Once more for the crowd- part two

Last week for Wicked Wednesday’s prompt we had a story starter of being home alone… and I had started something I really wanted to finish. It just so happened that Bee’s glorious picture fit the story perfectly. I suggest you read the first part…which is a little more anticipatory… while this is a bit more direct.

Follow the link to see who else has been getting off today.

I shuffle low on the bed, my head below the pillows, knees bent and my feet curled against the bedstead. Fan my hair out, dark on the snowy white of the sheets. This is, after all, predominantly about the visual for him. For our friends.

“Beautiful, petal. You’re sleepy and warm and comfortable. Thinking of me and how I would be touching you if I were there. Use your hands.”

Stretching like a cat, I arch and the blanket falls lower around my waist. My hands, his hands, are slow and deliberate, but not tentative. I wake my body with firm squeezes and pinches. With the delicate fabrics and the harsh bite of my own nails.

“Show me.” His voice pours over my skin, liquid warmth heating me and I am impatient suddenly with the flimsy barriers. Pushing the fabric aside, dragging my arms through the thin straps, hands meet skin.

My eyes close.

When we lie together, without continents between us, I watch him with ravenous eyes. Take in every mark on his skin, the way the hair of his beard grows differently on his neck and his jaw, the flush of blood to his cheeks as I arouse him. I feast on those memories now. Draw up the perfection of images and sensations from every last greedy fuck.

He sees my blue nailed fingers twisting at the tight nubs of my nipples. Sees me pull and roll the flesh roughly. I feel his mouth, his breath panting in hot wet bursts between aching, drawing suckles. Teeth and tongue trapping me, I let go of the cries that spill as we dance backwards and forwards across the line of too much and not enough.

They hear me, and I wonder if their mouths are wet for the taste of soft, salty skin.

My legs shift restlessly against the cool sheets, rucking the slip higher, its silky finish complimenting the needy slickness gathering between my thighs. The scent of my arousal is mixing with the cool cotton of the freshly made bed, so different from the heavy muskiness we create when combined. The rounded scent of his sex, savoury and spicy, is missing I feel pangs of hunger for him pierce through me.

“I know you’re wet for me. For us. Show us what you’ve got, petal.”

He calls me many things, but when I am his petal, we are something else. I am his, but he is holding me up, letting me fly. I know what he is asking and why and I love that he is maintaining control for us.

I can’t hear them, can’t see them, but I can feel the anonymous eyes watching as I hook the blanket and slip higher, exposing the coy shadows and clefts of my groin. I imagine the click of keys and mice driving the cameras to move and refocus.

This is my fantasy. As I spread my legs, hook my right foot high on the bed frame, I want to be seen and to be ignored. Want the focus narrowed to my blossoming cunt, the colours and curls highlighted with succulent juices. To be the hole they want to fill.

Spreading myself wider with my fingers I wonder if the slap and slurp will carry to the microphones or whether this is another loss to technology. I soak my fingers, then taste them, glossing the salty sweetness across my lips before licking them clean. Sucking them, as if it were his mouth directly feeding from the source, bringing tongue and teeth into action.

“Fuck. You taste so good,” he groans, his voice filling my head. Maybe, like me, he can taste our mingled flavours carried by the ghost of familiarity.

“Under the pillow. I want to fuck you.”

I search out his cock and close my fist on it, ignoring the cold hard surface in favour of the weight in my hand. Imagine how I will look stretched and stuffed.

My dominant hand moves without thought, directing the show. Pinching.  Plucking. My hips grinding up to meet my hand as though it was your weight they are seeking.

One hand clutching your cold, glass cock, the other ravaging my swollen pussy, I wonder where your eyes are? Whether the details you see are different from those chosen by others? Finger-bruised  nipples, proudly crowning tits jiggling with exertion as I writhe against the bed. Unkissed lips, flushed with desire and seasoned with lust.

It hurts to drive the spear of glass into the hot mouth of my cunt. Aches as I yield to its uncompromising hardness. Your cock, parting me. Fucking me.

You order me deeper but I have no idea if the words were ever said aloud. I spread my legs further, brace my feet through the bars of the footboard and fuck back, loving and hating the bright bruise of sensation on every thrust as I reach my limit. Not stopping, though the glass becomes slippery and warm.

