There were a couple of other times where, in the midst of our usual amazing sex, he said or did something that didn’t quite affect me in the usual way due to whatever mental state I was in. I think a large part of this is how I’ve reacted to the new medication. I find myself feeling very much NOT an exhibitionist. (Uh, like, hello where did Nadia go?!) I find myself not wanting strange guys to grope me. Things that I used to love I’m not into suddenly. I’m also very inclined to withdraw both physically and emotionally from many things. I am loath to leave the apartment these days. I have done an extraordinary job of the lesbian sheep dance – above and beyond my usual. (I’m still seeing the elegant, sexy, Mexican lady I started seeing late last year. We’ve finally made out – due to her making the first move!! And I’m the one with experience with women. Oy. Words can’t describe how frustrated I am with my fucked up self right now.) While I’m still kinky as anything, I’m much more one-on-one than I used to be. Granted, I think I’ve been moving in that direction for a while, but there’s still a part of me that wants to be an exhibitionist. I can feel it still in there. Just not right now.

I appreciate the fact that I can talk so openly about what’s going on with MasterDoc. He’s quite analytical, so I can discuss my being unsure what’s a true feeling of mine and what’s colored by adjusting to a new drug’s action on me. He’s calm and can take criticism. He wants me to talk to him. If it wasn’t for him asking me a few times, “Is there anything you want to discuss?” I wouldn’t have opened up.

After our talk, we reconnected with sex, and I felt myself wanting more than anything to melt into subspace and have him show his dominance over me. I found myself thinking about the fact that he still hasn’t pissed in my ass (something he’s threatened to do and I’ve dreaded). It wasn’t that him pissing on me was a wonderful thing, it’s that he has the control over me to make me want to do dirty and disgusting things to please him. While not everyone feels this way, I find it exquisite to be under someone’s control like that. Not just anyone’s control, but this man who I’ve served for about four and a half years now, who has proven himself to be someone I can truly look up to, but also someone who’s human. There are times he aggravates me (rest assured I aggravate him often too) and I disagree with him, but I respect that he’s a highly intelligent man capable of introspection. He’s an interesting person because he has a mean streak – and when I’m in subspace that’s a fabulous thing – but also a great desire to take care of those he loves. There’s tenderness, but also sometimes a picky critic.

And then there’s the lover who knows my buttons so well. He can still make me come from just grabbing my hair and saying something dominant to me. *fans self*

There was a moment last night when he told me to put his cock head against the inside of my cheek so he could slap my face and feel it through my cheek. This was after some deep throating, which I’m getting better at doing. I can hold it longer without gagging. Although, I think I would like to have one of those porny blow jobs where I’m on my knees and he’s fucking my face while standing up, the drool running down my chin.

I found myself craving to please him but I also admonished myself not to get upset over not being perfect. That’s an unattainable goal and giving myself angst over it will only cause grief. But I love the moments when I’m in subspace and absolutely worship him. While it sometimes sounds like submissives are in a constant state of worshipping their dominants I think that a healthy relationship also requires being able to see your dominant as a human with foibles. Dominants can’t be perfect any more than submissives can.

The main attraction of last night was him restraining my wrists to his bed frame and then fucking the living daylights out of me. I have long been a fan of some restraint during sex. It makes me feel that more vulnerable to him, which sets me off even more. I think my brain was scrambled by the end, but happily so.

I’ve been working on being more vocal – not in the way of sounds (I am quite a moaner and screamer) but in the way of saying hot things. Begging for his cock. Telling him I crave his cock up my ass in that moment.

Reconnecting originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on January 17, 2012.

I’ve been left contemplating how consenting adults can have their choices questioned (part I) but on the other hand people who violate withdrawn consent can go around denying it for years (part II).

Some members of DeeDee’s family have decided that she can’t possibly have chosen to be in a bdsm relationship. They think she must be abused. They’ve found my blog and point to my own history with depression (and the one time I was hospitalized for such 23 years ago when I was a teenager). People into bdsm are as varied as any other group of people. Some are mentally well, some have mental illness, some are awesome people who stick strictly to the notion that consent matters, and unfortunately, a few are predatory. People into bdsm generally like things more intense than others. Are people who like to burn their mouths on hot, spicy food sick people? How is this different? I like extra spice with my sexuality. I like the feelings of bliss released when controlled pain is applied to my body in a consensual situation. While I suffer from a mental illness, that is not what causes me to love playing with power differential sexually. I’ve had kinky fantasies since childhood, and while my family is your garden-variety dysfunctional American family, I was not abused at all in childhood. No one beat me, no one did inappropriate sexual things to me (or, indeed, any sexual things to me). I was treated lovingly for the most part and, as an only child for the first 11 years, I was pretty much spoiled. (On one side of the family, I was the only grandchild for 9 years. Oh yeah. Spoiled.) Being turned on by thoughts of bondage and helplessness just occurred naturally. (And, I might add, long before I was raped or sexually assaulted. Rape and sexual assault, sadly, are more common in this world than bdsm.)

