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I am a Masochist.
The aspect of my sexuality that I have found myself most interested and rooted in, is one that we talked about n my Psychology of Human Sexuality class today. S&M.
I started cutting myself in eighth grade. Just a few initial cuts to materialize the word “endorphin.” My freshmen year I slipped into a dark hole. What I had to look forward to in going home was the Altoid tin filled with my shiny collection of sharps. Everyday. I became horrendously and closetedly suicidal.
This is my first year of college and the first time I’ve been to a shrink. I walked in to talk so I talk willingly and honestly. My councilor and I are working through the events of my life that brought me to where I am now: claustrophobic in a dorm room, anxious, lethargic and with slit wrists healing up. He said he can’t figure me out but I think I can almost put my thumb on it.
I could blame my parents’ divorce because I’ve learn that my home situation was probably what led to my first sexual experience being before I was ready and why my sophomore year of high school was filled with snorting miscellaneous white powder off of kiddie desks.
A Psych major girl that I was seeing for a while told me that I
“act a lot tougher than [I] am because [my] dad leaving asked that [I] be tougher.”
This was one of the most painful and most probable acquisitions I’ve heard. It takes me back to watching movies with my mom, chicky movies with my mom, where she would cry because of whatever sad plot twist it was and I didn’t want to cry. I felt the need to and I fought it. Then I fought every emotion that I didn’t like. It started as optimism. “Let’s all just get along.” “Let’s stop fighting!” I had to keep my mom’s husband from psychologically ruining us. Like they say, middle kids are always the peacekeeper.
I became the peacekeeper of my relationships. If it meant an end to feuding, I’d apologize, even if I believed my actions had been appropriate. The blame became mine. I was so keen in avoiding negativity that I ceased to be able to process negativity. Cutting was the only way I knew to feel.
Now that I’ve been giving it so much analysis, I feel like my entire appearance is my way to feel and to give people a feel of who I am. The purple hair and 30+ piercings say “I’m different,” but I hadn’t realized what I have been implying as “different.” I now realize that I’m afraid to disappoint. I get a lot of romantic attention but I have a glitch in humbly accepting it. I’ve never felt as confident or attractive as most would assume me to. I just feel weak. And I feel like it’s only fair to suitors to warn them that I’m broken, unexplainably defective. It’s only fair to me if I can overcome pain. It brings about an intense sense of being “strong” when I can rip layers of my own skin and not wince. It is empowering to have 100 play piercings or do a suspension because most people literally don’t have the endurance to do so.
Here is where Harry enters the story. I met Harry in the start of the school year. He had the best weed. I started buying my herbals from him and slowly began to have sex with him. Neither of us were looking and it faded when I found semi-less dank weed for cheaper. He recently became a big part of my life. Neither of us seem to be brave enough to talk about the emotions between us. I haven’t told him how he’s the only reason I haven’t cut in the past two weeks. I spend most nights at his house because his skin deflects the insomnia that would otherwise lurk. I spend as much time as possible with him because being alone in my mind state is foreboding-- bitter ice.
He’s seen the high school scars and didn’t mention it. Then two scissor gashes on my thigh, and we didn’t say anything. I warned him about the new damage on my leg and he asked why. I couldn’t give him an answer at that point.
He is my new release. I am a masochist and he is a sadist and he and I are the only ones who know. I never thought I could love him because I identify as lesbian but I have found a beautiful, unspoken connection with this drug dealer. He bites me and scratches my skin. Our steamy encounters replaced my rotten ceremony of sitting alone in a tiny shared bedroom with skin being sliced as easy as the older lady in Walmart pulling fabric over the counter and crunching scissors down so someone can have new sleeves.
When we make love, he waits until I am almost to my point and he wraps his hands around my throat. He squeezes and I get the lightness that I so desperately need. With him penetrating me, we are in a different, less flawed dimension.
Erotic Asphyxiation showed me that my personal need to hurt isn’t as undefined as I had thought. I am realizing that there aren’t many pairs like Harry and I out there and that my masochism is healthy for him has his sadism is healthy for me, in some sick way.
Even though I always kept my self-infliction covered, I think that I just needed someone to show concern. I didn’t need or want anyone’s sympathy and I didn’t need my mom yelling at me for it when she saw at the dinner table; I needed someone to kiss the scabs and kiss the scars and tell me that I’m worth more than the girl I imagined as myself, bloody wrists, hanging from anything tall enough, a balancing act on the railing of a bridge… But no one could know that much.
But right now I am holding on to the one who understands how much sanity comes with hurt and hurting.
