3 of Swords: Taking Back My Heart

April 14, 2024

I dreamt that I saw someone swimming in a peaceful-looking pond and wanted to do the same. They got out as I hopped in, only to find it was much deeper than expected. As this realization dawned on me, I remembered I don't know how to swim. I struggled aimlessly and my feet grazed the bottom, feeling for anything to keep me afloat. A layer of mud. No, quicksand. It grabbed me and I started sinking. I didn't know how to signal to the people above that I was drowning. I looked up, helpless in those last moments. They remained oblivious as the thick, heavy sludge pulled me under by my ankles.

A body is a burden. That had always been my belief. It made sense for a long time. After all, my body was blamed as the reason for my abuse, and I learned early on to leave it behind. In my first memories, I recall looking down on a physical form I supposedly inhabited as I felt nothing that was happening to it— me? Whoever that thing belonged to, I didn’t want it. Was I that body below, frozen in fear on the filthy attic floor? Was I this awareness drifting up up and away from the whole scene? What did it matter? Still, I wondered.

Was there another way?

This is the story of my seven month 3 of Swords Ordeal Ritual. I am speaking about all of this because over the past two years, I have been changed. I like myself. I love myself. It took a long time and lot of work to be able to say that. I’m proud. Change is possible. Trust is possible. Healing is possible. No matter what you’ve experienced or how much you’ve struggled and been ashamed. I want to tell my stories. I have greatly strengthened my self trust. This is my path.

I am moving towards my desire for truth, transformation, integrity, and expression.

April 3, 2023

I had just completed a microbranding on my thigh, a spiderweb strung together with dotted lines of little burn marks. Despite appearing fragile, the meticulously crafted structure of the web gives it unexpected strength. It ebbs and flows along with the wind that would otherwise destroy it. I had also acquired Lee Harrington's books, Sacred Kink and Spirit of Desire. One shared peoples’ spiritual experiences in kink, the other outlined the eightfold paths in relation to BDSM. They signed it, “Isme, Let the stories be told!” I was excited to be immersed, secretly hoping to see myself somewhere between the pages. I sunk into a bubble bath and started to read. As soon as I reached the chapter about the ordeal path, I knew immediately that it was for me. I just didn't have the first idea in hell how I'd walk it.

In the meantime, I read, I wrote, I dreamed.

Fear has always been a defining emotion of my life, clouding out my ability to see much else. I have faced many fears over the years. I've fought social anxiety and sought friendship and community. I've stared down deep insecurities within myself, threats and insults thrown by others who wished to frighten me and diminish my strength— I looked them in the eye and insisted on my worth. I've done new things until they no longer scared me. I want to leave this life with no fears left unfaced. The first step was to accept the enormous work ahead. Abuse had created a core wound centered around connection, and my greatest fears were deeply entwined with my inability to experience emotions in my body.

When you are disconnected from your body, you are disconnected from a vast source of internal wisdom; unable to access your power. I have spent most of my life looking for my own power outside of myself, denying the very things that now seem to me to be the keys to freedom. I've strayed off my path many times, prone to paralysis, dissociation, addiction, anything to avoid emotion. I have been afraid to talk about these things for fear of being told I'm toxic, unsafe, unfit for engaging in kink then, now, or ever. I still worry I'll be blamed for the abuse that was enacted on me and the ways I adapted in response that are obviously unhealthy when situated in my current context, but made a lot of sense to develop in the dysfunctional circumstances I had to survive. This is my messy reality. I’m not the only one.

And I believe we belong.

I've always been afraid of needles, doctors, anything medical. This fear is common in survivors of sexual violence. We are often invalidated. We experience medical gaslighting, our pain and concerns are dismissed, clinicians touch us suddenly without consent or consideration for our comfort. Given these experiences, it’s no wonder that dealing with the medical system can be retraumatizing. As much as possible, I avoided anything to do with it. So I certainly never intended to get into needle play. I found it terrifying when I first learned of it. The thought of having something inside me that isn't supposed to be there sent shivers down my spine. A visceral, unavoidable reminder of the body I tried so hard to leave behind— and sometimes succeeded, if only for a while. Over time, I saw photos and was fascinated by the intricate decorative designs. Both delicate and dangerous at once. I admired that. It stirred something in me, part fascination, part primal fear. I started to think I would like to learn to needle top but swore I would never bottom.

Finally, curiosity got the best of me. I saw my chance and took it. I signed up for Master Leo’s Needle Play Intensive class. I asked a friend to be my practice bottom, but he wasn't able to make it. I went alone.

Just getting to class was an ordeal in itself. How much did I want this? Seeking knowledge comes at a cost. I still wasn't quite sure why I was going. I had no idea what I was in for. It started in the morning long before I was usually awake. I had to get up early and take a two hour bus ride across town to get there. My second bus was late and threw me off schedule. By the time I reached the final bus stop, I still had a 10 minute walk and worried I would get there after the doors closed. I ran the rest of the way.

