Rest as Radical Resistance

I play with LEGO as a means to rest, so this photo is of a little LEGO housefront with a window and a door, atop a piece of green LEGO, with an above-ground pool, a fence, a flowerbed and a windmill also made of LEGO. Also, my hand is in this photo because I fucking suck at photography.

I have been on hiatus.

I’m actually not sure if I can call it a hiatus. I didn’t really intend to take a break from blogging, much like I didn’t really intend to take a break from working, talking to my friends or showering when not absolutely necessary. My mood took a bit of a nosedive a few weeks ago, and I’m slowly recovering the ability to function to my usual (and still less-than-optimal) degree.

I’ve had a lot to contend with, too: first, I graduated from uni (with a 1st class degree in English, baby!) and then I had a birthday, and then I had a tribunal about disability benefits to attend, and then I had to move out of my old flat. Note that I did not mention moving into any sort of new accommodation – because student tenancies are stupid, I am technically without a fixed address at the moment. My possessions are mostly in a storage unit, apart from a stash of clean knickers and sex toys at my Daddy’s house and some other bits and pieces scattered across the homes of my mum and my other two partners, 60 miles away. In case you were wondering how my autistic ass has been coping with the change: it’s been 19 days since the move and I’m still having nightmares about leaving possessions behind.

I’ve been feeling so angry with myself lately about letting my blog fall to the wayside. I love blogging. I’m passionate about sex and disability and relationships and kink. I feel so at home in the sex blogging community and I feel a sense of responsibility towards the people who read my content to churn out some more. But I don’t want to churn out crap, and I’ve barely been able to assemble a coherent Tweet lately, so I’ve been forced to let my brain have a break.

There’s been one other factor complicating the whole blogging thing: the seemingly imminent end of the world. There are children in cages in the U.S., Bitcoin setups using the same amount of energy as Denmark and so many more crises unfolding all at once. On the one hand, this makes writing about how much I love puppy play seem embarrassingly futile. I sometimes feel as if I should be chaining myself to something or scaling a monument or flying to America to vandalise ICE vans, but I can barely drag myself to the corner shop at the moment. I have to accept my own limits.

And then, on the other hand, I feel an enormous amount of self-imposed pressure to do what little good I can manage by writing about sex and kink, and hopefully making other people with non-mainstream sexual proclivities feel a little bit less alone. I would never devalue the work that other online activists do, and I do regard my blog – especially the bits about disability and queerness – as a form of activism. But I just haven’t been capable of writing anything that makes any fucking sense as of late (as evidenced by the three garbled documents in my Drafts folder right now, taunting me every time I open WordPress). That’s a limit that it’s been harder to accept, because “blogging more often” sounds like such an achievable goal on paper. In reality, though, I don’t even have the executive function to charge my laptop half the time.

In spite of knowing I need it, I’ve been regarding this accidental period of rest with a festering resentment. I know I need to slow down, I know I need to rest, and I know that I’m holding myself to standards I would never hold another person to, but I’ve still been beating myself up about not blogging, not working, not “achieving” anything. I also know, from therapy, that I’m supposed to ask myself, “What would I say to [insert loved one here] about this?” whenever I’m beating myself up. And I know what I would say.

Rest is an achievement. It’s not just a passive state of being; in this late capitalist hellscape, where we’re always under pressure to be doing something, it takes some real effort to allow ourselves to rest. I sometimes regard my own rest as a means to an end: if I can just rest for a while, I’ll be able to do something again soon after, and that makes resting worthwhile (if uncomfortable). But actually, resting doesn’t need to be a means to an end. Your rest doesn’t have to make you more productive in the long run, or better at your job, or any other thing besides rested.

There are bastards making money from our reluctance to rest. Employers who exploit their employees are an obvious example, but anything which is designed to keep you busy is also preventing you from resting. (This is one of the many, many reasons that diet culture is entirely, well, a cultural construct, and wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for several fucked up aspects of capitalism.) To consciously choose to rest, to just fucking chill, is to spit in those bastards’ proverbial faces.

And my rest, I suppose, is particularly profound because I’m multiply marginalised. Homophobia, transphobia, ableism, bigotry in general, they keep their victims on their toes. Being queer and AFAB and disabled means that I’m expected to work harder than my cishet, male, abled counterparts, and there’s something that feels quietly radical about just… not doing things. I’m not financially privileged enough to completely stop doing things, but spending a couple of weeks just taking some deep breaths and surviving as a queer, AFAB disabled person is not what bigots want me to do. Bigotry relies on us being exhausted and distracted and miserable, and taking some time to rest patently defies that. And I like to be defiant.

I wanted to explain my unexpected hiatus to y’all, but I also wanted to share my thoughts on rest because it really is difficult to rest and not feel guilty about it. I hope this blog post has helped to reassure at least one person that their rest is not just a state of inaction, or a means to boost their productivity – it is an act of self-love and of resistance, and I am exceptionally proud of anyone who is currently pulling it off.


