Posts tagged depression
On the Unsexiness of Being Neurodivergent

Depression is an asshole.  It’s full of lies and unnecessary cruelty.  It tries to get you to believe you’re worthless or pathetic or why bother with anything. Might as well just sit in a dark room binge watching True Blood (obviously totally hypothetical example) rather than going out and doing something, anything.  Why bother when everything is hopeless crap?

But Allie Brosh describes depression better than I ever could so go read her hilarious and sadly all too accurate depiction of depression here  and also here.  Especially if you’ve never experienced depression yourself.  Spoiler alert it’s not just being sad and no I can’t just get over it. 

It’s okay I’ll wait and watch dog videos while you go read.

Okay, you back with me?  So that evil depression demon is why I haven’t been writing even though I have more free time than I know what to do with these days. When my brain chemistry was cooperating I dreamed of endless stretches of days to write or practice rope.   But now that I have them I just sit and stare at walls and pretend to be okay whenever my work from home man friend wanders into the same room I’m currently sitting in while I contemplate the worthlessness of my existence.

Haha look at me watching puppy videos!  Let me tell you a funny story about what the neighbors just did!  Would you like to hear a ditty!? See I’m fine, everything is fine!  Fine, fine, fine you can go back to your office now!  (Spoiler alert #2, trying to pretend to be okay for your friends is exhausting as all hell.)

And as soon as I’m unobserved I go back to my black hole, remembering when I used to have interests and hopes and desires and, you know, a sex drive.  And once I realize how much time I’m wasting feeling well nothing I fall into a loop of hating myself for wasting all this time. So I just end up deeper in the hole.  Some days I can drag myself out of the house to see another human or to run an errand that involves speaking to someone and that’s a huge win.  To celebrate I come home and lay in a dark corner (well as dark as I can find, it’s summer in Portland which mean its constantly sunny and 100 degrees which isn’t helping.  It’s like the sun is shaming at me. “Look at all this brightness I made for you!  Remember how you wanted sun instead of rain well you have it, go enjoy it you ungrateful jerk!”) because going outside for a couple minutes has taken up all my energy for an entire week.

So in this weird head space the last thing I want to do is be sexy or think about sexy things.  My libido is in there somewhere, occasionally it will pop up and insist I masturbate furiously to some thought or situation I ordinarily wouldn’t find at all interesting.  It’s as if my body knows I’m in a sex desert and needs to do whatever it can to manipulate the situation to make an orgasm happen however it can.  Sadly these rare burst of lust rarely happen when the man friend is interested or available.  Cue another spiral of angst, I can’t even be a good sexually available girlfriend.

It’s not a fun place to be as an erotica writer.  Somehow it feels like going to a sexy place for inspiration is even harder than writing anything else would be.  So I haven’t been writing or doing anything creative really.  Even practicing rope has felt like a chore. 

That’s where I’ve been, why I haven’t been blogging or showing up to events.  The sadness that started after the election, just never got better, then life happened and the sadness and hopelessness and feeling of why bother when the world is so very fucked turned into legit depression. And I’m not sure how I’ll get out of this hole of ennui but I know I will, I have before and I will again. I’m not sure what the catalyst to start hoping again will be, maybe it will be a kernel of corn under the fridge, but probably not.  But I’ll keep trying to find my old self and hope for the best.

I see little glimpses of my sexy sassy self sometimes.  Like at the small rope party I had for my birthday.  It ended up just being my fella and my two kinky besties but it was perfect.  I didn’t have high hopes for feeling up to tying, I just practiced some things on the man friend and thought that would be that.  But when Sock Girl showed up all smiles and silliness even though her life isn't 100% sunshine and rainbows at the moment either, I got inspired.  Damn the brain weasels, I was going to have a good time and show her a good ropey evening as well!

So I put a boring not very creative TK chest harness and hip harness on her for a mean partial suspension.  Just wanting to enjoy the rare moment of having a hard point to use, not needing to do something new or pretty.  My only goal was to have fun with her and make sure she got something out of the scene.  And since I know she likes mean, I was pretty cruel to her, so much so that in her attempt to hide the leg I was tormenting she turned things into a full suspension. 

I hadn’t planned in that and felt a moment of dread, thinking I’d ruined everything and hurt her.  But instead she was smiling and giggling our rope giggle of “that hurts and I love it you horrible wonderful sadist.”  The rope was perfect, it supported her, I know how to tie if I just had more opportunities to practice suspensions I would know that.

So she dangled there and we laughed at each other.  There she was in a TK suspension.  When we first started doing rope a zillion years ago she couldn’t stay in a TK for long and I was too shy to attempt suspensions.  Now look at us!  Just two gals having a momentary tough time, defying the evil brain chemical liars to have the best rope time ever. 

I’m super grateful to her and that moment.  It gives me hope.  I’ll keep chasing those little moments until maybe everything isn’t hopeless bullshit.

Life is Just One Big Ole Trigger Warning

The first time I was raped, a man kept me in a hotel room for three days, violating me in every way possible.  The graphic details aren’t important, it doesn’t help anyone to know how many times he held me down and in what positions.  What is important is that I was scared.  So scared that he didn’t have to physically hold me hostage, I came back to the hotel each day to endure hours of violence “of my own free will.”  Is what he said.  He also said, “If you don’t show up I’ll tell your parents what a whore you are.” 

He had a lot of threats, that’s the one I remember all these years later.  I believed him. He knew where I lived, worked and went to school.  So I showed up and like a statue lay there while he took what he thought I owed him for being female.  This was only the third time I’d been naked with a man so he also took my ability to think of sex acts as intimate or arousing.   

