Wicked Wednesday – 318 – Recreate


So lately I’ve been struggling really badly with my bipolar disorder. I’m incredibly depressed and haven’t been able to handle much in the way of running my life. And I’ve spent all weekend wondering what to write about for Wicked Wednesday or even if I was going to be able to write a post. Much angst ensued. Even now these words are hard to write.

What could I recreate? A retelling of some famous tale? A memory brought back to life? And then I knew. I realized exactly the thing that I need to recreate. And it has nothing to do with sex or erotica and everything to do with me. I feel like (and have felt like) that I lose parts of myself to my bipolar disorder. It just takes things away from me like a parent disciplining a child, but I don’t always get them back as a reward for good behavior. If I did, my life would likely be much simpler.

But the thing that I need to recreate, somehow, is that spark that I used to have for writing and blogging and doing things with my life, no matter what they are. I’ve become so desensitized, so numb to everything but the depression that I’ve let that gift slip away from me. And right now, I have no idea how to get it back. I take my medications and I go to therapy, but when you’ve been subconsciously downplaying things to your therapist that doesn’t help much. I had an “Aha!” moment regarding that subconscious behavior just the other day. I’m sure my next therapy appointment should be fun. But back to finding a spark of…creativity, life, energy, I don’t know what to call it. Maybe all of those things.

How do I do this? I don’t think I can force it and I don’t want to force it. OK, I do, but that’s because I hate who I’ve become and want instant change, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how this all works. It is going to be a long road I think and a journey that only I can make. Where do I start? How do I begin? I don’t even have those answers. So until I can find them or figure them out am I doomed to wander lost, trapped inside my head? I don’t think so. I think I can try to actively move forward even with the depression and anxiety weighing me down. It just won’t be fast or easy to do.

So, I guess, this week folks, instead of some steamy erotica or sexy fun, I’m baring a part of myself open to be recreated somehow. If anyone has any sage advice or suggestions I’ll certainly take them into consideration and see how they might help me out, help me be me again, and find my way back into something resembling light even if it is dim.



Wicked Wednesday – 252 – Recollection (Memories from a Broken Mind)

((Trigger warning – Sexual Abuse, Rape)) If this may be a problem for you please feel free to skip this post.

I was 19 and he was almost 22. We had been married for just over a year. The first time it happened I was asleep and I awoke to him fucking me while I slept. I didn’t know what to do or how to respond so I pretended to be asleep and let him finish. I cried myself back to sleep long after he had passed back out. That happened several more times until I finally told him to stop one night and forced him off of me. He didn’t seem to understand why he couldn’t fuck me, his wife, any time he wanted even if I was sleeping.

Later on it progressed to forced blowjobs when I was on my period. He’d beg and manipulate me until I finally would give in just to get it over it with. I later learned that this was called coercive rape. There were many more instances of that, countless ones over the years. It taught me that I had no worth, no value as anything other than a human sex toy. And I accepted that for many years. Nine to be exact.

He fucked me when we were both drunk once. I didn’t want to. But his fingers, surer than mine, had my jeans undone and my panties down before I could protest. I wasn’t even ready and it hurt. I buried my face in a pillow and cried to myself, thanking the Gods that I had always been on the pill and that I took it like clockwork everyday. He never even noticed my tear stained cheeks or the lack of an orgasm on my part. He just took and took without caring or giving anything in return.

I told him that I wanted a divorce because I was queer and even in such a stressful time he was still able to manipulate me. He held me down and performed oral sex on me just because he wanted to know if he could still make me come. So I closed my eyes and fantasized about it being someone else, anyone else but him. Because I knew he wouldn’t stop otherwise. He was so triumphant when I had that orgasm. Later he wanted a blowjob and I was quite literally gagging at the thought because he repulsed me so. He forced himself into my mouth and as far into my throat as he could. I almost threw up on him and he shoved me away in disgust. “Stupid bitch. You’ve done this dozens of times before. Why not now?”

Even after he moved out he kept coming back, hoping to catch me alone I think. He never did. It has been five years now. I still have nightmares. I’m terrified he’ll find out where I live. I don’t even like to see him in public because it fills me with so much rage and loathing both for him and for myself. Slowly, I’m healing. With the help of my partner and my therapist and even this blog I’m getting better. And I’ll never be his (or anyone’s) victim again.


If you missed it last week’s Wicked Wednesday can be found here.


Darkness creeps, a living thing, winding its way into my heart, into my head. Wily and artful, madness wails a reply. Together they work to ensnare, bewitch, and befuddle. Trapped in a storm inside my own skull, battered by the constant cacophony of what my reality has become. I am a thing, broken and shattered; a discarded toy left to moulder and rot, alone in my insanity. Continue reading “Saved”

Mental Health/Illness and Sexuality

I have spent the better part of a week now trying to figure out just how the connection between my mental health and my sex life intersects. I keep finding a lot of data, but it is difficult to parse and even harder to explain.

What it boils down to is that I have been everywhere from hypersexual to functionally asexual depending on how manic or depressed I was at any given time. Various medications that I have been on have also heightened these effects in either direction as well.

Having an abusive former spouse who did not understand or did not care about the wild variations and how they affected me meant that my own sexuality as well as my mental health was used against me (in addition to bipolar disorder type 2 with rapid cycles I also suffer from an anxiety disorder and, due to the trauma of my marriage, PTSD)

I’ve been coerced, tortured, abused, and more recently, loved for the first time in my life. The decade of the coercion combined with my mental illness has left incredible scars on my psyche. Talking about sex can, at times, be impossible for me (and I’m a sex blogger so that’s gotta change), communicating my wants or needs is an arduous task at best, and simply allowing myself to want something, much less ask for it is a struggle. My partner has been incredibly, incredibly patient with me and wonderful to me throughout everything that has gone on both while watching my marriage fall apart and being unable to help and then afterwards when we ended up together.

Sometimes, an unexpected noise like a door creaking can derail sex because it triggers my panic attacks, sometimes I can’t even bear to be touched because of the flashbacks; other times I wake up screaming. All of these instances work in conjunction to take my sexuality and smash it into a bunch of tiny pieces that I can’t put back together. All because the connections in my brain aren’t wired quite right and someone chose to exploit that under the guise of loving me.

Having spent years of my life viewing my sex life through that lens of abuse has meant that I didn’t really know what to expect from my partner and that my partner has been, and continues to be, very careful with me at times. It is a safety issue for us that goes beyond things like safewords and best practices regarding safe sex. It is what reminded me that consent is sexy as well as necessary. I was introduced to the idea of using lube, because my ex thought that it wasn’t necessary, I’m learning that it is OK to talk and laugh and have fun, that it is OK if things don’t end in an orgasm, or six. Basic things, that I may have learned long before I was married, but I later had ripped from me and dismissed as frigidity, sluttishness (in a condescending usage), or simple stupidity as though I was incapable of knowing about my own wants and needs and clearly too dumb to attend to those of the “man” in my life.

I wouldn’t wish the things that I have suffered upon anyone, not even the ex from hell, but it is my hope that even just one person sees this post and knows that they are more than their mental illness, more than just someone to be used and tossed aside, more than just their cunt, their breasts, their penis, their body as sexual tool. You can be crazy and having a happy fulfilling sex life. You can be an abuse survivor and find a new normal. Mental illness and/or trauma does not have to dictate who or what you are.

That’s your job. Now, go do you.