💔 LOST ❤️‍🩹

December 26th 2023 at 6:03 pm

... I sang for the last time.  🎶💔🎶

"Lost" by Linkin Park

As I sang and held that last note, I could physically feel a part of my heart break off, and in my mind's eye, I literally saw it disintegrate into dust and drift ethereally away from me into the void.

A sobbing cry of pain escaped my lips as though I had been punched in the gut.

Singing is my greatest passion.

My talent.

My outlet.

My grounding.

My soothing.

My empowering.

My healing.

I have stage 4A tongue cancer.

- among many other health conditions -

I've been battling for my life since I was diagnosed with cancer back in September 2022.

This year,

I've undergone 35 rounds of Radiation Therapy,

and 5 rounds of Chemotherapy.

Surgery would have been ideal, but unfortunately it wasn't an option for multiple reasons.

I've almost died more than once.

My husband has PTSD from trying to wake me up and genuinely believing that I was dead when he legitimately could not wake me.

More than once.

The nightmares and the flashbacks of those moments absolutely cripple him. 💔

             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My physical pain (and the swelling) has been ridiculous...

In the beginning, my care team explained that I would need heavy pain medications throughout treatment.

I told them that I have a pretty high tolerance for pain, and they were like,

"No one makes it past 3 weeks without needing narcotics."

I shrugged, saying that if I need them, I'll take them.

After multiple weeks (4 or 5) of treatment, my radiation oncologist was using her fingers to inspect and press in my mouth full of blisters (this inspection was routine), and she was talking about how weird it was that I wasn't taking any pain medication, because it should be painful.

I shrugged and told her it's not comfortable, but I can tolerate it. It doesn't really rank as pain to me (since I've had so much worse, chronically).

I reminded her that I have a weirdly high pain tolerance, and she suddenly got very loud, saying,

"YEAH! IT'S WEIRD!"

We all paused and then laughed 😅

(my husband was in the room with us).

It wasn't until a day or two after treatment was finished, that the pain kicked into high gear for me.

I needed heavy narcotics for about a week.

My doctor was practically excited to give them to me, like, "Yes! Finally! Here!"

Then I thought I was getting better.

I wasn't taking anything for the pain.

The tumor on my tongue was gone, and all that was left was the same unhealed ulcer that started this whole thing.

But it wasn't getting worse, and since I have a rare connective tissue disorder (EDS), very slow healing was expected.

I let myself feel good.

I let myself believe I did it; I kicked cancer's ass.

I beat it. It's over.

I felt hopeful for the future again.

I felt strong. 💪

After a few weeks of feeling really good for the first time in over a year, the pain suddenly came back with a vengeance.

Almost unbearably.

And the ulcer started spreading.

And I just knew. 💔

I also had hair loss that wouldn't stop

(a recurring nightmare that I've had my entire life),

so I took control--  and after having natural mermaid waved hair down to my butt for over a decade and a half, I shaved my head.

I've also been dealing with this pain so deeply for these last few weeks that I don't get more than a couple of hours of sleep at a time because it wakes me up,

and I haven't been able to eat more than a couple hundred calories a day, because now I'm having trouble with the mechanics of swallowing.

... I can't rest or get nutrients, so how the hell am I supposed to heal?!

The ulcer in the side of my tongue that refuses to heal now has a "crater" eroding into my tongue.

Recently, my surgical oncologist gently informed me that this is how patients pass away from this cancer.

The crater burrows deeper until it eventually hits a main vein in my tongue and I'll bleed out very quickly.

Surgery is now our only option if I want to survive this.

Her words.

So I'm scheduled for a partial glossectomy, which is doctor speak for removing a good portion of my tongue.

I'll be able to speak again after, with time and training, but I'll always speak "funny", and sometimes people may have difficulty understanding me.

But singing?

...That, I'll never be able to do again. 💔

             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was in the excruciating pain driving home in my car last night for many hours with my music on, and I couldn't sing along because of the pain.

... I remember thinking that it was already over, and I was feeling absolutely defeated.

I could feel the depression creeping in, and I felt the knot in my throat form; simply wanting to cry.

Just then, I heard the instrumental of the intro to the song Lost by Linkin Park begin.

I almost cried for another reason.

Instead, I smiled, and I sang that song with everything I had in me. I put all of my passion into it, fueled even further by my extreme physiological pain, and sang and screamed along with Chester.

It was my goodbye to that part of myself-- the part of me who's survived all these years through so much trauma and was strong and empowered by my voice, and I gave it absolutely everything I had--

physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

And as I sang and held that last note, I could physically feel a part of my heart break off, and in my mind's eye, I literally saw it disintegrate into dust and drift ethereally away from me into the void.

A sobbing cry of pain escaped my lips as though I had been punched in the gut.

             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

🎶 Thank you, Chester, for saving my life so many times when I was younger, and periodically throughout my life.

For being there for my daughter as well, while she was growing up.

For having a raw passion that we could share and feel with you.

