So let me start out by saying the last four years have fuuuh-uuuhh-uuhhhcked me up. I have become OBSESSED with the goings on of our government, and I don’t mean it in the cutesy way the Instagram models mean it when they talk about whatever brand is paying them as much as M makes in a year for one post that says nice things about them.

It’s unhealthy. I’ve lost friends over it. It’s caused problems in our relationship. It’s not good.

But my obsession has resulted in a lot of navel gazing and some breakthroughs. Silver lining, I guess?

Thing is, I’ve always readily admitted I am an asshole. And for a really long time, I was like, “that’s just how I am. Fuck it.” Who cares, right? If people don’t like it, they can fuck off. Everyone eventually fucks off anyway. What difference does it make?

And, ya know, in the long run, maybe it doesn’t make a difference. I’m a speck on a speck among infinity specks. What chance do I actually have of influencing anything that matters? But on the small scale…

I’ve been having flashbacks. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t heal past trauma. And I was loath to call them flashbacks because…I don’t know. Other people had it worse than me. Some still do. Admitting they’re flashbacks means I’m more fucked up than I’ve admitted even to myself. The people who caused my trauma refuse to acknowledge their abuse. Including myself.

I don’t think I’ve ever really been a “good” person. I’m not a “bad” person, either, but I’ve definitely done “bad” things, made “bad” decisions. Sometimes because it was the best I could do at the time, but others because I just didn’t give a shit what the repercussions would be. I had reached my limit and the nuclear option seemed like the best one at the time.

A few years ago, we went to this concert at Northern Lights in Clifton Park. It’s called Upstate Concert Hall, now, and I guess it’s moving out of Clifton Park. It kinda makes sense. It was in an old strip mall next to a church, which was also in the strip mall. Waiting to get in was always interesting. The bar did mostly metal and hip hop at the time. So there would be people streaming into the church in their Sunday best, shielding their children’s eyes from all the scantily clad women with or without demons and other occult symbols emblazoned on their clothes and bodies tailgating in the parking lot.

So while we were at the concert, I was standing behind this older biker. He had on a club vest and talked about riding with Hell’s Angels. He knew my uncle, who used to travel to rallies and sell shirts, and flags (but not American ones…he gave those away), and all sorts of bike decorations and accessories. My favorite were the pig tube caps. Small world.

I bumped into the guy when the crowd surged and spilled a little of my beer on his boot. I immediately apologized, because I was raised by a good Christian woman who taught me good women always apologize, and he got annoyed. Told me not to apologize for some shit somebody else caused.

I bumped into him again, sans beer, and apologized again. Then I apologized for apologizing. I fail at being a tough biker chick, I guess.

I can’t really say that I’m sorry I chose the nuclear option, because I’m not sure I am. I guess I’m still holding on to some old grudges, and I feel like the people who fucked with the ram and got the horns deserved it. I’m not going to apologize for some shit somebody else caused. But some people didn’t deserve it. I did it because I was hurting and I was flailing and it made me feel better. And that is fucked up, Daisy.

God, I miss Brittany Murphy.

I’ve matured. I’m working on healthier ways to manage reaching my limit. I haven’t dropped a bomb and ran, leaving others to pick up the pieces, in ages. And for a while, that was enough. I’ve changed. I’m not that person anymore. I do my best not to hurt people, and I help when I can, and I listen more, and try to learn from what I’m hearing.

But I’ve kinda hit a wall. Because the people hurt by that version of me will never know that. And when you’ve been so struck by the damage you’ve caused that you start working to be a different person, and you were raised to believe that nothing is worth doing if you aren’t getting some sort of recognition for it, you want to preen in front of them. “Look how good I am, now! I would never do that thing now! You can like me now! We’ll be great friends, and things will be wonderful, and it’ll be like I never did that thing.”

Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how good you become, or what good things you do, or how hard you try to fix what you broke. The pieces stay broken. People don’t forgive you. And you have to live with that.

I’m trying to live with that.

But the state of our country is scaring the shit out of me. And I’m running out of steam for the constant panic and dread and self-loathing.

I live in a really red area. I like to assume the best about people, but when you get outside of my town to the east, there’s nothing but Trump signs and flags, and I’d say about half say, “Make liberals cry again.” And ya know, maybe it’s just a stupid thing they say to hurt anyone who isn’t voting for Trump, but it somehow feels more ominous.

I feel like we’re sitting on a powder keg. November 3 is the match. And to be frank, I’m not sure the outcome actually matters. It’s going off either way.

Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I’m letting my paranoia and the Twitter instigators run away with me. Maybe it’ll be the same as every other election. Faces and names change, but country mostly stays the same.

I mean, I’m hoping not. We need lasting change. Something so drastic that it sticks and we never end up here again.

I’m just really not okay, right now. I can’t really remember the last time I was okay. And I’d really like to be in a place where I can stop waiting for everything else to slow down so I can try to figure out how to be okay.

