Masturbation and Messy Handwriting: A Wank Journal Update

A plastic washing-up bowl filled with various masturbation implements and water, from when I was sanitising all my sex toys a couple of weeks ago

If you’ve been reading my blog a little while, you’ll know that I have some difficulties with masturbation. You’ll also remember the birth of my Wank Journal, and that one of my goals for 2019 was to wank – or at least try to wank – a little more.

Friends, I did that.

I don’t want to jinx my progress, but I’m getting better at masturbation. Like, a lot better; I do it more often, I dissociate less, and I often manage to actually have orgasms (yeah, orgasms! Plural!). My secret weapon? Stoned Morgan. I’ve found that Stoned Morgan doesn’t have the same trauma responses to wanking that Sober Morgan does, so I’ve been having a reasonable number of stoned wanks – but the truly magical thing is that, as a result of those, I’m also having sober wanks. Stoned wanks are great for all the obvious reasons, but they’re also great because the more I wank without having a trauma response, the less frightened I am of the whole process, and so the less likely I am to have a trauma response during sober wanks, too.

My other, not-so-secret weapon has been my Wank Journal. I don’t write in it every time I have a wank these days, but I think that’s a good sign, because it suggests that masturbation is becoming more ordinary for me, and less of a Big Deal™. However, it is helpful in grounding me when I need it, and it’s also helpful in revealing some interesting patterns in my masturbation habits.

I know you want to know what those patterns are, so without further ado, here’s what a year (and a bit) with a Wank Journal has taught me about myself.

1. I am an extremely lazy wanker.

Since I record the toys I used and the physical acts I engaged in when I document a wank, I’ve come to notice that a majority of the time, I fall back on the same extremely easy strategy: hump a wand vibrator until I come. Sometimes I’ll lie on my back, use one hand to pull my (extremely protective) clitoral hood out of the way and use the other to hold and adjust my wand – but, more often, I’ll lie on my side, legs sort of crossed over, and grind/writhe against the head of my wand, doing a weird pelvic-floor-squeezy thing that I first started doing when I was too young to understand why it felt so nice. On occasion, I’ll put a dildo in my vagina, to complement the pelvic floor squeezing.

It’s a fun way to get off, but the real reason I do it isn’t actually because it’s my favourite, or because I’m lazy (although, let’s be real, that is a major factor). The real reason is:

2. Fucking myself is always what triggers my fight-or-flight response.

Now that I’ve got the hang of actually staying inside my body when I’m wanking, I can ride a wand vibe ’til the proverbial cows come home. The thing that makes me panic and/or dissociate nowadays is the act of putting something inside my cunt and then fucking myself with it. That’s not a surprise, because that’s how I was masturbating when my trauma happened… but it’s very inconvenient, because I’m one of those rare people who has internal-stimulation-only orgasms, like, all the time. And I love them. I didn’t learn to have clitoral orgasms until I got hold of a wand vibrator, and I still can’t have clit-only orgasms with anything less powerful than a cheap handheld drill.

One entry in my Wank Journal describes a wank in which I stopped abruptly after my brain decided to insert thoughts about my abuser into my fantasies. It was a sober wank, and the intrusive thoughts occurred pretty much as soon as I started to fuck myself. I don’t regard that one as a “failed” wank, though – instead, I’m (trying to be) proud of myself for recognising that I needed to stop, avoiding anything that could reinforce the connection between masturbation and my trauma.

3. My fantasies are repetitive as hell.

This one isn’t about the mechanics of wanking. Keeping a Wank Journal lets me track the things that get me off the most, in the privacy of my own mind, and it has revealed that I have the same handful of fantasies over and over again. They usually involve me being irresistible (which sometimes leads to storylines in which I get overpowered), me making other people come (often with overtones of premature ejaculation, because fantasy-me is just that good) and me being stalked (which isn’t a surprise, but it comes up a lot). One particularly memorable and somewhat cringe-inducing quote I documented from a fantasy in which I was getting fucked in a nightclub toilet reads, “God, it’s so hard not to come. Fucking you is like getting milked.”

