Back in April this year, I had an operation to attempt to help alleviate the symptoms of Endometriosis. It’s a crippling, chronic disease which robs you of so much, but up until April, I still had the raw power of my sexuality and desires, a vast, decadent playground to which I could escape.

After the op, I was given a drug, again, supposedly designed to help, yet all it did was take my whole self away, and replace it with a body and mind I no longer knew.
Immediate, overnight menopause, desires cut away until only a shadow remained.

I was angry and resentful, still am to a degree. I was hurt and confused, and I grieved for the self I had lost.

My one glimmer to which I clung was that it was
At some point in the future, I would
maybe, hopefully
get myself back.

But in the context of then, nothing felt the same.
My body had been remapped without my permission, and I stumbled through desolation as, blindfolded, I tried to find my way.

I was scared, actually terrified, of what all of that meant to us, to Sir and I.
I’d never,
before Sir,
had the opportunity to be so open and candid about my desires, to be able to explore them in a safe environment, and not be ashamed, or be made to feel ashamed, of them.
The prospect of losing that was devastating.

I needed Him to hurt me, needed to feel something visceral at a time when my body had been forced to give up.
I needed to know that pain could still be a haven and to my masochism I could cling whilst I fought my internal battle to find myself again.

And He did.
He hurt me.
And I cried.
I cried for myself, in grief,
I cried for us, first in fear of loss, then in joy at discovering that we hadn’t disappeared.
I cried because it hurt, too much, not enough.
I cried because I wanted to wear His marks, to be His canvas, to have to re-frame the questions I had in my mind, to have something else to focus on than just me, me, me.

My body became His art, my flesh a canvas of stripes and welts.

Red to match my anger, at circumstance,
and lust and passion for Him.


Black and white to reflect the uncompromising brutality of my need.




Sinful Sunday

The Menopause Diaries