First it was a giant plate of Asian fusion hot wings. Then came the spinal taps.
Don't hold me to any of this. This isn't a hand-to-God situation. This story is the kind of blurry you only get with lots of prescription drugs, brain trauma, and gay self-deception.
The first time I actually remember waking up in the hospital bed--strapped down with the kind of gear only the real enthusiasts pay for, confused as fuck, and with an undying need to wipe a bit of snot off my nose--they asked me the name of my partner (at that time) of eight years.
You might know him as “LeatherGloveBoy." I know him by a name that starts with an "M."
My best guess at the time was "Bob."
My parents were also in the room, or so they tell me. I didn't know who the hell they were.
The whole story goes something like this. It all started when I met up with the guy I'm lucky enough to call my current boyfriend (“A”) for a dinner at a fusion restaurant north of Boston in early July 2014...days before what some would call my mid-life birthday. M an I, we'd had an open relationship for years.
Up to that point, I'd been Mr. Indestructible. I had demolished half my body in a motorcycle accident a couple years before and had bounced like it was a twisted ankle. Done enough drugs to kill a horse and yet woke up and negotiated million-dollar deals. Drunk enough to put down Robert Downy Jr. and yet run marathon-lengths the morning after. I wear scars like they're tattoos.
I guess at dinner—somewhere between the hotwings and the egg rolls—I randomly started going into seizures in the middle of the restaurant. Thankfully, this is near Boston, so the the question to, “Is there a doctor in the house?” is always, “Yes.” There was someone there to keep me from choking on my own tongue. But, I spent the next two weeks in various hospitals. In and out of consciousness. Most of the time with no idea of who I was.
Dozens of head scans and every medical examination possible later ( I have the thousands in medical bills to prove it) my doctors still can’t tell me exactly why this happened—although I’m sure I earned it one way or another. No one who knows me…no one who knew me…will tell you that I was exactly kind to my head.
In the aftermath, I had sever brain trauma. Seizures that still continued and have to be tamped down by medication. The first night, A and nurses dealt with the worst devil in me that nature had to offer. Apparently I was using curse words I didn’t even know I knew…some that I still don’t know. The next two months were rough, as LeatherGloveBoy did everything in his power to get me back and functional. Every other day I would have a seizure that would send me to the floor in convulsions, drool leaking from my mouth.
It took me months—nearly half a year—to accept the experience for what it was. Now, I know this is going to sound corny, but it was a learning experience… a sign. Something that left me no other choice but to shift how I was living and my perspective. Life isn’t something to be torn through. It’s something to be savored. People are meant to be known, not used. No one is unbreakable.
So, as everyone is getting together this year for IML…that’s where I’m at. I’m still getting myself back together. Healing. And I’m pretty far along the path of recovery. I’m not saying I’m healed, and that the experience didn’t leave its scars. I still have gaps in my memory. Medication I take. Relationships I’m healing. Habits I’m breaking.
But I’ll say this: I don’t think the path that I’ve built back along the way would have been the same without the love of my fetish brothers and sisters. This community isn’t just about sex and play…it’s about a rare form of bonding and openly sharing intimacy that is so wrongly forbidden by our outside cultures. As you get together, appreciate that. And know that my path is going to lead its way back to you very, very soon.