Tag Archives: therapy
The first time I ever thought about sharing anything in Alcoholics Anonymous was at an open discussion meeting and there were two topics. I have no recall what the first topic was but I sure remember the second which was, “having a hard time sitting with feelings.”
It wasn’t a round robin style meeting so I sheepishly raised my hand, which was the hardest thing to do being riddled with social anxiety. However, the desire to get this out of me was stronger than the fear of whatever people might have thought after I spoke.
I began speaking. I told everyone in that room that I did not know how to live life without trying to change the attenuation of my emotions, be it trying to intensify them or tone them down. Still other times I was flagrantly running away from them through multiple substances and behaviors.
Then I began listing them one by one trying to be as honest as I could:
“I’ve self-medicated using alcohol, marijuana, food, sex, relationships, compulsive cleaning, compulsive shopping, compulsive exercising, workaholism, surfing the internet, rocking out to loud music, speeding in fast cars and last but not least when all else failed isolating from people.”
Then I noticed the room was so quiet I could hear a pin drop. I wondered if I had shared too much. I felt my face feeling red and hot. My mind raced like it always does projecting what people may be negatively thinking about me. I wanted to crawl out of there.
I closed out with “thank you.” It wasn’t until the next person began sharing that my face stopped feeling as hot. I felt more honest that day, as if I had released a giant weight. It’s one thing to unburden oneself in the privacy of a therapist’s office and have them normalize my behavior but it felt like a more genuine process in front of peers. You never know if you can trust a shrink, after all they are getting a paycheck. I wasn’t sure the response I would get, if any.
After the meeting ended 5 people approached me to shake my hand and thank me for my share. I was taken aback. One of them, who later became my fiancé said,” thank you so much for your share, you just shared my exact story.”
I’ll never forget that day. That was the day I felt like I wasn’t the only leper anymore.
I try and pinpoint the exact moment when I realised that my emotional movement was being controlled by his dark choreography. I wasn’t aware until the merciless incessant tugging, left me tangled in the cords, unable to move.
It was then I knew, I was dancing for the Devil.
Liberation first begins with the realization one is captive.
I cut the strings.
I am bound no more.
To all the girls and boys out there who have become insidiously ensnared.
Freedom is within your reach….it always has been.
Clue, don’t cha know. I should get a clue by now. That fantasy is way better than reality. Always.
I have been in a relationship with a vanilla man for 5 years now. I know that it’s “healthy” for me. But I’d be a liar to say I don’t miss the intensity of what I had living the D/s lifestyle. I was never in a 24/7 TPE. Pfffft. I was too feisty to submit beyond the bedroom. I have pangs to return to kink from time to time, especially when I read others’ blogs. It brings back memories. Some good, some not. I still make my pilgrimage back to my blog on alt.com to see what my buddies are up to, even if they don’t see me looking.
I think the most fucked up thing I ever let my Dominant do was to shove his Walther PPK .32 caliber handgun in my pussy.
When I showed Lee the photos of that, she didn’t even blink. She was more interested in how I felt about sharing this with her. Typical. It’s always ‘how do I feel’. Hell I don’t have feelings much these days, I feel empty.
What’s to feel about it? It’s a photo. I have many more in the same vein. She asks the wrong sorts of questions, it seems. Or maybe I’m the one just not saying enough. For instance I never told her that I recently called my former Dominant.
Two steps forward and ten-thousand light years back……least that’s how it feels tonight.
Everyone knows Miss Scarlet was a whore and everyone knows Professor Plum was doing her.
I stand there before You,
aching for Your
i can’t believe after all this time,
never looked at me.
in my pig tails and patent leather
standing in the doorway
wistful and willing.
but You cannot see me.
for i am hiding behind the wallpaper
little girls hide,
the ones who survived.
layers upon layers cover me
yet i remain forever unchanged.
frozen in time
beneath this woman
waiting and hoping,
will you take me home?
wind kissed skin
motor runs high
I’m free again.
