Madness and Despair – Sex and BDSM are my save haven

My mental health is a mess. I am a mess. I would try to make it sound like a beautiful mess if I could. But it is really a horrible, terrifying and overwhelmingly broken mess. And it is never going to be okay. That might sound like an overly depressed thought but it is even what doctors have told me. All we can do is help you improve your quality of life.

My whole life has been about fear. About avoidance. Rebellion. About wanting to end it all. Embracing myself and burning the world. About never stopping but forever be frozen.

I am not talking about me being a bit different, about being a little bit interesting. No, good people, I am really seriously ill. I don’t belong in the category mental health, I should get a label put on my forehead that says: Seriously mentally ill.

The first time I tried to end my life was at age five. I was a child but I already then understood the weight of emotional pain. I don’t remember much about my childhood, fortunately. It is all a blur, it is all in corners of my mind that I don’t have access to. It might be better this way. From age 3 to about age 10, I was systematically sexually, physically and emotionally abused. By several abusers, daily. And no one knew.

But that is not how it ended. The abuse then found new ways to find me. Sexual abuse also happened at school. There were bullies. And I still pulled through. The abuse at home stopped because I made it stop. I said “No” for the first time in my life. I had rebellious teenage years filled with parties, with concerts, where I hopped from relationship to relationship. Where the idea of sex disappeared from my vocabulary. I took risks, I was impulsive. I was scared, hurt. and sad. And I didn’t understand why I had to live. But I did. I lived. Too hard.

My intelligence helped me to get through highschool and finally a tiny opportunity to begin a new chapter of my life. I spent weeks in bed, I spent weeks partying like a madwoman. I went to university and aced exams and I didn’t study for. There were friends. But the darkness from the past was hovering over me, sometimes touching me, sometimes making me scream of emotional pain. I still was there, even though I was trying not to. But I pushed it away. Something was terrible wrong, it was eating me, but I continued.

I impulsively moved countries to live with a man that others had deemed dangerous. But I wanted to, I needed to, I had no choice. The pain from the past was hovering over me still. And then there were the weeks of utter despair, and the weeks of crazy destruction, and the weeks of productivity and sleeplessness. Rising. I had to learn a new language, I had to learn to live. I went to university, I got degrees. New friends. I had a new life. And the dangerous man was a cozy teddybear that loved me. The ghosts from the past poked me but left me alone. But then everything fell apart.

I lost everything. It was a crash that was so unbelievably hard. I lost all my energy, my will to live. All I was, was fear and sadness and hopelessness. The urges to not stay alive, the urges to hurt myself. The next five years, I tried to take my own life 22 times. I spent more time in mental health hospitals than I did at home.

My relationship fell apart. My dream of working in academia vanished. I lost all my friends. The ghost was back and it had shredded my brain. I tried so hard to keep it together. To adapt. I tried. I have managed to stay away from hospitals since 2015. My contact with psychiatry has been minimal the last few years, because they did more bad than good. Medications that changed my body forever. Therapies that invalidated me. Mysogynist psychiatrists with stigmatizing diagnosis. I needed to fix this myself.

And I tried and did well. But yet another traumatic event and now I am broken beyond repair. I am fragmented. I am constantly in emotional turmoil. And I impulsively moved countries again. Yet again to move in with a man that others might deem dangerous. But I am safe. Someone is taking care of me. And my broken mind is an asset in my relationship. Broken but I am safe and experience happiness.

I am diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder Type 2, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Social Anxiety. Often, feel as if I was not supposed to live this long. But here I am. Still Alive.

Sex and a D/s relationship saved me

I think my D/s relationship saved me. Not as in I am forever saved and relieved of my pain. No. But I can feel things I never felt before. I haven’t found a saviour, but I have found a safe haven. I have found someone who wants to take care of me, and who is good at taking care of me. And with whom I can be free. My mental illnesses have a positive effect on our sex life. Can you imagine? But it does! And the sex and the dynamics actually are good for my mental health!

The most important thing in all of this is communication and self-awareness. I am a safe partner and play partner. Someone who is very aware of my hard limits, I am very aware of my soft limits. I communicate a lot and I use the safeword. I discuss boundaries and limits all the time. When it comes to mental health and sex, if you don’t communicate, you will end up hurting each other. I am a safe sub, my partner is a safe Dom.

I get constantly reminded that I need to take care of myself. And if I don’t do my most basic routines, I get told to do them. And I do them! I want to listen, I want to follow his commands, I want to obey. I have not had routines this good in years. But my Dom makes sure that I take care of myself.

I have always had the strong need for pain. I understand and am aware of that it is a kind of reenactment need, I miss the endorphins I am used to from the abuse. But in a safe space, with consent, and the pain turning into something positive, something sexually positive, where I am pleased, where my partner is pleased. It is beautiful, not hurtful. I have not once gotten triggered in sexual play by pain, instead I float in happiness.

When I am anxious and on edge, a strong squeeze from him and I am calmer. A fuck and I am in bliss. Sex makes me feel better. The pain he gives me and the control I give to him, relieves me, helps me breathe, helps me survive. After a rough scene, when I am just lying there, in a blissful floaty state, he often says, while hugging me: You just need to be fucked more. And he is right, ha!

The bipolar disorder gives me periods of intense hypersexuality, the Dissociative Identity Disorder gives me sexual alters that have strong needs, so even when in depression, I still want sex. My mental illnesses have turned me into a very sexual being, and because I am in the right space, the anxiety of getting triggered, or the fears of my body not being good enough, all those are gone with him, in that space.

And a really cool aspect of this is the D/llg aspect. My little ones, my child alters, can come out and play, and he takes care of them, he plays with them, there are stuffies and huggies and discussions about cute animals. And he enjoys it, and they enjoy it.

If you struggle with serious mental illness, navigating your romantic and sexual relationships can be extremely difficult. But! And there is a huge but (not my butt, it is huge, but minus the t!), you can have a giving and wild D/s relationship and kinky play, if you communicate and know which parts of your pain can be soothed by certain aspects, and which parts can actually be utilized to enhance the experience! Talk about it, let go, accept and respect each other. And you might also find a safe haven.