Posts Tagged ‘mental-health’

Check out this post if you would like to have a little background context to this one.

He was quiet the next two days before trying to initiate another conversation. I didn’t respond.

The third day he apologized again.


I have not responded. That didn’t stop him from sending me a message on FetLife to tell me he received some new toys he had ordered and wanted to use them on me.


I’ve only met this guy twice. The first was at a munch and the second at a coffee shop for a drink. Both times he barely said a word which left the conversations more than lacking. I don’t even know why I agreed to meet him after the munch in the first place. It wasn’t because I was interested in dating him. I was skeptical about him from the start, which I told him several times. I need to learn to listen to that skeptical voice and quit giving the wrong people chances they don’t deserve.

I should have known he was off his rocker when I didn’t respond fast enough to a message on FetLife one day and he got perturbed. I said, “You do realize I’m working right now?” His response was, “I don’t realize but I can take an educated guess you are working. After you tell me you are working then it is a realization.” Childish response or what? I don’t know when people expect me to be working my 9-5 office job if not between the hours of 9 and 5. Seriously!

There have been a few times when he has gone off on me because I was too busy to respond to him or meet him. He’s said it’s “logically bullshit” that I am too busy. I got a “you listen to me” as well. Excuse me, what now?

What started the exchange above was him asking me if I was currently sexually involved with someone. I said yes, I have a friend. Well, that lead to him saying how terrible I was, how all those times I was busy I was actually going out with my “fuck buddy or laying on (my) back,” and how do I think someone who wants to date me is going to stick around to get dicked around while I do that. Then he started in on how I’m playing him and he won’t allow himself to be punked or insulted like that. He even tried to tell me what a “lying POS” I am because he’s come to some conclusion that I had a fuck buddy when I was seeing MySir. He doesn’t know any of the details about that relationship and had he asked he would have found out.

I’m not going to defend myself here because anyone who reads my blog or follows me on Twitter will already know the truth, enough of it at least to know that the person he was describing isn’t me. Besides that, he had stated about ten minutes into my first meeting him that he reads my blog and thought it was great. Don’t tell me you do something if you don’t, and don’t pretend to know me when clearly you don’t know anything about me or what I’ve been through these past couple of years.

There’s a bunch more but it all seems so stupid and childish. He pretty much screams immature, unbalanced abuser to me. Verbally attacking me, trying to manipulate me, then minimalizing it all by offering to bring me flowers. An apology and “are we cool?” is going to make it all better and I’m just supposed to forgive and forget? I don’t think so. It’s like the woman who gets hit because her husband had a bad day at the office then he buys her flowers and expects her to forget all about the bruise on her cheek. Not this girl. That is abuse, classic abuse, and I won’t accept it.

I may be in my 40’s and currently single, but I would much rather be alone than with a pathetic, delusional little man who thinks verbally attacking a woman, putting her down and blaming her, is the way to get her. There are plenty of real men, kind and considerate men, out there. One will come my way. And if one doesn’t I still have the best man in the world, my son.

BTW, my favorite color is red.


Note: This person has been deleted and blocked on my social media sites. Anyone know if I can block his calls and texts on my cell phone?



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Then he said something about how I should have been more cautious, how my life would have turned out very differently if I hadn’t allowed myself to get pregnant by “THAT” kind of guy, and that he doesn’t date or even talk to women with “fuck buddies”. Now, I had told him the whole story about my son’s father on a previous occasion so he already knew how long we had been together and known each other. It isn’t something I like to discuss with people and I don’t do it often, but I was trying to be completely open from the beginning and give this guy a chance. You see how well that worked.


He continued with a spiel about how I have a fuck buddy (which is not what I said), and how I am a “lying POS” because he can’t follow the concept of an open relationship and having a partner who enjoys seeing and hearing about you being with someone else. Nor can he understand that changing a relationship status on social media does not mean it just happened that very second. To be fair, he would not have seen when I deleted my owned status back at the beginning of the summer only when I changed it to unowned more recently. Although, he did ask me out several times before I added the unowned part.

He says he follows my blog and has read a lot of the comments I’ve made on FetLife. Apparently not enough to know anything about me. I suspect he saw that I wrote this blog, along with the pics that I’ve posted, and wanted to be a part of it. He has only called me by my real name two times that I can see. I even responded with his FetLife name once so he could see how stupid it was. He didn’t catch the hint. The one time I met him for a drink he gave himself the moniker Mr Ten. He said ten because he wanted people to think about why it was Mr Ten rather than Mr X.

Well, here you go Mr X, welcome to the blog!

