sheets makes me the kid again, torn between guilt and lust. Hurt me, so that I feel lust, then hurt me again, because I felt lust. There is no justice in that…

It’s so much easier to talk about it in English.

Inner Father

In my last therapeutic session, we talked about my inner father. That concept is not new to me, but so far it didn’t work for me. Of course I’m able to take care for myself, at least as long as I’m given certain checkpoints and have someone to llok after me every now and then, but I would not associate that with an inner father. My therapist made me imagine my inner father and I saw an older man, grey hair, tall, educated, self-reliant. Not me at all. I know it’s just an ideal, but probably it’s an ideal I can work with.

I have started to talk to him and was surprised what he has to say. Sometimes he tells me just the same things as John and Lord Shiva do, but that’s no surprise. But sometimes he tells me stuff I have never heard before and I guess he could be my chance to develop a better understanding for myself and my needs. Today I thought “uh, I’m such an idiot, stupid asshole!”, and he interrupted me by saying “nah, you’re not, you just tend to think that of yourself because of what he did”. Well, true.

I have thought about how I felt as a kid, and I remembered a certain phrase I had for myself. It hurt to remember that and all that’s connected to it. I could talk about that with this inner father, and I was really surprised to hear his opinion about it. W has promised to help me deepen that connection and guide me on a shamanic journey to him.

Borders And Fathers

After the last weekend had been really, really demanding, John invited me to a spa about an hour away from us (in Germany it’s called Therme which actually means they’ve got natural wells there). After attending the sauna, we both just dwelled in that warm, salty water, regarding the stars above. Sooo beautiful. I felt at peace and calm from my innermost heart. These moments are so precious to me. But I know before I am able to experience that, I have to undergo rough treatment to make me feel myself.

I was just wondering, how much pain and degradation is enough? It is said that a wise man knows his limits. I seem to know only a few of mine, such as needles and getting burnt. But since last weekend, I know it crosses my border to have written “failure” on me. Because I believed it and felt like John would abandon me right away. That was no fun at all. After trying to calm me down, I lay beside him, crying my eyes out, and feeling so worthless like with my father. It was then when suddenly I had to cry for someone he had never been, like my dad. It’s weird, but I really miss my dad, an older man to teach and guide me, to look up to. I know John somehow took that role, but it was the first time I wished for a real father. Strange.

Today, looking at the bruises on me, I feel better. I guess water and heat always make it better for me. And seeing John naked. He feels comfortable when naked. I think he is so handsome, I love just looking at him. So in love with him.