The Best Days of Our Lives

Sometimes, when I’m quite tipsy and out on the town, I’m struck by the sense that my friends and I rule the world. The city is lit up and glittering just for us. We are fearless and stupid and hilarious and we love each other. I feel the swells of hope and bravery reach high tide in my chest.

The problem is, though, that emotional abuse conditions you a certain way. Whenever I start to feel brave, or hopeful, or – God forbid – happy, I also start to feel a cold dread leak into my bones. If you’ve lived through emotional abuse, you’ll know that abusers never let their victims’ happiness go unpunished. You’re used to knowing, consciously or not, that whatever positive emotion you’re experiencing is part of the cycle of abuse – you’re in the honeymoon phase now, but you know that soon, the sky will fall in. Every time you feel like you’re getting less small, someone cuts you back down to size. Eventually, you might stop hoping or laughing or feeling brave altogether.

So when I feel like I’m on top of the world with people I love, my brain tries to slam on the brakes. It isn’t my brain’s fault – it has been taught that the more elevated I feel, the worse the inevitable fall will injure me. My brain tells me, “You’ll grow out of this. Sooner or later, you’ll stop having nights out, stop drinking, stop dancing, stop loving these friends – sooner or later, you’ll lose this feeling forever.” 

The thought is like a bucket of cold water in that it startles me, makes my chest muscles tighten, makes me feel like shit. I know I won’t be a dumbass student full of Jagerbombs forever – my brain is right about that. What if it’s also right about never feeling like this again?


Play parties – especially the chill, lowkey rope jams I often attend – aren’t much like nights out. The music is quiet. The lights are dim. I’m stone-cold sober. 

I’m on a mat, lying on my back with one leg suspended above the rest of me. My Daddy is tightening ropes around my shin just to make me writhe and squeak. It fucking hurts. He closes his fist and starts punching the rope that will later bruise my skin. Harder and harder, up and down my entire lower leg. He squeezes my calf and I almost scream.

From my position on the floor, I make accidental eye contact with somebody else on the floor – another bottom, also being tormented, also writhing and squeaking. I’ve never spoken to them before, but they take one look at my agony-filled face and smile at me. I smile right back, knowing that they feel how I feel, knowing that we’ll both glow with pride and endorphins when we’re done.

When the ropes come off and I’m scooped into a hug, I feel so warm and in love with the world. My legs shake in time to the music. The other bottom, the one who smiled at me, is receiving aftercare, too.


I have nagged and nagged at my Daddy to go and play with someone he likes. I’m in lingerie and full makeup, but there’s an empty bathtub in the venue (for some reason) and I’ve found that it gives me exceptionally good autism to sit inside. I watch, fascinated, as other people play. I recognise one of the songs on the playlist and smile to myself. 

Sooner or later, someone I know reasonably well comes and joins me in the bathtub. We sit side-by-side in our sexiest underwear and talk for at least an hour. I make her giggle a lot. We point things out to each other – interesting scenes that are unfolding and other people’s cute outfits, mostly. Another person comes and joins the conversation, kneeling in front of the bathtub. I let sentences about sex and kink and queerness fall straight out of my mouth, completely unfiltered. 

Every now and then, I remember that one of the loves of my life is in the other room, having pulled with my help. I remember the fizz of affection I felt when I caught the eye of another bottom earlier. I remember that these are conversations I would never have anywhere else.

I might grow out of drinking and roaming the town, but the number of older kinksters surrounding me suggests quite firmly that I won’t grow out of this. Which is good, because right now, I feel like my friends and I rule the world. The dungeon is dimly lit and decorated just for us.

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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Self-Harm and Bodily Autonomy

Stock photo of a brown teddy bear with a bandage around its head and another on its leg, and two band-aids crossed over one another on its chest. I mostly chose this image because I didn't want any graphic self-harm pictures and because it is adorable, like me.

Note: This post is, naturally, going to talk about acts of self-harm in detail, and also refers briefly to suicidal ideation and surviving abuse. You can feel free to give this one a miss, and at the weekend I’ll be posting something sexier and less commonly triggering, so watch this space!


The first time I can remember hurting myself on purpose, I was five years old.

I didn’t jump straight to sharp objects. There was a misunderstanding, and I was upset, and whilst I was alone in my room I bit into my own wrist with such sustained ferocity that I left two perfect little crescents, indents of my baby teeth in my flesh. Of course, my mum noticed and was horrified, and I learned quickly that people did not like it when I hurt myself.

This did not stop me.

I have a collection of fuzzy memories from that age onward of hurting myself in various creative ways. I would give myself friction burns by running a belt back and forth over the back of my neck, where my long hair would cover the raw, reddened skin. I would scratch and scratch and scratch the same spot on my arm until it was too sore to even touch. I would pick at everything – spots, scabs, dry skin – and sometimes, when I was really upset, I would still bite myself until my jaw hurt.

When I was thirteen, I progressed to a pair of sewing scissors. These hurt instantly, drew blood instantly and had me breathing a sigh of relief instantly, but they also robbed me of plausible deniability. The wounds couldn’t have been anything other than self-harm. It was only a matter of time until somebody found out.

