The Chemical Cost of Feeling: Why Femdom Was My Unlikely Lifeline
The morning sun was just starting to peek through the Chiang Rai air, painting the humid air in soft oranges. My two dogs, oblivious to the storm raging inside me, licked my face with relentless affection as I sat on the side of the road, tears streaming down my face. My parents were nearby, their quiet presence a gentle anchor, pretending not to notice their adult child crumbling. The dogs wanted to make me happy. I knew it, understood it, but my brain, a stubborn, cruel organ, refused to translate their pure, uncomplicated love into anything but a dull, aching emptiness. It’s this: the unbearable void that even love can’t touch.
I’ve lived with schizophrenia for years, battling delusions, panic, and the flattening weight of medication. But it’s this emotional desolation, this inability to feel joy when it should be overflowing, that truly guts me. Why can’t I feel anything but sadness, even when my dogs are trying so hard to cheer me up? What is this twisted wiring that makes me hate my own brain for not allowing me the simplest human emotions?
For a long time, I found an unlikely, often misunderstood, cure. Or at least, a powerful treatment.
For nearly a decade, I was a professional Dominatrix in Bangkok. My sessions were intense, theatrical, sometimes dark, sometimes absurd, and always emotionally charged. But what most people never grasped was that I wasn’t doing it entirely for them. I was doing it for me. I needed those sessions. I needed to witness the happiness on their faces as they surrendered to me, as they suffered for me. That honest, erotic, often innocent surrender wasn’t just about their pleasure; it was a potent, almost alchemical, shift in my own chemistry. It moved me. Sometimes, it even made me feel alive.
Mike: A Shared Chemical Imbalance
One of my earliest clients was a man named Mike Boger. If you’re familiar with George Carlin’s brilliant bit on “soft language,” you’ll understand my disdain for the clinical term for his condition: Persistent Depressive Disorder. What it really meant was that Mike couldn’t feel anything either. Ever. His was a chemical imbalance—severe, unyielding. Serotonin, dopamine, norepinephrine—all perpetually out of sync. Mine fluctuates, a rollercoaster of highs and devastating lows. His was a flatline.
Mike came to me seeking pain, hoping it might just be intense enough to break through the impenetrable fog of his apathy. But during our first session, when he removed his shirt as I instructed, I saw them: rows of deep, self-inflicted knife cuts scarring both shoulders. At least a hundred on each side. Instead of enacting the scene he desired, I practically begged him to tell me what had driven him to such a desperate act. He explained his condition, his lifelong numbness, and his desperate hope that profound agony might finally allow him to cry, to feel something.
I couldn’t inflict that kind of pain on him. Not with what I suffer from, not with the deep empathy born from our shared emotional struggle. But I told him I understood. I truly did.
That conversation was the genesis of a strange and beautiful friendship. Instead of intense beatings, we engineered full-day “thrill rides.” Imagine: tackling every single escape room in Bangkok, back-to-back, until we’d cracked every puzzle. Or infiltrating laser tag games, joining random groups as a duo, and systematically dismantling every opposing team, emerging four hours later drenched in sweat. Then, a wild whim: a midnight dash to a public park, a covert jump into the swimming pool, followed by pizza on the sidewalk, soaking wet and utterly exhausted.
He couldn’t always laugh, couldn’t always express the overt joy I yearned to feel myself, but he consistently told me those were the only times he felt truly alive. “You make me feel like I exist,” he once said, words that will forever echo in my mind.
One night, I took him to an Irish bar with an open mic comedy night upstairs. The act before him bombed spectacularly. But Mike, borrowing the comedian’s guitar, calmly took the stage. He announced he was from Colorado and would sing a song about living in the Rockies. He strummed hard, his voice raw, screaming: “Good God it’s fucking cold! Good God it’s fucking cold! Good God it’s fucking, fucking, fucking coldddddddddd!” Then he stopped. “That’s all I got. Goodnight.”
The bar erupted in howls of laughter. As he walked back to me, bathed in applause, he didn’t laugh, but he grinned—the closest I’d ever seen him come to unadulterated joy.
A week later, he put a rifle in his mouth and painted the wall behind him.
The Weight of Being “Too Much”
I miss Mike more than words can convey. I’ve only ever truly loved two foreigners. He was one. My slave in the videos is the other. One is dead. The other is now afraid of me because of the intense experiences I put him through during the COVID years.
You see, you can’t truly love someone like me. Or like Mike. We are too much. Too chemically broken. Too emotionally demanding. Mike tried to stay married, but his wife left him in the middle of the night just a year into their marriage. We break people. We’re an emotional black hole, drawing others in only to discover we consume too much.
So now, when I’m sitting on the road, breaking down for no discernible reason, with two dogs showering me with affection I can’t return, I finally understand why Mike chose his exit. I hated him for it then. Now, I completely get it. I’m not saying I’m punching my own ticket anytime soon, but the trend line isn’t exactly pointing towards a happy ending. I have to course correct, fast.
My current doctor and two trusted friends tell me that the transition from Haloperidol to my new medication creates a “grey zone”—a brutal chemical storm where the lingering effects of the old drug collide with the new. Haloperidol takes months to fully exit my system. I’m only in week six of this horrific period. So, at best, two more weeks of this hell. At worst, six. Fuck.
My parents spend entire days with me now, their presence a silent, steadying force that helps me navigate the most difficult hours. I hate feeling like a burden, like a newborn requiring constant care. But in the afternoons, that’s exactly how I feel.
