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.

Part One of Two ~ The Impossible Wish

I used to wish.

I would wish for love.

I would wish for acceptance.

I would wish that I could matter.

I would wish that I could show someone every part of my soul...

And that they would embrace it.

Not hold judgement on it...

Or run screaming from it.

I would wish for love as though it were a need...

Not an option.

Like air in my lungs.

My insides burned without it.

I was hollow.

I could walk...

Talk...

Smile...

Laugh.

I could not FEEL.

Not happiness.

Not joy.

Not excitement.

Not love.

Only emptiness.

I did not have the sensation of dying...

How can something die,

when it was never alive.

I was an object.

I felt like a fake.

Like a liar.

I would walk around in this human skin,

pretending to be a person...

Constantly apologizing.

For any thoughts or actions that were ever my own.

Though I wanted desperately to be a person,

I knew I never could be.

I was simply less than human.

Unlovable.

Disposable.

Useless.

Worthless.

Hopeless.

HOPELESS.

I did not hope for love.

I have been careful with my words.

No...

I did not hope for love.

But I wished for it.

You wish for the impossible.

You wish when there is no hope.

The Beginning

Once Upon a Time...


There was a little girl who loved her mom more than anything.

The little girl took very good care of her mom.

The little girl made sure to comfort her mom when she was sick.

The little girl would bring her mom blankets and pillows and stuffed animals and a bucket, while she was resting or asleep on the couch.

The little girl would always do what was best for her mom.

The little girl would make sure her mom remembered to eat and drink.

The little girl would answer the phone, and tell whoever was calling exactly what her mom instructed her to say.

The little girl would always protect her mom.

The little girl would collect money from strangers to give to her mom.

The little girl would sneak food from the store into her pockets so she could eat, when her mom forgot to feed her.

The little girl took very good care of her mom.

The little girl was happy with her life.

The little girl was left alone a lot.

The little girl would walk home from school all by herself.

The little girl didn't know the world had dangers.

The little girl protected her mom from bad men.

The little girl could not protect herself.

The little girl became afraid and confused.

The little girl saw magazines on her mom's bedroom floor.

The little girl heard people talk about doing things, like the things she saw in those magazines.

The little girl would stay quiet when those things were done to her, and just disappear until it was over.

The little girl assumed that was just a part of life.

The little girl silently cried at night for her dad to come and take her away, clutching a photo of them together in a silver frame, making sure not to wake her mom.

The little girl got to see her dad on some weekends. He seemed nice.

The little girl continued to take care of her mom, loving her unconditionally, and always protecting her.

One day, when the little girl was seven and a half years old, her dad told her that she was going to live with him from now on.

Starting that day.

That very minute.

It was time for the little girl to say goodbye to her mom.

The little girl begged her dad not to take her away.

The little girl tried to explain that her mom needed her.

The little girl tried to explain that her mom would die without her.

The little girl was keeping her mom alive.

The little girl was keeping her mom safe.

Who would love her mom if the little girl left?

Who would protect her mom if the little girl left?

The little girl hugged her crying mom, and refused to look away as her dad took the little girl by the hand and dragged her back to the car, away from her mom; leaving her to die.

The little girl tried to convince everyone to bring her back to her mom.

The little girl was left to wonder and to worry, all while faking a smile to continue being a good little girl.

For her mom.

One day, after the little girl turned eight years old, she couldn't see life getting better.

The little girl realized she wouldn't ever be able to save her mom.

The little girl blamed herself.

The little girl was left alone with her thoughts, swarming her and circling her like bloodthirsty sharks, constantly biting and making her bleed more in the chaos of her mind.

The little girl saw no end.

The little girl just wanted it to end.

The little girl sat on the hardwood floor, in the corner of her bedroom, placed a plastic grocery bag over her head, and tied it around her neck.

The little girl closed her eyes and waited for the end.

That little girl died when she was eight years old...

And a new little girl was born in her place.

...To Be Continued...