So you have met me

... so now you are in trouble.

No, I'm not joking, I am seriously saying: you are so fucked.

Because you've met me.

And I'm not talking me-me, because you're in Ireland or Israel or Indiana but it's obvious that you've met me where you're at, so I'm going to be bold and wrong here and make her me, even though she definitely isn't because you're asking me: 'What do I do?' because I know what it's like to be me ... better than most people, in fact.

And she may have met you, and you are me, so the same applies. So I'm going to be you, even though I'm not.

What the hell am I talking about?

I'm talking about you've met this really smart, strong, sweet, damaged girl, so lost in her (my) addictions, so hurting herself (myself), but you can see beyond all that crap that she's (I'm) salvageable, and so worth it.

Maybe.

And so you want to know what to do.

So I'm going to write her as me, me as her. I'm going to write this in the first person, and I'm going to shock the hell out of your sensibilities, and you are going to crucify me, but you asked, or you're curious about how you might save somebody, so here goes.

Here's what you need to do:

1. run. Say: 'too bad, so sad, I gotta look out for number one, and you aren't taking me down with you. Bye-bye, b!tch and good luck with the rest of your life, which will be, what? ending tonight, right?'

That's exactly what I told myself you should say. I even told you that exactly already, right?

I so know this girl: this me.

So, if you aren't up for brutal honesty, STOP FVCKING READING RIGHT NOW!

Still here? Dummy! (that's what I'm thinking about you, btw, if you don't run)

Okay, so, ... but you're in love with me, obviously, even though you won't admit it to yourself, but I can definitely see it in your PMs, so there's that, and I know it, and I know you know it, even if you won't admit it to yourself, so you're either all in, or your a fvcking pvssy not worth my time (trans: ... no translation, just know the subtext is my self-talk is telling me how bad I am for saying how bad you are).

So, but I have a lot of problems. A lot of problems, right? Like drinking, right? and drugs, right? and other addictions, right? And like you are scared that ... well, you've dealt with people like me before and you know you can't save them and what a drain they are and how they wreck lives and you're scared I'll wreck yours in your attempt to save me.

Bad news: you are right. You are so right.

But you are also so wrong. And what you are wrong about is that you haven't dealt with me. Not at all. And I'm not saying you haven't dealt with me ... no: I'm saying you haven't dealt with me.

No, what you've done is watched me destroy myself from a safe little distance, offering little platitudes about how I shouldn't do this or I should take up that, and then said 'Oh, well,' when I was obstinately determined to destroy myself despite your 'help.'

Your 'help'?

Sell out.

(You haven't left yet? It gets much, much worse! Go. Leave. Now!)

(And don't you fvcking dare lecture or b!tch to me because I fvcking told you to go if you can't handle this.)

Okay, so, you can't run away and save yourself. Oh, well for you, so that means you have to go all in. You have to, AND so do I. And you have to make me agree to that, and that means you HAVE to give up being you.

Give up being you? Yes, you just signed up for saving my life, and that is the full-package deal, so you have to become a person who's not concerned, at all, for her own safety and well-being, you are now strong, and resolved, and powerful, and completely a person who is out to save me and my life, at whatever the cost.

If you don't then you stop short, and you sell out. And I will know the instant you do that, and I will know you know that, too, even if you won't admit it to yourself. So here's what you will do to save me.

2. Save me.

A. Establish the relationship.

That means, ... how do I say this: everything, all of it, is yours.

Why?

Has anything I've done or tried worked? No. I've been working it and fooling myself and getting drunk and getting stoned and copping out, and that works, running away, for a little bit, but then it all comes back in spades. I know it and you know it.

The difference between us is, even though we both know what I need to do, you have the strength to do it. I tell myself I don't.

You own me. All of me.

So tell me: okay, for one week, you are mine, and I'm not going to hurt you (establish a safe word), and everything I do and everything I say is directed to your good, and you can't question it and you can't disobey. One week.

I'll be like: what? And you say: you want kissy-kissy? You want to get your life back, say yes, say yes now.

But, 'phfina, I'm not strong enough to ...

Listen: shut up. You are not you anymore. You are a top, and a top is never tired or unsure or anything. I know. A top is strong, and right, and confident and always knows what's best for her sub.