4. Holding a pen is hard when you’ve just had an orgasm (or three).

I’m 99% sure I have undiagnosed dyspraxia, and it affects my fine motor coordination something rotten. My handwriting is usually tiny, but reasonably neat and legible – except when I’ve just come so hard my feet are burning, and I’m trying to write about how it happened. I still like handwriting my Wank Journal entries, because the sensory aspect of writing with a pen is grounding for me, and my inability to backspace my gibberish makes for a more accurate reflection of my post-wank thoughts and feelings, but I might need to invest in a chunkier, more dyspraxia-friendly pen.


I’m really proud of myself for the progress I’ve made with masturbation. Do any of y’all keep a Wank Journal, or something similar? Do you find that it helps you to connect with your body more readily, or to identify patterns in your masturbation habits? Let me know!


Thank y’all so much for reading, and for your patience while I’m getting back into the groove of blogging. If you loved this post, please consider supporting me via Patreon or Ko-Fi – or, if you want to support something bigger than little ol’ me, consider donating to the CIC I’m part of

Smut Saturdays #16: Possession

Two trainers are placed on a rain-covered pavement, and appear to be empty, but the shadow that is cast by them appears to feature a whole human silhouette, standing in the trainers.

This piece of smut contains themes of possession and controlled by a supernatural entity. I know that can be a paranoia/psychosis trigger for some people, so I want to stress that this is purely fictional, but that you can definitely skip it if that’ll be hard for you to read.


Every fourth Saturday, I’ll be posting erotica I’ve written, based loosely on my own real life experiences or fantasies, for your wanking enjoyment. They’ll all be under the category ‘Smut Saturdays’ and if you’ve got any feedback or requests for smut scenarios, put ‘em in the comments or hit me up on Twitter @KinkyAutistic!


It slipped into me in the library.

Not some spooky library, nothing with books on the occult or anything thematically relevant. Just my university library, on the ground floor where the cafe is, whilst I was working on some coursework. I don’t know where It came from, but I felt a shift in my torso, and I heard Its voice:

“Jesus Christ, you live in this thing?”

At first I thought I had overheard a snippet of conversation, or maybe that I was hallucinating. (I sometimes do, after all, especially when I’ve had too much caffeine; I eyed the two empty Monster cans on the table with suspicion as It continued to talk.)

“Everything hurts! Like, everything! The hips, the knees, the knuckles, even one of your toes hurts!”

I was now leaning away from the possibility that it was a conversation on another table I was hearing. This left only the theory that I was hallucinating, so I ran through my mental checklist: I’d taken my anti-psychotics, I’d had a decent night’s sleep, I was only a little stressed and I hadn’t had any other sensory disturbances in the past few days.

Odd.

“You’re not hallucinating,” It insisted, Its voice as clear as if It were in the seat next to me. “I’m inside your body. I’m… I suppose you’d call me a demon. I’m a consciousness without a body, so I thought I’d try yours out. But I can’t believe how much your joints hurt! Are you seriously only 21?”

Cottoning on to the notion that this thing could hear my thoughts, I replied internally: Yep, I have a disorder. This is a pretty moderate pain day, too – it gets a lot worse. You might want to find another host.

Suffice to say, It did not do that.


It proved Its nature as a real thing, rather than a hallucination, as thoroughly as it could. It puppeteered my body, but I knew that could be a delusion. It had me stand in front of the mirror whilst It manifested as visibly as It could, a shimmering sort of stain in the air, but I knew that could be a hallucination too. That’s the problem with having occasional symptoms of psychosis: you can never really enjoy the truly weird things that life throws at you.

Still, It resided in my body for a few weeks, telling me in snippets about why It had wanted a physical form. It was, essentially, a manifestation of some kind of metaphysical force – chaos or something, as far as we could figure out. It didn’t really know, and I joked that I knew the feeling, being nonbinary and lacking the vocabulary for my experiences of gender. It responded, “I had noticed that. You have a lot of confusion in here.”

Since It shared my body, It also shared all my body’s sensations. I realised this when It said, firmly, mid-paragraph in the library, “We have to pee.”

It can wait, I thought, my fingers not faltering on the keyboard.

“It can, but it shouldn’t.” It froze my fingers, so they hovered, splayed, over the keys. “We’re going to the bathroom.”

I didn’t like the feeling of paralysis when It influenced my body’s movements, so I got to my feet of my own accord and, as petulantly as I could manage, made my way to the bathroom.


“We could get you out of me,” I suggested (out loud, because I was alone in my flat, and it made the conversation feel a little more real.) “Find you a new host whose body doesn’t suck, or else figure out somewhere to put you where you don’t have to possess people at all.”