I started cutting myself in eighth grade. Just a few initial cuts to materialize the word “endorphin.” My freshmen year I slipped into a dark hole. What I had to look forward to in going home was the Altoid tin filled with my shiny collection of sharps. Everyday. I became horrendously and closetedly suicidal.
This is my first year of college and the first time I’ve been to a shrink. I walked in to talk so I talk willingly and honestly. My councilor and I are working through the events of my life that brought me to where I am now: claustrophobic in a dorm room, anxious, lethargic and with slit wrists healing up. He said he can’t figure me out but I think I can almost put my thumb on it.
I could blame my parents’ divorce because I’ve learn that my home situation was probably what led to my first sexual experience being before I was ready and why my sophomore year of high school was filled with snorting miscellaneous white powder off of kiddie desks.
A Psych major girl that I was seeing for a while told me that I
“act a lot tougher than [I] am because [my] dad leaving asked that [I] be tougher.”
This was one of the most painful and most probable acquisitions I’ve heard. It takes me back to watching movies with my mom, chicky movies with my mom, where she would cry because of whatever sad plot twist it was and I didn’t want to cry. I felt the need to and I fought it. Then I fought every emotion that I didn’t like. It started as optimism. “Let’s all just get along.” “Let’s stop fighting!” I had to keep my mom’s husband from psychologically ruining us. Like they say, middle kids are always the peacekeeper.
I became the peacekeeper of my relationships. If it meant an end to feuding, I’d apologize, even if I believed my actions had been appropriate. The blame became mine. I was so keen in avoiding negativity that I ceased to be able to process negativity. Cutting was the only way I knew to feel.
Now that I’ve been giving it so much analysis, I feel like my entire appearance is my way to feel and to give people a feel of who I am. The purple hair and 30+ piercings say “I’m different,” but I hadn’t realized what I have been implying as “different.” I now realize that I’m afraid to disappoint. I get a lot of romantic attention but I have a glitch in humbly accepting it. I’ve never felt as confident or attractive as most would assume me to. I just feel weak. And I feel like it’s only fair to suitors to warn them that I’m broken, unexplainably defective. It’s only fair to me if I can overcome pain. It brings about an intense sense of being “strong” when I can rip layers of my own skin and not wince. It is empowering to have 100 play piercings or do a suspension because most people literally don’t have the endurance to do so.
Here is where Harry enters the story. I met Harry in the start of the school year. He had the best weed. I started buying my herbals from him and slowly began to have sex with him. Neither of us were looking and it faded when I found semi-less dank weed for cheaper. He recently became a big part of my life. Neither of us seem to be brave enough to talk about the emotions between us. I haven’t told him how he’s the only reason I haven’t cut in the past two weeks. I spend most nights at his house because his skin deflects the insomnia that would otherwise lurk. I spend as much time as possible with him because being alone in my mind state is foreboding-- bitter ice.
He’s seen the high school scars and didn’t mention it. Then two scissor gashes on my thigh, and we didn’t say anything. I warned him about the new damage on my leg and he asked why. I couldn’t give him an answer at that point.
He is my new release. I am a masochist and he is a sadist and he and I are the only ones who know. I never thought I could love him because I identify as lesbian but I have found a beautiful, unspoken connection with this drug dealer. He bites me and scratches my skin. Our steamy encounters replaced my rotten ceremony of sitting alone in a tiny shared bedroom with skin being sliced as easy as the older lady in Walmart pulling fabric over the counter and crunching scissors down so someone can have new sleeves.
When we make love, he waits until I am almost to my point and he wraps his hands around my throat. He squeezes and I get the lightness that I so desperately need. With him penetrating me, we are in a different, less flawed dimension.
Erotic Asphyxiation showed me that my personal need to hurt isn’t as undefined as I had thought. I am realizing that there aren’t many pairs like Harry and I out there and that my masochism is healthy for him has his sadism is healthy for me, in some sick way.
Even though I always kept my self-infliction covered, I think that I just needed someone to show concern. I didn’t need or want anyone’s sympathy and I didn’t need my mom yelling at me for it when she saw at the dinner table; I needed someone to kiss the scabs and kiss the scars and tell me that I’m worth more than the girl I imagined as myself, bloody wrists, hanging from anything tall enough, a balancing act on the railing of a bridge… But no one could know that much.
But right now I am holding on to the one who understands how much sanity comes with hurt and hurting.
Published 28th Apr 2012
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very sobering and introspective. The piece flows really well discussing fiery emotional topics while managing to maintain a cool and breezy demeanor....bravo
24th Apr 2014 5:08am
