Monthly Archives: June 2015

Subspace/Sub-drop versus Depression

Trigger warning: BDSM, kink, and sexual experiences talk (healthy and non-healthy/abusive both)

Subspace: a mental space for those who identify as submissive in BDSM play and sexual situation/scenes. It can be spiritually and viscerally deep for many. The endorphins released for a sub during a scene make it very similar to the high many drugs offer.

Sub-drop: the sharp change in mental status that can happen to a submissive after the endorphins disperse. It can happen at any point from right after the scene ends to hours, or even a day later. It is called “drop” because it is a empty sort of feeling; akin to depression.

For the first time in years, I agreed to let Army try his hand at a true BDSM-centered “scene”. It involved wax play, breath play, and spankings- in addition to actual rough intercourse. Some of the kinks I have not partaken in since Katherine, despite enjoying immensely.

We staged the scene during the mid-afternoon (2-3pm) when my house was deserted. In spite of this, within minutes of us finishing, Army fell deep asleep.

I tried to control my breathing and pushed back the “crying sensation”. Or what I call the crying sensation- never actually cried. Not sure if that would happen if I didn’t push it back. I’ve always pushed it back. Curled into my normal ball.

And the sub-drop hit.

I’ve never been one of the parts in here to really struggle with depression. I suppose I’ve been touched by it during our co-conscious period when depression would hit. But I’ve never soaked in it.

I soak in sub-drop.

Katherine was initially good at aftercare. When we first delved into the world of BDSM, she read all about how to be a good “domme/dom” and we would frequently watch Disney movies or a musical and she’d make me a grilled cheese. There was lots of soothing cuddling. No conversation required, which isn’t really something I can manage while still in semi-subspace.

Then our relationship soured. The honeymoon period ended. And she became harsh. Or lazy. Or both. The end of a scene was the end of her commitment to pay attention to me.

I soak in sub-drop.

Like gin, I learn to make the bitter taste sweet and steep my insides in it.

On the tail of this deep depression that’s been spinning around in the brain the past couple weeks, this sub-drop is more bitter than sweet. My normal tricks and masks aren’t doing it. Perhaps I’m losing my knack.

I’m still doing my best to fight it.

Sometimes it’s just better to squeeze the bruises or brush the burns/welts to try and release some remnants of euphoria. Anything to avoid becoming like one of the cutters. Ugh. I will not be like Victoria.

I soak in sub-drop.

Coping with blackout results

Apparently during Shit Week (last week) when things were pretty blackout switchy, some fun was had with the credit card.

Normally, I’d send them back for a refund (stuff like this has happened before), but upon further reflection…they’re pretty cute.

Also, the most comfortable heels I’ve ever put on my feet. So long story short, it appears the burgundy fox heels are staying.

IMG_3427 IMG_3437

We still aren’t quite fully co-conscious like earlier this year and last year. That will probably take more time. But there seems to be more “camaraderie”, so to speak. Less blackouts and more just straight up switching. Walls are temporarily windows.

I do hope they shall remain as such.

Attempting Focus

I am scared to leave the bedroom.

I have hidden the car keys.

Slipping back into the compulsive habits of checking my hair and skin every time it feels like more than a minute has passed. (has it?)
Checking all online media and the cell phone for unknown communications. Checking the usual hiding places for blades or pills.

Habits left over from a girl who learned to survive. The others I’m sure wouldn’t call me that. I’m the part usually overlooked. Much dismissed.

I bring the clocks out and set them around the bedroom. Make sure the batteries are fresh. I can accept the lost time, but I at least want to account for it.

A good six hours gone today. Sucked into the curling smoke of nothing. In fractions and fragments. Nothing seems to be more than 30 minutes. Here and there.

I keep checking to make sure items stay in their hiding places. I keep checking the skin and taking blood pressure. So far no more than bruises and scratches. That I can handle. And the blood pressure is not ideal, but it is not hospital-level. I am determined.