Later my mother found a piece of paper with a rape support line written on it and cornered me. “What’s this? Who did it?” I said his name.  “That’s what you get for hanging out with older men and going to hotels with them. What did you expect?”  She took the number from me and closed me in my room to cry. 

When I told my then boyfriend he asked, “Why did you cheat on me? I don’t know if I can forgive you.”

So of course I thought it was my fault.  For two years I went ahead and slept with anyone who looked in my direction.  I deserved to be used, I was worthless, a whore, just a body to be used.  I got no pleasure from sex; not with these random encounters, not with boyfriends, not with tender female lovers.  It was all penance I was paying with my body, hoping one day to have fucked away the memories of that man.

My male roommates seeing the parade of one night stands stage whispered from just outside my door so I would hear, “Her legs are like a map; spread wide open and impossible to fold closed.”  Laughter. 

Later one of those boy roommates would threaten to kill me with a machete and send an email full of nude pictures he’d found while going through my things to everyone in our creative writing group.  All because I wouldn’t sleep with him.  He was owed it after seeing everyone else in school have a turn at me after all.  When I refused to live with him any longer I was an over reacting bitch.

The second time I was raped was by a man I was learning rope from, he was sexy and fun until he decided to take the one thing I didn’t want to give him.   There was no rope the night he put himself inside me, the event so shocking I didn’t struggle, simply left as soon as it was over.  After all the intensely physical and consensually rough scenes we’d shared it was the tenderness of the act, the lack of bondage or sadism that hurt the most.

We had been intimate for months without any hint of this.  He was a rope pro, everyone in town loved learning from him and going to his parties.  So did I.  This was a decade into my exploration of kink.  One of the things I enjoyed most about BDSM is the focus on negotiating, boundaries and consent. Finally I was enjoying physical intimacy; kinky sex and play made me feel safe.  Especially when this man declared, “Don’t worry, I have no interest in your cunt.  You couldn’t handle the chi of my penis anyway.”  A joke to let me know how safe I was with him.

He went ahead and stuck it inside me anyway.  And when raping me wasn’t enough he went ahead and ruined my reputation in the kink world through the typical “he said, she said” bullshit as well. No one wanted to believe me, I was the crazy ex. He had a venue, taught classes and had been around for years, I had nothing to offer other than my story and that was easy to ignore it. 

When other women spoke up, dozens of us, it was harder to ignore but he still taught, I got the side eye for ruining the rope community in Portland. I stopped playing, I couldn’t even trust kinky folks.  I was the rope slut who didn’t do rope.  Later he rapes a famous rope bottom at a famous conference and people get interested in my story.  He’s run out of the scene, the rope community gathering around with bamboo pitchforks and hemp nooses.  She shouldn't have had to go through that, (none of us should have) his time in the scene should have come to an end the second one person spoke up.

In the aftermath people say, “Oh I believed you all along.” 

I get a lot more selective about who’s allowed in my life and my bed.  So no surprise the scent of trauma and pain on me makes me a perfect victim for a narcissist.  He swoops in with love and lust and big protective papa bear arms.  He’s going to heal me with consensual sex and this unbreakable bond we have.  Oh it’s sexy and exciting and he’s the only thing in my life: he’s that bright and shiny and comfy.  We understand one another like no one else could ever understand us.

Until he leaves me for his next victim.  It’s only after therapy and SSRI’s that I realize he had made sure he was the only thing in my life on purpose.  Cut me off of from everyone else to better manipulate and gas light and break me into some sad suicidal victim.  #3: soul rape.

The fourth time I’m only almost raped.  He’s drunk.  “But I have a condom!”  He wines.  I push him away from my held open legs and torn stockings, my friends watching, knowing I can handle this, I need to handle this on my own. He cries like he’s the victim, as if I was the one that had a hand on his throat a minute earlier.

He goes home with his partner, my friend, and takes it out on her with cruel words.  We’re strong, smart, capable women but she can’t get away from him and I don’t stop her from going home with him while he’s that drunk and angry.  I’m a terrible friend, I saved myself that night but not her.   

She’s free now and we promise one another, “Never again, never men like that, we’re worth so much more.”  We’re a pack of fierce women looking after one another now, there’s safety in numbers and in unconditional sister love.

The fifth kick in the gut is an email from the person that’s supposed to be protecting my manuscript.  About one of my early explorations with kink that didn’t go perfectly she confronts me with the metaphor “So, if a dude walks up to me and punches me in the face, even if my nose isn't broken and I'm not traumatized by it...it's still assault.” 

As if she gets to define trauma for me.  As if I need more hurt in my life. As if I haven't experienced enough pain to know what is and isn't trauma. As if it’s her or anyone’s place to tell me or anyone what I should be troubled by. 

This book is my gift to the world, to all the sad or lonely souls who are suffering and don’t know yet that they aren’t to blame.  I want to garner more healing and love in the world.  There’s enough suffering and pain. Every day is a struggle to lift someone up, to make good from the cruelty of suffering and death.  Sometimes all I can do is lift myself out of bed and I call that success.

But here is another women trying to take me down a peg instead of lifting me up.  Adding to the weight of the world.  Cutting a sister down at the knee for no good reason.  I’ve known so many women like this before and I’ve called them mother, metamor, lover, self.  So much violence for women and here we are heaping more on one another.

I say no thank you to anymore of that. 

To those of people that instead of being led by their fear or by their empathy-less logic, chose to be guided by their hearts, the ones who share words, space and open arms I love you.  Let’s not let the triggers of the world get us down. I don’t need anyone telling me what should hurt.  I don’t think anyone does.