A Vanilla Moment

Hello again, it's been a long time since my last blog, almost as long as the last time I tweeted. I feel that I owe many people both an apology and an explanation for my absence. So, I hope you will all bare with me. A bit of a warning though, this blog is completely vanilla and may be a tad boring for some.
Like most people, my family is struggling financially. We have gone past the, "bummer we can't go out to the movies" phase and jumped right into the "how are we going to pay for food" phase. As with a lot of folks out there we have already faced the shame of car repossession and possible eviction (which is almost comical because the house we are renting is about to go into foreclosure because the owner isn't paying his bills). Right now I'm just thankful for ramen noodles and mac & cheese. Now, this is not the reason I for my withdrawal, because I know my friends would understand my family's position, I'm pointing it out because it is intensifying my true problem. A problem, I must admit, that has caused me an immense amount of shame and self loathing.
Over four months ago I was diagnosed with Post Partum Depression. After five children in three pregnancies, it finally reared it's ugly head, and let me tell you it is ugly. I have not faced something so personally horrible in my life. Before explaining the disorder, let me touch on my original beliefs about it, and most types of depression. Kind of like Carpal Tunnel, I believed it was nothing more than hypochondria. A lonely person striving for attention. In PPD's case, a lonely person the world was willing to excuse bad behavior for and simply another cause to throw medication down a person's throat. Easy to be that ignorant until you have it. Add to that I grew up in a household that believed things like depression were just "bad days" and you needed to just "suck it up, soldier". Taking anti-depressants were a sign of a weak and pathetic person. I couldn't possibly be like that, right? Wrong.
Two months after my daughter was born the Baby Blues day came. Like before, I was ready. I withdrew for the day and let myself cry for no apparent reason and down a pint of ridiculously chocolaty ice cream. Unfortunately, it didn't end there like it had previously. The next day was the same. And the next, and the next. Then things started to change. I wasn't just sad for no reason. I stopped just crying. I started doing something worse. Something so horrible that it began my withdrawal from everyone around me. I started getting angry. Not your run of the mill, flip off the mental midget that cut you off in mid day traffic angry. I'm talking about the first kindlings of rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. A fury so overwhelming it became impossible to control. I began, to my own horror, lashing out. It started with simple things like snapping my husband's head off for putting the spoon on the wrong side of the plate. Then it turned into throwing plates or whatever was in reach. A red haze starts and I wouldn't know what was going on until it was over. Then the horror of the things I had said and done sunk in. I cannot describe the crushing feeling of self hatred at that moment. I can say now in all honesty, if it were not for my children I probably would have killed myself from pure guilt. I realized quickly, my own husband was becoming frightened of me. God, it was horrid. It was like some twisted Alien movie. There was a monster inside me and when it came out it destroyed everyone around me. For several weeks, my husband was the only one who faced my wrath. But then the unthinkable happened. Even now, I cry while I write this thinking about it.
I actually yelled at my babies. I didn't hurt anyone physically, thank God, but I yelled at them. I may scold my children when necessary but I do NOT yell at them. They were so shocked from it that they started crying. I've never in my life hated myself so much. What kind of mother yells at their own babies? I really wanted my life to end at that moment. I contemplated it because I really believed at that moment that my family would be better off without me. I was the bane of their existence and I would ruin their lives if I stayed. But, there was thankfully enough clarity left in me to understand killing myself would damage them far more and that even though I didn't understand what was wrong with me I knew something was. I called my doctor immediately.
Everyday now, I thank God that I did. It was humiliating to break down in my doctor's office and admit that I was not a perfect wife or mother. The ideal image I had so painstakingly created was a lie. I was struggling. There was something wrong and I needed help. It was hard to face the shame I felt in telling another person that I was becoming infuriated for no reason, that I was letting my once clean house turn into a pig sty, that I was no longer interested in any sexual contact. It was a horrible conversation but it was necessary. It was the first step towards recovery. Getting through PPD is a very long process. Sadly, if doesn't go away over night and even now I constantly struggle with it. As ignorant as it sounds, I still feel tremendous shame in admitting my problem. I don't want people to think I'm weak. I don't want everyone to think I am a horrible wife and mother. I don't want my friends to hate me. It is part of the reason I began to withdraw. For most people that are friends with me, I am suppose to be the strong one. I'm the one people come to for advice or to listen to their problems, but I was finding myself incapable of being that. I felt as though I was failing them so I ran away. I couldn't be the chipper and silly person I normally am, so I talked myself into believing they would be better off without me for awhile. I bet you can see a similar theme there.
At any rate, this long winded blog was my attempt to face the truth about what it is that is going on with me. Perhaps it is an explanation, an apology and a request for patience all wrapped up into one rambling mass of words. I cannot promise I will be around everyday. I cannot promise I am always going to be my upbeat self. I will promise everyone that I will not run anymore. I will face this. I will rise above this. Someday, I will be stronger because of all this. Thank you, once again for reading this and for your support.

