A northern transplant

In a southern world

A girl

With a punk rock soul

An artist’s heart

And a traveler’s mind

A small college town girl

With a passion for the city

‘Cause it wakes me up inside


I was in downtown Nashville

Thinking the blues

Seeing in jazz

The change in scenery

Is getting pretty tiring


Ice cream on my tongue

I should be perfectly content

Than why do I feel

This rush of brokenness?

“You Kept Me Up with All Your Manic Energy”   – Waxahatchee, “Brass Beam”



I just planned out the next six years of my life.  I am getting married in 25 days, if you didn’t know, dear readers.  So, my manic brain just said, you must do everything now.  And so I listened to the voice in my head – getting well, finances, child, finishing the book I am writing, getting a job, moving to another city, and then back again, getting another job after two years at home with the baby.  Some of this stuff I can’t even predict, but oh, how I have tried.  I wrote It all down as my fiancé slept.  We hadn’t had sex in a week-the longest we have ever gone-and tonight the primal sex sent me spinning.  The dog even thinks I am crazy. I have been whirling through another 1,000 words of writing my book.  My memoir.  I started it Friday – 6 days ago.  Which, in my state of chaos and self-delusion, I think I can finish in 6 months.  I do have 3,176 words in a matter of four sittings.  I twirl my engagement ring on my finger and write and write while thoughts fly.  I am hyper-aware of everything and super zoned in on myself at the same time.  I chain-vape and it feels like I am getting somewhere, even though nothing is actually happening yet because it is just 4am on a Wednesday morning but I think I can take over the world (although this time, maybe I will try it clothed.  See post: “Never throw your cell at a cop and other fun learning experiences”).  I simultaneously can’t collect thoughts and also have an abundance of them.  No, I am not on drugs.  I am on the residuals of sex and mania, mixed together like some forbidden cocktail.  And I have drunk the cocktail as fast as possible, at hyper-speed, actually.  It hits me like a line of cocaine.  My fingers don’t keep up with my mind as I write this.  I am on Hi-fi speed like a scratchy record playing the same part of the song over and over again.  Skip. Skip. Skip.  I jump with a jolt at any idea, and they all sound grand.  Except the financial one, which makes me irritable. Next thing I know, I am raging at Facebook and Trump (like the former matters).  However, on Facebook, I see shiny, bright people with lives that feel so elusive to me.  What is it even like to feel normal? Did I ever even know?  I have enough insight to know I don’t know.  I plan how my memoir is going to win awards, and I will be signing books for those people on FB that I am “friends” with that I don’t even like.  I am amazing.  I feel amazing.  I sometimes question am I happy, or just manic; right now I know the answer, but I don’t care, I just keep going.  My Fiancé comes downstairs and I say “I hope I didn’t keep you up with all my manic energy?”  “No,” he replies,  “I took a melatonin to sleep, so I just came to check on you.”  He probably woke up because of a trippy melatonin – induced dream, I think, and continue on, telling him I have planned out our lives until the year 2023.  He knows I am manic, and so he says sleepily, “That is good.  We will have a good life.”  I laugh and smile, and continue on – why sleep now? It is 5am and so I make coffee because I think that’s what I need, even though I know it isn’t.   It is 5am and I am as electrified as I was yesterday morning, waking up to a nightmare, except in a good way I think.  I listen STILL to the SAME album I have heard 500 times in the last week, except I skip all the slow songs.  That will slow me down, and I can’t stop now.  I can’t I can’t I can’t.  I keep myself “up with all my manic energy.”

Never Throw Your Cell at a Cop . . . and other Fun Learning Experiences


“Loving NOLA Life”

So I went to a new therapist last Friday.  She said something that stuck with me, “You have the ability to compensate.”  Which meant, that despite what is going on with me, I can pull off presenting well.  I can make you think I am ok, and all is well.  Despite a psych hospitalization and using cocaine at the time, I was able to do well in a master’s program and graduate.  Although, I know people thought I was an asshole.  Which probably was the case, although, truly, I was sick.   I think I had to learn to compensate at a young age – I have had depression as long as I can remember – there was no other way to be! This has actually served me well, because It means I have been able to function despite mania, intense depression, drug use, and now, dissociation.  Except the latter proves more difficult to manage presenting well.  People can’t tell, but when asked to do something simple like fill out paper work, I am unable to do so.  I write the wrong thing in the wrong place, and even the therapist looks at me funny. Creative writing or working on a project helps me, though (hence six new blog posts and a new blog design).