The infantilization of those with mental illness would be humorous if it wasn’t so damn offensive. I would like to think that while I certainly talk about a lot of intense kinky sex here, I also very clearly convey the loving relationship I have with MasterDoc. He doesn’t take advantage of my mental illness. If anything he has mentored me in adopting better coping mechanisms. I don’t blow up in emotional outbursts as often as I used to. I’m far better at asking for what I need emotionally rather than stewing and expecting others to read my mind. Bad methods of coping I learned from my mother have been slowly unlearned with MasterDoc’s patient teaching. I suffer far less distress than I used to because I can handle things more rationally.

But, you see, I would bet DeeDee’s family will think he made me write that, or something. Determining that my agency has been taken away from me without so much as talking to me is also damn offensive. While I like the security of considering myself owned by MasterDoc, the truth is owning people is illegal in the United States. I am a free woman. I have a career. I can pay my own bills. No one is manipulating me to be MasterDoc’s submissive. I have the means to leave if I wanted. But I don’t want to – not because anyone has worn me down or some shit, but because I have a tremendous amount of loving support from my chosen family. My current household is so delightfully stable and placid compared to that of my parents’ house. (While ultimately loving, my Mother had a tendency to shout and have emotional outbursts. Thankfully my Dad was stable.)

I think it might actually disappoint some people just how normal and dare I say, equitable, our relationship can be. I can disagree with him. We will discuss things we disagree on. MasterDoc likes having intelligent women as submissives because he’s not looking to control someone 24/7 (not to mention the conversation is far better). He wants us to think for ourselves. He wants the best for us. He’s still good friends with his former submissives. Hardly sounds like they fled from him, huh? He walked one down the aisle as her bridal attendant and she counts him as her best friend.

But I could talk about that ad nauseum and still not convince people. That’s okay. I know I’m in a happy and stable relationship. I know MasterDoc has not ever laid a finger on me in anger, and never will.

Bullshit, Part I originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on November 21, 2011.

I’ve had some fantastic sex with MasterDoc. I also had Shane over last week (rowr); we hung out and again had awesome sex. I rode him, and when he’d reach his fingers to rub my clit I would grab my ankles and lean back a little. I think that’s when I came the hardest.

But the terrible part is, despite great sex, despite orgasms that blew my mind, I was mired in a severe depression for a few days.

This sucker was the type to blow all my usual depressions out of the water. When I was a teen, I was hospitalized for three months with depression. This felt like that sort of depression.

I thought I was all over this deep of an illness. I had matured, gotten medicated and better able to handle mood issues. But for the first time in well over a decade, I had fears of being hospitalized again.

I’m usually quite comfortable discussing depression. I feel that if it’s not talked about it remains mysterious and strange for those who aren’t mentally ill. But this time around I felt shame. I felt shame that I am so fucked up that I’m technically one of those people who are being made fun of when people joke about crazy people. (Pisses me off that if I had cancer or diabetes or some-such, the teasing would be just shocking to everyone and the jokers would be shamed.) I struggled with simply taking care of myself, which of course makes my submissive duties much, much harder. I felt ashamed that I couldn’t be a fully effective submissive.

I get pissed off that my illness could be used against me when I speak out about the times I was raped or sexually assaulted. My being mentally ill doesn’t mean those things didn’t happen, weren’t traumatic (to even an ordinary, mentally fit person) and doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be taken seriously. It’s so easy to take advantage of the mentally ill. People don’t take us seriously. We doubt ourselves a lot. Even when I’m not in an ill state, having “crazy” thrown at me (like after I was assaulted) stings like a motherfucker.

Usually, when I’m depressed I feel sad, out of sorts, have a hard time functioning. But this Friday-Sunday it was beyond that. I spent time with MasterDoc Saturday night, and despite amazing (truly AMAZING) orgasms, I cried as we cuddled after. I just couldn’t stop the tears. He’s one of the very few people I can relax around and just go with what’s going on. And it is amazing how he lets me cry and is just there for me.

On Friday, I felt like my chosen family wasn’t taking the severity of my depression seriously. But a talk with my friend DivaSub made me realize something – I have gotten very, very good at hiding just how mentally ill I can be. That conversation reminded me of one in high school with my best friend. I couldn’t understand how people didn’t know that I was totally miserable and anxious enough for regular panic attacks. My friend pointed out to me that I always seemed happy. I have become TOO good at not letting people know what’s going on inside. I think MasterDoc is the only person who I will let my guard down around and cry because of depression.

Let me explain for those who haven’t experienced it – it’s not that I’m sad 24/7 when I’m depressed. I have ups and downs, but my mood swings wildly and the downs are more frequent and much deeper than normal. I have anxiety that makes me not want to leave the house. I fear that the careful control I have will break down and I’ll be crazy in public. So the best thing to do is avoid being out of the house as much as possible.

I fear getting so mentally ill that I have to take a break from work. I fear that everyone will know then that I’m ill.

