<0|\|TR0|_ by tylerkline

Content Note: masochism, abuse

I’m 4 years old. the boy across the street ties me up with a nintendo controller. I pretend I can’t get out of it. he locks me in a wooden trunk. I actually cannot get out of it.

I’m 10 years old. my teacher is mean to me and I like it. she lets me touch her feet. I know I’m not supposed to but I want to.

I’m 12 years old. my best friend and I wrestle a lot. he’s bigger than me but I’m smarter. I make fun of him to provoke him to be rougher with me.

I’m 13 years old. I beg my friend to restrain me. I don’t know what I want her to do to me after that but I know I don’t want to be able to stop her.

I’m 15 years old. my girlfriend is 10 years older than me and killed her dog. our relationship is scary but I’m too young to admit how unhealthy it is.

I’m 16. I’m 18. I’m 25. I have jaw pains. I have hospital visits. I have no sense of reality anymore. I’m coming home beaten. I don’t want to know anything. I want to suffer but I don’t know for what. I don’t know what jesus died for but I want to find out.

I’m ruining my relationship with the woman I love more than anything in the world because I can’t have normal, healthy, loving, compassionate, connecting, honest sex with her without leaving the room afterwards. I make her feel awful about herself doing this but I don’t know how to explain what happens to me, what my head does, when I completely detach from who she is every time she takes off her clothes.

I’m 28. I’m in therapy trying to explain that I don’t think anything is wrong with me, that I found a solution to my depression, my racing thoughts.

they put me on medication to stop my arousal. they put me on medication to make me process things differently. no one is talking about what I’ve told them.

I tell her my masochism extends to being poisoned, being close to death, not being taken care of.
I tell her my sadism scares me too much to talk about with anyone.
I tell her I don’t like sex, that sometimes it’s not sexual.
she asks me about my father.

not everything wrong with people has anything to do with their father.

I switch therapists.

it’s March 2016. a woman is telling me not to touch her but making it very difficult for me to not want to. she’s in my lap, her hands are on my neck. I have to keep my hands up and out or she’ll choke me.

I put my hands up her thighs.

it’s May 2016. I’m obsessing over someone who will only give me what I want in return for something else. the thought of her helps me not think about my mother being sick.

I battle trauma and my illnesses with the ability to make myself hurt without actually hurting myself. a loophole, I tell my therapist. I found a loophole. she asks that I keep these desires mild and if I’m angry with my father.

I find a new therapist. she suggests I see a sex counselor because she is not qualified to help me.

not everyone who embraces their masochism has low self-esteem. not everyone who wants to be abused was abused by their parents. not everyone who was sexually abused by their relative turns into a pedophile. not everyone who has killed an animal is a sociopath.

I am constantly asking myself and other people, why am I like this? why do my fetishes dominate my quality of life? why do they make me feel better? why can’t I find anything other than heroin to make me feel as good emotionally as being teased and tortured does?

my foot fetish is the most accepted perversion I have. and it’s the only one I don’t feel guilty about. I turned feet into a symbol of power and love. love on top, power below. between the toes is where I’m saying, “I don’t care where you’ve been, I want to be there, too.” I’ll lick the earth, I’ll lick your sweat, not because it makes me feel bad about myself but because it makes me feel connected to you.

my cuckold desires are me admitting that it’s okay to want more if you need it and I’ll enjoy because you do. I’ll enjoy your happiness no matter which way you lay it out for me because I love you so much and I know I can’t be everything, and I don’t want to be everything. being everything is overwhelming for me. it causes me to stray, to lash out, to implode, to isolate.

being poisoned? I just want to lose control. I’m such a fucking control freak. everything has to be perfect, it has to be the way I want it or I’m unreachable. I have to lose it sometimes. I have to be able to give up in order to clear my head, in order to think about my own life, my health, myself, my self, when everything around me has been perfectly positioned to keep me docile and unquestionable.

there’s such a list, such a long list, of things I use as a coping mechanism. when I’m doing poorly mentally I’m reaching out to suffer because I need some sort of extreme and I know I can’t feel good. I need anything to remind me I’m alive even if I don’t want to be. I need to stop feeling content from these fucking pills because everyone around me feels safer but everything inside of me is just bouncing from one end to another with no hope to get out and I don’t know how else to get through this.

I’ve always been this way. I didn’t decide one day I hated myself and I need to be punished for whatever anyone keeps assuming I must be doing. I have always dealt with pain, suffering, and inevitability, with things that hurt. I’m not some lunatic who jerks off to women on the subway. I mean sometimes I see women and I just want to know who they are and where they’re going and how they feel about pepsi and if they love their mother because they love her or if it’s because they feel obligated to.

my perversions are deeper than just some fucked up sexual disorder. this is the way I view the world, it’s not just about orgasms. it’s about being able to tap into this carnal desire to feel survival and worship and gods amongst women and waking up knowing my body hasn’t failed me.

one day it will and I won’t be able to stop it. one day I’ll wake up with a horrible pain I didn’t encourage. one day a doctor will tell me worse news than I expect. one day I will die against my will and that doesn’t seem fair to me.

being able to control what happens to me makes me feel better about the fact I cannot control everything.