When it comes to housework, Master doesn’t push me too hard. I keep the house tidy, but not immaculate. After all, we’ve got a child living in the house. But I think even if we didn’t, he wouldn’t be too pushy about it, because he knows that’s one of my triggers.
To put it bluntly, having PTSD sucks. The most innocent of comments, like the one my landlord made yesterday during inspection, can send me careening into an onslaught of flashbacks. It wasn’t even a rude comment, just “Oh, you’ve got some dust here and the oven needs cleaning.”
But the problem is, with my father, it was never just innocent comments. If that stuff didn’t get done, you can be sure there’d be beatings in the future. I always felt the need to be perfect, and it remains in me a bit to this day, I think. It’s why I apologize to everyone so much; I’m sorry just to be me some days.
Master is helping me through this. Some days, I half expect him to tell me that the phrase “I’m sorry” just doesn’t exist for me anymore unless it’s for an actual reason. Some days, I kind of wish he would.