Using orchestrated trauma to heal trauma

I'm curious, no, "fixated" would be a better word, on an idea I've had for years.  I've never been able to carry the plan out in actuality, for numerous reasons, but that doesn't mean that its siren song doesn't taunt me in the darkest recesses of my mind.

Big revelation: I was gang-raped as a sophomore in college by three football players.  I won't go into the details, but suffice it to say, according to "rape culture stigma," I made "poor choices" and beat myself up over it for years afterwards.  Now I know that regardless of the fact that I allowed three strange young men "friends of a friend" into my apartment, when my roommate was passed out in her room, allowed them to talk me into taking shots with them (the lure of underage drinking when "free" drinks were offered,) allowed them to talk me into "going into (my) bedroom to 'chill'" and "turn(ing) up the radio so our laughing doesn't disturb (my) roommate or neighbors," they had no right to forcefully have intercourse with me, disregard my protestations, or use a knife to terrify and mark me - to their own amusement.  But this blog isn't meant to preach on one of today's "hot button" topics, it is to mentally work through the thoughts I have about further processing and healing - to see if it makes sense in black and white like it does in my head.

The aftermath:
I have extreme difficulty "getting off."  This didn't use to be the case.  But the rape caused a disconnect between my body and my head.  To say I live in my head is no exaggeration.  I am very disconnected from my body, and as such, this makes it hard to "let go" and "just feel."  My mind wants, no, needs, to be in control - and so it is...almost constantly.  My best scenes are when something happens to jolt me into my body and cut off the constant drone of my thoughts - but it rarely happens.  Mainly, because my head is my safe space.  It is where I retreated during the attack...calmly and rationally thinking and planning how to move, how to act, what to say...to stay alive, to keep them focused on me so their threats to wake up and use my roommate didn't materialize.  My body was out of my control, but my head was not.  And now, my head won't give up that control...it is what kept me safe, kept me alive...what got me through years of counseling and processing and assimilation to a normal life.  And during sex is when it is most apparent that those three attackers did what feels like permanent damage as they took so much of my sexuality from me by dividing my body and my mind.

I've tried yoga.  I've tried meditation.  I've tried various types of exercising.  But it is still so difficult to inhabit my body fully.

BDSM has been great for me in that it has allowed me to give up a certain amount of control over myself and realize that I can trust myself to another person, physically.  It has given me brilliant moments of being fully present in my body, and out of my mind (although rare - they are happening more often.)  It has allowed me to recognize that I can dress and look and be sexual and provocative if I choose - and that it is my right to say "No" to anything I don't want to do - or anyone that I don't want to do it with.  It has allowed me to come to terms with the fact that having sex - in whatever way, with whatever person (or persons) I desire - does not make me a bad person - and definitely doesn't make me "deserve" a non-consensual assault.

My head knows this - but my body still isn't on board.  It holds back far too much, far too often.  It is almost afraid to enjoy my sexuality...it is still broken.  It enjoys the flirtation...the foreplay...the breathless rush of intoxicating anticipation...but when it is stripped bare - vulnerable and at the precipice of more - of fully letting go...it freezes up and shuts down and the mind takes over once again.

Especially when anyone other than Mike is around...shadows of the past chain my soul and freeze my boiling blood...

AND IT SUCKS!!!

I desperately want to be able to be vulnerable.  More importantly, to relish and enjoy my own vulnerability.  To take back what was taken from me.  To connect with the sensual, voracious, succubus-like creature that I know is within me (okay, maybe minus the soul-sucking demoness part...or maybe not)...

Based on my own fantasies over the past few years, along with dreams, and hours upon hours of thoughts about it, I think I know what the next step on my road to full health is.  But, as my adoring, wise, boyfriend has pointed out - it is littered with land-mines and a potential traumatic trigger.

We have worked some on forced orgasms...and then a couple of times of forced orgasms in "public" (usually a quiet corner of the dungeon helps.)  And that is going well.  But it is hard to give your body to someone else's keeping if you haven't first taken it back for yourself, no?

I think it would take going back to a recreation almost...of what happened.  But changing the circumstances...changing the outcome.  Recreating the fear...but with people I trust...allowing me to "choose" to re-enact the situation to a degree...allowing me to get out of my head and into my body during it...and most importantly, allowing me to FEEL what is happening and to ENJOY it.  Choosing to inhabit my body...to choose to be sexual...to take control back, in a way, turn the tables.  To sink into the fear, the pain, the arousal, the whole experience - physically...I think would be cleansing.