And they did, of course, and it was a whole Thing that I won’t go into here, and I started having counselling and also having sharp objects confiscated and hidden from me. Counselling was hard for me to engage with in a lot of ways (at 13, I knew they could break confidentiality if they were worried for my safety, so I had to self-censor a lot, and I didn’t hugely trust adults in any setting), but I hit a major roadblock that I still haven’t quite overcome: I couldn’t see why I needed to stop self-harming.

I was a smart kid whose mum had thoroughly instilled in them a sense of autonomy. I knew all the risks of cutting myself: I could misjudge it and catch a vein; the wounds could become infected; I would have scars forever. But, even at 13, I weighed it up and felt very strongly that cutting myself was safer than not doing so. I know that the first time I recorded a suicidal thought, I was 10, but it’s very probable I felt that way a lot earlier and just didn’t write it down in my Groovy Chick diary. At 13, self-harm was a pressure release valve that kept me alive from day to day.

As I’ve grown up, I’ve only become more perplexed about why, exactly, I shouldn’t harm myself. I’ve come to understand that it isn’t a constructive coping mechanism and doesn’t address the problems at hand, but most of the problems at hand have been so vast and complicated that I simply couldn’t address them. Being told to treat the root cause of my distress was not helpful when I was a teenage victim of domestic abuse, and it continues to be unhelpful now that I’m a traumatised adult with super fucky brain chemistry. And I was watching other people, in media and in real life, engage in equally non-constructive coping behaviours like drinking, self-isolation or bullying the autistic kid in their class for not knowing what a Pandora bracelet was (ahem. Not that I was the autistic kid in this example, or anything). And nowadays, I’m doing therapy, I’m practising self-care, but that doesn’t negate the need for self-harm all of the time.

I want to be very clear here: I am not advocating for anybody to take up self-harm, nor to continue doing it when they very much want to stop. Lots of people hate the fact that they self-harm, and I fully support any choices they make to quit and find alternative coping strategies. (I will lowkey judge people who recommend the rubber band method, though – the one where you wear a rubber band on your wrist and snap it against your skin whenever you have the urge to self-harm. You’re still reinforcing the connection between emotional distress and physical pain, you’re not addressing the root problems, and it’s not even a terribly effective method of harm reduction because most self-harmers find it so lacking that they end up relapsing anyway.) However, few people understand my frustration about the ways self-harm is addressed, so I want to articulate it. And I want other people in similar positions to feel less alone and weird.

The thing about self-harm is that it’s kind of… viscerally upsetting to other people. Like I mentioned in my post about blood and kink, we’re instinctively shocked by wounds and bleeding, and I think people are even more perturbed when you’ve caused those things on purpose. It also externalises your emotional pain, so your wounds are confronting the people who care about you with the reality that you’re suffering, and that’s hard for people. My mum sometimes tells me, “I’m not upset that you’ve self-harmed, but I’m upset that you were that distressed.” My mum is better at separating these two factors than most other people on the planet.

Joining the BDSM community only added to my confusion. People were supported in doing all sorts of viscerally upsetting things, like needle play and being beaten, as long as they were making informed, risk-aware decisions. I felt even more indignant about the way people responded to self-harm – I was making informed, risk-aware decisions! About my body, which everybody told me was mine to control!

I have no idea what makes BDSM “okay” and self-harm “not okay”. Maybe it’s the lack of another party’s involvement. Maybe it’s that one is motivated by pleasure and another is motivated by emotional pain (although, if I’m being real, people do use BDSM to address emotional pain, and I, for one, derive some degree of pleasure from self-harm). Maybe it’s just that we talk so much about autonomy and consent when it comes to sex and kink, but relatively little about those things in other contexts. Whatever it is, it still escapes me.

I self-harm a lot less than I did as a teen. (I used to bring my trusty sewing scissors to school every day. This was very reckless of me, since I did not also bring disinfectant. Also, I would not recommend pulling your tights back up as soon as you’re done mopping blood off your thighs – they stick.) That’s not because I’ve come to see that self-harm is Bad and other coping mechanisms are Good; it’s simply because I’m not quite as acutely distressed quite as often as I was then, thanks to being in a much safer environment and getting medicated. Sometimes I do try to use lower-risk coping strategies before I self-harm, like distraction or crying or going for a walk, but that’s not because I’ve learned that self-harm is, for some reason, bad – frankly, it’s largely because it’s inconvenient. I have bondage to do and I don’t want to bleed on nice, expensive rope.

Telling people that they shouldn’t self-harm is undermining their bodily autonomy. It’s obviously always important to respect someone’s autonomy, but when they’re self-harming because they’re dealing with or recovering from abuse, or anything else that makes their life feel outside of their control, it’s especially crucial that you don’t urge them to refrain or “quit”. You can remind them of the risks if that’s appropriate (like if you’re a medical professional, or their mum) and you can ask if there’s any other coping strategies they’d like to try first, but ultimately, every person has autonomy even when they’re using it in ways that others disapprove of. If you’re someone who self-harms and you’ve felt alone in the fact that you don’t see why you should stop: I see you. Know the risks, be as safe as you can, but know that I am not judging you. I’m as confused as you are. We’re going to be alright.


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