My body betrays me. That is the only way to describe my attachment to BDSM. My body does what my mind does not understand—it loves pain, exposure, grit, and sweat. It loves these things because they do more for me than a light touch ever will. My sexuality is radical, and it will want what it wants. I will never be the type to swathe myself in rainbows.
Darkness and I are like Bonny and Clyde. If I could butter my toast with the tears of a million weeping ghosts, I would. I have “The most disturbing books of all time” bookmarked for when I need reading material. I don’t care if the theme is human experiments, vicious viruses, or cannibalistic serial killers as long as it makes me see demons behind my drapes. When there’s a storm, I’m hunting the local DVD store for movies scary enough to cause cardiac arrest. Fear is a mood and mind altering state that I’m addicted to. I’m not chasing genuine trauma, but fictionalised gloom makes me feel fuzzy inside, the way sexualised pain does.
Even the food I cook has teeth. What good is curry if it doesn’t make you cry? What good is sushi if it doesn’t have enough wasabi to cause cardiac arrest?
I can’t say what my attraction to despair is about. Maybe I’m a born Nietzschean. Maybe I’m pathological, but then again, maybe I’m less attracted to teddy bears and starlight than I am to the authentic experience of living. I’m not interested in smiles. I’m interested in life, and that comes with beauty and ugliness.
Nietzsche said, “To survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.” I’m a writer, so of course I hunt for meaning in everything, but the habit has also been a necessary recovery tool. I had to learn how to feel comfortable with terrible things. That’s the only way any of us get to recover from trauma.
Nietzsche also said, “One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.” I think I like that explanation best of all.