Relapse, PendingPosted: March 4, 2015
A fellow blogger wrote about being on the edge of relapse, and it inspired me to write too.
I don’t know whether or not I’m in trouble.
The past month I have been pretty emotionally numb. I had a night where something triggered me–reminded me of an awful experience that happened awhile back–and I contacted Papa Bear to let him know I was a mess. A sobbing, hyperventilating mess. He commiserated with me via text, then went back to the renovations he was doing on his basement. All I wanted was for him to come for me. I needed to be held. My husband was home, but when I’d talked to him about what I was feeling, he’d made it worse. He apologized profusely and tried to right it, but it didn’t go over. I needed Papa Bear. I didn’t tell him “I need you right now.” I didn’t want to be that girl. I just wanted him to know. I wanted him to come.
To make myself feel better, I went on Adult Friend Finder. I do this every few months. Go numb, break down, look for attention. Just play, really. I haven’t hooked up with any randoms in months, but this time I talked to a few men I actually really did very much want to fuck. I gave two of them my number, and made a date with one.
I talked to Papa Bear about it. We’ve talked about this before, and he is fine with me hooking up. We are non-monogamous and our polycule isn’t closed, but he wants me to be safe, and he wants me to explore for the right reasons. I talked to The Husband about it–basically told him I was on AFF because I felt flattened and somewhat abandoned, and he encouraged me not to go through with it. He is fine with promiscuity, but he sees how I’ve been hurt and the shitty situations I’ve been in, and really sees no reason why I should go through that again just because I’m feeling bad.
I planned to keep my date. I was salivating. I desperately wanted to just be had–no strings sex, no complications, just thrown over the side of a couch and pounded for as long as we both could go. The night before, my daughter didn’t sleep well, so I was up a lot. I ended up cancelling.
I was tired, and there had been a couple teeny red flags–mostly that the guy was asking me about what kind of date-type things I liked to do. I didn’t want to date anyone else. I don’t have the time or the emotional energy. I just wanted no strings attached sex–not to be asked to comedy shows or invited to Cirque du Soleil, or to go dancing. Most men probably consider it good form to actually date–however casually–the person they’re banging. But the fact that this guy seemed to want more than the occasional nooner made it easier for me to back off.
I did not, however, tell him I am not going to see him. Instead, I told him I’d been up most of the night with my kid and I was bushed. He said it was fine, and to let him know when I wanted to reschedule. He’d need just a day’s notice. We have texted briefly a few times, but I’ve kept the conversations short. I don’t want him to think I’m a potential girlfriend. I could flat out address it with him, like a grown-up. I could just beg off altogether, like a responsible recovering sex addict. But I keep thinking about how hot it is to be with someone totally new and strange. I love the fire of it. I love the danger. I love the hunger that seems to wane with familiarity.
I’m horny as fuck. I screwed Papa Bear on Tuesday night and it was fabulous. I clawed at him the way I haven’t since my most recent depressive episode hit. He devoured me and we screamed and pounded into each other. I slept with my Husband last night, and it was pretty good too. It was basically just us getting off with each other–we don’t even kiss during sex anymore unless we’re drunk–but it felt good. Scratched the itch.
But I want the stranger. I want unfamiliar hands and brand new lips and undiscovered territory. I just keep thinking of getting naked with someone who hasn’t known my body yet–being smashed with the kiss of someone who must have me because this might be his only chance.
Probably, I’m ovulating. This is usually how it goes. But I want, want, want. I’m not numb anymore, at least. I’m burning instead.
I wonder if this is how I threw off the depressive haze. If I have my feelings and color back, simply by being given the possibility of a new lover. It’s unsettling, not being able to trust your own emotions, or able to make sense of your motivations.
I could fuck a stranger. There’s nothing wrong with being slutty. I’m promiscuous by nature. I can’t help what I want.
If I could do it once and be good–if I could know that every so often I’d dabble in anonymous sex, without a full-blown spiral–I’d probably be over there getting the lights fucked out of me at the next possible opportunity.
But I don’t know that. I can’t know that. Because I’m not reformed–I’m just recovering. I could let go this time and not be able to come back.