There is something I have been wanting to write about for some time now. Those who know the person behind the writer persona or should I say the persona in front of the writer, for the writer is the real me and the person most others see is the façade persona that walks around in public because as I have learned not many can handle the writer me in real life speaking as I do here. But the writer me is always there waiting for someone who wants to know the me behind the public me. 🙂
Those who know my life in public understand why it is important for me to finally write about a particular part of my life. Some have even encouraged me to do so in a way that might help others. Why they would feel so, should become clear in the telling of my story or if not then at least at the end.
I was in my late thirties when I reached, one might call it a pinnacle. I called it the bottom of my well, or as others sometimes refer to it as hitting rock bottom. I was extremely unhappy. Depression had become a major part of my life. I spent days where the only people I would see would be those I worked with.
On my days off, other than a trip to the grocery store if I absolutely had to go was the only thing I did outside of my apartment. I would lock myself in and if possible never answer the doorbell or phone. Showers were not required because I had no intention of seeing anyone and I was the only one who had to live with it. Clothing was optional too but since I tend to get chilly when lying about I usually ended up in t-shirts and yoga pants and a pair of socks since my feet get cold unless they are on hot concrete or asphalt and yes, sometimes I would go outside in the hot sun on my back patio and let my feet soak in the heat.
There was one day it was impossible to ignore the doorbell for my mother and oldest brother had come and when I didn’t answer they peered through the windows and when I saw that they saw me I knew they wouldn’t go away. So I opened the door, letting them see me in all my stinky, messy life.
Though I didn’t hit rock bottom then, and it was years later. That day has stayed with me, kind of like that little nudge behind you that someone gives you that tells you it is time to do something but we sometimes tend to ignore. I ignored it. I moved further away so no one would be tempted to come calling on me. But depression came more often than not.
From the start my relationships would start out wonderful, the most wonderful thing in the world, but would end with me running away, until I learned I ran in fear due to feelings that each relationship would awaken in me that traveled back to when my parents divorced and probably before that. That in itself is another story for another time.
Suffice it to say, I hit the bottom of my well. In my imagination, I could see the loose rock at the bottom under my feet and the stones surrounding me that traveled upwards to the top of the circular opening where there was no bucket and no rope to hope upon, that it might somehow drop down to save me. With the joins in the rock face going up the well, too smooth for hand or foot hold, I was surely trapped in my own little hell.
Yes, I hear voices too along with the visuals. I always heard this shady voice telling me I could end it all, take pills, slash my wrists, and do something to end it all. The one thing that stopped me was the fear I wouldn’t do it properly and would end up still alive.
Where I went afterwards didn’t bother me. I had a vision one time when I had stopped breathing that I can still see just as clearly today that showed me death was nothing to fear. I feared living more than dying.
But in that moment of visualizing the well, I could also visualize me digging one of the rocks loose so I could get to the dirt behind it and tunnel my way out. A voice that was very clear, so unlike the shady voice telling me I could end it all, told me I had two choices. I could either end it all or I could change.
Well, my brain being more logical than not, looked at the options and said, “Well, the option to end it all would always be there, it wasn’t going anywhere, so why not try to change?” And I wholeheartedly agreed, after all changing was better than ending up a vegetable because either the bullet only damaged my brain instead of killing me, or the loss of blood reducing the oxygen to my brain, damaged my brain but someone found me and got me to the hospital before I died or some other failure to completely end it all would cause me to remain alive in a state far worse than I was already in.
Change was good.
My problem was how to go about it. And all my readers are probably wondering if I sought help, maybe a psychiatrist or two, but no, I would not put the drugs in my system that I knew they would want to give me. I did not want to live in a world dulled and lifeless from drugs. And no I didn’t trust them to know what I really needed, it would take years to tell my story where they would know its entirety as I do to only discover they still wouldn’t know what I needed. At least that is what I told myself.
I decided the reason I was depressed was because there was no love in my life and that equated to no man to love in my life. So I set out on a course to find someone. I was so determined to do so, I told my mother that I would do whatever it took to be with someone who would help make me happy. Even if it meant moving away. And in my mind I also said, even if it meant he would have the color of skin she so despised, so much so she had told me she never wanted to see me date a black man. Which I had tried to adhere to, for a while anyway.
Now, I was so determined on this course that my thoughts were this, “I was looking for someone to love for the rest of my life and someone who would love me for the rest of their life.”