I've thought about it for years...and I will continue to think about it for more, most likely.  This will be a topic I come back to, undoubtedly.

What happened to me happened...that will not change...I have come to know this.  It has changed me - and most of this change I have made positive...except for this aspect which still haunts me.  Because I had no choice, something was taken from me in the process...now I wish to CHOOSE to have no choice, and in doing so, take that something back.

more pondering ahead...

A letter to my belly...

Dear belly,

I am sorry that we have to be on such formal terms and I can't just tell you this face-to-...well, belly.  But our relationship has never been a good one.  You and I both know that.  So I figured it would be good for me to vent my thoughts and feelings in this format.  I hope that, at the end of this, we can start over...or at least move on in re-building our relationship together.

I have so much to apologize to you for, that I really don't know where to start.  First of all, I am sorry for hating you.  Not only did I hate you, I despised you with a passion that was not fit for pure evil incarnate, much less a very real and innocent part of me.  I hated you to such a degree that I practically denied your very existence.  I would skim over you with the quickest and lightest of touches in the shower...but only out of necessity...and that was the only physical contact I ever allowed you to experience.  When lovers would run their fingers over you, I'd quickly brush their hands to "better geography" (or so I thought at the time.)  When friends' hands would touch you, even by accident, in an embrace, my whole body would become tense and reject their affection in an effort to deny your existence.  I covered you up with clothes, even during intimate times, baring my entire body to the eyes of lovers, but not you.  I was less ashamed to show my genitals to other people than I was that they catch a glimpse of you, much less fully realize your true, entire real-estate.  I would constantly "suck you in" and try to make you as invisible and unnoticeable as possible, to the point of stomach cramps and indigestion.  I would envelop you in "control top" everything in my ploy to camouflage and disguise you.  I knew, somehow, deep down, that I would never have children, and so, I wrote you off as useless and embarrassing.  I was so wrong, and I am sorry.

I am sorry that I did not get to know you as well as I did the rest of my body.  I am sorry I did not know of the amazing softness and sensitivity of the skin that covers you, and begs to be kissed.  Of your remarkable messaging system, telling me constantly how my visceral organs are doing on a minute to minute basis.  Of your link to my intuition, how you are sometimes the only part of my body that speaks to me when I know something is off or wrong, deep inside my spirit.

I am sorry that I withheld so much from you.  That I could love every part of me, flaws and all, for the strength and beauty of form that each part held for me...except you.  I am sorry that I would rarely breathe, truly breathe deeply, in fear of increasing and acknowledging your size.

Thank you for teaching me a lesson.  We cannot hate any part of ourselves, and truly love ourselves.  I must love the whole, including all the parts, and not excluding those I do not like.  The body does not function at its best with such rancor inside...directed outward OR inward.  I need you.  I know that now.  Thank you for taking care of me even when I did not take care of you.  Thank you for keeping things contained and not letting illness get out of hand and spread.  Thank you for being so accommodating, that you allowed me to continue living, while you did what you could to make room and minimize damage, even while I denied you help...for a long time.

You are just as much a part of me as my face, or feet, or hands, or heart...and I promise to work on recognizing how truly wonderful you are.  I plan on touching you more.  Allowing myself to look at you more.  Eventually allowing others to look at you, as well, regardless of what condition I have left you in.  I plan on loving your new "decoration" - a testament to your strength and a reminder of this growing bond between us.  I think I may even look into belly-dancing (even though you KNOW how uncoordinated I am - but I will do it FOR us...and for me, as a whole woman.)  I vow to work on embracing you as PART of my sensuality, and not a deterrent from it.  I promise to work on breathing deeply into you, allowing you the same nourishment and spiritual conditioning that I give the rest of my body.  I want to re-connect with you, and I hope, in time, I will grow to love you, and thereby, fully come to love myself. 

Thank you for teaching me, and making me a better person,

Christie

PS: thank you for being able to literally hold a football-sized tumor inside me and not kill or incapacitate me!!!

