Psycho

In September of 2000, I had a psychotic break that resulted in a 2-week stay on an inpatient psych ward after I spent nearly 10 days awake when I left my abusive boyfriend.

The real trauma started when I became lucid and began to heal enough to be discharged home with my parents.  » Read more

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Not a Grown Up

Me: I’m not a grown up. I don’t know what I’m doing.

Skyspook: No one really does.

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When it comes to feeling truly loved and understood by another human being, I am roughly 3 years old.

My relationship with my mother is deeply troubled as she is mentally ill and only recently compliant with any sort of treatment (to the tune of starting talk therapy about 3 or 4 years ago).  » Read more

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Why Write?

Even though I’ve recently set up this public blog presence of my charmed life and kinky times, I’ve been posting introspection and navel-gazing on predominantly kinky topics on Fetlife for some time. Fetlife (fetish + life, get it?), or Fet/FL as a lot of users call it, is social network for kinky people – essentially Facebook for kinksters,  » Read more

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Loss

I am still lost. A traveler here. But I’ve recognized I have no home where I came from, no place to go back to. This sets my course.

I lost everything I had. I lost very little.

This is not the first time I’ve suffered a great loss, turned my back on people I’ve loved in the name of self-preservation.  » Read more

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The Power of Words

1997

The day after it happens, I go to school with a headache and slivers of memory. There are pieces missing, things I can’t find an explanation for. When I see the smirking faces, I feel blood burning in my brain, my body reacting without any input from my mind. I bolt to the bathroom and throw up.  » Read more

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Humiliation

9 years old

Though I am running a fever, I go to a dear friend’s sleepover at her insistence. The conversation turns to my developing body. I am the only girl in the fourth grade wearing a bra. The other girls pressure me, mock me, calling me names, chiding me for my boob fat,  » Read more

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I’m the hyper, nauseatingly precocious kid in all the snaps, wearing an evening gown at the breakfast table, correcting my mother’s grammar in a Grover t-shirt. A good Catholic girl who still idolizes her father because he works 70 hours a week and never says anything to her.

Those are the years before I understand loneliness as more than an abstraction,  » Read more

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