#mental-kinks

Today I crave being a toy. Not a person, not a partner—just something useful.

I want to be positioned, used, put down, picked up again. No questions. No choices. Just a role. A purpose. Just function.

Because today, my mind won’t stop spinning. And the only thing that sounds like relief is obedience. Not connection. Not softness. Just the quiet of being controlled.

I don’t want to be cared for—I want to be used. I want to be helpful in the most primal way. I want my worth to be the way I serve. The way I’m used. Just for today, I want that to be enough. I want that to be my worth.

Sometimes praise feels more dangerous than pain.

Not because I don’t want it—because I do. But because I never really learned how to receive it without waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It’s easier to be used. Easier to be hurt. At least that makes sense in my nervous system. At least I know what to expect. But when someone calls me good, or sweet, or tells me I’m doing well, part of me shuts down. Like I can’t trust it. Like maybe it’s a setup. Or maybe they’re just saying it to get something. Or maybe they’ll take it back once they really see me.

Praise hits something soft in me that doesn’t know how to come to the surface without shame. There’s a part of me that wants to melt into those words, to really let them land—but instead I flinch. I deflect. I rush to prove I deserve it, or I push it away before it can be taken from me.

Sometimes I crave the kind of praise that feels earned through obedience or pain, because that at least feels legible. I can tell myself they meant it because I bled for it. But what I’m still learning is how to hold praise that isn’t tied to performance.

The kind that says, you’re good—not because I served perfectly or suffered beautifully, but because I exist, and I let someone see me.

I think I got cursed with the gene for monogamy. Not the sweet kind. Not the healthy, well-adjusted kind with matching coffee mugs and mutual hobbies. No—I mean the kind that turns obsession into worship. The kind that rewires your nervous system to believe you are safe only when you’re someone’s one and only. The kind that makes “casual” feel like a threat instead of a choice.

It’s frustrating, because I understand polyamory. I support it. I’ve seen it done beautifully. But my body doesn’t seem to care about theory. It wants to be claimed. Fully. It wants to be someone’s favorite, someone’s constant, someone’s kept. Even in kink, even in scenes that are supposedly temporary, my brain is scanning for signs of permanence. Did they mean it? Did they feel something real? Could they want me beyond this?

It’s embarrassing sometimes. I try to play it cool. I say I’m fine with fun, with fluid dynamics, with undefined connections. But underneath it, I’m craving obsession. Devotion. I want to be chosen with urgency and held like property. I want to be the only one they see when they close their eyes. The one they ruin things for. The one they come back to when everything else feels flat.

There’s a part of me that gets off on being hated—not in a bratty way, but in the kind of way where someone looks at me like I’m disgusting and still uses me anyway. Where they say the thing I’m already scared they secretly think. And sometimes I wonder if that’s about the kink, or if it’s just about me.

Because when I really sit with it, I don’t think it’s just a game. I think it’s a way to make the shame feel controlled. If I choose it, maybe it can’t hurt me. If I eroticize the hate, maybe I don’t have to deal with the parts of me that already believe I deserve it.

It’s not always like that. But sometimes, when the scene ends, I’m left asking myself whether I wanted to be hated or if I just needed to feel seen—even in the worst possible way. And that’s where it gets blurry. Because when someone calls me names I’ve already used on myself, it doesn’t feel like play. It feels like truth I’m not supposed to admit out loud.

Today I crave being held. Not physically—emotionally.

I want to be steadied, not solved. I want someone to see the mess, the spiraling, the crash in progress—and stay. Not run. Not fix. Not flinch.

I want someone to say, “You don’t have to hold it all together.” Someone who means it. Someone who can take the weight, even for a minute.

I don’t need a hug. I need a container. I need to know there’s a person in the room bigger than my chaos, and they’re not afraid of me.