I may say no. You have to be strong enough to say: okay, no, that means no whining and no angling from you, AND when you reconsider, we can start from there.

DO NOT let me know this is an option ('cause I'll take it and cop out, so say that: 'don't cop out on your life, do this for just one week and then let's see')

Or I'll get sly and try a counter offer, softening the impact. Don't allow this. All in.

Or I'll say yes. Now the work begins.

B. Clean up time.

Every second of every day is now yours, not mine, yours. I don't know that, but you have to, and you have to enforce that.

So, move me in with you. Clean out my appt. Dump all my alcohol down the drain, flush my weed down the toilet. Cold turkey, starting right now. I'll complain of headaches. Tough. Water (not aspirin) helps with that, and recovery's a b!tch, isn't it, 'phfina.

And I'll say I'm not an alcoholic and I'm not a drug addict, and my justifications will be so perfect.

"I haven't had a drink in two days!"

"I only smoke a little bit of weed, I'm totally off meth!"

After all, I am a consummate liar. I lie to myself all the time, and everybody I talk to swallows all the bullsh!t I shovel out all the time without even batting an eyelash.

I know my excuses are bullsh!t, and I know you know they are, too. If you say, 'well, okay ...'

Then I've got you in my addiction, and you've just lost all my respect, and you've just lost all hope of saving me.

All or nothing.

And I may have a roommate and you do, too. So switch roommates. No need to explain, it'll be obvious to everybody, but practice saying: 'she's moving in with me; she's my b!tch now' in front of the mirror and to any stupid face who can't keep their pie-hole closed. That will just shut them up in front of you, and will get them all talking to each other behind your back.

And mark your territory.

It's a lot better if I move in with you, but if that doesn't work, then we should get a new appt, and if that doesn't work, then you have to go through my place with a fine-toothed comb ...

... and mark everything that's mine (that was mine, remember, me, my time, my stuff, my money? All yours now), in front of me, so I know that it's yours.

My time is yours. Every second of every day is yours. That means I don't get a potty break. Why?

Two seconds. Two seconds is all it takes for me to be sitting there, look into my eyes in the mirror and descend into the well deeper than I've even been. If I'm peeing, you're there in the bathroom, or, if in public, you're there in the stall with me.

Does the word "Intervention" ring a bell to anybody now?

My computer is yours. I don't get to use it.

"I have to use it to do my homework!"

Okay, fine, you schedule homework time, and you schedule it precisely. It takes 15 minutes to do the assignment, then I get 15 minutes, not the two hours I say I really need (I am a consummate liar, even to myself). AND you're going to do your homework ... behind me. So that every second you can see my screen.

That's right. The web is off-limits for me.

My time is yours.

My hands are yours, too. And so is my pvssy.

Establish how many times a day I masturbate. Establish when. Then, say: 'sorry, you're not allowed to masturbate this week.'

What?

No, really. Fvcking WHAT?

That's right, baby. You know how I feel when I masturbate? I hate myself. I'm so alone and lonely and it's all my damn fault, and I'm such a fvcking loser AND a sinner and ...

I could almost go on forever about this. And how long has it been since I've had intimacy ... you know, with another person? A soft, warm human being with light and intelligence in her eyes?

Sorry, 'phfina, but those hands are mine now. That pvss is mine, and I am going to be your routine now. To be clear: you are not allowed to cvm unless I'm making you cvm, you are not allowed to touch yourself unless I'm there and I allow it. You are mine.

I may, at this point, after all my liquor's down the drain and all my pot's flushed down the potty and then my kitty is not getting any pats? I may see the extent of this and will desire to balk.

Therefor the time-out corner. "'phfina, it's time-out for you, go sit in your corner for one minute."

And I may really balk. And I may say no.

And that's not our agreement, now is it? and I may say I take it back.

But I'm not me anymore. I'm not mine. I'm yours. I'm your daughter. No, I'm your baby girl. And I just told you no.

Now, okay, you ready for this? I'm not telling you how to raise children. I am telling you how to raise me (you haven't left yet?)

Spank me.

And don't give me those soft little pats you see on spanking vids. No, you're stronger than me (you are the top, you are stronger, even if you aren't. Will is everything), so pull me over your knee, bare my bottom and lean into the spank, with all your might with each smack. Let me know, in no uncertain terms, that rebellion is unacceptable. Keep at it until I really get that message.

