Glow

This post is likely to be all over the place because I'm not bothering to organize my thoughts in any way. Frankly, I tried, and I failed, and I realized if I make myself wait until I feel like I have something that looks like a coherent, tightly-written post, I will never write anything at all about the issues I want to write about. Which, I don't know, maybe some of you prefer if I don't, but I don't prefer that, and it's my blog, so screw it. Take that as a suggestion if you want.

The last few days, I was feeling very down. I would not call it really depressed. I've been really depressed (thank God, not for a long time), and this wasn't it. This was...mild depression? The blues? I don't know what a doctor would call it. Whatever it was, it was not pleasant.

The funny thing about depression is, it's kind of hard to recognize it until it's bad. Unless you have clear, typical markers for your personal path down into depression (which I do! Go me!), you're just going to walk around feeling mopy, and lazy, and less than happy. You'll feel like something's wrong, and you'll try to pinpoint what it is, and unfortunately, you'll be able to find something to pin it on, because hell, we all have things in our lives that make us mad and unhappy. So by the time you realize that what you think is making you unhappy is not the cause of your unhappiness, it's just something else to blame it on, you're already hip-deep in depression and you feel like you're floating in quicksand, too scared to move.

The ironic thing about this time for me was that, as it turned out, a handful of other people much more famous and articulate than I am were also suffering from depression, albeit much worse depression. Like her and her.  Then my sister came out on FB about her depression, and I was all like, "I'm sorry about your bout of depression," and I felt stupid for saying it like that, like I could have just as easily been discussing her bout of indigestion as her crippling depression.

My depression has not been that bad in years, and I think I know why, and I think a lot of people are going to hate what I'm about to say, but I'm going to say it anyway.
I think my depression is better because I'm in a BDSM relationship.

Last night was a really low point for me. I had spent approximately 2 minutes of the day in street clothes. I had not brushed my hair. I had eaten next to nothing. I was answering questions in monosyllables.

I was not miserable. I mean, I was, in a sense that I was not happy. But the think is, I was not anything. I had no desire to do anything, or go anywhere, or talk to anyone. I wanted to be left alone, and forget I existed, because I did not feel like I existed. If existing means proving your existence, attesting to it by your actions, then I was failing.
On Twitter, we have a saying: "pic or it didn't happen." We all know that life is about bearing witness to what happens to us and those around us, proving to the world we are here, that we are. I was nothing worth bearing witness to, so...was I here? And did it matter?

Husband came into my work room, saw the way I looked, saw something in my eyes...and finally, something in his head clicked. I'd been in a spiraling-downward mood for days, but yesterday, he realized it.
"Wake up," he said, shaking my shoulder a little. "You're in a slump. You need to move."
"I don't want to. I just want to sit here. Leave me alone."
"I'm not going to leave you alone. Go have some food. Go watch TV or something."
"I don't want to. Leave me alone."
He sighed. "I'm going to belt you after the kids go to sleep."
"What? Why? What did I do?" I was whining like a petulant child, and I didn't care.
"Because you need it, that's why. Now stop it." He walked out of the room, just like that.

Later that night, he pulled me into the bedroom, helped me strip down to my underwear, and told me to get on the bed.
"Hands and knees," he said. "Face down, ass up. Relax into the mattress."
I followed instructions, putting my ass up and out, and my head down.

If you're not a sub or a masochist, if you've never been spanked or belted before by choice, I don't know if I can describe to you all the emotions that go through your head at that moment. It's not even right to call them emotions: it's more like reactions, inner knowledge running on a purely instinctual level. It floods your heart rather than your head. I'm sure it's primarily driven by adrenaline, although there must be some other chemicals mixed in.
You're scared. You want to run. At the same time, you don't want to move, because you're afraid of what's to come. Your skin breaks out in goosebumps. The hair all over your body stands on end, on heightened alert to feel the slightest touch against your flesh. Your senses go into overdrive. Your breath comes out in gasps, and you can feel the thumping of your own heart in your chest.
And then that moment comes, when you know it's about to happen right now, and the forefront of your mind is screaming at you to stop it, stop it from happening, do something...but the other part, the voice that usually stays dormant during normal life but now wakes to full force, is sighing in ecstasy. It's lulling you, shushing you to stay still, don't move, because the fear will pass...and the pain will feel exquisite.
The first strike hits, and it pushes you into the arms of that other voice like falling into the arms of a lover.

He didn't start with the belt. He lit into my ass with his bare hand, spanking me again, and again, and again, until my bottom glowed red and his handprints covered my flesh. I yelled, and I gasped, and I hollered...but I didn't move away.
Then he peeled off my panties and got the cane.
He wasn't heavy or brutal with it. This wasn't a punishment act. He fell into a nice rhythm, using relatively gentle strokes. Even so, I was arching my back and crying out with each one.

Now came the second moment every sub and masochist will recognize. It's that moment of sheer clarity, when you step away from your body (and your pain) long enough to realize you are doing it, you are submitting to the pain and the will of another, and you are okay. You are better than okay: you are magnificent. The pain and submission brings you incredible pride, and a sense of freedom, a separation from everything else in life...not a feeling, but a sense of being, that I simply cannot describe.

He disappeared into the bathroom, and returned with two vibrators. One he placed directly into my limp hand. The other he lubed up and aimed on my asshole.
"Fuck yourself with both," he said. "Use the one in your hand on yourself. Push yourself back onto this one." He pressed in with the one he was holding, just a millimeter, and turned it on.
"I can't," I panted even as I pushed back.
"Yes, you can. C'mon. Move."
I pushed back until I was impaled on the vibrator, rubbing the other one snugly between my legs as I moved. I did as he asked, fucking myself on both toys, until I was gasping and shuddering with my own orgasm.
He removed the vibrator from my ass, gently because I was now very tight, and helped me to kneel on the floor.
"Come over to the mirror. Don't walk: crawl. I want to see your pussy as you blow me."
I crawled, without an ounce of shame or protest, and let him situate me the way he wanted so he could get a good view as I sucked him, giving him back the same pleasure he had already afforded me.

Now came the third moment that every sub knows: when you realize the only thing you have to think about, to worry about, is him, and his needs. Nothing else in the world matters. All the other pesky concerns you were grappling with, all the thoughts that were weighing you down, are banished from your mind. They are no longer necessary. You let them go freely, and feel suddenly weightless by their release. They were pointless, anyway. All that matters is him.

I opened my mouth to let him in, and he held my head still as he thrusted deep down my throat. I had to raise myself a bit and steady my hand against the wall for balance. But that left my other hand free, and as he pumped into my mouth, I used it to reach down and stroke my own pussy.
"Oh yes, do that," he said. I stroked harder, turned on by the sound of his voice, the feel of his cock fucking my throat, his hands on my cheeks as he held me still, and my own clit throbbing against my fingers.
I rubbed harder and faster until I came again, moaning against his cock. He came then, too, holding himself deep down my throat. Cum dribbled from my lip, but I didn't care. I felt immensely proud.

The difference in my mood this morning is astounding. I feel refreshed, invigorated, and better than I've felt for days. I am refocused. I am peaceful.
I am me again.

I am not going to say that BDSM can help every woman suffering from depression. That would be stupid. I am saying it helps me, to keep me sane and focused on what I need to do, and what I need to actively put aside. It makes things clear in my mind, more than any drug ever did.
When I say BDSM enriches my life, I'm not just talking about kink, and sex, and play. I'm talking about me. It helps the real me shine. It dispels the dark, and lets me glow.
It keeps the mental pain at bay, as the physical pain becomes all consuming. Or perhaps, because of it.