“I don’t want that,” came Its deep, stubborn voice. “This body is fine.”

“You could do better than fine.” I tried to shut my thoughts up before It heard them: that I actually didn’t mind Its presence in me that much, that Its constant nagging to give in to every impulse I had was kind of funny and sometimes useful, that it was nice to only be alone when It rested. “You could possess some leader of something and actually cause chaos, rather than compelling me to rearrange those mugs with letters on them in Tesco’s to spell swearwords.”

It replied, “You wouldn’t like that. You’d feel guilty if anybody came to harm because I was breakdancing in Theresa May’s body.” What a fantastic mental image. “Besides, I don’t want to get out of you.”

“Why not?”

It made a sort of non-committal grumbling sound. “Not important.” I could sense that It wanted to change the subject, but I was intrigued now. “Morgan, shush. You should do some knitting.”

“I want to know why you don’t want to leave my body! It hurts all the time, you can’t override my dyspraxia and you have to sit through Linguistics lectures with me. What are you gaining here?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

I rolled my eyes at It. “You’ve been with me in the bathroom, while I’ve made the most dumb-ass Google searches and during one of my snotty, hysterical meltdowns. If I have to be embarrassed, so do you.”

It was thinking. “I don’t want to say it.”

I thought back to the only time It had locked me out of my body completely – during the aforementioned meltdown, when It realised that the only thing that could help was my meds, and It couldn’t convince me to take them. I had suddenly lost consciousness, falling into a black and marshmallowy abyss until It had pushed a sedative down my throat, at which point It gently brought me back and told me what It had done. (I probably should have been annoyed at It, but I was impressed, both by Its initiative and Its ability to lock me out.)

“You could shut me out of the body and write it down.”


When I came to, there was a note in my own handwriting on a page of my journal, which lay in front of me on my duvet.

Morgan,

This is hard for me to admit, but I’ve grown fond of you. Exceptionally fond. It’s lonely, being disembodied, and living alongside you is a blessing. I love hearing your thoughts, feeling all that empathy and compassion, being part of your life. It’s worth every moment of joint pain and every time you walk into the bed frame. And I like the feeling that I’m helping you by getting your meds into you, walking you to the bathroom, insisting that we eat. If I were to leave, I’d miss you terribly. And that wouldn’t be very chaotic of me. It would just be sad.

Oh.

I read it in silence, knowing that It could feel what I felt and hear what I thought.

What kind of fondness are we – I began, but It interrupted.

“When you’re asleep, sometimes I take over the body just to enjoy it. I like looking at it. I think it’s the kind of fondness you think it is.”

Okay, so the demon that lives inside my body now fancies me. That’s neat.

It responded, even though the thought wasn’t directed at It. “Yes, I fancy you, okay? Can we move on now?”

But It also heard my next thought, which was, Hey, I’d fuck a demon. Not sure how, but I would.

“I could…” Oh, now It was really embarrassed – I could feel it. “I could fuck you from in here. In your body. I could like, control your hands and stuff.”

I struggle with fucking myself. It knew this, of course, and had previously sympathised with me about it. The idea of allowing It to take the wheel, attuned to all my preferences and desires but separate enough from me to negate the feeling of weirdness I have whilst wanking was unbearably tempting. And, let’s be honest, who wouldn’t want a chaos demon whose whole raison d’être was encouraging people to succumb to base impulses to fuck them silly?

It was listening to my internal debate, and chimed in, “Plus, this could be a good exercise in overcoming that fear of yours. Like therapy.”

“Oh, yeah, we have to fuck for therapeutic reasons,” I responded, rolling my eyes at It.

It pulled me gently further upright, so I wasn’t slouching, and cast my eyes around the room. “You’ve got that mirror on the wardrobe,” It observed. “We could do it in front of there.”


I assembled a small nest of blankets, cushions and sex toys on the hard flooring in front of my wardrobe, anticipation building in my torso and in my cunt. I could feel Its nervous excitement too, although It kept pretty quiet as I dug the lube out of my bedside drawer and placed it alongside the two dildos I’d picked out, accompanied as always by my trusty Doxy wand. I had lost sight of quite how odd the whole procedure was, distracted by the unending feedback loop of Its desire and my own. Every time I noticed how excited It was, I felt a little more wanted, and a little more turned on, and every time It noticed my body getting more aroused, It flashed hot with want, stirring inside me.