Middle-of-night musings

So here I am, awake at 4 am (not a usual occurrence, by the way,) completely cognizant and amused. It usually takes me awhile to come around upon awakening, and I normally don't jump out of bed and hop on the computer, but I found this funny in the not-entirely-rational musings of my "night brain."

I woke up because of the amazing storm going on outside (which I love!) But also for a slightly disturbing, if not personally hysterical dream that shot me into wakefulness.  I am taking this time to get this dream down on paper, and using that opportunity to share a bit more about myself. (not to mention, from time to time, I enjoy writing, and am using this chance to allow myself a foray into that treasured medium.)

So my dream...

I walked into my own funeral.  That's right.  Not dead, but not entirely as amused as I am about it right now, either.  Turns out it was a High School reunion of some sort, and, one of my long-lost HS buddies had heard of recent health issues, and thought, since everyone was already together, that it was just easier to go ahead and have a "memorial" before the final verdict was in.  And I walked in on it.  Fun part was playing in the jar of ashes at the front of the conference room while the speaker stood there in disbelief and the "could've heard a pin drop-silence" was over the room packed with attendees/mourners.

But that's not even the "good" part of the dream...that comes later.  As dreams are so prone to do, the place and situation completely changes (and makes perfect sense as well, of course.)  Now I'm in a conference of some sort, and having to do the meet-n-greet-mingle with complete strangers (not at all my forte for this socially-awkward wall princess.)  But I'm giving it my all, actually walking up to and making myself part of groups currently in conversation.  Of course, I walk up to the group led by Mr. Yummy, himself.  I'm talking late 40s George Clooney looker, combined with muscles that would be at home on the TruBlood television series, added to a nice, healthy freshly-ridden biker aroma, mixed with the allure/intrigue of a personal crush of mine..."the most interesting man in the world."  He is engaged in telling some personal, cute, "on dit" of the day; however, stops mid-sentence, turns towards me, and directly engages.  I don't remember what he said to draw me in, but I remember the gist of it was a smooth, complementary comment...

And I didn't bomb!  I didn't brush it off, or deflect, or hand the spotlight to my neighbor, but instead, I ran with it!  I used the attention to flirt and attempt to create a bond with my own Mc-Dreamy.  "Best moment of the day," I challenged him, both fingers (and barrels) locked and loaded and pointing at him with one eyebrow raised and a half-smirk on my lips.

He returns fire with some equally flirtatious, completely witty story that has all of us in tears of laughter.

And then it is my turn..."So I walk into my own funeral this morning..."

I win!  Not only that, I have him completely wrapped around my finger, and I’m one big smile, ready to pull my catch out of the crowd and go have my nasty sweaty way with him, as I’ve obviously just earned.

Fun dream.  Feels good.

And it gives me a nice transition into “share time.”  Believe it or not, (I chuckle, knowing this will come as no surprise to you all,) I am completely and utterly socially awkward, and have been all of my life.  I’m working on it, hard, but ‘tis no easy task, and one filled with hours of observation that I don’t yet have.  I was the kid/teenager with my nose buried in a book.  Not just occasionally, but ALL THE TIME.  At home, camping, vacations, family gatherings, holiday weekends at the lake, etc…even around other kids my age.  They would be playing, and I would be reading.  So I did not have to interact with my peers…and thereby, and more importantly,   I did not learn HOW to do so.  Conversations were mostly held with grown-ups.   At the time, I thought it was “obviously” because I was so much more mature and “fit” for adult conversation than “the other kids.”  But looking back with a better grasp of reality, I know it was the adults that saw the “poor, lonely” Christie with her nose buried in a book and assumed this was indication of an outcast.  They attempted to combat the trauma it must be doing to my soul by using their own grasp of social interactions to engage with me, pulling me into conversations so subtly and completely, that I believed it must be because of the maturity and innate “special” nature of my shiningly unique personality and fascinating intellect.  They were excellent conversationalists with techniques to which I wish I had paid closer attention.

It was only upon becoming a “grown-up” that I realized I was not the brilliantly witty conversationalist that I had been led to believe I was.

Which leads me into the story of the beginning of Mike and I…

We met at an orgy. 

(How’s that for an opener?)

No, but really…we did.  We were both at a local swingers’ party (not participating, as is the custom of both of us, in all honesty,) each noticing the attractive persona of the other, but neither having the skill (or possibly, the inclination) to do anything about it.

