It started after watching some porn and I had just cum like a train. Then afterwards, I started to not like myself, to spiral into feeling absolute horror and shame. To thinking maybe I’m really not ok. Maybe there is something genuinely wrong with me, that I find the fucked up shit that I just watched sexy. What does that say about me as a person?’

 

All of those questions, trying to find the justification for an orgasm. You know what, I’ve thought about this A LOT and I’ve come to a very important conclusion. I just like a lot of fucked up shit.

 

I’m into the ugly side of BDSM, the grotesque. The scary fucked up shit, that is uncomfortable and hard to look at. That pushes all my buttons, that literally takes my breath away and leaves me shaking and crying on the floor. Science, society and good common decency tell me that I should not enjoy this. I’m not into role play, at least part of it has to be real or it doesn’t work for me. Apparently, that’s a cause for concern.

 

A lot of the time it’s hard to talk about the stuff I am into even in kink circles. I see that look on my friends faces, bless them. Shock or revulsion. They worry that maybe everything I do is because of TRAUMA. They feel they have to ask ‘But are you really ok?’

 

Lot’s of people when I have explained BDSM to them in the past have said ‘Oh yes, it makes so much sense. If you’ve had your control taken away from you by some one else, of course finding a way to be in control feels safe, and that’s a really positive way to access your sexuality.’ And of course everyone would choose to be in control, right?.

 

In their minds when they picture what I do, I’m wearing a leather catsuit, the whole ‘Mistress Whiplash’ super cliche. Don’t get me wrong, I would ROCK that leather catsuit. If you want to get together and buy me one, go right ahead.

 

They imagine me as this really austere woman walking into a room and going ‘You will PAY for the sins that were done to me!’ Spanking people on the bottom for half an hour, and therefore I’m never going to be sad about being raped anymore.

 

OMG, fucking SERIOUSLY. ‘Please let me heal your trauma by taking a spanking’ There’s an idea that deserves to have the shit monetised out of it, maybe I should go ahead and set up that website!

 

This idea that everything is related to trauma. How my personality formed, where my behaviours come from, how I react to situations, who I’m attracted to, what I am into sexually. That ALL of this, every single thing about me, is because a bad man touched me in bad ways a long time ago. OK, maybe there is some truth in that, but I want to STOP spending my whole life trying to understand it. Because that is a GIANT boner killer!!

 

That everything I like, everything I can ever be, will always be tied to ‘The Things That Happened  A Long Time Ago’. I cannot let what people did a long time, be the sum of my existence, everything about me, all my motivations. It can’t be. I won’t allow that. I WON’T LET THAT BE all that I am.

 

Also I refuse to let my sapphic inclinations be reduced to a safe option, women are delicious.

 

There’s a thing about being labelled as mad, once that single fact about you is known, then it defines everything a person thinks about you from then on.

 

When I go to the Drs and sit down in front of my GP, I see that look on their face as the warning pops up on their screen. A warning about me. ‘Do a mental health check, this patient has a history of psychosis and hospitalisation.’ That warning comes up on the screen when I go to get a vitamin b12 injection from my nurse. It has nothing to do with why I’m there, it’s an invasion of my privacy, but now they can’t see me in any other way. They look at me as if an alarm has just gone off, as if a siren is sounding. ‘Danger, danger, MAD person in the building’. It’s been 8 years since I was last hospitalised.

 

My official diagnosis is Borderline personality disorder. if you google Borderline, one of the first things that always comes up is that we are emotional manipulators. Great! I am not trust worthy. Once you have a serious mental health diagnosis you are told, you no longer know what is best for yourself, or what your limits are. You are no longer a reliable source of information.

 

I’ve been sectioned 4 times, or is it five? I’ve been in hospitals a lot.

There is nothing more affecting of your sense of agency than to have some one else put you in a room, lock the door and walk away with the key. At a very basic level that takes away agency. It’s taken me a long time to recover from that. It’s hard to get over the idea that, I am not trustworthy, I am not safe. To learn to trust my autonomy and my own mind.

 

Being able to consent, that’s what it is, isn’t it? To be trust worthy and safe.

 

It was only through doing peer work that I realised how trustworthy I was, how much agency and value I had. After being very unwell for many years, I started volunteering in peer service delivery, and once I was trained, I trained other people.

 

Being kicked off DLA and ESA meant that I lost %70 of my income, in an interview that lasted ten minutes. I went from from barely having worked in ten years, to suddenly needing to get a full time job. I didn’t want to but if I didn’t, I was going to lose my house. I went from a small voluntary role in the Mental Health sector, to being a full time manager.

 

I worked managing highly skilled volunteers who know the waiting lists are too long for people to get care otherwise. Those volunteers worked so hard and under pressure, shouldering the burden they shouldn’t have had to. They did that at great personal cost, but they weren’t getting paid at all.

 

Services have been cut back so severely, local authorities and government dump the load on volunteers, and there is a machiavellian level of exploitation in that.

 

Peer support, my experience of that was real love and real community, strangers coming together and building these relationships of caring. But to do that work, without pay, without any surrounding care to refer to, with no way to adequately safe guard everyone involved. It has a cost, we lose people, people die. I lasted four months before I had a break down.

 

I’m working less these days, it helps. I have time to do things for myself, to slow down, to hang out with my friends. I’m busy anyway, but if I can spend less time working a job, then I cope better.

 

The things I like to do in my spare time: rape play, Incest play, chem sex, forced drowning, hanging, deep humiliation, ultra violence. Those dangerous visceral things that I find so compelling. Other people find it hard to understand. They don’t see the level of connection, the hotness and intimacy, when we agree to show up for each other.

 

I could have spent my whole life trying to move into the beige, trying to move into the pretty. What I know is that when I have a date in a hotel room, I get really excited, because hotel rooms have baths and baths mean drowning. It also means I can do piss play and it gives my house mates a break from the screaming. Being under water, being held down, being soaked in piss, being slapped till I cry. I want to fight, to struggle, to feel utterly shit scared. Because it’s wonderful. 

Stories of Resistance

Call For Participation

Over the next 10 months, ‘Resilient and Resisting’ will be holding a number of events, workshops, group discussions, and investigative visits to archives.

If you have lived experience at any intersection of: queer, kink, sex work, survivorship, or disability, you are welcome to make a submission, contribute to a discussion, or be part of a visit.