Thank you, Chester, for saving me again while I was going through my radiation treatments...

During all 35 rounds, they played your voice through the loud speakers to ground me and to soothe me.

Thank you, Chester, for last night.

For the song that you created and Linkin Park released after your passing.

For allowing me to share in your passion one last time, before it was Lost to me forever. 🎶

             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

❤️‍🩹 Radical acceptance.

Closure. ❤️‍🩹

Now to start the next leg of my journey.

It's terrifying... I hate the unknown.

But I'll survive, because I'll

Always Keep Fighting.

            🖤❤️‍🩹🖤

Part Two of Two ~ Forever In Awe

She found me.

She broke through the barrier in my brain.

It was sudden.

Unexpected.

Intense.

Fierce.

It was as though I had complete amnesia my entire life...

So I believed, without question, when I was told that I was nothing.

Abruptly, I knew.

I knew I had always been lied to.

The amnesia was instantly cured.

It was momentarily disorienting...

...Like waking up from a nightmare.

The burst of anger that I felt was jarring.

It rattled my spirit;

causing an eruption...

...She triggered a volcanic eruption in my previously dead soul.

The anger, at first, I recognized, was not my own.

It was Hers. 

They had stolen the seed that was given to Her...

The seed that would blossom into the person She knew that I was supposed to be.

But before it could take root,

they stole it;

they made sure to destroy it.

So She decided to give me a gift.

A painful one, to be sure...

But a necessary one.

And I am beyond grateful.

In mere moments,

the eruption of my soul,

triggered by Her anger,

transformed my core.

No longer was I hollow.

I was building.

S w i f t l y.

Like an island rising out of the ocean;

made from nothing but crude molten rock.

The heat was like nothing I had ever felt.

This anger that was not my own,

became the foundation of my core.

My SELF.

She cared for me to such an extreme, that She ignited my insides.

Suddenly, I was filled with a knowing.

A certainty...

..."I am loved."

Fiercely.

Unconditionally.

...UNCONDITIONALLY.

I had not earned it.

I had not even asked for it...

I had wished for it;

though I did not expect it.

I am in awe.

She loves me.

She has always loved me.

Until now,

I simply did not have the access required to know...

For that knowledge was embedded in the seed that they had stolen.

    ..........................................

It's been a few years now since the eruption.

The volcano that She gave to me has built my core.

This island that is me, continues to thrive;

creating a healthy, balanced environment that I am refining all the time.

It's a process.

At times it's extremely difficult,

but nothing could make me want to go back to the me that I was before the eruption...

...All I've suffered as a result was absolutely worth it.

I have my foundation now...

And it is unshakable.

I am literally built on Her love for me.

I no longer apologize for the things that I shouldn't.

I no longer tolerate the things that I shouldn't.

I can plant my feet firmly,

stand up for myself,

and forever know...

No matter what anyone thinks...

or says...

or does... 

I am NOT worthless;

~ She is ME, and She has shown me...

I am truly loved.

Healing is a Process

⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️

This post is for my healing. To get it out of me, and make it known. I can't stay quiet, because it's eating my insides. Truth can hurt, but it's still the truth. I'm not here to bad-mouth, and I don't claim to be perfect... But I'm done being a martyr.

For those who don't know, I was married for 17 years to my ex-husband. I was only 18 years old when I had a pregnancy scare, and his reaction shocked me to my core... He hesitated, shrugged, and said, "I've always wanted a family". I expected him to leave. To simply abandon me. But he stayed. No one had ever stayed before. Not my parents, not my family, not my friends, not my boyfriends, no one. So in that moment, my life changed forever. I devoted myself to him completely. I thought that because he stayed, I owed him everything. All I wanted was to make him happy. No matter what it cost me. But I never succeeded. And it cost me everything. I thought this was love. This was the trade off, and I was willing to pay it, because I simply didn't know better. He was faithful and didn't leave me. What more could I ask for?

We met and started dating immediately in March 2002. The pregnancy scare happened that summer. We got engaged in August, and were married in December 2002. Our daughter was born the following December.

Throughout the years, we fought. Daily. Our first fight happened right after we got married. We were screaming at each other, and he mentioned divorce. Asked me if I wanted out. I told him never to say that to me unless he was going to go through with it. And for 17 years, we never said that word again.

We always had the same fight. He would do or say something that hurt me, and I'd muster the courage to call him on it. Then after hours of yelling and crying and begging him to treat me better, to treat me like I mattered, he'd turn it around on himself. He'd tell me that he hated himself for the things he said and did to me, and that his rage was at himself, not at me. That he was always so sorry, and he always promised to try harder, but he never actually did anything to fix it... And every time I'd bring it up, he'd get so angry and then make me feel guilty for hurting his feelings by bringing it up in the first place. He would tell me that he wished he could control it, but he just didn't know how. And that I was making him feel like a horrible husband, over something he "wasn't capable of changing". So I'd spend the next hour or so trying to make him feel better and convincing him that he wasn't a horrible husband, that it was just his words and actions that hurt me. Reassuring him that I knew he loved me. That it wasn't his fault. And that I'd try to deal with it better. That I'd try harder not to let it get to me. For 17 years we had this same fight that ended with him sleeping like a baby, and me crying myself to sleep, stifling my sobs, making sure I stayed quiet so I didn't disturb him. I was so sure that he loved me, and that it truly wasn't in his control... So if I left him or even got angry at him for it, that would have made me a horrible wife, right? So I stayed. I walked on eggshells, always trying to keep him as happy as possible. Always afraid of that fight. But it was always inevitable.

