There appears to be a line of thinking amongst the most narrow minded of the vanillas that only those who live with mental illness are kinky thus those who are kinky are mentally ill (here's looking at you, ex-husband). Obviously, we know better however, it brings me question - what about those of us who are kinky and have mental illness?
I cannot speak to all others of course, but looking within myself, there is a long history and diagnosis of major depression, severe generalized anxiety with OCD tendenancies, and an attachment disorder. These things are managed to a degree with a combination of medications (thanks to the gods of Effexor and Ativan), therapy, self-awareness, constant education, and unmmm I don't know - a degree of hardass bitchiness? Oh and lots of fucking up on a daily basis. Not to mention, trying to learn how to ride the wave of anxiety as it threatens to swallow my brain deep into itself, rather than fight it and let my entire being and self disappear into the abyss and lose myself. Sometimes I'm successful at this - other times, not so much. Often, I fall somewhere in the middle and that's what I call daily life.
During this daily ... experience? Struggle? Whathaveyou, I must find a way to navigate the Kink. It is not a side I can shut off and force away just like my mental illness is not something I can shut off and force away. My submission, my babygirlness, it is a core part of my self, my very being. I have tried to deny this part of myself and failed each and every time. So I have to find a way to navigate my Kink with my mental illness and do so in a way that is true to the other facets which make me who I am. My strength, determination, my sassy attitude...
How does someone with an attachment disorder who struggles with secure attachment to another person, fully submit and allow a Daddy to take over? I imagine someone reading this thinks I have an answer to that. The truth is; I don't. It's a daily effort. More often than not, I fail to be the submissive and babygirl I want to be because that abyss sucks out any abilities I have to fully let go and trust. When I do - it's akin to pure and utter perfection. The garden of Eden. The racing, never ending realization of my lack of perfection, the deep, bitter distaste I have for the size of my toes, the puffiness of my pubic mound, the deep imbedded lines that cross cross my body proving that at one time, I carried life within me... it fades. Slowly fades.... occasionally popping back up... but then continues fading. I am enveloped in that sweet space that we crave. The quiet of my brain, the endorphins rushing through my body, reaching for each slap, each sting, each kiss, each sensation. I am simply existing in the moment. Later, the insecurity, the fears and doubt will come rushing back, but for now... for this brief moment in time, I have forgotten it will all rerun and have embraced my submission.
It comes back then, and I'm there, back within the daily grind of each day of the existence that is living with mental illness.
The best I can say for now, is don't fight it. Don't fight against whatever it is you're struggling with. Let it flow over you and breathe. Breathe in. Then breathe out. Feel the The blood rushing through your veins. You know what this is and you know it will go away. I can experience this and then deal with the aftereffects of my brain feeding on itself from the inside, desperately trying to fight or flight from the phantom attack.
Just breathing in, then breathing out.
prguitarman
dailybridgerton
discoholicmusic
theartofmadeline
germansingergirl
baratheonpilled