Jump forward several months, we start to see each other regularly within the same group’s weekly karaoke outing.  Somehow, after weeks of  “noticing” each other, I manage to get his phone number.  Not to call and talk, mind you…but to text…and email…and chat online for several weeks/months before progressing to a “group date” at a group campout. 

We do fine, better than that even, as words on a computer screen, picking each other’s brains and flirting and escalating our budding relationship.  In person, it is a different story.  We remain close to each other throughout the day/evening, sitting on the same benches, joining the same groups of conversation, but not actually speaking to each other.  A pre-arranged “lure” of a movie in his sleeping quarters (the back of his pickup) draws us into private time together…still without the need to speak with one another, and we watch the movie in blissful equally-“crush”ing silence…legs, feet, and hands brushing against each other, heightening the anticipation.  After the movie, we smoothly and gracefully flow into our first coitus session, without the need for words (okay, it was probably extremely awkward, but somehow, we got through it.)  Luckily, we “clicked” there, you might say, passing the ENTIRE night fucking, only stopping when we noticed the sun coming up and people starting to stir. 

Both eager to get to another night of sexual acrobatic escapades, and running on the high of our first hook-up, we spend the day together…still utterly silent.  Talking and joking and interacting with others as parts of groups, but not able to actually speak to each other in person.  Seriously!

Well, except for that one time…when I went back to my tent to change clothes.  Mike, being the consummate gentleman, accompanied me, and stood outside of the tent whilst I changed within.  We ended up having a good hour+ conversation with each other THROUGH THE WALL OF THE TENT.  But that was the only time we “talked” the entire weekend…everything else worked “just fine” between us though, luckily.

Some things are just meant to be.

And now it is time to crawl back into bed with him in the pre-dawn hours once more, holding him in our normal, blissful, mutual silence.

Tough epiphany

What a weekend! What a time for introspection and the seeds of change/growth!

WARNING! EXTREMELY DIFFICULT VULNERABILITY AHEAD (proceed at your own risk)

The time for focus on healing is near.  It is amazing to me that the body manifests health issues when there are problems that need to be addressed with the spirit – yet I believe it happens, because I have seen it time and again in my own body.  And I have also had the privilege of seeing the opposite, when a strong and healthy spirit can manifest healing within the body.  We are such fascinating creations!

Baggage time. Ignoring it, unfortunately, does not help it to go away.  My deepest fears lie within and demand attention. I waited too long to leave a toxic relationship…hanging on until the last possible moment…until I really began to fear for my own physical safety.  I should have put more importance in the safety of my spirit, which bore heavy damage long before my body ever showed signs of mistreatment.  I left…broken.  Recognizing in leaving the chance to overhaul and build a better me, I dove headfirst into my own recreation.  I knew I wanted to help people – I knew that was of primary importance to my life’s purpose, and I believe that manifestation lies in helping people heal themselves.  So I filled my life and time with chasing this goal (literally FILLED my time – not much to spare, even for my heart’s desire.)  But this “busy-ness” is also my coping *read – DENIAL* mechanism.  So much easier to DO on the outside than to SEE on the inside. 

My development as an adult and as the woman I want to be was stunted and lay slowly and stagnantly swirling through the years of my misspent trust.  I lost the faith in myself, and more importantly, the faith in mankind in general.  Now is time to reconnect with my true self and to re-build the parts I want to emphasize.  So I surrounded myself with examples of women with qualities I desired to cultivate most, and I was blessed that they welcomed me, literally, into their family.  What better way to create than to see concrete examples of your vision, and watch them…

I am watching unbelievable beauty of spirit in all of them, as well as grace under tremendous pressure, amazing strength IN obedience, compassion, selflessness, sacrifice, fierce protection, a creator of joy, a literal spine of steel, and so many other qualities that seem effortless and innate in these women.  I, honestly, feel like a “baby-woman,” a definite “work-in-progress,” just now “under construction.”  And I am extremely optimistic at the direction their example is providing in my undertaking. 

I am finding myself more and more unsure, hearing more and more the broken record in my head that I desperately want to smash and record over.  Our minds are such suggestible things, grabbing onto words spoken, emotions lending them strength, transforming the words of others into our own thoughts, to become our self-held beliefs.  To break these when they have taken root and spread their poison throughout our souls is no easy task, especially when they have had years to wreak havoc. 

