Sex & BDSM After Trauma

Long after debris has been cleared and casualties have been counted, there's still the matter of emotional fallout to deal with for years to come in any traumatic incident. Whether on a global or individual scale, healing will always be needed.

I am a survivor of domestic abuse.

If you're up to reading my story, take a look.

And the sequel.

But what does that mean for my sex life?

Well.

Easy is not a word I would use to describe it, to say the least.

We're about to get real down and dirty about me, myself & I, so if you're shy about sex in the slightest, I recommend not reading any further.

...

Alright, now that you've been fairly warned and you're still here, let's get down and dirty, shall we?

I was very aware of my own preferences from a very young age. My fantasies and desires weren't anything like so many of my peers. Whereas Susie wanted Billy, the captain of the football team, to ask her to the dance and take her on a nice romantic dinner date, I looked at Billy and thought, "Wow, he looks like he could tie me up and do very naughty things to me."

In the varied and beautiful world of BDSM, I'm what's known as a submissive. There are many other labels I could get into, but for the sake of not wanting to write a novel here, we'll leave it at that. With the Fifty Shades phenomenon behind us - mostly - I imagine that most people know what that word means. For those that don't, essentially it means that I enjoy relinquishing control in my relationship. I enjoy my partner being the one in charge of things. In my relationship in particular, we keep the Dominant/submissive dynamic mostly confined to the bedroom, although my husband I'm sure is tempted to flex sometimes when I drive him absolutely nuts.

Should you wish to learn more about BDSM and it's many intricacies, I strongly recommend going online to places like BDSMCafe.com or FetLife.com to learn more. I know I learned quite a bit from both sources over the years along with gaining friendships that I will be forever thankful for.

For a short period in my life, I thought that BDSM was something that I could do without. I felt so judged as so many other young women feel. The pressure to fit in was nearly unbearable at times. So this thing that I desperately wanted in my life? Maybe it was better that I leave it as a fantasy.

What a lot of people don't understand about BDSM is that it's not all about whips and chains. At least not for everyone. BDSM can be whatever you want it to be. That's one of the things I find the most beautiful and thrilling about it. There's a kind of connection between you and your partner that you just won't find anywhere else and it's absolutely stunning to behold. There's a freedom there that no one who hasn't experienced it could understand.

Being who and what I am, after I processed the worst of my trauma, my first stubborn instinct was to get right back up on the horse. I didn't want to let what happened define me in any way. It was something that happened in the past and it would stay there. I refused to let it be any other way.

One of my favorite things about the BDSM community - because let me tell you, it is a community - is how supportive and wonderful the majority of the people are. We all know we're weirdos and we're proud of it.

I knew at that point in time, I was not ready in any way to pursue a romantic relationship in the slightest. All I wanted was that primal high that BDSM provides.

So what do I do?

Ladies and gentlemen, young, dumb me decides to go clubbing. The home of hopeful young men looking to get their rocks off. To this day, I'm still not certain what possessed me to try this course of action. I like to think of this period in my life as one where I learned a lot of valuable lessons about myself and the world around me that I'm not ever going to forget.

Hanging out around the bar, I found a sense of relaxation from the pounding of the music and dancing, sweaty bodies around me. Why? No idea. But it was oddly comforting.

And then the attention came. It was exactly what I was looking for, wasn't it? I wanted to feel wanted and desired again. Confident. Invigorated. I needed new life breathed into my very bones and I thought that I could force myself to be ready and push myself faster to the result I wanted. That's how I was raised. Feelings of weakness are to be shunned and locked away. Honestly I think this style of parenting is probably what helped me along the sexual path I found myself on. To this day, there is only one family member who knows what I've been through and that is a cousin of mine. She has been absolutely irreplaceable in my life.

I remember the feeling of someone - a male someone - walking up behind me. It must have been a survival instinct from my trauma that identified him as a threat. The joys of PTSD. After the fact, I know he was just trying to be nice and get to know a girl at a bar that he thought was cute. At the time, I couldn't get away fast enough. Before I could even blink, I was shoving my way through the crowd blocking me in, hearing protests all around but only barely over the sound of my hyperventilating.

All the way back home from the club, I was totally in a daze. I don't even remember the drive home that night. I stripping my clothes off, crawling into bed and staring into space. Eventually I must've fallen asleep.

It took me a year of nightmares and panic attacks before I could even consider allowing a man to stand behind me. At work, I angled my desk so it was difficult for anyone larger than me to access. At my family home, I stayed to myself, only really emerging for meals and work. And I almost never went out. I felt far too vulnerable. Too weak. I knew after my brief escapade out into the world that it was going to be quite sometime until there was even a possibility of normalcy. And even that 'normalcy' was never going to be normal again.

Fast forward to now.

I'm married to the love of my life. He was actually my biggest crush in elementary school and after years of being vague friends, we reconnected. For whatever reason, he was always as crazy about me as I was about him. Now here we are, all married and adorable. A regular Hallmark film. Just add some snow or a wealthy man trying to take advantage of my good nature to steal my family's blueberry farm.

