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.

Is it me?

Slight trigger warning: brief mention of sex, but only in a vague sense

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Army couldn’t perform the other night.  You know, perform. 

I don’t know why.  He wouldn’t elaborate.  We’ve only had this problem once before in our entire on and off again relationship and that time he explained in detail about his issues (which aren’t important at this time, so I won’t expand on that).  He was also strangely distant.

I think it’s me.

I’m worried I’ve gained weight, though I’ve been trying so hard to be good and not.  I guess I haven’t gone up any clothing sizes and my friends and family remind me think about that when I start thinking in a non-logical fashion.  So if I’ve gained weight, it must be not enough to cause me to go up in any sizes.

But obviously something’s changed.  I must be doing something wrong.

It’s sort of funny though because though on one level, I’m upset and confused and concerned, mainly I just don’t give a damn.  I don’t think I’m all that attached this relationship, even though I sometimes try to convince myself otherwise.

I mean, Army is a good friend.  But I just don’t feel any magical chemistry like I used to or like my friends talk about with their significant partners.  I mean, I enjoy the sex, I enjoy spending time with him, sometimes I like how he makes me feel.  However, there’s no craving anymore, there’s no dwelling on him when he’s not there.

Again, I think it’s me.  I think it’s that depression catching up to me and trying to kill my romance.  Not my libido, which is crazy healthy still.  But it’s like if the possibility isn’t right in front of me, I only sort of “itch” in a general sense.  Like “Hm. I could really go for sex right now”, not “Man I wish Army was here”.  I don’t think that much at all anymore.  Most of the time I can’t kick him out of my apartment fast enough after we’ve finished.  He’s the one who’s wanted to stay and cuddle.  I feel like such a boy.
But even the other night he wasn’t cuddly.  I don’t even really know why he came over.  I didn’t ask him, he asked me.  Was it just to throw my own unattractiveness in my face?

Thank you, I’m well-aware of it already.

I’ve buried that desire for actual romance down so deep that I don’t fantasize about it anymore.  Except when certain songs come on the radio or my iPod.

Then it’s hard not to cry.

I don’t understand why I can’t handle anything beyond a casual, secretive physical relationship.  I want to.  I want to so much.  But I just wreck it every goddamn time.

I just want the punishment to end.

The Grip of a Label

The last post didn’t really establish how badly this Steubenville case has gotten to me.

I’m mad at myself for that, but I can’t seem to break free.

It isn’t really the case itself.  I’m not going to bore you with more talk about the media’s portrayal.

No, I have a more personal issue.

The victim’s mother stated, “This does not define who my daughter is. She will perservere, grow, and move on.”

But I worry.  I worry about the label of “victim”.  I worry whether that is truly ever able to fall away.  To be something of the past.

Because right now I only feel like a victim.  I feel like I’ve never shaken that label.  I’ve never relaxed the iron grip of it, the gnashing teeth and rancid breath.

I still feel powerless, lost, hopeless.  These feelings sometimes dwindle down a bit, but they never seem to truly fall away.  I can manage a strong front.  I can fake it like a pro.

But inside I still just feel like a scared girl who doesn’t want to walk down the street without at least some pepper spray, most likely my dog, and even possibly a gun (I never said I was a Democrat).

I don’t want to be that scared person.  I don’t want to be a victim.  But anytime I get into a personal situation that narrows itself down into that test of power, of control- I fumble.  I cave.  I fold into myself and allow myself to be the powerless.

I don’t understand it because I do not give up control at work to my clients.  I am not rude or mean, but I am in control.  I think the less I know a person, the more likely I am to remain in control and not allow that feeling of uncertainty to creep in.

But when someone starts digging into my skin, breaking beneath the surface…then I let the reins fall.

I hate that about myself.

The past couple days I’ve lapsed so bad back into my eating disorder because I need to know I have control, I need to know this body is mine to do with what I want.  I don’t know why I can’t get that feeling treating it healthily.  I wish so hard that I could.  I know I’m broken and I need help.

Why can’t I just reach out?

Why is the grip of this label so crippling?  Why do I think of myself as the victim or the villain of a story instead of the hero?

On one level, I’m so sure that I can just keep wading through my own muck without that extra push, that extra lift.

But on another level…..I know I can’t handle it.  I can’t keep going like this.  Not for much longer.

Case of the Uglies

I’m feeling really awful today.