Even as I feel you inside me, I can picture your strong hand as certain and as rough with your body as I am with mine. I set my pace by your harsh breaths and we move together across the internet.

The hitch and the stutter and growl of release signifies your orgasm and drives me to force your glass cock hard and deep into my core until the pain blooms then implodes into contractions of pleasure.

Later, when we can be together as me and you as much as Sir and petal, I will ask Sir about the watchers. I will choose if I want to know who they were, or if I want their identities to remain his secret. For now, your raspy voice creeps through me and round me, holding back my exhausted tears until you tell me they are gone and we are alone. I let you go slowly, the cameras motors whirring while their lights blink out as you turn them off. I hold you and you hold me until we are as ready as we can be, and you sign off from our call and return to the work that keeps us apart.

It’s very quiet here, and I am home alone.

I miss you.

Playtime

I’m a stickler for matching sets…some things are just meant to go together: bra and knickers, sheets and duvet covers… and in this case I loved it when I was presented with new rope to match my bedding set…

Kiss the lips to find out who else has been Sinful this Sunday

New rope just catches the light and photographs so well.

Child Abuse- a parent’s perspective

Sex Bloggers for Mental Health badge, linking to the website.

Let me start again…

I know you can’t see all the previous versions of this post I’ve written, but starting again and again and again is all I have done for four years and this post was no different.

I’m not going to beat about the bush with trigger warnings because… take a look at the title and the link and think it through. What follows is a snapshot of what follows after child sex abuse from a parent’s perspective…But I will put a lovely picture here so you can escape without reading on if that it what you want to do.

Probably all you need to know is my children are loved and are loving.

I can’t say with honesty that I wanted to write this, because this isn’t a fictional account. There have been more than enough opportunities for openness to be cathartic for me not to be hoping for that.  But I do want you to read this, because before it happened to my family, I had no idea what happened when a child reported abuse.  I would have probably questioned how it could happen, that children could be assaulted in their own home and the parents not know. I think I assumed there were systems in place to support children and families in this situation.

Four years ago, in the spring of 2015, at least two of my three neuro-diverse children were sexually assaulted by a man with impeccable qualifications and references we had employed to allow them a more normal life. The third child was too young for us to ever know definitively.

My eldest child told me they’d done something good and positive with their carer. I knew it was sexual assault. I went straight to the police.

In the spring of 2016, the man was sentenced to 10 years for assaults to five children. I still don’t know exactly what charges pertained to my two children, but I do know the two rape charges initially framed by the CPS were dropped to one during the trial as part of the plea bargain. This lowered the sentence tariff. He will serve 6 years and 8 months before he is eligible for parole. Photographs of my children are in the darker parts of the internet and my children’s pictures are with CEOPs so they can be identified and removed if found. Somebody somewhere will have them on their hard drive.

I know my children were raped, whatever the precise legal definition is, because they have told me so.

My children were not hurt or frightened by the assaults but were told they were acts of friendship. Would make them bigger and stronger to defeat their school bullies. That they should show other children how to do this because this is knowledge that should be shared. I don’t know if their abuser thought this a kindness, perhaps it was something he himself had been told, but it was his biggest act of cruelty. We recognised immediately that the children might go on to repeat these acts, because as concrete learners these instructions from their abuser we now embedded. Interventions couldn’t begin fully until the trial was over in case it tainted their potential evidence.

As a family we took the decision they must be supervised to make sure they didn’t display their sexual knowledge to others. School couldn’t do this, so we started to home educate and had to buy in more support to make sure the children were properly supervised. We did this from our own pocket and it was crippling… but what do you do when it rains (and it was pouring) but spend your rainy day fund and hope that the rain stops.

During the heavy handed and non-autism friendly “recovery” support my eldest child developed PTSD from being told the things that happened to them were assaults. At our last scheduled session (because the children were “fixed”) my middle child, broadly non-verbal at the time of the assaults, suggested they had touched their younger sibling.

In the spring of 2017, we were put into Child Protection procedures because our children were a risk to each other. There was no further money, but our three children must have “constant supervision”. Because they had irregular sleep patterns because of ADHD and Autism, this meant one parent with their ear on them all night.