I hate the fact that I feel shame over this. I can’t control it. I’m not a bad person. But I have bouts when I’m quite depressed, when my brain isn’t working right and I can’t muster energy for basic functions. I’m sad and teary often. Please remember though, most of the time I feel quite mentally stable. (As I feel right now.) And this is probably true for a great many mentally ill people.

The Good and The Sad originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on October 24, 2011.

MasterDoc and I went to a private party last night. We had partied at this person’s house before, he’s someone MasterDoc has known in the scene for many years. You’d think with my recent weight loss I’d feel like hot shit and all sort of confident. Last time I went to a party there (a couple of summers ago) I had a great time and ate out some cute woman by the edge of the pool among other things. You would think that I’d run with more abandon now that I’m not quite the “fat chick” anymore.

You would think that, but you would be wrong.

This time, there seemed to be a preponderance of hot, young people there. So many pretty women I’d gladly have made out with, but because of my overwhelming anxieties I didn’t get anywhere close. Instead I just saw many of them make out with each other as I yearned from the sidelines.

Social anxiety is something I often have, but I had long prided myself on being the first person naked at a sex party. Talking to strangers is hard, but getting naked and fucking them is not so hard. But last night I was convinced that I look worse now than when I was much heavier. The sagging skin I have from the weight loss got blown out of all proportion in my mind. The fact that I’m nearly 40 and so many women there were in their 20s intimidated the hell out of me. They were fit, with perky breasts. I felt like I’d look horrible in comparison. My clothes were on way more often than they were off.

To add to my mishegos was the fact that many of them seemed to know each other and were comfortable flirting with each other or just diving in. I felt like I was invisible much of the night. I’m sure MasterDoc was right when he told me it was because of the vibe I was giving off. But at the time I was convinced it was because I’m ugly and no one had the least amount of interest in me.

The evening started off okay. I felt awkward from second one, but I chatted lightly with a few people. I’m sure, however, that my social discomfort was showing already. I felt better when MasterDoc and I made out in the corner while two of the guests were serenaded with “Happy Birthday.” I had mentioned that I felt clingy emotionally, and early in the evening it sounded like he and I would get some quality time together, at least for part of the evening. He and I had had some cuddles alone earlier. At one point he took me into a bedroom and we stepped over the people getting it on on the floor and he fingered me to orgasm on the bed. Soon, the couple on the floor were taking over the bed, and as the woman was a pretty, young, firm-bodied blonde I felt soooooo intimidated. I felt like I must look like a sack of shit next to her.

What’s so bizarre is that my sense of attractiveness see-saws like crazy lately. When I did my make up for the evening I felt awesome. Put me around young, hot people I don’t know, and that crumbled. And not everyone there was hot or young. But somehow in my mind I was the ugliest thing on earth.

Things took another wrong turn when I thought perhaps MasterDoc and I were going to really play, but he got distracted setting up the sybian. I truly have grown to fucking hate that machine. It feels amazing to ride, but you try going to party after party with it and sitting around bored and ignored while your Dom gives women rides. I wouldn’t care if people just used it themselves and we merely provided it. But as it gets used at parties now, I HATE that thing.

MasterDoc didn’t mean anything by getting distracted. He has ADD and truly can’t help it most of the time. But in my mental state I just shut down. “Oh this is yet another party where I’m going to be ignored.” When my mood became apparent, MasterDoc focused his attention on me, but then that made me feel like it was just a case of, “Here Nadia, take your vibe, get yourself off while I watch. That will shut you up for the rest of the night.” I could not get into it at all. My view of it was terribly skewed, but arousal was not possible when I felt like such a troll.

Rather than watch the sybian rides and feel bored and left out, I took off on my own. I sat and did stuff on my phone, realizing that if there was any time I was giving off a “Don’t talk to me vibe,” it was probably then. Meanwhile, I would have been thrilled if someone talked to me. A young guy did for a bit. I wasn’t into him and I doubt very much he was into me, but he was at least friendly and nice, so I did my best effort to be chatty and friendly. It was a nice break from sitting alone.

MasterDoc had asked me to check in with him now and then, so I went to the basement and waited until he finished giving a sybian ride, checked in, and then went upstairs. I felt like eating. I mostly stuck to fruit but I had more cake than I should have. I wanted to drown my feelings in food. (Now you see how I got fat in the first place!) I felt so awful about myself, that I didn’t even go for a dip in the pool – and I love swimming. Late in the evening most people were walking around naked or semi-naked and I still had my sun dress on. I felt conspicuous, but I figured I look much better with my clothes on these days. And no one was giving me a second glance.

Yeah, the evening mostly sucked because I was filled with anxiety. What a waste. This morning I could see how I was blowing my body issues out of proportion. Sure, the loose skin is not attractive, but it’s also not as noticeable as I think it is. But around young 20-something women with the perkiest tits this side of the Mississippi, I feel ugly.