First of all, I’ve been feeling really fat and ugly lately. I suppose it’s the season and the whole Winter Blues thing.  It’s been leading to a bit of craziness.  I haven’t been eating much, though I’m trying not to let it get to dangerous levels. That’s been hard. I’ve also been a bit harsh with the beauty regime; using toner and cleanser and an expensive overnight cream.

Then Mom asked me to house-sit and watch my youngest brother for the next couple days. Tonight while he and I were watching a movie, he told me some nasty and hateful things his dad (my stepfather) said to him about me.  My brother is thirteen years old.  And I’ve always been polite and helpful to him.  I don’t think I deserve such underhanded and rude trash talking.

But maybe I do….

I’m trying really hard not to self-harm. I’ve been so good the past couple weeks.

But tonight is hard.

I don’t think I’m strong enough.

Willing Sacrifice

Why did we have to go through puberty and gain a libido…?
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(Trigger warning: this entire entry concerns the creation of and main purpose of Charlotte. So…lots of sex talk. Nothing graphic, but be aware please.)
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She was just a girl in a toy store

Seeing the puzzles, the boardgames

Stuffed animals, coloring books

Dolls

Then in the blink of an eye

The dolls had genders

And parts

It was disgusting

(picture from here)
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I’m not one of the illustrious original alters.  Not like Rika, or Middi, or Masey. Obviously a 7 year old girl has no need of a nymphomaniac.  She only disassociated when those kind of things started happening.

We used to all be just fragments.  My first memory that was truly mine is brief.

His rough dry fingers brushed under our shirt before moving lower.  Instead of pulling into our robot-selves, the deceitful libido of this teenage girl-not-yet-woman sent heat low into our abdomen and I was born. The nails of his other hand scratched over our tailbone and I grinned.  This could be good.

I caused all sorts of issues from the start.  Rika was blaring warning bells about Uniballer left and right while I just wanted him to bite harder and brand us longer.  I perfected the sweeping gaze from underneath my eyelashes within months.

Daddy hated me.

“You are only with that boy because he has a car.” He sneered, glaring at me. I tried not to let a smirk slip out. He caught it anyway, “…it isn’t the car. I raised you to be a lady, goddammit. Get out of my sight.”
I was happy to comply.

He tried to overcome his own curiosity with disgust when we started dating a woman.

“How…how does that even work?? There isn’t the right stuff for intercourse!” He hissed.  This time the smirk fell easily from my lips.
“It works wonderfully.” I murmur, running my hand discreetly over the blooming bruises on my arms and legs. No more short sleeves for now.

But then I must have done something wrong because she didn’t want to play with just me anymore.  She knew about the others, even without us telling her.  It was strange, but we took it to mean she could read us so well.  She started wanting to “work” with the others.  She liked the change in temperament.
She wanted the equivalent of a virgin.

I acquiesced. It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I have ONE purpose in this stupid system and I can’t even fucking manage that.

Obviously I’m a failure.
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And I only become a further failure as the years pass.  Katharine leaves us.  I try not to care.  But she leaves a brand she didn’t even realize as I discover quickly that the only kind of things I get any pleasure from are twisted. Sick. Dark and rough.

I want to be held down. I want to be tied up. I want to be bruised, scratched, flayed open, branded, claimed.  I want a hand to close around my throat.  I don’t ever want to seem like I have any control.
Even while I have all the control.

That’s exactly how the whole BDSM world works.  The one who seems like they are giving up all control are actually the ones who control the game entirely (assuming it’s done correctly, without abuse).

I want them to want me so badly that they can barely get the door closed on the public world before they start tearing at my clothes and flesh.

And yet Katharine, with her demand to have time with “all of us”, unintentionally made us more than we were.
We spent so much time outside in the body when we weren’t just serving the one purpose we were created for.

Roms grew to see beyond yoga and complex Pagan rituals.  Serefina stopped thinking merely in law and regulations. Claire stopped being semi-mute and completely blind.  Those who did not have names were given one.
I was no longer Lust (or slut).
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I smiled the first time Masey let me semi-integrate to watch Beauty and the Beast.  My eyes fell closed in rapture when Middi offered me one of her famous chocolate chip honey cookies.  Rika taught me to drive and I loved it, radio blaring and me singing along loudly and probably completely off key.

Then the bottom fell out.  The psych ward changed us.  We lost an alter (we thought forever) who couldn’t deal with not being with Katharine.  I joined Rika in the eyerolling at her lack of strength.