Out stretched road
with miles of driving
no boys in blue
feel like I’m flying.
Push down the pedal
a little more
on a lonesome highway
my spirit soars.
photo: mine, I-91N Deerfield, MA
World English Dictionary
1. another word for illegal
2. not approved by common custom, rule, or standard: illicit sexual relations
For the purposes of this post I am using the latter definition.
The sexual abuse I had endured as a child left me so terrified of my own sexuality and of men that it left me completely disconnected with and at times dissociated from my body. When I finally ended up dating it was nearly all abusive men, active substance using men, and narcissistic men. It seemed strange that over and over it was the wrong guys. Bad luck I thought.
Why couldn’t I have been the girl who got asked out by some nice fellow and progressed in a slow and steady fashion within a relationship? I’ll tell you why because I was a victim of incest at the hands of my brother and it had been going on since I was 8 and it didn’t end until I was in the middle of high school. And by then I wanted to commit suicide.
So when I grew up, I had become THAT girl. You know the one that tells my date my entire life story over a few drinks in under ten minutes and then let’s him finger fuck me underneath the table at the restaurant, while telling him as he is doing this, that I want to take things slow.
Or I have a guy friend who says he’s hoping my recovery moves more quickly because he’d like to fuck me. After a tongue lashing from me, on how I value our friendship, and that we’ve been friends for so long and he can’t do this! I climb right up on his lap, straddle him, kiss him, gently bite his nipples, rhythmically move my hips over his pelvis while my body betrays me as I get wet under my skirt all over his jeans.
Oh wait, here comes the shame again, along with guilt. Why couldn’t I have just tongue lashed him and left it there? What’s wrong with me.
After restaurant guy finger fucked me, I hid in my apartment for weeks every time he rang my buzzer. So much shame. Eventually he didn’t come around anymore, Thank God. When you couple shame and guilt, this wedding along with a lack of ability to dialogue about your emotions… You spend your life either running or hiding. Building thicker walls to keep people out so you don’t get hurt again.
My shrink says lots of incest survivors are at higher risk for developing sexual problems and problems with setting adequate boundaries overall. When your body is not your own as a child, because your brother has access to you 24/7 you don’t ever have a “no,” to his sexual advances. You can never escape.
As an adult it was quite an easy transition for me to slide into the world of BDSM, fetish, and kink .
I was too busy figuring out how to stay alive amidst trauma in childhood and adolescence and I never learned the healthy boundaries needed to navigate adulthood. So the cycle repeated.
I’m a walking talking paradox. I really DO want to be the girl who goes slow and have healthy boundaries AND also, I don’t. I crave that which is taboo, and sometimes I recoil from that which is taboo.
I think back to Stanley Kubrick’s film, A Clockwork Orange. If I’m wired to respond sexually in a maladaptive and deviant way for so long, what are the odds I can re-wire now? There is a saying that once a cucumber has become a pickle, it can never go back to being a cucumber again.
What if I am that pickle?
What if there is hope for all of us for redemption?
I’ve always had a temper. The earliest memory I have was from childhood. My step-sister was a year older than I and we were sent upstairs to our bedroom for some infraction or other.
First, my sister got smacked. Pants down, bare-bottom, that was fairly typical for the time. I don’t really recall how many she got. Hard to focus when you’re on deck. Going last always ups the anxiety factor.
Then came my turn. Same way. Except I was angry. This shouldn’t be happening, I thought. What could 7 and 8 year olds do exactly to warrant the hand, the belt, the flip flop or whatever the hell else was handy. But I was going to get it. So I had no choice. It dawned on me though I couldn’t stop it from happening, but I could control HOW it happened….
As I was getting whaled on, I looked up and said, “that didn’t even hurt, why don’t you hit me harder.” Oh hell no, did I just say that? My sister told me to shut up.
Of course that changed the tempo a bit and things moved faster and I got hit harder. Then I said it again! I could see the veins popping in the sides of their neck, they were so furious. I braced for it and then they finally quit.
