I have said that in the fall of 2003 up until the fall of 2004 I was pretty well fucked in the head. I am not saying that now I am not, at least a little, but I think I have gotten through the rough patch.
I was actually pretty fucked in the head from about the end of 2002 until the fall of 2003, also. I just didn’t write about it, for one thing, and for another, my insanity was pretty restricted to a military base.
After they retired me, though, there was really nothing to stop me from sliding off the deep end. I was a hermit, I was married to an enabling and manipulative woman who thought the solution to all of life’s problems involved a good spanking and rough sex. While I did initially merely want to please her, I have to admit there was (and likely is) a part of me that reacted positively with BDSM.
I knew it was a game. It never migrated out of the bedroom; it wasn’t a lifestyle. I also knew that the reason she liked to be submissive in bed was because she was so aggressive, stubborn, and bitchy in real life. And I have to admit that throw down rough and tumble pull your hair and spank your ass monkey sex was an enjoyable way to relieve the frustrations that would build up in our relationship. There were a lot of them.
Part of me always felt it was a bit deviant, and part of the attraction likely came from that. I had always been pretty vanilla. Sort of a boy scout. I am a bit of a feminist when it comes right down to it. But I am lustful. And I think it might be true that men want a lady in the street but a freak in the bed. So, since I looked at women as goddesses on one side of my brain, her wanting me to treat her like a whore found some fertile ground in my imagination.
A large part of me is shamed by this, and I know that using rough sex to mask problems in a relationship is not really a good long term solution. But it seemed the only viable option at th time and, like I said, I was not completely turned off by being the Top.
My life fell apart completely starting in the Summer of 2003. I probably deserved most of it. Not all of it, but I was so devastated by everything else that I couldn’t raise any indignation. I tried desperately to withdraw my forces and defend what I could, but it was no use. I lost everything. My job, my house, my car, my family. I was a broken man. So broken that I had no choice but to go home, in the summer of 2004, to my Father’s house and ask for help. It was grudgingly given, for about a month, in return for chores and ridicule. After the month I was asked to leave because my dad wasn’t getting any from his girlfriend while I was in the house. I had nothing but a crappy little car I had just spent my last dollar on and the money my dad loaned me for a security deposit to a fleabag apartment.
That was the worst time in my life.
I had quit drinking in the fall of 2002. Ironically, that act was a catalyst for much of the rest, but only because I had been self medicating for so long and when (finally admitted how bad it had gotten and) I took the medicine away I got worse. I think my only other option would have been to slowly drink myself to death. I couldn’t deal with the flood of emotions that surfaced when I took away the preferred method of dealing with emotions in my family when I was growing up. I had never learned how to deal with my feelings. I started drinking again in the summer of 2004, because I just didn’t care any more, since I had nothing left to lose, and I didn’t want to feel what I was feeling.
I had started writing to try and sort out my emotions in 2003, after I got retired. I still think that writing might have saved me, because even though it was too late to save that part of my life, it gave me perhaps a firmer foundation on which to rebuild. I probably should have stopped writing when I started drinking, but it was part of my sickness. I was desperate for any living creature to find me worthy, since it was the furthest thought from my mind.