Social Media destruction

Nothing like the past knock-knock-knocking on your door.

Knew I should have gotten a louder “fuck off” doorbell.

Thought I burned that bridge long ago and now find that there’s some sort of vine growing out of the wreckage and trying to curl itself around my neck.

I thought that scar was a faint white impression of the wound it once was. But there’s some scab left to be picked.

It’s simple words on a screen that lend power to the climbing foliage. To pick at the surface of skin.

I have only myself to blame.

For many months I’ve debated on deactivating my Facebook account. Honestly, if there was a way I could simply use the messenger and not anything else, I would more likely do it. It’s the messenger I don’t want to part with. The main way I communicate with friends I’m not physically close to (like ones I know through this community!).

Today while updating my profile picture to something a bit more festive, I somehow accidentally caused my timeline to switch to 2006.

I should have immediately closed out.

A sane person would.

This jigsawed brain made the decision to continue scrolling. Scrolling through a smattering of words from a period of my life I’d long tried to purge from my being.

Words include lame jokes with friends. Basic life updates about school and work.

And posts from Her.

I have moved multiple times since my 5 year relationship with Katherine, but it still haunts me. Almost daily. I love my current house. So very much.

And yet at night my dreams are permeated with the rooms I lived in with Her. The house I lived at with Her. There is no rhyme or reason.

I barely dream of my current partner at all. I don’t understand this flawed thinking at all.

And now it isn’t even just my subconscious.

I don’t understand why I scrolled. Why I took that screenshot. Why I saved it. Why I include it in this post.

Social media is a toxin. A dangerously addictive substance beyond heroin, meth, or alcohol. It speaks sweetly and dresses up flawlessly. But behind those honeyed words and slick threads is a sinister hole of festering stink.

And I don’t even mean the vindictive way they use profiles for marketing. Note your interests. Or track “trending” topics.

I mean how it harbors a storage of memories you didn’t even know still remained. Memories to be purged. You recklessly thought you’d never have to see again.

A simple click.

Words across a page.

Subspace/Sub-drop versus Depression

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

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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.

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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.

Katherine

She is red siren lipstick. The color that I can never pull off with my red hair. The kind that she always wore when she was feeling especially feminine. The kind that was next to impossible to get off my neck, breasts and thighs later that night.

She is sports bras and wife-beater tank tops. Even if she later dressed it up with a button down shirt or blouse, it always ended with that. I only saw her wear a dress twice in our whole relationship.

She is ice blue eyes. Always getting asked if she’s wearing contacts. She was always amused by that. The eyes were the color that could see deep into your soul and past the masks. The kind that haunt dreams even years after.

She is the taste of Skyy vodka and Smirnoff ice coolers. The cool burn creeping down my throat all the way to my stomach. The sour taste of green apple- the first alcohol I tried with her in Kentucky. The bitter taste of it coming back up the next day. To this day I avoid the green apple flavors.

She is the smell of asiago bagels and soft cream cheese. The smell of forgiveness when her 3rd shift ran over. The rustle of the brown bag from Panera. The covert way we carefully ate them in bed, even living all alone.

She is the hiss of the word “Mine”. Uttered way too often and most often accompanied by a sharp squeeze or nibble.

She is binge watching “Gargoyles” while scarfing bad junk food. The teasing about Fox being so much like me. The way she automatically got me another diet coke when in the kitchen for herself.

She is talking until the small hours of the morning (or afternoon, if she’d just gotten off work). Sleep is for the lonely and we never seem to run out of topics.

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She is the wistful desire for deep intimacy beyond sex. I know better than to actually pursue it, but there are so many times I remember how fulfilling it was.

She is my inability to comfortably listen to Journey. I still listen anyway.

She is my hatred at seeing Daddy settle into perfect domesticity. Despite every thing he’s done, it is him that is rewarded after a lifetime of denying any want for stable romance. And here I am living in loneliness and taking the scraps I can while denying outloud a want of anything further.

She is the wet hiccups of learning to cry silently and quickly. No one else ever wanted to deal with it. I’ve always been a quick study.

She is the tension in my muscles every time I drive near anything that reminds me of Kentucky. The rolling hills. The blooming meadows. All terrain vehicles. The burning liquor. I can’t force them to loosen until I’m well past memory lane.

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She is my utter struggle here in Chicago this weekend. I just want to cope like a normal girl. A good girl for Daddy. But the memories swirl and I can feel her breath and it isn’t entirely unpleasant. The only good part about dealing with my grandparents’ wicked dementia is they don’t ask about her. Or is that good?