And none of this is significant, and none of this is domination. This is love, sweetheart (DO NOT FVCKING B!TCH TO ME!), this is you being strong enough for both of us to save me from destroying myself and dragging you down to hell with me.

I've lost all of you, haven't I?

So, since I've dug my grave, I guess I'll keep going: just talking to myself.

That was the clean up; that was establishing the relationship. That all happened the first day.

3. Now, fvck my brains out.

Yeah, yeah, you say you may not be ready for this level of intimacy, so, what, we're going to play fiddlesticks? Look, I've texted you twenty times if I've texted you once: I want you to fvck me silly, and sure I was so fvcking drunk or wasted, but that doesn't make it any less true, even in jest, so fvcking do that. I mean, I'm NOT going to make the first move. I'm so not. I know where you are in this game, and I know where I am. I take you, it's like ... I don't know, defloration or something, the panthery 'phfina despoiling an innocent girl. You have to make the first move. Really. In every regard.

And I so want you right now. And I so won't ever act on that want. Never. Hurt you? No. Suggest it? Hint at it? Hell ya. But ...

So.

Bed time? Make sure my teeth are brushed and I've taken care of everything, you know? I've cleaned up my messes I've left around (that you haven't let me, as you're with me all the time), and my homework's done, and it's 9 pm or whenever (not much later, ... I stay up late to 'write' or to 'work' or to 'answer PMs' but really just to beat myself up more and I watch p.r.0.n. and masturbate telling myself what a loser I am).

So, we're in bed, get on top, strap on if you want, and fvck me until I'm finished. And 'finished' doesn't mean: 'I've cum once.' Finished means I'm finished, gf. It means I can't go on any more. Even if that's eight cvms; even if that's zero. Finished means my muscles are jelly and I've fainted or my near unconscious, right? Finished means I'm going to be out in the next few seconds.

Then, wrap me in your arms and legs, and DO NOT let me go. If I have to get up to pee, you follow. AND you follow me back to bed after I get a glass of water, then you rewrap me in your arms and legs. When I move in my sleep, I will feel you. When I dream, you'll be in them.

4. And the rest of the week.

Walk me to class. We don't take the same classes, so you walk me to mine, make sure somebody else is in the room before you leave, then hand me my books. That's right, you're carrying my books. Make sure people see that.

"This is my b!tch."

Go to your class, after informing me you'll collect me for my next class.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

When school or work is done, it can get tricky, because you'll be tempted to be you and be tempted to let me be me because you don't know what to do with me, with us.

Honey, there's everything to do with us.

Involve me in your life: I've just joined your soccer team. I don't play soccer. Tough. Coach needs help, though, right? I'm not the in-the-stands wife (b!tch), I'm the game/practice recorder. I'm the ball girl. I'm the water girl. I'm the towel girl. I'm the girl, if I'm not in the field as goalie, or whatever, I'm the girl who makes the game possible.

Meaning I'm involved and busy, helping and being helpful. Wow! That's a new feeling for me.

You don't play soccer. Well, you play bowling. Take me to disco duck pins, right? Or ice skating. Or roller skating. Or cross country.

SOME PHYSICAL OUTDOOR ACTIVITY! A brisk, directed walk around campus (for at least an hour, no joke), for goodness sake!

Daily.

Involve me in your life. Enroll me in a photography class. Enroll yourself, too. DO NOT sit next to me. DO NOT tell me how to take a picture. Let the instructor, who's dumber than you, do that. I'll listen to her for learning. I'm your b!tch, yes, and you're the only one who can save me, yes (because, in my life NOBODY else has ever really tried ... did you catch that?), but you need time to push me out there, engage me with other people, let me know there's a world outside of my head and outside of yours. A whole big world.

Involve me in your life. Bring me to AA group. You're not in AA group? Yes, you are. Now you are. And you're bringing me and I have to participate, because you say so. AND SO DO YOU (what, you think you don't have any addictions? good for you. that's what all addicts tell themselves). You aren't going for me. You're going for you. So fully participate, get what you can for you, really open up and be honest. I'll see that, because I'll be watching, and I'll be so, so proud of you.

Involve me in your life. When you take me that first time that first day, ask me if I still need that shirt.