Now one has to remember to be careful what one wishes for, or in my case, thinks. Because thought creates, it draws to us what we want, what we ask for. Now I thought I had it all planned, everything in order, everything aligned the way I needed it to be so I would finally meet the love of my life. (hang on I’ll get there, it isn’t what it seems, of course it isn’t, I was looking too far down the road to see what I needed clearly)
In order to expand my search area, I started going online. Visiting chat rooms and even having personal chats with men sometimes women, though discussions with women were just about commiseration and possibly gaining more female friends. Eventually I expanded into chat rooms that were more risqué in topic, usually sexual in nature and some of it involving BDSM discussions.
Did I meet men? Sure I met men. All of them wanted sex, either cybersex across the internet or meeting me in person. Only a rare few were actually looking as I was for a soul mate. But remember I was thinking like I mentioned earlier, not in the terms of soul mate. I thought I had that at one time (another story) and may have but he wasn’t free to be with me, thus why I had the focus I did in what I wanted. I intended to only meet men who were truly interested in developing a relationship if there was chemistry upon first meeting. I did meet a few and no there was no chemistry.
It seemed the more I delved into the chat rooms, the more sex became the primary discussion which led me into more and more discussion on BDSM. This both excited me and appalled me. I couldn’t understand why I would find BDSM arousing. I think subconsciously in my mind I could put an end to this by agreeing to meet someone and experimenting a bit. In reality I was intrigued and after quite a bit discussion with one man I agreed to meet him.
He set the scene, and gave me instructions as to what to wear. I honestly had no idea what I was getting into. I dressed as instructed and drove to the address he gave me. To my horror he had some friends there he introduced me to. He was a great deal younger than me, in his early maybe mid-twenties, as were the others there. The only thing that kept me from turning and walking out was I was so far away from home I knew they would never see me again and I would never see them, so I didn’t care at this point if they saw me as an older woman, either desperate for sex or just a fool.
While his friends were there, he had me sit on his lap, I supposed to get comfortable with him since we had never met before other than online. He wasn’t unattractive and I found myself getting quite aroused thinking about what might happen later. His friends left shortly after and it wasn’t long before he had me in his bedroom naked on his bed on my stomach and using a wide leather belt across my ass. I can remember thinking that it wasn’t so bad being spanked and that it didn’t really hurt, in fact, I’m pretty sure I was hoping he would do it harder but he didn’t and I never asked him to. And most of what occurred has become a blur or forgotten other than the spanking and the anal sex which you’ll understand shortly.
I’ve had other men perform oral sex on me but nothing like he did, he was rougher which I definitely liked and haven’t experienced since. I had anal sex before so that wasn’t new and the night was quite enjoyable.
The problem came when driving home and having time to think about what happened. I had spent the night so it wasn’t like, having sex and then being told to leave. But what I did know was that it was just sex and the additional kink though putting a little more spice into it, had still left me feeling unsatisfied.
Well, of course I wanted love, but there was a deeper element that I didn’t understand that left me feeling unsatisfied. And, alone in the car driving home, I felt ashamed and more like a whore than any other time, and yet I agreed to go with him for the weekend when he had to work out of town. At least that was just the two of us and far enough away no one I knew would see us. But after that weekend, neither one of us mentioned seeing each other again. I think I scared him when we had anal sex and I ended up bleeding all over the sheets. The funny thing is it never hurt past the initial penetration so I had been just as shocked as he had been when we saw the blood.
This however didn’t stop me from continuing my online activities and to learn more about BDSM which quite frankly still had me intrigued. I started reading stories people posted online. One of those sites had a chat room where I met another man and of course our discussions involved BDSM of which I was only beginning to accept that I might be submissive and he presented himself as a Dom. In our exchanges through email we experimented with Dom and Sub situations.
Our exchanges grew quickly from chat room to emails of which both angered me and excited me. Anger was aroused from his condescending criticism. Excitement from his dominance in other ways that were not degrading or condescending. But I had trouble discerning the differences at that time.
I was more confused than ever but I was determined to not let my insecurities and fear interfere with building something I thought was something wonderful. Majority of the time I felt beautiful and loved.
I agreed to meet him in a shorter time than I had ever agreed to with anyone but we had exchanged numerous emails and out of all the people I chatted with that progressed to emails none of them wrote like he did. His were long and involved expressing his feelings and even writing poetry and he had me hook line and sinker. We agreed not to exchange photos as we wanted our first glimpse of each other to be in person.