One funny point, although I’m not 100% sure that what I thought took place did. I was a bit intoxicated and a few feet away. But some guy started talking to this chubby woman and somehow seemed to think she was the “kinky librarian.” He mentioned seeing the name on the list, and wondering who that was, he wanted to meet her. I think that woman let him believe she was me. And you’d think someone pretending to be me would boost my self-esteem. It was very strange. I was tempted to go over and introduce myself, but then I wasn’t quite sure what went on in that conversation. So, dude, if you’re reading this, I was the mopey, tall brunette who stayed dressed most of the evening.

There was a break in the sybian rides, and MasterDoc and I found a room to be alone in. I got some cuddles, but pointed out that what would have been even better is if he had brought our toy bag along and fucked me silly. He noticed the condoms on the bedside table, and pointed out that we could still have fun without all our accoutrements. He fucked me silly. I was screaming in orgasm. It’s a wonder the whole house didn’t come up to see. He kept me coming and coming and suddenly my body issues melted away while I was enveloped in orgasm. Alas, they came right back after. But he made me feel spectacular, and the sex was the redeeming feature of the evening.

Anxiety is Not a Good Party Guest originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on July 30, 2011.

I’ve been very sad the past day or so as someone I liked a great deal has decided that I’m a liar. This person seems to be suffering from delusions, but as I’m not a medical professional and only know what’s been on their twitter feed, I have no way to know if that’s what’s truly happening. I backed off when things started happening in this person’s life (at first thinking all the stuff was really happening – why would I doubt someone who seemed completely sane? I still suspect that some things this person has asserted really have gone on.) but I would occasionally vaguely mention them in a tweet to indicate that I was a) missing them, b) supportive of whatever was going on, c) worried about them. I hadn’t emailed them in weeks but last Tuesday I sent one. When I didn’t get a response I was left to assume that maybe their email was still compromised in some way.

Let me say as an aside, that my thinking this person is mentally ill is not meant to be a derogatory comment. I suffer from depression. I’m mentally ill. I understand that if someone’s ill it can be hard to see it and impossible to control it. I hope this person gets help – or that I’m wrong about my suspicions of their mental state.

I had backed off reading their twitter because even though I cared about this person I barely knew, I couldn’t do a damn thing and it was really up to them to get in touch with me. I would peek now and then, but wasn’t making sure to read all tweets like I had previously. Imagine my surprise when I looked Sunday morning a few minutes after they had tweeted something directed at me, calling me a liar, saying they don’t think I’m hacked (I never said I was so I don’t know where that came from) and to never email or tweet about them again. Ok. It’s hard to accept that someone I have done nothing wrong to thinks so badly about me, but if someone is mentally ill I don’t think arguing with them would help. So no more tweets, no more emails, and after this one post, no more mention of this person ever. I have no desire to bother someone who doesn’t want to hear from me. I have deliberately kept this explanation vague to give this person as much privacy as possible. I find it strange that they suddenly posted this message to me 6 days after I had last emailed (which was the first time in weeks) and 8 days after I had referred to them on twitter.

But I’m sad. I’m hurt. I’m disappointed. And I can’t do a damn thing but pick up and move on with my life. So I will. If this person happens to read my blog, hey, I’m not a bad person like you think I am but I doubt my saying so will matter. No need to tweet about not blogging about you, I won’t again and I’ve stopped reading your tweets anyway. Good bye and good luck.

___________________________________

So through the sadness I felt as I tried to process this strange turn of events, I reminded myself that I have MasterDoc. At the end of last week depression hit, but considering it was PMDD week, one day of mental illness was quite an improvement over the usual symptoms. (We’ve been playing with my birth control pill regimen – it’s useful to have a Dom who’s a doctor.) MasterDoc happened to be spending a night and morning with a playmate of his, and knowing he was going to the beach with her after I hadn’t seen him in a couple of days, and wouldn’t see him for a few days after just fueled my depression. When my mind goes wonky like that, I find things to obsess over. I focused on, “But he’s my Dom, he’s supposed to take care of me!”

Thankfully, I recognized the depression and I didn’t get angry with MasterDoc (not for long anyway and not when he was home). When he got home that afternoon I was happy to see him, got myself some cuddles and found out that he had in fact been concerned that going to the beach on the last day of my premenstrual issues was not a good idea. But hey, I survived. And spending time with him for the rest of that day was wonderful. It’s wonderful that I opted to shake off negative feelings towards him, and just bask in his affection. My mood improved greatly and my mood evened out enough to make it possible for me to get through the weekend alone without too much angst. (Except the section above.)

I also have fond memories of having sex with him earlier last week. The bond we feel and the way we both know how to touch each other so that the other person twitches with arousal is pretty amazing. Lately I had been having some insecurity thing about him not desiring me any more. That insecurity was mostly squashed after that night with him.

So I’m my usual ball of angst but I’m mostly keeping it in perspective. Time to get back on track with diet and exercise (during the heatwave we had this week I mostly didn’t exercise. The one time I did I thought I’d fall over and pass out with all the sweat I was losing despite being right in front of the air conditioner!), and focusing on the things I can change in life.