What does it take?  What will it take to change this pattern?  Cutting out the sources of toxicity – check.  Now to re-program.  Repetition…words, over and over and over and over…to replace the words of darkness.  Words of affirmation from trusted inner-circles.  But most importantly, deeds to prove the original programming wrong.  Actions that lend credibility to the new words.  Actions that help establish the new thoughts, that help transform these new repeated words into thoughts, and eventually, into beliefs that strangle every last thread of poison. 

 

I am not worthless, I am priceless.  I am not weak, I have strength beyond measure.  I am not immature, I have held onto my childish innocence.  I am not damaged goods, I am a beautiful, sexual creature.  I am not a lodestone, I am inspiration.  The darkness has created a light that touches others with its purity.  I am not complicated, I am fascinatingly complex. 

I am going to allow myself quiet time each day for this reprogramming…for the repair of my spirit.  I am going to focus on presence and live in the moment, choosing actions that enforce this person that I am strengthening.  I am going to allow myself to reach out to my support system more, and remind myself that “birds of a feather…” and that there is a reason these “birds” welcomed me, even if I cannot yet see the similarity of our feathers.  

Most importantly, I am going to continue to live in love, extending it to everyone that crosses my path.  Looking for its expression in a myriad of ways around me.  And allow myself to extend the same understanding and love that I easily and willingly give others to myself. 

Yikes!

Damages dumping

I've been a bad bad blogger.  I have neglected you, and for this, I am sorry.  (4 Hail Cthulu's while kneeling on rice in frog-tie)

Okay, now that we have that finished, I'll get on with the blog.

I'm in a very "blah" space right now and have been trying to figure it out.  Sometimes, I just need to vent/unload all of the yuck that builds up within...unfortunately, it's not always easy to find.  Often, it's subconscious, so I have to pick and sort through it until I find the nasty little splinter of truth.  Then, I have to yank it out and spew all the infected spirit/energy/puss (sorry to be so graphic, but that's what it is and what it takes.)  After such a "cleansing," my mood usually starts to improve gradually until I'm back to normal.  Although this time, I thought it was the stress of what I willingly am putting myself through (if you don't know, don't ask - it's not that big of a deal and many people have been through MUCH harder things.)  However, the continued lowered energy level and dour outlook are not normal for me and I knew it was time to go in.

And then I realized...a big anniversary is coming up.  In January, it will be 10 years since I lost my mom.  And next week, it will be 7 years since she died.  For those of you able to do math, you may notice a disparity.  We'll give a little history lesson, in the pursuit of transparency - and for those of you that think you want to know me better. 

My mother and I were very close. I know logically she wasn't perfect, but I couldn't tell you what her flaws were.  She was the perfect mother to/for me.  It's all she ever really wanted in life, coming from a broken home herself...a close, healthy, functional, happy family.  And she pretty much had it.  She and I got closer and closer as the years passed, until college, when we'd talk to each other every day by phone.  I have never even had a female friend with whom I was as close.  She didn't always agree with me or my decisions, but it didn't matter.  She always told me that she loved me and would support me whatever I did.  I remember as a child, once telling her (as children dramatically do) "I hate you."  I vividly remember her talking to me later about it...and telling me that she would NEVER hate me.  She would ALWAYS love me.  I remember trying to test her statement: "What if I killed someone...or several people?"  Her response?  "Then I would visit you in prison and tell you how much I still loved you, even if I didn't love your choices and your actions."  That stuck with me.  Her wisdom resonated through me and still does..."You HAVE to take care of yourself first...you cannot benefit or take care of anyone else unless you are whole and healthy."  "A smile will get you out of more trouble than you can imagine...but only when accompanied by a closed mouth."  and many, many more gems.  I can't put into words what she meant to me and how large a part of my life she was...but she was very special.

My second year of college, I was the victim of a gang rape by 3 college football players.  This blog isn't going into that, except as background for more about Mom.  It was over a year before she drug out of me what had happened.  She immediately got me into counseling, fought to make the university continue giving me my full scholarship, even though my grades had dropped dramatically, and did anything in her power to provide the support I needed to wake up out of my haze and fight to play an active role in my own life again.  With her help, I managed to get through the last two years of college, and planned to study abroad during my last semester in order to celebrate my victory of taking charge of my life again. 

