Sleepless

I didn’t post yesterday.

I never went to bed.

I stayed up for over 36 hours, and finally Sir forcibly drugged me to get me to go to sleep.

He is blaming our dynamic.

I’m too tired to argue with him, but I don’t agree. Punishment had me getting in bed by midnight or earlier, and it was improving every day.

Two days with family, and joining a BDSM group on Facebook sent me into a literal death spiral.

Family is draining, but I think the real culprit is the FB group.

I was in it for just over 24 hours, and in that time became severely depressed, confronted several people in the group, then left the group.

It was… It was creepy.

But there were some really good things that I don’t realize I miss so deeply until I find them again… and then lose them in again in 24 hours.

Someone had posted a meme about the stupid shit (usually) men say to (usually) women in BDSM circles. It happens face to face, but it happens even more online.

I made a comment about that, and several other women chimed in with “Oh my God, YES!”

And it was such a small little thing… such a small little thing to just be able to say something about my experiences and… to have other people say, Oh my God, me too.”

I can’t do that… about BDSM… anywhere.

Literally no where else can I even say anything about it, let alone expect anyone else to understand, to have lived it, too.

And… I go for months… years… just forgetting. Forgetting how that feels, forgetting connection, forgetting commanlity, forgetting… my tribe.

And then eventually… eventually it crumbles me down to dust and I slink into a community and dip my parched skin in the cool water, and remember all the pain I thought I’d been forgetting for all of the months and years of drought.

But , then, I remember that the water is poisoned.

That I’ve never found clean water, unpolluted water, clear water.

A literal moderator of the group (a group which promotes itself as “educational” and “open to all the ways people express BDSM”) posted a bullshit thread about how people “earn” titles in BDSM, with a caveat that she didn’t want to hear the perspective that people can use any titles they want because “we all know that isn’t true.”

Um…

It’s not true that people in a relationship can use whatever names/titles for themselves that work for both/all of them?

Then I looked at another post about, “Us Old Guard folks are so discriminated against because we just try to help people learn how to do BDSM the RIGHT way and everyone gets mad, just because we love our beautiful culture and it’s okay for people to respect other cultures (like Japan) so why shouldn’t they respect our traditions, and anyone who doesn’t do it our way isn’t doing REAL BDSM.”

For fuck’s ever loving sake.

The same moderator as before chimed in on the shitfest of “Yaas, Sister!” (neither the poster nor the respondents were black).

Another moderator ranted about how there are only two genders, and your genitals determine your gender, PERIOD! This is a grown man. I’m not sure what he would do if anyone ever broke it to him that some people are intersex. The whole concept of gender being apart from your physical form is probably far too advanced in the abstract concept category for his brain to process.

Another (or the same?) thread was about what is the definition of monogamous and poly… and whether having play partner who is not a sexual partner makes you poly.

And both of these two moderators were ranting on the old refrain of the terminally concrete… “Words have meanings, you can’t just decide they mean something else to fit you.”

So… Right… So is maroon purple? Is a cucumber a vegetable? Are there fucking shades of meaning and ways to understand each other within those shades of meaning? Well, apparently not if your brain never developed past… literally… 8 years old.

The first day I looked around, I told myself, “Well… at least this will give me some inspiration to write some educational articles about BDSM…” like… almost every thread was fodder for some heavy educational writing…

Then the second day… It was just too much.

I don’t have the tolerance for it.

I can’t handle it.

I can’t… I can’t handle the absolute willful ignorant stupidity of humanity.

I wrap myself up in my safe blanket of associating MOSTLY with people with higher than average social awareness, willingness to learn, empathy, and basic intelligence.

I do this and try to believe that the current president and his mob are a very visible and vocal minority.

Despite LITERALLY studying genocide as a research focus on college, I try to believe that… no… no… we aren’t… we couldn’t… it won’t happen again… here.

But it will. It is. And there are fuckweasels everywhere shouting about how their way and only their way has or will ever exist.

And these people are educating new people into the scene.