What’s Up? originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on July 25, 2011.

As a consequence, when I have had hot sex I haven’t felt like writing about it. Sorry to disappoint you all, but this will probably be just a short summary of the adventures I had this week.

Sunday and Monday nights I got to spend alone with MasterDoc. I was thrilled since recent weeks have yielded minimal time alone with him. The first night, I was struggling with insecurity as big as a football field. After sobbing that I was afraid that MasterDoc no longer had interest in sex with me – I’ll wait while you laugh at that – he fucked me three long times. And each time he pushed me over the edge of orgasm – and kept me going!

Monday night he noticed himself falling into the whole “let’s watch porn, masturbate then fuck” thing he does when he feels lazy. He decided to put more effort into that evening and soon I was laying on the bed blindfolded, with a bondage tape gag. He got good and rough with me. There was lots of biting, slapping, fingering. While fucking he made me feel like a piece of meat in that particular way that makes me love it. I loved the sensory deprivation of having most of my head wrapped up.

I went without sex for a few days. (When will I take the time to find a suitable friend with benefits?) On Friday afternoon, MasterDoc lined up this Dom and sub who we’ve played with before – for the life of me I can’t remember what I’ve called them here. We met them at a hotel and played together. With my depressed mood I had a hard time getting into things, but I did my best. Funny how even when I struggle with arousal I still end up coming and squirting a freakin’ river. Thank you, MasterDoc! After the couple left, we hung out for a little longer and he gave me a beating – something I’ve been in need of but I wasn’t quite in the headspace to enjoy. He then fucked me and I squirted yet again.

Hopefully my mood will continue to improve and I will have more adventures to share and will actually take the time to write detailed entries on them!

Brief Update originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on March 6, 2011.

Certainly, in some ways he is lucky. But when I’ve slipped into depression and not realized that’s what it is, I can be horrible. The other day I just kept complaining and complaining. If my words were to be believed, MasterDoc can’t do anything right. Thankfully, part way through the day I realized MasterDoc was NOT the issue at all – depression was. Still, it was a hard day for him, but bless his heart he was patient with me the whole time, refusing to give up on me even though I could only see life through a negative lens.

I spent a lot of time alone the rest of the day, in one of his bedrooms. He would check on me periodically and DeeDee even popped in to bring me some tapioca pudding. It was a rough day for me because it was one of those rare times when I don’t just feel depressed, I feel crazy. I don’t want to get into personal details, but rest assured I was nuts and feeling miserable. I wanted to hide until I felt sane again.

Thankfully MasterDoc’s patience helped and eventually I started to feel better. That evening he gave me some delicious orgasms and feeling good physically helped me along mentally. The cuddles and his listening to me unburden the crazy thoughts in my head helped even more.

I’ve been feeling potentially unstable since then, but ultimately keeping my shit together. I had a nice weekend with MasterDoc and DeeDee, and Sunday afternoon MasterDoc and I got some time alone when I wasn’t feeling crazy. He had me blow him while he spoke on the phone, and I enjoyed having his cock in my mouth since I hadn’t had it often lately.

A bit later, he had me lay on my stomach on the bed. I lay over a pillow so my back wouldn’t bother me and the throe was between me and the pillow. He bound me down to bed using the under bed restraints.  I’ve sometimes complained that I don’t get enough bondage, and the little bondage fetishist in me was doing a happy dance. He pulled the restraints snug and there was no way I could get out.

He put on my collar, a blindfold, and finally a gag. I have issues with gags that go inside the mouth and unfortunately he chose one. I did my best to remember what he taught me – breathe slowly through the nose. If you breathe too quickly your nostrils pull in and you don’t get enough air. This soon wasn’t enough, however, between a stuffy nose, the blindfold pressing on the bridge of my nose and finally trying to cope with the pain of a caning. It’s impossible to focus your breathing and breathe slowly when crying out in pain.

He didn’t go immediately to the cane, but surprised me by grabbing my ass with one of the vampire gloves I got him for his birthday last year. He swatted my ass with it, ran it up my back. It was a sensation a step away from tickling and a step away from pain. I liked it. He started caning me, and immediately before he checked to make sure I could beg for mercy through the gag. As soon as he asked that, I knew I was in for quite a ride.

He kept caning me past my usual limits. It hurt a lot, but I was able to deal with it because I knew it would end. I knew I would have a lovely sense of calm after it stopped. He would alternate with the vampire glove and every touch was a surprise. Every strike a bit of a shock.

After my ass was well reddened, he grabbed the Hitachi and placed it between my legs. He spanked a bit, I moaned and tried to get my clit in better contact with the vibe. This went on alternating and I could have come quite easily from the vibe but chose to hold off. He took the vibe away and spanked my pussy for a while. Even this was enough to put me near the edge. I finally got out, “May I please come, Sir?” (I had pushed the gag out of my mouth by this point so I could breathe.) He held off a second or two, then let me come. He pushed the Hitachi to my cunt and I kept coming harder and harder.