We had tried to keep everything light and normal at home. As light or as normal as it can be when your child has been assaulted by someone you told them to trust. Where you paid for the time they were being assaulted. Where you allowed into your own home and didn’t know they were assaulting your child 20 feet from where you were cooking the evening meal. When as part of the recovery we had to employ more carers, allow more professionals in and out of our lives, while remaining vigilant at all times. While friends and family pulled away because they could trust our children or our staff with their children. Or us. I mean, who employs a paedophile to work with their children?

Then social services came into our home and told us we couldn’t cuddle up on the sofa under a blanket to watch TV in case someone was touching someone else inappropriately. We had to cover our bodies from neck to knee during the night so the children were not exposed to naked bodies. The misplacing of an SD card with some risqué home photos of us as parents resulted in a multi agency enquiry. Threats were made at meetings that our children wouldn’t be found suitable local foster families but would be split up and put in group homes.

Suddenly we lived in the world where schools wouldn’t take the children because they posed a safeguarding risk, but elective home education (because we’d initially withdrawn the children from school) is not paid for. No-one funded the supervision at home so the financial stress went up and up.

The soap opera that was now our life went on to the scene where the police referred themselves to the IPCC because they had caught our employee with child porn on his computer three years before we employed him and failed to take action because he was a child himself. I’m not wanting them to have jailed him at this point, but where was their responsibility to him as a child being groomed into thinking looking at images like this were all right, by his new “friends” on the dark web. Where another parent who’d employed him before us failed to report him to the police, just sacked him and hoped it would go away. Where, went they did go to the police, the police did nothing. That the police didn’t act didn’t surprise me anymore. When he was on bail, we reported to the police we’d seen the abuser on social media out with children. They did nothing then either, and he continued to abuse two family members for the 7 months between us going to the police and charges being brought, because the police hadn’t checked if children frequented his family home.

At the enquiry, an officer was blamed for everything and everyone else had retired. We were advised to get a lawyer. We did. We now have a barrister who at our first meeting victim shamed the women in a previous case he’d worked on. We’d be ok, he said, because there was no question our children were innocent, whereas she’d had a drink, worn a short skirt and got in a taxi. We can’t sack him, because he represents the three families involved and he was the barrister in the case where the legal precedent was set in this field of law. He is our best chance of recouping some of the costs we’ve incurred, and getting damages and further support for the children. And I would love to ignore the costs, but we’ve spent well over £60,000 in carer support in four years and paid for private education on top of that.

Eventually after 11 months of Child Protection procedures, the children were identified by a psychologist to be less of risk to each other than had been assumed, but to still need psychological help and support and then we had to fight for this to be funded, because it is not NHS in our area of the country. Less of a risk, not no risk. Every decision we make at home with regards to supervision is still risk aware.

The children have gone back to school in the last few months. Schools who put their fingers in their ears and sing “La, la, la” when we want to talk PTSD triggers for both children. Because no-one likes to acknowledge these children know about sex and giving them a PHSE lesson on sexting is not something they need.

With the help of the psychologist we have started rebuilding our children’s understanding of sex, which means being a very sex positive household. Sex was never the problem here, breach of trust was. Abuse of power was. I want my children to know that sex is not shameful. Not a source of physical or emotional pain. Seeing naked bodies doesn’t make you a pervert.

God, that is fucking hard some days.

We have to focus on that. The intimacy of sexual contact is an important part of the glue that holds my husband and I together. It is an important part of who we are… this blog is a bit of a clue to that. But you can’t ignore the dual edge of sex in our home.

Four years ago, a man came into our home and raped our children when he was supposed to be helping them change their jumpers and attend drama club.

We caught him. Stopped him. My eldest child was particularly brave and gave super evidence to the police despite having communication issues. Other children are safe because my child spoke up. We remind them of that often. Several professionals have told us that the abuser was moving so quickly increasing the severity of his crimes that he would have continued to escalate.  He drove an anonymous van with a panelled rear. It is not a stretch to think where his behaviours may have gone.

I don’t know what our children’s prognosis is.

My eldest has learnt not to tell the truth to adults anymore. That to tell them what happened opened pandora’s box. They have told our psychologist that if it happened again, they wouldn’t tell, because the consequences were too difficult.

My middle child has learnt that when people look at them, those people find their body and face sexually appealing. They cannot take a compliment because it may have repercussions.

My youngest child has grown up in a house where every penny is spent on providing supervision, where there are more strangers in our lives than family members. Where you can’t cuddle your siblings.

