Trigger warning: This post discusses childhood sexual abuse, trauma and suicidal thoughts. Please do not read if this might be a trigger for you.
In the middle of May, I had a brief conversation with two people about my hard limit on vaginal insertion. While I might choose to engage in it with someone I’ve developed a strong connection with, it often takes time. I explained to them that I have vaginismus, but the way one of them paused and looked at me made me think: She believes there’s more to the story as if having vaginismus alone couldn’t fully explain it.
Little did I know, that moment was quite the foreshadowing.
After landing back in reality post the Femdom Summit, I lost my best friend of nine years because his girlfriend was jealous (hello, I’m gay!) and was suddenly ghosted by a newer connection who I had started to see like family.
I return to my full-time vanilla job and have my first solo filming day scheduled since continuing my clip store without my ex-Mistress. Football pre-season kicks off, and despite the heartache from losing my friends, I tell myself I’ll be able to manage.
I’m driving home at night at the end of May and my sister calls me. “Are you sure this is a good time?” She only ever calls me if she needs my help, but never asked that question before. I ask if someone died because if that is the case, I’d prefer to pull over. “No,” she continues. “I just remembered some things from our childhood. Are you sure you want to keep driving?” I can’t help but wonder in what other ways I may have fallen short as a sister, so I tell her to just go ahead and say it. I knew I wouldn’t have another free moment for the next week and a half anyway.
She starts talking, then immediately pauses. What she shared next is etched in my memory as a wave of crackling sound.
“Well, that would explain a lot,” is all I manage to say when she finishes.
“Do you remember anything?” she asks.
I did not remember anything. After all these years, I never thought this would be the truth to surface. Over time, I’ve often told my friends: I don’t get why I’m struggling and feeling so detached when nothing truly terrible has ever happened to me. It just doesn’t make sense.
But now suddenly it did make sense. Opa Hans, my grandfather, sexually abused me for four years until he died when I was nine. When I asked my sister how she was sure it happened to me she said she’d walked in on us as he leaned over me naked in the bed.
Ironically, for my bachelor, I researched childhood sexual abuse by family members and the effects of resulting PTSD on the body and mind, specifically when trauma is forgotten due to dissociation. I chose this topic out of interest, never thinking it had anything to do with me.
My sister asked if I was okay, and I assured her that I had read a lot about this. This revelation made perfect sense; no wonder I had always struggled with penetration despite there being nothing medically wrong.
After I hung up the phone, I couldn’t have anticipated the wave of emotions that would hit me about two weeks later. I’m not sure if they were delayed because I hadn’t had a moment to myself or if it just took that long for me to actually feel something. But when those feelings surfaced I crashed hard.
My GP advised me to take sick leave and my therapist suggested I focus only on activities that bring me joy to help me return to a more balanced state.
I strongly started feeling like life was not worth living.
All these years I felt like I lived a life in which I was rarely present, while simultaneously being plagued by chronic pain, nightmares and the unwavering belief that the world would be better off without me. I tried so many different therapies, medications and exercises. I followed my passion, desires and formed close connections and yet nothing seemed to matter. I could not envision a future anymore. Life no longer felt worth living if I was just going through the motions of it all. I needed something very drastic to change, but no one seemed to know how to help me.
The thought of attending an Ayahuasca ceremony came back to me. After all, that’s what my sister had done. When she first mentioned it years ago, I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad, but it seemed like a tormentful experience I’d rather avoid unless I really had no other choice.
Come September, I found myself on a week-long Ayahuasca retreat in the Netherlands, (which I’ll summarise “briefly” to avoid turning this post into a 10,000-word essay).
On the first night of the Ayahuasca ceremony, which started at sunset, I struggled to connect with the medicine and felt overwhelmed by depressive thoughts. The male facilitator reassures me that I’m still young and have time to figure things out. I respond that they speak of time as if it’s a good thing, but I don’t want any more; it’s already been too long. He asks me if he can offer me a hug. When our bodies touch I feel his love and care but then see an image of someone trying to choke me, a recurring theme in my dreams. As the hug ends, I feel an overwhelming sense of danger, sensing that it isn’t safe to be alone with a man. When I tell him how I feel he offers to leave but I ask him to stay. I can see us sitting at the table, feeling safe, yet that moment glitches, revealing an alternate reality where the man beside me is a threat.