I remember hugging her in the pre-dawn moment together we had while saying our goodbyes before my Dad took me to Europe.  She was crying, almost weeping, and I remember comforting her...telling her it would only be a few months before I'd be home again...and that since Dad was an airline pilot, she could come visit whenever she wanted.  She just seemed really scared, I remember, and I couldn't figure out why.  I had already been living over 4 hours from home for the last 4 1/2 years.

Two weeks into my semester in Maastricht (Netherlands,) she and I were talking on the phone (which we still did everyday, albeit for a shorter length of time,) and she told me she had to go in for "routine" surgery the next day.  Mom had a pacemaker (and had since she was 27 for a very odd, irregular heart rhythm.)  Every so many years, they had to go in and replace the battery.  She had been through it a couple of times before - outpatient surgery, through her armpit, and home the same day. I remember her telling me on the phone that she was scared...I remember reassuring her that it was nothing and would be over before she knew it, just like the other times. This time, however, the surgeon made a mistake.  I don't know all the details, but he was using a new laser and cut a hole in her heart in a place it shouldn't be...blood flow to her brain ceased for several minutes. 

We had just taken a trip out to a castle in the country where they stored our bikes for the University.  We all rode bikes through the tulip fields, just beginning to sprout tulips, laughing and making plans for Carnivale in Venice in a couple of weeks.  I stopped by the University's hub on the way back to the dorm to check my email.  There was a frantic note from my sister to call home...Mom was in a coma and they were trying to get a hold of me.  Time froze.  I can't even start to go into what happened and how I felt...it's still too raw.  The plane ride home the next day was a blur, even though I didn't sleep on the plane and hadn't slept the entire night before.  When I arrived at the airport, a family friend drove me straight to the hospital.  I remember hating how spread out Oklahoma City was.  When I walked into the ICU, I saw my Dad and sisters at the end of the hallway.  The girls were tear-streaked and frozen...my Dad just dropped to his knees, sobbing, and held out his arms to me.  I had to be strong for them.  And I was.  I only cried twice over the next couple of weeks.  Once, that night, when I sent the rest of the family home and stayed at her bedside, holding her hand and begging my Mommy to wake up and come back to me.  Once, in my closet, a few weeks later, after a meeting with the Neurologist that explained how very little brain activity she had, and how, even though miracles happened, the damage was irreversible and we could expect a vegetative state until her body gave out.

That was January of 2002.  I never went back to Maastricht.  I stayed with my family until the girls went back to school and Dad went back to work.  Then I ran away, so to speak...moved back down to Texas and in with my boyfriend, and created a completely new "reality" so that I didn't have to face what had happened.  I stayed in a state of denial for almost 3 years, visiting home very rarely, and not mourning...because how can you mourn someone still technically alive? 

And then her body gave out to a cold.  November of 2004.  I went home and helped with the funeral and arrangements.  Took care of the house and company.  Kept my sisters upbeat...we all felt it would be "wrong" to seem sad at this point, as we had had 3 years to mourn and assimilate what had happened.  After all, Dad had moved through his mourning, and was ready to date again.  And we wanted to support him in moving on. 

So that's where I'm at...still...constantly...stuck in an in-between...ever-mourning and yet, at the same time, can't take the time to really move through the entire grieving process of losing a parent, because of the time lapse.  So it re-surfaces every couple of months.  I embrace it for an hour or two, sob, think, write.  And get back to living. 

I've heard people say that it gets easier with time.  I used to count on that.  But so far, they lie.  It's just as raw...just as painful...and just as enveloping/all-encompassing as the day I lost her.  I have come to accept it as part of me and my life...my story.  I have some amazingly awesome moments and emotions in my life, and this is the flip-side of the coin, the "payment," so to speak.  Life is about balance, and I accept that I have to, no, I GET to endure this completely destructive pain, and as balance, I get a genuinely blissful existence most of the rest of the time. 

I am going to stop now...it's time to study...again. 

her poem: (written for her when she was still alive, but so fitting just over a year later):

The shooting star that streaks across
the diamond-dappled sky,
leaving its mark impressed upon
each star it passes by...
The trail soon fades,
but left behind, gleaming in the dust,
the memory of a life that shines,
and so,
you are
to us...