I was barely even self-conscious as I stripped, clumsily but with haste, in front of the mirror. I was ready to sit down and get to work when It growled, “Wait.”

It wasn’t just a request – it came out like a command. I froze in place, naked and wide-eyed, as It took control of my left hand. Slowly, as though It wanted to give me a chance to take control back if I wanted to, It slid my left hand up my side, soliciting goosebumps, and then held my left boob gently, weighing it in my hand.

“So fucking soft…” It murmured to me, Its control creeping into my right hand as well.

I watched, transfixed, as It trailed my own fingernails along my abdomen, just shy of my mons pubis. It would know just as well as I did how wet I was getting, but It wasn’t half as shy as me. I could only stare, and let my cunt do its near-involuntary, desperate clenching, as It took Its sweet time caressing my sides, my tits and my stomach. In spite of the heat in my room making nudity a welcome change, I was all goosebumps, complemented by two erect nipples – nipples It was carefully avoiding, obviously teasing me for as long as It could.

“I know how badly you want it,” It said. “I can feel that ache in your cunt and the wetness between your thighs. I can feel your heartbeat changing. I can hear your innermost thoughts, and I know how badly you want me to play with you.”

I nodded (pointlessly – of course It knew), but I couldn’t resist a spot of cheek. “I can feel how badly you want it, too.”

It actually growled through my vocal chords, rather than inside my mind. “You have no idea how badly I want this,” It told me, Its voice back inside me again. “God, the amount of restraint it’s taken me not to just -”

But It stopped short, because it heard me thinking, Oh, so you can do restraint. Have I taught you that?

That’s the problem with being possessed by a very attentive demon – you can’t even be a sarcastic little prick in your own head.

I could feel It feeling around in my head, trying to get a read on something, and then, before I knew it, my own fingernails were being dragged across the skin just under my tits, hard enough to leave four long, parallel welts in the flesh.

Ah, of course – It was trying to determine whether I’d be okay with It using my hands to punish me for my cheek. And It knew I would be.

It also knew that this sudden burst of pain had made my clit tingle, and that if It wasn’t in charge of my hands, I’d probably already be starting to masturbate. But, since It was, I could only stand there, struggling not to pout, as It continued stroking up and down my stomach with my own fingertips.

I realised, with all the hazy slowness of someone who is about to slip into subspace, that I had full control of my legs. Maybe if I sat in my little blanket nest and spread my legs in front of the mirror, It wouldn’t be able to resist…

I landed heavily and awkwardly on my arse, knees akimbo, and directed my eyes towards my exposed cunt. A fine layer of fuzz was visible on my labia majora, but like a lot of people, my inner labia exceeded those, sticking out cheekily like a tongue in a bratty selfie. You could tell (or at least, I could) just by looking that I was aroused – everything was pinkened and puffy, and if you strained, you could probably see my clit poking out of its hood, hardened and eager to be touched.

“I know what you’re doing,” It told me firmly, but It still slid my hands further down my abdomen, closer to my mons pubis and my desperately wet cunt. “I’m in charge here.”

Oh. That particular facet of the situation hadn’t fully sunken in – that It was capable of manipulating any part of my body, and that I had no way of making It leave. That I was trapped, in my body, just watching it be touched.

“I meant that in a sexy way,” It added hastily upon sensing my thoughts. “Like that I’ll be the boss here. But I wouldn’t do anything you didn’t one hundred percent want, you know.” Oh, I wanted to trust It, but… “Besides, you’re much better company when you’re enjoying yourself, so I’d never do anything you disliked – it wouldn’t be half as fun.”

Ugh. It knew Its way around my brain too well. I couldn’t relax into this scene for my own sake, but of course I could relax for It.

So I did. I leaned back against my stack of cushions to give It a better view of my cunt in the mirror and watched my own left hand as it picked up a vibrator. Instinct tilted my pelvis upwards a little, giving It fuller access to my clit. My own thumb turned the vibe to its lowest setting, but I wasn’t going to get off that easily – It dragged the vibe across the fold between my thigh and my stomach, and then around every inch of my vulva other than my clit, with such deliberate slowness that I whined out loud at It: “Please just fuck me!”