I can tell you that they are doing as well as could be possibly hoped for after all this. They have positive and trusting relationships with us and with their carers. That it’s become clear they have non-typical ideas of gender and sexuality and that they are more prepared and have more tools to deal with these things as they are going through puberty now and in the next few years than most LBGTQ+ children. That they are emotionally literate. And yes, we still cuddle.

I can tell you that the process, some of it still ongoing, that follows reporting your children have been sexually assaulted is damaging to the children and the family who are victims and that as soon as a child acts on sexual knowledge obtained in the course of assault they become a “risk” not a “victim” and we became “negligent” and “neglectful” for not being able to supervise three disabled children around the clock and work to bring in enough money to keep the household running, without having other adult help. That social workers and schools are terrified of a sex positive approach, even when it is psychologist led.

I have learnt that some people will always look at me as the person who let their children be raped.

The Challenge

“Lingerie is for everyone and every body.” reads the tagline.

I posted my lovely man last week, so this week his challenge to me, was to post something personal.

I’m not a fan of my body (there’s too much of it for a start) however I am coming round to the idea that if I wouldn’t shame someone else for their body, I shouldn’t shame myself … and in the right bra, bits of it can be encouraged to an interesting shape.

In honour of a worthy bra that suffered a mortal wound last time I washed it and now must pass to the giant laundry basket in the sky, I present it’s last hurrah.

More beautiful undies hide behind this link…give it a click…

Once more for the crowd…

Check out the link to other Wicked stories…

It’s very quiet over here, like I’m home alone. But I’m not…

The cameras whirr very gently as they move, so quietly it would be easy to miss it. I try to ignore them. Try not to catch sight of them in the corner of my eye.

Nervous energy courses through me, subduing my ability to create the correct headspace. I pace and check the clock again. Sit on the bed, central in the virtually bare room. Stand and smooth the pristine white sheet.

Check the ear pieces in my pocket. Check my phone.

It rings as I stare at it and I jump. It’s turned into alien tech and I press half a dozen buttons before I actually manage to answer the damn thing. I press it to my ear as though I could touch him through it.

No greeting. No cheerful questions about how my day has gone so far. He is as excited by this as I thought I would be.

“Check in, petal.”

I nearly reply automatically, but stop myself and really think about it. Today is the same, but different. The motor breaks the silence.

“It’s just me and you, petal.”

The breath I didn’t realise I was holding escapes with a sigh, but the words are still stuck in my throat.

“It only has to be me and you, if that’s what you want.”

“I’m scared.” I say, but don’t follow through. Scared I’ll let him down. Scared of being judged. I want to be… I don’t know… worthy?

“I’ll cancel. No-one will mind.”

“No!”  I surprise myself a little with the rush of disappointment. “I’ll mind. Just need a few seconds.”

His headset mutes automatically and I really wish I could hear him breathing instead of the void down the line. “I’m putting in the ear pieces.” I tell him, as though he can’t see everything, and I make the technical switch to hands-free. Take off my robe and hang it on the back of the door.

I hear his gasped intake of breath as though he was standing right beside me, and feel a flash of reassurance. The midnight blue slip I’m wearing is not something I’d told him about in advance, but I am guessing he approves.

“You look beautiful.”  He pauses, “Check in, petal.”

“Ready, Sir.” Now I’ve removed my robe, the silky fabric moves across my body and drags my skin into awareness that snakes through me as a shiver. I wrap my arms across my chest, a gesture half protective, half reflexive to the shiver.

“Once more for the crowd?”

I’d forgotten. Communication tonight is to be explicitly clear.

“Green, Sir.” I exhale and feel my nerves dissipate.

He whispers in my ear and I can almost feel his breath. “Do you remember the first time we did this? The connection so jumpy. I was typing left handed to give you instructions, because we didn’t have enough bandwidth for two-way video.” He is here but not here, something we have become used to over the length of our relationship. From dodgy Skyping and expensive video calls to our current web accessible camera streams.

I remember, and the memory is hazy and intimate, filtered through the light of nostalgia of 16 years.

I stroke my fingers down my arms and let my hands fall relaxed at my side.

“Our friends are joining us, love.”

Closing my eyes, I imagine their ghostly presence at the periphery of the room. In reality the cameras will be their eyes, peering at me myopically from the walls.

