I’m having one of those nights again. The kind where you’re just on edge and frightened even though you know “they” aren’t there. The usual distractions aren’t really doing it for me so I figured it would be good to get my feelings off of my chest. German Guy was going to bed and took off his belt to hang over a chair and of course that set me off. I didn’t tell him but of course it made me remember how afraid I am of belts and being hit with one. I know he would never hurt me and this is my safe space but seeing him holding it momentarily brought me back to a couple times in my past where I’ve been beaten with a belt. Neither of them have good connotations. It brings up feelings of guilt, shame, and pain. It makes my skin crawl and I feel really jumpy. I can literally feel my bum stinging and there’s nothing there. The adrenaline and fear and feeling powerless. The bruises after. The tears. It’s just a lot. Feeling like it was my fault, even though I know it isn’t.
My abusers were both manipulative and out for their own personal pleasure. Not mine. Never mine. I was looking for a thrill but always playful. Not something demoralizing nor damaging. Yes, I’ve experimented with pain as pleasure before but it always was supposed to be on my terms. The first instance of physical abuse was from my first boyfriend. He was a selfish asshole out to take advantage of my naiveté with both relationships and sex. He wanted to try hitting me with a belt. I wasn’t really sure about the idea but wanted to please him. Wanted to be liked, to be cared for, to make him happy. Didn’t want to lose the first man to show any interest in me. So I let him hit me. He didn’t hit my lightly like I was expecting. He went full throttle and left me crying after. Rubbed a little lotion on and acted as if I was making a bigger deal out of the bruising on my tailbone than was necessary. He was also the one who asked if I was interested in trying asphyxiation play. He wanted to put a bag on my head. I declined. He asked, “What about hands?”. I said I might be ok with trying that if I could tap him if it was too much. He had me lay on the ground and he bit me a few times before putting his hands around my throat. He started squeezing and it wasn’t long before I tapped him because I needed air. He started laughing and kept squeezing. I tried to pry his hands off my throat while he continued laughing and my vision started to go fuzzy and dark. His reaction like this was so funny for him that I was clawing at him trying to breathe made me reconsider why I was dating this man. I had the thought, “He could really kill me if he wanted to.” but was too starved for attention to leave him just yet. I remember being really angry and upset and him trying to brush it off like we were just playing. I should have walked out the door and never come back. Maybe even filed a police report. But I didn’t. It took more emotional abuse for me to see him as the cruel individual he was.
.The second incident with a belt was with the last man I was involved with during that horrible time that I don’t speak about often. He hit me through my pants so it wasn’t as bad but it also didn’t seem like he was going to stop unless I really urged him to and it was more an issue that the bruising lasted and that my then boyfriend shamed me for letting someone other than him mark me. Mark me…Like I was his. His property. Not that it was unwise to do so but that I had no right to. Not human. Not my own person. Oh, how I wished the marks would disappear quickly and that I would be forgiven for doing something that my boyfriend didn’t like. By this point I’d gotten a taste of the high that can come from heavily controlled spanking, etc. It helped me forget the pain growing up, forget my first boyfriend, forget all the bad. I wanted more.
My boyfriend stopped “scening” with me as it is called amongst those into that type of kink. He said I shouldn’t need it. That I should seek psychiatric help instead. But this was the only coping mechanism I knew. Thusfar I hadn’t found anything that worked from counselors or doctors. I was so devastated. He began scening with someone else.He was emotionally abusive, controlling, and a narcissist. He always talked about wanting my “firsts” because I was so sexually inexperienced, especially with kink. That was all he ever really wanted from me. I would try to do nice things for him like clean his house and help him with the laundry. Cook for him on occasion. He was a workaholic and eventually grew tired of sex with me, especially after a few bad scenes where my body went into shock because he went too hard too fast (before he’d cut scenes off entirely). I was triggered once during regular sex with him because memories from my childhood began coming to the surface. I was too much for him. Too many problems. Problems he didn’t want to be bothered with. He wanted someone easier to deal with who would do whatever he said and let him do whatever he wanted. My longing for someone that cared for me and would help me in the ways I wanted and needed led me to some really dark and dangerous places. I was raped twice. Once by a sexual predator I met through a dating website and once by the man who had earlier hit me with his belt through my pants. My boyfriend couldn’t look at me the same way. Wouldn’t kiss me or try to be intimate. I sunk into a deep depression. He broke things off via text.
He didn’t care. I was just a toy for him. For all of them. Something exciting and new that they could play with til they got tired of or broke and easily replaceable. The second rape was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I ended up hospitalized on suicide watch. Said boyfriend didn’t call. Didn’t visit. Didn’t care. I ended up moving back in with my emotionally abusive parents. It was such a dark time for me. And even though I’m in a much better place now, all those things in addition to the childhood trauma haunt me.
People have always found it convenient to dismiss my feelings and order me about. Having controlling parents made me afraid to be my own person or make any kind of move without their express permission. I don’t know who I am. Is this version of me really me? Or is it yet another mask? I’m afraid. So afraid. I’ve never been accepted for who I am and I marvel at this man who loves me flaws and all. Who likes everything about me. Am I being my true self? I hope I am. I’ve spent so much of my life pretending and trying to be something and someone I’m not.
Writing is cathartic. It’s one of the places where I feel free. Free to share my thoughts and feelings without judgment. That’s been so rare in my life. Not to be judged. To be able to write anything here and know that I can open up and be free. I can let go and float steadily downward in the soft breeze, close my eyes in the void and know that this is my safe space. My happy place. Nothing can hurt me here and words are welcome. Whatever they may be. I can yell and scream and cry and beat my fists on the page and come away feeling uplifted and more at peace in my own mind. I can write poetry if I want. Song lyrics. Post doodles. Share pictures of cute cats. Whatever strikes my fancy. When I’m here, this is home.