And I fell back to my simple ways.  My one-track goals.  I found websites and friends who set-up blind dates.  Dates that I wished I was blind for.  Not a spark of lust in me for a single one.
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Until Matt. We first met at a movie theater. I don’t even remember what movie we saw. It was the invitation to a New Years party that peaked my interest.

There was plenty of booze (no gin, but my second favorite, vodka, was everywhere).  There was a game of beer pong going on and an unused air hockey table in the corner.  A stereo was softly playing boring soft rock.

I pulled my trusty iPod from my pocket, chose “Charlotte’s mix” and plugged it into the aux jack of the stereo.  Dark, vibrating and danceable strains came through the speakers and one of the beer pong players looked up and met my eyes.
He grinned at me. I winked back.

I had no idea it was Matt’s brother.

I challenged Matt to a game of air hockey.  His testosterone insisted he inform me he was a champion at his high school.
I creamed him, 7-2.
His brother approached to take over.  The game was a little more of a challenge, but that was mostly because I was having more fun throwing him sultry looks and leaning over as far as possible for trick shots in order to get his eyes glued to my chest (thank god I wore the push-up).
I still won, 7-5.

The night ended with me playing beer pong on Matt’s brother’s team and getting pretty sloshed.  By this point, Matt’s feeling pretty left out so I reward his patience with an almost X-rated dance to one of my favorite songs by Buckcherry.  He kisses me clumsily, but we’re both pretty tipsy so it doesn’t matter much.
It’s a week later when I realize he lives with his brother, is unemployed, and doesn’t even drive a car.  I could tolerate all of this if it weren’t for two glaring factors.

He constantly demands rides from me.
And the one time I tumble into bed with him, it is awful.

He will not stop the simple motion of intercourse for FORTY-FIVE MINUTES, until the friction is too painful, even for me to stand.  For the first time in my life, I fake it and pull out all my tricks to force him to finish, even though he groans about wanting to last longer.

I ignore him for days and finally Rika sends him a short text getting him off our back.  I don’t feel guilty at all.
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I feel like I’m owed something better for standing Matt’s terrible attempts.  I make one of the worse decision of our lives and take control of the body for  a good three months.
Until the missed period.

I am a disgusting slut and should not be anywhere near the creation of life.  To this day I think it’s my perversion that wouldn’t let the life continue to grow.

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Daria is right.  I only destroy.  I don’t help us function as a normal member of society.  I ruin friendships, relationships.  I have desires that are so wrong, so bad that I should be tied up and tossed down that well and never allowed to surface again.

As I’ve done so many times in my existence, I offer my wrists up to be bound.  For the first time it isn’t for sex and for the first time it’s right.

Daria’s right.

Trigger Loop

So we’ve been caught in a trigger loop that’s caused uncontrollable crazy cycling for the past couple days.

Obviously it’s caused some issues. Including publishing the last post, which was intended to make us smile, ground us, and think of Germany when we’re down, but had some harsh consequences.

Shadow Dragon is a good person.  She is a wonderful friend that we care about and cannot ever thank enough for digging us out of the hole and saving us from being forced to live with our father again.

How she was painted in that brief conversation with Germany was out of a dark place and a dark alter that dislikes any “advice” and considers it all “manipulation”.

After realizing our horrible selfish mistake last night, we tumbled a bit further out of control and Victoria did a sort of meld/temporary integration with the newer alter who now calls herself Daria (formerly “badgirl”) and did some awful self-harm last night that we’re still trying to recover from.  They were further wounded by an attempt to reach out that complete backfired, but that’s only our fault and no one else’s.

Victoria is getting better and better at stealing bits of time.  We didn’t even notice her sneaking some after work yesterday and swinging by a small store to pick up a new package of razors (since Rika got rid of her last ones).  And now she’s hidden them well.

Her alliance with Daria is frightening because when Daria downs a couple painkillers, it gets us floaty enough for Victoria to do her self-harm deep without realizing it.  And the feeling of guilt and self-loathing just overrode any attempts by Rika or the others to try and get out.

We seem to be able to sort of have control today, but Victoria has still snuck out a couple times during the work day to go in the the bathroom and at least pick at the scabs, though sometimes creating fresh slices.

I’m terrified and worried about hiding all this and seeming normal and being a lady and a good citizen a good member of society a normal woman who can earn a wage and be productive and contribute.

I don’t want to go back to the psych ward.

We won’t go back there. Whatever it takes.