While Daddy goes through his sections of their house and personal effects with the stark detachment he’s always possessed, here I am trying not to weep at every moment. At every item. In every room.
And I feel like only she would understand.

And all I can feel through the curtain of misery and DID-fog is burning hatred for myself.

It’s been almost five years now and she’s still the security blanket I automatically want to reach for.

Spiraling

The path isn’t a straight line; it’s a spiral. You continually come back to things you thought you understood and see deeper truths.

-Barry H. Gillespie

I was doing well. I was. I have a house. I own it 100% outright. I’m doing this adult thing. I even traveled this year.

But life isn’t a straight path. It’s a spiral and half the time, you come right back around to where you were.

And where I am now is not good.

My life is a spiral.

Harp

The first true story I ever wrote was about a harp.

Sure, I’d done semi-serious scribbles all throughout my childhood. Little snippets of thoughts, plans, notes, ideas, dreams.

Little half-chapters of a novel I’d hypothetically like to finish “in the future” (spoiler alert: my middle school writings never became full novels).

In 8th grade I had an English teacher who was also captain of our Power of the Pen club. She was very into short stories and daily journal writings. One day, she had a line of fourteen pictures* taped to the chalkboard, little captions underneath. They were fascinating pictures. She was holding a cheap kids plastic fire hat. Bright red.

“Today, you are going to draw a number from this hat and write a short story based on the picture and caption it goes with.”

I drew number 7. To this day, my lucky number.

It corresponded to a serene picture of a river with a harp sitting peacefully on a bank.

The caption read, “So it’s true, he thought. It’s really true.”

“The Harp”: So it’s true he thought, it’s really true

I was to write a story based on this. The story I wrote isn’t really that important. It was a sort of fantasy genre bit that involved a harp that could teleport you when played. The point is, after I turned in that story things changed.

The teacher kept me after class the next day and asked me to join Power of the Pen. And the writing bug bit me hard. I’ve always been a compulsive scribbler, but now there seemed to be a point.

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Many years later, at the pinnacle of happiness in a relationship I hadn’t yet realized the negatives of yet, I was merely meandering around a trinket store with Katherine.

Then I saw it.

It was simple, really. Nothing gaudy. Nothing truly crafty like a lot of my jewelry. Basic, stark silver and small.

I loved it immediately. I was brought back to that day. That rush I had completing a story that was the first to be read by others. To be awarded merit and praise.

I needed that necklace.

And in one of the good moments she had so much in the early years, Katherine saw my lust and she bought it for me.

One of the first things she bought me. I have numerous other pieces of jewelry she showered me with. But this necklace has always stuck with me.
She doesn’t actually know the story behind it. I never shared it in detail. When she asked why I was struck by a harp (I play piano) I vaguely explained about how it reminded me of my childhood. It wasn’t important to share.

Last night I dreamed that I did share it with her. And she got it. She really got it.

This morning I wore the necklace. I don’t even know why. I haven’t dreamed about her in months. Almost a year now. But somehow this dream made me violently nostalgic for the past.

I have no clue why. I’m a fucking idiot basically. Why would I want that back again?

And yet, as I worry the necklace like it’s a stone in my pocket, I wish. I hope. I dream.

And I feel the urge to scribble.

*Those familiar with the Mysteries of Harris Burdick get a high five. Those who are curious: go here.

She

She is supposed to live three states away.

She is supposed to have no friends to visit.

She is supposed to be long gone. A figment.

A long ago relic of my foggy past.

It is a lie.

It’s always a lie.

She still knows my passion for Halloween. For this charity event. She knows. She always knows where to be. How to twist the knife.

It’s been almost 4 years.

My body retches. My mind flutters. Every single fucking stride I’ve made over these past months…

Dissolves.

Breaks.

Shatters.

Those ice blue eyes see right into me. The lips curve with sadistic glee as she recognizes the switching. The shattering. The fracturing.

The chatter of friends is faint. I know, distantly, that they are trying to bring me back.

I am briefly grounded by the warmth I feel at Army and Rogers not only getting along well, but both attempting wholeheartedly to bring me back around.

She speaks about many things. Mostly mundane. It is only as I start to duck out (she notices how early I am leaving) that her mouth forms poison. It begins innocently enough.

“Are you here with Army?”

I manage an affirmative. Her eyes narrow.

“I thought you were done with that immature phase.”

I hear a whispering of what isn’t said. My stomach shrivels, my throat dries.