Fast forward to 2016. I had some serious health issues. Multiple surgeries. And there was one surgery in particular that had a massive complication. While on the operating table, I thought I was about to die. As the doctors worked furiously over me, trying to problem solve, I layed there on the table, tears flowing down my face, not knowing if I had minutes or seconds before my death came... So I prayed to God as fast and as hard as I could in that moment. I begged, "Please God, just take care of my husband and my daughter. Please God, just let them make it through this. Please God."

And then I waited to die.

Later that night, I was sitting at home, going through the events in my mind over and over, numb, but terrified. The surgery had to be stopped and rescheduled because of the complication. And I was terrified that I wasn't going to be able to bring myself to go through with it a second time. I didn't know what to do. So my ex-husband came to me, annoyed at my emotional state, and asked me why I wasn't going to bed. So, hesitantly, gently as I could, afraid of his reaction as always, I told him. His response? Angry and confused about why I was so traumatized from the day; he said, "But you didn't die. You're fine." And then he went to bed without me. So I stayed downstairs all night crying, quietly, so I didn't bother him or my daughter.

I had never felt more alone. That was just one example of how he regarded my feelings. I was a burden; unless I was happy, or doing something for him. He claimed to love me, but he couldn't show me. He even had me write out lists to help him, of examples on how he could show me that I matter. There was only a couple things on it really. One was, "If I was crying, hug me. At least try to console me. Don't stand on the opposite side of the room, irritated, telling me you don't know what I want you to do." The other thing he agreed to do, which he never even ended up doing, was, "Once a month, we'll watch a movie that I like, and you'll try your hardest not to complain the whole time." Just FYI, we watched a movie or a show daily. And this was his big compromise; to give me once a month. This was his big attempt to show me that I mattered. And he couldn't even do that.

So far, I just wanted to give you some context on my daily life with him. The mindset. 17 years of feeling guilty and apologizing for things that weren't my fault. Conditioned to believe that this was true love. That everyone fought, but we were faithful. We beat the statistics. Love conquered all. Etc. Etc.

The last few years with him, my self worth grew, as I removed other toxic people from my life. Outwardly, he seemed happy for me. But he was always keeping me under his thumb. Backhanded compliments. Passive aggressive jokes. His insecurities grew as my confidence grew. In the bedroom, he became more aggressive. He knew I wanted the Dom/sub dynamic, and he absolutely loved it. The problem was he didn't know what it entailed, and he didn't care to learn. It wasn't supposed to be about him hurting me. It was supposed to be about trust. He didn't take into account my feelings, my triggers, or even my physical well-being. And he still probably has no idea what the word aftercare even means.

For awhile I just went with it. I couldn't fight him. Not about this. My PTSD wouldn't let me. But he knew me, right? Was married to me for over a decade and a half, and I've always been very open and concise with my communication. If he listened to anything I ever said, he knew me. He knew my issues, my feelings, my needs. He just didn't care, unless it was convenient for him to care. He cared about his orgasm. So many times, he told me that when he's having sex, he can't think, he just acts. He can't control what he does during. And I didn't know any better because I really had no frame of reference.

It got bad. For the last two years or so of our marriage, the bedroom was just a place where I knew I could get an orgasm, but at an extreme cost. I needed the feeling of release, but in the end, it was never worth it.

Countless times, I would lay there, eyes closed, and he'd be on top of me, getting frustrated when he couldn't "get there" fast enough... I'd try so hard to make the noises that you see in porn, just to get him there faster. But in the end he'd usually have to take out his phone, put it next to my head on the bed, and watch porn while he finished. Aggressively. All the while I'd be whimpering quietly, because I couldn't moan anymore, and I'd dry out and rub raw and bleed or get ripped open, and I'd beg him to "please just finish" or I'd say "please tell me you're almost done", trying not to cry. I was a human blow up doll, his cum dumpster, and he treated me as such. Then he'd go to sleep without a care in the world, and leave me to tend to my injuries.

He was proud of himself. He was so big that I would rip open and have to take time to heal. He told me to find ways to loosen up, so it didn't keep happening. I tried. I failed. My injuries didn't matter to him unless they kept me from preforming... They were tangible evidence of his "masculinity", and he thrived on that. He even told me that he bragged about it at work.

After Mitch moved in with us in May 2019, my ex-husband got particularly nasty. Mitch was my best friend. My ex-husband was totally on board with him staying with us, and was even excited to have someone else to play video games with... Until Mitch actually got there. My ex-husband became openly angry and hostile all the time, and much more aggressive, especially in the bedroom.