I made it to class, took extensive notes, tried to absorb every little bit of information. On our break, I wandered off alone and ate the lunch I’d packed atop a roof, looking down at the city below. Back to class. Finally, it came time to practice. I had hoped to have a bottom, but that wasn’t meant to be. I wanted to practice. I wanted to walk through the steps with the instructor to make sure I did things right, I wanted to receive feedback, and I wanted to push through the fear of my first time needle topping in the presence of others. Another attendee offered to practice on each other, but that didn’t feel right. I declined. Instead, I took a leap of faith. I put a needle in my thigh, just one little needle— and got overwhelmed instantly. My eyes welled up with tears. It had been a long time since I cried. I was surprised I still could. That needle pierced through my defenses as swiftly as it pierced my skin. I only had it in for a few short seconds before anxiety got the best of me and I removed it, quickly packed up my supplies, and ran from the room of people to regulate myself alone. A familiar feeling. But I tried to do things differently. I called my partner at the time for support. And I returned to the room.

I did end up needle topping that friend the next night and realized immediately, as expected, that I enjoyed piercing someone else much more than myself. At one point, we were talking and sharing poetry. He asked a simple question. "Are you happy?" I told him I was on my path. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't a real answer either. The truth? No, I wasn't happy. I wasn't happy with my life. I wasn't happy with myself. I wasn't doing the things I wanted to do— I was avoiding my work. I was avoiding my emotions. I was avoiding myself. I had one foot halfheartedly on my path, hesitant to commit, and the other stuck in that quicksand, preventing me from moving forward and pursuing the pull of who I suspected I was maybe meant to be. Even though I couldn't admit the truth at the time, after that, I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

I knew I needed to change. Go further than I had been so far. All the way over the edge I was desperately afraid of. I wanted honor, to be worthy, to pursue my dreams and desires. I wanted to earn the identity I would need to embody in order to have any chance of ever living up to them.

One day, the idea of this ritual came to me, like a bubble rising to the surface. What if? I’d crossed the threshold once and I was okay, I could do it again. I can’t explain, I just had this horrible knowing that it was my next step. Mostly because it scared me to death.

Someone once asked me "who broke your heart?" Surely seeking a typical sad story about a former lover. But the only answer I could come up with was The World. I cannot remember a life before the heartbreak of trauma. It didn’t exist. I’d never believed in the possibility of connection. The Truth was too hard to face— that I was traumatized from being connected in ways I never wanted, that were very wrong. My trust was shattered from the start. So the Three of Swords has always resonated with me, symbolizing betrayal, loss, grief— a deep ache I know all too well. Its imagery pierces the viewer like the swords through the heart it depicts— the center of our emotions and very spirit. At the center of my life was this crushing isolation imposed by abuse. Nothing could shake the necessary illusion that I was inherently separate, cut off, an outsider around others, exiled from my own body. In fact, I depended on this disconnection within myself. I never received the support I needed; I’d built my psyche on denial for survival. And so the ritual began to come together: I would recreate this imagery quite literally, as an ordeal of integrating my emotions and body.

And I did. I decided on a series of monthly piercings aligned with the new moon. A time of releasing old patterns to make room for rebirth. A new beginning. Each new moon marked my commitment to the practice of Presence. Being in the moment with whatever arises.

I didn’t yet know where I was going, but I knew I needed to release this hurt that was holding me hostage from who I was to become.

I knew I needed to find my way back to my body.

I have often referred to this ritual to friends as "taking back my heart," and I really mean that. Abuse changes us. It’s a death in its own right and deserves acknowledgment, care, and mourning that too many of us are forced to go without. We lose a lot of ourselves when we’re living in denial and dissociation. Despite the crucial component of self inflicted pain, this ritual comes from an entirely different place than my history of self harm. I’ve realized my biggest trigger is feeling vulnerable. Two instinctive responses: do something impulsive and [self] destructive to regain a twisted sense of control amidst overwhelming chaos, or shut down and flee. I am cultivating a third option— staying with the scary feelings, moving through them with curiosity, crossing over to see what lies on the other side. That’s what this ritual was about. Instead of using it to escape my emotions, I set an intention to stay in my body and allow myself to experience whatever wanted to make itself known to me. To feel the pain and fear, rather than run or numb myself from it.

The first ritual took place in a public dungeon. I gathered my supplies, informed the dungeon monitor of what I would be doing, and closed myself in a cage. The scenes going on outside of these bars didn’t concern me. I set a boundary around my space, built a little altar along with my piercing station, and then the real work began. I was scared.

I was here. I had to follow through.

The feeling once the needles were inside me was extraordinary. It hurt, but I tasted my own power, and I was intoxicated. I had done it. I had faced my fear; stayed with the big scary feelings that haunted me for far too long. I stayed with them and survived. I listened and let them speak to me. After a couple hours, I stumbled out of the cage.

The dungeon was empty.