Therefore, I have decided to start on something I have always wanted to do – my memoir.  I know I am only 37; but with 5 psych hospitalizations (including many of those for psychosis-including the time I ran around totally naked to save the world, cause if you are a superhero, you should be naked), serious drug addiction and getting sober, a lot of experience traveling and living in many different cities, experience in the BDSM lifestyle/going to the local dungeon, experience as a stripper, nearly partying through “Katrina” in New Orleans and attempting to get out at the last-minute (Chaos!), interning at The National Organization for Women in DC and meeting well-known politicians (Hilary told me “thank you for working on the behalf on women!), Coach surfing on the East Coast and Midwest (with a cat!), hanging out with homeless people and “rainbow kids,” (they are a little smelly, but I love them!), protesting Condoleezza Rice in her hometown (which is mine in Alabama), marching in DC as a protester, being in the middle of a tornado, losing a fiancé when he tried to jump on a train, the fact that any given family reunion could end in a brawl, running from the cops, throwing a cell phone at a cop (don’t do that by the way, it will not end well for you), participating in pagan rituals, dating a guy named “Jesse James” (really, that was his name!), going to jail three times and being propositioned for sex in the holding cell by a self-proclaimed murderer, doing five days in “gen pop” (if you don’t know what that means, that’s a good thing), experience as a therapist myself in an inpatient unit– I think I have something to say.

At least I hope I do.

You Stood By Me

You stood by me.  You stood by me, when I didn’t know what was going on myself.  You stood by me, when I “kept you up with all my manic energy” (Song lyric by Waxahatchee).   You stood by me when I would suddenly burst into tears.  You stood by me, when I curled up on the floor in fear.  You stood by me when, shaking, I flipped from angry to happy to depressed.  You stood by me, stroked my hair, and rubbed my aching back.  You stood by me, even when I kept the light on while you were sleeping because of my intense insomnia.  You stood by me when I didn’t know if I could continue.  You stood by me, when panicking, my throat closed up.  You stood by me when I played the same album over and over again because it was calming.  You stood by me when electrical sensations pulsed through my body.   You stood by me when I thought I would have to be hospitalized.  You stood by me, telling me, “I know this isn’t who you are.”  Eyes filled with tears by seeing my pain and fear, you stood by me.  We haven’t made it through this yet, but I know you will continue to stand by me.

** Note: I am currently under medical supervision while getting off an anti-depressant.  This has caused me severe withdrawal symptoms, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. **

Welcome to Stripping in Detroit (Or, How I met Fifi the French Poodle and Other Stories)


(Based on excerpts from my journal on 3.17.2004)

My first night at CLUB X (we will call it), I met the bikers who were passing through the city.  One of whom proclaimed that my tat (which is Arabic for “peace and freedom”) said “come to our hotel room.” (I didn’t, but the idea that I “might” could have increased my income.  So I played off of it.  Hey, I was hustler.  It was my job).   As the newbie dancer, I had a task to complete.  Call it an initiation, if you will.  I was told to raffle off myself, basically.  I went around to each table, asking for donations.  Whoever’s name was drawn, would be awarded with the experience of getting to pour chocolate sauce and whipped cream on my body as I laid on the stage.  I laid there, wondering if the whole experience was degrading, or cool, or just kinda weird.  I wasn’t sure.  Then, I went into the glass encased shower on the top of the stage to rinse off as sexily as possible.  This is how I met the bikers.  They were writing silly comments on the outside shower in the steam.

One of the bikers’ friend’s (a seemingly straight-laced guy whom was out of place among them), told me his wife had died- but “not to worry about it because it was awhile ago.” However, his friend, who paid for a lap dance from me for him, told me the widower needed to “get out more and talk to women.”  The friend also informed me that the wife had died four months ago.

With this knowledge, I took the new widower to the VIP room.  This was a room upstairs with black leather couches arranged in a living-room type setting, complete with a glass-top coffee table.  This is where customers could receive a more private (read: more expensive) dance than on the floor.  However, it felt safe, as all the dancers took their customers there simultaneously, while the DJ nearby watched out for the dancers.    Before the dance, the guy told me he hadn’t touched a woman in four months.  This was simultaneously weird and sad and sweet.  I tried to give him a lighter, softer dance.

Then there was Fifi.  The French poodle.  He was actually a sixty-something lawyer who paid me to bounce up and down on his lap as well as dominate him.  I was his Mistress, or Princess Jade (Jade was my stage name here in Detroit).  He was my slave, or Fifi; or rather, Mistress Jade’s slave, I should say, since I feel like I took on a new persona in the club (especially with Fifi!). He offered to pay me $100 to take me shopping as well as wanted me to watch “domination videos” with him (neither of which I took him up on). I met him and danced for him the first night on the job; little did I know at the time he would become one of my repeat customers.  Maybe mostly because the other dancers thought he was weird (kinda true); or rather, what he wanted during the dance-the domme stuff-was weird.  Personally, I would rather domme someone (and get paid) than have an over-touchy customer who tried to rip me off.  Basically, I didn’t think domination was weird!!!!!!!!!!!!!  (However, privately I giggled about the Fifi part).

Although, I learned that all of this was just a taste of things to come…


BDSM Lifestyle Submission

At first in my journey into the BDSM lifestyle, I did not consider myself a submissive. I liked submission in the bedroom; but outside of sex, I think I subconsciously viewed it as “weak.” Being a feminist, I struggled with being submissive to a man. For other women, it was fine, as long as it was of their choosing. But it was not for me. It was not until my fiance came along, did I change my mind. Also, it was not until after quite some time of being together did I realize that I wanted to be submissive to him outside of the bedroom. This is a huge change for me and signifies a lot of growth in the BDSM lifestyle for me. To some, perhaps submission comes easily and naturally; but for me, I had to develop a deep relationship with him before I could even consider submission outside of the bedroom.

