THIS POST CONTAINS SELF-HARM, SUICIDE, SEXUAL AND SADOMASOCHISTIC CONTENT
PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION SHOULD YOU FIND THIS CONTENT TRIGGERING OR UPSETTING
When I was thirteen and first cut my leg open with the end of a compass I knew it would hurt. As I sliced my skin open, watching the folds of my skin peel apart in slow motion, I knew that blood would soon follow. I wanted it to. I needed it to. I had to give the pain within me a physical form that I could focus on and fight.
When I was twenty-one and wrapped the buckle of my belt around my hand I knew what I was about to do would hurt. As I lashed the belt against my back, my buttocks, my thighs the explosion of pain can only be described as blissful. With each stroke I cleansed my soul of the torment I’d bottled up within me.
When I was twenty-four and closed my fist around the box of matches I knew it was going to hurt. The lit match I’d slipped into the box would soon ignite and the resulting explosion would leave my flesh blistered and swollen. My stress was too intense, too uncontrollable. The burned skin would become a focal point; if I could feel it physically, I could control it mentally.
When I was twenty-seven and swallowed a handful of little white pills I knew there was a chance I would never wake up. I wanted to remain asleep. I needed to die. All I’d done in my life had left me nothing but an empty shell. All the cutting, hitting and burning I’d practised to control my anguish had failed leaving death my only desire.
Like I say, naïve is something I am not.
My teenage years were lost to mental illness. Not just my own, but my mother and sisters. I had been forced to grow up – fast! Long before I broke the skin with that blunt metallic mathematical tool there was no love for me. There were no hugs or kisses, no praise or applause. Discipline was absent, lost to the chaos my family was drowned in. No matter what my actions, there was no consequence. There was no scolding or grounding; no spanking or belting. There was just years of neglect, isolation and a life forgotten.
My twenty-somethings became a battle of acceptance. One side of my mind gathering behind the belief that I should accept my worthless fate and concede to execution. From moonlit nights in darkened castles to the sun-baked beaches in the land Down Under I raged the war between myself and my mind. The skirmishes of me vs. self-harm, me vs. depression, me vs. introversion combining to culminate in a battle so epic even Hollywood would be hard pressed to realise it. It was a battle I won. My prize? The loss of everything I held dear courtesy of my fallen army’s secret weapon; an abusive woman.
My thirty-somethings have only just begun, but thus far I have faced many hardships, many trials, many tests of character and strength. I have slept in parks and alleys; I have been assaulted and attacked. I have lost everything of value; I have gained knowledge that’s priceless. From nothing I have restarted the war, a lone mercenary determined to win once and for all.
Like I say, naïve is something I am not.
With all I’ve been through, all I’ve experienced. With the battles fought and sacrifices made. I know enough about life to not look upon it through rose-tinted glasses. Long ago I learnt that reality is far from fantasy; the former full of pain, filth and overpowering emotion, the latter full of love, ecstasy and pristine perfection.
I know that being spanked will hurt. I also know it will hurt more than I expect it to. I know this because I fear it.
More than the protractor, the belt and the matches; far more than those little white pills. I fear the day I receive my first spanking because I would not be in control of the pain. But it is this fear that drives me. The butterflies flitting in my stomach, the excuses and idleness in my mind.
For years I have dreamt it. Months spent convincing myself that the fantasy is all I need when deep down I know I’ll never be complete until I have lain over someone’s lap having my buttocks spanked.
Until I have fought the battle of excuse vs. fear and triumphed.