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I originally wrote this post when I first started this blog over two years ago. I had no audience then, nobody who knew me from Adam, but I felt it was important to share. I’ve gotten much more personal since then and hope I can continue to be honest about the things that are going on in my life and the way I react to them. We will all be touched by depression in our lives. The key is to not let it overtake you. It is tough, believe me, but you can do it. Don’t be afraid or ashamed. The greater fear should be of what will happen if you don’t do something about rather than if somebody knows. People should know. People should be aware. People need to know that they are not alone with the demons they fight. I don’t have all the answers but I can listen and comfort and let you know that I’ve been there too. I’ve gotten to the point where I wanted to jump out a bedroom window and end it all. I’ve been on the phone with a crisis worker talking me out of taking a leap of my 14th floor balcony. What kept me from doing that and ultimately helped me through it was realizing that I was not alone, that other people share similar struggles in their lives, and that dealing with things rather than running away from them would make me a stronger and happier person. I’ve not talked to my family about it but I have talked to friends, strangers, therapists, and the absolute best doctor in the whole world. When I opened my eyes to the world around me I found a never ending supply of people who weren’t just willing to listen but who wanted to genuinely help.


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I have been thinking about depression the last few days. I know, taboo subject.

We all experience depression at some point in our lives. Some mildly so, but others require major medication and medical care. Maybe just for a few days here and there, maybe for a lifetime. I am one of the mildly so who falls somewhere in between, though much closer to the few days here and there. Don’t be shocked. Well, go ahead if you must. I’ve kind of shocked myself with that admission actually.

Many years ago while going through a hard time, my doctor put me on medication for my depression. Only a couple of my close friends knew. I never even told my family. The medication worked. Somewhat. It did enable me to make it through the days, to work and function enough to get things done. I wasn’t crying every 10 minutes, and that was what I had wanted. I didn’t notice much difference in any other regard. My friends noticed though. They said it was as if I was in a fog when on the medication, that I wasn’t my chipper self. Not my chipper self? Didn’t they realize I was depressed? How did they expect me to act? Thankfully I was only on the medication for a short time and have not been on any since.

When I became pregnant with my son I worried that I would become depressed after having him. Since I had had an issue previously, coupled with the postpartum a lot of women go trough, I was certain I was going to go down that hole. I recognised that I would need help and I got it right from the beginning. A wonderful lady came to visit me throughout my pregnancy and for a while after. She helped me realize how strong I was, the support system I had, and I was able to keep the depression at bay.

I have been thinking about it because I recently found myself falling into a hole I didn’t want to be in. Depression was seeping in. I didn’t want to face the world. I didn’t want to eat, or sleep, or clean, or get dressed, or anything really. Even spending time with my son wasn’t making me happy like it usually did. The difference though, between this recent phase and all those years ago, is that I was aware that it was happening. I could see it, feel it, and I knew how to stop it. I don’t know how to stop it for everyone, we are all unique individuals with unique life experiences and tendencies after all, but I knew how to stop it from happening to me, and now it’s retreated once again.

This is probably the most personal I will get here. Certainly more than I thought I would share about myself. The thing is though, that everybody gets depressed and nobody talks about it. This is the first time I have ever talked about it other than to a professional. Even my two friends who knew I was on that medication so long ago, we never actually talked about it. It has always remained unspoken. We need to talk about these things. Then maybe we wouldn’t feel so alone. We wouldn’t let it consume us. We would get help. We wouldn’t kill ourselves.

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S h a t t e r e d
memories from the past

S h a t t e r e d
what’s right anymore

S h a t t e r e d
future I had planned

S h a t t e r e d
ability to be with you

S h a t t e r e d
understanding of myself

S h a t t e r e d
a million pieces of heartbreak
a million shattered pieces
of me


Authors Note: This is my interpretation of how one might feel, might be affected, if they had PTSD. I have loved ones who have suffered through it terribly, my brother is one of them. I wanted this piece to stand alone and speak for itself, but I have seen the concern you have shown so thought I would elaborate a little.

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I often find myself being influenced by the moods of other people. It’s not bad when the other person is feeling happy or generally good at the time, especially if I’m not feeling particularly great myself, but when they are sad or upset I tend to follow suit. Rather than comforting them or helping in some way, I will become sad or upset as well. I don’t tend to take on much in the way of anger, but it still affects me in a negative way. It’s a real bitch sometimes, I have to say!

It’s not that I become sad about something that is going on in my life. That’s not it. I take on the other persons sadness as if it were my own.

I’m not sure why this happens, but I assume it has something to do with how open I am to the people around me. I don’t put up emotional blockers to keep my personal space protected. I invite people in, pull up a chair, and feed off of them. That sounds a tad cannibalistic, not what I mean. I mean I feed off of their energy, their emotions, their mood.