One day, not long after Mitch's arrival, my ex-husband took me aside and laid it all on the table... He told me that I was HIS. That I belonged to him. He threatened me. He threatened to kill Mitch. He said that would solve all his problems. He said he didn't want me to be anyone else's in any way. He told me that I was supposed to be his 24/7 and to not exaust any energy into anyone else, even my other best friend at the time Heather, if it meant less attention on him.

Then, June 7th 2019, the straw broke the camel's back. We were planning on having sex that night, because I was finally physically healed from our last encounter. However, I was feeling very sick all day, and that night I was exhausted. I told him, with Mitch standing there so there wouldn't be any misunderstandings, that I just couldn't tonight. I told him I was telling him now, because I was about to take NyQuil and didn't want him to try when I was too drugged to do anything. I was crystal clear. I said NO...

That night, in bed... The NyQuil and my physical exhaustion made it impossible for me to really move or speak, but I was painfully aware even though in a fog. He waited until he thought I was out cold, and snuck his fingers inside me from behind before lifting and moving my dead weight leg and inserting himself into me. The things he whispered...

I vividly remember thinking in that moment of shock, "He's actually raping me right now". I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. I would have fought him off, if I could have. My legs were spread out so wide it was killing me, and he pushed ALL of himself inside me, even though he knew I couldn't physically take it all without injuries. I just laid there, completely limp, and he contorted my body however he wanted to. At one point my face was covered by a blanket or a pillow and I could barely breathe... IT WAS LIKE I WASN'T A PERSON. I will spare you from further details about this particular night.

I had to pretend it didn't happen the next morning, because I couldn't admit to myself that it really did happen. But then the very first words out of his mouth in the morning were panicked, saying, "PLEASE tell me you remember last night"... As though he was hoping somehow that I was consenting, to alleviate his guilt and make himself feel better about what he did to me. It was like putting salt on the already festering wound. He then said that he should have known better. As if that made everything okay.

Violation saturated every fiber of my being.

I was a slave to his mental, emotional, physical, and sexual needs. He made me believe my purpose was to please him. And he always made me feel like a failure. It was never give and take. He just took. Until I had nothing left.

He acts like a victim, but he's not the victim of anything besides the consequences of his own actions. I'M the victim. I was blinded for too many years by the fact that he never cheated on me or left me. I thought that was enough. I thought I was LUCKY to be his wife. And that this suffering was simply the price I had to pay to have someone who wouldn't abandon me.

The truth sucks, and I'm sure many people are going to hate me for exposing it. And this isn't even everything. 17 years worth.

Did our marriage have good moments? Sure.

Did we laugh our asses off together? Sure...

Does that excuse the abuse? Should I keep quiet so he can live his life in a comfortable lie, convincing people that he isn't manipulative and abusive, while I suffer daily with extreme PTSD? No.

I'm not saying that people can't change. I am saying that it's NOT okay to be forced into silence when I have every right to tell my story... If for no other reasons than to heal, and to potentially give someone else hope of healing as well.

If you made it through this entire post, thank you for sticking with me; I know it was excruciatingly long.

I needed this. I finally feel like I can breathe.

~ I wrote this on April 18th 2020. And I'm still working hard, daily, on healing. ~

I Wrote This For You

To the woman who is now in a relationship with my ex-husband, this is for you.

You don't know me, but you need to hear the truth before you move yourself and your child across the entire country for a man you don't know.

I've been wrestling with my conscience, trying to convince myself that this is not my business and that I should just stay out of it.

But when I see that someone else who's been a victim is about to unknowingly put herself in another bad situation, my integrity won't let me sit in silence when I have the ability to step out of my comfort zone and warn her.

My goal here is simply to inform you. If you choose to still be with him, that's entirely up to you. I have no ill will towards you... In fact, it's quite the opposite.

I just want to be able to sleep at night without the guilt eating at me knowing I could have said something, and wondering if I could have saved a fellow survivor from additional trauma and pain if I had just spoken up.

Wouldn't you feel the same way if you found out that your abuser's new girlfriend was a past victim like you, and she saw your abuser as her white knight because she didn't know the truth about him and fell for his manipulation? Wouldn't you at least try to inform her? Wouldn't you feel obligated not to stand by and watch it happen to someone else?

Again, you're obviously free to make your own choices, and I respect that.

Please know that I have emotionally detached while writing this, so that I can be certain that my words are all facts untouched by my own pain or bias. I hope you don't take any of this as condescension, as it's only meant to be concise. I figured I have one shot at you really hearing me, so I've put my all into it for you.

Here goes.

I was married to him for seventeen years. I had no self worth. I had no self esteem. He didn't abandon me, so I thought I owed him. I thought I owed him everything. So I devoted myself to him completely. Because he stayed. I told myself that no relationship is perfect, and that I just had to take the good with the bad. Because at least he was faithful.