There's a point in every relationship where you talk about things that you've been through, the baggage you carry. We've all got it. I told my husband all about my trauma before we even had our first date. In the middle of a ramen restaurant.

Wish I was kidding. But they were great noodles.

Throughout the course of my relationship with my husband, he has seen the good, the bad and the ugly. He's seen me skin my knee playing kickball at recess. He watched me grow up into a strong young woman ready to take on the world. And he was there for me after I came crashing and burning down to the ground like the story of Icarus and his wings.

Being the chivalrous man that he is, his reaction to my trauma was as you'd expect. Sadness, rage, heartbreak... You can't tell me there's any decent person in this world who would react differently. He was shaking with the depth of his feelings on the subject.

At that time, I knew it was really time to move on. To be the pedal to the metal and handle it. Although this was probably not the best attitude to have about it for most people, for me, it worked wonders. Sometimes being stubborn is an asset.

My abuser, Bobby - we'll stick with the fake name I gave him in the original post - reached out to me not too long after I told my story to my now husband. I took that as a bit of a sign really. That it was time for that closure that so many people talk about, but no one can really explain what it is exactly.

So I answered him.

At first it was just a couple text messages back and forth, him telling me about his life and how sorry he was. He had apparently moved to another state where his family was living and had gone through quite a hard time, ending up on the street and being homeless then moving into a shelter where he went through the twelve step program for alcoholics. With everything we went through, he was sober for almost a year prior to even thinking about reaching out to me, saying that he knew what he did was unforgiveable and he didn't expect it from me, didn't once ask for me to come back to him. He still wanted to apologize all the same. Having been so inspired by the people around him at the shelter, he had made the decision to go back to school for biblical counseling so that he could help others like him. But before he did anything, he knew he had to speak to me and apologize for everything.

Bobby flew into the state to stay with a couple old friends for a weekend so that he could talk to me. We met up at a Moe's near where he was staying, my now husband and one of my best friends sitting very near to us trying to offer support and restrain themselves from violence.

I don't think I'll ever recall the conversation that we had.

I remember looking at him and seeing him... but not. He looked totally different. Healthy. Not at all like the monster in my nightmares that spit obscenities in my face with fingers wrapped around my throat.

Apparently we were there for over an hour. My husband tells me that I looked like I was in a daze that day. Like I was there, but my eyes were glazed over. I was talking and smiling and saying I forgave him, seemingly present in the moment.

When we left and walked out to the parking lot, I felt numb. Staring at the asphalt, I thought, Was that really him? Am I crazy? And I was shaking like a leaf.

And then the curb rushed up to smack me in the face.

Luckily it didn't get far enough as my now husband caught me about four inches from eating concrete.

To this day, I can say with a certainty that the best way for me to recover from a PTSD-induced panic attack is to be wrapped in my husband's jean jacket and an ugly blanket sitting in the fetal position in the bed of his truck. His arms were wrapped around me so tight I could feel my bones creaking from the strain. I loved it. The sobs wracking my body were uncontrollable and inconsolable. The tips of my fingers and toes along with my lips were numb, signaling the level of inescapable onslaught overwhelming me. I couldn't think. My vision was going dark. My muscles refused to do what I wanted them to do which was just to calm down.

I'm typically the type of person who remains in control of their emotions during stressful times. If I can't control them, then I leave. There are exceedingly few people on this floating rock we call Earth who have seen me absolutely lose it.

And my friend's reaction?

"Holy sh*t. I've known you for ten years. Ten. Years. And I've never seen you like this. And let's be honest. I'm sure I'll never see it again. Just don't ever forget that I'm here."

She probably won't. Being vulnerable like that is not something I make a habit of doing. I'll leave the 'probably' there though just to allow the possibility of it in the future. You never know.

If you're at all familiar with BDSM and the needs of what some call 'natural submissives' or 'true submissives' - I think that makes it sound a little pretentious, but it is what it is - then you're also aware of the fact that vulnerability and the relinquishing of control is kind of the name of the game. It's what we need and crave. It's not something that we can live without, as I learned the hard way.

Pre-husband, I truly couldn't even imagine accepting the dynamic I craved with anyone. I didn't even consider it. It was something that was on my mind, sure, but the thought of acting on it left me shaking and something in common with the Sahara Desert.

Post-husband?

Somebody get Noah's Ark up in here. The flood is upon us!

I'm not saying that when you meet the right person that your trauma will just fall away. It certainly hasn't done that for me in any capacity, as much as I might wish for it. We have certainly put some time and effort into it. We didn't just jump right in on whips and chains and all that. We started out slow just like any regular person would. I guess that actually depends on how you define 'regular' now that I'm thinking about it.

I won't get into a play-by-play as to what happens in my marriage bed... or kitchen... or living room... or well, anywhere. Let's just say, it's great. Beyond great. I couldn't ask for a better partner in my husband.

What I am saying is - as mushy as it sounds - trust and love really can conquer all. It's our own special brand of magic.

And yes, I also love Disney movies. I'm a sap underneath my tough exterior. Sue me.