I wasn’t going to write anything, and then the fabulous Cara Thereon published her year in review post, Bits N Boobs. As well as an awesome title, her post includes some very sweet reflections, and inspired me to have a go at writing my own post. I don’t promise the coherence that others have shown, but I have words to say and thank yous to make.
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.
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.