His temper took it's toll over the years. Our main daily argument was him treating me like I was a burden while telling me he loved me. Actions speak louder than words. So every day I'd walk on eggshells and try to bring to his attention when he hurt me and how we could problem solve, and he would get so angry and it would escalate. I would cry and tell him that I didn't want him to feel bad, I just wanted him to stop hurting me, and I just wanted us to work together to come up with practical ways for him to do so. He would scream and yell and bite himself and hit himself or hit something else and tell me that he hated himself, because he loved me so much and he couldn't help how he was treating me. He claimed it was just the way his mind was and that he wished he could change and that he was a horrible person and a horrible husband and he didn't know why I was still with him.

That would break my heart. Every time. So I'd apologize and tell him I loved him so much and reassure him that he's not a bad husband and he's not a bad person and that everyone has flaws. He'd always promise to try harder. But he never kept that promise.

And every night I'd cry, silently so I wouldn't wake my daughter, trying to keep my suffering to myself, wondering how me asking not to be treated like garbage turned into him making me feel guilty for making him feel bad by bringing it to his attention.

Every night I'd wonder what else I could possibly do to help him. And every morning it was as though it never happened. I'd just deal with his perpetual anger and him lashing out at me "because I was there" since he had no one else to take his issues out on. And I'd walk on eggshells trying not to set him off. All. The. Time. This was the foundation of my life for those seventeen years.

I was conditioned to believe his lies. I was conditioned to cover for him with all of our friends. To laugh it off and smile around everyone like everything was okay. I stood up for him. I made excuses for how he treated me. And I did it all completely alone and with a smile. He wasn't controlling; he wasn't that kind of abuser... He was too lazy to be controlling. He wanted me to do and to be everything for him. So I was forced to make all the decisions and to live only for him. He wanted someone to take care of him and to worship him. And I did.

I thought I was lucky. I thought this was just what love was, and I was just a freak of nature because I cared so deeply for him. No one loved anyone as deeply as I loved him, and I was okay with that.

And it nearly killed me.

Then a handful of years ago it got worse.

Our sex life became much more active. He was always rough, and he always hurt me. He said it wasn't on purpose, and that is just how guy's brains work... That during sex they don't think, they just do, so they can't really control what they're doing mid-sex. And I didn't really have a frame of reference, so I believed him. I tried to go along with everything but I always ended up ripping open and having damage and physical injuries down there from sex with him. I did my best to physically heal each time, always searching for new remedies to help me heal faster so he could go again. And the cycle continued.

In the last year of our marriage, the sex got really bad. I can't count how many times I had to look away and fight back tears as I begged him to please hurry up and finish because I just couldn't take the pain. How he had no problem with the fact that I was in pain and continued pounding away until he got his orgasm. How he was irritated if he ever needed to stop. And how he scolded me for squeezing my thighs a little to save myself some extra pain and ripping from his impact. He got annoyed and said it was like I was pushing him away and forced himself harder to go all the way in, despite my yelps.

Then he'd watch porn on his phone next to my head so he could ignore me so he could finish and orgasm. He always asked if he could before doing so, and I always said yes, because whatever worked for him I was willing to do.

He became more and more aggressive sexually. Then my best friend moved in with us because we were helping him get on his feet.

And he lost his mind.

He became suddenly jealous and paranoid and violent. He threatened to kill my best friend because he said it would "solve all his problems". I thought he was just being a guy up until this point and I was doing my best to help reassure him that he was being silly.

But that was too much.

He threatened to kill my best friend, and he threatened me, and other unspeakable things.

He told me it wasn't even because my best friend was a guy. He said he just didn't want my attention divided. He wanted me to go back to just living for him and being whatever he needed. His words.

Then, the straw that broke the camel's back.

He raped me. I said no. And he did it anyway. I'll spare you the triggery details of that horrific night because I re-live it enough. I still wake up more often than I care to admit screaming bloody murder and thrashing until my current husband holds and soothes me enough to bring me back to reality, reassuring me that he understands me and he knows it's going to take time to heal and validates my PTSD.

Even wiping myself can cause me to trigger and get launched into a debilitating sensory flashback.

There's so much. Too much. It was literally Stockholm Syndrome. I wasn't kidnapped, but I was manipulated and brainwashed into believing that abuse was love, and into feeling guilty for ever standing up for myself. All our friends and family abandoned me. He chose to play the victim. He fully admitted what he did, but he claims it was an "accident". But it wasn't. I said no (in front of a witness, by the way), and he did it anyway. He's a good liar. He manipulates people's heartstrings so they feel so bad for him because his horrible ex-wife (me) is apparently the bad guy. I still don't know how those people sleep at night, but I've moved on, regardless of how much it hurt to be abandoned by everyone who ever claimed to care about me when I literally did nothing wrong... except finally stand up for myself.

I'm far from perfect and I don't claim to be... But I'm not a liar and I'm not a cheat. I put my all into that marriage and it nearly killed me. At the end, I actually feared for my life. There's so much more to say, but it would take more than a blog post to write it.