I love you Mom!

Step into my web, said the spider to the fly...

So I began the telling of my paradigm shift in the last blog.  This one promises to go into further detail describing the major events occurring last year during Tribal Fire 2010.

This event was my first official conference to attend in full, and I was beyond excited to learn and observe, for the most part.  The high began during the first classes on Friday; one was a basic course on single-tail handling taught by Travis.  I had only seen one class on this subject before this point, taught by Mason, and I knew that I had an interest and slight fascination with the wielding of this tool.  It was nice to see a different approach to the subject, and I noted the different styles of teaching while at the same time settling into the cozy family-reunion-esque (if you actually like your family) bubble of ambience that Tribal Fire provides.  Mike and I then attended a class on relationship dynamics that Mason and Princess Heather taught.  Watching them co-teach was most enjoyable, as they played off of each other very well and had the class engaged and amused from the word “go.”

For the party that evening, Mike and I planned on doing our usual rope work, possibly including a suspension.  By “usual,” I mean we brought rope and each other – willing and ready to pull out the rope, get up close and personal, and see where our moods took us.  We played around a little bit, but it was a fairly quiet evening with lower attendance than we had anticipated, and we ended up talking with a few people before being irrevocably drawn into watching part of a scene that would change us both for good.  Ultra Dom and Michael (we didn’t know who they were at the time) had begun to play in a quieter room across the hall.  The sound of screeching monkeys drew us to the doorway only to reveal a laughing Karen, flogging Michael with a stuffed monkey flogger.  This was not your typical “flog, flog, moan” scene, and we were hooked!  They were having fun, and even included some of those standing around and observing as Karen and friends pushed (and punched and kicked) Michael around the room like a human pinball.  This was far from quiet, far from somber, and most definitely far from boring. 

The next day we attended more classes, including one on service taught by Michael, one on general rope by Lamalani, and one on fire play by Victoria Windsor (I can’t quite remember the order or days/times of all.)  But the second major turning point occurred during the Saturday night play party.  Mike was talking to Mason during a smoke break and they somehow got started discussing water-boarding.  As Mike strongly believes in not doing anything to someone (including and especially me) that he hasn’t experienced himself, he expressed his interest in trying this, from the perspective of the victim.  Just as Mike is relaying this desire to Mason, WhipMaster Bob walks up, and, before much more is said, I end up following these three men back  into the bowels of hel…I mean the dark, dirty, deserted back kitchen area.  Let me set the stage a bit more for you:

Two VERY large scary men (one of whom I don’t even know and the other I just know derives great pleasure from inflicting pain)…

Iron gate door (that, most appropriately, squeaks and squeals upon opening just like you see and hear in the horror movies usually involving prisons and torture) leading to a dark room, lit by a few flickering bulbs, concrete floors, concrete brick walls, dirty floors and rusty metal surfaces everywhere…

The sounds of other people and activities fading away to an eerie silence in which I can only hear the heavy trod of boots and the rushing of blood pounding to the frantic beat of my heart in my ears…the slow, echoing drip of a faucet into a metal sink…

The smell of dirt and mildew…and the unmistakable scent of men – the large, sweaty, predatory smell that fills your nostrils and reaches into the primal response center of your brain…

Mind you, I am in a corset and 8 inch platform boots with spiked heels, which, in addition to the growing mental anguish, has me considerably off balance, and in no position to run or even quietly and quickly slip away from this developing scenario, should that become a necessary option.  I then watch (from my spot pressed flat against the concrete-blocked wall, as far away from the action as possible, while still being able to view the proceedings) as these two men briefly explain what will happen and instruct Mike to lie down upon the floor.  One of them wets a washcloth in the sink and then places it into Mike’s mouth.  I realize that I am holding my own breath, and force myself to exhale and then inhale, as quietly as possible, so as not to draw attention.  Goosebumps break out over my whole body, not due to the cold wall I am trying to bore into, but from my own heightened awareness and observance.  This was quickly becoming the most terrifying scene that I have never been a part of. 