The next five piercings were performed in the comfort of my various bedrooms. I had braved the crowd, it was time to face Myself— in solitude. Each month, as I prepared for the ritual, my heart raced.

I shook. I cried. I panicked. I procrastinated. I wanted to run. I wanted to hide. From what? Those old emotions were still alive in my body. The patterns repeated endlessly. Every time I gave in to fear, I fed them. Their power grew as mine diminished; I had made them stronger. I came back to the present moment, where I was safe in my apartment. Safe in my body, though scared. I was starting to see then what I know now— that fear is a flashing neon sign pointing to possibility, a portal, an invitation to presence, an opportunity for unbelievable growth. So I took deep breaths. I took sips of water. I drew tarot cards. I calmed myself as much as I could. And then I followed through. The needles through my skin. The emotions through my body. Through, through, through. The energy moved through me, and I moved through the experience. Month after month, new moon after new moon, the sharp needles emerged on the other side of my flesh, and I emerged on the other side of that chasm of fear I thought I could never cross.

As the months passed, my life began to change rapidly. Relationships ended. I found myself single for the first time in ten years. I pivoted professions, was forced to find a new apartment, and fast. It was incredibly destabilizing. Everything built on faulty foundations of fear and disconnect had to go. Even moreso than my acute pain during piercings, this was the sacrifice to be paid for the new life. Nothing stayed the same except this self trust I was building. It was all I had to rely on— I would make it through with only my own will.

January 13, 2024. Month 5. The lessons I've been learning are finally being put to the test. Shit's getting real and I feel very scared. Hopeful too, but fear is first and foremost. Everything I asked for at the cost of the foundation beneath my feet. I summon the courage to push these needles through my skin each new moon, so I will have faith in my ability to make it through the unknown near-future to a new chapter of life. This month I had less resistance to the needles than ever before.

I have been afraid. I have strayed. I have struggled, brushing up against the bottom of the lake. But I have never given up. That's not who I am. More importantly, that's not who I want to be. The person I want to be hears the call, steps up, and takes responsibility. The person I want to be follows through, brave in the face of fear. Even if I’m shaking. Especially if I’m shaking. The person I want to be is dedicated; devoted to the only real way forward, in all its uncertainty: facing the Truth.

The Truth is, as much as I had suppressed those somatic memories and the emotions that reminded me of them, as much as I had disconnected from my body and denied its importance, there was something there that I needed. In facing the fear, I found a spark that had been lost long ago. All but extinguished, I cupped it in my hands, cradled it back to health. Turns out it needed me too.

I’m human. I hurt. I feel. I want. I heal. It’s overwhelming.

As long as I refused to face the reality of my emotions, these natural ways of being remained stuck under the surface.

Fear shaped me and controlled my life.

But I want to be free.

Freedom is scary. It is complete self responsibility. I don't want to shy away from that. I refuse to give up my power to outside forces and external influence. I own myself, everything I've lived, everything that has happened to me. All my experiences. I want more than the self fulfilling prophecies of pain and pity other people have imposed on my existence. I want to define myself. I want to write my own narrative. I have a right to make my own meaning.

Before I knew it, I was on my last month. I had completed 6 piercings by myself, on myself, and cried every time. At this point, I had built enough shaky self trust to tentatively depend on my own ability. But could I trust another person with this vulnerability? It would be a test of my progress to allow someone else to pierce me. I asked a friend for her help in this final ritual, and thankfully she agreed.

I was back where I started— in the dungeon cage, surrounded by the chaos of everyone else’s energy. By now, my friends knew the work I was doing, at least the basic idea. Some of them wanted to watch. Others were squeamish and supported me from a distance. Though I was alone in my body, I wasn’t alone in spirit. My scared, hurt, slowly healing heart had company.

The ritual began. The space was set with an altar again. She worked steadily and treated me gently. Once the needles were in, I needed to be alone. It helped to read tarot and journal while I sat with the feelings. There was a loud CBT scene going on nearby. The sub’s screams rang out for hours and could be heard from the front door of the dungeon. Right behind me, outside the bars, my ex girlfriend was talking loudly about where she bought her shirt. Silence scares her. And yet, in this cage, it was just me and my pain. Fear. Tears. Blood. For better or worse, the metal bars marked a distinct barrier between my inner experience and the outside world.

One sentence came to mind in the midst of all this. It is still burned in my brain. "This is my pain, and I will do with it as I please." I kept repeating it, breathing, letting the tears roll down my cheeks as my pup paced the perimeter, guarding my sacred space. The actions and opinions of other people do not determine who I am, can, or will be. My suffering does not get to control me. In the heart of this fear, I forged an ability to feel safe. Safe in my self trust. Safe inside my body. Safe with sharp metal under my skin. Safe surrounded by strangers in this state because I had friends who honored and protected my vulnerability.

My Body belongs to Me.

My Pain belongs to Me.

My Power belongs to Me.

I take it back— every last terrifying bit.

So this is it.

This is what called me here: Fear—

that wanted to be transformed into Freedom.