Yesterday afternoon, I was having a tough moment dealing with the stuff on my plate. Instead of writing to Sir, I did something I haven’t done in a while, something I used to do quite often, something I got out of the habit during my time with Sir S.
No, not masturbation.
I prayed. I prayed the desperate prayer of the truly broken, the prayer that shouts out to whatever power that is greater than me, and begs for consolation, redemption, and mostly, help. I begged the prayer to have the pain lifted from my heart because it wasn’t a burden I felt able to carry anymore. I prayed out loud, crying “Please, please, please, please, help me, please, help.”
Within minutes, my jokester son came over and told me jokes and wise cracked me into smiles.
Later, a gentleman at the gas station helped me air up my tires.
Last night, a good and true friend who I hadn’t talked to in months called out of the blue and reminded me of his utter faith in my strength and desirability.
This morning, at the doctor’s office, a friend from a support group I used to attend was there and asked me to please come back to the group, that I am much missed.
This afternoon, my son’s best friend, a fireball of energy, came over to help me with the last ditch effort of moving and actually crawled out on the roof to wash windows from outside.
When my debit card got rejected (so embarrassing) at the restaurant this evening, between the three of us, we managed to pool just enough cash to pay the bill and leave a good tip, and not a penny more or less.
Is there something greater than “we” that answers our fervent prayers? I truly don’t know. Am I simply focused on these good, normal things that occur every day just because I prayed? Maybe.
The two therapists at the practice where I do my volunteer gig both incorporate spirituality into their work with clients. The grad school program that is my first choice emphasizes spirituality in their curriculum (and sexuality, too.) I often see the correlation between submitting to a Dominant and submitting to a higher power. My prayerful cries were not significantly different in form than when I would beg Sir S to “please, please, please” let me cum.
I choose to believe today that the prayer was effective. Did it cure my anxiety? No. This morning I resorted to taking anti-anxiety meds to deal with cooling my heels for an hour in a doctor’s waiting room when I had so much to do (as if I’m unique in that respect). But I did deal with my day with a little more grace than the day before. I only wrote to Sir S once. I handled each crisis as it came up. I stayed on my feet. I finished moving!!!
I don’t have religion. My god has no form or definition. I simply pray to whatever it is that I am not and hope that “it” knows better how to get me out of my self-created mess than I do.