I'm up early and I've finished packing for the Flea, so I decided to peruse a few of my favorite bloggers' latest work. One interesting read was Mollena Williams' post. When is that woman NOT interesting?
But her post got me thinking about how I came into kink. It's something that I don't talk about very often. Mostly because I'm usually ashamed to admit that I made such a horrible mistake. One that very nearly cost me everything. Forgive me for not going into details, but when the details aren't really that important, and they're not a favorite of mine to reminisce about, I think I deserve a little leeway.
I've had lots of friends over the years and I can't think of many that got into kink to work out past abuse demons. Mostly they got into it because it seemed like a good idea at the time. I know for me, not only did it seem like a good idea, it was the ONLY idea I could remember having for as long as I could remember. From the time I was tying my naked barbie dolls to the top of the barbie camper with my shoelaces.
For me, bdsm brought me into a world OF abuse. In the days before the internet, before a cohesive community existed for a kinky, young, mostly-hetero girl to learn from, there were really bad decisions. I can say from experience that to "get what I wanted", I believed I had to put up with a whole lot that I didn't. My only excuse was that I was too young to know any better.
My first "bdsm" partner (whom I refer to as "fuckhead") was abusive. He was abusive in a sneaky way, slowly moving me towards things that I just didn't know how to get out of. And frankly, some of them I didn't WANT to get out of. I didn't know about safe, sane, or consensual. I hadn't any friends to ask, there were no books, and I didn't even dream that there were others that did it differently...or safely. It never occurred to me that there were "rules" to this.
The gory details of our 3+ years together are known only by a few people in my life. My parents know some of it, my few best friends know some other pieces. My therapist knew a lot more. And I've told Daddy most of it.
What made me smile about Daddy's reaction was when he told me that he was surprised that I was so "normal" despite having gone through all of that. That makes me giggle and think, "yeah. It was damned hard work becoming normal".
Getting "normal" was the key to my salvation. After leaving the fuckhead, I was so messed up, physically, emotionally and intellectually, that I truly believed that I had deserved what had happened because of my "disgusting desires". I truly hadn't known that I was already normal, but that the world I had found myself in was skewed around what I had to learn on my own. Haven't we all at one time or another, really early on, found ourselves asking "what is the matter with me that I get turned on by ____"? "This isn't "normal", is it?"
To try to stop myself from having these sick feelings, or needing to be hit, of getting off on pain, and truly believing myself to be a really sick fuck, I went into therapy. Because that's what people did when they were messed up. Get some meds, have a chat and you'll be "normal" in no time.
And for the first time in my life I got damned lucky. After spending a little over a year talking about everything under the sun (except why I was really there) with my therapist, I finally got so pissed off that SHE hadn't figured ME out, that I finally told her that I thought I was damaged somehow. I finally told her that I needed to be hit, grabbed, pushed and dominated in order to get a sexual satisfaction. In order to feel normal.
She smiled at me and said the words that I'll never forget. "It's about time you realized that. Now, I think I can help you". She introduced me to the wonderful world of S & M, and to a wonderful man that helped me learn. She and I stopped our doctor/therapist relationship, but we became friends.
I didn't get into BDSM because of any past history of abuse. But without BDSM, I probably would have continued to believe that the only way to "feel normal" WAS to be abused.