A washcloth is then placed over Mike, and this shroud-like tableau does nothing to quell my rising hysteria, as the light continues to dimly flicker overhead, in a mocking tribute to the black and white interrogation movie scenes.  For an impromptu set-up, this could not have been more brilliant in design if months had been spent arranging every detail.  I now know what the rabbit feels like in the Discovery channel documentary when the wolves gather.  I remember watching that type of program (along with horror movies) and thinking, “RUN! You dumb@$&! Run, while you still can!”  I remember thinking how stupid the little bunny looked, frozen in fear, eyes stretched open to their limit, from the moment of first awareness that its own day of demise had arrived.  My instinct was screaming repeatedly “GO! Go now!” but I could not tear my eyes away from the events unfolding just steps in front of me. 

As you can tell, I had already entered “flight or fight” mode, yet was unable to do either.  Perhaps a total of 2 minutes had passed since we left the courtyard, yet, each second was drawn out longer than an hour in my head, adding its own sweet stamp of terror to the adrenaline coursing through my veins and awakening every cell in my body. 

The ice bucket full of water was tipped and lowered towards Mike’s face, the orchestrator of torture squatted like a great predatory cat over his chest, seemingly ready to stand or leap up within half a heartbeat should he so choose, and in my own frightened mind, I knew it would require less than a breath for the distance between us to close.  Yet I could not even look away, helplessly frozen to the wall as I was. 

The water descended, deceptively beautiful in its current role of tormentor, soaking the towel before swirling around and running off into the drain.  As Mike’s hands balled up into fists and struggled not to “tap-out,” I wanted to both run forward and help him…or maybe just run forward and follow the water down the only escape, disappearing into the darkness below. 

And then it was over.  Mike sat up, took a moment to compose himself, shook the extended hand of the man controlling the experience, and they introduced themselves to each other. 

This was my first taste of the thrill of terror.  But my education on fear play would continue throughout the evening.  And I will continue the tale in the next blog…

baby steps into a new world

I know I mentioned that I would explain the loss of my mother in this post, but I’m in a happy mood and have so many other things on my mind, that that particular topic will have to wait a little while. 

I went to Tulsa Xpressions event this past weekend.  I am REALLY coming to love these conferences/events, so much so that I am trying to figure out a way to work more of them into my life (and budget.)  I know that teaching is one way to accomplish this goal, but I am currently in the “soaking it all up” stage of my learning and growth.  I find myself drawn more and more towards a life of leather.  As sentient beings, most of us evolve through our experiences during our journey from cradle to grave.  I have been noticing a drastic evolution of self over the past two years.  I find myself weary of the very activities and people that used to bring some of my life’s greatest joys.  I believe whole-heartedly in having fun and enjoying every moment to the fullest due to the transient nature of our mortal existence.  However, I also believe that we should be mindful of others with whom we share our lives, and attempt not to inhibit their own pursuit of happiness.  This has led me to a strong passion for tolerance as well as a quest to improve myself from within so as to affect others in the most positive way possible.  It wasn’t long after defining my current life mission that I noticed Leather events and people continually appearing in my path.  Maybe I was lucky in the fact that the majority of those I’ve met have embodied the very traits of which I’m looking to develop in myself.  Many of their views on life align with my own, and at first, I found it an odd coincidence, until it repeatedly occurred. 

I have noticed a pretty large difference between the outlooks of people involved in het/pan BDSM/kink and those that live Leather.  When around the first group, I find myself having to work harder for the tolerance for which I aim; yet when I am around the second, I find myself having such a great amount of respect for a large portion of them.  I literally want to fade into the surroundings and just soak up the information within the ideas and viewpoints discussed (not to mention being overcome with a strong desire to rub myself all over some of them and see if osmosis of knowledge can actually occur.)

I also find my own joys as far as “play” goes more closely aligning with what I have seen from Leather vs Kink.  I have always been drawn to the Darkside, but never felt like what I enjoyed “fit” the stereotyped (and overplayed) version of “scening” (I hate that term) seen in most dungeons.  I like a different level of intensity…I enjoy an energy and power exchange that wakes both my body and soul…one that has me laughing, crying, screaming, or even just quietly sobbing…but most of all, one that connects me on a very intimate (no, not always sexually intimate) level with another person.  I didn’t see this type of play on a regular basis before, and I definitely missed the “connection” that was a huge part of my imagination and fantasies.  Until last year at Tribal Fire, 2010.

More to come…