"Huh?" I'll say.

And you'll rip it off my body, and you'll tell me we're going shopping for clothes tomorrow.

So we go shopping. You don't like shopping? Nor do I. I like my jeans. Tough. You're getting me a new wardrobe. Dresses. Pretty dresses for pretty me.

You know why I dress like this: plain? Because that's what I think of myself.

I'm not pretty. I'm just plain. I'm ...

... I'm not loved so I must be ugly. Inside and out. Inside and out.

That kind of thinking is not allowed anymore. From now on, I have to wear dresses.

So, we get the dresses, and you say how pretty I look in the one I wearing. BECAUSE YOU MEAN IT.

(NEVER, EVER give faint or insincere or belittling or half-hearted compliments) (NEVER, EVER criticize me: I'm already doing that to myself all the time, and I'm just looking for somebody else to agree with me to validate my self-talk).

And I blush, and you say how cute that makes me look, and I blush more.

And I start to get that I am pretty, from the look in your eyes and from the love I see in your heart for me.

And you start to save me.

And, well, there's another reason for me to wear dresses, right? You're still in your jeans. You get to wear what you like, because you're the top.

AND you're packing.

We're at sbux. We go to the bathroom. (I'm not allowed to go alone, remember?)

So we're in there, and so just slam up up against the door or bend me over the sink and fvck me senseless. Make it almost impossible for me not to scream. Go crazy. Make me pee standing up and push it right out of my bladder with your dick in my pvssy and your hand pressing down on my bladder. I may just faint, but oh, well.

And yes: your dick. Own it.

Why? You own me, too.

AND I have been driving you crazy with lust in that dress and my big blinking 'you really think I look pretty?' eyes, haven't I?

Everywhere I am, you are. Everywhere I go, you are present. Mark your territory. Mark me.

Brand me. I am yours. Make it so. Reinforce it at every opportunity.

Involve me in your life. Bring me to the soup kitchen you serve at. You don't? Now you do. Find one. Sign us up, and off we go. We'll put on our aprons and we'll ladle soup or pass out plate or sandwiches, and I'll see what it is to be of service for others in need. I'll see what it is to put my self and my concerns for a while. I'll see other people exist in the world. I'll see other people helping, and getting so much out of that for themselves in doing that.

Every second of every day has to be occupied with you and work or you and school. Every evening has to be an activity: you and AA, you and soccer, you and photo class. Every night I have to be in your arms.

Why?

I cannot have one second alone to my thoughts. I cannot sneak out for a quick fix or to down a can of Coors. Not one second.

And that's the first week.

5. And forever.

You said you wanted to save my life. You know how long that takes. It doesn't take a week. It doesn't take a month or a year.

It takes forever.

Forever.

So, at the end of the week, I'll say, politely, 'Thank you, that was nice' and try to get away, and not bother you any more, and aren't you exhausted? And make any excuse I can.

No. Sorry, 'phfina. You're my b!tch.

So the first week is every week. I agreed to a week. Well, this is a week. Every week is a week. Forever.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

AND start planning out our life together exceptionally. Fly me home to your parents. Fly me home to meet mine. ... more than once a year! Make sure I call my mom. Give me the phone to say hi to yours. Have conversations with my dad (he's actually really friendly). Involve me in conversations with yours.

Involve me in your life.

Save me.

Or don't. Just walk away from me, saying: oh, well, nice girl, but ... too many issues.

I'll totally understand. I'll totally understand.

And I'll die, just a little bit more, or maybe just a lot more.

Questions

Okay, piece of cake, right? Go for it.

Or, not so easy. Any questions?

Oh, look! Every hand went up in the room ... the nearly empty room, that is. Thank you for staying, those of you that did. Yes, your question?

"What if I'm not up for this? What if I'm not the one?"

Good news: you aren't.

More good news. Nobody else is. Nobody else has been, and my future is my past: nobody else will be, unless they choose to step up.

So, you aren't the one. Definitely not.

"But I want to be, 'phfina."

No you don't. People don't do what they don't want. You're not stepping up, because you know you don't want to. It's just not safe, and you know it. Go live your safe little life, it works great for you, and it'll work great for me. Read about me in the papers ... you can flip back to the obits and know I died because you didn't step up. Congratulations.