I consider service to be a big part of my submission to him. I feel like it is my duty to keep the house clean, do our laundry, and have dinner ready by 6pm every weeknight (He likes to cook, so he is excited to cook for me on the weekends). I feel satisfied when Sir comes home and everything is in order and he compliments me. Especially when he tells me I am a good girl! I can be teasingly “bratty” in a fun way every now and then, but mostly I want to be a good girl.

Outside of service to Sir and submission in the bedroom, I am becoming more open to his influence. Sir tells me what he thinks about decisions that involve me, but most of the time gives me the choice of what to do. More and more, I feel compelled to follow his advice; however, he does not force me to do anything. I willingly give him my submission. This makes me feel lighter and happier, especially because I know it pleases him. And to see him happy and stress-free makes me happy and stress-free. Of course, we have a few rules that I am to follow and I do. Sir does not believe in tons of rules in a Dom/sub relationship (nor does he in polyamorous relationships, but that is another writing).

I feel like my submission is a giving of myself over to him, and that makes me feel closer and more connected to him than I have felt to anyone. But it is only him that I feel I could be this way with; he has earned my submission, truly. And for that I feel grateful. Because to change and grow and challenge yourself in this lifestyle is what makes it important.

BDSM Scene

bdsm-dom-coaching-bright-1024x512He pushed me up against the wall.  The red light pulsated overhead in the dungeon. I felt some fear as he pressed his body up against mine and bit my neck.  He had placed a marker under my chin, and if I moved and dropped the marker, I would be “hit really hard with the big wooden paddle.”  Therefore, I stayed still, even though it was harder to maintain my breathing this way. I gasped, as he began a rhythm of smacking my ass, legs, and thighs in time with the hard beats of the music.  He stopped and presumably went to his bag to pull out a toy.  I was oblivious to it all, as I was facing the wall.  I realized he had pulled out a whip, and I thought, Oh no, not now, this is too much so early on.  The snap of the whip brought me out of my head, and I shuddered in pain when the tip of it struck me.  Next, he relived me of the marker under my chin, and turned me around to face the dungeon.  “we are going to play a game,” he said with a wicked smile.  I am going to hit your cunt or your tits, and you are going to tell me to switch when you want me to hit the other.  Ok, which do you want?  The cunt or the tits?”  I struggled to come up with an answer.  “you took too long,’ He said, and began hitting my tits with the implement.  The implement was both heavy and stingy on my breasts.  He hit my nipples in time with the music.  I winced, and began squirming in pain.  “Switch,” I said breathlessly.  “No,” he said.  “say ‘hit my cunt’ ” “Hit my cunt, please, sir”  I mustered.  “Stick your cunt out,” he said.  I obliged him and stuck out my pussy.  He began to whip my cunt with the handle of the whip.  I laughed, deliriously, already high in my pain.  “oh, you like that, do you, cuntie?”  “You like to have your cunt hit, huh?”  “yes, sir” I stammered.  With each smack to my pussy, he hit harder, until I said “hit my tits, please, sir.”  He switched to my tits, until he decided to stop the game.  But the scene wasn’t over yet.  He turned me back around, and I nervously pressed up against the wall again.  Then, I felt the rough wood of a large bamboo cane pressed between my legs.  “you like that, cuntie?” he asked.  “No, sir” I said, a bit unsure of whether I liked it or not.  He began thumping the large wooden cane on my legs and ass.  He hit me so hard, I gasped, unable to maintain the proper breathing necessary to process my pain.  I slowed my brain down, and reminded myself to breathe deep, in and out, in and out.  I hard a friend say something that made me laugh, and Sir said to the half-preoccupied audience, “You are distracting her.”  Someone said, “she shouldn’t be paying attention to us,” and Sir said, “you are right.”  “Cuntie, you pay attention to me, only.”  Then he turned me around again and said, “Kneel.”  I Kneeled in slave position, with my legs splayed open.  “good, cuntie,” he said.  “Now, look at them, and don’t let them distract you.”  I was facing a guy and girl on the couch, and the girl was writhing in either pain, or ecstasy, but probably both. “Is that, hot, cuntie?” He asked.  “Yes, sir.”  Sir pulled out a thin cane and began snapping it repeatedly on my legs.  I  in whimpered my own pain, and arched my back, involuntarily trying to get away. Soon he had me giggling in pain again, mentally, flying high against reality.   Then, he leaned down and whispered in my ear, “You are done.  You are a good girl, cuntie.  I love you.”  He stood me up and said, “What do you need?”  “A drink of water,” i replied.  “Ok, but I want you to stay naked,” he said.  “yes, sir.”  Afterwards, in the car, I could feel the love in his fingertips, as he traced the marks on my upper thighs on the drive home.  I felt spacey and high and sleepy. “you are so strong and brave,” he said.  When we got home, I collapsed into bed, satisfied, relaxed, and happy.