The thought that something was wrong with me has been a worry that has plagued me for most of my life. It wasn’t a health concern or a physical flaw. It was an internal chaos that began when I was fourteen years old. For a long time, I tried to lay blame for my scandalous behavior on people or circumstances. And for years, my parent’s ill-timed divorce took the fall for my early promiscuity. But that wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t their fault. I wasn’t left vulnerable as a result of my broken home and my innocence didn’t make me susceptible to potentially hazardous situations. I was innocent in theory only.
I asked myself time and time again why I was different. Why I wasn’t “normal?” Was I the only girl my age who hungered for the rush of tangled body parts and the feeling of blissful euphoria that followed? Or was I just the only one bold enough to act on it, not caring about the consequences. And it was that inner turmoil that led me to feel trapped in a fiery, and at times, brutal relationship for almost four years as a teen. But I realize now that deep down, fear had little to do with my reasons for staying with the bad boy who choked me on the hood of his camaro after a tutoring session with the school loner. It was need.
It wasn’t the unwelcomed pain he inflicted as punishment that made my heart thrash in my chest. It was the roaring in my ears as if I were caught under a pounding wave. It was my vision fading as everything but us seemed to disappear. It was the gut wrenching I’m sorry’s that spilled from his lips in rapid succession, and his tears burning my skin as his grip tightened in my hair, his teeth sinking into my shoulder. And it was knowing as vehemently as he swore that it wouldn’t happen again, inevitably it would.
Our relationship bordered on obsession, and the lack of a power exchange resulted in bruises that left behind invisible scars that I still see hints of from time to time when I look in the mirror. I gave him power over me so freely that he greedily took it all, ultimately using it to manipulate me and cause me pain. Eventually I found the strength to say no one final time. And as I pushed open the door of his work truck on the shoulder of the road, my face battered and some of my hair still in his hand, I took back the power I’d given him over me.
Confusion became part of my daily diet over the next few years as I tried to recover some semblance of normalcy. I changed my hair and the way I dressed. But it didn’t change the fact that underneath the new style I’d adopted, I had about as much control as the Tasmanian Devil. And I needed it. I used sex as a way to replenish what had been taken from me, giving me the control I needed to feel safe. It worked for awhile, but it was never enough. No matter how much control I regained, the insecurity remained and I began to worry I’d never feel solid again.
A lifetime later, I did nothing to stop my marriage from falling apart. I was miserable and once again, I had been drained of control. But this time I was determined to take it back. I wanted answers to the questions that haunted my memories. I wanted to know why I adored the feel of fingers gripping my throat, and why being called “slut” made my head swim. I knew if I ever wanted to be happy again, I needed to make peace with the conflict inside me.
I read books on D/s to gain understanding, and I joined FetLife for support. I talked to Heather, a lot. And I talked, and I cried, and I talked some more, reliving the rawest moments my life over and over again. As I did, the sins of my past began to take on meaning, the subtitles matching the scenes. My demons lost their power over me and for once, I could breathe unrestricted. I finally knew why I craved the sting of a bare-handed spanking. Why I longed for the coldness of steel cuffs around my wrists. I desired them because I was a good girl. I was a submissive.
Then he found me, a kinkster who saw in me an unrealized dominant streak. He believed he could see it in my eyes, that he could hear it in my voice. In my opinion, though, he was full of shit. I finally figured out I was submissive. What gave him the impression I would be interested in exploring something I clearly was not? I wasn’t a switch, and if I’d been able to convey it in a text, I would have stomped my foot in protest. But he was emphatic that he knew different. When he expressed his desire to wear my plug, it didn’t occur to me to hesitate when I spread his ass cheeks, slipping it inside. It felt right. The thought of wearing a strap-on, on the other hand, gave me pause. Could I do it? Did I want to do it? If I liked it, what did it mean? Was I capable of re-defining myself, again?
I could feel the shift within me the first time I topped my boyfriend. It wasn’t brief and it wasn’t subtle. It was an explosive quake that rocked me to the core, unleashing feelings I never knew I was capable of. My entire body was covered in chills, but I began to sweat as I absorbed the sight of him on his knees offering me something he’d never given to anyone. And he was begging. I felt powerful, but then I felt nervous. What was to happen next? Was I supposed to wear a latex catsuit under my harness and grind his balls under my stiletto? No, and thank God we agreed that’s not my style. Neither is pain or humiliation. Although, I have bitten him hard enough for him to need a moment to regroup.
I didn’t have to re-define myself though. I evolved. I’m still evolving, and now I know there is nothing wrong with me for wanting the things I do. There never was. It wasn’t rebellion against my parents, or learned behavior from questionable influences. It’s the way I’m wired. Don’t misunderstand, the submissive in me is still on her knees, but the dominant in me is much stronger now and demands to be sated. It doesn’t feel like a skin I’m trying on for size when I instruct my boyfriend to lick his come out of me. It feels like the skin I was born with.
I love this post so hard. And I love you so hard!!
Evolving is the perfect way to look at it. I’m certainly evolving, at a rapid rate, so I know exactly what you’re talking about. Stay strong, love!
(I want to make a Pokemon joke about evolving…but I won’t. ;))
I love you too, girl! And as far as Pokemon goes, you know I’m too old to know what that is!
This is just beautiful. Understanding where one has been makes it infinitely easier to find out exactly where one is going. I agree that “evolving” is the perfect term for it. Change may be scary, but it’s not nearly as bad as standing still.
Thank you, Jason. To be able to say “I know why” is an amazing feeling. And when we stand still, what’s left?
“I didn’t have to re-define myself though. I evolved.”
This is the best part! Evolution is difficult stuff — not just the changing, but the coming to terms and finding peace with those changes (not to mention the questioning and figuring out what [if anything] it all means).
You’re very lucky that you have friends and loves in your life that give you the time and space and freedom to figure all that stuff out. And of course, they’re very lucky to have you!
Great post, Nikki! I love reading about personal changes and getting insight into what’s happening in people’s heads!
Thank you, D!
It’s funny because Heather says she’s watched it happen. She hears it in the things I say and she recognizes it in the things I tell her I do. Hell, she’s said she’s even seen it in my conversations with you.
I’m still evolving, but for once in my life, I feel like I fit ME.
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