After it was all said and done I felt vindicated. I sat on my sore butt and remember thinking that although my ass was red with handprints all over, I had been victorious because they didn’t make me cry.
I’ve grown older but apparently none the wiser. These days it seems like most of my anger still comes out with fury and vitriol. Especially so if the source of my irritation and anger is constant and unrelenting and out of my control. Probably the latter which bothers me the most.
The noisy kid on a long flight that whines the whole way that I just want to bitch slap but would never. The guy humming in line behind me to “Air Supply” so it gets stuck in my head. The teen vaping weed in his car with his windows rolled down in front of me so his plume ends up inside my car so I smell like “Blue Dream” for the rest of my day.
Oh and then there’s the road rage. There was the time in downtown Boston where some dude cut me off. He rolled down his window and called me a bitch. So I pulled along side his car I said “if you’re so tough why don’t you get out of your fucking car, and say that to my face you pussy.” Yep, this has happened several times over the years. I did get out of my car once. Guy freaked when I knocked on his window. Tough guy, just drove off when the light changed.
Then there’s this certain someone. This person who has been making my life bloody hell for 6 long years. I get so mad my blood boils just thinking about them. I find myself thinking, “I’d like to keep them in a locker inside of a storage unit until they can behave.” Oh if only it was legal and moral.
When I’m that angry, I seem to see only red, think only red. My focus becomes myopic. At times I fail to care about repercussions in that particular moment. Depends on how angry I am. Which has lead me over the years into some high risk behaviors.
I know in my heart I should probably talk to my new shrink about my anger issues. I have never mentioned it before, might be important. There’s only so much you can squeeze into a 50 minute session and your life is a 3 ring shit-show.
Two roads diverged in the wood; Bottle of Grape Vodka vs. hours of therapy…..
Night after night I sit in front of my wide screen TV and binge watch Destination America shows. Shows like “A Haunting “ and “Kindred Spirits.”
It’s always some family that has some books start to fly around their house. Their kids are waking up getting mauled by unseen forces. Ethereal voices floating through the hall ways of the home. Doors slamming shut and what not.
The family always seem to have a “friend” who they call and ask them to bring over the tape recorder, “you know the one you use for the EVP recordings?”
WTF? Seriously. None of my friends have tape recorders and definitely don’t record the spirit world in their spare time.
Inevitably, this friend has another friend who is a ”psychic medium” and comes over to do a reading of the home. And after the reading they always tell the family there is a “dark entity”.
This is where shit really goes crazy. As if any family wound have ever stayed with books flying about and kids getting mauled by unseen forces and ethereal voices? Now, you have actual disembodied demon type messages on the EVP threatening to possess the kids and shit. Thing is I can’t tell whether the word said “I’ll possess him” or “”Let’s get tacos”. The bastards really are reaching.
So in comes the sage smudge sticks and the weird shaman dude wearing 1970’s vintage bohemian clothes to do a cleansing.
Kid gets possessed, priest is called, kid gets freed, but the entity still lingers and the family have to move out anyways.
The fucked up part is I watch this crap til 3-4 in the morning full well knowing I need to get up at 7 am. I still can’t seem to can’t get my shit together and always end up oversleeping. Could it be that the donkey-like shadow at the end of the episode they actually caught on the thermal camera was so riveting I couldn’t pull away? Or is it that I’m self-sabotaging to set myself up for failure the next day to reinforce a long-held belief system that I suck?
See all the therapy is paying off after all. Because now I have insight as to why I’m still functioning at such a low level. I am not so fucking successful. You can take the girl away from the losers, but can you take the belief system that she is a loser out of the girl….
It’s so true isn’t it?
I come here and unload all the shit that churns around in the recesses of my mind and my soul. All the benefits that comes with the process of confession, none of the fear of being chastised and told to repent.
So there’s something inherently therapeutic about the whole thing.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch Pope Benedict resigns….