And yet, within me, there’s an overwhelming wellspring of love. It’s just directionless, like a flood with no outlet to the sea. What do I do with it all? Why does it matter so profoundly to me that the people around me are happy and content?
My Fuel: The Bliss and Agony of My Slaves
That’s why I became a Mistress. That’s why I loved it so much.
Before the chaotic group sessions of the COVID era took over my life, I found a precarious mental stability in those four hours each night, seeing my “slaves” utterly enthralled and blissful at my mercy. That’s what drove me. It wasn’t just about control; it was about the profound emotional current that surged between us.
In fact, that intense drive led me to “torture” them more and more, to extend Tease & Denial sessions far beyond the two hours they’d initially bargained for. There were nights when 10 p.m. sessions bled into 1 or 2 a.m., my slave moaning, crying, twisting, and squirming on the bed, openly begging for release, only to be gloriously happy when I finally granted his orgasm.
I’d anticipate those moments all day, on pins and needles, meticulously planning how to extract the most profound joy and wondrous agony from my slaves that evening. I truly believe that the act of orchestrating and witnessing their emotional high boosted my serotonin levels, and alongside my daily Prozac, it kept everything in a delicate balance.
Things didn’t catastrophically spiral until the COVID years, when those sweet, torturous one-on-one sessions were replaced by grotesque spectacles like “The Ladyboy Gauntlet.” Every night, I was arranging twenty ladyboys to simultaneously destroy a slave’s mouth and ass. All I got out of it was cash. There was no mental stimulation, no resonant emotional feedback. In fact, I was often horrified by the sheer pain my slaves endured, and the terrifying extent of their willingness. I’d come home, lie in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering, “What the fuck just happened? Why would I arrange such a horrific thing? Who am I, really?”
Which is why, despite everything, I still cling to the hope of returning to being a full-time Mistress someday. Yes, I’d have to purge the Haloperidol from my system, embrace this new medication, and achieve stability without collapsing into all-afternoon fits of tears and misery. But I proved I could do it from February to May this year. It’s doable, once this terrible crossover period ends.
Then, if I commit to only doing the fun, light sessions—the kind I perfected during the first seven years of my Mistress life—I believe the serotonin boost from those interactions will help me live a stable life.
Why? Because, in a way I cannot fully explain, my brain is wired to respond to the happiness of others. Being a Mistress guarantees four hours a day spent with people whose mood—intricately tied to what I’m doing to their cock, of course—directly ignites a spark of happiness within me.
I know this makes no sense to most people. Perhaps you need to be schizophrenic, or have a severe chemical imbalance, to truly “get” what I’m saying.
Let me try a different analogy. You know how sports fans talk about certain players having the “it” factor—that inexplicable drive to be champions, to rise in the most crucial moments? What is that drive? What is the “it” factor? I think it’s something fundamentally unexplainable, unless you possess that athlete’s unique mentality. Only Michael Jordan could ever attempt to articulate why he needs the ball with the game, the season, the championship on the line. Only Michael Phelps could explain the primal compulsion to accelerate into the final stretch of every single swimming event, demanding first place.
So, when I—just a chemically lopsided, part-schizo girl—tell you that I need to feel love around me, that I am literally powered by the emotional charge of the people in my presence, I mean it in precisely the same way an elite athlete talks about needing the ball with the game on the line. It’s that strange, primal compulsion to step into the storm, not for gold medals, but because something deep inside demands it. I believe it’s the same region of the brain, whatever lights up for Jordan in overtime or Phelps at the final turn.
For me, it’s about watching a man tremble beneath me. Seeing his bliss. His tears. His total, utterly profound surrender. And realizing, with a chilling clarity, that his joy, his pain, his intense emotional state, somehow keeps me alive. That is my fuel. Always has been.
Mistress Wael
Mistress Wael : Beyond Submission – Fanvue
Epilogue!!
I’ve written 1,000 stories now for my Fanvue blog and about 2,000 for my Scatbook blog so with 3,000 stories under my belt I’m finally at the point where I finally feel comfortable writing for this website – which still doesn’t feel like my website due to the name in the url, know what I mean? It’d be like if you took over Al’s Diner yet your name was Bob, the place wouldn’t feel like your joint until you changed the name to Bob’s Diner, right? Well, that’s how I feel.
I’ll write more often. There’s just been too much going on inside my foolish little noggin’ upstairs to have any energy left once I post on FanVue, Loyalfans and Scatbook every morning.
By the time I’m done afternoon hits and if you’ve been reading my FanVue / Loyalfans posts then you know what happens in the afternoon.
Honestly, it’s akin to turning into a werewolf – only they go through that torturous phase only when the full moon hits … for me it’s promptly around 2pm every single day that my transformation begins.
I’ve debated endlessly about whether or not I should be posting here about my struggles, because for the 10 years I was a Mistress in Bangkok writing for this blog it was always ‘business related posts only’ … that was the mantra.
So as much as I wanted to write about things when things weren’t going so well … I always nixed those thoughts and wrote about the latest greatest session I did because that’s what would generate emails for even more sessions.
But I think I’ll start posting more about who I am … more so than the sessions I’ve done.
After all, with one session being half a million baht, and an endless list of people lined up to get into my Femdom Resort – I think you people should finally get to know who the hell I am and what you’re actually signing up for.
