I’ve been asked before why BDSM means so much to me, why it threads so tightly into my story and why I speak about it without flinching. The truth is, it’s not just a lifestyle or a curiosity—it’s a language. One that helped me translate the noise inside me when nothing else could. I didn’t stumble into kink looking for thrill or rebellion; I found it when silence became unbearable and the grief of being unheard outweighed everything else. That silence wasn’t just emotional—it was survival. And in that stillness, I found myself reaching for something with shape, with rules, with meaning.

I grew up in chaos. There were no safe words or boundaries, only patterns of narcissism and sociopathy that taught me to observe, adapt, perform, and hide. I didn’t know I was autistic then. ADHD was part of the picture, sure, but the full mosaic didn’t come into view until later. When it did, it clarified everything—the sensitivity, the need for control, the craving for structure, the medical obsession, the way I cataloged everything around me like my survival depended on it. Which, honestly, it did.

Kink gave me control back. Before it, the closest thing I had to emotional release was cutting. I’m not romanticizing it, and I’m sure as hell not recommending it. But when you’re locked in a body that screams without sound, you find ways to echo those screams outward. I didn’t journal—I wasn’t allowed. My father made sure anything I wrote was a weapon against me. So I shut down that part, locked it deep, and turned to blood to tell stories no one else could read. Carefully. Strategically. Calf usually on the side, not arms—because I understood anatomy. I knew what I could afford to damage and what I couldn’t. It wasn’t reckless—it was methodical. And I hated that part of me for a long time.

But when I learned that pain—triggered intentionally, consensually—could open the same emotional floodgates without the same damage? Something shifted. I threw myself into research. Forums, studies, neurochemical articles, endorphins and dopamine and why it all felt so right when done in a way that mirrored respect. Online roleplay became testing ground. Safe distance, total control, endless revision. Two years of building, shifting, testing. And then I stepped into it physically—and it worked. It clicked. It held. That first scene gutted me in the best way, cracked something open that cutting never could. And outside of losing my daughter, I haven’t needed to self-harm since.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy. It means now I ask myself questions. Am I doing this from pain or for healing? Am I chasing destruction or connection? When the answer leans toward pain in a negative manner, I stop. Hard boundary. I’ve lived too long in the world of blurred lines to cross one willingly.

Kink became a place to rebuild trust—not just with others, but with myself. To be seen and held without demand. To communicate my needs with clarity. Neurodivergent minds thrive in this space sometimes because the rules are real. The communication is demanded. The expectations are set before anyone moves. And when done right, that structure frees us. It doesn’t confine us. It holds the chaos long enough for us to breathe.

One thing I’ve come to appreciate deeply in kink spaces is how those who follow the old-school frameworks—RACK, SSC, and all the foundational pillars—tend to carry far less judgment. These people get it. They understand that communication isn’t optional, that neurodivergence isn’t a red flag, and that trauma isn’t a deal-breaker—it’s context. That’s actually one of my core vetting tests now. Before coffee, or at coffee depending on how we met, I lay it all out. I tell them I’m AuDHD, I info dump, I drop trauma breadcrumbs. And if they run? Good. If they say things like “we just need to get you out of your head and stop reacting that way”—which, yes, I’ve heard in direct reference to my ASD, ADHD, and PTSD meltdowns—that’s a hard stop. It smells like ABA therapy, which has left its own trauma trail across neurodivergent communities. That comment alone has gotten people blocked and filed, no joke.

I talk to others they’ve played with or been involved with, too. Sure, you always get the bitter ex or the dramatic warning—but when the pattern repeats? I listen. My whirlwind isn’t optional—it’s part of who I am. And here’s the thing: play opens portals. It cracks parts of your mind you thought were locked. Even scenes you’ve loved for years can suddenly trigger. Your partner needs to know that. They need to be equipped, emotionally and mentally. Doesn’t matter if they wear the dominant hat—they’re not exempt. I’m a submissive, sure, but I’m also a healer and a teacher, and yeah, I’m sensitive as hell. So if I’m trusting you with my mind, you damn well better be ready to trust me with yours.

I’ve met people who think submission is weakness. That giving up control means losing your power. But that’s not how I see it. Submission is a choice. An active one. A powerful one. It comes with responsibility, clarity, emotional truth. Subs aren’t passive—they’re driving a different kind of power. Safewords, boundaries, reactions—they all stem from us first. We’re not surrendering identity. We’re wielding it with purpose.

The problem is that too many people stare at the mechanics—the rope, the impact, the roles—and never ask why they exist. Why they matter. Why they comfort. If they stopped to ask “why,” they’d find layers of transformation beneath every scene. Kink is healing when done right, when it’s rooted in choice, not desperation. When pain becomes catharsis instead of punishment. When you’re not reenacting trauma, but rewriting it.

For me, pain-based play is intense. It cracks my head open. It pulls the grief out and leaves silence behind—a silence I actually want. My brain never stops unless I’m under anesthesia. Not even sleep cuts the signal. But kink does. That quiet is sacred to me. And I’m careful now. I vet play partners hard. They need to understand me—not the fantasy version, but the complex mix of grief, neurodivergence, control, and recovery that powers this engine. If they don’t get it, we don’t connect.

That’s not weakness. That’s wisdom earned the hard way.

Kinksters skip the fluff. We get real fast. You don’t survive in these spaces by pretending you’re okay when you’re not. Mental health matters here—but honesty matters more. I’ve seen people use kink to recover from things they thought were permanent. I’ve watched connection build from moments most people run from. For us, it’s not just intimacy—it’s restoration.

So yeah, it’s easy to judge from the outside. But judgment doesn’t change the why. And unless you’ve lived through the need for silence, the ache for structure, the thrill of control born from chaos—you won’t get it.

But if you ever find yourself asking why someone plays the way they do, don’t look at the act.

Look for what’s underneath. That’s where the truth lives.