I wear my heart on my sleeve. I tell people I love that I love them. I tell people I don’t like that I don’t like them. There is too much honestly and straightforwardness at times, I know. I’ve been told more than once.

Last week I made a promise that I would write some new stories. I thought I would have a great week of writing with the boy gone and lots of time to myself. My brain was full of new story ideas and thoughts on finishing up some drafts I had already started. Then shit happens and I am completely off. It is hard to write about erotic, sexy things when you aren’t feeling particularly sexy or confident yourself. Add in more negative thoughts and feelings and it is near impossible.

That is where I was. I was wallowing in sadness and generally feeling blue. Part of it was just me being me, but another part of it was me being concerned for a friend who’s gone AWOL. That was the biggest part. He is someone who has come to mean a great deal to me. When you go months chatting every day, numerous times a day, to nothing it has a major effect on you. It did me. I went through a rollercoaster of emotions.

At first I was pissed off that he couldn’t manage a word all day. Then I was worried that something was wrong as it was very much not like him to be so quiet. Then I tried calling and Kik and found that his phone was disconnected. Ok. So now I figured he had lost his phone or something. No biggie he would get a new one in a day or two. No such luck. Back to worrying, crying, not sleeping. I asked a family member if they had heard from him. No was the response. Asked them if someone could check on him. Nothing. So you know I got pissed off with them then too.

I was sick with worry. Then I realized something. If his family isn’t concerned then why am I all worried and losing sleep over it?

Maybe he does this, falls off the face of the earth occasionally. Maybe. I don’t know. I thought I knew him pretty well. I know there are things he doesn’t tell me, doesn’t tell anyone. Maybe this has something to do with those secrets. Possibly. I really don’t know. It could be any number of things. What I do know is that his family is there, close to him, and they aren’t concerned at all.

How long will he be AWOL? Will he ever come back? I don’t know. Whatever is going on, I know there isn’t anything I can do about it.

I continued sending him little messages each day to keep in touch, to feel like he was there reading them and knowing that I was thinking of him. Kind of silly but it made me feel better, feel connected, and yet somehow it also made me feel worse. Then, Monday, I told him I miss him and stopped.


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“I must be taken as I have been made. The success is not mine, the failure is not mine, but the two together make me.”
― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

No matter how well you may know someone, there is always something new to be uncovered, to be learned. There is always more behind the mask they put on to show the world.

There are people who think they know me. They’ve known me for twenty years, they’ve seen me grow into a mature woman, have a child, suffer through heartbreak. They don’t know me. They only know the parts of me I let them see, the parts that I haven’t hidden away deep down inside.

I have a secret to share.

I was raped.

When I was 18 years old a “friend” raped me. I say “friend” because I had known him for many years and he was part of my group of friends that I regularly socialized with. We were at a girlfriend’s house on a Saturday night just hanging out and watching movies. This boy and I had never dated, kissed, or had any kind of intimate relation whatsoever. Throughout the night there were no signs anything would happen. It wasn’t like he tried to get closer to me, or any of the other girls, or anything. There was absolutely nothing to give away what would eventually happen.

We were all having a good time, a good laugh and a few beer. Somebody had brought a porn movie to watch. It was more humourous than anything else. It was called the Poondocks or something like that. Nobody was getting excited or taking it seriously. It was horrid in its quality, from what I recall, which is likely why we found it so amusing.

Several of us stayed at my girlfriends for the night. I took the back room. I was in there a little while when the “friend” came in and asked if he could crash there as well. I felt safe with him, and there was a house full of people, so I didn’t hesitate to let him share the bed. I had clothes on so I wasn’t even concerned about him seeing anything. He stripped down to his underwear and t-shirt and got into bed beside me. Moments later he took his underwear off and threw them on the floor.

I asked what he was doing and he said just getting comfortable. I told him nothing was going to happen with me so if that was his idea he should just put his clothes back on and forget about it. He just chuckled. I was on the inside of the bed, near the wall. That didn’t seem like such a smart move right then and I recall a moment of terror.

Next thing I knew he was on top of me holding me down and pulling my underwear down. I tried to wrangle free but it was no use. He told me not to scream or call for anyone, that it would just make things worse for me if I did. So I didn’t. I don’t know if I tried to and he stopped me so then I stopped myself, or if I didn’t even try. So many times I have gone over this in my head, relived it, and I still do not know.