It laughed at my desperation and let the very tip of the vibe skim over the very tip of my clit, not even lingering there before progressing to another thigh-fold. I made a far less coherent whining sound than my previous one had been, and my hips twitched without my say-so (a motion which would have betrayed me and my horniness if my current partner weren’t literally already inside my body and brain).

I could feel It running out of patience at a rate similar to my own, inching towards a loss of control that I had no objections to. I just didn’t expect It to suddenly, ferociously, press the vibe directly to my clit, using my own thumb to turn it up, up, up…

It only took about fifteen seconds after reaching the vibrator’s most powerful setting for my toes to curl and the burn of orgasm to spread through my cunt and thighs. It spurred me on with every filthy thing It knew I liked to hear: “Oh, that’s right, fucking come for me, you’re such an easy little bitch, come, I want you to come, I’ve wanted to watch you come since the moment I saw you…”

I wailed, It gently pulling my eyes open, as I came hard in front of the mirror, watching my own cunt spasm and twitch in time with the waves of pleasure. It all but purred with satisfaction.

“Oh, you’ve gone and fucking done it now,” It said, as I lay back in my nest and gazed at the ceiling. “Now I know how fucking delicious it feels to make you come, and how good you look, we’re going to do everything.”

My mind jumped from the largest dildo I owned to my array of butt plugs and all the things It could use to cause me pain. The shiver those thoughts sent through me re-hardened my softening nipples, which I noticed mostly because It picked my hands up – gently, allowing me joint control – and started to pinch at them.

“Yes,” It said, pulling so hard on the left one that I whimpered, “everything.”

Smut Saturdays #4: The Orgasm That Made Me Cry

Every fourth Saturday, I’ll be posting erotica I’ve written, based loosely on my own real life experiences or fantasies, for your wanking enjoyment. If you’ve got any feedback or requests, put ’em in the comments or hit me up on Twitter @KinkyAutistic!


It was meant to be a quick one. It was a reward for dragging my greasy, depressed self into the shower – my Doxy wand pressed against my clit, wiggling against it until I came once, or maybe twice. I had asked for a bribe when my Daddy had ordered me to shower, and he had (naturally) suggested an inexpensive, easily-obtained orgasm.

It all started simply enough. I lay on my side with the head of my wand wedged between my legs, my hair still damp and my skin smelling of citrusy shower gel. My Daddy acted as my big spoon, alternating between fiddling with my nipples and changing my wand’s intensity whilst murmuring filth into my ear. I humped my wand lazily, wandering towards orgasm, and asked permission in a whisper, in my ‘little’ voice.

“Daddy, can I – can I –?”

The word ‘cum’ wouldn’t leave my lips. I couldn’t pinpoint why, but it was no problem – my Daddy growled into my ear, “Let it happen, baby. Go on, cum for Daddy.”

My toes curled as all the tension in my lower abdomen was eked out of me by the spasming in my cunt. I shook a little, and whimpered, and curled in on myself. It was good.

My Daddy pointedly refrained from pulling the wand away from my clit, and I didn’t have my wits about me nearly enough to move it on my own. I whined, writhing, and tried to form the words, “It’s too intense,” but my brain was soup. My words weren’t coming.

Until I blurted out, “I’m too small.”

It came out a little pathetic, somewhat pleading, but it wasn’t a safeword or anything resembling one so my Daddy didn’t move the vibe. “You’re teeny,” he whispered. “You’re safe. Daddy’s here.”

I felt safe. I knew logically I was safe. But I also felt psychologically tiny, and somewhat worried that the intensity of the sensation in my clit would rip my body in two. It almost burned. I squirmed, and pushed at the handle of my wand, and managed to roll onto my back.

“Too small,” I said again, in my soft, high-pitched little voice. “Daddy…”

He pulled the wand away from my bits but didn’t turn it off. I heard, more than felt, him kissing my damp hair, and he reached down the side of the bed.

“Would you like your metal toy?” he asked, one of his seemingly huge hands finding the box.

I sort of shrugged. I didn’t want to concede that I knew what he meant. I didn’t want to be someone ‘big’ enough, wise enough, worldly enough to know what a dildo was, let alone want one (and especially let alone spend my own money on one, or several…). My Daddy, knowing the look in my eye and the spread of my legs well enough to judge my receptiveness, opened the box up and held the curved rod of metal out towards me.

