My therapist has said I come into our sessions 3 ways (and therefore, probably come to life 3 ways):
- Disconnected completely
Or I suppose, CSD for short. When I feel centered and prepared, or grounded, I am clear and know what I want from the session. When I am scattered it’s sort of half and half. Short attention span. Going from one topic to the next and not following through on ideas. Disconnected completely (or dissociated/depressed…call it what you want) I am shut down. Like no one is home. I remember once being at my ex fiances and starting at a the time on a TV for hours. Not even watching TV. Just seeing “oh…its 2PM” and then it was 7PM or 8PM and I was sober at the time (on drugs I would have been less depressed.) Depression to me feels like that Salvador Dali painting with the melting clocks and I wonder what it says about me that all my favorite artists do things like cut their ears off and give them to sex workers. But look at how well they are preserved in history. My dad used to say of his own hoarder tendencies about how he worked for museums for years and how much stuff there is in the world, and how precious something must be for it to be considered historical.
This photo came up in my Facebook memories today. 8 years ago, after my sexual assault trauma, I played and worked as a dominatrix in London. I almost wrote a memoir about it, but decided it wasn’t the story I wanted to tell at that point (I did use my experiences in fet as inspiration for a dominatrix with superpowers in my post-apocalyptic fantasy novel I am writing currently however) I came across this article in Salon when looking for publications to submit my own work:
“But prior to this litany of indignities, there is the freeze. The room spins and your mind snaps shut. Your limbs grow heavy. He insisted that I follow him into the bathroom. He asked if he could masturbate, and before the question registered, the act was underway. He put his hand inside me, and I didn’t move. This is not the script that any of us agreed upon. Whether in the office, the lecture hall, or the dungeon, we know when the script is being flipped. Sometimes we freeze, and always we must forgive ourselves.”
Natalie West describes just how I feel when I am triggered brilliantly. During sex, right before orgasm, or sometimes it can be something so minute like a song or something not feeling “right” (I have not yet identified all my triggers, only my major sex-based ones. If I knew all of my triggers I would already know how to best manage them all and live much more comfortably.) After my own multiple rape traumas, which I detail in the blog previous to this one, I turned to dominatrix work/the lifestyle. Looking back at my past, while their was things like alcohol and cocaine involved at times, it was not all the time, and they only served to enhance my state of wanting to be in the one in control.
A large part of me getting into BDSM and being a dominatrix as a lifestyle was to heal trauma I could not verbalize at the time. Both of the times I was raped (that I can currently remember) happened by producers in the film industry who were white wealthy cis men in power. I have had control issues for most of my life, hence being diagnosed with complex PTSD, however it was those particular traumas that led me to seek both pleasure and a paycheck by being the bratty princess/heartless cheerleader bitch/american cold blooded office worker of my clients proverbial wet dreams.
And I enjoyed it. It was refreshing, to say the least, to finally be the one in control after feeling constantly harassed at my places of employment (modelling and club promotion. The club promotion was actually much more brutal as you had to deal with multiple drunken foreign men trying to hustle them into buying shots, but it was also a steadier paycheck when not at lectures, and a decent side job while at University.)
What struck me as a bit odd was recently getting off the phone with a friend who also worked in the adult industry. She didn’t know I was even at University. The same way I expect people I know from University would not know about my sojourns into modelling at BDSM if facebook did not exist back then, and I did not blog about my escapades on the aptly titled www.alisonadventures.wordpress.com (my very first-ever blog I created at 18 was actually titled www.youcantcatchaboyfriendatafetishclub.blogspot.com) and is I believe is somehow still up.
It’s pretty pretentious thinking everyone reads your blog just because you post one. Even so, it felt strange to me that this friend did not know about this whole facet of my existence, and one that is a very defining one for me (I write and therefore I am became a personal motto of sorts.)
Another friend knows me primarily as a writer but as my work is so scattered, has never seen my prose blog, and as I posted on this so rarely over the past year, many people probably don’t know about this one either.
I write to clarify, to purify my thoughts almost the way people swear by sage or selonite. I write to stop my obsessive thinking and put to rest my mind of eternal loopings. I write because it is the one thing that makes me feel alive more than anything else.
Sometimes I feel I put too much fear energy into my writing. Into defining myself by that one thing I have a degree in.
If I am a writer, why am I not being paid to do that? Why am I being paid to model or do odd jobs or walk dogs but not what I love and pour my soul into more than anything? I have a friends who are incredibly talented musicians and want to be compensated for that, and hate their “day jobs” of cleaning, modelling, stripping, etc. Or if not hate, wish they could be paid for their other, more creative pursuit.
However, I do know that while I want to go down in history as a writer, same as how I show up CSD, it is not all of me. There is a part of me that is a dominatrix and enjoys it. There is another part of me who is a vegan tree fairy and my kawaii squealish girly early Taylor Swift side/Dodie loving side . There is also my Die Antwood/Rammstein side. Pop/Rock/Metal/Country. Rap. At the end of the day, my personality has many facets.
And I have to accept all of them. And work with all of them to maximize my potential. I am not used to maximizing my potential, after spending years trying to make myself as small as possible. I hid behind my ex who hid behind his job who whose boss hid his affair with another employees wife and on and on.