When he was finished I lay there, still face down, my arms and legs still bound to the bed. It was bliss. I had to ask him to release me a few minutes later because my arms were starting to hurt, secured above my head like they were. He undid my arms and ankles, and I got to cuddle close to him. I love cuddles with him. They feel amazing. Being in his arms was the best therapy I could have. I started this entry talking about how others think he’s lucky to have me, but I know that I’m lucky to have such a wonderful Dom to love and take care of me.

Lucky originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on January 24, 2011.

Mental illness is something that you can’t just wish away. I’m as able to wish away bouts of post traumatic stress as much as I’m able to wish away a bout of diarrhea from ingesting dairy without lactaid. It’s frustrating. My rational brain can grasp the fact that I’m not in danger like I was during the trauma that gave me PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder). It can grasp the fact that MasterDoc takes care of me now, and the same scenario wouldn’t happen again as he would never let it. But the primal brain, the part that was traumatized, can’t be reasoned with and so I go into a bout of panic, anxiety and helplessness as if I’m re-living the the trauma all over again. And again. And again.

Various things can trigger a bout of PTSD and it’s not always (or even often) possible to determine ahead of time what might set me off. I read stories about sexual violence regularly in feminist blogs; I think it’s vital to discuss it and that silence will only perpetuate the problem. But sometimes something hits me just the wrong way, or just on the wrong day, and I find myself struggling with the same feelings I had right after the assault.

What set me off this time was a combination of things: reading comments on a post about outing sexual predators was the big thing. People were telling the survivors that they should always go to the police and that if they didn’t report the incident then they were somehow responsible for the sexual predator attacking the next person (and yet they shouldn’t publicly name and shame the person). This of course is utter bullshit as the only person responsible for the inappropriate behavior of the attacker is the attacker. But it struck me deeply as I agonized for a long time over pursuing legal repercussions after I was sexually assaulted 5 years ago. I worried about the women who could be affected in future by this asshole who was incapable of empathy or taking responsibility for his actions. I ultimately decided not to file a report because in talking to the NYPD I found out that unless they were sure they could convict they wouldn’t even prosecute. At the time people who were there that night were making all sorts of excuses for the guy who traumatized me. (He hosted fun sex parties, no one wanted to be uninvited. From what I hear he still hosts parties. Yes, New York sluts, you may in fact attend the parties of someone who committed sexual assault without remorse.) I felt like I would be completely alone in my accusations, and considering I was barely keeping my head together at that point I knew that pursuing legal action would only serve to damage me more. I also worried about harassment from his friends if I spoke up. (I did receive a little harassment just from speaking up within the circle.) Now, it’s past the statute of limitations (I can’t tell you the agony I went through that year the statute was going to be up. Do I report? Do I not?) but in the past two years a few people have come forward from that night to tell me that, indeed, what that guy did was wrong and they have felt terrible about what I went through. It’s comforting, but I wish they could have spoken up when I could have gone to the police.

As for the guy who did it, well he’s still a part of the sex blogger community. He’s on twitter. He’s on Fetlife. Part of my trigger was thinking about how many of my blogger friends believe his facade of “nice guy” and don’t realize what he did to me. I feel like the world should know, but in this society we protect the perpetrators of sex crimes. Had he hit me, or mugged me, I wouldn’t hesitate to name him. But since it was sexual and I know that being at a sex party when it happened would be enough for the slut shaming to begin, I don’t feel safe hollering his name from the rooftops. Oh privately I have told many, but publicly I’ve been mostly circumspect. I’m sure if anyone questioned him about the incident, he would deftly turn things around and make me look like the bad one. (Just as he did after the assault. Nice guy, huh?)

I’ve heard from someone else that they heard the story of that incident from him and his telling is completely different. In his mind, I was a woman who decided to try to “destroy him online.” I find this rich considering I didn’t name who did it or hint at who did it in the aftermath (for at least 2 years). I merely blogged about the hell I was going through and from this dickhead I got things like emails telling me to stop using him as “blog fodder.” Most readers of the blog I had at that time didn’t know who had done it, so I don’t see how he was persecuted by my trying to process my feelings. (He sure didn’t like the comments people left about what an asshole he was. But these people didn’t know he, specifically, was the asshole.) He refused to take any sort of responsibility for his behavior, and one or two people close to him made excuses (“He was drunk.”) or one even went so far as to call me crazy. I’m not crazy. And this man who did this to me is clearly incapable of empathy. I’m not the only person to observe him and come to the conclusion that he likely has some sort of personality disorder. So while a part of me wants to hear an apology (5 years later and one still hasn’t appeared) I don’t really expect to ever get one, because he is so focused on how this incident affected him. (Isn’t that simply amazing? He traumatized and assaulted me and he feels that he’s the wronged party.) I’ve seen him concoct huge, involved, false stories about people I know because he imagines that they are persecuting him in some way. I’ve heard about others who have spoken out about him who have been incessantly harassed by his minions. Intellectually I know this man will never feel remorse for what he did to me. And this is supremely frustrating because his actions can still affect me deeply 5 years later. When will it stop? I don’t know that the flashbacks will ever stop. I don’t know that the self-blaming will ever stop. I don’t know that my fears of him hurting other women will ever stop. A few years back a woman I was dating turned out to go to his parties. I felt panicked for her because I was afraid if he knew I knew her then he’d do something to her too. That incident was a total trigger for me. I went home and cried.