My cowardice is still strong with her.

I run.

Torn Canvas

Most of you are familiar with this story.  The beginning, so to speak. It is what caused the initial coping of fracturing, of splitting. It wasn’t until much later that the coping technique was used to it’s maximum…

Trigger warning (pretty obvious from the title)
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It was always about the words. The sentences. The phrases. That charismatic speech.  The way they curled about and slithered into the deep recesses of Pen’s mind.

The saying may be that a picture is worth a thousand words; but Pen was always fascinated by a good story.

This story started out simple enough…

Once upon a time there was another child of divorce- Katherine. Another girl who struggled to form normal relationships with people. A girl who was not repulsed by the idea of Pen being more than just Pen.

Pen did momentarily hesitate due to the gender. She had never considered a relationship with another female. Not for any particular reason, it simply hadn’t occurred to her.

Katherine spun the story’s web of beauty tighter. A complicated pattern to entice and confuse.

A woman would never hurt another woman. She knows how men can be too brass, too rough. They can trigger Pen.  They only want to brand Pen.

She tells these lies, even as she hides her own branding iron behind her back.  Pen never even tries to look.

The first time is so very tentative, unsure. Pen is concerned she’s doing everything wrong. Katherine seems enthralled by the innocence. Pen doesn’t notice, too focused on trying to please.

Katherine is quick to demand more of Pen’s time. It seems so easy at first. Pen has so few friends anyway. But soon the few friends she does have are noticing. And commenting. Pen brushes them off. They just don’t understand true happiness.

It doesn’t take long for Katherine to turn rougher. Pen is startled at first, but Katherine uses those charismatic phrases to sweeten the deal. And of course, it is nothing but ecstasy for Charlotte.

The story changes quickly. Soon Pen is the caged songbird. The collared fox. She was okay with being tamed, but this seems like much more.

The marks are hard to hide. She has to purchase special makeup that is technically for concealing tattoos. Katherine says the marks are better than tattoos. The burns last for months. She says she is working on “proper branding”. Soon Pen will truly belong only to Katherine.

There is jewelry as well. Necklaces and rings so that a person they encounter out in public may be quickly made aware that Pen is not available.

The waiter grins as he hands Pen a refill on her Coke. Pen gives him a hesitant smile. It takes mere seconds before she feels the harsh pain of Katherine squeezing her hand and digging her nails into the soft flesh. She hisses a warning. Even a polite smile means fraternizing to Katherine, especially when it involves males. Pen doesn’t register the abnormality of this. She merely aligns her face to “completely disinterested” when around men. Midori helps.

Pen delves into books regarding domestic abuse and sees little correlation. And yet, she feels this sense of camaraderie with the victims that she cannot explain. It puzzles her.

The sex is so extreme now that Pen’s migraines have become frequent and debilitating  It does not occur to her that perhaps her body has realized how repulsed Katherine is by an upset stomach and has devised a way to try and snag some time to heal from the bites, burns, scratches, and welts. The doctors are at loss on how to treat the migraines, since they do not respond to standard medication. Katherine becomes frustrated that treatment is not happening easily.

It is surprising how it comes to a roaring halt. Or perhaps it is not. The relationship started out with a sweet lie.  It seems only fitting it should end with a harsh true.

Another woman? It makes no sense to Pen. Pen has thrown her whole self into their relationship. Katherine claims to have done the same. But obviously this is not true. She so easily finds another and leaves Pen a torn and incomplete canvas. Left to rot in a forgotten room.

Despite the words that started this story, it is the picture left behind that does the damage.

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It takes years and multiple partners to relearn how relationships are supposed to work.
The most recent partner has taught the best lessons:

-Independence is allowed. And is healthy.
-It’s okay to cry or yell if something has truly upset Pen. She doesn’t have to pretend everything is fine.
-Teeth are not acceptable below the belt.  For either party.
-It’s all right to smile at another person in a friendly manner.  That actually does not equal flirting.
-Pen does not have to have sex on her period.  If fact, Pen can actually decide at any point whether she actually wishes to have sex or not.
-She can eat what she likes without judgment.
-The scars she has are part of her past, not part of her.
-Slow and soft cuddling is sometimes the best way to spend time together
–She is beautiful

The Home on the Corner Lot

When is a house truly a home?
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Once upon a time there was a house…

(No, not that house.)

This house was lovely, and beautiful to the young girl.  Many thought it was a bit run down.  Her father thought that it was too large for a mother and two small children.  He said it would be expensive to heat and keep cool.

