As 2017 changed to 2018, I turned to TSH and wished him a happy new year. I sent Mr Biter a cheesy selfie with “happy new year” emblazoned on it, messaged a couple more friends. Took a drunk and hilarious video call from my sister. I put a comment on Facebook. And then I breathed a sigh of relief.
2017 was over. I’d actually made it. I’d fucking made it through a shit year.
Exactly a year prior, I thought the same about 2016, thinking it could only get better. 2017 was just as hard, in different ways. 2018 was going to be make or break.
I sat quietly on the sofa for a few minutes, in my pyjamas and sipped my glass of prosecco, letting a wave of relief pass over me. We’d opted for a quiet night; I just couldn’t bring myself to do anything else and we’d shelved our other plans.
A few minutes later, an email pinged into my inbox. I’d sent a non-fiction piece, based on some aspects of this blog, to a submission call I’d seen several months prior. Not having heard back, I assumed it was a no. But the publisher chose to wait until the brand new year to let people know she wanted their work.
I cried. 2018 was already better!
We’d had friends, a couple I’d met at a local rope event, round for dinner a few nights previously. During the meal, He unexpectedly made me an offer… Him and his wife/sub, me and TSH sat round the table and started talking about the possibility of me becoming His sub. It would be subject to negotiations, and TSH and I needed to discuss it privately, too.
In the afternoon of New Year’s Day, a message appeared on my WhatsApp, asking if I wanted to start discussing limits, expectations, rules… I said yes.
I don’t know what the rest of 2018 will hold. All I know is that it’s better than last year.
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