Or you can read about that book I published when a real girl did step up and then you can say to yourself, 'well, I wanted to be the one, and I would've been with 'phfina at all those book signings across the country and then the world.'

J.K. Rowling, anyone? Helen DeWitt? Somebody was the one for them. And they were on a crash course with death or just barely surviving. Until somebody gave them a basement to live in and get their lives back.

Hm.

"So how do I be the one?"

Declare it. That simple. "I declare I am the one. 'phfina is going to live. 'phfina is going to be great. I am going to be there with her in her greatness."

Or like that. Whatever you see.

Declare it, and then do it. Every second of every day. ESPECIALLY when you don't want to. ESPECIALLY when I am a back-biting b!tch, lashing out at you as you are saving my life.

Next question. Yes, you in the corner.

"What if you're not the one for me?"

Good news: I'm not.

Plenty of fish in the sea.

Any like me? Any at all? Any others catch your eye? You want plainer? You want less interesting?

Go live your compromised life.

I'm not the one. I'll NEVER meet your demands or expectations, as reasonable as they are. No, ESPECIALLY your reasonable expectations.

Girl, I'm insane. I am all-out nuts. 'Reasonable'? BLECH! I'm not reasonable! I'm passionate and artistic and demanding and b!tch and I don't have one ounce of reasonableness in me.

I'm SO not the one for you. I don't fit into any mold and if I did, I'd fvcking bang at it until I broke my hands and forehead. DON'T YOU FVCKING put me into your little 'oh, she's gotta be like this for me to love her, for her to be the one' mold.

You're interested and fascinated me because I'm a LIVING BREATHING human being, fighting with all my might to kill myself because I can't stand this bland little colorless life. I want to LIVE and I want to be ALIVE while I'm living and I don't want to fit into any little petty normal reasonable size or shape.

I'm SO not the one. ESPECIALLY if you're not sure about that. GOD! Will I smell that.

I'm not the one. Unless ...

Unless you declare it.

"'phfina, exactly as she is, exactly as she isn't. She's the one for me. Her, and no other. Her. Only her. Not my thoughts of who she is, not my expectations. Just her. Every second. Just like she is. Just what she isn't. Her. 'phfina. She's the one."

If you declare that, and be that, then, isn't it obvious I'm the one? And if you ask, 'what if you're not the one?' isn't it obvious I can't possibly measure up in any way. You'll come up with a test that I will fail. I'm human. Let me be human, please, let me be me, and not be the person who you think I am or who you need me to be.

Next question.

"But ... 'phfina, you make it sound so pat and so easy. It's not."

What's your question.

"Well, a girl I was helping, well, she killed herself."

I am sorry. Yes. I will kill myself.

Do you get it? People will do what people will do, no matter what. You tried. You tried to save me. You failed. But nobody else did. You were my only hope in my whole life, and still I killed myself.

But you tried. No. You did. You did everything you could. For me. Selflessly.

Consolation?

For me? Yes. You were my only friend. The only person who ever reached out to me as I fell off the edge. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough for me, and for you. I'm sorry.

We don't win every time. But you did what you could. Nobody else in the world did. You did.

You did.

Yes?

"Well, okay, so this girl, well, how can I stop her from buying from her dealer and how can I stop her from ..."

Yeah, yeah, yeah. You know what to do. I can't buy stuff if I don't have cash because I don't have my ATM card. It's not my ATM card. It's yours now. I had to surrender that my first day. AND I'm on your allowance with YOUR money, that's in YOUR bank account (in my name). I can't call my dealer with YOUR cell phone that I gave you the first day.

And, well, you're the top, right? Remember what I told you to practice? Bring me with you to the dealer and now say it out loud.

"Excuse me, 'phfina's my b!tch now, so you just have to find another customer."

Etc. You know what to do. You just have to be strong enough to do it.

"But this is like total domination and mind control and just so against societal norms and ..."

Yeah, this is an intervention. I don't have a life now, I'm just destroying it. You're stopping that self-destruction. And, bit by bit, week after week, I get my life back, first, under supervision ("here's my card that you can use to withdraw your allowance") and then, eventually, over time ... still under supervision.

Once an addict, always an addict. You're just recovering, you know? Not 'cured.'

