Eight months ago, my older brother committed suicide in his living room. He left
without saying goodbye. And I am crushed with the reality that I'll never see him
again. I miss so many things about him, even the mess of a life that he created
for himself. I am wishing that someone could spank the pain I feel right out of
me. That there is some goodness to come from a spanking.

All of the stories I have written to you all have been written in an effort to
heal the wound that sits so firmly in my body. That wound comes from my grief.
And that grief is a deep dark tunnel, a place that I cannot seem to find my way
out of.

I am wondering if this is a foolish thing to do, to write about such a personal
issue in a public forum such as this newsgroup. But I find that writing helps,
especially when I write to a particular audience. I have found you all to be so
receptive, so complimentary in your responses to my stories and posts. I've never
met any of you, but I feel as if I have a small community here in this newsgroup
and that some of you understand that some of the roots of our fetish are healing
in times of pain and suffering. As you all know, I like to focus more on the
emotional aspects of a spanking and how it can be a healing balm for pain and the
injustices of life. I've used my little girl named Anne as a metaphor for the
pain I've felt in my stories. Her Daddy is the magic that heals her and the
spanking is his weapon love.

Writing to a nameless and faceless audience does not inspire me. That's why I'm
writing to you, because I believe in you and I know you are all real. And I
suppose that I love you all. What you've given me is a private and intimate
understanding of myself and my pain (and joy)...and a way to filter the
complexities of life through our fetish. I take a big risk in posting this
"story". I could be "outed". But this feels right. Writing to you feels right. I
feel as if you know me well...through my stories, my posts...and there's some
part of me that wants to tell you the truth.

The truth is that I hurt. I know we all do and that my pain doesn't make me
special. And maybe this letter would be more appropriately posted on some other
NG, like one for grieving the loss of a loved one or something like that. But I
know you. And I feel comfortable here. All these months, it has been YOU who have
been my support group. YOU who have listened to me, read my stories, responded
back to me and supported my efforts.

I am so afraid to feel. So afraid that I'll meet my brother when I cry over a
spanking. I do cry easily...and I know it's good for me, but it's still scary to
do. So, along came little Anne and her Daddy. Her cat died, and her Daddy
comforted her. She longed for a release and her Daddy bought her a piano. She
played and cried and struggled to feel through that instrument...and it blessed
her life, as it did his. The beauty of music brought them back together...the
sadness of Chopin's Nocturnes comforted her, as they do me. Anne's temper
tantrums are all about my frustration with having to grieve. If I'm to be human
and happy, I must do this...feel the pain and accept it. But not without a fight.
It seems as if repeated spankings give her the attention she needs and
craves...and some (most) of the spankings which I have received recently during
my grief have been very healing for me. The cuddling and comforting I get after
each one is a balm for the pain and I realize that I am in full control of the
spankings, which are really metaphors for the pain of my grief.

I turn thirty on the tenth of April. For as long as I can remember, every
Birthday I've had has been celebrated with blowing out the candles of my cake,
just like we all do. I've kept the tradition special by making a wish, just like
we all do. And every year, that wish has been for goodness to come to both of my
brothers. I say a silent prayer for them, like I do in churches where I'm
traveling and away from my home. But this year I am afraid of my birthday. My big
brother won't be there to celebrate with me. I want him back. I want him back. As
miserable as he was in this life, I selfishly want him back. I want him to tell
me I was a good sister. I want him to release me from my guilt. I want him to
know that I'm sorry he was in such pain. I want him to know that I love him. That
I miss him.

I've had many dreams about him lately. He's there and very present in each one.
But never have I been allowed to touch him. I want so badly to touch him again.
To feel his arms around me. He was a big man. Very different from me. He had a
bushy beard...a really beautiful and full one. His hands were roughened, a
working man's hands, much different from mine. I am little and physically
fragile, but he was so strong. He was beautiful. He was funny and had a sense of
sarcasm and wit that could make me wet my pants in laughter. He teased me a lot.
He made me laugh and giggle and cry. He had beautiful eyes with heavy and
romantic lids. He had my mother's eyes. His nose was long and had a beautiful
bridge. His skin was well tanned. His hair was light brown...and he grew it long
in the latter part of his life. He could pick me up easily and tickle me like no
one else. But what I miss most is his chest. It was so massive...his presence was
a powerful one. You KNEW when he was in the room, because he took up so much
space with his body. And I miss the way he hugged me. I could barely fit my arms
around him. I miss laying my head on his shoulder. I miss his heartbeat. I miss
his voice. It was oddly high pitched and soft. He had perfect straight teeth. And
a stunning smile. He was grand. He was beautiful. And he was in pain. Plagued
with a lifetime of depression that medication couldn't soften. And his suffering
was dumped onto us, his family, as we watched him make repeated poor choices and
mistakes that he never seemed to fully take responsibility for. In all his
massive strength, he was broken and remained wounded for all his life. He was 34
when he died. And his anger took him. It was larger and more powerful than his
love. He could not forgive. He could not move on. It was always the same sad
story for him. But I loved him. Still do. Passionately.