They are a disease vector, a contagion, spreading misinformation as fast as 50 Shades of Assault is the New Sexy.

I stayed up all night.

At 3 A.M. Sir came downstairs. I’d snuck out after he was asleep and I’ve sleep deprived him so much he didn’t wake up.

He didn’t even get angry.

He asked if I was planning to stay up the whole night, or if this was more of an improv, play it by ear kind of thing.

Sir rarely gets sarcastic.

He gets irritated.

He gets frustrated.

He gets outright angry, occasionally.

He doesn’t get sarcastic.

When he gets to sarcastic it’s because…he doesn’t care anymore.

Anger is a result of caring what happens.

Sarcasm is just shrugging it off and going back to bed.

So then I decided to just kill myself.

I cried for four hours. Tried to think of something easy because I was too tired for anything complicated. And I eventually realized that SB was sitting on the upper stairs, watching me through the rails.

I don’t know how long he was there.

I don’t know if Sir sent him to keep an eye on me, or he just decided to.

At 7 this morning, Sir tried to repair things, but… I didn’t want him to. I want him to not care. Really. That is… if everyone could stop caring… if I didn’t have to wait for people to die so I could be free to do the same without guilt… that would be terrific.

I wouldn’t talk to Sir, or look at him. I turned my face away from him. So SB sat on the other side of me, so I’d have to look at one of them.

So I pulled my shirt over my head.

Because I’m a three-year-old.

Sir tried to get me to take the anti-psychotic med that I have for emergencies. But I didn’t want to take it. I didn’t want to stop feeling. I wanted to stay feeling so I could kill myself.

I didn’t want to numb everything out and go to bed and wake up again and go back to telling myself that it’s fine… everything is fine… I’m alone and isolated and have no community… because other people like me are absolute shit… or there’s some hidden community where the people like me secretly gather to escape the people like those in that group… but no one has ever told me the secret handshake, or where the clubhouse is…so… maybe nobody wants me there, or maybe it just doesn’t, fucking, exist.

So Sir basically tortured me for about three hours until I took my pills. I can never work for the CIA, because, apparently I will break in three hours.

It didn’t help that SB kept crying and saying if I just took my pills then I wouldn’t have to deal with it anymore.

I finally took the pill, but I wouldn’t go to bed. And Sir gave me a whole one, not even a half one, and I was on 36 hours without sleep at that point, and… it went badly.

I got myself into the kitchen where the counters intersect at a right angle, I wedged myself there so I could stand up without falling, and braced myself on the refrigerator and wouldn’t go to bed.

Sir finally convinced me that I was absolutely starving, but I wouldn’t let him come close to me, so I had to get food myself.

I had to move really carefully because if I didn’t really focus, my hands wouldn’t quite go the right direction. And it was really hard to make words… especially if they had two or more syllables or movements or hand shapes… I could get out simple words fine, but if it was longer, my brain kind of checked out part way through and I had to grab at it to finish the word.

I decided to eat peanut butter, which I mostly got into my mouth, but then I couldn’t quite coordinate getting the spoon out of my mouth, and then chewing and swallowing. Sir got me milk, which I had to really focus to get the glass to go to my mouth, and then I told my hands to tilt the glass back down but they weren’t listening fast enough, so I choked and spilled milk all over myself.

I finally went to bed around 8 in the morning, and then I got up again at 10. Then I went back to bed until 5, but I still feel super tired and groggy and I think Sir over medicated me, even though I’m supposed to take a whole dose. I usually only take half.

And I get confused about what time of day it is. I looked out the window and I realized it’s night time. For a minute my brain was thinking it was morning.

I hate… how I do this blog. It’s just a journal and who needs to read that? It’s just self-serving. I keep thinking I’ll write real articles, but I won’t. I’m useless.

And Sir probably suspended our dynamic because… he thinks that’s why I fell apart, so, then… I don’t have to write anymore because… that was our deal and he broke it… so…

I guess that’s a good thing.