“Settle yourself on the bed. Let me cover you with that soft blanket, not too much. It’s a warm summer’s night, so it rides low and leaves your feet and legs bare.”

My hands become his, and I feel his soothing touch as the fleecy blanket drapes over my middle, just a flirt of my silky slip showing above and below.

“Check in for our friends, petal.”

“Green, Sir.”

…I get the feeling I might continue this one later…

Delicious Sensations

I’m still not sure of the etiquette, when someone posts a photo that makes your mouth water (and other delicious sensations)… but this week’s prompt photo for #MasturbationMonday was one of those.

This beautiful photo is Marie Rebelle’s, provided as prompt for Masturbation Monday and linked back to her original use “Twisted”

Nipple play has always featured strongly in my fantasies, which I found strange, since mine never seemed particularly sensitive in a sexual way. But still… it was a theme I returned to time and time again and something that always sent excitement curling through my body when I read about it, especially when combined with the idea of getting pierced.

So… some fiction… (after some detailed research).

Follow the link to see who else has been feeling inspired this week

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if it would hurt. How it would hurt.

“No.” she stated firmly. One last look at the little purple dots in the mirror. “No questions.”

She felt a little hazy as she laid back on the medical couch, detaching from reality just a little.

The young piercer moved around the room unhurried but purposeful. Vacuum sealed implements laid out on the metal trolley, blue gloves snapped into place. The shiny titanium bars winked at her from the tray.

She had a tendency to fill quietness with conversation, but not today. She wanted to drift with the opportunity to tune in to her body.

This was nothing like the mindfulness course she’d been sent on. Lying on the floor of the community college while the teacher exhorted her to concentrate on relaxing her toes and imagining them scrunched into warm sand. Today she felt tranquility like summer sun on her skin: excitement the distant hum of bees in the flowers.

The cartilage in her ear had scrunched when the needle passed through. An unexpected sound. She didn’t think there would be a sound today.

The world shrank. She let go of the sounds from the shop outside, the press of the bench against her back, relaxed her jaw.

Gave up the embarrassment of being turned on.

Heavy soled boots with beautiful silver buckles walked into view. A white lab coat grazing a knee.

“Just the clamp going on. Feels a little weird this part.”

The whole experience was more than a little weird. But the clamp, that felt familiar. The squeeze. The pull. Tightness that pulled at the base of her throat.

“You can close you eyes if you want.”

No way. She’d been imagining watching the needle slide through flesh for weeks, if not months.

A fat, silver needle, millimetres from trapped flesh.

“Breathe in. Blow out.”

She watched, but didn’t see, her mind filled with too many other messages.

A scratch. A flame. The drag of metal. An explosion of sensation that starts late and burns hot before tapering away. Scarlet blood dribbled.

“And the jewellery. It’s going to pinch just a little bit.”

Jostling the raw nerves. Such good hurt.

The efficient hands withdrew. Murmured words broke through the quiet. Praise for keeping still, registering in all sorts of ways it probably wasn’t intended.

It took time before she could focus on more than fragments. On the shiny balls nestling next to tender flesh. On the second bar sitting on the trolley.

The clamp appeared again in her eye-line.

“Ready to go again?”

A Hard Day’s Night

Today was hard.

This evening I needed to go harder.

I needed to be out of my head. Away from the noise. Simplicity.

He takes me into the garden as day gives way to twilight. Over the wall, there is gentle babble of people enjoying a warm evening. Walking dogs. Playing football. The opening layer of bondage. Any words, any sounds, would carry the short few steps to the footpath, over the fence and fruit trees to the neighboring garden. I am bound into silence.

He strips me and leads me to kneel, air soft on naked skin, decking hard beneath my knees. I hear the rope swishing through his hands before he touches me. He makes me wait. Anticipate.

The bite and hold of rope. The pull of muscles held still. Rough fingers trailing proprietorially over portions left exposed. Each sensation layered upon the one before. Knots hanks of rope into bindings that say I am cared for. I am his.

Time has fallen silent. In my head. Between us.

Just the swish of the rope. The catch in my breath as he fucks into me. The stutter of his as he comes.

Kiss the lips to see who is playing out this Sunday

Lucky Me

Exactly thirteen years ago, I was standing in the church I grew up in, making promises to God and my man, getting married.