It was on a corner lot and had the biggest yard on the block.  The play area/jungle gym in the backyard seemed tiny in such a big yard, but the girl loved it.  It was neat that a park was at the end of her block, but that didn’t compare to one in her own yard.  Plus, there was a park right next to her father’s house.  Old news.

She got to pick her room.  She picked the one that had two huge windows overlooking the front street.  She could keep an eye on the comings and goings of everyone.

There was an alley in the back, with a carport.  The alley was the part that gave her the most pause.  It reminded her of the bad parts of the previous house.  It reminded her that people could sneak in.  People could take her to a secret place behind the garage (but it was a garage- not a shed) and tell her not to make any noise or bad-bad-bad things would happen to her. To her mother. To her baby brother.

But no one ever came through the alley.  The girl shied away from it for weeks.  She met the neighbors.  There was a girl two doors down her own age.  That had never happened before.  The neighbor’s name was Brittany (“that’s Brittany with an a-n, not an n-e” she would say).
Brittany was fearless.  She roamed the streets of that neighborhood without a care.  And soon, the girl went with her.  They went to the park.  They went by the church that had a huge empty parking lot (good for skating in).  They went down the alley.

And the girl learned that the alley wasn’t a monster that bit; breath stinking, eyes sparking, teeth sharply glinting.  That monster had been left far behind.

This new house was wonderful.

She got to watch Grey grow from grinning baby into a timid, sensitive toddler.  She held her birthday there for two years in a row (father was miffed).  She told the walls her secrets, fed the carpet her tears.  But the roof also got the echo of her laughter and the stairs happily took her excited, pounding feet.

She grew up there.

Sure, there were other places.  There was Father’s two houses (the walls got whispers and the carpets were dry- no yelling or crying in his presence).  There were piles of schools.  There were friends and relatives houses.  But they hardly mattered.  They didn’t course through her veins like a sweet melody.  The trees there didn’t welcome her with bowing branches, waving leaves.

She watched her mother find someone new.  She watched her tentatively move into his house.  She noticed how her mother did not move many belongings.  Next to no furniture.  She noticed how her home on the corner lot was kept.  Guarded.  Hoarded.

As it should be.

Her home on the corner lot was there for her when the locks were changed at her father’s house.  Her father did not want her.  It was high school graduation day and the girl thought she would have no where to go.

The home sang it’s reprise and she remembered.  The walls expanded.  She no longer had a simple corner bedroom.  The rooms were her’s.  She reveled in it.

But not for long.

Then the shadow that was Katherine injected her poison into the very foundation.  The girl had to work.  Go to school.  She was not there a lot.  Katherine claimed to want to take care of the house.

It was a lie.

The house suffered.  And it broke the girl’s heart.  She frantically tried to keep her imprint on the big, old, beautiful structure.  She wasn’t strong enough.  And Katherine smelled it, repulsed.

The house still loved her unconditionally.  When she curled into it’s tattered recesses, broken-hearted, the house swept her in softly.  Carefully.  It tucked her into it’s soul.

She thought that might not be the worse way to go.  A home always there for her.  It was better than all the things and people that were not.

When she took the pills the first time, the walls seemed to sing and bend and whisper sweet nothings.

She merely slept after the concert put on for her though.  She was never good at understanding pills and dosage and 6 or 7 seemed like a lot.

The second time the walls and ceiling hummed mournfully.  They did not sing.  The windows gaped and shattered in her mind.  The doors spit fire.  She ran down to the deep, dark bottom of the house.  The dank basement.  It was silent there.  It was cool.  She painted lines of red onto her arms and chest with the sharp black paintbrush (knife) while her heart skittered, scattered, then debated on beating with slow, languid pulses.

It was the house that called to that sober part of her.  It was the house that sang softly that this was not the way to go.  The home on the corner lot was flattered by the love showed with this ultimate sacrifice, but it knew there would be other houses.  It knew there would be those that could heal her.  It knew there would be those that would miss her.  Those that could not shoulder the pain of her loss.

The home on the corner lot could.

She lived.

The house was lost to foreclosure (she did not blame her mother- she couldn’t have saved it either).

She still dreams of the corner bedroom.  The spacious kitchen.  The sparkling sunroom.  The enormous backyard.  Many of her dreams take place in that house, even though she hasn’t set foot in it in years.  She dreams of Zoe running up and down the stairs, though her canine lifeguard has never laid eyes upon the property.

