Things I’ve Learned from Depression

Despair is a liar. There is always hope, and you will find it in love.

Isolation breeds suicidal ideation. Secrets breed isolation. Sharing secrets breeds healing.

Shame will kill you sooner than grief will.

A good medical team is worth its weight in antidepressants.

When you know you have no strength left, look deeper. It’s right there waiting for you to finally acknowledge that you’re a hero.

Suicide is not selfish. It’s a normal response to intolerable suffering.

Suicide is myopic. It cannot tell the truth any more than despair can.

Trying to survive depression without medication and a therapist is like trying to survive a tsunami by clinging to a blade of grass.

Selflessness and depression go together like fuel and fire. Every day you don’t ask for help buys you another week of distress. Survival requires you to be selfish enough to pick up the phone.

Love knocks before it enters. To experience the compassion of loved ones, you must answer the door.

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‘m Sorry You Were Mugged, but Talking About It Is Misogynistic

Dear Mugging Victim

Sorry you were mugged. That’s truly awful. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t reallybelieve you were mugged, but I know that accusing you of lying is an asshole move, so I need to do a little impression management. So I’m sorry about what happened to you, truly.

Did I mention that I find your reference of the gender of your attacker insulting? Not all women steal. In fact, if you look at most mugging victims <linky to irrelevant study I didn’t read and that I hope you won’t check> you’ll find that carrying a wallet in public directly contributes to muggings because criminals know most men never take their cash from under their mattresses. If you are going to make the idiotic mistake of carrying a wallet, you shouldn’t go out between the hours of 17:00 and 7 am. That’s when theft usually happens, so if you go to a party at night, you can’t expect to come home with your credit cards, can you? Womankind requires you to adopt a mugging schedule and only leave home during work hours.

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I wish men would stop telling people they were mugged because it’s misogynistic and pointless. Think, instead, of how you can contribute to lowering our country’s theft rates. Spread love, not hate. That’s what I always say (My hate for you notwithstanding, obviously).

In any case, I’ve never seen a person get mugged and it’s never happened to my friends. I totally believe you, but I also think you’re lying. If you insist on speaking about it, at least tell us that theft hardly ever happens. <’nother linky to irrelevant study I didn’t read>. If you want me to believe you were mugged, a study of 3876 victims isn’t sufficient to convince me.

Since you are clearly the only man in the world who’s ever been mugged, I can only suggest you start educating strangers who are prone to stealing so that they end their criminal careers. Spread love, not hate. That’s what I always say. It’s up to you (not me, obviously) to educate our local criminals and maybe give them a portion of your savings so they have don’t need to steal.

Did you go to the police, by the way? If you didn’t, you’re part of the problem. No, I don’t give a fuck that the police are too corrupt to bother with muggings. Lay a charge or it didn’t happen. Also show me the charge sheet.

Again, I’m sorry for what happened, but only about one in a thousand people are ever mugged, and all of them are lying and exaggerating.

What’s that you say? You disagree with my opinion on your mugging? Well, then fuck you for silencing me.

A response to RaindeGray’s comment section about rape culture.

The Relationship Roundabout

H was a jack in the box: in, out, here, gone, here. He wanted me infinitely and obsessively… until he didn’t. We had magic and fairy dust and every other enchantment you can wish for in a relationship. If our connection was perfect, surely more would be better, so we got engaged. What else are you supposed to do when you find your own personal fairy tale?

Within weeks, he said, “If I ever want to get married, it will be to you…

… but I don’t want to get married anymore.”

He didn’t want our relationship, either. It had become tainted with his fears, and all our magic got lost in the process. We stayed friends, of course. Isn’t that what you do when you connect with someone that powerfully?

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We made that mistake several times, but sex was always our undoing. We always tumbled into bed. This time we would keep things cool and disconnected. This time we would stop being so damned serious about our relationship. This time we wouldn’t start talking about marriage again.

Yah, right. And The Brothers Grimm wrote Disney movies.

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Depression Feels Like Sadness

Depression feels like sadness in much the same way that a one kilometre walk in a shaded forest feels like free diving to a hundred metres with bricks on your back. Yes, depression is just a silly, silly feeling in much the same way that paralysis is just an annoying, trivial condition. It sneaks up on you with all the subtlety of a panther. Slowly, now. Slow and smooth until you realise there are teeth in your neck and claws in your back.