I’ll mention something I discovered in his emails. I’m not sure when I discovered it but when I did, it became clear what his tactic was. Whenever he criticized me, or discussing an idea that he felt had direct bearing on me and wanted me to take on as my own understanding or belief, he would repeat it three different times in slightly differing ways throughout the email. He had done it so well that it had not been at first obvious and I’m sure it was a while before I noticed it.
Once I recognized this in his emails I understood what it was. I had heard in a class, I had taken one time that the best way to remember something was to repeat it three times and that teachers will sometimes use this in class to help their students to remember important things. I couldn’t help but think it can also be used as a tool to brainwash someone if one believes in that possibility. But the naïve person I was shrugged it off as a tool he was using to help me.
I flew to see him. He came to my hotel room. When I heard the knock at the agreed upon time, I decided to look through the peep hole first. I could always just not open the door and call security if I didn’t want to meet him after seeing him.
I looked and my first thought was, “oh my god, what have you gotten yourself into.” My next thought was, “this is your chance, if you are serious about changing, then open the door.” I opened the door and from that moment on my life changed.
He came into my room. Pulled me into his arms kissed me and then fucked me. We spent the weekend together and I flew back home. We continued writing emails and they were just like the first ones, they both excited me and made me angry, sometimes so furious I would have to get up and pace or go for a walk to let off steam.
At first I would write back trying to explain myself or whatever issue he had with me which generally met with more condescending criticism or black silence. Eventually, I started asking myself why. (‘Why’became the greatest tool I could ever utilize for myself and is still the best tool I have today.) Why would what he wrote in his emails make me angry. I started to tell myself that it was because he was right. The things he pointed out about me were true and I needed to change. So I started trying to look inwards at myself to see what he saw. Then I would try and figure out what it was he wanted instead.
Sometimes when I wrote back I could tell he was disappointed in what I wrote because I wouldn’t hear from him for a while, sometimes hours sometimes for a day or more. I call this his black silence, later on you will understand why. Eventually, he would always send another email and we would be right back into the same pattern.
I went to see him again, always I paid for the expense. When we were together I paid for everything. At one point he told me he was in need of gas for his car and I sent him a gas card that I paid the balance on.
We talked often about my moving to be with him. He was serious so I worked it out with the company I worked for so I could move and work from home. About three months before my scheduled move, his roommate kicked him out and he had nowhere to live so he drove to where I was and moved in with me. From the moment he moved in he took over the meals, supplements and my exercise program. By the time I moved I had gotten down to the weight I was in my twenties which was perfect and sexy for my frame.
The week before we moved I discovered I was pregnant. It was a shock and things started falling apart then, though I didn’t see it at the time. He wouldn’t let me lift anything for packing. He took over complete control and in the end I left behind more things than we had taken with us. I won’t list them here but when we arrived it was like starting over from scratch and everything I left behind was free to my landlord.
Prior to the move he helped me to unclutter and under his guidance and explanation that I needed to let go of the past, I ended up throwing out all of my memorabilia. Pictures of family and friends and school year books and many other things that most people keep because those times had special meaning.
Much of what I’m not explaining here is the psychological effect he had on me. Besides his telling me to let go of the past. He had me believing I had taken on my mother’s persona. He met my mother only once just before we moved which had been the most uncomfortable situation in my life with her, even more so than the time my brother and her came to my apartment uninvited when I was depressed. The only thing we talked about was my telling her I was moving back east and then she brought out house plans for the house her and my little brother and his wife were building so mom could move in with them in a mother-in-law suite. She had said nothing about my moving or about the man who was with me.
The next day I saw my little brother and we talked about my visit with our mother and he told me he had gotten a phone call right after I left from her asking why he hadn’t told her. He said he thought she meant about my moving, but then she told him no, she was talking about the fact the man I was with was black. He said he had been surprised by her reaction so I told him about the time I was in high school and one of the boys had come to see me at the house. He was black and after he left mom had told me she never wanted to see me dating a black man. I told him and my other brothers before I left that I was through letting her or anyone else try and tell me how to live or who to be with or what I should believe in. They seemed to understand and support me but the silence from them over the years has been deafening.
After moving back east I never spoke to my mother again until the day before she died. I only had one correspondence with her and that was when I told her my relationship with this man had ended. But at that point she did nothing but preach to me about how I needed to turn my life over to god so I told her if she couldn’t stop and just accept me as I am then she would push me further and further away. I never received another email from her.
My relationship with the man is what I really wanted to write about. All the above is like the prologue to a story. Setting up the scene or something like it to set the mood or provide background as to how the characters ended up where they were when the story starts.
On to the conclusion