Her first lifeguard.

Someday, perhaps, she might be able to give her heart and soul to another house.  Make another home.

For now she is content with her semi-gypsy life and constant moving.

Plus, she needs a place that sings.

A terrible Google map version of the house. Looks a wreck in this, of course. I wish I had something that would do it true justice…

Ups and Downs

Last night was a freakin’ roller coaster.

First of all, I had a lovely “Hump Day Dinner” with Texas and another girl friend of mine that I rarely get to see.  It was a lot of fun.  There was sangria and calamari; both of which I adore.

We had fun joking around and talking about nothing.

But then it went downhill…

But Texas has been acting weird.  She’s seriously contemplating breaking up with her longtime boyfriend of…4 or 5 years now I think.  I dunno.  Awhile.  Mostly due to not getting the attention she needs, but also a lot of money disagreements (basically he wants to use her money for his shit).

While having this crisis of romance, she starts making this really weird deal about how pretty I am and how all the men around us want me (…what?).  I’m not really sure how to deal with this.  Besides the fact that I have awful self-image issues and can’t even process what she’s suggesting about me; I’ve always thought Texas is a really beautiful woman.
She has this flawless skin I’ll never achieve, shapely legs, gorgeous curly dark hair, and an actual chest region.  There’s a reason she was so easily able to steal my high school boyfriend not once, but twice.

Anyway, I am completely befuddled by her behavior.  She’s always been nice to me about my looks in that “normal girl friend” way (“Oh you look great in that shirt!”) , but I’ve never experienced such dogged references to me.  It feels like she goes out of the way to point out that the waiter is flirting with me and our other friend joins in.  I’m completely wigged out at this point.  The sangria doesn’t help.

I texted Army to try and get some sort of stabilizing opinion and explain that Texas is making me a bit nervous by pointing out these things.  Apparently it comes out wrong because he lashes out at me about trying to “make him jealous” and that if he “said the same thing” to me, I’d be “furious”.  I have no idea what he’s talking about.

The words and tone sound like Katherine.

My vision starts swimming and shifting and my head is spinning and I can’t do that again.  I can’t be a possession again.  I can’t be a slave, an object, a thing.  I can’t belong to a person again.   I can’t handle over-jealously again.  I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t.

Texas notices the shift and comments.  I briefly explain, but not entirely.  She gets it a bit, but has no words.  I understand, she’s dealing with her own frustrations.  The car ride home is quiet.

I think about how he doesn’t even acknowledge me on Facebook.  I know it’s a shallow teenage thing.  I’m not asking for “in a relationship” bullshit.  I don’t much care for that.  But he mentions when he’s hanging out with friends.  Or even his roommates.  But he’s goes out of his way to never ever mention my name on there.  Even when he uploads pictures of my puppies for his friends to see.

And yet he wants to start talking jealously?

Hell no.

If he wants to be in the “deeper level” of a relationship and it means this sort of stuff, I’m out.

Out out out out out out.

I won’t do the crazy jealously game to myself again.  I won’t.  I won’t do it.

Possession

Trigger warning for sex/BDSM/abuse talk
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Somehow in all our teasing, flirting lighthearted talking last night, Army convinced me to text him a picture of me in stockings with garters.

I’ve never done such a thing before.

I’m sure that seems surprising, with Charlotte’s sexual nature.  I’m not 100% sure that she’s never slipped out a risque pic to some stranger that meant nothing but pure sex, but I can say pretty confidently that I’ve never sent such pictures to anyone who meant anything to us.

I was nervous about it, and to his credit, he wasn’t being pushy.  It was that gentle sort of prodding that got me to finally gather up some of that elusive courage and manage something relatively sexy.

It was pretty much just my legs crossed in stockings with the garters peeking at the top.  No face, nothing X-rated.  Just in case it were to find it’s way into the public eye.

And I still worried.  Something tugged at the corner of my mind.

My fingers moved on their own.

“Just yours, right?”

He texted back almost immediately.

“Only mine. No sharing.”

My brain seemed to explode.

Voices started screaming at me.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. No sharing. No one else. No touching. Mine.

A cascade of memories of Katherine’s games of possession and branding wash over me.

I touch my left hip nervously.  The scar is very faint now.  That means I’m no longer branded, right?  I don’t belong to her.  I’m not breaking it.  Not violating the pact.

She violated it first.

But she was never marked.  She could do as she pleased.

Only me.

I am the property.  I am the girl.  I am the claimed.

I am nothing.