As a survivor, I'm passionate about helping others who've been through trauma, because it gives my own traumas purpose. I am passionate about taking the knowledge and experience I have that came from my personal traumas and healing, and using it to help other victims / survivors... It brings me peace and adds to my healing.

So please, really listen and process everything that I said here. Then choose how to move forward for yourself and your child.

My inbox is always open, but I understand if you don't use it. I'll never think bad of you, no matter what you choose.

I truly hope you find the peace that you deserve.

🖤❤️🖤

Hospital Visit

I felt a sudden, excruciatingly familiar sharp pain in my gut. I called my doctor, and anxiety began to build inside me; I already knew what she was going to say.

I compartmentalized my anxiety, getting into a strictly factual mindset, preparing for what was to come.

As expected, my doctor told me I needed to go to the emergency room.

My anxiety controlled my physiological reactions, yet my mind stayed sharp and logical.

With my husband by my side, I could face anything.

We arrived at the hospital, and there was no one in the waiting room; it was very quiet. I was glad that at least they were not busy.

The check-in process was fairly straightforward. Weight, blood pressure, temperature, the routine questions of "what brings you in", etc.

I explained to the triage nurse the pain I was having, and that my doctor sent me. I explained that I had a recent history of ruptured ovarian cysts, the last time with ovarian torsion, and that this felt identical to those other times.

The triage nurse took note of everything, and escorted us back to the room where I would be seen by a doctor.

The triage nurse instructed me to remove my shirt and bra, and to put on the hospital gown.

I then sat on the narrow hospital bed, while my husband sat in the chair, and we waited.

It was so quiet.

After some time, a different nurse came in with the items for setting up an IV.

I looked at the nurse nervously and asked if it was necessary, since all I should have needed was an ultrasound.

The nurse simply stated that she had to.

Reluctantly, I explained to the nurse that my veins are very difficult. That even if the nurse tried, she may not succeed at getting blood out of me, let alone get a successful IV into me.

The nurse asked to try, and I agreed, hoping this time would be different.

It wasn't different.

The nurse apologized and said she'd send someone else.

Unease started to grow inside me, as I sat with my husband in the quiet hospital. He was so attentive and reassuring; it was the only thing that kept my anxiety at bay.

We waited for a long time.

It was so quiet.

Finally, the doctor came into the room. A female, with a very busy energy coming off of her in waves.

I flinched back mentally, unsure as to why the doctor seemed to make my unease worse.

I shook it off.

The doctor told me to lay down so she could examine my stomach. I tried to explain to her where the pain was, but she cut me off, asking me if I've ever had surgery on my abdomen.

My unease grew.

I told her that I no longer have a uterus, cervix, or fallopian tubes. I told her that I had a c-section years ago...

I got cut off again as the doctor answered her ringing phone, while continuing to press robotically in all the wrong places on my stomach; never apologizing or even acknowledging how unprofessional she was being.

The doctor stepped back, hung up her phone, and was about to leave. Ignoring me.

She then stopped and absentmindedly said to me, "So, no abdominal surgeries?"

I was dumbfounded as I corrected her, "Um, no, plenty actually..."

I had to explain all over again that I had a c-section, and a hysterectomy, and other surgeries before that because I had CIN3.

The doctor cut me off again, seemingly annoyed now, and asked, "What's CIN3?"

I looked at her, baffled, and tried to say, "Cervical Intraepithelial Neoplasia, Grade 3", but got cut off again halfway through saying Intraepithelial, by her saying, "Oh. I've just never heard it called that before."

I was irritated with the doctor now, and said, "Well that's all that medical professionals ever called it around me."

She ignored me again, and rushed out the door.

The unease I felt got much more intense.

After another long wait in the too quiet hospital emergency room, a new nurse came in. This nurse told me that she needed to start an IV because the doctor wanted to do a CT scan.

I asked why, since a simple ultrasound would have worked just fine for the problem I was having.

The nurse didn't answer my question, but proceeded to try to convince me to just do it.

I explained that, though I'm not a doctor, I do know my body and my repeated experience with this particular issue, and an ultrasound always works to see and diagnose it.

Not to mention the lack of radiation with an ultrasound.

I continued to ask... Since my veins wouldn't cooperate, and we could save time and resources and money, why wouldn't they do the ultrasound? I even said that if they HAD to, AFTER the ultrasound (IF it was somehow a different issue than the one that was being presented), that I'd do the cat scan.

But ONLY if it was absolutely necessary.

The nurse left, and we waited once again.

The quiet didn't help my unease.

After awhile, the doctor barged back into the room.

She looked at me and said with a bit of a sneer, "So the nurse tells me you're refusing treatment."

"No. I'm not." I said, caught off guard by the doctor's aggressive statement.

I said that I was willing to do an ultrasound, and only if it came back negative would I do the other tests.

My unease flaired.

I added that I didn't want to waste time and resources and money unnecessarily.