And, but, eventually, I'll get more than my life back, I'll get my self back, and I'll start to create, and to have fun, and to be joyful, and ...

... and you'll be there for all that.

"But you're telling me to spank this girl and fvck her and ..."

Yeah, right, whatevs. She's not me. I get it. So you're not going to do this exactly, maybe not even close. I also get you know already exactly everything what needs to be done, and you just don't have the guts to go all the fvcking way, including taking responsibility for her entire life, with you and with the rest of the world, because you know she hasn't. In every way. In every aspect. You know what you need to do. You know when she talks about her mom she needs to call her, so pick up her fvcking cell (your fvcking cell) dial her mom and hand her the phone. You know when she smells of pot, you know you need to clean it out and clean her up. You know she's not disciplining herself, so you have to. You know it all.

Now, do it. All of it. Set and make a doctor's appointment. Take her to the farmer's market. Keep her out of her head and her eyes focused on you, on life, on living. Go fly a kite with her.

"But it's not easy."

No, it's not, and it never will be.

*shrugs*

No, it's not, and it never will be.

Look, it's going to be hard at the beginning. A lot of work. Really hard, and I'm going to fight you tooth and nail, and I'm going to fight you dirty. "You can't do this!" "This is against the law!" and on and on and on.

And then, later, I'm going to get really mean. I'm going to use everything against you. When I'm weak, I'm going to lash out.

"You're not out to your mother?" I'll ask you a year later. "Why? Don't you respect her?"

"You're not really all that smart, are you?" I'll ask when you say something.

And I'll get metaphysical on your @$$, and I'll dig into your writing, even the ones you had published under an alias, because I'm smart like that, so I'll find your writings on literotica or on Kristen's archives or wherever, and I'll so use your words against you. Kindly. I'll kill you kindly. And meanly. And so, so hurtfully.

And you'll wish you had never opened up to me.

And that.

So, go find your nice, bland, perfect girlfriend with no problems who makes no waves elsewhere and doesn't cause you any pain, trouble or heartache.

Go marry Mr. Right.

*ouch* That just really, really hurt, saying that.

And I will totally, totally be so happy that you made right choice. I will. I really, really will.

And, good news, you won't have to identify me at the coroner's office, like the girl who did end up being stuck with me will have to, and you won't have to clean up the mess I've made with my life, again, and you won't be crying and crying and crying at night, being so tired because you have to be so strong for yourself to be strong enough to carry me through the day, and you won't ...

Like that. You don't need me in your life, so please just go. I've told you that already.

But if you stay, I've got nothing to give you, except heartbreak, and sadness, and fury, and anger, and disappointment.

And you've got nothing to give me, because I know it all already, and I've heard it all from the psychiatrists and psychologists, and I've 'yeah, uh-huh'ed them already, when I was a 'good little girl' and wasn't screaming in their bland, dispassionate, bored, perfectly understanding faces as I cried my heart, life and hope out on these oh-so-professional 'caregivers.'

Am I worth it?

Obvious answer: no. Definitely not. Too much work. A waste of a human life.

Am I worth it?

'Don't, don't go away!' is that what you want to hear me say?

I won't say that. My stupid, stupid pride and hopelessness will never let me say that. You'll never hear me say that. But can't you see it in every fiber of my being?

Am I worth it?

I'm sorry. I'm not. I'm worthless. Don't you see that's how I see myself?

Am I worth it?

Only you, right here, right now, can answer that question for me.

I'm sorry, it's kind of an all or nothing question. That's the breaks when you're dealing with me. I'm sorry.

Why do I apologize so much? That's another entry. But, in brief: you've met me.

You are so fvcked.

Don't believe me? Those of you who've interacted with me for any length of time? Remember that PM? Yeah, that PM, and I so, so hurt you? You know? Personally? Viciously? And why? Because I love you. And I told you that hurtful, hurtful thing, and I'd rather drink arsenic then press send on the PM, but I saw you being me ... and well, I lashed out, and you got hurt. And now you've met me in Idaho or India or Istanbul, and you want to know if I'm worth it?

Haha. Hoho. Hehe.

*sigh*

Well, it was nice meeting you. Enjoy your latte and have a nice day.

'phfina's plastic friendly smile is so smoothly in place, but is there a hint of wistfulness to it? Nah.