So for week 13 of #LingerieIsForEveryone and this week’s #WickedWednesday, you get three pictures of my lovely husband.

Last weekend, we had a rare child free night. To get round the inevitable performance anxiety – oh fuck, just the sheer joy of not having to have a silent orgasm or being able to play without locking the bedroom door tempered by the “I must be in the mood tonight” nerves- we scheduled a photo shoot.

This is isn’t his kink, but that he trusts me and loves me enough to both play dress up and let me post photos overwhelms me with just how lucky I am to have someone who supports me, experiments with me and who allows me to push his boundaries as much as he pushes mine. I wanted an image for a story, and he is a very good sport. His jeans clad bum features in Tantrum, and for this story, it was supposed to be tights… but stockings were available… and sexier.

And just in case this seems a bit one sided… he took the misery stick to my backside in the loving room… because we could… and then chose the Sinful Sunday image he felt best displayed his handiwork.

There are more photos to come! But first, the story that sparked them.

Fabric, so fine it was barely there at all, made me aware of every inch of my legs. Caressed. Held. Warmed.

“How do they feel?” she asked.

“Nice.” The weak word slipped through my tight throat.

I flexed my foot and subtly the material moved against skin and hair. Ripples of new awareness from flesh I thought I knew.

“Comfortable?”

Her hand slipped between the constraining layer of stretch and the satin briefs, stroking the lace trim to lie smooth before letting the waistband snap back with satisfying sound. Shivers chased over my skin and even gooseflesh felt magnified.

I wondered how she ever got anything done. Every inch of my attention lay beneath the lightly sheened lycra.

Nodding at herself, and not waiting for my reply, she crouched before me lifting my foot and smoothing the seam over my toes.

I want her to keep touching me and I want her to stop. Equally. Imperatively. My dick twitches beneath my panties and drags with more emphasis against the silkiness. Like the first time. Like I’m held by gentle hands.

She notices the hitch in my breath and smirks as she stands before turning away to finish dressing as though this was no biggie.

She’s good like that. Frustrating in equal measure.

“My red dress ok?”

She turns, as though she knows I’m struck dumb and I nod. Watch her wiggle and curse as she hauls a tight tube of something slinky and black over her hips and midrift. Like a hundred times before, I move behind her and help the last few inches up her back and sides while she slips her arms through the straps. Like always, I wonder what it would feel like, but now, with tights still sparking every nerve from toe to waist, I think I want it more.

She bends to reach for her bra, and I pull her hips back against mine. Spandex against nylon against satin against me. Layers of sensation, more not less for the loss of our nakedness. Squealing she slaps my hip. “We’ll be late!”

“We won’t. Reservation is 8pm.” My voice is raspy from my silence. Sounding like myself feels right and wrong all in the same bundle.

My hands slide up her cool, smooth and unnaturally firm flanks until I reach the living softness above. Cup her, take her weight. She arches, pushing into my hands and dick. Stretching for long seconds until she snaps back tall and pulls free.

“8? I’m starving now.”

She pulls on her bra and I slip my leg into the chinos I’d chosen. To not feel the roughness of the fabric as I pull them up is wonderfully strange. The slide of leather dress shoe far more pronounced against tights than even fine dress socks. And yet, as I button my shirt and smooth it into my trousers, fasten them in the mirror, I look the same as always.

She moves behind me now, watching me examining my reflection. Smooths her hand over my hip and groin. Trails over my thigh.

“Stockings would have shown here. Just a tiny bit.”

She moves slightly to the side and takes my hand over the same height of her leg, smoothing the draping fabric until the indentation and protrusions of her stockings and clips show clearly through the fabric.

“You, of course, have the thighs for hold ups. So just a slight crease where they take bite.” She continues, moving her hand back and drawing a firm line just below the depth of my pocket.

The heel of her hand ghosts across my fly, the constraining grip of lycra adding something I think I’d miss in stockings.

“Would you like that?”

Ask me that a few years ago, when I would wander like a ghost through the high street hiding behind the excuse of a girlfriend’s birthday to covetously prowl through racks of impractical lingerie, furious with myself for feeling ashamed. For wanting. Eaten with confusion.

She makes my chest tighten with emotion. She already knows the answer.

“I think I would.”

His, not mine.

I don’t like to look in the mirror: don’t like what I see.