I held it close to my chest and examined its shininess as he found my silicone lube and slathered his right hand with it. I pretended not to understand what the lube meant, too. I was deeply in little space – my elaborate performance of vulnerability was turning into real vulnerability. I was unphased by my own nudity and all the things I usually disliked about my body. I lay on the bed with my boobs squished under my arms, still studying the toy I’d been given, warming its steel surface with my hands.

Daddy had shifted so that he was sitting next to my legs, one arm hooked over my thigh, lubed-up hand hovering near my clit. He glanced at me again to check I was still onboard (I was) and then his fingertips made contact with my clit.

For someone who regularly beats me up, chokes me and makes me bleed, my Daddy is capable of being otherworldly gentle when he wants to be. He stroked gently up and down the full length of my vulva, starting at my clitoral hood and sliding his wet fingers all the way down to just above my anus. I twitched every time he made contact with the head of my clit itself, still able to feel my heartbeat in it after that first orgasm. When he was satisfied that I was relaxed enough, or that his fingers were soaked enough, or maybe just that I was sufficiently desperate, he sunk one thick finger into my cunt.

I sighed, my eyes flicking between his adoring expression and his disappearing finger. Still feeling infinitesimally small, I frowned at his hand between my legs. “Where’s it going?” I asked, as though I didn’t know full well. “What’s inside there?”

My metal dildo still rested in my hands, on my chest.

“It’s just you,” Daddy said simply, starting to fuck me a little more firmly with his finger. “It’s just… your parts. Is it nice?”

“Mhmm,” I managed, trying to suppress the ache for more.

He must have known somehow, because he pushed a second finger into me. “Is this still nice?”

“It hurts a little,” I gasped, which was not untrue. I have some connective tissue problems which make tearing a regular concern, for one, and my cunt was still swollen and incredibly sensitive from cumming just minutes ago. “But it’s good.” That wasn’t untrue either. His fingers were stroking my G spot, which he knew full well, and bringing me near to wanting to cum again, which I’m sure he knew too.

He slid his fingers out after some slow but deliberate fingerfucking, and, ignoring how soaked his hand was with lube and my wetness, held out his hand for my metal toy. “Give that to Daddy,” he instructed, and I did.

He took the time to line it up perfectly with my hole, so it just sank in effortlessly. I couldn’t keep a low moan from slipping out. He held it still for a moment, and it took me a moment to realise why – with his other hand, he was finding my Doxy. When had he turned it off? Where had he left it? I stopped thinking about the logistics as soon as he pressed its head, buzzing again, against my clit.

I took it from him and shifted it so that it was making contact more with my clitoral hood than my clit itself, otherwise I might have screamed. This way, the vibrations were pleasantly diffused, and I could focus on my Daddy starting to rock the toy in my cunt back and forth, back and forth. He’d found my A spot with more ease than I could have done myself, and he was massaging it like it was a knot in my back.

Naturally, it felt so much better than a knot in my back.

“I can’t –” I babbled between moans, “make the noises – ah! – stop – I keep just – oh, Daddy, I –”

“It’s okay, little one, the noises are natural.”

His tone, and his face, and his mastery of my body made me feel so small and so safe. My orgasm was inevitable – like he was drawing it directly out of my cunt. I was powerless. I just watched, and felt, and shook, until it started.

“I’m –” I began, but I never finished. He looked me in the eyes and ordered me to cum, so I did. Hard. For long, long seconds that felt like minutes. It ripped through me, irresistible, enormous, uncontrollable. I just shook and whispered as my Daddy slowed his movements, knowing I was nearing an end.

He smiled at me. Not a condescendingly domly smile (though I love those too), but a heartfelt, gleeful one that lit his eyes up. “That was a big orgasm,” he told me softly, as though I might not have noticed.

“I feel like I’m gonna cry,” and as I said it, tears did start to sting the corners of my eyes, “and I’m not even sure why.”

“It’s okay! Orgasms are big, and intense, and you can cry if you need to.”

It was all the permission I needed. Sobs shook my chest, and tears dripped down my cheeks, and my Daddy eased the dildo out of me and then held me until the crying subsided.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, which nearly started me off again. “You did so well.”

I think maybe part of the reason I started crying was because, after reaching that hugely vulnerable part of my psyche and enjoying it, I was proud of me too.