We’re fine….

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I’m in a weird head space.

This is my third attempt at this post.

If I strike out this time, I’m just going to give up.

I’m in that odd place that I go. The one where I haven’t had sex in so long that I’m no longer horny 24-7, but I still don’t feel “normal”. Maybe I don’t have a normal. Instead I just feel like the secret ingredient is missing from my life–the thing that rockets existence from merely okay, into miraculous. Is miraculous the right word? Probably not. I’m having a hard time expressing myself properly these days. It feels like my head has been packaged in bubble wrap.

Sometimes I get depressed. I just feel like, “What’s the point of all this crap that I am doing?” The point, of course, is that the monotony of the every day, the things we do just to ensure our survival, is what stops things from going from boring to unbearably painful.

And I don’t feel pain. I don’t feel anything but the desire to drink soup from a straw, so that I don’t even have to sit upright while watching television until I am so tired my eyes start to close.

I hate this. I don’t want to feel this way, and I know how ridiculous I sound. I mean, what the hell. Nothing is wrong. So I haven’t had sex in awhile–this is not an emergency. I understand that. I’m not even really thinking about it.

It’s just that my body feels heavy, my reflection looks distorted, my ratio of typos has gone through the ceiling and I feel like I’m watching myself from outside my body.

So again I ask you, what the hell?

Truly–what the hell?

It is T-minus 2 days until he gets here. 50 some odd hours from now I’ll probably be having sex again. Really, REALLY good sex if the things he has been able to teach me about my own body without even being in the same city as me, is any indication.

So understand, please. I need you to understand. It’s not a pity party. It’s not a woe-is-me-I-really-want-sex thing. It’s not. My mind isn’t there. I’m not dwelling, I’m rarely fantasizing, and my ability to give myself pretty stellar orgasms should make me a contented girl.

It’s just that I can’t think. It’s just that I have no energy. It’s just that I feel like I’m looking at the world from the bottom of a well.

I know what will fix it. I know WHEN it will fix it. But once again, I am starting to worry that there is something wrong with me. Okay–we all know there’s a LOT of things VERY wrong with me, but that isn’t the point.

I just want to feel the sun. I want to hear the music I am listening to. I want to taste the food in my mouth and not continue to shovel in more, even though I’m not hungry and supposedly on a diet, because everything is so unsatisfying.

They say love makes the sky bluer, the sun warmer, and everything taste better.

But they are wrong. It is not love. It is sex.

I would like to  participate in a research study. I would like scientists and psychologists to study my brain. What is it? What switch is getting flipped? What is it about sex that flips it back?

Maybe I am shaming myself unecessarily. Someone who needs to exercise to feel human doesn’t ask themselves why that is. Someone who needs to write, or play music, or work, or dance, or camp or travel to feel human doesn’t rake their hands through their hair, asking “What the hell is this? Why do I need this?” They know what they need and they do it, and they do not question themselves or become embarrassed.

I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m sexual. I need to connect with others in a sexual way. I am being more careful. Not giving myself to just anyone in order to scratch that itch. I’m fine. I’m okay. I’m just a very sexual person who hasn’t had sex in awhile. My body and brain are allowed to miss it.

THEY are allowed to ask ME “What the hell?”

My answer is “Shh….just wait. We’re fine. We’re fine.”



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