The one thing I do recall with exceptional clarity is that he wore a condom. When and how he put it on I have no idea. I just know he had it on and said that I didn’t need to worry about getting pregnant or anything because he had protected himself. That was the first time anyone had ever wore a condom while having sex with me. Not that I would necessarily say it was sex. It was on his part I guess, but definitely not on mine. I would say that he took advantage me, he abused me, he violated me, he raped me.

To this day I still have issues with my partners wearing a condom. I know I shouldn’t, I know he should wear one. I just can not get excited about it and if he doesn’t want to wear one I don’t make him. I am relieved that he doesn’t want to actually. The thought of a condomed cock inside me is far more threatening to me than the thought of getting a disease. I know it’s asinine. It’s just the way I feel about it. I have had boyfriends who have used condoms. It definitely wasn’t as good, and not because of any way the condom itself feels, but more because of the memory that always comes creeping up when I see the condom. I have condoms in my bedside table. I have bought them personally because I know I should make my partners wear one. I just can’t bring myself to make them.

I am telling this story now because it’s time. It’s time to get rid of it. I told one person about it at the time it happened and they did not believe me so I didn’t tell anyone else. I was lucky enough to have moved out of that town, out of the province entirely, shortly after it happened so I have never had to deal with seeing him.

I have confided in a few girlfriends over the years and I have told boyfriends about it as well. I have not told every partner I have had, but have told everyone I have had actual relationships with who were important to me. I am all about honesty, especially when it affects my sex life and do not deliberately try to hide it. When the condom thing comes up this story almost inevitably comes out. Not all the details necessarily, just the part about being raped by someone who used a condom.

I do think about it quite a bit still, even after more than twenty years. Rape is one of those things you will never be able forget. It can become just a memory though. I want this to become nothing more than a memory, a distant memory, long faded.

NOTE: I know this isn’t a usual Wicked Wednesday post, but it is wicked, it is Wednesday, and like so many other posts on my blog, it was time to tell this story and let it go.

Click the link below to see some true wickedness this Wednesday…


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Internal Scar

Scars. We all have them. Sometimes they are on the surface, fully visible to the naked eye, others are hidden deep within. I have an external one that has led to an inner one that laid rest for nearly 30 years.

When I was around 5 years old I had open heart surgery to repair a septal defect, or what is more commonly known as a hole in the heart. There was a hole in the septum, wall, that separates the right and left sides of the heart. This causes blood to flow between the two chambers of the heart rather than through the rest of the body as it normally should. Many babies are born with this but it usually corrects itself in the first few years of life. Mine didn’t heal so I had to have surgery to repair it.

The surgery left me with a big scar down my chest. When I was younger I thought it was cool that I had a scar similar to my Dads. The only difference was that his was down his back and mine was down my front. It never really bothered me much. I got it so young that it always seemed to be a part of me. Besides, it was always covered by clothes so nobody saw it anyway. Until that one time…

It was grade three. Mrs Yates’s class. I really liked my grade three class because it was in the only basement classroom and it was way at the far end of the school where the good play area was. I was wearing a pair of jeans, a rarity as my Mother was still into making much of my clothes, and a western style shirt. Red and blue plaid with a simple yoke and shiny white pearl snaps. I should see if I can find a picture. I’m sure there must be a few as I never wanted to take it off. I loved that shirt.

I don’t recall what we were studying that day. Seems to me it must have been some kind of health class considering what was about to happen. Though a stupid move on Mrs Yates part, I am sure she wouldn’t have done it completely out of the blue in like math or english class. It was just before afternoon recess. Mrs Yates asked me to come to the front of the class and show everyone my scar.

Yep, there I was, 8 years old, standing in front of my class with my pretty pearl snaps undone and shirt open showing off my scar. To say I was mortified would be an understatement. I was completely traumatized. It took me a very long time, nearly 30 years, to realize to what extent.

I had joined a local Toastmasters group to help me get over my fear, total anxiety really, of speaking in front of people. I had been going to meetings for a couple of months but never had the courage to stand up and speak. I filled the timekeeper role a few times but that was easy. It was a job, a set task, and I didn’t have to leave my seat to give the stats at the end of the meeting. I had even prepared speeches based on the program so I could work my way through it and get over my crippling fear. Even after six months I never gave a single speech.

I started thinking about all those years in school when I wouldn’t get up in front of the class to give presentations. I always just took a zero. Even with that I still managed to graduate with honors. Not too bad, but I could never figure out why it was such an issue for me. I could talk the day away with anyone,  a “Chatty Cathy” many people said. Why couldn’t I get up in front of people and speak? What was the problem?

My subconscious finally released its grip and I had my eureka moment. Hello!! Remember grade three? That time when you were put on display in front of the whole class? Yeah that.

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