I started this blog about 2 years ago and newly sober (just starting to go to NA meetings at the time.) I was on a lot of drugs before then. They are listed somewhere else, probably way down 2 years ago when I first started this blog. I don’t feel like listing them again but it was a long list of both prescribed and non prescribed drugs.
I am on none of them anymore. I quit smoking cigarettes too. I do still take a prescribed valium taper (which I think is evil and swear to get off as soon as my root chakra feels remotely stabilized). I also still use CBD oil and indica strains of cannabis occasionally, which is something I always felt weird talking about or bringing up in meetings. NA/AA have this whole thing where if you are “prescribed medication” its sober, but weed is not even though I was prescribed a medical card for cannabis when I used to live in LA a few years ago, and I think it is a healthier alternative to valium when I absolutely need it.
Still something I felt I had to hide and feel shame for. When I started this I was starting NA, I started going to AA meetings out of convenience, and I do believe both fellowships saved my life. They were the first stone, NA then AA and recently I have went to SMART recovery and want to try refugee recovery at some point. But in all honesty while I met wonderful people in both programs, and they saved my life, and I will still go to both if I feel the need–there was a lot I did not like. I do not like how NA bashes AA and AA bashes….well, I obviously am in NO WAY speaking for all of AA but unfortunately a lot of members bash other recovery programs.
I still work intensely with a CBT therapist, but there is now talk of tapering off our sessions. I have come to the realization that recovery looks different for everyone, the same way as I don’t have to look or feel a certain way all of the time, I don’t have to be a certain way all of the time, I just have to accept and honor where I am and also that there are different parts of me and I am working with each one in the best way I can and that is ok.
And some days I freeze and I can’t focus or I obsess or I detach or I cry but that is ok too. I am a freak and that is ok. If you are also a freak that is ok too.
On Sunday I met a friend for art therapy at a yoga studio and then we wandered around Bushwick Market and I purchased a drawing and I made a tissue paper rose and then later that day I did sister circle with other friends and we all talked about our lives and past and childhoods and I made a ceramic pink and purple striped tiger. That was one of the best days I have had in a long time.
Until Monday, where I went to a 10AM ecstatic dance party and then later met up with a friend at a cafe where we both worked intently: Her on setting up her Patreon, me on looking at submitting something I wrote over the holidays to The New York Times.
Recovery is part of life, and my recovery includes painting, creating, dancing, yoga, going to meetings when I feel the need but other times just getting lost in a really good book.
People have compared my writing to Elizabeth Wurtzel and Sylvia Plath; Instead of asking, why am I depressed, I am now asking, where have they been published?
Fact of the matter is: Anyone can be a writer. Anyone can be an artist, a creative, it’s just about accepting yourself, drive and faith. If not faith in a higher power, faith in yourself and others.
At least, that is what it boils down to for me. And so I am putting this blog on a hiatus, at least for now. I was a newly sober engaged woman living in Jersey City when I started it. Now I am a newly single (probably thanks to the sobriety) woman living in a Basement apartment in Brooklyn.
I now have 3 male roommates, one of whom my friends speculate is an incel and I am fairly sure hates me. One is this fabulous queer MAC consultant and another is from my home state of Florida. My dog is causing issues but I would so much rather deal with roommates than a fiance who was more like a shield. For the first time in over 5 years, I am building up my own armor.
All that being said; why do I miss being a dominatrix? Quite frankly, I mostly miss a certain sissy maid I had in London. He would clean my studio, I would whip him about. I don’t care for cleaning. Never have. Probably never will. I have tools to help me with this now: Blast music, set timers, make “organized messes” aka throw things into labelled boxes, etc. Sometimes I love cleaning when in a certain “cleaning mindframe” and I am on a roll but other days like today I would much rather be writing, or dressing up and whipping someone around while they clean. It’s how I completed my dissertation at University after all.
However, we can’t always get what we want, and the cleaning slave I vetted on fetlife could not come to clean today due to snow, and honestly maybe it was the experience in London I missed more than anything. So I am going to clean my own damn apartment, keep applying for more work, and tomorrow pick up that selenite and sage when I am done with the physical cleaning/unpacking to cleanse the place spiritually as well.
I am going to start setting alarms and set my own routine. I am going to submit (polished pieces) to publication after publication and am also going to also start a new darker blog about my single sober adventures, the next chapter of a woman living, working and dating with complex PTSD in Brooklyn.
My new blog will be darker, more condensed and surreal. It will be more graphic and go into more adult content. I won’t allow certain people to see it for personal reasons.
Still, I have a certain fondness for this blog. My blog of pondering, or awakening. However one must be awake in order to transition. And I feel like for the first time in years, I finally am.
Awake. Transitioning. Blossoming.
I would end some of these the way Cassie ended her blog, with “over and out”, as a way to keep her memory alive. But I know now I need to accept she is gone, I need to let her go along with so many other skins holding me back.
My father dying
Jason and Joanna
Rip rip rip
And I am not saying I will not run back to the forest but I have a hammer this time to chip away at the black dense fog, and a flashlight to show me the way.
As for genre? They say it’s your readers who choose the genre for your creation. So I suppose that is up to you. For perhaps the final time here, though forever pondering
Over and Out,