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Help Wanted: How Does Service Space Feel For Me?

Image is a green Philips brand iron lying on top of a white item of clothing.

This post is part of a miniseries exploring the nuances of different headspaces I access through kink! You can find all the other posts in this series by clicking here, and I hope this one serves you well. (Get it? …I’m sorry.)


I grew up assigned female, disabled and queer in a misogynistic, ableist and queerphobic society. I also attended a fee-paying high school solely because of some inherited money that was tucked away in a trust fund, which did not automatically equate to living in a wealthy (or even, uh, financially comfortable) household. Society and my peers made it clear to me from day zero that there were aspects of my life and my identity – of the very foundation of my being – that were undesirable, unworthy or wholly unacceptable.

This did not make for a very sturdy foundation upon which to build self-esteem, as I’m sure you can imagine.

One of the most harmful concepts that our capitalist society presses upon us is that our value as human beings is directly and inextricably linked to our “productivity”. I’ve read a lot of leftist theory and done a whole lot more psychotherapy, but I don’t think it makes me a bad anti-capitalist punk to admit that it’s going to take me a very long time to truly unlearn this particular faulty concept. It’s everywhere.

I’ve already talked a fair bit about the relationship between my disability and my service, but I haven’t actually unpacked what service space feels like for me, or why I enjoy it. It starts with all of the above: in a society that values “productivity”, whatever that means, and with disability already holding me back from being productive in any sort of traditionally capitalist manner, I was desperate to be worthy.

This manifested in my vanilla life first. Some of the things I was doing were all well and good, like donating blood regularly and knitting for charity… but others, not so much. I continued emotionally draining, outright harmful friendships wherein I acted as an unqualified therapist and/or crisis worker because I was desperate to make a difference. I took on responsibilities I couldn’t or could barely carry out because of my disabilities, like staffing a bake sale (which my joints, anxiety and autism all prevented me from doing) and helping my mum redecorate her house from bottom to top. As a pattern of behaviour, it was unsustainable.

Enter service submission. I stumbled across the term during one of my many blog binges and realised I was already kinda-sorta enacting it in the relationship I was in at the time – when I visited my then-boyfriend, it made me feel a great deal less anxious and burdensome to tidy up a little, do some dishes or massage his back. I slowly came to notice that I was deriving a sense of satisfaction from these acts of service that was similar to that which I experienced when doing helpful things in vanilla life – but it felt more profound.

When I’m in service space, I often hyperfocus. In other settings, hyperfocus is a double-edged sword, because I can end up overexerting myself, or forgetting to attend to other things. Under the watchful eye of a dominant partner, though, I can hyperfocus for the length of time it takes to complete a specific task, and then be gently pulled back into reality. It borders on hypnotic. I can immerse myself in the minute details of a task with the safety net of being ordered to stop if it seems like I’m at risk of exhausting or hurting myself.

Within a 24/7 dynamic, my Daddy and I have been able to account for my tendency to hyperfocus even when he isn’t supervising. Sometimes, this involves him being very specific about the level of energy he wants me to put into a task – he might explain that he wants the kitchen “quickly cleaned”, which means that I load the dishwasher and wipe down the countertops – but only the countertops, not the microwave or the toaster or the cupboard doors, etc. Sometimes it also involves him reminding me to check in with myself about whether my joints are hurting and how many spoons I have left, and he specifically tells me that stopping when my mind and/or body want me to stop is included in the service task.

I feel useful when I serve, in the exact ways I was seeking to feel useful in vanilla life. Service space also feels a lot more psychologically safe because it’s so predictable and the parameters are so clear: I am given a task. My job is then to complete this task to the best of my ability, and/or to communicate with my Daddy about any difficulties I’m having with its completion. My Daddy commends me for my execution of the task and/or my insight and communication, and I glow with pride at having done a good job. My experience of service space is almost entirely psychological – the sensory components (like wiping things til they shine, or the smell of citrus dish soap) are a bonus, but entirely incidental to the headspace itself. With a partner giving me specific, achievable goals, I feel like the embodiment of that capitalist myth: a cog in a well-oiled machine. And because my service submission is entirely removed from capitalism, I feel like I’m at liberty to set boundaries and I can even run the risk of “failing” without worrying about the loss of my livelihood. I feel intensely, deliriously safe in service space.

I also feel genuinely pleased with myself for my tangible impact on my dominant’s life. Formalising acts like a back massage or loading the dishwasher by doing them within subspace can help to keep their significance in the forefront of both our minds, meaning that my partner rarely overlooks my labour and so I rarely feel taken for granted. My tangible impact on him and his praise in response to it starts to fill in the cracks in that foundation I mentioned earlier. It’s not a substitute or a replacement for self-worth, but it gives me somewhere safe and reliable to start rebuilding my self-worth all on my own.