“I want to drink ONLY from His chalice of pain.”
In between calls at work yesterday I picked up a copy of an old TIME magazine and flicked through to an article about Mother Teresa. The article was discussing her almost fifty-year long period of ‘deep darkness’ – a time in which her faith that her prayers were being listened to had wavered. This period in her latter life contrasted starkly to when she had first set out on her religious path. In the beginning she had been consumed by a fervent and consuming need to experience the Passion of Christ and she had several communications with Jesus in which he revealed to her that she was to be his vessel. It was during this time that she made the comment above. Sadly, the remainder of her life was spent feeling abandoned and alone without affirmation of her work from her Lord.
I’m not an expert in religious theory, but I’ve often thought that D/s is very similar to religion in many ways. The set-up is very similar, a ‘divine being’, a willing follower, obligatory suffering and a sense of connection when it’s all working. The are rites and rituals, gatherings of like-minded ‘believers’ and sects that seem to spring up all over the place each with their own trappings, rules and entrance procedures. Certain titles and pronouns mysteriously get capital letters and humbled followers do a lot of kneeling and grovelling in the dirt. We go down the ‘path of’ D/s, we take vows of commitment and trust and when things go wrong ‘confess’ to our wrong-doings. If that ain’t like most religions then I don’t know what is.
Now, when I started down the ‘path of D/s’…lol…I was exceptionally passionate about it and was consumed by a burning need to serve. It really was a religious experience for me because I felt as though I had found the thing I had been looking for. The thing that was going to fill the void in my soul was burning in my belly. I was in a religious ecstasy. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. I could see nothing else. At that stage I would of done anything, absolutely anything to please my ‘God’ and nothing was standing in my way. That is the only wayI can explain why I did what I did, and when I think of it now, my ‘zombie-like’ obedience at the time scares the living daylights out of me.
My passion was fueled by my fantasies and as my fantastical dreams were slowly replaced by the realities of someone who wasn’t a god and wouldn’t take me to golden realms of spiritual and emotional fulfillment, my fire died. It was hard to let it die out though, and I stubbornly kept throwing little wooden chances at it in an attempt to breathe some life into it, but eventually my slave fire died a painful, slow death.
After that I went through the obligatory “I’m not worthy” period and wallowed in self-pity and despair for several months until I was rescued by Master. My slave fire was re-ignited, but it never burned quite as brightly as it first did. Once bitten, twice shy. Once burned, twice scarred.
Every now and then though, I feel the flicker of flames in an absolutely intense need to be used and abused. I want to drink from his chalice of pain and I feel a consuming need to prove my faith and devotion.Those times are seemingly random in occurrence, but I supposed they coincide with a feeling of being alone or abandoned. Too long in the dark and you yearn for the light.
Master also seems to feel the fire on occasion. He told me once that the times he wants to hurt me the most, are the times when he loves me the most. My tears are fuel for his passion, my pain is a cup he wants to drink from.