It’s My Blog and I Can Vent If I Want To; On Being a Broken Service boy

Most days I try to swallow my sadness and frustration, lock it down where no one can see it. I smile, I crack jokes, share silly memes and sometimes I make light of what’s happening in my body. People see me laughing at a House event or goofing around with my Daddy and think I’ve got it handled. What they don’t see is how heavy it gets. Carrying it around all the time feels like walking with weights chained to my chest. Writing about it is the one place I can let it spill out. Putting it into words is therapy, because if I keep it buried just to avoid complaining, it eats me alive. I’m scared and I’m at times unsure of who I am anymore.

Being of service isn’t something I turn on and off. It’s not a role I slip into when it feels good. It’s woven into my identity, no matter what. But the past few years, my body has been throwing so many curveballs. Surgeries, very advanced Ehlers-Danlos, Lichen Planus, a recent head injury resulting in hearing loss, badly broken shoulder, my regular ol chronic pain—it all stacks up. Add in watching my mobility slipping away, and suddenly the simple acts of service that once felt effortless can feel like climbing a mountain in the dark.

And yet I’m still in service. But service doesn’t always look like shining Daddy’s boots, kneeling at Her feet, or running tons of errands. Sometimes it looks like digging deep to find a new way to show up for Her, for us. My brain always says yes. My heart always screams yes. But my body often says, “Not today.” And that clash is so brutal. There are days I beat myself up because I can’t move fast enough, or I have to say no when every fiber of my being wants to say yes. The guilt, the grief, the frustration… they cut so deep. Who am I now? I feel like I’m constantly losing pieces of myself. I look at old photos and I mourn and long for who I was, while trying to stay rooted in who I am. I wrestle with anger and grief. I cry. I curse my body. And then I take a deep breath and remind myself: my worth isn’t measured by how quickly I can kneel, how strong my back is, or how long I can stay on my feet. I fought it for so long too… going to events and not using my mobility aids because I thought I looked better on my feet. I forced myself to stand and walk around much more than I should have. I was trying to hold onto something that was gone. And I did this knowing full well that I would enjoy myself more and be able to engage more if I wasn’t hurting. I can stand and talk to you for about 5min before my body is screaming at me - but I can sit in my chair and talk to you for hours. And that matters in how I show up.

I teach a class on this, that’s the ironic part. I’ve sat and talked to groups about chronic pain and play and how it doesn’t have to stop you. But I don’t use the tools I have learned when it comes to myself.

I think the autoimmune disease is what finally made me want to wave a white flag. Lichen Planus is a goddamn thief. It stole my self-esteem and broke my confidence. What makes it even harder to swallow is how I got it. Not through some reckless choice. Not from ignoring my health. Nope. I got it from trying to help myself. From taking a new pain med, like I was supposed to. I thought I was doing the right thing, and my reward was a chronic illness that doesn’t ever let up. It’s so fucking unfair. I didn’t sign up for this. I didn’t consent to it. And yet, here it is, rewriting the rules of my life. I hate seeing it when I look in the mirror. I feel ugly when I see my skin. Some days I just want to scream into the void, “Give me back what you stole.” But my body doesn’t listen, it doesn’t care what I want.

I don’t want to drag people down. I don’t want Daddy to see me drowning every day. I don’t want my House to feel like I’m a burden even when I KNOW that sometimes I just am. And so I smile. I make jokes. I act silly, I tell people, “I’m fine, I’m doing ok.” Most of them never hear the truth, because I save that for my closest friends, well, and for pages like this. I keep comparing myself to people who are dealing with worse, as if that somehow makes my own pain less intense.

I know that my spirit and my Leather heart are stronger than this though. And deep down, I know that I can still show up and I can still do the work and still be of service. Strength comes in many forms. And for me, strength isn’t about muscling through anymore. It’s about knowing when to sit down before I collapse. It’s about asking for help when my pride screams against it. It’s admitting that being invincible was never actually real. And I know that’s not weakness. It’s survival, and survival is strength. And sometimes survival is the greatest act of service that I can give, because it means I’ll still be here tomorrow; to keep serving.

With all of the unknown, I do know this; Daddy deserves my best, even when my best looks different now. My House deserves every ounce of devotion I’ve got. The Leather community needs my heart and my voice. And I know that giving up has never been a part of my DNA.

I didn’t choose my body’s betrayals. But I will choose every day to stay in service, to fight through the pain, to keep smiling even if it’s a little cracked around the edges sometimes. Writing it all down here is the one place I don’t have to fake it. I don’t have to say any of this with a smile on my face or a cheerful attitude. And maybe that’s the truest service of all — refusing to completely hide the truth of what this life really costs.

“My scars remind me that I did indeed survive my deepest wounds. That in itself is an accomplishment. And they bring to mind something else too. They remind me that the damage life has inflicted on me has, in many places, left me stronger and more resilient.” — Steve Goodier

Resilience isn’t noble. It’s dragging yourself forward on shredded knees because quitting would mean the bastard thing won.

I’ll close with a line from my favorite poem:

Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul. - William Ernest Henley, Invictus