Marrying the mental and the mischief

It always surprises me how aspects of my kink related play marry to other aspects of myself.

Let me back up briefly.

 It’s about to get a bit personal.

I have struggled with an eating disorder for over the past decade, though I am now medically considered recovered. I was hospitalized for it back in my late teens and it has influenced some of my current medical conditions.

My relationship with food is still complicated. Especially around holidays like Thanksgiving. I have to navigate a prickly maze of thorn-laden hedges in my brain to merely sit down with family and eat a plateful of food.

I deal with it in my day-to-day life mostly by grazing. It tricks my brain and those darkly creeping thoughts to only eating a little at a time. It’s the plates full of food in front of other people that sets off that siren screaming in my head. Calling the cruel goddess Ana to my brain with her poisoned words and glittering sharp teeth. Just a couple pounds less. Always just a couple less.
Her demand of sacrifice is a throwback to the days of pagans gathered around an unfortunate virgin, knives gleaming.

But I have found a surprising weapon in the community and exploration of kink. Not just the support I receive from friends and mentors when the dark thoughts curl around my feet, but also the play itself.



The subspace is untouchable by Ana. It is a thickly layered brick maze that she cannot navigate. The stinging of a flogger, the thudding of a paddle, they add barbed wire to those brick walls. The rip of tape, the slithering sound of rope, the zap of electricity…

All of these things are soothing to me. They bring me to a place that I cannot bring myself. 

It may seem unorthodox, and I’m sure the average mental-health professional would be floored by the therapy I get from play. After hitting subspace, I haven’t the inclination or motivation to count calories or restrict myself.



The food I put in my mouth after a scene is so goddamn guilt-free delicious.

Competing with Myself (TW**)

(WARNING: SUPER DUPER TRIGGER WARNING FOR BDSM PLAY TALK– MAINLY IMPACT PLAY [i.e. spanking/paddling].)
I know this can be an especially hard trigger for the mental health community and survivors in general. I do want to reassure my friends that my interest in impact is 100% consensual and a cathartically-theraputic release for me. I am not being abused in any way, shape, or form. But I needed to write about this and put it out into the world. I have mentioned some BDSM stuff before.
But please don’t feel like you need to read it. I promise it’s okay if you don’t. I do plan a more PG rated update this week as well.

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These last weeks have been rough.

They have been a blender of loss, frustration, depression, anxiety, and self-loathing. The combination of my grandfather passing within days of the anniversary of my miscarriage has my headspace a mess. Halloween stress and relationship turmoil hasn’t helped.

Thankfully, I’ve had some great support along the way.

I’ve recently become closely involved in the local BDSM/kink community in my city. I imagine that seems extra nuts for a nutty person who survived childhood sexual abuse.

I will say my specific interests are extremely focused, have nothing to do with non-consent, and I only do anything sexual/fluid-exchange related with my partner Army. I still consider myself monogamous, though some argue that fact and consider non-sexual impact play with others makes me poly.
But that’s a whole other topic. Army is aware of my interest though, and supportive. I am not dishonest in this interest.

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The Experience

In October, I was happy to be able to attend a private BDSM play party with some trusted friends I’ve made over the past six months. I wanted to try and relax and let myself feel more normal. Away with the swirling cyclone of blackness I’ve been caught in. Let in some fresh air and some good conversation. And of course, break out the floggers and paddles.

I thought bottoming in a simple impact scene would be good for me.

It felt like a mere five minutes before I tapped out (I was lovingly assured it wasn’t that short of time). I could immediately tell by the minimal level of red skin and bruising on my rump that I hadn’t taken the level of impact I normally do. My mind immediately recalled a recent scene with the same trusted tops where I took over an hour of play, building up to some good thuddy and stingy impact tools. I was thoroughly bruised for days. And the cathartic release and therapeutic stillness in my head had lasted for hours afterwards. My main goal.

I am what’s called a masochistic bottom (or sub). I get off not only on the pain and surrender of control during the scene, but the flash of pain I can achieve 1-3 days later by doing that casual “bruise-press” with my hand. It’s something that helps silence both the cacophony of voices/thoughts in my head and the daily autoimmune issues. I suppose the endorphins released could be compared to self-harm, but I like to think this coping technique is healthier. Definitely safer. There is no bleeding or scaring level injuries.

Just the beautiful canvas of colors on my rear that can occasionally bloom in a distracting way.

But this scene certainly won’t give me much of that.

It wasn’t that the scene became too painful, per se. It was more that I could feel the subspace drop almost immediately, along with an edge of wanting to cry. Like, full on sob. And I wasn’t brave enough to cry in front of multiple people. Even if they are my friends, I’ve never felt comfortable with public crying.

And yet the other bottoms that were scening already had some beautiful bruises blooming on their own rears.

My jealously ran quick and deep. Not a jealously of their specific bruises. A jealously of my earlier self, who would have easily gotten such badges of honor.

I do know bottoming in a scene isn’t a competition between persons.

But this was the first time I learned that I have to count myself among those persons. I’m not competing with myself.

It’s been a hard lesson to learn. It’s an ongoing lesson as I write this. I suppose the whole DID thing doesn’t help when it comes to self-competition. And I definitely noticed the fact that it wasn’t Charlotte who was 100% fronting during this scene like usual. She could always take more than any of the rest. Even my co-concious self.

I’m blessed enough to have some great local friends in the community who were unbelievably kind about my insecurities. I even had the tops from the scene take me aside afterwards and reassure me. Now those are some awesome people to keep in a play roster. Their intuitive understanding is the best I’ve encountered. Actually, they’re the only people in the past six months I’ve trusted enough to play with on my own (i.e without Army) and multiple times.

Even though my direct grief influences will most likely end soon, I have to figure out the balancing game of dealing with grief and still trying to remain active in the scene. I don’t want to have this sort of sub/grief drop again.

I imagine it is a process that takes time. I don’t think it’ll be easy, but it’s looking like I have a great support network while I get this lesson down.