Too big. Too lumpy. Too old. Too ugly.

He covers the reflection and tells me what he sees.

This body, he likes to remind me is His, not mine.

Not mine to criticize, His to feel proud of.

Not mine to mistreat, His to cherish.

Not mine to hate, His to love.

His to mark and photograph.

Mental Health

An otherwise healthy person can be stuck with stressful situations -mental or physical, that throw them off kilter and into a period of mental illness. Talking therapy, counselling, CBT, medication, homeopathy- there are lots of different approaches (that is definitely not an exhaustive list) and just like fixing a broken arm or burst appendix, a course of treatment or so and you can resume your life as you left it.

Or, you can have chronic issues with mental health for many different reasons.

If you think of a physical representation of autism as being born with your limbs and organs differently configured. Some things you can adapt your body to do, some things you either work around or accept you can’t do. Some things a “normal” person can do, like having a baby, can throw you into a period of health difficulties.

It’s not always a “health” but the symptoms of it can look that way to some people, even on my best days. Sometimes though, it is a health thing, when the chemistry of my head is creating paranoia, dissociation and confusion.  

Some days I walk through the world achieving my targets and feeling good about it. Some days, even after medication, I can’t leave my bedroom, can’t open my computer, can’t turn on my phone.

Both are pretty much equally opportunistic, and in the middle are a number of days that fluctuate between the two. Cold fear and panic can strike in the sunniest of circumstances and I can stand strong in a hurricane.

Standing strong, I have learnt, is not the answer. I can’t positive vibe my brain into behaving.  I have to accept this is part of me.  Bend to it.  

I love someone who started with a medical condition, Chrone’s Disease, years before I met them. But the ongoing results from first a surgery, then a septicaemia brought on by the management of the condition mean she has physical difficulties and pain every day. She has a heart condition, a stoma, and a hundred little other ways her body is fucking with her. Like me, she can have some really good days, the type where people hurl abuse at her for parking with a blue badge, and some days when she can’t do anything.

To a point we are co-dependant. She manages my brain and I help with the practical.

Both of us have had to learn to bend and accept the bodies and brain architecture and chemistry we have. Neither of us have met our working life potential, nor do we feel we are good wives and mothers.

We alter our goals and seek help to reach those where we can’t compromise.

It is hard and we are vulnerable. We don’t love ourselves and feel guilty for the extra effort put in by the people who love us.

I don’t look at her and find her less because of her medical condition so I have to trust she doesn’t look at me and find me less.

It is easier than accepting this from my husband, who is kind and loving and relentlessly healthy and body and spirit.

I have tried all sorts of remedies to improve my functionality. Medications, routines, mantras, meditations. I have tried to be “fixed” and at several points had indeed been told I have been. I have self medicated with cutting, alcohol, food (bingeing and denying) and self neglect. Nothing made a difference beyond the moment. Somethings have left me with lasting aversions, like difficulties eating in front of people.

She makes me eat. Pushes me to look smart. Notices if I wince when I walk (I cut my feet,-past tense for now). Drags me out with a phone call “because she needs me” when I am too agoraphobic to leave for myself or the kids.  Always asking for things I can do,- from drive me here to help me with this complex paperwork in your speciality, because she knows I have a kink for service.

He manages my failures in parenting without question. Coaxes me to work through whatever is blocking me. Celebrates my victories with me, recognising the mountains I climb that only I can see. He bought me tickets for my first Eroticon and pushes me to go each year. Reads my blog and pretends he doesn’t because he doesn’t want to pressure me. Has fixed my technology issues so I can write.

Pushes me to service, because serving him gives me a purpose and a sense of fulfilment, even if it is just to be a hole he can fill at his whim. Stinging the soles of my feet with sharp cane strokes, careful to leave no lasting damage, whilst still giving me that high. Marking my skin with bruises and drawings, because then I am his, not mine and I must be careful of what is his, where I would be careless with myself.

They bend too. This is no fantasy adventure where they demand and I follow without hesitation and without cost. Some days, being in bed is all I can do. I misjudge and give too much and one or the other suffers for my empty tank.

I don’t need fixing. Can’t be fixed, because being me is not being broken.

Being us is more complex than being others, but we love each other for who we are and love is not dependent on peer approval, on looking like everyone else’s relationships, to flourish.

We bend for each other.

And in bending we are strong.