I’ve spent the past three and a half days trying to distract myself from the feeling of being re-traumatized. But it’s not something that can be simply ignored. I keep going through endless cycles of panic coming on, followed by extreme frustration that I could be happy and having hot sex right about now, but instead I’m feeling violated and fearful. When I’m triggered, I live the trauma all over again. Over the weekend I was psychically in the space where I was during/after the assault: scared, helpless, panicked, angry. I find myself questioning if going to a sex party makes it somehow okay for someone to put a speculum inside you without having negotiated it (or ANY play) with you beforehand. I find myself angry that I didn’t stop him before he put it in my cunt and jabbed me with it. (I had a tender spot inside my vagina for about a year after the event.) But at the time I firmly believed that if I said stop he would stop. He didn’t. And you can’t just jump up and run out of a room with an open speculum inside you. I had to rely on this asshole taking it out of me. With enough panic coursing through me I decided to end things there and then by drawing all attention to what was going on. And while I’m proud of the strength it took for me to do that, I was already traumatized at that point.

It’s been a long trip back from there to where I am now (on most days). It’s taken a long time for me to trust my dark fantasies to MasterDoc. I often fear that someone will use these fantasies against me, like how after the assault someone commented on my blog and cited my talking about using a speculum to see my cervix as an indication that I consented to this guy, who I had never played with before, to use one with me sexually. (Keep in mind any discussion of speculums on my blog were related to viewing my cervix and not at all sexual fantasy-related.) I find myself often afraid to admit to things especially without putting in the caveat that I want to do them “with MasterDoc.” He’s the only person I feel safe enough with to indulge the dark, kinky fantasies I’ve always had.

Simply talking about something does not equal consenting to doing it.

I’d name this asshole right here, right now and link to his blog, only I fear the harassment that would ensue. I’ve dealt with enough hell from this person. Right now about the only thing I can do is hope he dies a slow, painful death. And I hope that I can move past this anger that plunges me into depression whenever I’m triggered.

I write this for me. I write this because I feel better having gotten it out. Douchebag, this ultimately has nothing to do with you. If I wanted to persecute you I’d be going about it in an entirely different way.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on May 10, 2010.

Yesterday was one of those days. I seem to be having more of them than usual lately. I plan to talk to my shrink about medication, because perhaps the regimen I’ve been on for a few years now isn’t working as well.

In a fit of pique, I declared on twitter that I was giving up sex. I’m sure people reading that knew it wouldn’t stick. By the time the day was over I had sex with MasterDoc (entirely of my choosing) and orgasms helped settle me. We’re working on ways to help head off these bouts via beatings (endorphins help), medication, orgasms, and anything else that might help level off or lift my mood. Unfortunately I was a teary, angry mess yesterday before things could be headed off. When I started to gain perspective on the situation (“Oh, I see! This is depression speaking and making everything seem so irreparably terrible!”) cuddles helped a great deal. I cried a lot, started getting depressed about having been depressed (not to mention having been so harsh to MasterDoc). MasterDoc and I laughed about that a bit – the whole getting depressed because I get depressed. It’s silly I know, but I do feel terrible guilt for being difficult when I’m depressed.

I appreciate all the support from my twitter and facebook friends as I rode through the turmoil yesterday. It’s wonderful that people I don’t even really know will offer words of encouragement and support.

That’s why I didn’t get around to blogging about my Sunday evening in with MasterDoc. It was a bumpy night in a way – there was sex, a break, MasterDoc not really feeling like doing a lot but meanwhile I was craving a long night of hard, rough sex. (Been watching too much rough sex porn lately.) He decided that he wanted to come, and we played with ourselves while watching porn. He was going to come on me but the spurts didn’t quite make it to my hip that was laying beside him. I used the magic wand on myself and thankfully MasterDoc gave me a little of what I was craving then. Hand on throat, slapped thighs, I begged him to hurt me. The roughness made me come so much harder than I would have with the magic wand alone.

I can’t wait to try more rough stuff with him.

Mood Swings originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on February 16, 2010.

I’m leaving out the many bits that added up and led to this but I ended up crying hysterically (yes, truly hysterically. I was gasping for air because I was crying so hard) at MasterDoc’s and being totally contrary, depressed and angry for the better part of the day. Bless MasterDoc’s patience. He did all he could to try to shake me out of it but I was unshakable for much of the day. He tried caning, which just pissed me off. *chuckle* He tried a firm hand, taking control, telling me to get my collar and get up and do some chores. That didn’t work. I was so weighted down with depression that I couldn’t move. I really couldn’t move. And when I finally got up to go use the bathroom I struggled to get to my feet and amble down the hall. It was a feeling much like when you’re heavily sick with flu and you feel like you’re moving through molasses.