On the second night, a double dose of Ayahuasca makes me feel like my body is collapsing inward as if I’m about to sink into the mattress and vanish into a black hole. I’m genuinely scared and wonder if I’m about to die. I remind myself that dying might actually be a relief, and I cry as I question how I’ve managed to survive so long while feeling so much physical and mental pain. I think of several friends and wish they could comfort me, but I know I’m all alone. I feel nauseous, yet my body stubbornly refuses to throw up, which amusingly reminds me of my reluctance to neigh.
On the third morning, I breathe a sigh of relief to learn we have a break from taking Ayahuasca that night. By this point, I hadn’t slept in four days since I needed to come off my sleeping medication to participate. While everyone else goes to bed early, I find myself outside with one of the participants who happens to be a trauma therapist. After talking to her for about two hours, I finally managed to sleep for the first time in six years without taking any pills.
On the fourth night, during my third Ayahuasca ceremony, my trip begins just as everyone else’s ends. As soon as the Shaman starts singing for me, I feel the most nauseous I’ve ever been. Yet I don’t throw up—he does, four times, violently. Then, as the last song ends, I finally manage to purge, and the room starts spinning even more.
That night, I was not afraid like the night before, although people later told me it sounded like I was hyperventilating. I do find it hard to breathe, and my body hurts so much I don’t know how to describe it. The female facilitator explains that the Shaman had to vomit because he removed a lot of trauma from my body; perhaps I’m now letting go of what remains. While the other participants headed to bed, the facilitator tried several different things to help me. Every time I think I might begin feeling better it’s as if Ayahuasca says: “Nope, we’re not done yet,” and the whole spiral of pain and nausea starts again.
By the time it’s light outside, the facilitator and I try standing in the grass to see if this might help me ground myself but it doesn’t work.
Back inside on my mattress, I suddenly feel compelled to confess. “Have I told you about the job I do?” I ask, fully aware that I haven’t shared it with her before. I briefly tell her about my vanilla job and then mention that I film porn and work as a pro sub. She’s never heard of BDSM, of course, and asks me how I got into it. I muse over whether she’d like to hear the long or the short version and she says we have until Sunday.
I begin from childhood, recounting every little detail. Even when she falls asleep, I keep talking, as if voicing everything will cleanse the shame I didn’t even realise I still had. Midway through the other facilitator comes to check on us and sticks around to hear the rest of my story. It has changed to recounting ‘smaller’ traumas now. The man who sexually assaulted me and who I reported, the friends who then turned on me because he had more money. I tell him the story of the Catfish and a series of unhealthy relationships where my submissiveness bled into everyday life. I also touch on the recurring theme of close relationships that suddenly end with the other person ghosting me, and the fear that I don’t know if I can ever trust anyone again.
Only at 10 am during breakfast, my nausea from this ceremony disappears.
On the fifth night during my fourth Ayahuasca ceremony, I was amazed that I managed to convince myself to do another one after the horror of the previous night. I only take half a cup and find myself in a gentle, almost dreamlike state. At the same time, the three people who reassured me earlier that day were having their worst nights. Normally, I might have felt guilty and tried to change my experience to make it better for them. However, this time I realise it’s okay for me to have a gentle experience, and I trust that they can handle theirs, just as they trusted I would manage mine the night before.
On the sixth night, during the fifth and final Ayahuasca ceremony, I have another difficult experience. Earlier that day, the facilitator spoke with me, expressing concern that I might be pursuing my kinky job because of my grandfather’s influence, which might have made it feel familiar. I explained to her that while I wasn’t sure if he had influenced me, it wasn’t the reason I was pursuing this now. That day, I felt a connection to myself for the first time in a way I didn’t remember experiencing before. The only other times I’ve felt similarly grounded were through moments of intimacy in kink play.
During the ceremony, I thought of my grandfather and internally said: You were a horrible man and did horrible things, but that doesn’t make me the same. I am not you, and even if you did shape my desires for kink, that doesn’t mean it will be unhealthy for me.
I returned back in Scotland feeling more connected to myself. Since that first night, I’ve been able to sleep without sleeping pills, and the constant pain in my shoulders has decreased by about 70%. Even more significantly, I actually believe that I am worthwhile. I’m far from fully healed—I still have nightmares, though they’ve changed—and getting back to regular life, especially my vanilla job, brings its own set of challenges.
Some may find it strange that I’m sharing such a personal story online, but I’ve always believed that expression sets me free. Sharing creates connection, and I’ve always said that I’m sharing my journey through this blog and I don’t want to hide the darker parts of that journey.
Xx Mila