Enough Is Enough

Earlier this week, there was a news story about a woman who'd been held captive and tortured for ten years. Or at least, that's what I gathered from the headline. I didn't click through to the story, so I don't know if her body was found, if she's still alive, or any other details. And I'm really proud of myself.

Because I'm a misery junkie.

When I told Seven that I didn't read the news story, he asked what would have happened. I admitted that I would have been turned on. I would have been conflicted. I would have felt so much empathy for the woman, and I would have wallowed in sympathetic misery for her. I would have sought out details of her ordeal, and my brain would have filled in the blanks, making up as much cruelty and misery as I could think of. I have always been drawn to serial killer novels, horror movies, and news stories of rape and torture. But I avoid them for all the reasons listed above. They take over my brain, and I get stuck in this cycle of horror and over-empathy and misery and emotional masochism. It fucks me up for days, for weeks.

Most people are familiar with a base level of emotional masochism - watching a scary movie, listening to a sad song, feeling sorry for yourself...manipulating your emotions to feel bad. We all do it. And some people feel comforted by it the way some physical masochists feel comforted by the sting of the whip, the bite of the restraints. I've noticed that I get turned on at the prospect of a fight or confrontation - in between the cold fist of anxiety that hits my chest, the churning of my stomach, the racing of my heart, there's a rush of blood, a tingling, a desire pulsing through my body.

I've written before about how I want to get my need for misery met in a safe way that doesn't fuck me up for weeks, and got to experiment again this weekend. After staying over at Seven's, we woke up for sexytime that ended up being this twisted, cruel, abusive scene. Seven shares some of my darker fantasies and understands the conflict between horror and arousal at rape, kidnapping, torture. So when I told him I wanted to feel abused, I knew he could hurt me. Among other things, he used a bitch of a toy on me while fucking me and then agreed to let me come but he'd hit me every fifteen seconds it took me to get off. I cried almost the whole time. Partially from the pain, partially from some emotional things I'd been dealing with, partially for the sheer joy at feeling miserable. I took all my sorrow, all my hurt and let it out, let it rage.

After the scene ended and cuddles were had, I felt calm. I didn't have the urge to pick a fight, to engage in confrontation, to read something that will give me nightmares. The beast was fed, even if temporarily.

I know I could have gone deeper into that space; I know one day I will. L has asked me to write out the story of what kind of scene he and I might have that incorporates that. I'm very much looking forward to sharing that with him. We've played with it a little, and I know he's scared of harming me emotionally. But to let all my hurt out and know my husband is holding me at the end feels like...ok, fine, it feels like the best ice cream flavor ever. I know that the possible damage and fallout for doing this kind of scene with L is so much greater because he is my primary, and it means the world to me that he wants to be safe and careful.

I'm learning that part of being careful is knowing when to stop. Excessive emotional masochism seems like self-injury – physically and emotionally unhealthy. The growling of the beast drowns out my brain, demands more misery, more horror, more sadness. It says it's so easy to sink into a downward spiral of misery. “Come down,” it says, seducing me. “You are comfortable here. You are safe. It is all about you. Cry for me, and your tears will be so sweet.”

And I have to tell it no. Like a dog jumping on the forbidden couch, I look for the strength to push the beast off and say, “You'll get attention again. But you've had enough for now.”

RHS