Maybe November 3rd.

Anyway.

Vote.

(For the record, I’d never do that preening thing. I just want to sometimes. Which means I’ve got more work to do.)

Hi. How are you?

No, really. How are you?

I know that’s, like, a default thing we all ask friends, family, and strangers, and we don’t often actually want to hear (or care about) the answer. But I really do. How are you?

I’m okay, today. I know you didn’t ask, but I’m going to tell you anyway.

Money’s tight because we had to lease new furniture because our old furniture was literally causing both of us spine and hip injuries, and then we spent more money than we should have over the holidays. Our bad. But we’ll get through it. We always do.

My mental health has been in the toilet. Some time over the holidays, I realized that I really don’t give a shit if I live or die. I’m not having suicidal ideations. I’m not actively suicidal. I just don’t care what happens. Read more…

Hey, y’all. How’ve you been?

Sorry I’ve been gone so long. Things have been a little…weird. I can’t really say I’ve been in a bad place the whole time, but to some extent, I have. I’ve watched in horror as my country shows how FUBAR it is, and screamed at my iPad over an entire political party endorsing a known pedophile for Senate, and deleted my Twitter app for a few weeks, and cried while adults attacked kids for wanting to do something to prevent their peers from experiencing mass murder in their schools, and railed against a winter that started being a royal cunt in mid-November and is still dumping snow on us as we speak.

But mostly, I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching.

I’m not ready to talk about it. I’m not sure I’ll ever talk about it here. Nothing personal, I’ve just moved most of that stuff over to a non-adult blog¹ I started in December².

I’ve been writing there at least once a week. Or trying to, at least. I’m moving my recipes over there, and my introspection re: mental health and personal issues, and probably most political talk that doesn’t relate to kink or sex. I want to stress most because I’m not the type to set brand rules for myself, and I don’t really feel like talking politics has ever been “off brand” for me, so I’ll almost definitely decide that someone in the kink/sex community needs to be talking about something political and it might as well be me and go back on that. Which is why I’m stressing most. Read more…

Motivation is a major problem for me. As in, I have 0 personal motivation to do anything. People look at my list of diagnoses (chronic clinical depression, severe anxiety disorder, borderline personality disorder [BPD]), and go, “Well, duh,” but it’s really bothering me.

I’ve basically become a housewife. I don’t really work with/for anyone, anymore.

It’s partly because when I’m going through shit, I start dropping the ball, and instead of explaining myself to the people I work with, I mostly just stop talking to them. I’m sure they see me posting on social media, and think I’m fine, everything’s fine, I’m just blowing them off. But it’s not like that at all. In reality, I’m a mess, everything’s crazy¹, and the only way I know how to cope is to retreat inside myself and shut everyone out but M. I know that’s crazy unprofessional, and I have no excuse besides mental illness. And in truth, I don’t think that should excuse my behavior. It wouldn’t in an actual work setting, so why should it anywhere else?

Of course, there are some exceptions, like the company I told I was going on hiatus right after their system changed. I lost my login info while on hiatus, so I asked them for help, and they told me they “forgot” how to get it, offered to direct me to a blogger, and then I never heard from them again outside of mass affiliate emails. It felt very much like I was being blown off, so I’ve since removed their banner from my sidebar. I haven’t removed their other links because I really liked working with them, and would love to again, but we’re in a serious money crunch, so if I’m going to promote sales again, it’s going to be for companies I can potentially make a commission from, and not one that won’t even help me figure out how to get into my affiliate account. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Read more…

I don’t handle confrontation well. Or communicating my wants/needs/emotions. This is not a secret.

I talk very logically about good communication in BDSM relationships all the time, but when it comes down to applying that in my own life, I often come up wanting.

It’s partly how I was raised. Growing up, my mother would try to get me to talk it out, but when she didn’t have the answers I was looking for, I’d get frustrated and shut down. My father’s response to any negative emotion was “walk it off.”

“Stop wearing your heart on your sleeve, Rayne,” he’d say. “You’re giving everyone all they need to mess with you.”

And I took it to heart and started doing my best to keep everything bottled inside.

I was already a good candidate for borderline personality disorder (BPD). Add in the stilted emotional development, and I was a shoe-in. Read more…

I’m diagnosed with Clinical Depression (among other things).

I stopped taking medication because to get to a point where I stopped having suicidal ideations, stopped feeling worthless, stopped feeling empty, I had to also stop feeling anything, stop having sex, stop being able to focus, continue to not be motivated to live. I was, in essence, a zombie. I wasn’t alive, but my body hadn’t had the curtesy to just stop living.

What’s the point of taking pills that are supposed to make you feel better if they really only make you a zombie?

I’m told mental health meds (and particularly those meant for depression and anxiety) have come a long way, and are less likely to affect a body that way, but I have a few friends who are currently running the gamut of antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications and having the same results I did. Read more…