Though I have just as much of a desire to stay far away from doctors while we are like this, I have no desire to put us in direct harm. I am not a suicidal part.

I remain as vigilant as I can for those that are.



Having blackouts again.

Things are also quite fractured. No sense of teamwork. I’m just trying to keep somewhat focused so regular medication and hydration can happen at least.

Army visited this weekend and it’s almost entirely a blur or blank. I don’t think he’s the stress causing the blackouts and switching, but it seems to be worse around him.

At a loss for what to do. Communication is also extremely difficult. Haven’t been able to easily discuss what’s going on with any other parts.

I don’t want to talk to a professional about this. Last time the blackouts were this bad, anti-psychotic medication was prescribed (not always taken) and the possibility of hospitalization was urged. We don’t want those at all. Even though the ED becomes very bad and our blood pressure is shooting through the roof.

I’m worried it’s the nitro pills we have to take for the high BP. They’re new. Combined with the stress of this past week.

I don’t know.

I just want to try and keep things semi-coherent. But it’s hard.

I really hate losing time and being so split. It’s drastically better when we work as a team.

I’m at a loss right now. Trying not to get scared. Then I blackout even more.


The day I made my mother cry

Bonding has completely backfired.

Not sure how soon I’ll venture out again to try and connect with a person.

My mom and I had been drifting lately and we both finally acknowledged this. Decided that we would take a trip to the local IKEA together. Technically I needed the space of her van anyhow, to fit a desk I wanted to purchase. I merely drive a sedan.

We are reconnecting well. Chatting about life (both of ours) and possible job opportunities (for me).

She tells me about her recent Reiki+ treatment from a family friend. I call it “Reiki plus” because our friend Margaret does a mix of what is needed for trusted patients. For example, with me she tends towards some cranial sacral and light massage work for my migraines/muscle pain in addition to classic Reiki work. She is licensed for all of the techniques she uses and would never do anything a patient disliked. Plus, she’s an old family friend.

Mom says it went well, but Margaret couldn’t help her much with the spiritual side of things. My mom thinks she’s going deaf to her spirit guides. Margaret has helped her in the past. I’m at a loss at what to say.
Though I have my own version of “guides/spirits” that I do sometimes seek out, mostly I shut them out because it’s hard to open myself to them without cocking-up my DID structure and causing spiraling/time loss and such. It’s hard to explain.

But this isn’t where I completely screw up.

It’s later, when I offer to play a song for my mom that has lately helped me stop from completely giving myself over to dark thoughts and suicidal thoughts.

It’s called “Fight Song” by Rachel Platten

I plug the aux cord in and hit play…

As the last notes drift away, I realize I’ve been a bit zoned out and glance over at my mom.

She’s crying.

I blink and frantically try to remember the last couple minutes. Did I do something wrong? Then I think about the song. Maybe it’s just because it’s emotional.

“I’m sorry. It’s an emotional song I guess.” I offer lamely.

“No. It’s just…” She pauses, trying to compose herself. Even though it’s my father who doesn’t allow crying at all; with my mom and her side of the family, it’s still not truly a comfortable act to show other people. “It’s just…I don’t have any fight left.” Another sobs escapes. “And I don’t know how to get away. I don’t want to be where I am right now. This is a nice song, but I don’t have fight left.”

I’m quiet.

I want to say magical words to comfort her. My own mother.

But I am my father’s daughter and someone crying and exposing their deep feelings makes me starkly uncomfortable. My mind feels crackly- like an old candy wrapper.

“I don’t really have fight left either. The song just lets me pretend.” I confess. Mom glances at me. “I think if I play it enough then all the stagnant things in my life making my whole self dark and blue and depressed will break lose. So far though…it’s just a song.”

Mom starts tearing up again. I watch dispassionately.

And distantly I wonder if I’m the semi-sociopath my father is.

I do feel bad for making her cry, I do.

But my vision feels like a tunnel and my mouth a cave and I can’t climb over the rockslide blocking the entrance.

I add this day to the box of reasons why I shouldn’t be a daughter at all.