Scratching is not a kink I’ve explored, though it is a kink I would like to play with… I think. I’m not sure I’m doing Kink of the Week right, because I’m actually linking kink to mental health, meaning that today I’m going to talk about non-sexy sex-ness. First, however, I’d like to add a content warning for quite explicit description of mental health and self-harm.
Is this really a piece of erotica, or have I just written a personal fantasy that isn’t really sexual at all? When the person in question isn’t stealing all of the duvet, I tend to sleep better with someone in bed next to me. My dreams have definitely started getting better since I’ve been taking anti-depressants, but I still often wish that there was someone there with me when I wake up in the middle of the night.
I’m at my parents’ house for Christmas, in a period of orgasm denial that would be a lot hotter if the chastity was being enforced by a dominant rather than a lack of privacy. There are many pieces of festive filth filling my head, each vying to be the next one I write, but this is a piece of personal reflection and private fantasy as much as it is erotica.
Before you read on, I’d like to add a content warning for discussion of depression and suicide.
In some ways, I’m not sure that I’m qualified to talk about this. Other people have tackled the subject in a much more informed way, with greater experience, but after a conversation recently I wanted to share my thoughts. To me, it’s nearly impossible to separate my sexuality from my mental illness. I began exploring my body – or I “discovered I had genitals” as my friend puts it – only a few months before my anxiety and depression reached their worse points.
I don’t set alarms to help me wake up any more. This causes a few problems at times, though in general I’m quite good at waking up with enough time to shower before I need to leave my flat. I do it now and again, of course, like when I’m catching a plane at 5am. Recently, though, the only times I have set an alarm in the morning is when I’ve spent the night with someone. And even that doesn’t always end well.
Does it sound strange to say that something good has come out of my mental illness? It’s a wonderful thing, really, to be able to look back over the horrible dark tangled mess my life became and be able to see good things have emerged with me. I’m stronger now than I was a few months ago, much more resilient, but there’s something else as well. A much more unexpected side effect.
I have never felt better about my body.