But he kept at it, kept talking to me. Kept trying to reason with me through my tears. (He’s nothing if not a reasonable, rational man.) Eventually the core was reached – I don’t think I’m worthy of being loved. All the rest is window dressing for this one core truth. Sure there are times when I’m not depressed when I feel worthwhile, but depression makes me feel utterly useless and unlovable. I’ve struggled with this since late childhood.

Sometimes via writing this blog I get people telling me I’m sexy, exciting, wonderful, attractive, etc. At those times the little low self-esteem voice in my head quotes the following bit from a Neil Finn song, Truth:

“They have showered me with riches /and they say that I am worthy of their love and their attention/ but they still don’t know the truth.”

I figure why believe someone who only knows me through the blog? Even though I am extremely candid here someone still can’t know me entirely with all my foibles and full-on flaws. I can’t accept compliments. Not really. I grew up thinking that if I felt good about myself then I was being egotistical and that I should always know my flaws and work on them. (Maybe this is a residual Catholic thing?) When I started coming out of the depression on Saturday, started being more reasonable at least, MasterDoc listed a bunch of things he likes about me; and I didn’t recognize the person he described. I didn’t think it could be me. But at the same time it felt so good to be told I’m loved and wanted.

As I was slowly recovering emotionally, I had a revelation. I finally understood age play. I had always been among the camp of “that makes me really uncomfortable but I won’t interfere with two consenting adults playing how they want to play.” But jeez, Saturday night I wanted nothing more than to be taken care of like a little child. I wanted to abdicate all responsibility. I wanted to be told when to brush my teeth and go to bed. I wanted to be held and petted and told I’m loved. It was a struggle for me to do tasks MasterDoc asked me to do, having any responsibility felt like too much for me to handle. I really felt like I needed to be taken care of. I did get petting from MasterDoc and told that I’m loved, but I didn’t get the full level of being controlled and taken care of. Oh well. That’s not what our relationship is like.

By the next day I was feeling calmer and no longer suicidal. I’ve struggled with dips into depression this week but have ultimately ended the week on a stable note. Wednesday night, while MasterDoc caned me, he made me repeat after him, “I am incredibly lovable.” He made me say it a few times and made me promise that I would remember that. We talked a little about how I came to feel this way when I was young, and having a mother who was moody and wildly unpredictable had a lot to do with it – i.e., one day I’d say “good morning” and she’d be loving and we’d bake cookies, but another morning I’d say the same exact thing in the same exact way and she’d bite my head off. As MasterDoc and I talked, he asked if I had ever tried to diagnose my mother. (I have an educational background in psychology.) I haven’t really, but immediately I said that she must suffer from depression like I do. And MasterDoc wondered aloud if I ever realized that these issues were my mother’s own or if I internalized them and blamed myself. And you know, until last night, at age 37, I never had the thought that these issues were my mother’s, and not my fault. I blamed myself from a young age. I thought that I made her mad or sad.

Somehow, I forget how, he came up with the idea of a time out next time I snap at him – time facing the corner to cool down and think. I think it’s interesting how a lot of what I’m getting out of our relationship in recent weeks is sorta parenting my inner child on things I missed out on when I actually was a child. I don’t doubt that my submission has some roots in wanting to be loved and pleasing. I think it could be really healing to try to please someone who is capable of being pleased for a change.

MasterDoc continued to say wonderful things to me all evening, working on bolstering my self-esteem. I’m trying to figure out how to accept the compliments. He feels a little offended that, in a way, I should think so little of his opinion of me as to not believe it. But it’s not that his opinion is off, it’s that I just can’t think about myself rationally sometimes.

We did eventually have sex, and while I came hard as always (rowr!) I was slow to warm up by that time as he bounced between watching porn on the computer and watching basketball on tv. I had been ready for fooling around after the caning but the sex didn’t come til much later. I didn’t complain, and he pointed out that I’m patient. He fucked me, and the ensuing hard orgasm helped my already improving mood. As we watched an assfucking porn afterward, I told him that it made me want to be fucked up the ass. And yes, he fucked me up the ass then. Very hot. I lay back after each fucking and felt utterly content.

He jerked off to come, and came in my mouth again. I sucked his cock while holding the come in my mouth and gleefully dribbled it out when he told me to. I think this is my current fetish. I hope that he’ll have me rub it over my breasts or something next time.

So as I head into the new year, I seem to be dealing with a bout of depression. Hopefully I will manage to work through it like I always have in the past. Having a loving Dom will certainly help. Having a loving Davey will help too, but I think part of me needs a bit of a challenge when it comes to being loved. I feel like I need to earn it, and Davey loves me virtually unconditionally. Not that MasterDoc doesn’t, but he criticizes constructively and gets me working on improving. I think I need to prove to myself that I have earned the love I receive.

The Depression and Insecurity Struggle originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on January 1, 2010.