The doctor glared at me and told me I was going to be there for the next few hours, so I may as well just get the blood work done in that time.

Not bothering to explain that I was referring to the doctor's time to use wisely, not my own time, I explained again that I know my body and getting blood drawn is such an ordeal; why would I put myself through that unnecessarily?

She seemed exasperated and said that even if the ultrasound came back how I said it probably would, she'd still want my blood. That it was just practicing good medicine.

I asked why. They never needed my blood before for this.

She said if it was worse, that if the ovary was torsed, they'd need blood.

I told her it WAS torsed the last time.

She said that rupturing and torsion are different things.

I told her it was both.

She said, "Look I'm not calling you a liar, but..."

I cut her off this time. "Do you want to go look at my records? Because it's all in there."

I continued to explain to the doctor what happened to me, and she just stubbornly attacked everything I said.

She stared me down and said, "If you're worried about me being able to draw blood, I can go between your legs right now and take it from your groin."

There was so much aggression in her voice and words, that I physically flinched back this time.

My husband sat forward in his seat. He did NOT like the way this doctor was treating me.

It was too much. I quietly said, "Um. NO." Unable to think of anything else.

She threatened me.

She threatened me.

I quickly said that I would think about getting the other tests done, as she left the room.

The second she was gone, panic flooded through me. It was difficult to think clearly, though not impossible.

I kept whispering, "I don't want to be here. I want to go home." Over and over.

I turned to my husband, the unease coursing through my veins at full force now, and begged for us to go.

I couldn't stay another minute.

I felt UNSAFE.

Something was very wrong. I didn't know what it was, but my instincts were SCREAMING at me to RUN.

After promising my husband that if the pain got worse I'd go to another hospital, I threw on my bra and shirt as fast as I could.

As I was trying to get out of that room, a man pushing an empty wheelchair stood outside my door.

The ultrasound tech, I assumed.

I wouldn't be stopped now. I scrambled to say, "I can't.. I just can't.. I have to go!"

As I bolted, I avoided eye contact with everyone; desperate to escape.

I felt like I was in a horror movie, my adrenaline pumping hard, just wanting to feel safe again.

Once in the car, I apologized to my husband over and over. He was so reassuring and nurturing, telling me that I had nothing to apologize for.

I can't explain it. I don't know what it was. There was something very wrong with that doctor.

I WASN'T SAFE.

I know it's not rational. I knew logically, as it was all happening, that there was no reason for me to be afraid.

But my instincts were SCREAMING. I knew something very bad would have happened to me if I didn't get out right when I did.

And I've LEARNED not to ignore my instincts.

3 Key Reasons Why BDSM is Not ABUSE ~

~ First and foremost, CONSENT. Period. I'm so sick of hearing things like, "The girl who likes to be choked during sex is the same girl who cries when you yell at her."

The willful ignorance of that statement is astounding. The only exception being if that girl verbally expressed to you beforehand that she wanted you to yell at her with the sole purpose of making her cry, you both were comfortable with the scenario, and had agreed upon safe words that would immediately stop the session / scene if either one of you needed to, for any reason. I'm not judging anyone's kinks here, so if that's for you, go for it. Although, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that is not the context of what that statement is referring to.

~ Second, SAFE WORDS. These are words (or any verbal / nonverbal form of communication) that were agreed upon by both parties prior to engaging in a session / scene. If you are a 24/7 lifestyler like me, these words are in place all the time, with reminders that they are there before a session / scene.

Safe words exist for the purpose of, you guessed it, safety. Physically, but also (and often shamefully overlooked) emotionally and psychologically. Safe words are an emergency brake. If for any reason whatsoever, you need to stop, simply use your safe word. If the Dominant is a true Dominant, He will immediately stop the session / scene and go into Aftercare. It does not matter how intensely He was into it, or how close He was to His orgasm, etc, He will stop and take care of your needs. Being a Dominant is something that requires a level of self control that I don't know many people to possess.
However, trusting someone to be your Dominant who does not possess the skill of self control in those situations, can be incredibly dangerous... For both of you. So please vet your potential partners carefully, just as you hopefully would for any relationship.

Submission is a gift that can only be given willingly... When control is taken, that's not submission. That's ABUSE.

Talking to your partner is incredibly important. Discuss things you are and are not comfortable with doing. Set limits. Specific and detailed boundaries. Misunderstandings and assumptions can be relationship killers. So much pain is completely avoidable, if you just communicate as clearly as possible.

Safe words can also be very helpful with communication in day to day life with your significant other in a 24/7 dynamic, especially if either of you have PTSD or come from a past where you have been abused in any way.

BDSM doesn't have to only focus on the sexual. It's about trust; and for some people, like me, it can be incredibly healing.

