Nice or Mean

Whether He was nice or He was mean, we still had to serve Him.

It hurt when He was mean. He made it hurt. He’d hold our arms down so hard it felt like they were big bruises. I’d wonder if He’d cut off our circulation or if the far away, buzzy feeling was just dissociation. We weren’t allowed to be too loud, so we’d have to muffle our crying. No screaming or shouting for help, of course. Not anymore. We were easy. He would just tell us to take it, and we would.

He’d ask us to maintain eye contact as He did it, repeating the lessons He wanted us to learn over and over. (“You’re mine. You’ll never leave me. You’re nothing without me. You listen to me….”) But we’d just dissociate and stare up at Him and the ceiling.

This is how punishments would go.

When He was nice, it was all warmth and soft touches and gentleness. He was full of You’re just so beautifuls and I love yous. He would kiss my head and hold me close. Sometimes, He wouldn’t even put anything inside; He’d just feel me, and I would bask in His fondness. I’d be his good girl, always ready for Him. He made me His.