Contending With The Crinkle

Diapers, simple layers of cotton surrounded by plastic. Such an innocuous item but it carried a great deal of weight for me in the beginning. Diapers were the second fetish I found out my husband had and sadly, they were the hardest for me to deal with. There were two reasons why I had such a problem with them.
The first issue stemmed from the fact that Rant had kept his fascination and use of them secret from me for quite awhile. When he finally did tell me the truth, it felt like a slap in the face. I was hurt and infuriated at the betrayal. "How could he do that to me?" was the question that kept hammering through my head. Did he not trust me? Did he really think I would hate him or leave him? The simple answer was no, he didn't trust me. He did believe I would think him a freak and ultimately leave him. Too bad simple answers don't work in situations like this. It was very easy in that moment to take the route of righteous indignation and condemn my husband's actions. Again, easy routes like simple answers, do not apply. I needed to stop and ask myself a few brutal questions. How did I feel about his fetish? Did I think is was weird, gross or freakish? Would I leave him for it? Those questions led me to my second issue.
When I put aside the trust issues I began evaluating how I felt about the diaper wearing itself. I had worked for several years as a CNA and had dealt with plenty of patients that did not have a choice about wearing a diaper and it was such a source of guilt and shame for them that diapers held a very negative connotation for me. The idea that a healthy young man would  choose to wear and use a diaper was incomprehensible for me. That's when I started to do some research of my own. I met up online with several DLs (diaper lovers) and began listening to their stories. It didn't take long for one theme to becoming frighteningly clear. Many DLs were terribly lonely. Either they had told their spouse and it ultimately ended their marriage or their spouse knew but was thoroughly unwilling to accept the fetish. Many DLs were forced to give up their diapers or use them in secret. Forced to live that part of their life alone, never capable of including the one person in the whole that meant the most to them. As I read one man's story I pictured my husband and I started crying. I was doing the same thing to Rant. I did think the diaper wearing was gross. I did think that changing him would be a chore. I did want him to be "normal". I gave him all the reasons in the world to want to hide them from me. I gave him the reason to be terrified to tell me the truth because I was not being accepting. That's when I realized I had been the one to make the mistake.
Do I believe that my husband should have kept his diaper use from me? No. Do I think it is ok to hide that from one's spouse? No. Do I understand now why he did? You bet I do. Fear is a powerful thing and although it does not give a person the right to keep secrets or lie to those closest to them, it still must be taken into account when evaluating any situation. I realized that if I stepped down off my high horse for a few moments I could begin to understand that this was an opportunity. An opportunity to prove to my Rant that he could trust me with anything. That no matter how unique his tastes were I would accept him. And that is precisely what I did. I took to buying him diapers, letting him wearing them whenever he wanted, and even putting a rule in the house that only I can change him. Why the rule? Because it was a way to symbolize my desire to take his hand and walk this path with him. A way to let him constantly know that he was never going to force him to walk alone. I would always be by his side and I would always accept all of him. It was a way for me to say, "I love you".
To this day I do not regret my decision to accept and participate in his fetish. In fact, I love that such a small action on my part can bring him so much joy. I love the fact that I am important enough to him that he would want to include me. In the end, the only thing that matters now is what mattered when we first got married, that I love him. All of him.

My Journey

Welcome to my blog. It's a first for me, one of many to come I'm sure. If you read my profile blurb you already know that I am a 33 y/o woman who is pretty traditional in most things, especially the bedroom. My gorgeous 24 y/o husband, however, is not. He is an age player, avid fetishist and has an insatiable curiosity. He is also my best friend, dearest lover and the cause of ninety percent of my gray hair. After several tremendously crazy years we have decided to venture forth into the wide world of kink together. He, diving in headlong and full of enthusiasm. Me, stumbling in wide eyed and naive. And this, is my log of it all. I don't know if I'm writing this for others to learn from or for me to look back on someday. Either way, I'm about to step into a brand new world. Where will I end up? How will I get there? Beats me and frankly, I don't much care. The only thing that matters to me is that when I reach the end of my road that the person holding my hand is my husband. So, whether you're a kinkster extraordinaire or as vanilla as ice cream, I welcome you to join me on this amazing journey.