I sit on the couch in our living room; the fireplace is roaring and my familiar is sitting on my lap. I’m staring at a blank screen, and I feel his eyes burning a hole through my head.
This is what I write:
I’m happy today. I’m warm and full, and I’m at peace with myself. I am thankful for the people I love, and for having a roof over my head on the first snowfall of the year.
This is what I don’t:
I need space. I can’t remember the last time I had a moment to myself. I go to work, and someone always wants something from me. I get home, and still, I am not alone. I feel I can’t be honest without hurting the people I love. I feel like I’m constantly being watched. It causes pressure in my chest that I can’t seem to breathe through.
And then I get anxious that I’d be replaced instantly if I left. That he’ll find someone more intelligent, someone, who can cook, someone who gives better blowjobs, someone more attractive and with more patience than me. Someone who will stick to a workout routine and share his interests and love submitting to him.
I only think of these things as a defense mechanism. I think about everything I can lose, everything that can go wrong, and all the what-ifs that we have no control over. Maybe that’s a good thing, to be anxious about everything, to not be too comfortable, to not rely entirely on anyone because one day they might be gone, one day they will be.
Jen's Journal 
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