I stopped taking the hormones. I faced a complete breakdown last week and in its wake I realized that I don’t want to force myself go through with this. I have forced myself enough. I have been brave, I have taken everything and carried it, followed every order, even a hint, and carried it out.
I broke down in tears in Wonderboy’s arms after having a tantrum because of nothing really. I’d heard from a friend, a close friend, who had been dreading calling me, because she’d gotten pregnant right from the first try – 4 months ago. How crystal clear it made my suffering. How clear it made the fact that my torture is in vain.
I don’t want to do this anymore, I heard myself say over and over again.
What I meant was that I don’t want to be like this anymore.
You know, when people hope they could just erase their weird kink? Just snap out of it with medication, therapy or faith. Well, I now know what it feels like to be cut out of my sexuality. I now see what an integral part my kink is not only to my sexuality but to my identity, my self, as well.
I haven’t been turned on by the d/s stuff, I’ve said here. Mildly put! Without the happiness our d/s dynamic brings me (us), I feel desolate. I feel completely content, because I don’t desire it. But I can feel the absence. There’s something colossal missing from between us. We are happy. We cuddle a lot. We even make love. But.
I’m not shaken to my core. I’m not owned. I’m not shown my place. So I’m lost. I know that I love Wonderboy and I know that he loves me. There’s just no proof. Or, better yet, there’s only proof. There are actions that I know tell of love. I read them and know that we’re happy.
But (please forgive my childish behaviour) I don’t have a owner! Nobody owns me!
And I can’t handle it. Not on top of everything else that’s happening. I was driving to work, because I have a new demanding job on top of all this, and I thought this is ruining my life. I can’t live like this. I’ll end up hurting myself, if I take those pills.
Today was the day I was supposed to start a new cycle. It loomed over me. Another month of caged rage and changes of moods so swift they leave me exhausted. If I take the pills, 10 of them in 5 days, I can’t take it back. Then I have to endure the whole month. I just felt like cutting the blood from under my skin. So fierce was the feeling of wanting to get rid of this that has taken over my body and mind.
And I called the doctor from the freeway, driving in the morning traffic, hurting, crying, dialing. Just going to work as any old wife.
I can’t do it. I’ve been bleeding and hurting the whole month. I’ve been facing anxiety and sadness to the brink of total breakdown. I don’t want to take the hormones anymore.
And they said, please think about yourself. Just stop. Don’t torture yourself. You have to listen to yourself. These hormones do mess with the head. They might not work for you. You can take a month or two and breath.
I laughed and cried out of relief. Suddenly I noticed that the sun was shining. It’s spring. I’m going to have a vacation this year. And I’m going to have it without the bleeding and hurting and hoping and emotional turmoil of estrogen overdrive.
They promised me that we would get to the IVF in the fall no matter what. I don’t have to finish these hormones. I could choose. I could choose to have myself back. I could choose to have a sex life. I could choose to have back my awful, dirty, shameful secret. My kink.
When I told Wonderboy about my decision, he asked: Are you going to be the same again? Will I get my Rogue Bambi back?
Yeah, I think so. I think you will.
Maybe we’ll even play again, he said. When he held me close to him I realized that it wasn’t just my identity that had been in a crisis. It was both of us.