Wicked Wednesday 283 – Memory Lane (Traumatic)

WARNING: This post is about sexual assault and rape and may be triggering for some readers. Please take care of you and if you’re worried about this causing a problem feel free to skip this post. Love, Livvy


When I told my ex-husband I wanted a divorce, he asked me why and I simply told him I was gay. There was far more to the story than that, but that’s for another time. He took this declaration of mine as a personal challenge. His stance included a suicide threat that was nothing more than attention grabbing, but far worse than that was the quickly escalated abuse.

He wouldn’t have penetrative sex with me because I had immediately stopped taking my birth control in order to avoid just such a thing happening, but he wanted something so he grabbed me by the hair and forced me to give him a blow job. I choked and gagged and eventually he grew disgusted with me and threw me back across the bed. I honestly thought he was going to physically harm me at that point. If things had stopped there it might have been OK for me. I might have mentally been able to get over that particular incident (although I’d put up with years of such treatment.) But that wasn’t the end of it.

Several days later he found me nude in our bedroom. He asked me if he could perform oral sex on me and I said no. I found this to be an odd request given how he’d never liked doing so before now. But when I said no he kept pushing and trying manipulate me into giving in. Finally (and to my shame) I did. Why? Because I just wanted it to stop. Later I learned of the term coercive rape and that is what had happened to me there. I didn’t even have the courage or ability left in me to fight back and stand up for myself. I felt so defeated and broken. I felt like it was my fault for a very long time and it has taken years for me to learn and understand otherwise

These are two memories that will stick with me, and haunt me, for the rest of my life. Sometimes I still wake up crying. It took some time before I would let my current partner see me naked and more before I was OK with oral sex again. I try to remember these good times when the bad ones come rushing back. It helps. So does talking about it.

But today I’m writing about it largely to get the term coercive rape out there. For all the people who were pressured, badgered, and manipulated into a sexual act that they didn’t want, you’re not alone. And it isn’t or wasn’t your fault. If you’re suffering or struggling, please seek help. Talk to a counselor, a trusted friend, your pastor…whoever you can open up to (I know that’s hard), but it helps the healing process. I’ve struggled with opening up and I rarely go into detail about this if I do talk about it. I use euphemisms and subtle hints and references, but rarely do I say anything words related to sexuality out loud. I just don’t have it in me to do so.

And I know these are terrible memories to share and I hope that my readers will forgive me, but I needed to talk about this as I do every so often, because even after half a decade I am still trying to process it all, still trying to cope. I don’t know if I’ll ever be better, but I’ll be stronger eventually.


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.