I'll tell you that what I admired about him the most was his bravery. He was
brave. Sometimes reckless, but always brave. Countless times during my youth,
he'd come to my rescue. When he was brave, he was my prince. When he was angry,
he was my nightmare. We fought a lot. He hurt me. He was abusive. He was full of
rage. We lived together for a while after I graduated from college. That was a
nightmare. And I left him to preserve myself, with his blessing. Imagine that, he
told me to go...he did it out of love. He said it was okay. He loved me. He knew.

I saw him once again for the last time two years later.

And now the anniversary of his death awaits me and I am so afraid. I ache for
him. I ache for my parents. I ache for my younger brother. I ache for the son he
left behind. I ache for me.

So am I crazy for writing all this for you all to read? I don't think so, because
this feels good. This feels RIGHT. So, it must be.

This has been an amazing year for me. During this time, my career has begun and
continues to blossom. I am happy and confident and empowered. I have done it.
I've created success for myself. I've learned how to channel my creative talents
into a lifetime of productive employment that's good for me and for many people.
I've also come to terms with my spanking fetish. And I no longer feel ashamed of
my desire to be spanked. It's not only linked to my sexuality, but to my entire
being, my body, my soul, my heart. I've learned how to safely share this desire
with many others...with folks like you who are so much like me. I've learned how
to love and to forgive. I've learned so many things. And oddly, I'm happy, even
now as I grieve the tragedy of my brother's life and death.

How can I be so sad and so happy? How can I hate the cruelty of life and love its
mysteries and challenges at the same time? How can that be? Why must it hurt so
much? WHAT is the point of all this suffering? All things die. EVERYTHING dies.
Then WHY live? It does not make sense to me. Does death bring you to a better
place? Is all the pain worth something that's good and better in the end? Will
God really be there to take me in his arms when I die? Will I see my brother
again? Why, why why. I hate that word. I really do.

I cannot bear the thought of losing. Yet I've lost. I've lost my brother and
still, I live and still I love. Pain must DO something. It must have a purpose.
Right?

Maybe it's like a spanking. The pain gets worse...it's unbearable. And when that
happens, your loving top knows it. And he stops. He stops the pain. And then he
holds you. And takes it all away. He finds the hurt. He guides you down that dark
tunnel of pain. He's there for the ride. He holds your hand, he's right there
with you as you lay helpless over his knee. He spanks your bottom and rocks your
whole being. And he carefully watches you struggle against the pain...and he's
there when you release, sexually or emotionally, or both if you like. It's all so
simple. The ceremony of a spanking. It makes sense. The pain seems worth it in
the end because it takes you to another place. A place of peace. A place of
comfort after all that exhaustive energy is spent. And you rest in the arms of
his embrace. The embrace that says, "I understand." And you lay together in
silent understanding, in that place where words are meaningless and physical
comfort speaks volumes. He's there with you from start to finish. And you are a
gift to each other. You are both leaders in this scene. You are both winners. You
are both of value...one cannot be without the other. Your scene creates this mini
universe that really makes sense of life. And no matter how much you role play,
how much you think you're pretending, or "acting" out a scene, it's all very
real. Because it comes from us. After all, the best fiction is real.

That is why I write this letter to you. To tell you the truth. There. You've
heard it. You know it. I've said it. I struggle to make sense of the complexities
of life. And what I've found in spanking is that it is a way for me to act out
these maddening unanswered questions. To look for the hurt, to name it, to accept
it, to take it and then to give it, to share it and to wash it away, even if only
for a brief time. And to celebrate life...after all, a spanking can be fun, too.
:-)

For as long as I live, I'll turn to this scene. I'll continue to write. I'll
continue to play. I'll continue to feel. I promise. And I'll hold nothing back.
Nothing.

Tell me I'm a good sister. Tell me it's all okay. That I'm not crazy. That I
loved my brother. That I'll see him again. Tell me I belong here. Tell me that
this life makes sense. That it's all for good. That there's a reason why we're
here. That the pain marks a path. And that that path leads to safety and love and
happiness. Tell me I'm not a fool for believing in goodness, that life is still
good.

Tell me I was a good sister.