I tell my husband, JD, that it must be the flu. He says it’s going around, kisses my forehead, leaves for work. The instant the car pulls from the driveway, I begin. I’ve felt this day hovering in the horizon. A slow sick feeling starts in my heart and spreads outward, poison seeps into my brain. I am utterly defenseless. A therapist once asked what would happen if I didn’t give in. I don’t know, I’m not yet strong enough to find out. When I first married, I told my husband I liked pain with sex. He told me I needed more therapy.

Starting with the kitchen, I look for anything pinchy, sharp, moderately dangerous. I grab the clip from the bag of Doritos. I test a binder clip against my arm, but that’s too much even for me.  I pull open every drawer in the bathroom, and make a small pile of stuff on the bed, hair clips, a brush, anything.

There are rules to this. If I’m going to just masturbate, I set a timer and I have to masturbate the entire time. If I hurt myself, I have to lie still and endure it until the timer goes off. I can’t masturbate for relief until the timer goes off. Generally, one cycle of this is enough. The black cloud bursts and the relief comes, bright and brilliant.

I clamp little butterfly hair clips all over my breasts, the rough teeth break my skin. I set the timer for five minutes and reach down between my legs.  I can’t climax. I try again and set the timer for ten minutes, then fifteen. It isn’t enough. My head isn’t clearing, it’s getting worse.

I throw on a robe, run out to the clothesline to gather a handful of clothespins. I test a pair of blue and white canvas sneakers for weight. Knotting the ends of the laces, I tie them to the clothespins,  then I clamp the whole thing to my nipples. Holding the shoes, I set the timer for ten minutes. I carefully let go of the shoes, and the pain shoots white sparks across my eyes. I avoid looking in the mirror, I feel ridiculous letting a pair of sneakers dangle from my tits. I start to sway back and forth, and the rhythm is nearly soothing. One of the pins snaps off my nipple and the shoe tumbles to the floor.

All rational thought is being held hostage. I think “This is really stupid,” but only for an instant.  Rifling through the kitchen, I find a box of Minute Rice. I spread a green garbage bag on the bedroom floor, and sprinkle rice in the middle of it. I’m terrified of myself, but I can’t stop. Laying back on the bed, I take a black round bristled brush and force it inside me. It’s sharp and dry. I reattach clips to my breasts, my labia, the insides of my thighs, my wrists.  I set the timer for 30 minutes and kneel on the rice. I keep kneeling until the handle of the hairbrush stuffed in my cunt touches the floor, then I rock back and forth. The brush thrusts up hard and I cramp, but I lean into it deeper. I spread the rice out so it’s under my legs and not just my knees.

Within moments, my vision swirls. I feel feverish and cold at the same time. I start to panic as the rational voice finally screams through.  The hairbrush is buried deep in my pussy, I feel every bristle scrape as I tug it out. The clips clatter as I yank them off and fling them at the wall. As I brush the rice off my knees, my stomach begins to heave and I just make it into the bathroom in time to vomit.  I run back into the bedroom, shove all the evidence under the bed, then my stomach lurches again.

In the afternoon, my husband finds me hunched over the toilet. While he drives me to the clinic, I hold a bucket in my lap the entire way. A fresh faced young doctor declares I must have food poisoning and prescribes me something strong to stop the vomiting.  I sleep through the whole next day. My husband cleans out the fridge, thinking it must be something I ate.