#still-learning

Content Note: This piece explores themes of degradation kink, erotic shame, trauma recovery, and emotional complexity in submission. Mentions of objectification, self-abandonment, and survivor patterns. Please read with care.

There are cravings I still hesitate to name. Not the sweet ones. Not the ones about surrender or touch or even pain. I mean the ones that live deeper—coiled tight with shame. The ones that whisper, I want you to hate me. I want you to ruin me. I want you to spit in my mouth and call me a thing, not a person. And I want to come undone from it.

Sometimes I want to be stripped of power, pressed into silence, and treated like a toy. Not just used—but discarded. It turns me on in a way I don’t entirely understand. And sometimes it terrifies me.

In recovery, I’ve been taught to listen to the signal behind the craving. To slow down and ask: Is this coming from a place of need—or from a place of pain? And the truth is, sometimes I’m not sure. Sometimes it feels like both.

For context: What I’m describing is often called a degradation kink—a form of consensual play where being insulted, humiliated, or stripped of dignity becomes part of the turn-on. It can look like name-calling, being objectified, spit on, ignored, mocked, broken down emotionally or physically. It’s intense. It’s taboo. And it’s far more common than most people admit. Psychologist and kink researcher Dr. Brad Sagarin notes that “degradation and humiliation kinks often allow individuals to explore deep emotional vulnerabilities in a structured, consensual context.”

But what if that vulnerability isn't just roleplay? What if part of me believes I deserve to be hated? That’s where the shame creeps in. And it’s where I start to question: is this just a new language for an old wound?

Before I ever called myself submissive, I was already performing for men. I let them treat me however they wanted, because I thought love looked like endurance. I thought being wanted meant being small. Being silent. Being good.

Now, I give permission. Now, I ask for things. I tell men I want to be degraded, made powerless, called a slut or a thing. Sometimes I even mean it literally: “Use me like a toy. I want to be nothing but function.” And I do feel powerful, in a twisted way, when I orchestrate that. When I control my own objectification. When I say, “Ruin me,” and I don’t flinch.

But I still wonder: am I healing—or am I reenacting the same self-hatred, just with better lighting?

Author and trauma educator Melissa Febos writes in Girlhood that “erotic desire is shaped by shame as much as it is by pleasure—and often, the two become indistinguishable.” That line haunts me. Because it makes sense. The same part of me that learned to be desirable through self-abandonment is now scripting scenes where that abandonment becomes sexy. Empowering, even. But does that mean it’s safe?

When I hand someone the script—Call me a whore. Spit on me. Don’t ask me if I’m okay until it’s over—that feels like agency. That feels like I’m in control of the degradation. I choose it. I orchestrate it. But not always. Sometimes I get off because I don’t have to make a decision. Because being hated is easier than being loved. Because it quiets the part of me that’s always trying to be good. And that’s when I start to feel scared. Because the part of me that gets off on being hated doesn’t always care if I feel okay afterward.

As trauma therapist Dr. Jamie Marich puts it, “Survivors often return to what is familiar. Sometimes, that includes being treated in ways that replicate harm—not because they like it, but because the nervous system confuses it with home.”

So I check in with myself: Am I choosing this now, or am I being pulled into a pattern I haven’t healed yet? Do I feel seen afterward—or just used? Can I talk about the scene with my partner—or do I feel embarrassed, ashamed, afraid it’ll make them stop wanting me?

The truth is, there’s no clear answer. Sometimes I crave degradation because it brings me into my body. Sometimes it helps me rewrite old scripts. And sometimes I just like it—and that’s okay too. But I keep asking the questions. I keep grounding myself in partners who can handle the weight of what I’m asking for. I talk. I write. I don’t just chase the craving—I try to listen to it.

And maybe that’s the most honest thing I can do.

There are days I crave being hurt so badly it scares me. In recovery, we’re taught to question the things we crave most. We learn that some hungers are smoke signals for destruction. But what if the thing I crave isn’t a substance, but surrender, and the punishment I want isn’t about shame—but healing?

There’s something unnerving about desire in recovery. You’re trained to hold your cravings up to the light: What’s underneath this? What’s it trying to soothe? And for a long time, I thought if I craved something, it must be a red flag. That wanting was dangerous. That to be safe meant to be still.

But submission doesn’t feel still.

Sometimes it feels like fire licking the inside of my ribs. Sometimes it feels like sobbing with my face pressed to the floor, heart cracked open, begging to be seen—even in the parts I’ve always tried to hide.

And sometimes it feels like compulsion. Like I’m reenacting something I promised I’d never do again.

Before I got sober, I used to let men use me because I thought that’s all I was good for. I didn’t negotiate. I didn’t speak up. I thought “please” was too much and “no” would make them leave. And honestly? I didn’t care if they left. I just didn’t want to be alone with myself.

Now, I ask to be used. I choose to give myself. And that choice feels like agency. It feels like power.

But I still wonder: Is this healthy?

Some clinicians argue that kink—especially consensual BDSM—can be healing for survivors. A 2020 article in Psychology Today highlights how “consensual submission may allow trauma survivors to reclaim control over past experiences by recontextualizing pain and surrender in a safe, structured environment.”

For many people, submission becomes a space to rewrite the narrative: I’m not helpless. I’m not broken. I’m choosing this. But the line between healing and reenactment is thin, and sometimes invisible.

Trauma therapist and educator Dr. Jamie Marich writes:

“Trauma lives in the body… and the body often returns to what it knows, even when what it knows is harm. It’s not just about what you do—it’s about whether your nervous system feels safe doing it.”

That’s the part I’m still learning. Not just to say I’m choosing it—but to feel that I am.

Because there are nights when I want to be choked, slapped, told I’m nothing. Not because it turns me on—but because it quiets everything else. Because the pain gives me focus. Because when someone is hurting me, I don’t have to do anything except endure. That’s not submission. That’s surrendering to silence.

So I check myself:

Am I playing out old patterns, or consciously engaging in new ones?

Is this desire born from wholeness—or from the part of me that still believes I’m easiest to love when I’m hurting?

Does the scene make me feel more me, or less?

And the hardest part is, the answer shifts. Sometimes I really am seeking connection, power, transformation. Sometimes, I just want to disappear in a prettier way than I used to.

Sometimes I wonder if posting—anywhere, about anything personal—is just emotional exhibitionism. Like maybe I’m not writing to heal, or reflect, or connect. Maybe I just want to be watched. Maybe every quiet caption or long-form essay is just another way of saying, “Look at me. Please.”

Because it does feel like that sometimes. Especially when I check for notes after I hit post. Or when I share something raw and then sit in the anxiety of whether I’ve said too much—but still kind of hope it resonates with someone. Hope it lands.

There’s this unspoken pressure, especially online, to make our mess presentable. Like if I make it beautiful or smart or self-aware enough, then it’s allowed to exist. Then it’s not just vulnerability—it’s performance packaged as content. And I hate that word, but sometimes that’s what it feels like. Like I’m spotlighting my inner life just enough to ask: is this relatable enough to reblog?

But here’s what I keep coming back to: there’s a difference between performance and presence. Performance wants applause. Presence wants to be met. Exhibitionism wants attention. Expression wants connection. Reflection wants clarity.

And honestly? Sometimes I want all three. Sometimes I want to be understood. Sometimes I want to be wanted. Sometimes I just want the thoughts out of my head and into the world where they can breathe. I don’t think that makes it fake. I think it makes it human.

Not everything I post is some grand act of healing. Some of it’s just noticing. Some of it’s need. Some of it’s me trying to hold onto softness in a world that keeps asking me to be harder. And some of it is just about being seen in the parts I used to hide.