I've been told more than once by people in the "vanilla world" that they are shocked that I can engage in a BDSM relationship considering the abuse I've suffered in my past. So I'll touch on that real quick, since I'm here...
My Dominant earned my trust. He began as my Best Friend. I trusted Him with my life well before being in a relationship with Him. Want to know HOW He earned my trust? By consistently being the Man He claimed He was. By making promises and keeping them. By standing by His word, and having integrity unlike any degree I've ever witnessed another person having. By apologizing when He makes mistakes, and then taking active steps to make sure they don't get repeated. By acknowledging His "flaws" and not being complacent with them.
So I gift Him with my submission. He earned my trust, so I gladly expose my throat, knowing He could easily take my life from me, but trusting Him not to. Not hoping He won't... Trusting He won't.

The surrender of trusting someone so completely, knowing with such certainty that they cherish you and your needs above ALL else, brings with it a euphoric happiness so intense that it cannot be put into words.

My Dom (who also happens to now be my husband) is hyper aware of any little face or movement or sound that I make and adjusts accordingly; before I even have time to use a safe word. Even outside of the bedroom. I asked Him once how He knows to do that. He simply said it's because He studies me. He genuinely cares. He's always trying to make sure my needs are met, psychologically, physically, and emotionally. And all I want to do is put Him first in every way. To make Him as happy as I possibly can. 24/7.

The last thing I'm going to say about safe words, is yes they are necessary. Human error is a thing. Your Dom can absolutely go too far or hurt you completely by accident. It can happen. Having safe words in place is just good sense. A smart trapeze artist still uses a safety net. This doesn't mean he doubts his skill, it just means he can focus on his art and enjoy it more without the anxiety of possible human error ruining it for him, because he knows the net is in place.

~ Third, AFTERCARE. This is so important, and so many people don't even know what it is. Aftercare in BDSM is the period of time after a session / scene in which your Dominant attends to your physical, emotional, and psychological needs, whatever they may be. Everyone is different, so this may vary from person to person. Contrary to popular belief, Dominants can need Aftercare as well, although it doesn't seem to be as common.

My personal Aftercare involves my Dom snuggling me and slowly rubbing my legs / arms / back / tummy with light pressure, all while going over the passionate details of our session / scene in a low soothing voice in my ear. He tells me how much He loves me, and He validates every part of me. After roughly 20 minutes of this (the length can be longer depending on the intensity of the session / scene and my needs), we get up and he attends to any physical pain I may have (again depending on the session / scene).

Aftercare isn't one sided for us. I love to validate everything He says and does with as much love as my heart can give without bursting at the seams.

The intense depth of Aftercare can sometimes bring me to tears... The purity of that joy is extraordinary and profound.

~ It's easy to be taken advantage of if you are inexperienced or uneducated in this lifestyle. Please know that if you or your partner (either Dom or sub) don't respect the other's needs and/or limits, or one of you fears the other for any reason, that is not BDSM. That's ABUSE. And that is NOT okay.

If you just want people to submit to you because you crave power or control, you are not a Dominant. You are an asshole. A true Dominant cares for His sub's needs more than His own and cherishes her... He doesn't take the gift of her submission for granted, as He knows she has the power to take it away.

BDSM is definitely not for everyone. But if you feel it IS for you, please educate yourself and stay safe.

Healing From Eggshells

I'm sitting next to you on our little couch; our lunch on the table in front of us. A peaceful calm begins to settle within us as we're about to enjoy our meal together. You reach for something on the table...

Suddenly, a soft thud ricochets in my ears as your drink is knocked over... and I freeze. My body completely stiffens, and I'm as unmoving as a statue. My breathing is shallow and quick, but silent. My pulse is racing. My bulging eyes stare at the thick orange liquid as it oozes slowly, consuming the black tabletop wherever it spreads.

You're already in motion, calmly trying to clean up the spill. I can barely breathe. I watch you, my eyes wide and unblinking, as you soak up the liquid with a towel. I mentally remind myself -- you're not HIM. I tell myself to watch you carefully as you clean up. ~Breathe~ Observe. You're not angry. You're not being aggressive. ~Breathe~ You're simply cleaning up a spill. Calmly. My pulse is still racing. ~Breathe~ I can't move.

You see me and immediately register what I'm going through; and I hear your soothing voice. You tell me that you're okay. That you're not angry or upset. ~Breathe~ You keep reassuring me in soothing tones.

You sit back down next to me, and I'm still frozen with fear. Panic. Still not blinking, tears start to flow down my cheeks, and I realize that I'm shaking from head to toe. You keep gently telling me that you're okay. You're trying to soothe me. Somehow, I find the will to move enough to slightly nod. Over and over I nod, unable to stop this silent crying.

Finally, I manage to shudder broken whispers of "I'm sorry" again and again. You hold me close, wipe my tears as they continue to fall, and softly tell me that I have nothing to be sorry for. That you know it's not about you, that it's my mind still adjusting to my new normal. That my physiological reactions to any triggers aren't my fault. That you love and understand me.

Your voice, your tone, your touch, your loving energy, your words... your words bring me back. You quell the irrational panic within me, and I can breathe again.

I take some deep, cleansing breaths, and I remember that I don't have to walk on eggshells anymore.

Real love doesn't hurt, it heals.