Depression feels as tiring as a 14-hour workday in much the same way as open heart surgery feels like the common cold. Not to worry. The pain will pass and leave behind deadness and the taste of ash and no air in your lungs.

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Suicide is giving up in the same way that dying of cancer is capitulating. The call to death is not a sign of a character deficit, but of being human, ill, and suffering. That call is compelling in the same way that a heroin addiction is a slight and temporary craving.

They will call you weak, and yet here you still are, hanging on by your fingertips asking how long will it be until this ends?

How long now?

One day you will realise that you’re too weak to tolerate another second of deadness. On that day, you will fight the greatest fight of your life: the struggle to survive. You will search the grass for that one sliver of strength you dropped on your way here. You won’t find it, but you will reach tomorrow anyway. You will reach tomorrow because you are powerful enough to win this war. You won’t believe it now, but you will win anyway.

D/s: A Different Kind of Freedom

My submission has always shocked me. The first time I was exposed to anything resembling dominance, my hormones went wild. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. Sensation was all there was. I had never been so lost in my sexuality before. I felt as though I was swimming in sex.

Then came the frenzy. Nothing could tame it, so my life turned into a hot, wet, obsessive dream. There I was, a feminist with ethics stiff enough to choke you with, accepting what I had called “abuse” only a day before. But it wasn’t abuse. It wasn’t even a pathology. It was just sex—really hot sex at that.

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My libido is wired out of an odd tangle of objectification, masochism, and subservience. To me, control is bliss. Power exchange is the space wherein I’m free. I become a conduit for a dominant’s desire, and forgetting my own needs makes me feel I’ve grown wings. The universe expands, and I fly from star to star. The affection that was once impossible to express becomes the only thing I express. How could anyone call that pathological?

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I’ll Tell You a Secret

When you let love in after years of shutting it out, you find out you’ve barricaded yourself against everyone who has a place in your life. You learn that safety doesn’t come from the absence of danger, but from the knowledge that you’re profoundly loved. All the world’s sharp and jagged edges begin to look benign because life can hurt you. It can even harm you, but it can never isolate you.

I’ll tell you a story. Since my mother was diagnosed with cancer almost six years ago, I’ve held the entire universe at arm’s length. The earth became a sinister place because, for a while, I saw it through the lens of human impermanence. We all die. The earth knows it, and so must you.

I’ll give you a puzzle: after you lose someone you deeply loved, how do forget that everyone you love will die?

I’ll tell you my solution: Keep them all out. Feel nothing. Say nothing. Become comfortable with solitude.

I’ll tell you a consequence: Suddenly, the earth is made of granite and soot.

I’ll tell you a secret: Even if you manage to keep your barriers up, you will grieve every loss. I’ve lived an unshared life, and it achieved nothing beyond this granite and soot. You cannot prevent yourself from feeling any more than you can become invisible by shutting your eyes. Those emotions will still be there, unacknowledged, until they bubble out in a mess of lava.

I’ll tell you something I can’t say with dry eyes: I have been so profoundly cared for for so long I can barely think of a different existence. I have let love in, and the earth has become alive again.

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Things That Will Happen When You Meet a Toxic “Dominant”

He’ll dictate your dynamic to you like a True Dominant does. That conversation will not mention safe words. It will not mention limits. It will not mention a damn thing about your needs and wellbeing, but a dom without a list of requirements is hardly a dom at all, is he? And you’re so new to kink, so what do you know?

This is how you’ll swallow all the things your community leaders told you about safety, together with a handful of dignity and six tons of self-worth. “I’m lucky he’s bothering with a noob at all,” you’ll think. Then you’ll go out shopping for some lace and perfume. Remember that shopping trip. It will be the last time you buy anything without his permission.

Hell, it’ll be the last time you leave home without his permission.

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Weeks will pass, then months. He will break your body in a hundred different ways and then blame you for your exhaustion. He’ll demand you behave like a whole person despite having obliterated your psyche. One evening at dusk you’ll look out at the sky and realise you’ve lost yourself. Your self-respect will be buried underneath his growing pile of demands. You’ll know you’ve hidden your strength somewhere, but you won’t remember where. He’ll call this the result of your inferior submission, and you’ll believe him because he’s been involved in BDSM for years.

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